Coming of Age On a Tiny Isle

coming of age on a tiny isle my father reached out his hand to me and took my bag of marbles including my hand made "shooter" of red river clay hardened by fire and ground to roundness against a flat grainy rock near perfect at least to me even though it wobbled a bit in it's travels to capture the prize from Jeffy my friend my enemy "it's time" was all my father said to me on my first day of being eight years old my childhood was over the old boat needed patching fish needed scaling and gutting shrimp needed to be shelled and cleaned summer had started and the few people with money shambled up to buy the daily catch wrapped in paper on this tiny island this small sliver of sand and scrub stood three shacks lived in for four generations the mainland shimmered in the near distance and we knew that my father's calling would be the last of his kind the far rich shore beckons to me and someday soon...