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Life, actually…

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REMEMBERING THE ROLLING BASKET LADY

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I remember the rolling basket lady as if thirty years ago equals yesterday.

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She lives rent-free in my fond memories. She is in crowded but friendly company.

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The first time I meet the rolling basket lady, she thanks me for opening the door for her at the Post Office…using a loud and husky voice, “Why, thank you…a real gentleman!”

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Her musical delivery makes my morning a little nicer. That is because I come from a generation often reminded that being a gentleman is a virtue…and that, furthermore, virtue is a wonderful thing to possess.

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The rolling basket lady is of a certain age, years ahead of me.

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She is dressed, as we say Down South, for Sunday school and her outfit includes lavishly applied makeup, hose and a frequent smile beneath her carefully arranged blonde hairdo.

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She walks slowly, pulling behind her a metal wheeled basket—the kind office assistants use to pick up the morning corporate mail. Long before email conquers all.

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I see her often, the basket woman, sometimes moving deliberately along 11th Avenue South, chatting merrily with herself.

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Once I enter F.W. Woolworth and find her eating breakfast at the counter, a bit of grits on her chin and a napkin poised while smiling across the way at a sullen server.

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At the same time I see other elderly diners at Woolworth’s, people who eat there just to recapture an old memory of what it felt like so many years ago when this was a thriving social center in each community, competing with S.H. Kress for the place of honor as bus stop and gathering place for everybody you knew who wanted a dime bag of popcorn that could last an hour.

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That was back when servers were polite even when you couldn’t tip much, back when you felt safe leaving your purse and bags on that little ledge beneath the lunch counter while shopping around for one more item.

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The rolling basket lady is the only person who calls me a gentleman, and I like it.

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Even though later generations don’t quite “get” it, I still hold the door open for women, as well as men, if I get there first—and I often smile and nod to strangers on the street in tribute to my father and his generation, who always tipped their ever-present hats to known and unknown strollers.

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Perhaps the memory of those gentler days is why the basket lady never forgets to smile for no reason at all at passers-by

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.

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