Memories of Ms. Rita: Coffee and Counseling

At 6:30 am, if she wasn’t teetering from a stepstool in the storage closet grumbling about how inventory had gotten disorganized, Ms. Rita Rillman would be behind the counter of The Acorn Café in the Milliken Science Building at Wofford College. Sometimes she’d fuss about the mess night-shift student workers had left her to clean up. I’d try to be cheerful by saying “The early worm gets the bird.” Ever the attentive listener, Ms. Rita would grin and, with a simple hand gestue, make sure I got the bird. Thus began another day between friends.

Leaning with elbows on the counter and chin propped in her hands, she’d inquire “How are things?”
“Fine,” I’d say.
She’d tilt her head down a little, raise an eyebrow, and say “Really. How are things?”
This was her invitation for me to confide anything that was on my mind.

Ms. Rita is ten years older than I am, but much wiser and vastly more experienced. Compared to my life and most of us at Wofford College, Rita’s path had more rocks, roots, and rain. She relished the sunny days having weathered the challenges of motherhood and marriages. Her kids (Joe, Sherry, and Kim) are all grown now. She has grandchildren and great-grandchildren. But the sadness of the death of her son Grant, and, more recently, her husband Art Rillman, produced wounds that would never fully heal. Her own complicated health problems restricted her physical abilities. However, these circumstances made it so much easier for Rita to relate to those of us experiencing pain, turmoil, disappointment, frustration, anxiety, grief, or fear. Conversely, Rita was always ready to celebrate any good news. I’ve seen her congratulate many students who were relieved to have done well on a test or a paper or a presentation. I’ve also seen her console those who were disappointed by a boyfriend or girlfriend or sorority sister. I’ve heard her suggest how a junior might approach a parent with the possibility of a change of major. She’d ask about your plans for any upcoming break, and urge each of us to relax, have a good time, and don’t do anything too foolish. As exams loomed at the end of each semester, she’d do all she could to boost morale of the givers and takers.

“How’s Phillip? How are the girls?” she’d ask regularly about my children. She kept track of my son’s challenges as a knob at The Citadel, and later as he suffered through boot camp and cook school and officer training. She shared my pride as he reached each milestone. Ms. Rita knows all about my daughters Alicia and Alayna as they transitioned from teenagers to young women who dated and married. Ms. Rita counseled me to be patient with their childhood meanderings and some of their poor choices. She wanted to see pictures of their weddings. And she wanted to hear about my adventures on travel interims or backpacking trips. She knew all about status of every project I ever worked on.

Ms. Rita was also a dear supportive friend to me when Tia, my wife of 30 years, experienced a terrible headache on October 26, 2014 that turned out to be a rapidly growing glioblastoma, the same type of fast-growing brain cancer that claimed Senator John McCain. Only seven weeks passed from that first headache at the end of October until the Celebration of Life we held for Tia in Leonard Auditorium. Ms. Rita was there for me when I came back to work at the start of the next semester. She fathomed the loss and the loneliness and sensed that her frequent hugs provided the comfort I needed. Like my mother, Ms. Rita’s Christian faith lead her to believe “Everything happens for a reason.” My faith isn’t as strong as theirs. Instead, I cling to what I learned from Ab Abercrombie: “Every tragedy is an opportunity to love.” As she dealt daily with me and members of the Wofford family who shared their own troubles with her, Ms. Rita embodied Ab’s adage.

Ms. Rita was also my confidant when I started dating Mary Helen in September of 2017. She expressed her concern that this romance was “going too fast” and that I should be cautious. She did this because she cared about me. Against her advice, I didn’t slow down, and here we are in October of 2020. Mary Helen and I have already celebrated our third wedding anniversary. We are happily married.

“Really. How are things?” I realized that Ms. Rita used those words, not just with me, but with many people. Her simple insistent invitation to confide generated deep conversations that could result in the clarification of an issue. I’d describe whatever was bothering me. This could be a rebellious daughter misbehaving at or after school. Maybe I’d complain about not having enough time to get everything done on my “to do” list at the college or at home. I could share with her about my parents’ snowballing health problems. She always enjoyed hearing about a surprising/disappointing/troubling/funny interaction with a student or colleague. She was adept at helping me see any situation from another perspective and, most importantly, encouraging me to take positive action that would make things better. All this counseling happened for free while she’s getting me a coffee.

What a treat to start most days with Ms. Rita! On those days when I broke the pattern and arrived later, she’d see me pass by and mock-scold me “Where were you this morning? Did you have something more important to do than check in with me?” I’d explain whatever it was that had kept me away, and she’d nod. “You ready for a coffee?”

There were several times when I was so busy I didn’t pass by the Acorn Café on my way in. My phone would ring in the office. “Why didn’t you come by this morning? Everything OK?” That made me feel good, considering Rita dealt with hundreds of people a day, and yet she was aware that something had disrupted our routine. She cared enough to call and find out about me. But it wasn’t just me… Rita cared deeply about many people. She was so good at keeping tabs on nearly everyone she knew. It’s likely that she remembered what you told her about your siblings, your parents, your significant others, and your aches and antics and achievements.

There were a few days I’d get to work and Rita wouldn’t be behind the counter or in the storage closet. Then, I’d be the one to fret and worry. I’d look in the parking lot for her car. I knew that Rita didn’t miss work unless it was something serious or an outright catastrophe. She’d have to be mighty sick or have a doctor’s appointment or be helping a family member or have car trouble. She’d often be at work on days when she felt rotten or tired or physically ill. I believe she sensed how so many people depended on her for counseling and coffee. I’d like to believe she found greater meaning and purpose in life because of her interactions with us. I believe that she got much more from Wofford than a paycheck.

Some days I’d go down for coffee and the line would be coiled out into the lobby, yet she seemed never to rush. As each person, whether faculty or student or staff or administrator, reached the head of the line, Rita would greet them with “How are you doing, hun?” And she’d actually wait for a response. Then, if she didn’t know you well, she’d ask “What can I get ya?” If you’d already been to the Acorn Café a few times and had ordered the same thing, she’d ask “You want your regular?” And she’d have a little conversation with you while everyone else waited their turn for coffee and counseling. Maybe I’m selfish and I’m certainly impatient, but I never wanted to be rushed for my coffee and counseling. I would return later when the line had dwindled to have her undivided attention.

Several years ago, the college hired an outside organization to do a study to tell us what makes Wofford unique. If you were already a part of Wofford, you would know that the attention Ms. Rita lavished on every customer/client was at the top of that list. That expensive report stated exactly that!

Although she played gospel CDs on the player she kept under the register, and went to church most Sundays, Ms. Rita hadn’t always been saintly. She told me about some of the mischief she had gotten into while growing up in Chattanooga. Some of these escapades were risky and crazy. She remembered what it was like to be rowdy, irreverent, immature and irresponsible. Those experiences gave her credibility when chatting with those of Wofford family who are metamorphosing to adulthood.

Our feisty little barista could be blunt with a student. To a sophomore who whined about pulling an all-nighter, she be direct. “Son, you shouldn’t have waited to write that paper until the night before it is due. That’s your own fault. You should have better sense than that! You need to get your head out of your **s and concentrate on your school work.”

To another distraught student who had overslept and was very upset because she had missed a class, Ms. Rita would say “Girl, you messed up. Big time! How you gonna make sure that doesn’t happen again? You go tell your professor that you’re sorry. Do it now. Don’t wait. Be honest! That professor has probably missed a class or two back in the day. It’ll be alright, as long as it doesn’t become a pattern.”

Once her client had regained some composure, Ms. Rita would persist. “So, what were you doing last night to where you couldn’t get up this morning? Were you spending time with a boy? Did you have a little too much to drink? I know what that’s like,” she’d confide with a wink. “Everybody needs to have some fun now and then, but you got to learn when enough is enough.”

That’s what’s so magical about Ms. Rita. She could listen to you and discern whether you 1) needed a shoulder to cry on, 2) a pat on the back, or 3) a kick in the butt. She had that knack, and she could sell you a snack.

Speaking of snacks. Corporate thought it would be a good (i.e. profitable) idea to offer scones and bagels and muffins in addition to coffee and soft drinks at the Acorn Café. This created more work and a lot of stress for Ms. Rita. It was difficult to anticipate what the demand would be. It was a challenge to have the right amount of each item for each day. I relished those days when sales were slow and inventory was excessive and she’d slip me a muffin, saying “It’ll be bad by tomorrow. Take this. Eat it.” I would, even if I didn’t want or need all those calories. This was a form of communion between me and Ms. Rita.

The best days were when Ms. Rita brought something she had baked herself to give away. She’d bring little loaves of sweet breads wrapped meticulously in tin foil. Other times there would be a cake or a pie or a pan of brownies. She’d insist that I try it on the spot so she could see just how much I enjoyed the flavor. She knew my favorite is red velvet cake with only a thin layer of icing. I wasn’t a fan of pound cake until I sampled some of Rita’s. I’m a convert to carrot cake because of her influence. Those home-made banana muffins were a preview of paradise.

Dr. Hettes’ mother Elaine just happened to be visiting Wofford one of those days when Ms. Rita had brought in some home-made pumpkin bread. Elaine raved about that pumpkin bread and sent Ms. Rita a note from Pennsylvania. Dr. Hettes tells me “There was not a single trip home after that where I didn’t have a fresh loaf of Ms. Rita’s pumpkin bread just for Elaine!”

She had a real talent for baking and cooking, even though she shouldn’t/couldn’t eat these sweets herself because of her diabetes. Think about that for a minute: Ms. Rita spent all that time baking sweets for others. Isn’t that pure generosity? I suppose that’s also one of the reasons she remained so scrawny. She’d twirl around, point to the place where her butt should be, and proclaim “I don’t know how these pants stay up.” It remains a mystery.

Despite diabetes and congestive heart failure and liver disease and atrial fibrillation, Ms. Rita was unstoppable right up until the day of the tumble in the Acorn Café that did terrible damage to her shoulder. The recovery was slow, painful, and incomplete and kept her away from us for a long time. Her eventual return lasted only one day, when another improbable mishap at work took her away from us again and forever. Like so many people, I missed her presence. I’m sure she missed being with us.

Now we hear the sad news that Ms. Rita passed away on September 19, 2020. What is left in her wake? I recall that she spurned bruised bananas, but she welcomed bruised people and ministered to each of us, according to our needs, with caffeine and counseling and carbohydrates. She sold us what we wanted, and gave us whatever we needed. I have some adipocytes (fat cells) inflated by her home-made pies and cakes and those “soon-to-expire” (wink-wink) corporate muffins she lavished on me. My family and I, indeed much of the Wofford family, are the beneficiaries of her sage advice that helped us through challenging times. I have precious memories of coffee and conversations, most sprinkled with laughter, some with tears. Perhaps most importantly, I realize that I should be the kind of person who regularly asks “How are things? Really, how are things?”

Onward,

G.R. Davis
6 October 2020