Another Visit

When she asked whether those old red draw-bags of glass marbles were still around, and could her Zayde bring one with for her, he had to tell her he'd long ago given them away. Couldn't recall to whom, some little boys who had once visited with their parents. Saw no need to keep them. They had belonged to her uncles when they were little boys and played with them. And she in her turn, when this house was her second homehad also played with them.

Never one to disappoint, he went downstairs to the studio where he keeps a huge elderly glass jar full of old glass marbles, and began to separate the newer-old marbles from the really old marbles. These marbles too she had played with through the years. It was always a special treat for her to have the jar placed on its side and the top opened so the hundreds of glass marbles in every colour imaginable, could tumble out and she could run her little fingers through them.

Thus was it that among the other items we brought along with us on this visit included was a small glass jar of old marbles. Along with a number of books; a "baby-sitter" series for young girls, and a few 'scary' novels as well. Last time we spoke she told me breathlessly (she's always breathless about something; it's the way she communicates) that she was halfway through Anna Sewell's "Black Beauty", and it was "really good, Bubbe". And that her mother had bought her a reproduction copy with great colour plates of "Treasure Island".

She had a gift for us, too. A piece of art work. Not, in a sense, original, like the one she had given us back when she was six years old, a still-life. A brightly coloured vase sitting on a table, filled with flowers, which we framed and hung on the kitchen wall. This one turned out to be printed off the Internet, an elfin figure surrounded by lush foliage and which she had carefully, painstakingly, coloured in with her liquid colour pens.

When we arrived she and her mother were in the front of the house, so we were able to hand over all the bags we'd brought with us. It always takes my breath away to see her after an absence, even one of three weeks' duration. This time she looked taller, more slender. But the same wide smile, messy hair, exuberant embrace. She was wearing a red top I'd brought at our last visit and shiny pants her mother had just bought for her.

And, for a change, we had her to ourselves, so to speak. Usually, when we arrive the house is full of little girls, her friends who live nearby. Now the house was full of her and her alone. Oh yes of course, and the countless pets that they live with, the dogs, the cat, the rabbits. And while we were there on our visit, her mother used the time to actually sit down and more or less relax. She relaxed by utilizing that down-time to brush out the dogs' hair, one after the one, all of them obedient to her calls and eager for the attention.

She wandered back into the great room after unbagging our offerings, almond-milk chocolate bar in hand, and asked if I'd go into her bedroom with her and play marbles. To which end she brought a huge aluminum bowl out of the kitchen cupboard and the fun commenced. Any idea what kind of fascinating spectacle can be produced by selecting one of those really large glass marbles and setting it to a spin around the rim of a large bowl?

It's an interesting phenomenon; the spinning marble, the reflective image thrown onto the opposite end of the bowl by the light streaming down from the ceiling skylight in the bedroom. And the sound! Not for the faint of heart. Add two marbles to the bowl, and there's another effect altogether, as they become dissimilarly-motioned; one content to spiral at the low end of the bowl, the other frantically edging the top of the bowl.

The greater the number of glass marbles added, the less spectacular the results, but one marble always manages to rise to the occasion, circling the bowl rim, while the others, docile sheep, gather below and look up in awe at their circularly-inspired representative.
Reminding me of the merry chaos that erupts whenever the house is filled with little girls whose antics crawl the walls with the delight of being.

It occurs to the child, watching me watching her so intently that she could invent another game, and she hauls out a tape measure, begging her mother to measure her height. She is very well aware that I stand a meagre five feet and she is eager to demonstrate how she towers over me. Tower? not exactly, but she is now able to "look down" at me if we stand together, and when we do, a very satisfied smile overcomes her glowing visage.

As we begin to leave, gathering up our own little dogs, pulling on winter boots and coats, she sticks her toes into one of my boots, wiggles her foot and chuckles at the size of my boots - so small, Bubbie! She admonishes me to pull the zipper of my jacket closed, and when I demur she tells me I'll catch a cold, and she cares about me, so just do it, Bubbie, do it.

I do.