The self-checkout lane of Walmart spills into the clothing department. The alert the manager light flashes, a warning that someone has incited a smack-down by contesting the ring up on Duke’s Mayo, plus the pink flamingo fabric was supposed to be 5.88 a yard, not 6.88. Hell hath no fury like an overcharged Walmartian. Price confirmation across the acreage, especially since Home Goods (located on the back 40,) is now involved, takes a hot second.

My buggy and I keep rolling, sizing up our choices. The least populated line has an older sprite of a woman at the register, and I accept my fate, falling in behind a family dressed in Sunday go to meeting kind of clothes – even though it’s Friday. The cashier’s nametag identifies her as Pearl.

Pearl isn’t a name I see that often anymore. It takes me back to the Miss Pearls of my childhood. The ones who taught me Bible School. The Pearls with permed hair who made cookies shaped like Windmills and served chilled grape Kool-Aid from a metal dipper in our church basement. The Miss Pearls who were widowed in the Civil War, sang in the choir, and seemed to be somewhere between sixty and one hundred and four. They were ancient, yet ageless. Ageless, yet ancient.

Walmart Pearl has short white hair. Moving with steady efficiency, she rings up the fancy family. A young girl in a frilly dress excitedly awaits the scanning of a toy.

“My, my, aren’t you looking mighty pretty today,” said Miss Pearl. “I just love your lace dress.”

The family doesn’t have a strong command of Pearl’s southern English. My eighty-eight-day streak of Duolingo hints to me that the hermana mayor (older sister,) is turning quince (15,) and they are having a fiesta (party.) Either that or something about a white horse needing a taxicab. Spanish on the fly is a big game of guess for me.

The communication gap does not dampen Miss Pearl’s radiant praise for the little girl, and they beam at one another. There’s no awkwardness in the interaction and Miss Pearl keeps up her end of the conversation. As the family departs the checkout area, little miss lacy dress turns to wave bye to Miss Pearl. The nonverbal of kindness eclipses the need for translation.

Miss Pearl starts with my order. “How are you doing today?” she asks. This may not seem remarkable, but Miss Pearl asks like she means it. She makes eye contact; she awaits an answer.

“I’m doing great. I do have to confess that I got hungry while I was shopping, and I opened those Bobo Chocolate Chip bars and ate one. Here’s the wrapper.”

“Let me throw that away for you, honey. As long as you didn’t eat the barcode, we don’t have a problem. Sometimes you just feel famished, and you have to take some action.”

“I know better than to shop when starving, but here we are.”

Miss Pearl grins in conspiracy. “Nothing wrong with having a little snack.”

I am star struck by this woman. I want to go over to Miss Pearl’s house and have a slice of pound cake. I want to smell her closet which is sure to be a blend of lilac and gardenia. I suspect that she has a crocheted toilet paper holder and that picture of the old man praying with folded hands hanging over her kitchen table. I want to nap on her sofa under a hand sewn quilt. In one transaction, I have an elder crush on Miss Pearl. I know it’s early in our relationship and I’m not sure how to tell her that we’re coming for Thanksgiving, but we are.

“Hey, Miss Pearl,” says a co-worker as he walks by.

“Hey, Rodney. How’s that baby doing?”

“She’s great,” Rodney answers with a broad smile.

“Heading to break, Miss Pearl,” says another. Her hair is brightly colored like a rainbow, her arm tatted in a sleeve of flowers. “Need anything?”

“Lord, no. You get some rest and get you something good to eat.”

“You okay, Pearl? Heading to the back,” The nametag reads, MANAGER, in all caps.

“Couldn’t be better.”

Miss Pearl carefully places my five greeting cards in a special bag. “Honey, where do you want to put these? I love giving cards and I don’t want to smash them. They’re so pretty.”

“I’ll hang onto them. Thank you.”

“You are sure welcome. Somebody is going to be happy to get a card.”

I. Love. Miss. Pearl.

The customer behind me unloads his order onto the belt. He is leaning against his buggy for support. A walker rides shotgun among his groceries.

“Hey there, Pearl,” he says.

“Hey there, yourself,” she replies.

“How’re you getting along? How’re things on the home front?”

“Oh, we’re doing pretty good. He’s taking up a new hobby of rambling around and falling at night. Told him to stop trying to leave me,” Pearl jokes.

“Pearl, you got to call me to come help you lift him.”

I consider this interaction and all that I have observed in the ten minutes that Miss Pearl and I have been BFFs. Here’s a man older than she, with some type of dependency on a walking aid, begging to assist her in the middle of the night.

“Now you know I’m not going to wake you up to put him back in the bed. We’re getting by. He settled down about 1:30.”

“And you had to come into work today?”

“Thankful for the job.”

“How’re things on your home front? How’s that sweet wife of yours?”

“Mean as ever.” They laugh the laugh of old friends.

Miss Pearl spins the bag wheel and checks to make sure I have all my provisions. I pay and she gives me my receipt. She doesn’t say, “Have a nice day” or anything forced or rehearsed. She just smiles at me, and as I start to walk away, I turn back and offer her my best little miss lacy dress kind of wave.

It’s hot in the parking lot. The road is congested with tourists pouring east for a summer weekend. It’s tempting and comfortable to slide the dial over to the bitch and gripe setting and get on with my life. But I don’t. I roll my window down and reflect on the goodness that I have just witnessed, a Walmart touchstone named Miss Pearl.

I have these kinds of rocks in my life, the ones that ground me, that make me better and whole. All that is Smokin’ Hot Love Biscuit, my inner circle of friends, each of the crazy girls for different reasons in equal measure, my brother, Jeff, a collection of cousins, my children, the farm where I grew up, my favorite books, the memories of people that I loved, and still love.

Until Friday, I never really thought about how one soul could offer this type of underpinning to the masses, (especially among the people of Walmart,) through just being a good human, reinforcing the adage that it’s far better to see a sermon than hear one. In a world where one can, be most anyone and act most any way, let me be more like Pastor Pearl.

***

My parents gave me a string of pearls when I graduated from high school. They came from the fine jewelry department of Sears & Roebuck. They were a splurge gift, and they’re among my most prized possessions. Their value isn’t in another’s appraising, but in the emotion through which they were given, and the feeling I have when I wear them – a beloved touchstone of the house that built me. I think I’ll wear them come Thanksgiving.