Pea story
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 ta ke 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 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 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 take our breath.