RED MARBLES

I HAVE READ THIS BEFORE BUT IT NEVER CEASES TO BE A REMINDER TO ME
AND BRINGS A TEAR TO MY EYE. READ IT AT YOUR LEISURE, EVEN THOUGH YOU
KNOW THE ENDING, BECAUSE WE ALWAYS NEED A REMINDER TO SLOW DOWN AND
REMEMBER THAT WEALTH IS NOT MEASURED IN DOLLARS AND CENTS.

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 apprizing 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 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 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 relat ives
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.

Today I wish you a day of ordinary miracles ~ A fresh pot of coffee
you didn't make yourself.

An unexpected phone call from an old friend.

Green stoplights on your way to work.

The fastest line at the grocery store.

A good sing-along song on the radio.
Your keys found right where you left them.

Send this to the people you'll never forget.