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Marbles are for...

Somewhere between unsuccessfully trying to suppress a few sobs at the poignancy of flawed humanity and experiencing a deeply satisfying grin as Bill Murray over-sings Bob Dylan’s “Shelter from the Storm” during the credits of my second watching of the movie “St, Vincent” on Netflix, I was hit with a memory from long ago Junior High School as Murray’s Vince, recovering from a stroke, was made to pick up marbles with his toes and deposit them into a nearby bowl.  A strange thing to associate, is it not? But that is what well-done fiction is all about: connecting us with both universal and very personal things.

Along about 1964, shortly after the assassination of JFK and still under the influence of his school- based physical education initiative, our local school officials had every student evaluated in terms of stature and other physical qualities.  I remember standing sideways in front of a graphed board set up in what doubled as the Junior High gym and lunch room.  Spinal curvature was mapped and sundry physical traits were documented.  In my case, it was determined that I had early signs of an incipient scoliosis and insufficient arch in my feet (I think they were kind to not refer to us as ‘flat footed’). There was probably some reference to mild obesity hidden somewhere in that report as well.  So, the far-sighted school and health administration of the day decreed:  Thou shalt be sentenced to a series of scientifically designed exercises every Saturday and thus shall heal thy crooked back and feet and save thy soul from pudginess. 

They succeeded in only one of these lofty goals, really:  To this day, I have well-developed arches.

And so I found myself, much to my Saturday morning thwarted play time disgust, sentenced to two hours of hanging by my hands from the gymnastic rings attached to long ropes suspended from the ceiling (spine straightening), climbing hand over hand up thick knotted ropes and generally doing a series of carefully designed exercises (obesity fighting) and, finally, what was probably the most absurd element - combatting future flat-footedness by sitting on a fold-out chair, removing my sneakers and socks, and spending 15 to 20 minutes grasping between big and second toes one of a pile of colorful glass aggies from a pile on the floor in front of me and carefully transferring it to a plastic bowl set to the side.  What concentration, what muscular command, what dexterity I projected as my somewhat blockish appendages wrapped themselves around globe after glass globe and transferred  them to the waiting receptacle.


Bring on any kind of later-year physical toe challenge, folks.  I am ready.

(P.S.  If I am to give full respect to that Junior High gym and lunch room, I would be remiss in not mentioning the bowls of Split Pea Soup.  Anyone who went through the Danville School system during that period will know what I mean.  The only thing that balances out the memory of that  horrible green mess were the hamburger pinwheels.) 

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