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."
With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased
husband. Resting underneath were three, magnificently shiny, red
marbles.
