Outside the Store

The first non-bagging task of the morning came about two hours in, when an elderly woman had forgotten to get a bag of peanuts for her Thanksgiving Dinner. Happy to get away from the dreadful monotony of bagging groceries, I returned with a container of shelled peanuts and a smile.

"Here you are, ma'm."

"Ohh dear. Did I forget to mention that I needed the ones still in the shells? Oh my. I'm so sorry. I'll go get them myself."

She had failed to mention that detail. And no, she would not be going to get them herself. The line behind her was already long enough.

"Oh, my mistake ma'm. Let me go. I'll be right back."
I rememered doing this before, waiting on people, all day, every day. Making up for their mistakes or their lack of knowledge, keeping it convenient. Keeping them pacified. Maintaining the orderly environment of a shopping center. It was a good thing, this being my last day.

"Here you go, ma'm. One bag of peanuts with shells."

"Thank you, young man."
And when she was finished checking out, and I had loaded her groceries into the trunk of her classy Chrystler, she grabbed my arm as I was about to roll the cart back into the store and cater to the next customer.

"What's your name, young man?"

"Ansel."

"Well, Ansel, I just wanted to thank you for helping me out with those peanuts."

"My pleasure, ma'm. Glad I could help."
But she did not let go of arm at this.

"You see, my son, he just got back from serving in Iraq two days ago. He was supposed to be home two months ago, actually, but he'd been in the Army hospital over there. A road side bomb took a bit of his face off, but thank God, the doctors were able fix that up. He just has a scar on his forehead now. But that roadside bomb also took off his right arm. Blew it clear off. And the doctor's, well they couldn't fix that. And so now he's home, with one arm, and a whole lot of bad memories. First Thanksgiving home and away from that war in three years.

Well, we've always had a big bowl of peanuts in the shells at the dinner table. Something for the family members to occupy themselves with before and after the meal, I'm sure you know how it can be, catching up with relatives and all. This year though, I figured, with him only having one arm, I shouldn't put any peanuts out. Didn't want to draw any attention to his situation. You know how it is with peanuts, takes two hands to break them open with any ease.

So I set the table really early this morning, so I could focus on all the cooking until the rest of my kids and their families arrived. James, that's my son, he came into the kitchen and asked where the bowl of peanuts was. And I says, 'oh honey, we don't need to have peanuts this year.' And he told me that we most certainly did. That everything had to be just like it always was.

So I says, 'Alright, I'll run out and get them for you, James.' And I was planning on getting shelled peanuts, you know, so he wouldn't have to feel awkward.

Well, right as I was walking out the door, he must have sensed it, and he says, 'Mom, make sure they have shells.' He says it with this brave and certain look on his face.

So I says, 'Sure thing, honey. Just like always.'

And then he says, 'Thanks, Mom.' And it wasn't what he said. It was the look on his face. He wasn't brave or certain anymore. As he looked at me, he had big eyes full of sadness, and a silent cry in them. And I saw that he was just thankful to have peanuts. To have something normal. To not be tramping around Iraq, watching children die, watching his friends die, day after day, year after year.

So, Ansel, I just wanted to thank you for helping me get those peanuts. Because you were'nt just helping another old bag get what she wanted. You were helping to make things right in the world. You were helping a mother help her son when he needed it the most. And every son, now and then, needs their mother more than anything else.
So thank you."

And then she let go of my arm, got into her car, and drove off to deliver the hope of a return to normal for her son.

And I pushed the cart back into the store, and started bagging the next bunch of groceries, and felt very, very numb.