the last mama said

 

Mama said…number 4, my final essay in this series

About Aunt Dora

My dear Aunt Dora lived in the same little house, in the same small town, for all of her life.  She never travelled further than a cousin’s place in Detroit but somehow the world came to her. 

Having lived in the same small town for so long, it’s no surprise that when my then newly wed brother and sister-in-law mailed a thank you note from Spokane, Washington simply addressed to Aunt Dora, Woodburn, Indiana it was delivered with no problem. 

When my aunt agreed to marry my Uncle Elson, a dashing young stranger who had come to town, my grandfather insisted that they should move in with him, to live together, in the house he had built, and take care of him as he grew older; my grandmother having died some years earlier.  They agreed, accepting that moving in with him made good financial sense.  Lest you think that my uncle was a ne’er-do-well, he worked for many years at GE and could certainly have afforded to provide a newer, nicer home for the two of them and their two children. 

But my grandpa really wanted them to stay and so they did.  Uncle Elson was the first bit of the wide world to come to Aunt Dora, closely followed by my mother, the ‘wicked’ big-city woman who had lured my father (Aunt Dora’s baby brother and their hometown hero) into marriage, while he was away from home serving in the Army. 

I’m not sure how it happened that Uncle Elson came to Woodburn, but he came with stories of working for the WPA and as a cowboy out west.  He even had (gasp) a tattoo, which no one else in our family had.  It was a hula dancer tattooed on his left lower inner arm and, when he flexed his muscles, he could make it dance.  We kids were all very impressed.  I’m not sure if that’s what sold my aunt on the idea of marrying him or if there just weren’t that many available men, or if it was just his charm.   I do have a picture of him from those early days though, and he did cut quite a dashing figure.

As life went on my Aunt Dora had many jobs, including babysitting for most of the children in that small town.  Her own two were ten years apart in age so she had time to care for other people’s children.  She and my uncle later worked for many years as custodians in our local Lutheran school, again knowing all of the children by their names and family connections.

One of her few treasures, built on all these connections, was a   bow-shaped glass fronted six feet tall cabinet full of her collection of salt and pepper shakers from all over the world.  Everyone in town knew about Aunt Dora’s collection and would bring her souvenirs from their travels.  The world came to her.

The reason I am including my Aunt Dora in this series of essays about mothers is because she was the closest thing to a grandmother I ever had, both of my grandmothers having died before I was born.  When I got sick at school I could walk to her house and she would always take care of me.  We lived out in the country so walking home was not an option. 

When our mother died, I was 21 and my youngest brother was only 11.  My middle brother had married right after high school and was living with his wife in an apartment.  I was teaching school and living in a city which was a two-hour drive from home.   So Aunt Dora was the one who stepped in to help with the everyday chores and ease my father into the responsibilities of being an only parent and widower at the age of 49.

All of this while she was also caring for my grandfather who had developed diabetes and had had both legs amputated.  He lived for several years after those surgeries thanks to her devoted care. 

Uncle Elson died very unexpectedly of a heart attack in his early seventies.  “Just fell down on the kitchen floor and died.” as she described it to me later.  Sad to say, but quite truthfully, the memory of how she handled that situation  was my guide as I dealt with the unexpected death of my first husband.  If she could get through it, so could I.

I loved my Aunt Dora and I honor her memory.