Just Shelley

I was a real tom boy growing up, more interested in climbing trees then in playing with dolls. I remember getting a Barbie doll, once, and it was a real novelty at first as I tried to slip tiny little shoes on tiny little feet, and tight shirts over not so tiny hard plastic breasts. However, I quickly lost one of the shoes, and I wasn't particulary enamored with female physiology then and now so Barbie ended up in a box of unused, discarded toys. I believe one of our dogs eventually found it and took it off somewhere to chew.

There was a succession of rather disgruntling Christmases where I was given dolls that cried and dolls that wet their diapers and dolls that drank out of bottles, while my brother was given really cool stuff like a mini-car racing set and a BB gun. I was especially envious of the BB gun until Mike accidentally shot his best friend in the head with it and that was the last we saw of the gun.

(Mike was also was given a Boy Scout knife, which he promptly lost when he played Mumbly Peg with it in the ground by my feet one summer afternoon and the knife bounced and ended up point first in my thigh.)

My parents weren't dummies and they eventually realized that girl toys held little interest for me, so they started giving me things I really could enjoy — a trike, a bicycle, a toy doctor's kit, balls, musical instruments, and a tape recorder. One Christmas, after not so subtle hints on my part, I got my own bag of marbles.

Now, the year I got the marbles, the really big thing among the kids of my crowd (my crowd being the entire fourth grade class of the town's one and only elementary school) was playing marbles. Whenever we weren't running around playing hide n' seek, or runaway, or tetherball, or swimming, we were playing marbles. It was mainly boys that played, but there were some other girls besides myself who liked the game.

I kept my marbles in a soft carry bag made of blue plush, with a gold drawstring closure my mother had made for me. We all had our favorite marbles, the ones we really hated losing during play, and my favorites were an orange colored aggie and a blue swirly. I'd take them out at night, polishing them against my nightgown and holding them up to the light, gloating over the rich color and sparkly surfaces.

In spite of the color of the aggies and the sparkle of the shooters and the mystery of the cats-eyes, the real prizes were the steelies — marbles made of steel rather than glass. However, the kids in our town didn't have your average, every day steely. We got our steelies from the Blacksmith.

The Blacksmith had a shop downtown, close to the general goods store we called the Candy Store (because that's where we bought our penny candy), and across the street from the Post Office. The shop was a bit rundown, with a grubby looking tree out front, and had a large door that opened big enough to allow a car to back in. Next to the door was a small dirty window with a sign proclaiming type of business and hours of operation. To one side was a bunch of bushes that grew by chance, and between them and the tree, you'd pass the shop if you didn't know it was there. Of course, we all knew it was there.

When the Smith wasn't busy, he and one or two of his friends would sit in chairs on the sidewalk in front of the shop, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting and looking out at the cars passing.

I do remember the afternoon I went to get my steely quite clearly: the shop, the warmth of the sun reflecting off the sidewalk, and the Smith sitting out front, wearing a jeans coverall darkened with soot and grime, red and dirty white handkerchief stuffed into his back pocket, fanning himself with a folded newspaper. I don't remember the Smith's face, but the hands — I can still see the hands. Skin permanently darkened, calloused and scarred from years of work at the forge.

I was a bit hesitant at approaching this man who was so dirty and large and unknown. I had to be egged on my best friend, whose name I can't remember. When I did get the nerve to approach the Smith and ask if I could, please, have a steely, his quiet, thoughtful eyes resting on my face a moment; then, with slow, deliberate movements, the Smith turned around and walked into his shop, not saying a word. When he returned, his hand was in front of him, fingers curved around something I couldn't see. I held out my own hand, much smaller, delicate in comparison and only slightly dirty from summer dust, and into it the Smith dropped this perfect silver globe, surprising me momentarily because of the weight.

I rolled the steely around my hand and felt the fading warmth from the Smith's hand, the smoothness of the surface, the deep glow of the metal. Looking up to thank the Blacksmith, the sun was behind his back and his face in shadows. I squinted against the light as I mumbled out my thanks, and I thought I heard a rumble of laughter in reply, or maybe it was a car going by at that time. Hard to say. But I had my steely, and I and my friend went running off to the playground to try it out, see what captures I could make with my new prize.

Over the summer, I never lost my steely but I did lose other marbles, including the orange aggie and the blue swirly. However, I also won new favorites, and everything tended to balance out. We were all friends, after all. Well, most of us were friends.

There was one boy my age who was a bully, plain and simple. His older brother used to beat up on other boys and this kid looked to follow in the same line. Surly, I remember that about him. Surly, tow headed, a bit stocky, and just plain mean. He scared most of the kids except for the few that were bigger then him, and they were scared of his brother. Between them, the two ruled the playground.

The bully and I just didn't like each other and hadn't for years, calling each other names, shoving each other around. Once, in third grade, when I was perched up on a cement wall above the steps leading into the school he pushed me off, and I fell on my back on the steps. I had the breath knocked out of me and scraped my arm real bad. When the teacher came out to see what the fuss was, I couldn't find the air to push out the words to tell her what had happened and she assumed I had fallen on my own and sent me to the nurse to get my arm taken care of. Since in those days the worst scum on earth was a tattle tale, the bully never got in trouble.

It was towards the end of summer just before I started fifth grade and we were playing marbles one early evening when the bully showed up. He started taunting me as usual, but he seemed meaner that day, if possible. I tried to ignore him because I was having too much fun playing, but this just made him madder. Finally he kicked my pile of marbles scattering them about, including my favorite steely. As I watched it roll off and get lost in the grass, I jumped to my feet to run after it. When I stood, the bully kicked me in my privates.

Being kicked in the privates when you're a girl isn't pleasant, but it doesn't have the crippling effect that it does on boys. The bully's kick really didn't impact on me that much and I remember brushing it off and started walking, quickly, towards him, determined to make this guy pay. I'd wrestled with boys before including my best friend, and I wasn't afraid to roll about in the dirt or get a little cut up. Might say I was a bit used to it by then.

As I got closer I noticed how much taller I was then the bully, me coming from a tall family and being a girl and girl's getting their height sooner than boys. When I was in fist throwing distance, he moved back slightly, which surprised me. I looked into his eyes and it shocked me to see that he was scared of me. The boy who terrorized the playground was afraid of me.

Now, I don't know if I was an overly bright child but I was shrewd, the shrewdness that comes with just being a kid and trying to survive childhood. It dawned on me that he wasn't scared of me because I could hurt him — he was scared because he realized at that moment there was a possibility I could beat him. And I was a girl. Being beaten by another boy would be bad, but to be beaten by a girl…well, that would ruin the bully for sure.

I'd like to say some noble instinct came over me, turning me away from the fight, but no such thing. Some kid's parent showed up at that point and stopped it, telling us all to go on home. I wasn't too happy about it, either, because I was really looking forward to putting that kid on the ground and driving his face into the dirt. I could taste the dirt in my mouth, feel his head under my hands, so real was the vision.

That was the last summer I played marbles. During the next year, I climbed trees less and danced more, discovering the Beatles and other rock n' roll, spending more time with other girls, becoming more awkward around my best friend and the other boys. I was growing up. My bag of marbles began to collect dust and eventually my mother gave it away.

I never did find my steely that one summer day. As for the bully? He never bothered me again.

For a year, we lived on Grande Isle in Vermont. Our home was a rented house with a view of the lake from the living room, and the main road and hills from the large country kitchen in the front. You had to turn down into our drive, which made leaving a bit difficult at times during adverse weather. To the side of our drive way was a big red barn. In front of that, in the field all by itself, was a beautifully shaped evergreen in perfect Christmas tree form.

That first winter, snow began to fall before Halloween and never left once it took hold. The lake started freezing all around the shoreline, and ice filled in the small bay in front of our house. Along the access way to the mainland, we could see tentative tracks in the snow near the water as fisherman tested the ice anxiously, checking for that magic time when they could put up their ice fishing shacks.

As Thanksgiving came and went, the snow grew higher–brilliant white, powdered crystals that drifted around the house and along the side of the road. The crews kept the roads remarkably clear, and we could see from our 'mud room' the cars zipping down the hill, as it curved around the field where our house lay.

We had feeders in the big, gnarly old apple tree in front, which were appreciated by cardinal and chipmunk alike. The chipmunks were especially funny, because they would stuff their mouths so full of nuts that their eyes were almost forced shut.

On Thanksgiving day, two busy beavers took time off from easting roasted turkey and fresh baked pumpkin pie, in order to create our own special Christmas scene. That night, we flipped the switches, and on came the lights surrounding our house, the red barn, the bushes in front, and especially that evergreen tree–now splendidly lit in its proud isolation in the snow covered field.

Not elegant white lights, no. These were a child's delight of color. Rich reds, greens, blues, and sparkling yellows and oranges chased themselves around the eaves and danced in their own reflection in the snow and around the icicles hanging down from house and barn.

We stood out on the porch looking at the lit tree, sipping hot spiced cider and enjoying the results of our work when we heard a car coming down and around the hill facing toward the tree. Muffled against the snow was the sound of racing engine almost stalling as whoever was driving took their foot off the gas. What must they have seen? A house covered in lights, and in what was once a dark, formless nighttime field, a perfect tree, glowing with color?

From that night on until New Years, cars would slow coming down the hill, sometimes even pulling over to the side to stop to look at a tableau of moonlight streaking across a frozen lake, fronting a snow softened valley and field filled with home, barn, and tree, sparkling in color.

Christmas morning dawned with sun shining brilliantly on the snow and ice, glowing richly against the red of the barn, the green of evergreen brush and trees; blue sky forming a backdrop for lake and field. Snow had come and gone since the lights had been added and covered the tracks and electrical line to the tree, leaving a field unmarked by human.

I was at the window looking out at the field, drinking a cup of coffee, when I noticed movement to the left. Out from the brush and trees separating us from our neighbors came a red fox. We watched as it stopped for a moment, seemingly also enjoying the view. It then took off across the field; hopping rather than running, as it would sink into snow that almost covered its head with each jump.

The fox hopped to the Christmas tree and stopped once more, looking closely into its depths. Perhaps it wondered what strange stuff was wrapped around the familiar old tree. Maybe it heard the rustle of bird or small creature. The red of its fur was brightened by the sun, saturated against the dark green of the tree. A breeze blew a wisp of powdered snow from the tree down on the fox, and it raised its nose into the air and sniffed at the stream of glitter flowing past. Catching the scent of rabbit or den, it once again began making its slow, hopping away across the field and out of sight.

Tonight I walked longer than I normally do and ended up going to my library at a later time. Driving back, the neighborhoods were getting dark and I could see the fireflies out and about in the bushes.

Just past the odd house with the stone fence, but before the miniature castle, one of the fireflies headed into my car from the front and I hit him. Normally hitting bugs is not something I worry about, unless it's a butterfly or moth; but fireflies seem such gentle creatures, and provide so much enjoyment. I've always appreciated how they hover about you as you stand near them, as if they're curious, but unafraid, of this big monstrosity.

Another block, and more fireflies appeared in front of me. I couldn't avoid them; only catching a brief glimpse of their bright neon-green light before they're smashed against the metal (well, plastic) of my car.

The next block and it seemed as if I had a stream of fireflies heading towards my car; I can only guess they were attracted, or confused by, the lights. Each bravely flickered its butt in one last exaltation of light before throwing itself in a frenzy of hopeful lust to a very quick, and very sure, death.

When I got home, I contemplated the orgasmatic remains of the tiny, now dark creatures on my bumper and thought that all things being equal, it wasn't a bad way to go.