My Old Black Mama

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Odd, the things one thinks about on New Year’s Day.

I delivered UPS packages for twenty years, and retired from that outfit almost twenty years hence. 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; 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, (and though we knew little more than the other's name) 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 a few 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.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 21. Copyright pending

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