I haven't seen a kid with a pocket full of marbles since I was a kid with marbles. We made a ring in the dirt. Each player put in some marbles. Then we would use a thumb to send a marble, hoping to knock some out of the ring. You kept the ones you knocked out. We always had a marble called our "best shooter." Other times we played follow the leader. Just two marbles chasing each other until they connected. The one connecting kept the other one's marble. I got robbed of my marbles by a big kid several blocks from home. He was obviously a poor shooter who couldn't win any games.
I started a thread here for Montanna, who was a well liked member of A2K at one time. It's a fundraising thread. Of the hundreds online who know her just three people on here and facebook contributed. Sad sad.
I've seen the following on Facebook a few times. It is a fanciful telling of my generation's history, but it gives us glimpses of what could have been.
If you were born between 1930 and 1946, you belong to an incredibly rare group: only 1% of your generation is still alive today. At ages ranging from 77 to 93, your era is a unique time capsule in human history.
Here’s why:
You were born into hardship. Your generation climbed out of the Great Depression and bore witness to a world at war. You lived through ration books, saved tin foil, and reused everything—nothing was wasted.
You remember the milkman. Fresh milk was delivered to your door. Life was simpler and centered around the basics. Discipline came from both parents and teachers, with no room for excuses.
Your imagination was your playground. Without TVs, you played outside and created entire worlds in your mind from what you heard on the radio. The family gathered around the radio for news or entertainment.
Technology was in its infancy. Phones were communal, calculators were hand-cranked, and newspapers were the primary source of information. Typewriters, not computers, recorded thoughts.
Your childhood was secure. Post-WWII brought a bright future—no terrorism, no internet, no global warming debates. It was a golden era of optimism, innovation, and growth.
You are the last generation to live through a time when:
Black-and-white TVs were cutting-edge.
Highways weren’t motorways.
Shopping meant visiting downtown stores.
Polio was a feared disease.
While your parents worked hard to rebuild their lives, you grew up in a world of endless possibilities. You thrived in a time of peace, progress, and security that the world may never see again.
If you’re over 77 years old, take pride in having lived through these extraordinary times. You are one of the lucky 1% who can say, "I lived through the best of times."
This past fall I got shut out of my storage shed by wasps. I learned of this after I removed the padlock, just as I gripped the handle to pull the door open. The instant the door budged ever so slightly I got stung on a finger. I was afraid to go after the wasps. After all this time worrying, I discovered a solution. It called for a general killing of all local wasps, not just the ones in the shed. But I was desperate. I cut a slot in a gallon jug (plastic) large enough for wasps to enter, too small for birds. I bought a bottle of the cheapest apple juice, chip of bacon, boric acid, a few chunks of cantaloupe. Mixed 1/2 tsp of boric acid in the apple juice, dropped in the cantaloupe, hung the bacon inside the lid, hung it in a tree. I just put the jug in the trash so I couldstart with a new bottle. The old bottle had dozens of dead wasps of varying species. I hung the fresh bottle. In a few days I intend to test my shed door and see if it's safe. Thanks, Youtube, for the information.
Here's a story worth telling. I like Frank Sinatra, but he was an imperfect human, as who is not? I lost the author's name.
In 1958, Natalie Wood passed Frank Sinatra’s table at Romanoff’s in Beverly Hills when he made a loud, crude comment aimed at her. Without a moment’s hesitation, she turned, walked straight to his table, and slapped him across the face in full view of the restaurant’s elite crowd. The sharp sound of her palm against his cheek cut through conversations and froze forks midair. Sinatra’s grin disappeared. Natalie didn’t say a word. She stared at him, then walked away like nothing had happened.
That moment didn’t make headlines in newspapers, but it became a story that everyone in Hollywood knew. Romanoff’s wasn’t an ordinary restaurant. It was a power playground for actors, producers, and studio bosses. Sinatra, by then, was untouchable. With a Grammy under his belt and a reputation that blended charm with danger, he commanded every room he walked into. His word could make or break people’s careers. Yet in one swift gesture, Natalie Wood had drawn a line no one expected her to draw.
She had grown up inside the studio system. By the age of ten, she had already worked with Orson Welles and starred in "Miracle on 34th Street." Hollywood had treated her like a porcelain doll with a camera-ready face and compliant attitude. By the late 1950s, Natalie had worked with James Dean in "Rebel Without a Cause," played complex emotional roles, and had begun to push back against the way the industry molded young women.
People around her noticed a shift. Natalie had grown more assertive, more selective with her roles, and far more vocal about the way women were treated behind the scenes. The slap wasn’t some outburst. It was the physical expression of a woman done tolerating disrespect, no matter who was delivering it.
Those close to Sinatra expected a backlash. He was known for holding grudges and for using his influence to quietly shut doors on people who crossed him. But something unusual happened. Sinatra reportedly leaned back in his seat after the initial shock and muttered, “She’s got guts. That kid’s going to last.” He never brought up the incident again and never showed public resentment toward Natalie. In fact, some said he carried a quiet respect for her afterward.
Within days, the story made its way through the town. It was repeated by makeup artists, whispered on backlots, and casually referenced during contract negotiations. Natalie Wood’s name suddenly carried a different weight. She was still a beauty, still a marquee star, but now she was also seen as someone who wouldn’t play along with Hollywood’s unspoken rules.
In private, some actresses praised her. They’d all endured similar situations, many in silence, worried that speaking up would cost them their careers. Natalie had done what most dreamed of doing. She had turned and said no, not with words, but with a strike that left a room full of men speechless.
She never once mentioned the event publicly. There was no quote, no talk show anecdote, no magazine interview. She didn’t need to explain. That was Natalie’s style. Quiet steel behind soft features. The kind of strength that didn’t require spotlight.
Sinatra, surrounded by power and fame, had been challenged by someone younger, smaller, and socially lower in the industry’s pecking order. And he didn’t forget it. Nor did anyone else who was present that night.
That slap wasn’t about revenge. It was about reclaiming control in an industry that often demanded obedience from its stars, especially its women.
She didn’t yell. She didn’t argue. She walked away with every eye in the room watching her, and no one dared to follow. That one act echoed longer than any speech she could have made.
