THREE RED MARBLES,RICHARDSWORLD
RICHARDSWORLD
THREE RED MARBLES
During
the waning years of the depression in a small southeastern Idaho
community, I used to stop by Brother 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 Brother 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 greenpeas. 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 Brother
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 aggie
-- best taw around 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 taw."
"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
Utah but I never forgot the story of this man and 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 Brother 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 short haircuts, dark suits and white shirts obviously
potential or returned Mormon missionaries.
They approached Sister 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 Sister
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.
"This is an amazing
coincidence," she said. "Those three young men, that
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.",p> With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless
fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three,
magnificently shiny, red marbles.
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