Marbles

When Ronnie Eischerman moved away he gave me his marbles. Ronnie was at least 10 years older than me and lived in our neighborhood. Ronnie was always very kind to me and when his family moved to Omaha he left me his marbles and a few other things including some iron toys that I still have. I still have most of the marbles, too.

Ronnie had a large collection of clay marbles and older glass marbles. He also had quite a few of the newer glass, cat’s eye, marbles that were popular at the time. The older clay and glass marbles were considered antiques in 1960. My mother said I shouldn’t play with those so I didn’t, although I did show them off on more than one occasion.

Mom made me a bag for my playing marbles out of part of a leg from an old pair of jeans. It was as big around as a baseball and about 10 inches long. Packed full of marbles it was a load to carry around. It wasn’t uncommon to see a 5th or 6th grade boy proudly walking around with a bag of marbles strapped to his belt. The size of the bag reflected the prowess of the boy at playing marbles…a harbinger of things to come with adolescence. My bag was too big to carry that way.

With the playing marbles that I had and those that Ronnie gave me I was well stocked and ready for battle. The basic game we played was a one-on-one shoot out. It was always determined what marble or marbles we would be playing for before the game. Each player would throw a marble out on the ground and then they would take turns taking shots at each other. When a player hit the other player’s marble he was the winner and collected his spoils and moved on to another game. In reflection, it was clearly gambling and that’s why it was discontinued later on.

There were a lot of variations to the game. The traditional marbles was played with several marbles in a circle drawn in the dirt. If you knocked another players marble out of the circle he was out of the game. If, on the other hand, you missed and went out yourself you were out of the game. Several kids played at one time and the last one in was the winner. It took some precise shooting to be the winner in this game. We mostly played the one-on-one shoot out.

There was a terminology surrounding marbles. There were “hits” and “nicks”. A “hit” was a solid strike that moved the other marble some distance. A “nick” was a ricochet and was sometimes not counted. A player would often shout, “No nicks’ at the beginning of the game meaning those didn’t count. One player would also shout “keepsies” making it clear the game was for keeps. The other choice was “funzies”. Nobody played for fun.

There were boulders, steelies, clackers, and the cat’s eyes I mentioned earlier. A boulder was any marble larger than the regular marbles. Boulders were often used a shooters and could be as big as a ping-pong ball. I do recall some that were as big as golf balls. A direct hit from a boulder could shatter a cat’s eye. The steelie was a steel ball bearing and came in all sizes. They were highly prized by the players. A clacker was a variation of the boulder and got its name from the sound it made when it hit another marble. The cat’s eye was the standard marble you would buy in the store. It was glass, came in regular and boulder sizes, and, of course, resembled a cat’s eye in some remote way. There were solid color marbles, too, but they were not as common.

The basic shooting technique was the thumb shot. The marble was placed in the curled index finger and propelled forward with a flick of the thumb. To do it properly, the player should do it with his knuckles on the ground. A version of thumb shot was to swing your arm and the flick the marble at the same time. It sometimes turned into and underhand shot without the thumb.

There were two other common shots…the bomber and the spatsie. The bomber was simply standing directly over the opponent’s marble and holding the marble next to your eye and then dropping it on the other marble. It was often fatal but if you missed your marble was usually left perilously close to your opponent. The spatsie was an overhand shot much like throwing darts.

So, in the spring you might see pairs of boys setting the stakes or playing marbles before and after school and almost any other opportunity they might have. You would hear “Keepsies! No bombers or nicks!” and the game would begin. Occasionally, you heard the clack of a hit and the moans of someone who just lost their favorite marble.

I out grew playing marbles by junior high but have kept my marbles to this day. Sometime in my teenage years an overzealous Saunder’s parent decided it was gambling and marbles kind of disappeared from the playground. She was convinced we would all grow up to be gamblers.

Keepsies!

Howard

Howard was there one day and gone the next. We were friends and played together at recess. Things were a blur after it happened. I don’t know exactly what did happen but either Howard was hit when he got off the bus or when he was waiting to get on, I just don’t remember that part for sure.

I do remember exactly where I was standing on the playground when I heard what happened. I don’t know who told me but someone did. They said Howard was dead. At that age I had never known someone who had died. I just couldn’t imagine it. Kids just kind of wandered around in disbelief.

Howard’s desk was gone by the time we all got in the classroom that day. I didn’t think it was right that they would take that desk out of there right away like that. I just vaguely remember the teacher telling us what happened even though we all already knew about it. I know she cried and had to stop many times. Most of the kids went to the funeral. I think I did, too, but don’t remember much of it.

Howard had a great sense of humor and was a hard working kid. I can still see his hands. He worked on the farm and his hands were calloused and dry. He told us about working with his father and brother. They raised hogs and I don’t know what else, but I do know Howard loved it. He worked just as hard at school and took it all very seriously. He was tough as nails when we played football. Even though he was just my size he was very difficult to stop.

When you are almost twelve years old and something like that happens it seems so unfair. How could you be in just that spot at just that time when just that car would come by? I can’t explain it but all of Howard’s friends were in shock for quite awhile. I just really expected to see him walk up with that smile and we could play baseball or something. I can’t imagine what his family must have went through.

Howard lived about three miles east of town. Even now, 45 years later, I cannot go by that spot without thinking of him. It was around the end of March and I know Howard was looking forward to the spring planting. I look out across the fields when I go by and wonder if he is out there somewhere.

So what does happen to people who die too early? What could have been or what could have happened? For those we can only wonder.

What happens when you die too early?
What happens when you die too young?
What dreams are never realized?
Victories never won?

How would the world be different?
What things wouldn’t get done?
What babies wouldn’t be born?
Would they be daughters or sons?

What poems won’t be written?
What stories not told?
What artwork not created?
What songs never sung?

How would your friends be different?
How would they make their way?
How would they do without you?
Really, no one can say.

What happens when you die too early?
What happens when you die too young?
What dreams are never realized?
Victories never won?

We have missed you, Howard!

Kiwanis Travel and Adventure Series

For several years in a row my family got tickets to the Kiwanis Travel and Adventure Series. The Kiwanis was the local sponsor for this program they were held in the Chapel at Iowa Wesleyan College. For the price of a ticket you could attend four or five programs each year. They were usually held during the winter months.

The presenter would project a movie on a big screen on the stage and then would narrate as the movie went along. Usually the movie would take us to some exotic place in the world. There were trips to Jamaica, the Sahara, or the frigid artic. It was like National Geographic was coming alive right in front of us.

Growing up we assumed these would be places we would never get to visit so we were going there vicariously through the presenter. When Becky and I were in Jamaica high up in the Blue Mountains a few years ago we saw a spot along a narrow, remote mountain road that I know I have seen before. There, out of the side of the mountain, was a tube with a jug under it. As the water dripped out it would fill the jug. People of the area would come along and leave their empty jug and take the full one. That would happen over and over again all day long. I think I had seen that before…in the Travel Adventure Series.

When we went to the shows I always liked to sit in the balcony. Mom and Dad usually sat down stairs and encouraged me to sit down there, too. There was usually someone there my age so I usually talked my parents into sitting in the balcony with that person. When my sister didn’t go my parents would let me bring along a friend. In the balcony, we watched the presentation and didn’t feel like we had to sit still or even be real quiet.
We also watched the bats swoop down into the light scooping up insects that were drawn there. I believe the bats are still there.

There was usually an intermission. We would go downstairs and use the restroom in the basement and then stop and get a drink at the drinking fountain. There was always a long line there and sometimes the show would start up before you could get your drink and get back to your seat. Why no one ever thought of selling food and drink at these events I don’t know. It would surely have been profitable.

Now, if it was a boring presentation, it was hard for a boy not to get a little restless. One of our regular pass times was to flick paper wads off of the balcony rail. A good flick would carry almost to the front row. Then we would giggle uncontrollably as the person who was hit would look up toward the bats and wipe the spot where they were hit vigorously. More than once we had to make a quick move to another spot in the balcony and put on our most innocent face.

Once in awhile we would crawl down an empty row to a point directly behind people watching the program and then listen in on what they had to say. Holding back my laughter sometimes was more than I could stand and air would squeeze out between my lips leaving me embarrassed. Sometimes we would quietly sit in the seat behind them and then suddenly cough real loud usually getting the intended reaction we were looking for and then sit there and act like we had no idea why the person was scared.

The best trick was to switch something from one person to another. Women’s’ purses were an easy target because they were always on the floor below the persons seat. It was no problem to move one down a few seats or switch some around. Then, of course, we would have to wait until people started to leave to see the puzzled reaction.

So, the Kiwanis Travel and Adventure Series was often an adventure for my friends and me.

Paper Boy

I was a paperboy. I had Route #5 for the Mt Pleasant News. It was on the southwest part of Mt. Pleasant. We averaged about 152 subscribers. My assistant, Bill Griest, and I delivered the papers every weekday evening and on Saturday morning. We were responsible for collecting the money from subscribers and soliciting new subscribers when we had a chance.

During the summer of 1959, Carter Challen, 3 years my elder, approached me and asked me if I was interested in helping him with his paper route. After talking to my parents and thinking about it for a while I decided to do it. Carter trained me and I carried about half of the paper for a while and he did the other half. By the time fall rolled around Carter decided he was going out for football so I took over the route and Bill became my assistant.

I needed a better bike so Dad took me to the Firestone store. I picked one out and worked out a deal with them that I would pay them $2.50 a week until it was paid for. It took a little over 6 months to pay it off.

Each day after school and on Saturday mornings the paperboys would gather at the newspaper office. There in a room that contained the huge printing press we would wait for our papers while we watched the big press print fold and cut each paper. When each carrier received his papers he would fold each one into a five by five inch square and then tightly pack them in their paper bags. Bags full, each boy carried them out to his bike and warped each of the bags around the handlebars. It took some practice to learn to ride your bike with that heavy load.

Rain or shine, day in and day out, we carried our papers. Even in the deepest snow, when you couldn’t ride your bike we trudged along with a paper bag over each shoulder. If the roads were the least bit cleared we always took our bikes because we so preferred that over walking which took up to three or four times longer.

Generally, our customers were good to us. At Christmas time they often gave us gifts. Collecting was hard sometimes and customers wouldn’t answer the door or just wouldn’t pay. When that happened the paperboy had to pay for the papers anyway and so we often lost money. The newspaper itself wasn’t much help when that happened. There were customers who yelled at you if you rode on their yard or didn’t place the paper in exactly the right spot. If the papers got wet from rain the customers were often upset as well. The only thing you could do was go back to the newspaper office and get them a dry one.

The newspaper office filled out a complaint form if someone called about a problem. The worst thing that could happen was that a paper got lost or wasn’t delivered. I didn’t get many complaints and I was proud of that. Some carriers got four or five complaints every day. They didn’t last long!

On my bike I could carry my half of the route, about 75 papers, in 30-40 minutes. Walking, especially in deep snow, could take up to two and a half hours. I could fling a paper from the street and hit the front porch of a house at full speed. Sometimes I had to stop and put the paper in a box or a special place like inside the screen door so I lost a lot of time on those.

Henry County Hospital was on my route. I had to deliver the paper to the receptionist desk so it meant parking my bike, walking down some steps and then entering the building. There was a restroom just inside the door so I often stopped to use that and on bitter cold winter days I would stay in the restroom or lobby to warm up a little bit before I finished the route. By the time I was done I had covered all the subscribers south of the highway between Jackson and Van Buren and the area between West Clay and the highway.

The winter of 1959-60 was cold and snowy. My Dad’s daily journal describes the bitter cold and heavy snow that winter. He also made a note every time he went along to help me. Since he worked until five each day the only day he could help was Thursdays, his afternoon off, and he was with me on almost every one.