Author: Victoria Landis

In days long past, people knew by the time a child was around five or six, whether or not the kid had all its marbles.

Imagine, continuing the marble thread, the normal one’s brain looked like a neatly set up game of Chinese checkers. Each marble precisely placed in its appointed spot, and the child did what she was told. Remember that old game, Mouse Trap? The one that looked like a Rube Goldberg contraption? (If you haven’t heard of him, Google him. So much fun.) Levers, flippers, scoops, and raceways had marbles flying everywhere. The child whose brain did that didn’t fit in very well. They disobeyed and explored forbidden places and thoughts. Was the child a genius or an idiot?

Depending on the village culture, the kid with the flying marbles didn’t fit in. If the child was simple-minded, but could be relied upon to complete easy tasks, then he was trained to do so. If the kid was a danger to others, too much of a burden, or just scared the townspeople, they disappeared.

You heard me. Oh, no one spoke about it. There are veiled references to such things in historical records, but stories survived about disabled or deformed newborns being left out in the woods for the wolves. Babies with problems were bad omens. Whacky behavior was a sign of stupidity. A story from an arcane entry in a church record tells of a child who couldn’t speak, made it to the age of six, but constantly pointed at the sky and screamed. Along came a period of non-stop rain that killed all the crops, and subsequently, most of the animals. Poor kid got blamed as being an evil spirit who brought the disaster. Yeah, he didn’t survive.

Seems barbaric, doesn’t it? Ah, but it turns out, during most of human history, we’ve rejected anyone who was differently abled. More modern times brought ways of locking away the disabled-from-birth kids, but they were still out of sight. Unless, of course, you were rich or powerful. It’s the same old story. People haven’t changed. If you were a member of what my one son calls the lucky sperm club, your chances of survival were way better.

Okay, okay. I get it. So far, this is not funny. See, I’m here to make sure you realize how good you’ve got it. It all makes me happy that my siblings and I were born in the 20th century.

I hate to think of how those middle ages villagers would have treated my siblings and me. We exhibited some pretty dopey behavior, and we weren’t rich.

We had a neighbor, who, I’m quite sure, wanted all six of us taken away somewhere. Had she been the head of an ancient village, my siblings and I would’ve disappeared, for sure. Her children behaved with decorum. They didn’t roll in the mud. They didn’t race bicycles downhill with no hands. They never fell out of trees. We were loud and boisterous. We made messy mud and leaf sandwiches in our pretend deli on the side porch and tried to sell them. Once, after witnessing my brother chasing my screaming sister around the yard — he was attempting to hit a bee, that had apparently decided it loved her, by whipping a rope at her as they ran — our neighbor ranted at my mother but good about her disgraceful progeny.

That brother is now a Ph.D. So, I wonder how many children, how many incredibly smart people, were discarded on the cutting-room floor of human history? I have to believe those villagers of old would’ve definitely left us in the woods. In days long past, people knew by the time a child was around five or six, whether or not the kid had all its marbles.

Life is short, and as long as you’re not hurting anyone else, do what makes you happy. But some wedding attire trends might make me change my lifelong motto. There are some things you cannot ‘unsee’ and therefore, permanent damage to one’s ability to believe in common sense is a distinct possibility. It’s not fair to invite unsuspecting folks to your nuptials, then make them watch a spectacle that will give them nightmares. If you’re going to do something bizarro, give the invitees a heads up, so they can politely craft an excuse to miss it. I thought I’d heard of everything when it came to weddings. Nope. Turns out, if you don’t keep up, the ever-increasing onslaught of weird news will run right by.

The most stomach-churning ones, to me, are the naked or nearly naked, bridal parties. The very idea gives me hives. That said, if it’s taking place at a nudist colony or nude beach, well then, anybody attending already knows what’s exposed, so those don’t count. Naked wedding parties are similar to the disappointment of going to a nude beach, because most who option out of clothing aren’t the ones we want to see in their birthday suits. From the pictures I’ve seen (my retinas will never be the same), the people who get naked-hitched aren’t exactly good-looking. That’s fine. I’m not passing judgment, I swear. But, gee golly willikers Bob, give the witnesses a choice. If invited, chances are they know the bride and/or groom and possibly much of the bridal party. They can calculate in advance how much alcohol to drink before arriving, or decide to be busy that day. I wonder if one such group knows their picture is on the first page of search results.

The bridesmaids wore G-strings and garterbelted stockings, stilettos, and red glittery pasties over their boobs. The groomsmen wore short-shorts and top hats. The generously sized bride and groom wore less than their attendants. And tattoos in the most interesting places. Not that there’s anything wrong with permanently coloring your body if that’s what you want to do. But making the rest of us aware of intimate details we really don’t want to know is just plain mean. Like the one bridesmaid who had the word “lefty” on her left breast, and “ritey” on her right breast. Yes, the tattoo artist got it wrong. Where I came from, if you could see the bride’s bra strap, it was an embarrassment. Of course, I’m from a tiny Mayberry-ish town in New Jersey.

Now I live in South Florida, and I should be used to anything and everything, but yikes. There was an expectant bride who was apparently very excited about the impending birth of her child because she wore a gown with a big hole cut out in the middle for her naked baby bump to protrude through. Another wore a topless gown to show off her enormous ta-tas, which had sequined white pasties over them. I do not understand this. I remember my father and my grandparents lamenting the new generation and the way they did things. I thought they were hopelessly old-fashioned. Jeez, maybe I’m just getting old.