During the waning years of the depression
in a small southeastern Idaho community,
I used to stop by Mr. Miller's roadside
stand for farm fresh produce as the season
made it available. Food and money were
still extremely scarce and bartering was
used extensively.
One particular day Mr. Miller was bagging
some early potatoes for me. I noticed a
small boy, delicate of bone and feature,
ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a
basket of freshly picked green peas. I
paid for my potatoes but was also drawn
to the display of fresh green peas. I am
a pushover for creamed peas and new
potatoes.
Pondering the peas, I couldn't help
overhearing the conversation between
Mr. Miller and the ragged boy next to me.
"Hello Barry, how are you today?"
"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus'
admirin' them peas ... sure look good."
"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"
"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."
"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."
"Would you like to take some home?"
"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em
with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for
some of those peas?"
"All I got's my prize marble here."
"Is that right? Let me see it."
"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmmm, only thing is
this one is blue and I sort of go for
red. Do you have a red one like this
at home?"
"Not 'zackley .....but, almost."
"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas
home with you and next trip this way let
me look at that red marble."
"Sure will. Thanks, Mr. Miller."
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing
nearby, came over to help me. With a
smile she said: "There are two other boys
like him in our community, all three are
in very poor circumstances. Jim just
loves to bargain with them for peas,
apples, tomatoes or whatever. When they
come back with their red marbles, and
they always do, he decides he doesn't
like red after all and he sends them home
with a bag of produce for a green marble
or an orange one, perhaps."
I left the stand, smiling to myself,
impressed with this man. A short time
later I moved to Colorado but I never
forgot the story of this man, the boys
and their bartering.
Several years went by each more rapid than
the previous one. Just recently I had
occasion to visit some old friends in that
Idaho community and while I was there
learned that Mr. Miller had died. They
were having his viewing that evening and
knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed
to accompany them. Upon our arrival at the
mortuary we fell into line to meet the
relatives of the deceased and to offer
whatever words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men.
One was in an army uniform and the other
two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and
white shirts ... very professional
looking.
They approached Mrs. Miller, standing
smiling and composed, by her husband's
casket. Each of the young men hugged her,
kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly
with her and moved on to the casket.
Her misty light blue eyes followed them
as, one by one, each young man stopped
briefly and placed his own warm hand
over the cold pale hand in the casket.
Each left the mortuary, awkwardly,
wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I
told her who I was and mentioned the
story she had told me about the marbles.
Eyes glistening she took my hand and led
me to the casket. "Those three young men,
who just left, were the boys I told you
about. They just told me how they
appreciated the things Jim "traded" them.
Now, at last when Jim could not change
his mind about color or size ... they
came to pay their debt.
"We've never had a great deal of the
wealth of this world," she confided, "but,
right now, Jim would consider himself the
richest man in Idaho." With loving
gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers
of her deceased husband. Resting
underneath were three, exquisitely shined,
red marbles.
Moral: We will not be remembered by our
words, but by our kind deeds.
Life is not measured by the breaths we
take, but by the moments that take our
breath.
Unknown
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