By Jerry Mack Grubbs
A friend recently asked me a question. My answer to her question was, “Two for one.” When I said those words a memory of years ago came flooding across me and washed me up on the sands of my youth.
The Memory:
“I’ll trade you two cat-eyes for one of your steelies,” she said. “No, I wouldn’t trade you one of my steelies for a hundred cat-eyed marbles,” I said. “I don’t have a hundred cat-eyes,” she said with a look of forlorn disappointment. “I said I wouldn’t trade for a hundred cat-eyes so it doesn’t matter whether you have that many or not,” I said.
Playing marbles-for-keeps was the first form of gambling I was exposed to in my youth. It took place on the playground in the first grade at Gilmer Elementary. We played at recess, during lunch break and while waiting for the bus to take us home after school. I once got so engrossed in the game that I missed the bus and had to walk the seven miles home. I burst through the door of our home about the same time the family got worried enough to come looking for me. I was so excited. I had just won my second steelie.
I’ll explain the rules of the game for those of you who have never played marbles-for-keeps. First you draw a circle in the dirt. Each player tosses three marbles into the circle. Then the players take turns as they kneel down, curl the index finger around a marble called a “shooter” and position the thumb behind the marble in preparation of flipping the “shooter” marble toward its intended target. Any marble knocked out of the circle by the “shooter” marble becomes the property of the one who made the shot. If, by chance, the shooter marble fails to knock another marble out of the circle and it does not pass out of the circle either, then the shooter marble must remain in the circle and became free game for the other players to try to knock it out of the circle.
Playing marbles-for-keeps with someone who was using a steelie as his shooter was dangerous business. A steelie could easily knock other marbles out of the circle because of its additional weight. You could drop a steelie in the circle at the start of a game but you couldn’t use a steelie as your shooter marble unless you had previously won it fair-and-square in a marbles-for-keeps game.
When William (we called him Will) dropped a steelie into the circle I couldn’t believe my luck. It is almost impossible to knock a steelie out of the circle unless it was done by another steelie. Fortune was smiling on me that day. I had won my first steelie just two weeks earlier by sheer luck when other boys trying to win it had knocked it right next to the edge of the circle. I smacked it as hard as I could from across the ring drawn in the dirt. The steelie barely passed outside the circle. I immediately pocketed it and had no intention of gambling with it in the future. When Will dropped his steelie in the circle he had forgotten that I had a steelie buried deep in my pocket.
When the game was over I was the owner of two steelies. With two steelies I could afford to gamble a little more recklessly. Over the course of the next few weeks I had assembled a sack of fifty-four marbles. I had cat-eyes, swirls, blues, greens, whites, grays and even two crystal clear marbles. I never gambled my two crystal clear marbles. I considered them my good luck marbles. The two steelies and the two crystal clear marbles were not ever carried in my marble sack. I kept them in my pocket separate from everything else.
Once I forgot to take my special marbles out of my pant’s pocket. When mother was washing my clothes, as she fed the pants through the ringer to squeeze out the water and soap, the ringer rollers jerked, hesitated then bounced over something hard in the pant’s pocket. Fishing into the pocket mother found one of my steelies. When she told me she found one of my marbles I was gripped with fear. If she only found one then three others were missing because I kept them together. I ran to the old tub style washer and sloshed my hand through the dirty wash water. To my relief, I found the other three marbles and made a promise to myself to be more careful with them in the future.
My treasure sack of fifty-four marbles was due mainly to my tactic of placing one steelie in the circle where it would be hard to knock out and using the other steelie as my shooter. Now you know why I was unwilling to trade a steelie for two measly cat-eyes. Some things are too precious to trade away. “If you won’t trade for one of your steelies, will you trade one of your crystal clear marbles?” she asked. “Never,” I said without a moment’s hesitation. How could I trade one of them? They were my good luck.
Fast forward to 2003. I had those two crystal clear marbles with me when I was hiking with family and friends in the Black Box of the San Rafael Swell. As I sat in the shallow water at the take-out point of the hike I reached into my pocket and discovered that one of my marbles was missing. I hurriedly looked around the immediate area where I sat and cleaned the small pebbly gravel out of my tennis shoes but my crystal marble was not to be found. I was saddened by the loss of that marble but I had a group of family and friends who were relying on me to lead them back to the safety and comfort of our campsite.
Later I obtained another crystal clear marble to replace my lost one. When asked which one was the original marble I said, “I don’t know. It’s more about what the marble represents than whether it is an original.” Besides, I still had two steelies that were originals and they were safely tucked away with a few other boyhood artifacts. Their true value isn’t of a monetary nature but the value is in the memories that are wrapped around them. Too often we hold on too tightly to the marble instead of what it represents. No, I wouldn’t trade two for one, twenty for one or even a hundred for one. But I’m now speaking of the memories, not the marbles. Each and every memory is precious to me. Family and friends are wrapped up in the memories that make up the sum total of who I am. My memories are not for sale, nor for trade, but only for sharing. As I share them they are still retained. Only a few of you have seen my crystal clear and steelie marbles but many of you have been a part of my memories. For that I am most grateful. For that I am richly blessed.
I originally called this article, “Marbles & Memories” but later decided to just call it “Two for One?” As I move into the fall or winter of my life (depending on what you prefer to call it) my memories have become more precious than my marbles. However, I can still hold those marbles in my hand and when I do, the memories come flooding back. Today I would gladly trade two marbles to entice you to share just one of your precious memories with me. But don’t ask me to give up one of the steelies or crystal clear marbles of my youth for I will never travel that road again except in the memories of my mind.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Precious Memories: Today & Tomorrow
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
There is a row of willow trees along the west boundary of the park near my home. I noticed today that their woody brown branches of winter are beginning to give way to a yellow-green hue. My brother said that was a sign that the trees were preparing to burst forth with the new buds of spring.
Although the trees are of the same relative height, one in particular stands out to me. Regardless of the season, in my mind I see that tree radiant with the dark green leaves of summer. I also see my first remote control motorized sailplane wedged between two of its branches. As far as planes go it was a sad sight. The propeller was broken and a severed wing was resting comfortably in the grass beneath the tree. I gathered up the damaged pieces of my plane and headed home to make the necessary repairs.
The amount of time I was spending repairing my plane in comparison to the time I was spending flying was disproportional. There was a root cause behind this situation. My son, who has flown remote control planes for years and was struggling to teach me the sport, had repeatedly cautioned me that I wasn’t ready to fly solo yet. But once alone, I began to rationalize my ability: not my skill, but my ability to save a bad situation, somehow to pull it out at the last moment when I got into trouble. Soon I’d be back at the park with my repaired plane ready to give it another try. I had been flying real planes for thirty-three years. Just how difficult could this be? After the total destruction of three motorized sailplanes, I finally got the message.
At the suggestion of my son, my next plane was an awkward looking set of wings and motor that barely resembled an aircraft. Gone were the sleek lines of the sailplanes. Gone was the ability to soar to heights where it was hard to see the tiny dot of a plane high in the sky. I named my new plane Slow Poke because I could almost outrun it. It was so slow it could actually fly backwards in a seven mile per hour wind. But this little plane was exactly what I needed: slow to react to wrong control input, gentle in inexperienced hands and forgiving in outright crashes. Even with all these attributes I have still crashed Slow Poke more times than I can keep track of. I’m not an expert remote control pilot yet but I have become expert at quick field repairs so I can fix the damage and get back to doing what I enjoy . . . flying.
So, as I pass the row of trees along the west border of our neighborhood park, my thoughts and memories of the broken sailplane wedged between two branches isn’t a sad memory. It is a memory of a progression of events. Without those heartbreak experiences of crashing my sailplanes I would have never met Slow Poke and come to love and appreciate things that move at a slower pace but get the job done.
My life is crammed full of precious memories that become the sum total of who I am today. With rare exception, the places I go and the things I do remind me of special occasions and unique happenings that take me back in time and caress my heart with a tender squeeze. I believe it was Mark Twain who said, “I am a part of all I have met.” Mother Teresa said, “I desire to share a part of me with all I meet.” While one quote is focused on receiving the other is focused on giving. I have received much more than I have given in return.
Whether it is a memory of a model plane wedged between the branches of a tree, reflecting on a special hike with family and friends, or simply a phone call to check up on someone, I feel like my memories make me one of the richest men alive. Isn’t that what Easter is about . . . remembering what others have done for us, especially the One who gave us eternal life. It was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “When managing yourself, use your brain. When managing your relationships with others, use your heart.” Isn’t that basically what the Savior has asked of us? When the woody brown branches of winter give way to the yellow-green hue of spring, my mind doesn’t just dwell on my earthly experiences and the special people in my life but also on the great saving sacrifice made for you and me by the Son of God. The new buds of spring remind me of the precious renewal of life freely given to each of us.
There is a row of willow trees along the west boundary of the park near my home. I noticed today that their woody brown branches of winter are beginning to give way to a yellow-green hue. My brother said that was a sign that the trees were preparing to burst forth with the new buds of spring.
Although the trees are of the same relative height, one in particular stands out to me. Regardless of the season, in my mind I see that tree radiant with the dark green leaves of summer. I also see my first remote control motorized sailplane wedged between two of its branches. As far as planes go it was a sad sight. The propeller was broken and a severed wing was resting comfortably in the grass beneath the tree. I gathered up the damaged pieces of my plane and headed home to make the necessary repairs.
The amount of time I was spending repairing my plane in comparison to the time I was spending flying was disproportional. There was a root cause behind this situation. My son, who has flown remote control planes for years and was struggling to teach me the sport, had repeatedly cautioned me that I wasn’t ready to fly solo yet. But once alone, I began to rationalize my ability: not my skill, but my ability to save a bad situation, somehow to pull it out at the last moment when I got into trouble. Soon I’d be back at the park with my repaired plane ready to give it another try. I had been flying real planes for thirty-three years. Just how difficult could this be? After the total destruction of three motorized sailplanes, I finally got the message.
At the suggestion of my son, my next plane was an awkward looking set of wings and motor that barely resembled an aircraft. Gone were the sleek lines of the sailplanes. Gone was the ability to soar to heights where it was hard to see the tiny dot of a plane high in the sky. I named my new plane Slow Poke because I could almost outrun it. It was so slow it could actually fly backwards in a seven mile per hour wind. But this little plane was exactly what I needed: slow to react to wrong control input, gentle in inexperienced hands and forgiving in outright crashes. Even with all these attributes I have still crashed Slow Poke more times than I can keep track of. I’m not an expert remote control pilot yet but I have become expert at quick field repairs so I can fix the damage and get back to doing what I enjoy . . . flying.
So, as I pass the row of trees along the west border of our neighborhood park, my thoughts and memories of the broken sailplane wedged between two branches isn’t a sad memory. It is a memory of a progression of events. Without those heartbreak experiences of crashing my sailplanes I would have never met Slow Poke and come to love and appreciate things that move at a slower pace but get the job done.
My life is crammed full of precious memories that become the sum total of who I am today. With rare exception, the places I go and the things I do remind me of special occasions and unique happenings that take me back in time and caress my heart with a tender squeeze. I believe it was Mark Twain who said, “I am a part of all I have met.” Mother Teresa said, “I desire to share a part of me with all I meet.” While one quote is focused on receiving the other is focused on giving. I have received much more than I have given in return.
Whether it is a memory of a model plane wedged between the branches of a tree, reflecting on a special hike with family and friends, or simply a phone call to check up on someone, I feel like my memories make me one of the richest men alive. Isn’t that what Easter is about . . . remembering what others have done for us, especially the One who gave us eternal life. It was Eleanor Roosevelt who said, “When managing yourself, use your brain. When managing your relationships with others, use your heart.” Isn’t that basically what the Savior has asked of us? When the woody brown branches of winter give way to the yellow-green hue of spring, my mind doesn’t just dwell on my earthly experiences and the special people in my life but also on the great saving sacrifice made for you and me by the Son of God. The new buds of spring remind me of the precious renewal of life freely given to each of us.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
A Few Minutes
By Jerry Mack Grubbs
Pulling into the airport area that was designated “Park & Wait,” I searched the electronic information board for Delta Flight #1826. The green lights on the board next to Honolulu flight #1826 flashed “En Route.” I eased the car into park and read the large billboard sign to my right. It said, “Do not leave car engine running.” I reached up and turned the ignition key to the off position. I glanced at my watch. It was 7:41 AM. A friend was scheduled to arrive at 7:53 AM after spending nine days on the Island of Kauai in Hawaii. I was looking forward to hearing first hand the highlights of her vacation, seeing her pictures and sharing in her excitement that had filtered down to me through her e-mails.
When the electronic sign that announces flight arrivals changed from “en route” to “pick-up” I cranked the engine and moved out of the parking area. The street curb area designated for picking up arriving passengers from the Delta flights was crowded except at the far end. I pulled in next to the curb down beyond all the other cars and backed up to get as close to the pedestrian crosswalk as possible where my friend would be exiting the terminal. My cell phone rang. “I’m here at the baggage area. Where are you?” she asked. “Right out side,” I said. “I would come in and help with your luggage but I can’t leave the car unattended.” “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll be out in just a few minutes.”
A lot can happen in a few minutes. I left the engine running and stepped around the back of the car and on to the curb so I would have a better view of the crosswalk where she would be coming out of the terminal. “You’re a half-aborted excuse for a human,” said a man standing on the sidewalk about four feet away. “Excuse me,” I said. “Shut your face before I shut it for you,” came his reply. “Sir, I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you but whatever it is, I apologize,” I said. “I said shut your yap before I shut it for you,” he said in a raised tone. “Would you at least tell me what I did? I honestly don’t know what I did to offend you,” I said. “You took my parking place you son-of-a-beach." Before I could comment, he corrected his words although I already knew what he meant to say. "Now get back in your car before I kick the hell out of you,” he said. “I hope there isn’t a lot of hell left in me,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. I was puzzled because he was waiting to be picked up by someone who hadn’t arrived yet. There were no cars parked in front of me so I said, “If you would like, I will move forward and let you have your space back.” “Go to hell you moron,” he said as his face grew beet red almost matching the color of his sweatshirt. “I’m going to move forward and let you settle down before you have a coronary,” I said. “You move that car one inch and I’ll kick both you and the car across the street,” came his reply. “Sir, I apologize for upsetting you, it was not intentional,” I said. “Shut your face you abortion mistake,” were his final words to me. I turned and walked away in search of my friend. Looking back I saw that he had taken the eight or nine steps down the sidewalk past the front of my car and once more resumed his wait for his ride that still hadn't arrived.
When I saw her coming across the street her smile washed away the sadness I felt inside for the man in the red sweatshirt. On the front of the sweatshirt were written the words, “Just you and me Babe.” I felt sorry for him but I found myself feeling more sorry for whoever his babe might be. She is the one who lives with his explosive personality day in and day out. He and I only had a brief encounter, an encounter that was easy to deal with because I could go home and not have to be exposed to his ugliness and temper on a regular basis. I felt sorry for all the babes in the world who are connected to men with foul mouths, ill tempers and uncontrolled emotions.
As we drove away from the airport and began talking of her vacation to Hawaii, I soon forgot the red face, the caustic words, and even the references to my unfortunate birth. A nice tan on a smiling face coupled with soft words can wash away a lot of unpleasantness. On the surface I had acted pleasant to the angry man in the red sweatshirt but not all my feelings on the inside mirrored my outward actions. I wish that I could say they did but in truth they didn’t.
I had some unpleasant thoughts about the man. I reflected on my own life and what my reaction to him would have been at different stages of my maturity. I was actually reviewing those very thoughts while we were having our little conversation. I thought about how I would have responded as a teenager, as a young adult, and all the way up to who I am now. I think I prefer the person I am today. I don’t feel a need to prove my manhood or try to change someone else’s opinion of me. There are certainly advantages to a softer approach. I didn’t end up with a broken nose as I have on occasion. I didn’t do something that I would later regret. But most important, my choice of behavior didn’t place the man in the red sweatshirt between the Savior and me because the Savior knows the intent of my heart. It is much easier to be forgiven of poor thoughts than poor actions. Bad thoughts only hurt and diminish me while poor behavior impacts others as well. I have a long way to go but at least I am making better choices than I did when I was younger. I believe that is called progress. What a difference a few minutes can make. It only takes a few minutes of stress or unexpected confrontation to help us see how far we have come and how far we still have to go. Just yesterday my brother shared a quote with me: “If you aren’t nice, nothing else matters.”
Pulling into the airport area that was designated “Park & Wait,” I searched the electronic information board for Delta Flight #1826. The green lights on the board next to Honolulu flight #1826 flashed “En Route.” I eased the car into park and read the large billboard sign to my right. It said, “Do not leave car engine running.” I reached up and turned the ignition key to the off position. I glanced at my watch. It was 7:41 AM. A friend was scheduled to arrive at 7:53 AM after spending nine days on the Island of Kauai in Hawaii. I was looking forward to hearing first hand the highlights of her vacation, seeing her pictures and sharing in her excitement that had filtered down to me through her e-mails.
When the electronic sign that announces flight arrivals changed from “en route” to “pick-up” I cranked the engine and moved out of the parking area. The street curb area designated for picking up arriving passengers from the Delta flights was crowded except at the far end. I pulled in next to the curb down beyond all the other cars and backed up to get as close to the pedestrian crosswalk as possible where my friend would be exiting the terminal. My cell phone rang. “I’m here at the baggage area. Where are you?” she asked. “Right out side,” I said. “I would come in and help with your luggage but I can’t leave the car unattended.” “That’s okay,” she said. “I’ll be out in just a few minutes.”
A lot can happen in a few minutes. I left the engine running and stepped around the back of the car and on to the curb so I would have a better view of the crosswalk where she would be coming out of the terminal. “You’re a half-aborted excuse for a human,” said a man standing on the sidewalk about four feet away. “Excuse me,” I said. “Shut your face before I shut it for you,” came his reply. “Sir, I don’t know what I’ve done to upset you but whatever it is, I apologize,” I said. “I said shut your yap before I shut it for you,” he said in a raised tone. “Would you at least tell me what I did? I honestly don’t know what I did to offend you,” I said. “You took my parking place you son-of-a-beach." Before I could comment, he corrected his words although I already knew what he meant to say. "Now get back in your car before I kick the hell out of you,” he said. “I hope there isn’t a lot of hell left in me,” I said, trying to defuse the situation. I was puzzled because he was waiting to be picked up by someone who hadn’t arrived yet. There were no cars parked in front of me so I said, “If you would like, I will move forward and let you have your space back.” “Go to hell you moron,” he said as his face grew beet red almost matching the color of his sweatshirt. “I’m going to move forward and let you settle down before you have a coronary,” I said. “You move that car one inch and I’ll kick both you and the car across the street,” came his reply. “Sir, I apologize for upsetting you, it was not intentional,” I said. “Shut your face you abortion mistake,” were his final words to me. I turned and walked away in search of my friend. Looking back I saw that he had taken the eight or nine steps down the sidewalk past the front of my car and once more resumed his wait for his ride that still hadn't arrived.
When I saw her coming across the street her smile washed away the sadness I felt inside for the man in the red sweatshirt. On the front of the sweatshirt were written the words, “Just you and me Babe.” I felt sorry for him but I found myself feeling more sorry for whoever his babe might be. She is the one who lives with his explosive personality day in and day out. He and I only had a brief encounter, an encounter that was easy to deal with because I could go home and not have to be exposed to his ugliness and temper on a regular basis. I felt sorry for all the babes in the world who are connected to men with foul mouths, ill tempers and uncontrolled emotions.
As we drove away from the airport and began talking of her vacation to Hawaii, I soon forgot the red face, the caustic words, and even the references to my unfortunate birth. A nice tan on a smiling face coupled with soft words can wash away a lot of unpleasantness. On the surface I had acted pleasant to the angry man in the red sweatshirt but not all my feelings on the inside mirrored my outward actions. I wish that I could say they did but in truth they didn’t.
I had some unpleasant thoughts about the man. I reflected on my own life and what my reaction to him would have been at different stages of my maturity. I was actually reviewing those very thoughts while we were having our little conversation. I thought about how I would have responded as a teenager, as a young adult, and all the way up to who I am now. I think I prefer the person I am today. I don’t feel a need to prove my manhood or try to change someone else’s opinion of me. There are certainly advantages to a softer approach. I didn’t end up with a broken nose as I have on occasion. I didn’t do something that I would later regret. But most important, my choice of behavior didn’t place the man in the red sweatshirt between the Savior and me because the Savior knows the intent of my heart. It is much easier to be forgiven of poor thoughts than poor actions. Bad thoughts only hurt and diminish me while poor behavior impacts others as well. I have a long way to go but at least I am making better choices than I did when I was younger. I believe that is called progress. What a difference a few minutes can make. It only takes a few minutes of stress or unexpected confrontation to help us see how far we have come and how far we still have to go. Just yesterday my brother shared a quote with me: “If you aren’t nice, nothing else matters.”
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