If it were only a “war of words” that would be fine with me. I don’t expect the pope or any politician to fall on their sword and a good old southern expression comes to mind, “Call me anything you want, but don’t call me late to dinner.” As with those who take the trouble to excoriate me, as long as they do so in a civilized manner that would be acceptable. But, alas, that would be expecting too much of the uncivilized whether here in America or Iran. So, knowing there is no changing those who not only do not know better but have no intention of doing better, this morning in my reverie of a kinder and gentler America I used to know I recalled the love I used to have for shooting marbles.

I wonder why kids don’t play marbles any more? As a child in Little Oklahoma I lived for shooting marbles. Any child worth his salt, to be acceptable in our company, had to have a good collection of puries, boulders, and stripies. A couple of steelies had to be included as well. One had to be on the lookout for doughies, only used by unscrupulous cheaters.

    How many of you remember the incantation: “Here’s the river ‘n’ here’s the snake; here’s where y’ make your big mistake” while kneeling in the dirt, drawing the appropriate symbols to foil your opponent’s shot? Or, do any of you remember throwing a marble over your left shoulder in order to find a lost one? Losing a marble was one of the hazards of playing chase.

    In order to give the reader some idea of how serious I was about marbles, I came in second in the Bakersfield Championship of 1943. Yes, there really was a citywide championship for shooting marbles. Such was the innocence of the times that a city could have a marble-playing championship for children while the world was plunged into war.

    We could listen to Gabriel Heatter and Edward R. Murrow on the radio and hear news of battles, but bombs were not dropping on Little Oklahoma or Bakersfield. Therefore, the War was an exciting and far-away thing, made real to kids by such things as rationing, Superman and others doing battle against the Axis Powers. Even Bugs Bunny was doing his bit to win the war alongside Humphrey Bogart and George Raft.

    There were also the numerous military personnel in and about, constant reminders that a war was going on; Ronnie and I would be dressed in the diminutive uniforms of soldiers or sailors, there were little flags in windows with blue stars indicating some loved one in the military and, tragically, an occasional gold star declaring the ultimate sacrifice. We children could see AT-6’s and an occasional P-38 overhead from Minter Field. Sometimes we were entertained by them engaging in mock combat. But God seemed to be sparing America from an invading enemy on our shores.

    Back then there was no such thing as TV or gangs of kids shooting bullets at each other. Shooting marbles was certainly preferable, but children had a chance to be children in those long ago, simple days.

    I miss playing marbles; the good, warm, honest alkali dust under my bare feet, so much a part of an America that used to be. However, I never think of playing marbles but an incident comes to mind, one which gave me early pause to question my sanity at times and led me to speculate whether there are not in fact demons that suggest mischievous behavior to otherwise well behaved children (In the following narrative despite my first name being Samuel, everyone called me by my second name Donald, though most often used as Donnie).

    What happened was an unexpected and totally unplanned catastrophe. You know, one of those things that always seem like a good idea at the time but don't quite turn out the way you expect? Then you're left wondering why you thought it was a good idea but never able to say why?

    Now was one of those times.

    It had started as a normal day at school, the last day of school at Mt. Vernon Elementary before summer vacation. It was lunchtime and Charlie and I had been shooting marbles out toward the big chinaberry tree near the end of the play yard. It was a good, flat, bare dirt area and we always chose it to shoot marbles or play mumblety-peg. The sweet grass grew tall in the large expanse of the vacant field beyond the tree and I remember one time being able to fill a whole Prince Albert tobacco tin, one of those flat ones with a hinged lid, with ladybugs from that grass when it was fresh with dew and a hatch was on.

    We had drawn the regulation circle in the dirt for a game of rings and were playing for keeps; though the grownups had forbidden this evil, which made it all the more enticing. I had won the lag, so as first shooter I was concentrating hard as Charlie was busy with a twig scribing the twisting lines in the dry dust and chanting, Here's the river ‘n’ here's the snake, here's where y’ make your big mistake.

    We never knew if this incantation made someone miss their shot, but no boy who took shooting marbles for keeps with the right seriousness could fail to try if he wanted to keep his credentials. Like, if you lost a marble while playing chase, you stood with your back to the probable area of search and tossed a marble over your left shoulder. It was sure to land close to the lost marble.

    Charlie was the first to glimpse the slender, black undulating shape of the small grass snake.

    Hey! Look 'a there Donnie!

    I jerked around and spotted the hapless and harmless serpent.

    Pouncing quickly as only young boys can, I immediately had the wriggling creature captured in both hands.

    Whillikers, whut y' gonna do with 'im, Donnie?

    We were entranced with the small, captive reptile. It was only about eight inches long but lively. I held it tight but careful not to squash it and we watched the small, forked black tongue darting in and out, the snake's cold, black eyes a fascinating and penetrating attraction. I held it so only the snake's head protruded from my fingers, the rest of the small serpent's body twined around my hand and wrist.

    Dunno, gotta keep 'im somewhere.

    How 'bout y'r lunch bucket?

    That's the ticket!

    Charlie's and my lunch buckets were at the ready and empty. As I popped the wriggling snake into my bucket, we heard the bell being rung signaling the end of lunchtime. We grabbed up our marbles and lunch buckets and raced toward the school.

    Trouping into the classroom and taking our seats, we deposited the lunch buckets under our desks. Ella May had the seat in front of mine. She was wearing a yellow dress with small, white polka dots and a white sash tied around the waist in a neat bow behind her. A lacy, crocheted white collar went around the neck and with Ella May's short, curly hair, you could see it was open at the back. A row of dainty, white buttons ran half way down the back of the dress. It was a pretty dress.

    Miz Emelia, our third grade teacher, was busily putting a message on the blackboard informing us that we were required to make sure our desks were all cleaned out before leaving school as it was the last day before summer vacation. She was adding in her beautiful, meticulous, wavy hand (the Palmer method) that she wished us all an enjoyable summer and looked forward to seeing us again the next term. And she would be seeing a lot of the same class since many of my Little Oklahoma classmates would fail and return to the third grade.

    But in spite of my many shortcomings, school wasn't one of them. I enjoyed reading, writing, arithmetic and art. And I loved the music and singing. I was often paired with one of the girls to do duets, standing and singing for the whole class at the front of the room. And, of course, there was shooting marbles, tetherball, playing baseball, teasing girls and catching snakes. For the most part, I liked school.

    I was sitting and staring at the lacy, white, open collar of Ella May's dress. I bore Ella May no animosity. She was no worse than any other girl. In fact, strange, even alien creatures that they might be I even usually kind of liked some of them. I liked Ella May.

    I would never be able to explain what happened next. Maybe it was because it was the last day of school? Maybe it was because Miz Emelia was busy at the blackboard and not watching? Maybe I just went insane? People do that you know. Maybe I was suddenly possessed by a demon? Maybe...?

    The small snake seemed to materialize out of my lunch bucket and the hand holding the wiggling creature took on a life of its own detached from its owner as it reached out and slipped the little reptile down that open and inviting collar of the occupant of the desk in front of me.

    With a shriek peculiar and possible only to small girls with a snake down the back of their dress, Ella May shot up from her desk like lightning and instantly began performing a frantically insane dance accompanied with leaps and war whoops that would have made a frenzied Comanche preparing for going on the warpath green with envy and unable to duplicate! A truly awesome and spectacular performance!

    The chalk in Miz Emelia's hand snapped against the blackboard with the sound of a pistol shot as she whirled around in a state of shock and stood transfixed at the sight of Ella May leaping and whirling about the aisle like a dervish or turpentined cat, ricocheting off desks and shrieking at the top of her lungs! The whole class was in an uproar not knowing what was happening!

    Ella May hit the floor crawfishing, screaming and shrieking piercingly as a fire drill alarm, flopping like a fresh caught trout and clawing at the back of her dress. None of us had seen such a sight since one boy last year had a fit on the playground (But that had been the result of sitting on a mound of fire ants).

    Miz Emelia came out of her cataleptic state and rushed toward Ella May just in time for the girl to finally catch hold of the innocent and frightened reptile and sling it toward the teacher. The snake struck Miz Emelia right in the bosom and she instinctively whipped her hand at it only to throw it on the principal who had just run in the door of the classroom to see who was being murdered. It hit him right in his spectacles. He in turn threw his hands up and the poor snake found itself once more airborne along with the principal's glasses, landing directly in the wastebasket by the teacher's desk.

    It had all happened so quickly that I sat spellbound, unable to grasp the full significance of my handiwork. My mind didn't want to grasp the spectacular and frantic chaos I had caused all around me. I was truly impressed. Especially at the principal's shot into the wastebasket.

    I had never been to the principal's office before. But I knew others who had been. It was described as a dreadful place where Mr. Combs, the principal, had a huge paddle the size of a boat oar with which he meted out terrible punishment to evildoers. The paddle was described as being of oak construction with a series of holes drilled through it. The threat was made constantly: Don't get sideways of Mr. Combs! One older boy was quoted as saying that the holes were there to make it whistle and swing faster and to raise blisters. And when there were enough blisters, the principal would turn the paddle on edge and bust the blisters.

    It was quiet. A large Regulator pendulum clock with Roman numerals that was hanging on the wall in front of me held my attention as though I were hypnotized. Because next to it hung a huge paddle with holes in it. I stared at the pendulum of the clock swing back and forth trying not to see the paddle. I could hear each tick of the clock. I guess I wasn't hypnotized after all; just wishin'.

    I was seated on a chair in the school secretary's room. There was a door next to the secretary's desk with a pebble glass insert. Large, black letters on the glass spelled out Principal's Office. His muffled voice talking on the phone came through the wall, but not loud enough for me to make out what he was saying. But I knew he was probably talking to my grandfather.

    My mind was still numbed by all the excitement and chaos of Ella May, Miz Emelia and my classmates. It grew number looking at the paddle. I kept trying to look at the clock instead. I thought about the Katzenjammer Kids. They would always put a tin pie plate in their pants when they knew they were going to get a lickin'. Why didn't I have a tin pie plate handy? Another mental lapse.

    My brother Ronnie and I were well acquainted with being paddled. But never with a paddle like the one I couldn't keep my eyes off of. And never did we worry about one that raised blisters to be busted with its edge. What kind of monster was I facing? Why did I do it? No answer. I began to hate that clock.

    I could hear Mr. Combs hanging up the phone.

    He came out the door and pierced me with his eyes. One lens of his glasses was cracked and the frame was twisted. These alterations of his spectacles made his look at me all the more terrifying.

    Usually Mr. Combs struck me as a rather melancholy man. We saw him only rarely. He stood about five-feet, ten-inches tall and was gray haired. But he was solidly built, and except for a slight paunch seemed in excellent shape. He would occasionally play ball with the older pupils so we knew he was human.

    Well, Donnie, I just got through talking with your grandfather. He couldn't believe you would ever do anything like this. I'm not going to paddle you; he assured me he would handle matters.

    I was suddenly light-headed with relief and became somewhat mortified at being the cause of so much trouble for Mr. Combs. I could afford to be charitable now that I knew I wasn't going to get blisters busted on my backside with that monstrous paddle.

    But there was still grandad to face. And here I was facing him. He towered over me and said in his deep baritone that could shake boulders loose in the canyon: Well young man!

    In a rush of words without pause I poured it out.

    I just don't know grandad? Charlie and I were shooting marbles and he saw the snake and I grabbed it. I didn't know what to do with it and put it in my lunch bucket and took it into class. I was going to bring it home, honest!

    And you actually put that snake down little Ella May's dress and she threw it at Miss Emelia and she threw it at the principal?

    I thought I detected a slight smile forming on grandad's face. The red glow on his cheekbones was fading.

    No, I thought; that's not right, I must be going crazy! A faint hope began to form that maybe I really had gone insane? That would explain everything satisfactorily. Even grandad would have to understand then. Only a crazy boy would do what I did! Encouraged with that thought, I plunged ahead.

    Well, that's what happened but I didn't mean for it all to happen, honest! Maybe I went crazy, grandad?

    It was worth a shot.

    I wasn't crazy! Grandad was actually trying to keep from laughing! That was crazy! Grandad was the one going crazy! The thought scared me. I began to feel like when I tied a string to a loose tooth and the other end to a doorknob; just waiting.

    Well, son, you are going to memorize a chapter in the Bible. And I think I Corinthians 13 is the one.

    I couldn't believe my ears! I wasn't going to get a lickin'? What was going on?

    But I wasn't about to argue the kindness of the fates or try to take stock of grandad's sudden loss of his mind.

    Thanks grandad, I'll get right to it!

    And I did. I even remembered to thank the Lord for delivering me from getting a lickin', especially with that monstrous paddle. But I sure couldn't figure out grandad's reaction? Apart from insanity. And maybe grandad going crazy wouldn't be so bad after all. I could swear I could hear him laughing through the door of Ronnie's and my bedroom and my grandmother saying, Hush Jack, it wasn't funny! (Everyone, including my grandmother, called grandad Jack. I never heard anyone call him John. Well, except when my grandmother was mad at him. Then she'd call him John or even John Caldwell if she were really upset at him).

    The ways of grownups were certain strange and mysterious at times.

    With I Corinthians 13 burned into my memory, it didn’t seem to arouse any special love on my part for Ella May. But I still liked her and maybe all I was trying to do was to get her attention? If so, in that respect most would say I had succeeded admirably and beyond all expectations. I would have gladly apologized and asked her to forgive me except she wasn't to be found anywhere after the incident. It really wasn't my nature to do such things. The thought of insanity in the family intruded into my thoughts once more.

    But that's a girl for you. All that fuss over a harmless little grass snake. And I lost the snake too. That hadn't been fair. However, I had intuited that it might not be good form to press my luck by asking Mr. Combs if I could have my snake back. Oh, well. But I really did like Ella May. And I liked Miz Emelia and felt kind of sorry the teacher got hit with the snake. And Mr. Combs. It wasn't my fault Ella May had thrown the snake at her and then Miz Emelia flung it at the principal.

    Almost as quick as a congressman, I managed to begin to feel some comfort of self-righteousness. Even though I liked her, the whole thing was Ella May's fault for carrying on so. I certainly hadn't planned the thing to go like it did. Whatever conscience I might have had in the affair began to subside comfortably and satisfactorily. School was out and the whole summer was before me, there was no further need of hot water bottles in bed to keep our feet warm; winter was long gone and with its passing any memory of the bitter cold.

    Ronnie and I would be sleeping on the screen porch and going swimming, frogging and fishing, digging holes and catching lizards. There would be long, warm evenings; warm moonlit nights just made for the clandestine activities of children, and warm, lazy, golden mornings and fields shimmering in the heat by 9 a.m.

    There would be going barefoot and our feet would feel once more, after a winter of being shod, the marvelously warm, white alkali dust, feel the honest and unrestricted squish of mud between our toes while watching out for mud-daubers and yellow jackets. Doodlebugs would be making their marvelous, small, funnel-like ant traps and we would take ice cream or Popsicle sticks and dig them up just to discover and look at them. We would find lizards, trapdoor spiders and tarantulas, and, in short, just be kids in that America I used to know as a child despite the momentary lapses of good behavior.