I like the company of elderly black women. There were some here, but Clara, my favorite, appears to have moved out, or died.
I
also like the lavish dress-up that some black women do for Sunday. I
met one getting out of her car in the basement parking garage on a
Sunday night. I asked her if she knew why the fire alarm had gone off
that morning. (There was a kitchen fire directly below me, and I didn't
even know it.) She said, "No, I was in church." Suddenly, I felt very
small, like why wasn't I in church on Sunday morning?
I
have no idea why I like such women. When I talk with them, it's like
I'm talking with the salt of the earth. Maybe I should seek one out as a
roommate to half costs. Better yet, marry a widow "rich" from her
deceased husband's life insurance and pension. Wait. A "black widow."
Mebbe not.
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Yesterday at the restaurant next door they had some type of meeting in which a number of black women wore beautiful hats. It was a lovely sight.
Yes, I love the hats. White women don't wear them much any more, and when they do, they can't seem to pull it off with the same panache as black ladies.
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