Folks raised below the Mason-Dixon line cannot drive past roadside stands selling boiled peanuts, and the little Oriental lady, nicknamed “Peanut Pearl” by her late husband, boiled the best goobers Southerners ever gobbled. I befriended her after going into sticker shock when an orthodontist informed me that even a self-respecting garfish wouldn’t put up with one of my daughter’s teeth, and that his fee for making her smile as beautiful as the rest of her would set me back five grand. Luckily, I found a weekend truck-driving job to earn the money.
One day Pearl and I chatted while she scooped peanuts in a bag for me. When I saw a solitary tear coursing down her grieving face and asked what was wrong, she looked up at me with that courageous, stiff-upper-lip determination I had grown to admire in her and said, “He was such good man. One minute we talk, next minute he fall dead. I miss him much.” She sighed, stared past me at something only she could see, and turned to her next customer.
Her place of business was miserable … an ancient Volkswagen van parked on a concrete slab in front of an abandoned service station just off the interstate. A huge vat hung from its rear, along with a propane bottle connected to a burner beneath the vat. Rickety wooden steps allowed the short little woman to climb up to the vat’s rim and stir the boiling peanuts. Despite the steam and summer heat, she prepared them daily for a steady stream of customers.
Other than counting the money his wife made, I never saw her husband turn a hand to help her. A huge bear of a guy with tattooed arms and chest, he lounged in the van all day, dressed in cut-off jeans and t-shirt, smoking cigarettes, sipping beer, and watching a rabbit-eared television. What the peanut lady saw in that meathead, I will never know. She missed him, but wasn’t about to quit working. At dawn each day, she parked the van, fired up the burner, and toiled until sundown. Every weekend, I chatted with her, trying to brighten her spirits.
One day in early July, a day or two before the Fourth, I asked her why she didn’t return to her home country, now that her husband had died. Shaking her head vigorously, she glared at me in amazement.
“Go back!” she gasped. “You crazy? In America, I free to work for myself, make money, buy things. Back there, I no work for myself, I no make money, I have nothing, not always enough to eat. Some people in this country take so many blessings for … how you say … for granted. They don’t know how wonderful this country. They go live in my country a while, they compare, then they know what I know — America is a perfect paradise.”
When I drove away, munching boiled peanuts, I prayed, “God bless America, my home, sweet home: Peanut Pearl’s perfect paradise.”
Jimmy Reed is an Oxford, Mississippi resident, Ole Miss and Delta State University alumnus, Vietnam Era Army Veteran, former Mississippi Delta cotton farmer and ginner, author, and retired college teacher.
This story is a selection from Jimmy Reed’s latest book, entitled The Jaybird Tales.
Copies, including personalized autographs, can be reserved by notifying the author via email (.(JavaScript must be enabled to view this email address)).
