I Lost My Marbles

“Caren, we should hide together,” Richard’s deep voice came out in a quiet whisper. “Ok,” I answered. I instantly felt safe knowing that in our game of Hide and Seek, I would not have to hide alone in the dark. He took my small wrist in his massive hand and led me to the left side of his tidy, mid-century track house. His home was the house where I played my last game of marbles, the house next door to mine. Richard led me to the side yard furthest from my own yard. My heart was racing as I ran to hide with him. We hurried to make sure we didn’t get caught out in the open before we had a chance to conceal ourselves. We ducked into the side yard with the plush green grass; a softer and greener grass than my own yard. There were plenty of full low bushes lining the wall and a variety of plants separating Richard’s house from the next house over. It was dark but not dark enough to hide us from each other. The moon provided enough light to allow me to clearly see Richard as he settled in on the soft grass. Just days before, I had played my last game of marbles. It was summertime and I was a naive eight year old. I spent almost all of my summer days doing what most of us did back then, going outside to play. Summers would occasionally creep over the 100 degree mark in Southern California’s, San Fernando Valley, but that didn’t mean we were allowed to stay inside. It would be hot inside as well. The only air conditioning we had in our small home was a swamp cooler mounted in the window of the only full bathroom in our house. You practically had to sit in front of the cooler to feel its cool breeze, but if anyone dared to shut the door to use the restroom it was inevitable that there would be someone else yelling to hurry up and get out so they could have once again experience the illusion of air conditioning I’ve always thought that there is something magical and alluring about marbles. With the same instinct I have to pet a puppy or coo at an infant, I’m attracted to marbles. I find them appealing. I will instinctually reach out to touch and hold them. Whenever, I come across one, I don’t resist the urge to pick it up. I feel the beginning of nostalgia as my fingers roll over their smooth, cool surface. Initially I enjoy the feeling as it leads me back to a different time. Just as quickly as I feel it, it fades and I am left with an empty feeling. Where has the magic gone? Why can’t I recapture that gratifying feeling that they once possessed? Each time, as I anticipate that I will be taken back in time and experience their enchantment I am disappointed. As I hold the marble closer to examine its color and design, I’m still not satisfied. Eventually I let it go, but not until I take one more closer look to see if I can see a cat’s eye looking back at me? Summer days as a child also meant exciting trips to the beach. Of course it had to be, “officially summer.” It didn’t matter if it was one hundred degrees outside in late May; we waited at least until after Memorial Day. It also had to be on the weekends or when my dad had vacation time and was off work. It was his responsibility to take us. I think he enjoyed it as much as all of us kids did. Occasionally my mother would come with us. I can imagine that at times the decision was a hard one for her; an entire day at home to herself without seven children or a day enjoying the sun and surf. In my father’s younger days he had the physique of a body builder. He regularly lifted weights to keep in shape. If we were in the water with him, he would easily lift us above the crashing waves. Even when he started to slow down with age and got thicker around the middle he still would go outside to the patio and lift some hand weights. No amount of enthusiasm or begging would get my dad to stray from his beach going routine. We would leave after noon and not before. What my dad knew that none of us did was that the marine layer did not burn off until the afternoon, leaving the sun burning bright and the water nice and warm by the time we arrived. The routine drive there and back became part of the adventure. After driving over the Santa Monica Mountains and out of the San Fernando Valley we would head towards Santa Monica Beach, we would begin watching for palm trees, a sure sign that we were close to the beach. The routine was predictable; we parked on the left side of the pier, never the right side. If we were lucky we wouldn’t have to carry all our gear too far through the parking lot until we reached the hot sand. We would run with excitement as we began our search for a large enough space for all our blankets and towels to be spread out. We needed to be close enough to the water to be watched and almost always we would pick a spot that lined up with the lifeguard tower as a reference point for us in the event that the current would gradually pulled us in a different direction. The disappointment in having to get out of the water and go home was soothed by the hope that we would stop for a soft serve ice cream cone. The tension would build as we would ask for ice cream and he would keep us in suspense until I could recognize that he was pulling into the drive through ice cream shop. Without deviation, dad would order, one nickel scoop of vanilla ice cream for all the kids and one dime scoop of chocolate dipped ice cream for him. Of course, I would have preferred the chocolate dipped cone but never complained. I didn’t want to risk ruining our fun day. Summer also meant lots of free time without our schedules packed with any agenda. The last day I played marbles started out like many others of my summer days. I was sitting on the ground of my next door neighbor’s house. We avoided sitting too close to the swimming pool to insure that if we overshot our target, we would never have to retrieve a marble from it. We played a simple game without the complexities of some of the rules of the other games. We didn’t have to shoot a marble into the hole or declare which marble we were aiming for. We would aim at all of our opponents marble, if you hit one, it’s yours. Not too complicated for an eight year old. The summer heat was not too bad on this particular day but warm enough for me to feel comfortable in my “hand me down” cotton dress and my hair pulled back in a high pony tail. I hadn’t yet learned how to do my own pony tail in the smooth tidy fashion that my mom or oldest sister would do. I can’t remember who I was playing with on my last marble day. Because playing marbles was usually a boy’s game and not a common game for girls, I was probably playing with a boy. Whoever, I was playing with is just a blurred memory. I was never very good at the game but not as bad as I was at most other childhood activities. It didn’t matter if it was a game of pick-up sticks, jacks or hopscotch. I never provided much of a challenge for any competitor. It didn’t mean I didn’t enjoy myself. I did. However, I was aware of the fact that I wasn’t exceptionally good. I thought marbles were pretty. Today, I think they are collected more for the nostalgia they provide than for competition. Flicking one with my thumb, off of my fisted hand and hearing the sharp cracking sound as it hits its target was very satisfying. My first thought would always be which marble did I just win? We played for Keepsies when I was eight. Instinctually, I would scan the faces of my playmates looking for any hint that I was good enough to be competing with them. It would just be a matter of time before I would lose all of the marbles I had won earlier in the game. I would consistently go home empty handed, leaving my opponents with all of my colorful little treasures.