When I was growing up, the main meal in our household was served at lunch, and the cook was not my mother or my father, though Daddy could make an impressive breakfast. Instead, lunch was the domain of our housekeeper and cook, Lorene, a heavy-set black woman who wore a white uniform to work Monday through Friday from 8:30 to 2:30. Lorene started working for my family when I was nine, preceded by Louise Love, another black woman with great skill in the kitchen.

On Lorene’s first morning on the job after Louise retired due to complications from diabetes, I was outside, straddling my favorite branch of our pecan tree. This was my usual haven in a household of four brothers and also the perfect vantage point to see Lorene as she emerged from the back door carrying a laundry basket. The early 1960s was a time of segregation, much like laundry separated between whites and colors, and Lorene’s basket was overflowing with whites: sheets, towels, and underwear. She looked up at me and smiled as she passed, and I, accustomed to the ubiquitous presence of Louise Love, regarded her with a mixture of suspicion, curiosity, and hope.

My mother was studying for her doctorate in Psychology and was gone more than she was home. Daddy, sixteen years older than Mama, was home most of the time, except for a few hours a day when he went off to check on the Livestock Commission Company he owned, but that was run by his manager, John Daniels. So, when Lorene joined the family, I was secure in all aspects except when it came to my mother. Also, I felt especially vulnerable because of the early onset of puberty, making me overly developed and already a “woman” at nine. My budding breasts were a great embarrassment to me since they were prominent on my little girl’s body, and, of course, they were the object of much teasing from my brothers and the bolder boys in my 4th-grade class.

Once Lorene walked to the back of the garage to where the clothesline stood, I, a veteran of backyard espionage, scampered down the tree and slipped into the bushes that lined our back fence. I crawled quietly through the soft dirt to a spot where I could surreptitiously observe Lorene hanging out of the laundry.

First came the full-sized white sheets, which she deftly slid over the clothesline. White towels followed, a whole row since we were a big family, then came sock after sock after sock. Next up, my brothers’ Fruit of the Looms before the final item, my newly purchased training bra straight from Woolworths Five and Dime. My cheeks grew warm when Lorene lifted my bra and secured it with a clothespin. There it hung, evidence of my changing state, and I was flooded with self-consciousness. This newcomer now had more information about me than my own mother. After all, Mama had sent me to Woolworths on my own to buy that bra and never asked to see it once I returned home.

As Lorene picked up the basket and turned to leave, she looked past the leaves I thought were hiding my presence and straight into my eyes. “We’re having chicken and dumplings for lunch,” she said as she passed by. “You could help with the dumplings if you like.”

I crawled out of the bushes and followed her inside, lured by her kind voice.

Lorene soon became one of my touchstone people. She taught me the value of hard work, the importance of doing what needs to be done, and the joy of living with an open heart.

I miss her gracious presence. I also miss her delectable chicken and dumplings.