March 31, 2007
I lost my marbles but, it's okay... I got 'em back
Originally published June 1, 2002
Although I was thoroughly raped in divorce court, I did walk away from the wreck of my marriage with one thing intact: my marble collection. My bloodless cunt of an ex-wife stopped by my truck at work one day and left the five-gallon bucket full of marbles in the passenger seat. When I started home that day, I put the bucket down on the floorboard, where it promptly turned over and spilled the first time I made a turn. I drove all the way to Rincon, Georgia, with 20,000 marbles rolling all over the floor.
When I got home, I had to scoop them all up and put them back in the bucket. That job took a long time, not only because there were so many marbles scattered all over the place, but also because I found many of my favorites in there and tripped back down memory lane to how I came to own them.
Kids don't play marbles anymore. They have a lot of high-tech toys that play all by themselves for the most part, so they simply turn them on and watch. Or they have brain-sucking Nintendo or Play Station games that can be played inside, sitting down, on the couch, or anyplace else they can vegitate, growing plump and pale like little cyber-slugs, while watching computer animations dance across a screen accompanied by annoying "bleep" and "boink" sound effects.
They don't get down on their elbows and knees in the dirt and feel the warm summer sun on their backs while shouting "knuckle down!" and "no fudging!" to their opponents while games of rings, pig's eye, rolley-hole, bombers, follows and lag-the-line rage all day. They don't go home in the evenings and dump all their marbles from a ditty bag with a drawstring top to total up their winnings and separate the "keepers" from the "pawns."
No, kids don't do that anymore. That's why I could clean out the whole neighborhood with a Drop Can if anybody still played marbles.
Uncle Virgil missed the first two, then put about seven in a row through the hole. The game broke up when I got mad, began crying and started throwing rocks at him. I didn't know how, but I knew I had been played for a sucker.
And I was. Before Uncle Virgil hopped the bus to boot camp, after I stopped throwing rocks at him every time I saw him, he showed me the secret of the Drop Can. In the end, I suppose I owe Uncle Virgil a debt of gratitude, because a lot of those marbles rolling around the floor of my truck were won using my own Drop Can, although I had to learn to dodge both rocks and fists as a result.
Want to see how it's done? Come by my house and I'll show you.
Bring plenty of marbles.
All content © Rob Smith