- Odd, the things one thinks about on New Year’s Day.
- I delivered UPS packages for twenty years, and have been retired from that outfit for almost as long. I can only imagine the number of stops and packages with which I contended during the course of those two decades.
Sometime in the mid to late eighties, and throughout the next few years I delivered packages to metropolitan Winter Haven, Florida; with a daily repertoire which included a roughly equal number of businesses and residential homes.
At that time there were six or eight formerly segregated black domiciles in the general environs of First Street, South. I use the term “formerly,” since, as time progressed, a large number of restaurants, car dealers and doctor’s offices “went up” in the area.
From time to time I pulled up to 123 Avenue A, SE, and the house of “Miss Josephine Freeman,” stepped off the bottom step of my trusty, brown package car, (as it was known) walked a few steps to the front door of the little lady’s humble abode, and rang the bell. (At that time, we were required to elicit a signature, rather than dropping the parcel by the door, as is common today).
And without fail, the 80ish Miss Freeman would quickly answer the door, greet me with that inimitable, toothy grin, I so well recall, and proceed to sign my delivery pad.
And as I turned to leave, she would always exclaim,
“Don’t forget your old black Mama,”
(or)
“Your old black Mama appreciates you stopping by, son.”
(or)
“Please come back and see your old black Mama again.”
And though our interaction was limited to the few brief moments we shared several times a year, I have thought of her more in the decades which followed, than any of those other business people and private residents to whom I delivered packages on a more frequent basis.
Perhaps it was her sincerity, her radiant smile, or merely the unilateral title she assigned herself.
But strangely enough, I miss her, and wish, somehow, I had experienced the opportunity to know and interact with her on a more personable basis.
Of course, several decades have now passed, and she has long since gone on to her reward.
… I miss my old black Mama.
Post-script – I drove by that old house yesterday, and it obviously has not been lived in for quite some time. A chain link fence has been installed around the property, and there are vines growing on some of the outside walls. And as I previously implied, given her age “my old black Mama” would have departed this good earth a couple of decades hence. She was a lovely lady, and I miss her.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 23. Copyright pending
If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line.
At that time there were six or eight formerly segregated black domiciles in the general environs of First Street, South. I use the term “formerly,” since, as time progressed, a large number of restaurants, car dealers and doctor’s offices “went up” in the area.
From time to time I pulled up to 123 Avenue A, SE, and the house of “Miss Josephine Freeman,” stepped off the bottom step of my trusty, brown package car, (as it was known) walked a few steps to the front door of the little lady’s humble abode, and rang the bell. (At that time, we were required to elicit a signature, rather than dropping the parcel by the door, as is common today).
And without fail, the 80ish Miss Freeman would quickly answer the door, greet me with that inimitable, toothy grin, I so well recall, and proceed to sign my delivery pad.
And as I turned to leave, she would always exclaim,
“Don’t forget your old black Mama,”
(or)
“Your old black Mama appreciates you stopping by, son.”
(or)
“Please come back and see your old black Mama again.”
And though our interaction was limited to the few brief moments we shared several times a year, I have thought of her more in the decades which followed, than any of those other business people and private residents to whom I delivered packages on a more frequent basis.
Perhaps it was her sincerity, her radiant smile, or merely the unilateral title she assigned herself.
But strangely enough, I miss her, and wish, somehow, I had experienced the opportunity to know and interact with her on a more personable basis.
Of course, several decades have now passed, and she has long since gone on to her reward.
… I miss my old black Mama.
Post-script – I drove by that old house yesterday, and it obviously has not been lived in for quite some time. A chain link fence has been installed around the property, and there are vines growing on some of the outside walls. And as I previously implied, given her age “my old black Mama” would have departed this good earth a couple of decades hence. She was a lovely lady, and I miss her.
By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 23. Copyright pending
If you wish to share, copy or save, please include this credit line.
***********
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin
If you would like to see the titles and access hundreds of my blogs from 2015 and 2016, do the following:
Click on 2015 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "The Shot Must Choose You" appears, click on the title. All my 2015 blog titles will come up in the right margin
Click on 2016 in the index to the right of this blog. When my December 31st blog, "Children of a Lesser God" appears, click on the title. All of my 2016 blog titles will come up in the right margin
No comments:
Post a Comment