A legend dies: ‘Miz Frances’ worked for a Birmingham store more than 75 years

Like clockwork, she came to work every day at the Birmingham, Ala., jewelry store that had become more like her family than her employer.

For more than 75 years, Frances Moore was there, first as a valued employee, then as an honorary favorite aunt, a dear old friend for store owner Ricky Bromberg.

Moore died over the weekend at age 94. In recent months, she had suffered from emphysema and finally received hospice care at home.

Hers is a tale of longevity and dedication. It’s also a story of how, in a city once infamous for its racial divide, Miz Frances and the Bromberg family found a way to transcend class and race.

“You know, some people gain notoriety for one single fabulous accomplishment,” Bromberg said. “Frances earned hers for what she did every day.”

Known as simply Miz Frances, the quiet African American woman with a penchant for bright colors had already worked two decades at the business before Bromberg was even born.

Bromberg, now 55, is president of the firm his grandfather’s great-grandfather founded in 1836.

Many things changed over the years, but not the dedication of Miz Frances, who was featured in a Times story last spring.

“They say I’m stubborn,” she said in an interview. “But when you stop and think about it, I’m just old.”

Moore started at Bromberg & Co. in 1939, when America still reeled from the Depression. Bread was 8 cents a loaf and “Gone With the Wind” and “The Wizard of Oz” were packing theaters.

At 18, she had dreamed of college. But with a struggling family of 10, her parents said she had to go to work.

Her father, Aaron Wills, worked for the Brombergs as a janitor and deliveryman. “He said, ‘Go down to Bromberg’s and tell them who you are,’” she recalled.

She began stocking silverware, earning $8 a week.

Over time, she wrapped gifts, arranged flowers, checked inventory — whatever she was asked to do.

By 1968, a young Ricky Bromberg was racing around the store. Without children of her own, she called him “my little boy.” Years later, he took over the business.

When Miz Frances could no longer drive, he arranged for a ride or picked her up himself.

Eventually, Moore’s knees gave out. She got a hearing aid. More than once, she tried to retire, feeling guilty for taking a job she thought could go to a young person.

After she’d been gone a while, Bromberg telephoned, imploring her to return.

The two shared a bond — even a birthday. She reminded him of the days when his beloved grandfather was at the helm. Again, he asked her to return. He missed her.

“I don’t even know how to use a computer,” she said.

He assured her that didn’t matter. She could come in only when she felt up to it, doing clerical work in the back office. When the work was done, she’d go home.

Last November, on the 75th anniversary of her hiring day, Bromberg threw Miz Frances a surprise breakfast, inviting many from her extended family.

She sent a thank-you card, written in a clear steady hand: “You might have added a few years to my life.”

But emphysema took a toll, and she worked less and less.

In August, Bromberg called Miz Frances on their shared birthday.

“She sounded great,” he said. “She was upbeat.”

Her rebound didn’t last, however. Bromberg and his wife, Nancy, went to see Miz Frances for the last time on Friday.

A friend who was looking after Miz Frances came to her bedside to tell her she had visitors.

“It’s Ricky,” she said. “He’s come to pick you up and take you to work.”

And with that, Miz Frances laughed hard. One last time.

Twenty-four hours later, she was gone.

Twitter: @jglionna