The Peppermint Heist

Two mothers, two different cultures, same compassion.

My first best friend in the world was a Persian boy.

He still comes across my mind from time to time and I always wish him blessings and happiness for the kindness he showed me when we were childhood friends.

He often called me “cher” or “mon cher”.

I didn't even know what it meant at such a young age. As an adult understanding what that word means in French I realized it was probably something he often heard his dad call his mom.

I was in kindergarten, he was a year or two older so he had to have been 1st or 2nd grade. My brother, three years older than me, was friends with his older brother who was approximately his same age.

We lived in an apartment complex in Norman. At the back of the complex was a few acres of swamp land. We would spend the entire day playing back there. This was where all the complex kids played.

I remember their mother kept a huge bag of little white candies under the kitchen sink.

He and I would sneak into the kitchen to raid that bag. They were delicious!

I've since learned they are called noghl.

I don't call his name out of respect. I don't know where he is in his life or his beliefs. This kind of attention could be unwanted.

I'm painting a bigger picture than the two of us with the telling of this story.

Before I tell the whole story, I must tell a smaller story for context.

One rainy fall afternoon, my mother took me grocery shopping with her. Mom always went down every aisle, sometimes more than once.

I was snacky or maybe I just wanted a piece of candy but I was tempted by every pass we made by the Brach's candy bins.

The Grocery store was a fascinating place when I was a child.

They kept the best stuff at my eye level.

The last pass she took me on by the candy, I caved in to my temptation and my little hand reached out and grabbed a peppermint. I shoved it deep in my pocket looking around to see if anyone noticed. I knew at the young age of five or six I was doing something wrong.

Mom finished grocery shopping, paid, and loaded the groceries and me into our 1969 Ford Fairlane and we were headed home.

I had gotten away with the perfect crime.

Safe in the backseat I reached deep in my little pocket and retrieved that peppermint.

Quickly, I unwrapped it and popped it in my mouth.

Savoring the flavor and feeling that I had gotten away with something.

The moment was shattered when the police on the interstate behind us flipped their lights and sirens on.

The jig was up!

How did they find out???

I panicked!!!

I stood up in the backseat and looked at them coming up behind us.

I was already squalling!

Mom driving and I'm sure irritated by this emotional outburst on I-35 in rush hour traffic wanted to know what was going on with me and demanded I settle down.

Leaning over the front seat crying, I confessed my crime to my Mother. She had compassion and mercy for my troubled little heart telling me it would be ok and to sit down in my seat, we would be home soon.

The police car had long passed us in pursuit of someone else.

Sitting and settled back down in the back seat, wiping tears from my eyes and snot from my nose with my sleeve I swore to Momma and myself I wouldn't ever do something like that again.

And I haven't.

Lesson learned at an early age.

This isn't where the lesson ended for me though…

When my brother and I got together with our Persian friends the next time, sitting on the bedroom floor I shared my peppermint heist with them and how scared I became when I thought the police flipped their sirens on to get me.

My friend's eyes were as big as saucers as he explained to us what happened to those that steal in the country he and his family came from.

“They chop off your hand! The one you committed the crime with…they chop it right off!!!”

I began squalling again holding up the hand I stole the peppermint scared that could happen to me if I lived over there. Lamenting my crime again.

His Mother heard my crying and came in to check on us, inquiring what was wrong with me and my friend explained my transgression to her and how he shared what they do to people that steal where they come from.

I was still crying and she looked at me with compassion and mercy just as my Mother had and scooped me up in her arms and held me in her lap consoling this dramatic little girl who didn't mean to be trouble.

My Mother.

His Mother.

The truth that a Mother's compassion knows no boundaries was not lost on this little girl.

---

I have two stories to tell about my childhood friend. This offering being the first.

Throughout my life I've had a strong curiosity about cultures different from mine.

What are the common threads?

What can we connect over regardless of the culture we grew up in?

No doubt, this is a lasting gift my first best friend in the world bestowed on me.

For that, I'm overflowing with gratitude.

Images for this post created by me using starryai.

I would have rather used a real photo of the old Brach's candy bins.

Alas, they are no longer found in grocery stores.

Probably because of little girls like me.