[BITList] Red Marbles

[John Feltham]

I keep telling folks that 'good ones'..... keep coming around.

If you've heard this one before....press the delete key or else  -   
send it to someone who you think hasn't heard it before.....





I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes. 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 (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me.

'Hello Barry, how are you today?'

'H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They 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?' asked Mr. Miller.

'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' said Miller.

'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?' the store owner  
asked.

'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. Mr. Miller told the boy.

'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, when they come on their next trip to the  
store.'

I left the store 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 for marbles.

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 visitation 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 reminded  
her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me  
about her husband's bartering for 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.

The 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..