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Red Marble
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 bay, delicate of bone and feature,
ragged but clean, hungrily apprizing a basket of freshly picked
green peas. I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to 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?”
“Fin. Gittin’ stronger alla’ time.”
“Good. Anything I can help you with?”
“No, Sir. Jus’ admirin’ them peas.”
“Would you like to take som 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 is 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 ‘zackly…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. Once
was in an army uniform and the other two ware 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 a 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 wealth of this world,”
she confided, “but, right now, Jim could consider himself
the riches 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.
- Author Unknown
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