Peanut Brittle

    “Here he comes again, Mom!” my young son called, pointing out the window. Willie ambled up the street, his long legs not entirely covered by frayed, filthy dress pants. Without socks his huge feet seemed even bigger. A holey gray sweater hung shapeless on his thin body and a brown paper grocery bag was clutched in one grimy hand.

    The first time Willie came to peddle peanut brittle a thunderstorm was flooding the streets. He was shivering and his paper bag had disintegrated. “Ma’am, my name is Willie and I’m from the -- Church in Keokuk. Would you like to buy some fresh-made peanut brittle? It’s real good. Everybody says so.” His honest brown eyes and his open friendliness allayed any hesitation about inviting him into the house. His clothes were raggedy and he needed a bath, but more importantly I didn’t want him to catch pneumonia. As Willie dripped on the kitchen floor, he drank some hot cocoa while I transferred sandwich bags of peanut brittle into a heavyweight plastic shopping bag. As he talked I learned that the church’s van driver had dropped the sales crew off in our small town earlier that morning. The driver would return before supper time, taking the five teenagers the ten miles back to Keokuk. Willie graciously accepted a sandwich and some cookies while he warmed up. I didn’t have two dollars for the peanut brittle, but he thanked me anyway and was soon on his way. The black plastic garbage bag I had cut for a rain poncho barely covered his long torso.

    This time, however, I stepped out onto the sidewalk to greet Willie, hoping he would not expect to be invited into the house again. My son had been watching him for more than a block; Willie had not stopped at any other house, but had walked directly to our home. Willie and I visited briefly while I waited for him to ask me about the candy. I was uncertain how clean the candymaker or the kitchen were that produced the peanut brittle. Yet I wanted to help this hard-working dedicated teen who spoke with such passion about his faith. At the same time I didn’t want to be taken advantage of, and I certainly didn’t want a candy salesman calling every two weeks. Vacillating between helping him and sending him on his way, I also wanted to be a good role model for my son who was watching from his window.

    I caught Willie’s subtle hint when he remarked, “I’ve been walking all day, ma’am. This sure is a pretty little town you-all live in.” If I invited him to sit awhile, I would have to visit and I had so many other things to do. Maybe I should just ask about the peanut brittle and get it over with. Or maybe Willie knew I had no money for extras and he wouldn’t try to sell the candy to me. He surely could see that our tiny house was old; maybe he would understand that we didn’t have much money. Maybe he just came for a short visit and wouldn’t ask me to buy the candy.

    I was wrong. “Ma’am, would you like to buy some fresh-made peanut brittle? It’s real good. Everybody says so.” The same old script.

    “I’m sorry, Willie, my husband is diabetic and we don’t keep candy around.” I was proud that I had the backbone to refuse him.

    “Yes, ma’am. I sure do understand that. My grandma — she’s gone on now — my grandma had diabetic. Her leg got cut off and she was blind, but that sure didn’t stop her from lovin’ the Lord and lovin’ me too. Yessir, I used to live with my grandma ’til she up and died. Now I just stay with some folks from the church. Yes, ma’am, diabetics is a terrible thing.” He did not stop talking long enough for me to comment. “I’ll bet your little boy would like some, though. Little kids just love candy. I always loved candy when I was little, but I never got any. You could buy some for your little boy.”

    I wondered if this lanky kid knew about sales techniques, or was he really a simple homeless boy who needed a sympathetic ear. I also knew there was barely enough money to go to the laundromat.

    “Willie, I’ll buy a bag of candy, but you have to understand that I can’t do this anymore. We don’t have much money, but I’ll help you this one time.” He waited while I counted eight quarters from my laundry money. “Tell you what, Willie. I really don’t want candy in the house; why don’t you turn in the money and eat the candy yourself. I’ll help you and you can help me back.”

    “Well, thank you, ma’am. But if my church people saw me eating any candy I’d be in a passel o’ trouble. They don’t care how hungry we are, we’re not s’posed to eat the candy. Thank you, all the same.” Willie’s open face grinned. “Well, goodbye, ma’am. I’ll see you in two weeks!”