|
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 boynext 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, 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 short haircuts, dark suits and white shirts obviously potential or
returned missionaries.
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. "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.
After a while, you learn the subtle differences between holding a hand
and chaining a soul; and you learn that love doesn't mean leaning and
company doesn't mean security; and you begin to learn that kisses aren't
contracts and presents aren't promises, and you begin to accept your defeats with
your head up and your eyes open, with the grace of a woman, not the grief of
a child...you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of
waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really
can endure, that you really are strong, and you really do have worth.
And you learn and learn. With every good-bye you learn.
|
