1.0The News Journalhttps://qa.thenewsjournal.netrich600338<blockquote class="wp-embedded-content" data-secret="erHzT1VeIm"><a href="https://qa.thenewsjournal.net/oh-games-used-play/">Oh the games we used to play</a></blockquote><iframe sandbox="allow-scripts" security="restricted" src="https://qa.thenewsjournal.net/oh-games-used-play/embed/#?secret=erHzT1VeIm" width="600" height="338" title="“Oh the games we used to play” — The News Journal" data-secret="erHzT1VeIm" frameborder="0" marginwidth="0" marginheight="0" scrolling="no" class="wp-embedded-content"></iframe><script type="text/javascript"> /* <![CDATA[ */ /*! This file is auto-generated */ !function(d,l){"use strict";l.querySelector&&d.addEventListener&&"undefined"!=typeof URL&&(d.wp=d.wp||{},d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage||(d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage=function(e){var t=e.data;if((t||t.secret||t.message||t.value)&&!/[^a-zA-Z0-9]/.test(t.secret)){for(var s,r,n,a=l.querySelectorAll('iframe[data-secret="'+t.secret+'"]'),o=l.querySelectorAll('blockquote[data-secret="'+t.secret+'"]'),c=new RegExp("^https?:$","i"),i=0;i<o.length;i++)o[i].style.display="none";for(i=0;i<a.length;i++)s=a[i],e.source===s.contentWindow&&(s.removeAttribute("style"),"height"===t.message?(1e3<(r=parseInt(t.value,10))?r=1e3:~~r<200&&(r=200),s.height=r):"link"===t.message&&(r=new URL(s.getAttribute("src")),n=new URL(t.value),c.test(n.protocol))&&n.host===r.host&&l.activeElement===s&&(d.top.location.href=t.value))}},d.addEventListener("message",d.wp.receiveEmbedMessage,!1),l.addEventListener("DOMContentLoaded",function(){for(var e,t,s=l.querySelectorAll("iframe.wp-embedded-content"),r=0;r<s.length;r++)(t=(e=s[r]).getAttribute("data-secret"))||(t=Math.random().toString(36).substring(2,12),e.src+="#?secret="+t,e.setAttribute("data-secret",t)),e.contentWindow.postMessage({message:"ready",secret:t},"*")},!1)))}(window,document); /* ]]> */ </script> https://qa.thenewsjournal.net/wp-content/uploads/2016/01/Bena-Mae-mug137.jpg200228Let’s play a game. Whatcha wanna play? I dunno. Red Rover, maybe. Follow the Leader … or Hopscotch. How plaintively those words echo through my mind as I think back to the carefree days of my childhood. Like etchings in stone, they remain in my memory as though it were only yesterday. As old as the hills and passed down from generation to generation, the origin of the games was never known to us. It is said that many of them were rooted in folklore. They started in the spring and lasted all summer. “Down in the valley where the green grass grows,” we would skip and chant in cadence as a player on each side threw the rope. “There sets (jumper’s name) as sweet as a rose. Along came (jumper’s sweetheart) and kissed her on the cheek. How many kisses did she get that week?” The count would go on until the jumper missed which indicated the number of kisses she got. It’s interesting to note how many rhymes involved kissing … “Cinderella, dressed in yellow. Went downtown to see her fella. How many kisses did she get 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8” we would begin counting until the jumper missed. Ladies, (I say ladies because, to my knowledge, little boys never played jump rope – too sissy) do you remember jumping “hot pepper” – when the rope was thrown so fast our feet could hardly keep up with it? And “high water,” where the rope started out on the ground and was raised a little higher each time until it got too high to jump over? Then there was what we called “doubles.” That was when two ropes were thrown in succession and we had to skip both of them. I was never very good at doubles because it took a lot of coordination, which I didn’t have too much of. I was always getting my feet tangled up. In the cool of the evening, while the grownups sat on the front porch and talked or listened to the radio, the kids in my neighborhood would gather under the streetlight on the comer and play Hide-and-go-Seek. When we tired of that, we would switch to a game called Ante Over. We would begin by choosing up sides, then the sides would take positions on opposite sides of the house. The side holding the ball would shout” Ante” -the ones opposite would respond “Over” – and the first side again, “Over she comes! If one of the party to whom the ball was thrown caught it, that side then rushed around and captured, by hitting with the ball, one or more of the opposition. Sometimes there was cheating and a free-for-all would ensue. But we considered that a part of the game. Your side cheated – did not – did did not – usually signaled the end of the game and we would go on to something else. But we never stayed mad for very long. Mibs, aggies, steelies, shooters, taws – we traded with one another like kids of today trade baseball cards. “Swap you two aggies for a steely” or words to that effect preceded every game and in time we had the marble exchange down to a fine art. Every kid kept his or her private cache in a Bull Durham tobacco sack which they would take out and count and admire from time to time. There was no gender discrimination in the game – girls played as well as the boys, and sometimes better. Today, when I’m browsing through an antiques shop and see a jar of old marbles, I become a little girl again. As I look at the variegated blues and yellows and greens, my mind goes back in time. I imagine I can hear, “swap you my knuckler for one of your aggies.” I find it sad that marbles are no longer played today, that they have been relegated down to sitting in a jar on a shelf. Just a decorative item. A reminder of gentler times. Recently I bumped carts in the grocery store with Rosella Fox, an old friend from my Clinton High School days. As we stood there tying up traffic and talking about the good old days, the subject led to the simple games we used to play as compared to the expensive electronic toys that kids demand today. “Remember cork ball?” Rosella reminisced as busy shoppers guided their carts around us. Do I remember cork ball? When my son and his male cousins were growing up, a game of cork ball took on the excitement of the World Series each summer. It was played with a large bottle cork, using the handle of a cut-off broomstick for a bat. The biggest problem was finding the cork that had lain all winter in the junk drawer of Mama’s kitchen cabinet. But once it was found, the players chose up sides, bases were assigned, and the game would begin. Such yelling and hollering – I can still hear them today. Since the fellows never allowed females in the game, I don’t know the rules. I only know they were patterned loosely after the game of baseball. One day while I was sitting in my favorite dentist’s chair (my nephew, Dr. David Witt of Corbin), he started waxing nostalgic about good times he had when he and his cousins were little boys. “When you and Uncle Raymond and Steve came to visit it meant a whole weekend of playing cork ball, It was so exciting, it was like Christmas!” he said.