I'm a place where stones are broken, yet I'm never truly shattered. Though I'm dug out, I'm often a source of what's gathered. What am I?

I’m a party in a bowl, With many colors on a roll. Bananas, berries, grapes unite, A juicy, chilly, sweet delight.

It’s done with a hand. Stitched to hold twelve inches. A tube around calfskin. Monkey, puppet, or stinkin’.

I write without ink, disappear with a swipe. I’m held in a hand, slim and white. What am I?

I once was sap in forest shade, then heat transformed what nature made. Now I may bounce, erase, or roll, a stretchable thing with many roles.