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 whate ver. 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,
magnificently shiny, 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.
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 whate ver. 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,
magnificently shiny, 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.
