The Story of the Red Marbles

Red Marbles


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.