Atlanta
Writers Group
Feature
Article – January 2007
Charlotta
By Karen
Pickett-Woodland
As a
replanted Georgian, I found myself thinking that the cold weather was starting
to get on my nerves. Then memories of winters in
When my
husband and I opened our first restaurant in
She was
one of our regulars; her name is Charlotta. She
sometimes irritated me with her daily visits to our restaurant. Her quilted
coat once cream colored; that day included a layer of fresh fallen snow mixed
with the hint of gray dirt. In the middle of a January snowstorm, she walked in
from the cold, with her bags on her arm, and a present for me in her hand.
During
the storm, called the "Blizzard of 05," our normal 35-minute drive to
the store took two and a half hours through ten inches of falling snow. Most of
our employees called off because of the storm. Our sales had been so low
for the last couple of weeks; we couldn't afford to miss a full day of
sales. Three of us worked the 16-hour shift instead of the normal crew of
eight. The hot water tank was out, my back was aching, and I hadn't
been able to sit down in 10 hours. The stacks of dishes waiting to be
washed seemed to be a metaphor of the bills pending that we were unable to
pay.
Charlotta’s toothless smile was contagious; I
couldn't help smiling back at her. She brought me a small fake flower
arrangement in a burgundy vase. The amount of dust on the once white
flowers signaled a long life on someone’s desk or shelf. With her old
black purse she also carried a large dollar store blue, read and white plaid
shopping bag. Wearing multi-colored layers of old faded clothes contrasted with
her short old fashion laced black boots. She was petite, had a faint
aroma of garbage, and often slept at the table when someone was kind enough to
give her a sandwich. She was ageless. The hard life she had lived
was written in every wrinkle, crevice and dirt spot on her face.
"You
are always so nice to me. You let me use your bathroom, which is always
clean. When I come in, you are kind enough not to force me out. You give me
something to eat or drink, and it is warm in here. I thought you
would like this, please take it." Charlotta
handed me the vase. She didn't ask for a drink or a discarded
sandwich as she usually did. She just smiled at me and sat down.
That was the first time in a year that I really looked at her.
All day
I watched her snooze, stare out the window, chuckle to herself,
beg for a cigarette, or just walk back and forth to the bathroom. Towards
the end of the night, I asked her, "Charlotta,
don't you have anywhere you can go?" She said, "No" and
looked down at the table. "Have you been to the shelter down the
street?" She replied, "Yeah, I don't like that place, it is
dirty, the people aren't very nice and there are too many men that look at me
funny." "What do you do, when we aren't open and it is late at
night?" She said, "I walk all night. I might find a place
where it is out of the wind or looks quiet enough that I could stay a
while. But mostly I walk."
My grandmothers quote was running through my mind.
"Any work is better for the soul than no work at all."
"Charlotta, how would you like to do me a
favor?" I asked. "If I can," she said.
"Would you sweep the lobby for me?" She brightened up and
looked me in the eye. "I would love to, where’s the
broom?" She spent about 30 minutes and did a marvelous job. I
gave her a meal and thanked her for helping me. When she left for the
night, it had finally stopped snowing. She looked at me, and said,
"No one has asked me to work in a long time; it really felt good to
help. God Bless you." She slipped out the door into the
night.
But for the grace of God, there goes
I. I realized my back didn't hurt so much; my long journey in the car
wasn't so bad. Not having readily available hot water, being tired and
trying to figure out how to shuffle the bills, was still a blessing. I
washed the vase with the dirty flowers and it held a spot next to my cash
register. For a short time, I know we brighten someone else’s life.
Whenever I started to feel disappointed or tired, I looked at those flowers, I said a prayer of thanks and worked a little bit
harder. Thank you, Lord for every winter day.
Karen Pickett-Woodland, a replanted Michigander living in