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 appraising 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.
Submitted by Kay, Gettysburg, Pa.