A Close-Up Look at Peole Who Matter : At 83, an Angel of Mercy and Fried Chicken

The door swung open and Ada Robinson appeared, a wooden cane in her right hand and a blue plastic fly swatter in her left, to shoo the cats who sometimes trip her up when they run through her legs.

She shuffled slowly on swollen ankles and knees as she navigated the ramp sloping down from the front door of her Pacoima home.

She wasn’t getting anywhere fast, but it was Thursday, and Ada Robinson had an appointment to meet.

Every Thursday, except when her legs tell her to stay home, Robinson passes the noontime hours in a parking lot overlooking Hansen Dam Recreation Area, where, every week, the people who know Robinson as Mother line up for a hot, home-cooked meal.

They’ve come since she first backed into the lot one Thursday with a trunk full of beans and rice, chicken and dumplings and rice pudding.

That was three years ago, when Ada Robinson was 80.

Now Robinson, who will celebrate her 84th birthday Dec. 23, goes to greet the residents of Hansen Dam, who live under plastic tents, cardboard and blankets.

Robinson can’t cook up the huge pots of food that she used to season with a dash of Louisiana love. Her hands stiff and weak with arthritis, she can only lift the lightest of pans.

Now, the group known as Thursday Angels pulls up in her driveway with their carloads of food and takes Mother Robinson to Hansen Dam.

“Good mornin’, good mornin’. I love you all,” Robinson called out to the 40 or so men and women lined up along the parking lot railing.

“I’m still hoppin’,” she said, as she walked one painful step at a time to a chair about 60 feet away.

In the end, a chair had to be brought to her so she could oversee the line of folks who’d come for plates dripping with fried or baked chicken, greens, salad and chocolate cake.

“What’s up darlin’?” asked Roosevelt Bankhead, his arm around Robinson’s shoulders.

Bankhead has known Robinson for years. But that Thursday was his first in line. Construction work was down, the economy was taking a toll. But he was holding onto a Lakeview Terrace apartment and his hopes for the future.

Thursday wasn’t Bob Nimmo’s first time in line by a long haul. The 54-year-old was in the parking lot when the Angels drove up, waiting to help unload serving tables and pans of food and plastic foam plates.

For 2 1/2 years, Nimmo has spent nights curled up in a van he hopes he’s parked in a safe enough spot. And for 2 1/2 years, his only hot meal on Thursday has been served from tables set on asphalt painted with yellow lines a car’s width across.

“This is it for today,” he said.

Seeing people like Nimmo, who’ve made Hansen Dam their home, Robinson believed she had something to offer.

The oldest of six growing up in Gibsland, La., 40 miles southeast of Shreveport, Robinson was accustomed to caring for others. But she wasn’t used to seeing people homeless and hungry and just passing by.

“I’d pass there and see them lying out and sleeping on benches and I said, ‘You know, these people need some food,’ ” she said.

So Thursday Angels was born.

As Lloyd McConnell handed out baby wipes so folks could clean their hands, the other angels, about 10 in all, stood behind long tables, dishing out food. Robinson wobbled over.

“She’s got to look and see what’s going on,” said Ora Pickens, laughing as she ladled soup from the back of a station wagon.

When the aluminum trays of food held nothing but drippings, and workers had gathered in a circle and prayed, Robinson started the slow walk back to a friend’s car.

“Thank you lady,” a man called out.

“You’re welcome baby,” Robinson said before climbing into the car that would on Thanksgiving bring her again to the pavement overlooking Hansen Dam. “Pray for me. Pray that I just keep on trucking.”