My maternal grandmother’s sister, Dorothea, was a widow by the
time I met her. Her husband, John, served in World War I and was mustard-gassed.
When he came home from the war, he worked as a plumber, but the effects of the
mustard gas eventually killed him in the 1930s.
When I knew Aunt Dorothea, she
lived in La Porte, Indiana, and she was one independent woman. She had worked
her way up to a supervisor at the telephone company, which was one of the few
places that would hire and promote women. She also owned her own home which is
quite an accomplishment for a single woman in the 1950s. I remember her as
smoking Lucky Strikes, just a funny, vibrant, outspoken woman. She introduced
me to tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches on white bread.
When we would visit,
there were no toys and I would amuse myself by sitting on her enclosed sun
porch in the front of her house, in one of those green wicker chairs looking
through her stacks of Readers Digests.
I never read the articles, just the little bits of jokes and anecdotes.
But back to her husband John.
She had a framed photo on this little table outside the
bathroom door, on a crocheted doily, of her sitting on a swing and Uncle John
pushing her. I was fascinated by that photo. I got up my courage once and asked
her why she didn’t get married again, and she just laughed as if that were a
really stupid question and told me she already had the best husband she could
have had and didn’t want or need another.
