Marbles
By Rufus Adair
On one of the walls in the north hallway at the Plaza Arts Center hangs a photograph – and with it, one of my favorite stories to tell visitors to the Old School History Museum.
The photograph features a boy smiling and looking upwards while on one knee and with one hand on the ground, stretching it forward. The boy is wearing one of those goofy “beanies” that were somehow popular among the younger set in the 1920s and ‘30s.
Above the photograph, shelving sports two aging, but still imposing, trophies. One trophy is perhaps 24 inches tall. The other is even taller, maybe 30 inches. Atop each trophy rests a small brass boy in the same pose as the boy in the photograph below them.
The boy in the photograph is Frank Spivey, at about age 10 or so. He is playing a game, usually just called “marbles” or “shootin’ marbles.” He is in the photograph – and the photo and two trophies are on the wall – because in 1939 young Spivey had gone to Macon and won a state championship in a boys’ marbles tournament. One of the prizes was a trip to New York City to compete in the national tournament.
And Spivey won the national tournament, too, in part because his “trick shot” could make his taw spin backwards and stop in its tracks when it struck another marble, much in the same way a good pocket pool player can make his cue ball come to rest where he wants, in order to set up the next shot.
State champion.
National champion.
Frank Spivey had been growing up in the northeastern part of rural Putnam County in middle Georgia, a county of 8,000 or so souls that had seen half its 1920 population leave for greener pastures during the agricultural depression of the 1920s and ‘30s. And he had become a national champion.
Now, the corporate sponsors of the 1939 tournaments may have had some written rules, but as a boyhood pastime, there were no written rules. Like many another childhood game, boys “just knew” the rules. Or they learned to agree on rules before starting a contest. Or, occasionally the contests might even end in a little pushing and shoving if one of the contestants claimed a “rule” that had not been mentioned.
The object of the childhood boys’ game was fairly simple, albeit with some subtle competitive overtones that might last into adulthood.
Two boys would draw a circle of indeterminate size in the dirt, sometimes just a couple of feet in diameter, sometimes much larger, depending on the bravado of the players. The surface was preferably sandy and level.
One boy would drop an agreed number of colorful glass marbles – usually 10 to 15 – from his stash into the circle. The stash was his collection of marbles, sometimes bought at a store but preferably those won in combat. The stash was kept in a variety of containers, mostly a pouch or cigar box. A little vanity might show through if a boy carefully carried the pouch/cigar box back and forth to school.
The second boy – the “shooter” – would start the game by bending down and put his shooting hand on or close to the ground on the outside of the ring. On his forefinger he would place his favorite marble (called the “taw” for God-knows-what-reason) on his forefinger to be flicked with his thumb at a marble inside the ring. The taw could be just another marble or a larger marble. Or a heavier ball bearing pilfered from his daddy’s workbench, in which case the taw became a “steelie.” Whatever the choice, the skill came from the power of the flick and the control of the aim.
If the shooter hit a marble and it went outside the ring, he got to keep the opponent’s marble. If no marble exited the ring or he simply missed, well, the opponent got to shoot. If his shot worked, he got to keep what was his own marble, but it was no longer a target at risk. This went on until all the marbles in the ring were accounted for, and then the roles were reversed.
The Rest of the Story
Now comes what Paul Harvey and his 1960s-‘70s radio show would have called “The Rest of the Story.” Young Frank Spivey was the Georgia state marbles champion in 1939. Shortly afterwards, he won the national marbles championship, competing against boys from all across the whole United States.
But he was not the Putnam County champion. According to Maude Hicks, who knows more than a few passed-down tales (ask her sometime about the exploding tavern or how Murder Creek got its name), the starting point for the whole adventure came in the face-off between Spivey and another 10-year-old, Gus Lankford, in the little local tournament. Both Spivey and Lankford were quite good, but Lankford won the Putnam tournament, with Spivey coming in second.
Lankford grew up in the Lower Harmony Road area in a family with 10 siblings. Putting food on the table for 13 meant a lot of daily chores. Saturdays especially was an all-hands-on-deck affair – and not meant for going to Macon for a marbles tournament. Spivey took his place, and we know what happened after that.
Spivey passed away a few years back, but come the first week in May, Lankford will celebrate his 93d birthday.
So, herewith, comes an early wish for a happy birthday to Gus Lankford. You da man.
Contributed by: Rufus Adair
Board Member and Docent of Old School History Museum
Retired Newspaper Reporter and Teacher
