When my mama and dad divorced after twenty years of marriage, my mother had to get a wage-earning job. After a comfortable overseas life and being a stay-at-home mom, she happily donned a server’s apron and became a waitress for another twenty years. She took care of her two baby granddaughters during the morning hours, then would work tirelessly till 10 p.m. to provide for her family. She never complained even though she smelled like fish and her bones ached.
It was a hard job, but choices are few one gets back into the workforce, and one doesn’t have a college degree to fall back on.
But she was finally independent. And was loved by all: her family, her workmates, her customers. One elderly couple, especially, adored her, always requesting “Angela” when they came in for their weekly “Early Bird Special.”
Mama had told me about this couple. They were in their eighties. She was tiny; he always held her hand. Mrs. Louise dressed impeccably: matching shoes, handbag, and hat—all the accessories matched her suits. Sometimes she wore a beige silk pantsuit; other times, an orange linen suit. When the weather was colder, it was a brown or black wool suit.
After visiting the restaurant faithfully on Wednesdays for many years and having my mother serve them, one day, they didn’t come in. A week passed, another, and then a month. Finally the little old man showed up again—alone. His wife had passed away. My mother embraced him, gently asked if he wanted his regular table, but he did not come to eat.
The conversation went something like this: “Angela, Louise didn’t know anyone her size except you, and she liked you so much. She told me to give you all her clothes—if you want them.”
My mama was initially embarrassed, but followed him to his house after her midday shift was over. It was a huge house on the hill and Mrs. Louise’s walk-in closet was the size of a master bedroom. Every suit hung separately in a plastic bag with the hatbox on the shelf above, shoes underneath, and a matching belt and purse close by. All the suits hung in a color-coordinated manner, by color then by material, lighter to the left, heavier textures to the right.
My mother chose a few items. Again, a bit shy, was ready to leave.
“Is that all?”
“You’ve been so kind, but I don’t think much more will fit in my car,” Mama replied.
“Do you want to come back?”
“Well,” my mother hesitated…”I can call my son…”
“Angela, please do. Louise would be happy. Otherwise I’m just going to donate her clothes to Goodwill.”
My mother called my brother, and he arrived with his truck! The old man smiled and helped. They filled both vehicles with shirts, skirts, hats, bags, but no shoes. She wore a size 5. We wear size 7. When they arrived home, my mother and I tried on outfits, laughed and played. It was like winning the Nordstrom lottery. We had never had such lovely, quality clothes.
After the euphoria, we took a moment to thank Mrs. Louise and wish her peace. Every time I wear one of these outfits, I always remember the kind, generous woman who gave me some of my best teaching outfits.
Today I donned my Anne Klein wool skirt suit; a student said, “That’s a pretty outfit, Ms. Robeson.”
I responded, “Do you want to hear a little story about where it came from?”
kimberlykrobeson 