Marbles. You can be accused of losing them or still have them locked away in a velvet pouch, guarding each brilliant glass sphere from the ravages of time.
Alzheimer’s disease crept in years ago and brutally made off like a thief in the night with my late mother’s collection. Since her death, my own fear of ending up almost mindless, a stranger in my family’s midst, pushes me constantly to exercise my brain, holding onto those marbles that make up who I am.
Then, there is that time issue; one which people often write about. One heartwarming story, 1,000 Marbles, was written by Jeffrey Davis years ago, about a ham radio conversation he listened to, well, it touched me deeply. I share part of it with you…
I turned the dial up into the phone portion of the band on my ham radio in order to listen to a Saturday morning swap net. Along the way, I came across an older sounding chap, with a tremendous signal and a golden voice. You know the kind, he sounded like he should be in the broadcasting business. He was telling whoever he was talking with something about “a thousand marbles”. I was intrigued as I listened to what he had to say….
“So I went to a toy store and bought every single marble they had. I ended up having to visit three toy stores to round-up 1000 marbles. I took them home and put them inside of a large, clear plastic container right here in the shack next to my gear. Every Saturday since then, I have taken one marble out and thrown it away.”
“I found that by watching the marbles diminish, I focused more on the really important things in life. There is nothing like watching your time here on this earth run out to help get your priorities straight.”
“Now let me tell you one last thing before I sign-off with you and take my lovely wife out for breakfast. This morning, I took the very last marble out of the container. I figure if I make it until next Saturday then I have been given a little extra time. And the one thing we can all use is a little more time.”
Since reading this, I’ve stocked-up on marbles as well as a variety of jars in which to keep them. Call it my personal investment in time, call it crazy, call it what you will. With each passing week, I remove just one colorful ball of my past and comfort myself with those that remain.
And I hope…for time.
From Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop...Write a blog post inspired by the word time.
I wrote this several years ago, ten to be exact, and time remains on the forefront of every single moment of my existence. Probably the same for most of us, I imagine. Each day begins with a plan, a goal, and what seems like an endless “to do” list, while a clock looks over my shoulder.
“
