During the waning years of the Great Depression of the
1930's in a small southeastern Kansas 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 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 her husband's lifeless fingers. Resting
underneath were three exquisitely shined, red marbles!
