I was at the little corner grocery store picking up some early potatoes when I noticed a small boy nearby. He was thin, with delicate features, his clothes worn but clean. His eyes were fixed hungrily on a basket of freshly picked green peas.
As I paid for my potatoes, I found myself drawn to the peas too. I love creamed peas with new potatoes. While I stood there, I overheard a gentle conversation between Mr. Miller, the store owner, and the boy.
“Hello, Barry. How are you today?”
“Hi, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank you. Just admirin’ them peas. They sure look good.”
“They are good, Barry. How’s your mama?”
“Fine. Gettin’ stronger all the time.”
“That’s good. Can I help you with anything today?”
“No, sir. Just admirin’ them peas.”
“Would you like to take some home?”
“No, sir. I don’t have anything to pay with.”
Mr. Miller smiled. “Well, what do you have to trade?”
“All I got is my best marble here,” the boy said, holding it out.
“She’s a dandy,” Mr. Miller said kindly. “But this one’s blue, and I’ve been lookin’ for a red one. Do you have a red marble at home?”
“Not exactly, but almost.”
“Tell you what—take these peas home. Next time you come by, let me see that red marble.”
“Sure will. Thanks, Mr. Miller!”
Mrs. Miller, who had been nearby, leaned over and whispered to me with a smile: “There are three boys like him in town. All of them poor. Jim loves to ‘trade’ with them for peas, apples, or whatever’s in season. When they come back with a red marble, he’ll change his mind and say he prefers green or orange instead. Each time, the boys go home with food.”
I left that store smiling, touched by Mr. Miller’s quiet kindness.
Years passed, and I moved away. But I never forgot that man, those boys, and their marbles.
Not long ago, I returned to that town to visit friends. While there, I learned that Mr. Miller had passed away. That evening we went to his visitation. Ahead of us in line were three young men—one in an army uniform, the others dressed neatly in dark suits. Each one embraced Mrs. Miller, spoke softly to her, and then paused at the casket, placing a warm hand on Mr. Miller’s cold one. Each left wiping away tears.
When it was my turn, I reminded Mrs. Miller of the story she once told me about Jim’s “bartering.” With moist eyes, she led me to the casket.
“Those three young men were the boys,” she said softly. “They told me how much those trades meant to them. And now, when Jim can no longer change his mind about colors, they’ve come to pay their debt.”
She gently lifted her husband’s hand. Resting beneath it were three beautifully polished red marbles.
“We never had much money,” she whispered, “but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho.”