LOL: Little Old Ladies

Hear the story read by the author

In the town of Normal, Pennsylvania, there’s a little church at the corner of Wilson and Elm. Every Sunday afternoon three of the women of the church go to tea at a little café called “Roger’s.” The trio consists of dour, 70 year-old lifetime congregant Henrietta Miggins; 75 year-old African-American choir member Celia Simmons; and 73 year-old Betsy Davis, a proper Southern lady who only recently moved to town.

This weekly tea party has been going on for thirteen years. Originally the group consisted of Henrietta, Celia and Marjorie East. After Marjorie passed away, Henrietta and Celia kept the tradition alive for about a year until Betsy arrived to restore their threesome, much to Celia’s relief. Celia and Henrietta were dear, long time friends but Celia found Henrietta a bit difficult to take one on one.

As they approached Roger’s one recent Sunday, Celia, who was a retired English teacher, said, “I hate when restaurants use apostrophes improperly. You would think before they spent all that money on a sign they’d consult someone who knew something about grammar.”

“It’s not incorrect,” Henrietta replied. “It stand’s for Roger’s café. It’s possessive.”

“That would be true if the word café was in the sign, but it’s not.”

“It’s implied,” Henrietta sighed. “Have you ever met anyone named ‘Rogers’?”

“Rogers is a common last name,” Celia said.

“But it’s not a last name. The café was started by Roger Anderson. It says so on the back of the menu.”

Betsy ignored the argument. Celia and Henrietta had been having it every Sunday for thirteen years. Neither was ever going to win.

When the three women entered they discovered an unknown woman standing behind the hostess station. She was a slim brunette with a large mole on her neck. She welcomed them to Roger’s with an Eastern European accent none of the ladies could place.

“Where’s Doreen?” Henrietta asked.

“She does not work here anymore,” the woman said. “I’m Sasha. There are three of you today?”

“Yes, there are three of us,” Henrietta said. “We come here for tea every Sunday and we always sit at that table.” She gestured toward a table by the window, only just then realizing it was occupied by a young couple. Henrietta noticed the man was wearing a baseball cap. Inside. While dining. She fixed him with a disapproving gaze though he didn’t seem to notice.

“I am sorry, that table is already occupied,” Sasha said. “Perhaps you will like this one?”

She indicated a table in the corner.

“Perhaps we will not,” Henrietta said.

“It will do for today,” Betsy quickly interrupted. Henrietta harrumphed but acquiesced and the ladies were seated.

“I didn’t think it was possible to find a worse hostess than Doreen,” Henrietta mused, “but they seem to have done it.

“She’s new, bless her heart,” Betsy said.

“She’s foreign,” Celia noted. They all nodded sagely in unison as if that explained everything.

It took a few minutes more than usual for their regular waiter, a young man named Keith, to come take their order. There had been an argument in the kitchen because the ladies were not in Keith’s section today. Keith thought that meant he was off the hook. But the waiter whose section it was insisted he take that table. After losing a game of rock-paper-scissors, Keith agreed.

“Your usual tea and basket of scones, ladies?” he asked after they had finished complaining to him about Sasha and her failure to sit them in their accustomed location.

“What are your specials?” Betsy asked. Keith rattled them off.

“What’s the soup today?” Celia asked. Keith told her it was French Onion.

“Is the salmon fresh?” Henrietta inquired. Keith assured her it was.

Several minutes later the ladies ordered tea and a basket of scones. Just like they had every Sunday for thirteen years.

Over the next hour as the three ladies drank their tea and ate their scones they critiqued that morning’s church service. Celia complained that Missy Moore had mangled the hymn she sang for the “special music” and shouldn’t be allowed to solo ever again. Henrietta bemoaned Thad Wheeling’s inarticulate delivery of the scripture. Betsy, who had been brought up not to say unkind things about anyone, expressed sympathy for the parents of the child who cried through communion. “It must be so hard to be a good parent these days, bless their hearts,” she said.

They all agreed the sermon was far too long, of course.

When they ran out of tea, scones, and things to criticize, the ladies split the check, leaving Keith their usual twelve percent tip.

“You know, the nice thing about this table is it’s not under the vent so the air doesn’t blow on you,” Celia observed.

“That’s true,” Betsy agreed. “And it has a nice view of the park.”

Henrietta stopped Keith on their way out. “That tip’s all for you,” she instructed. “Don’t give any to that horrid new foreign hostess.”

“You have a nice afternoon, now,” Keith replied.

“Oh, and make sure she seats us at the same table next week,” Henrietta said. “It’s better than our old one.”