I Met an Angry Lady at the Check-out Line Today

Happy Anniversary, Angry Lady! Five years ago this month (July 2016), I posted on my previous website an encounter I had at a grocery store that became the most popular story that I have ever shared. The story took several weeks for me to write, so the original readers received the story in three parts. Here is the full story in one post.

Fran the Angry Lady. I met her at the check-out line. We had a conversation. This is our story.


Part One: Darla Overhears an Angry Lady at the Von’s Check-out Line

When I arrived at the mall, I found a parking spot close to the grocery store, a feat which confirmed this truly was a glorious, work-free, weekday morning.

I entered the store and worked my way down the aisles. A bag of cat litter. A jug of water. A pack of gum. Done. I pushed my cart towards the “Express” check-out. There must have been ten people waiting.

So I steered my cart to Checkstand Four, which had one person waiting. Much better.

The woman in line had a full basket, so I prepared for the wait. I opened my purse to get my phone, but the words I was hearing distracted me. Angry words from an Angry Lady.

A Super-Loud-With-Her-Angry-Words Lady.

“I can’t believe the management at this store!” Slam item onto the counter. “Why don’t they get another checker?!” Slam item onto the counter. “It’s always like this in here!” Slam. Slam. Slam.

She wasn’t talking to anyone directly, and no one was talking to her. All I heard was anger, slams, and the beeping of the grocery scanner.

I noticed the orchid in the Angry Lady’s cart — so delicate, so beautiful. Quite a contrast from its soon-to-be owner.

She looked at me. I smiled at her. The Angry Lady was nicely dressed and her make-up was just right. She had wrinkles that revealed her age despite the sandy-brown hair color. She looked at the items in my cart, looked back at me, and said, “Why don’t you use the express lane?! Fifteen items or less!”

“The line is pretty long over there,” I said.

“That’s what I mean about this place. They need better management. And I hate waiting in line. The service here is awful.” She stopped slamming her groceries and proceeded to tell me about all the things she had to do, including the Spanish class for which she would now be late.

“I don’t mind waiting in line,” I said. “Things could be worse. We could be standing in line waiting for our first and only meal of the day.”

The clerk looked at me. The customer at the head of the line looked at me. And the Angry Lady looked at me.

“Humph!” she said. “Well, I wish I could have that attitude.”

“You can.” I provided a number of other bad situations for which she could be standing in line. Funeral. Clothing handout. Place to sleep after a fire. Little things like that. “Plus, you can practice being patient for a time when you really need it. I love to do that while standing in line.” I chuckled.

She took a step back and frowned. “Here.” She thrust her arm towards me. “Rub some of that attitude on me!”

So I reached towards her and rubbed her arm. We both laughed as she continued loading the belt with groceries. I noticed the amused expressions of the store clerk as well as the customer ahead of the Angry Lady as he paid and left.

“Well, they could at least open another checker, don’t you think?” Her tone had softened.

“I bet they would if they could. I always imagine that there is a good reason for it.”

She looked at me with a smile that teetered on frustration. Then she said, “Okay, okay! I’ll try to look at it that way.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Patience is a virtue. What’s your name?” The Angry Lady didn’t look so angry anymore. She told me her name — Fran* — and I told her mine.

“Darla. That’s a pretty name,” she said. Of course I had to tell her the story of my sister Lynne and how I got my name. Sensing her true age, I knew Fran would recognize the Our Gang character. “That’s a wonderful story, Darla. Yes, I remember watching that TV show.”

Our conversation continued as the clerk quietly checked the grocery items. Fran told me that she had only lived in Santa Barbara for one year. She came here from New York.

I felt even more compassion for her after hearing that little fact.

New York, she explained, had better customer service. Not like here, she assured me. The clerk stood waiting and I nodded to let Fran know that it was time to pay.

She slid her card through the payment machine. “How does this thing work? What am I doing wrong?” She tapped the number pad and kept sliding the card, back and forth. I gave the clerk a “Please help her” look. He did. I glanced behind me. Traffic jam at Checkstand Four.

Finally, with her payment made and her groceries bagged, Fran was ready to go. “I do feel better, Darla. I do! Goodbye!”

I waved to her. “Nice to meet you, Fran. Have a great day.”

“I will! You, too! Hope I don’t get to my class too late. No, no, I don’t need any help out.” She shooed away the bagger, steered her cart, and headed for the exit.

Finally, it was my turn. The clerk scanned my three items. He didn’t say a word about Fran. I didn’t say a word about Fran. We both grinned. When I handed him my cash, he asked me if I had a store card. “That’ll save you some … three dollars,” he said. Yikes. I had forgotten to enter my information and I was glad he had reminded me. Tap, tap, tap, on the number pad.

I saw the woman, next in line, frown. 

* Fran is not her real name. Other upcoming details about her life have been changed as well to keep her privacy.


Part Two: Darla Spots Fran Loading Groceries Just Steps From Her Car

Give me a slight breeze and seventy-two degrees and I will choose gardening. My yard is a mix of projects completed, in session, or forgotten. A never-ending mess that I love. The backyard is covered in a weedy grass that can only be killed by Kryptonite. I have tried, tried, and tried again — mulch smothering, Round-up poisoning, boiling water scalding, the California drought. Nothing has been able to beat it.

So, after paying for my groceries, I left the store with visions of weed wars in my head. I could not wait to get home and take on the enemy, another sweet battle that I would temporarily win. I had already spent more time in the store than I had planned. If it hadn’t been for …

Fran?

There she was, loading her groceries. My car was right across the lot from hers and a few spaces up. Her back was to me. I could have passed her by and been on my way to gardening joy.

I got closer to my car, my mind doing that Tom and Jerry thing where the angel would be on one shoulder and the devil on the other: Garden. Fran. Garden. Fran. You already spoke to her. But how can you pass by without saying something? The woman feels better now. She told you so! Oh, stop being selfish and say something to her.

The angel won. Instead of sneaking away, I called out to her as I got to my car. “Goodbye, Fran.” She turned to me and I waved.

“Oh! Donna. Look at this orchid.” She held up the plant. “I love orchids. I buy new ones every few months.”

I considered correcting her on the name fail, but I decided against it. “Orchids are so beautiful. Don’t they look like they’re smiling at you?”

“Yes, they do. And I see that you have a cat.” She walked over to me and pointed at my cart. “I saw the cat litter. I have a dog. I rescued her. Sweetest thing. Never would leave my side. Now she has all the room in the world to run, from the ocean” — she swung her arms back and forth — “to the mountains. Not like in New York. Here, I thought she would run away, but she still won’t leave my side.”

I tried to convince her that cats rule, but she wouldn’t buy it. “I’m too independent myself,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, nice talking to you.” She walked back to her car.

“Take care, Fran.” There. Duty done. I opened the hatch to load my things.

“I wish there was another place nearby that I could shop for groceries, but I live too close.” She yelled to me from across the lot. “I hate this store.” She pointed at it to make sure I knew which one.

“That is some strong language, Fran.” I turned towards the store. “This one is my favorite. I drive across town to buy my groceries here.”

“You’re kidding! Let me tell you something.” She walked back over to me. “This doesn’t happen in New York. Businesses know how to treat their customers. There’s too much competition for them to treat people like they do here. Treat the customer like that and they’re out of business the next day. Really!”

“I don’t doubt that, Fran, but, well, um, you know, this isn’t New York.”

“I don’t care!” She threw her hands up. “It’s business. Everybody should treat their customers right.”

“I agree.” I admitted to Fran that I encountered the “I’ll help you when I’m good and ready” attitude many times in Santa Barbara. I shared a bit of history and what I had seen over my fifty-five years in this town, especially the early days when local families owned all the stores and restaurants.

“Humph. How old are you?” Fran asked.

“I’ll be fifty-six this year.”

“I’m seventy-eight. You’re my daughter’s age.” Fran’s eyes had lost their fury. “My husband died and I remarried. That’s why I’m here — to be with my new husband. He’s a CEO for a worldwide company. I told him he had to retire.” She grinned. “If you want to marry me, I said, you have to retire.” She leaned in closer to me and lowered her voice. “This man is the best. He treats everybody like they’re special. If they call him, he’s there. It doesn’t matter what time of the night or day. Everybody loves him. But I told him he couldn’t have me and work every single day. Retire or forget it.” She stepped back, looking victorious.

“And he did?” I didn’t doubt it, but I was dying to hear her tell the story. This woman was thoroughly entertaining. The garden could wait.

“No.”

“No?!” I was stunned. How could this man resist Fran?

Fran crossed her arms. “We compromised. He said three days a week. I said okay.”

I laughed. “I guess that’s better than seven.”

“Actually, after a while, I told him to go back to seven. Having him home those four days, it was” — she shoved me — “driving me crazy!” Her voice was shrill. Her delivery was perfect. She laughed like it was the first time she had heard the story. After getting over the shock of her shove, I joined her. Absolutely hilarious.

What more could this woman do or say to make our conversation better than it had already been?


Part Three: Fran Asks a Heart-Wrenching Question

The day before I met Fran, a police shooting had become the talk of the nation. Many people were furious about what they saw as a race-motivated killing of an innocent man. I did not watch the video that was passing through the Facebook community, but I did read about the incident. Years may pass before I have an “Oh, that’s right! I’m black!” moment here in Santa Barbara, but the focus on skin color was back to high alert in my life.

As I stood in the parking lot with Fran, it occurred to me that she must have read and reacted to the same event. Black people. White people. Citizens. Law Enforcement. Innocent. Guilty. These lives and those lives. Yet here we were, with opposite skin colors, and the subject never came up during the entire conversation.

“My husband is one thing,” Fran said, “but his family, well…” She drew out the word, wrinkled her nose, and did that “So-so” gesture with her hand. “They’re all so coddled.”

Coddle: Treat in an indulgent or overprotective way. “How so?” I asked.

“It’s a very wealthy family, Donna.They get handed whatever they want. Not me. I worked for everything I have. Not these people.”

“But they welcomed you, yes?” I gave Fran a thumbs up, hoping to bring the conversation back to a positive.

“Yes, they did.” she said. “They’re nice people. Very nice. Four daughters. And he has three siblings. All coddled. But I won’t go for that. They don’t get any coddling from me.”

“And I would expect nothing less from you, Fran, but now you have a chance to show them another way of living. Seize the opportunity!”

“Humph.” Fran didn’t seem so sure of my suggestion. “Anyway, I opened a little shop so that I can stay busy.”

While Fran described her business, I imagined her yelling at her employees and throwing vendor invoices into the trash because none of them could do anything right.

“I hate to cook!”

Not being quite sure from where that outburst came, I could only answer, “What?” The woman was starting to remind me of the Energizer bunny on four cups of espresso.

“Cooking. I hate it. Do you like to cook?” She had a look of disgust on her face.

“Not really. Only for family gatherings. Frozen dinners are my best friends. I don’t think there is any food in my refrigerator right now. Maybe corn tortillas.”

“But I do like to clean. I’m a neat freak! Drives everybody crazy. Are you married?”

I froze. Ugh. I hate that question. Ask me anything else: “What is the meaning of life?” “Your hair is SO cool — can I touch it??” “How did your colonoscopy go?” Anything.

“No, I’m not married.” I thought about ending it there, but something about Fran’s expression caused me to continue. “Unfortunately, I’m divorced.”

And there was silence. The first real pause of our conversation.

I looked away from her so that I could collect myself. To this day — seventeen years after the fact — hearing the word “divorce” still stirs up within me the shame, humiliation, and sadness of my failed marriage.

Fran leaned in towards me and said, “How in the world did you ever handle something like that?” She asked this with such wonder, care, and concern that I almost hugged her.

“Not very well, Fran. It was not my choice.”

She stared at me for a few seconds.  I sensed that Fran was struggling with something herself. And then she said this, so softly, so gently: “I asked if you’re married because I think you would be a great person to live with. That good attitude and all.”

I cannot describe adequately how I felt at that moment. It was a combination of things: Knowing full well that “great” does not describe me, accepting the sweetness of her words as a gift, and realizing that I was seeing a Fran whom I never would have seen if not for a bit of patience at a check-out line.

Fran. Compassionate Fran. Only a short time ago you were a nuisance to all who were in your presence. And now? You’re the giver of a soothing gift to a hurting soul. I wish I could have had those words to say to her then. (Of course, she may have slugged me for the “nuisance” part, but I would have deserved it.)

“I don’t know about that ‘great to live with’ part, Fran. I’m just Darla McDavid. Nothing special about me.”

Right then, I saw Anne and Lillian, two elderly sisters, one in her late 70’s and the other just starting her 90’s, whom I’ve known for years. “Hi, Darla!” they each shouted. I waved back to them and we exchanged the usual pleasantries.

“Are they your friends?” Fran asked.

“Yes. We attend the same church.”

Fran stepped back and looked at me curiously. I’m still wondering if that is the point when she realized she had my name wrong. Maybe it was my mention of “church.” Whatever it was, she kept it to herself.

“Well, I gotta go. Time for my Spanish class!” Fran walked back to her car and took hold of her cart.

“And I have to get back to my gardening.” I felt a twinge of sadness as she walked away, as if I was letting go of something precious. “I hope we run into each other again soon.” I turned to my car and lifted the heavy bag of cat litter into the back.

“Me, too, Darla. Here. Let me take your cart back for you.”

Fran came back for my cart and pushed it into her own. Her huge smile showed how pleased she was with her act of kindness as she rolled the carts towards the grocery store. But before she could get too far, a couple approached Fran and offered her the same favor.

“Yes! Thank you!” She turned to me. “See, Darla?! I was going to help you” — she pointed at me — “and then they” — she pointed wildly at the couple — “helped both of us. Isn’t that great how it works?”

I nodded, speechless. Yes, it is, my friend.

And there it was. The circle was complete.

“Goodbye, Darla.”

“Good-bye, Fran.” I really want to give you a hug. 

And she got into her gorgeous, luxury sedan and drove off.

Fran the Lovely Lady. I will never cease to be amazed by the ways God teaches me about who He is and what He wants from my life.

I sat in my car and thought about the transformation I had witnessed — an ugly, angry lady becoming as lovely as an orchid. Patience helped reveal a gem. If I ever see her again, I will not hesitate to give Fran that hug.

Your turn. Go out and let a Fran find you. ∞


NOTE: When I started writing this story, I thought it would be a short one, but that didn’t happen. As I wrote, I remembered more and didn’t feel like I could leave out one detail about the fascinating person I had met. Fran left her mark on me, and I hope I did the same for her.

Think of the Butterfly

Written for a friend in despair


It is amazing to me,

a wondrous endeavor.

Think of the butterfly:

Its plain beginnings,

its ragged shell,

its captured wings.

Has it gone unheard?

The lilies and the sparrows know:

He cares with a cupped hand.

He stoops down with a lift

as sure as the first Day.

He was, He is,

He will.

And so,

my love,

live your struggle while fixed to Him,

a holy silk.

And emerge,

this time,

ready

to fly.

Matthew 6:25-34

A Teen’s Questions for Me After the George Floyd Tragedy

Last year, during the height of the George Floyd tragedy, our Facebook feeds were full of posts that expressed the anger, frustration, and guilt that people were feeling.

That was to be expected. However, I quickly grew weary of seeing it.

So I wrote a post:

To All My Friends Who Are “White”: 

(I put “White” in quotes because I don’t usually — and even now would rather not do so — designate my friends by color. But, alas, here we are.) 

I have a challenge for you. Rather than sharing words and images and videos and strangers’ posts in an effort to show how you feel about this current situation and the actions you plan to take, what about speaking directly with a black person whom you actually know? Wouldn’t that make it real for you? Have you done that?

Do you have a black friend with whom you can pour out your questions, misunderstandings, and feelings of sadness and guilt (actual and perceived)? Will you contact that person and really show that you care about what’s happening, that you really want to understand? George Floyd is gone, but your black friend is close by.

You can even contact me; just send me a PM. I am happy to speak with you over the phone or over FaceTime.

Whomever it is, will you contact that black friend? Or will you just continue to share your words, that article, those memes, and that video here on Facebook?

Your friend,
Darla

Over the next seven days, I had conversations with 36 white friends and several non-white friends who have white family members. From a wide variety of backgrounds and locations, and with an age range of 13-66, they responded to my “Talk to Your Black Friend” challenge. Friends contacted me and freely asked questions, wept, laughed, and shared experiences in ways that made my heart soar with joy.

Thirteen-year-old Madi, whom I have known since she was in kindergarten, took the challenge. I was deeply touched when she (through her mother, who also took the challenge) contacted me with her concerns. Here is our conversation from June 2020.


Madi: What do you think about what is happening?

Darla: It makes me sad. As long as I have been alive (60 years in October), skin color has caused many people to be hateful towards each other. And you know from studying history that this has been going on for far longer than that. However, I do not agree that all white people are bad, are privileged, and can’t be trusted to understand how I might feel.

Madi: Has it changed much since you were growing up?

Darla: Yes and no. People have become more vocal about the mistreatment they receive, and there are more organizations available to help, beyond the local resources. Technology has made it easy to connect with large numbers of people. My family moved to Santa Barbara when I was a year old. The Civil Rights Act hadn’t even been passed to give blacks equal rights. It’s actually quite mind boggling when I think about how recently that occurred. What hasn’t changed since I was growing up is the amount of people who hate. And having access to social media magnifies lets them magnify that hate.

Madi: Did this happen a lot when you were growing up?

Darla: Not a lot that I recognized at that young age. I recall several times being called the n-word when I was in elementary school. My Mom (Ohio) and Dad (Arkansas) grew up with it, but they had friends of all colors in Santa Barbara, so I and my siblings did, too. There were not a lot of black families in this city back then. There still aren’t! Protests occurred here in the 1960’s and 70’s that would coincide with state and national incidents.

Madi: What can I learn from these terrible events?

Darla: Learn that the wound that opened many centuries ago has not healed for all black people. America’s use of the slavery system has its consequences to this day. It was a wrong that our country has tried to right, but the wound continues to flare. I also hope you learn that evil comes in all colors and exists in all communities. There is no excuse for the looting, incitement, and violence.

Madi: What is something that I can personally do to help this not happen in the future?

Darla: I try not to overwhelm myself by thinking I can keep this from happening ever again. Instead, I focus on my own little world of family, friends, and acquaintances and try to keep it from happening there. Then, as each person reaches out to another person and they to another, the world can become a better place. Respect people as those who each were created in the image of God. There is their worth. I wish everyone could accept that as truth. Once I learned and believed it, the n-word had no chance of crushing me ever again because the color of my skin, and everything that went along with that, no longer defined me.

Madi: I can’t even imagine how hard this is for the African-American community. I hope everything is good and sorry that there are no Dodgers games to listen to!

Darla: Thanks, Madi. It gets hard when I think about what my male relatives are going through. My older brother, my son — it’s tough to know that they live life tiptoeing through certain situations. But I also believe in prayer and that God is ultimately in control. Something good will come from this. It already has: this little conversation with you! I hope my words don’t confuse or overwhelm you. Do not think that you have to feel badly or guilty about your skin color. Keep those feelings for when you actually do something wrong. Have compassion for those who are hurting. Use your wonderful personality, talents, hard work, and beautiful smile to make your parents proud and to share goodness with the world. Thank you for caring enough to ask these hard questions.


And here we are, almost a year later. COVID may be passing, but the news is still full of anger and frustration and guilt. Things have not changed for the better in this world. But I know that my world is better.

It’s happening, Madi. One conversation at a time. Thank you for being a part of my caring, listening, concerned, loving, confused, grieving, sorrowful, and wonderful world.

Maybe the thoughtful questions of a teenager can be a springboard for you or someone you know. The true healing is only going to happen when we go beyond the social media sharing and pursue a personal connection. Let me know if you do!