Marshall

A Stick, A Wall, and a Ball

As a suburban kid, I played marbles on dirt. My bag of marbles: cat’s eyes, clayies, steelies, micas, and agates.

I leaned my bike up against the building, walked hesitantly around to the back, and rapped on a screen door

In a galaxy far away, when I was in my 40s, I would fish with my son, my brother, and friends on the Big Piney River in east central Missouri.

What interests My Life’s Editor and me are the bookshelves behind the talking heads. We peer closely at the books,

Steve, the goateed one from Ohio, and I, the Old Road Peddler, waited on the Maximo Park boat ramp. We were tight, nervous