Babs 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. Hmmmmm, 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 that 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 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, all very professional looking.
They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling
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. With
her 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 takes our
breath. |
Source: The Internet
Visit a Marble site and buy the
book at , Land
of Thousand Marbles