Tripping Over The Carpet's Edge: Dorothy Virginia Hare (1919-1999)

Dorothy Virginia Hare was born on February 25th, 1919, in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, to Izella and William Hare. She married my father, William Duane Fleming, on April 19th, 1943, at Homewood Presbyterian Church in the Homewood neighborhood where she grew up. She was twenty-four years old. Mom and Dad both graduated from Westinghouse High School in 1937 where they met. They attended the same elementary school and grew up in Homewood/Brushton. The two neighborhoods are located next to each other in east Pittsburgh.

After a three-day bout with pneumonia, my mother’s father died on December 19th, 1928, when she was only nine. William Hare was forty-two. Having one older sister, Mary Jane, and one younger sister, Marian Elizabeth, the family was devastated emotionally and financially. Their grandparents helped support them along with their aunt and uncle, Mable and George White. My mother rarely spoke of her father, but when she did, it was about her mother’s struggle without him. William Hare sold and delivered blocks of ice for residential ice boxes. After her father’s death, having never worked, her mother, Izella, worked in a nearby laundry ironing clothes. She also took in ironing and worked from home.

(Front) William Hare and Jane, (Back) Marian, Izella & Dorothy

In a letter from Martha Woods, my mother’s best friend from Pittsburgh, she wrote: “There was your grandmother with no training to get a job, but she found one in a cleaning establishment nearby. Her parents moved in, and life went on. I remember when Dorothy’s Uncle George and Aunt Mable would visit. They were so elegant— beautiful people. Those were the good old days in spite of the Depression, which hit Pittsburgh very hard.”

George White & Aunt Mable Kohne White

My mother’s first job was in the accounting department of Williams & Company, Inc., and she lived at home until she married. She loved working and frequently mentioned her bookkeeping jobs. Mother worked for Burdine’s Department Store in Miami and The Atlantic & Pacific Tea Company (A&P) in Jacksonville. She was a Comptometer operator, a valued skill in demand in offices in the 1940s and 1950s. She never worked away from our home until I was in junior high school. At home, she paid all the bills, did all of the banking, the investing and saving of money, the cooking, the laundry, the shopping, and the cleaning. My father likely never set foot in a bank his entire married life. He left everything up to my mother. I know she missed working outside the home while we were growing up, and in 1961 she returned to work as a bookkeeper for Dan Manry Bookkeeping. She worked for Mr. Manry until the 1980s when she retired.

I called my mother Mommy when I was little and Mom when I was older. I remember being sick a lot. In the 1950s, kids had to deal with Mumps, Measles, Chicken Pox, Whooping Cough, Ringworm, and Polio. I had them all. My mother always kept me in bed during these painful illnesses and cared for me well. When I was sick, there was no playing around the house and no TV. For entertainment, there were plenty of comic books to read. My favorites were Archie and Casper, The Friendly Ghost. I had my dolls in bed and a large glass of crushed ice by my bed. Mother had a hand-cranked ice crusher mounted on the wall where a can opener was, and I could have all the crushed ice I wanted. Crushed ice was reserved for being sick. Pepto-Bismol, Kaopectate, Paregoric, and Baby Aspirin were her go-to remedies. There were no strawberry-flavored antibiotics or flavored cough syrups then, and I had to take some pretty nasty-tasting stuff.

Mom & Me on Hazelhurst Drive

I don’t remember having Polio because I was only two. I told my mother that I could not turn on the radio on a table that was taller than I was. She asked me to try while she watched, and she could see that I could not raise my arm above my shoulder. She immediately called my pediatrician, and he told her to bring me in right away. After that visit, I was taken to Hope Haven Children’s Hospital and put in isolation. My father was in Atlanta for work, and Mom reached him at his hotel. He left right away to come home.

During the beginning of my stay at Hope Haven, my mother and father could not have contact with me. Against the rules, my parents talked to me through the open window of my room while standing outside in the bushes. The windows were always open because the hospital was not air-conditioned. Eventually, they were allowed inside to be with me. After I was released from the hospital and throughout my childhood, I was keenly aware of how lucky I was that I did not have to wear a brace or be in an iron lung. My mother reminded me of this when we passed someone using crutches or a wheelchair. I don’t believe my mother ever got over the experience of me having Polio. Many times when we spoke about Hope Haven, she would cry.

We lived between Old Saint Augustine Road and San Jose Boulevard in Lakewood. Mom allowed me all the freedom I wanted to ride my bike in this area. I rode my bike all day, every day, looking for friends to play with. We gathered in the street to play hopscotch, roller skate, or play Jacks. Mom taught me how to do all of those things. Some days we played in a small section of Rose Creek that ran under Rainbow Road, catching tiny frogs. I was always encouraged to play outside where there was always something to do. I was to be home by 5:00 PM every afternoon. She arranged for me to take dancing lessons at a nearby dance studio, which I loved. She sent me to a local artist named Cramer Swords to take drawing lessons every Saturday at his studio in downtown Gainesville when we lived there. She made sure I was signed up for camp every summer and made most of my clothes growing up. She taught me to sew, knit, work needlepoint, and embroider. She bought me plenty of fabric, yarn to knit, and pencils to draw with. Mom never let me stay home from school. “Up and at ’em,” she would say.

Mom didn’t sing, whistle, or dance around the house. She was always dressed and never stayed in her nightgown or robe all day (unlike me). She was alone during the week with my brother and me because my father traveled for his job at Sealtest Southern Dairies. She liked to watch one or two daytime shows on TV and never tuned in to soap operas. She liked “Art Linkletter’s House Party,” which was on in the afternoon. My mother would make herself a cup of black coffee, grab a couple of cookies and take a break from her housework to watch it. She liked to watch “Father Knows Best,” “The Ed Sullivan Show,” “The Glenn Campbell Show,” “The Andy Williams Show,” and “The Sonny & Cher Show” in the evening. Mostly, she watched whatever my father liked to watch. Since only three or four channels were available then, and there were no remote controls, my brother and I changed channels for my parents as most children did.

Mom cooked dinner every night of the week and was an excellent cook. She learned to cook from my grandmother or just taught herself. She loved making homemade spaghetti sauce, applesauce, and fresh pickled beets. She set the table every night, and we always sat down to dinner, even when my father was away. We never ate in front of the television and never used paper plates. I remember liking everything she cooked. My favorite meals were her Spaghetti and Meatballs, Sweet and Sour Pork, and Meat Loaf. She made homemade German Potato Salad and a layered casserole that consisted of canned spinach, macaroni, and canned tomatoes. It was topped with Italian spices, sliced pepperoni, and Velveeta. Mom created this dish just for me because my dad never liked it. She never served tuna fish, peanut butter, black-eyed peas, collard, turnip greens, or anything Mexican. Sometimes on a Friday or Saturday night, as late as 9:00 PM she would leave the living room where we were watching TV and begin making homemade fudge. She especially loved Russell Stover’s assorted chocolates. She often made pies, cookies, custard, and Jell-O for dessert. Ice Cream was her favorite.

Mom was always knitting something. She knitted slippers for me and made gifts for her friends. She liked Swedish or Huck weaving and dabbled in various other popular crafts, which she invariably got me involved in. Her sewing skills were exceptional, but she sewed out of necessity rather than for pleasure. She grew violets in her kitchen window and Gloriosa Lilies in the planters outside.

My mother always had a car and took me wherever she went. I rarely, if ever, was alone by myself. She had her hair done every Saturday at a beauty shop downtown. She spent too much time ironing sheets, pillowcases, my father’s boxer shorts, and all our clothes. My mother never owned a dishwasher or left dirty dishes in the sink overnight. She was up and dressed each morning to make breakfast for us seven days a week. She helped me with my math and memorization of times tables. She was good at math. She liked “Women’s Day” and “Family Circle” magazines. She always did my tax returns for me.

My mother enjoyed pranks such as plate-lifters and a dime she had that her grandfather had soldered a thumbtack to. She would push the dime into the hardwood floor and leave it there until one of us tried to pick it up. My father rarely thought these pranks were funny. She had a collection of rabbit figurines since her maiden name was Hare.

We attended Sunday school and church every Sunday without fail, and the only organizations she ever belonged to were the Women’s Church Circle at Lakewood Presbyterian Church and the PTA. My mother participated and helped out my Girl Scout Troop by handling an annual cookie sale once. However, she did not enjoy that. Her friends were women in her church circle, friends from Pittsburgh that lived in Jacksonville, and friends she made while living in the Lakewood Apartments. These families were the same age and had their children at the same time as she did. We remained friends with these families our entire childhood, spending Christmas and Thanksgiving with them as we had no other family living in Jacksonville. All my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents lived in Pittsburgh. We usually saw them on a two-week summer vacation every year, or they came to Jacksonville to visit at Easter or during our summer breaks from school. They were never with us at Christmas or Thanksgiving. I don’t remember my mother saying she missed Pittsburgh, but she faithfully wrote letters to everyone and kept in touch with my grandmother and aunts.

In high school, Thanksgiving morning was the day that all high schools played their last football game of the season. As a band member, I attended all my high school’s football games. After the game, I would come home and take a minute on the front porch preparing myself for the once-a-year treat I loved. When I opened the front door and stepped inside the house, the smell of my mother cooking Thanksgiving dinner had filled the air. I grew up without air-conditioning, so almost all the windows were open. But even with the windows open, the overwhelmingly incredible smell of my mother cooking that one meal has stayed with me all these years. My mom had been cooking since before I left for the football game. Her traditional Thanksgiving dinner included turkey with oyster stuffing, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans, sweet potatoes, beets, applesauce, and a glass of iced tea. She would use her good china, silverware, and best tablecloth on Thanksgiving and ask me to set the table. When I cooked my own Thanksgiving dinner, I could never replicate that smell. Once in a while, I will smell my mother’s cooking on Thanksgiving. It will grace me for a very short time, and then it’s gone.

We moved to Gainesville, Florida, in 1959 after school let out. Leaving my friends behind was a sad and tearful time. I had many playmates in Lakewood that I felt could not be replaced, but my mother knew just the right things to say and assured me that I would have new and better friends, and we would come back often to see my old friends. She was right. The Girl Scout troop she signed me to join was everything I needed. I took my Girl Scout participation seriously and soon felt I could never leave Gainesville. I believed that every other scout was my sister. The three years we lived in Gainesville were fun-filled. I loved my schools and teachers. My mom took us to all the summer activities for kids and homecoming parades at the University.

With any craze at the hobby store, she found a way to find the supplies, sat me down at the dining room table, and kept me busy. We made name tags for all my friends from balsa wood and dried alphabet macaroni. We roasted our cat’s eye marbles in the oven and plunged them into ice water, making them shatter inside. We then made jewelry from the marbles and sent them to Pittsburgh for Christmas.

One afternoon, Mother and I were in the kitchen with the windows open, and we both heard a blood-curdling scream coming from our neighbor’s house. A family with six kids lived there, all out of school for summer break. My mother flew out the door and ran to their house, letting herself in through the back door. She found their youngest child sitting in the kitchen sink with scalding water running down her legs. The skin on her tiny legs was sagging down around her ankles, and my mother told the older sister to call her father at work and ask him to meet her at the hospital. Mother grabbed the baby and ran back to our house with her. We wrapped her in a blanket, put her between us in the front seat of our car, and headed for the hospital. The baby’s father was already there when we arrived at the hospital. He took the baby and ran her to the emergency room. I always admired my mother’s quick thinking that day.

I suffered from seizures when we lived in Gainesville. I would first feel them coming on because of what I now know was an aura. Then, sounds were amplified and distorted, and I would black out and fall to the floor. I never told my mother about this, and when I finally had a seizure in front of her, she took me to Jacksonville to see a doctor in Riverside who gave me an electroencephalogram. The nurse administering the test was angry with me for not keeping still. This caused her to have to repeat the test, and after the second time I moved, she yelled at me and slapped me hard on the back. After the test, I was to see the doctor, and I told my mother in front of him that the nurse had hit me. The doctor did not believe me, but my mother did, demanding to talk to the nurse. I can’t imagine what was said.

My mother always stood up for me and believed what I told her. I auditioned for the chorus in 5th grade but did not make the cut and was in tears over it. Mom called the teacher and told them there was nothing wrong with my voice. The next day, I was called into the office and told I was in the chorus. Mom didn’t tell me until years later what she had done to get me in the chorus.

When I became a teenager, my Mother was ever vigilant about who I ran around with and who I called on the phone. Looking back now, my friends weren’t bad kids. I never got into trouble with my friends or even went anywhere with them. I never knew where she learned her information or understood the big deal. I often got in trouble for things I didn’t do.

My parents only used our small window air conditioner on the hottest of nights and rarely was it on during the daytime. I stayed home in Jacksonville for two weeks while my parents vacationed in Pittsburgh. I ran our window air-conditioner the entire time they were gone and decided I had better turn it off before they returned. When I turned it off, and because the humidity was so high, all the mirrors fogged up, the terrazzo floors were covered with moisture, and all the table tops were wet. I spent hours wiping everything dry, and the house looked great when they returned. My Mother complimented me on dusting everything while she was gone, as the place looked spotless.

After the electric bill arrived two weeks later, she knew exactly what I had done. Confronting me about running the air-conditioner all that time, I had to confess to how everything looked so clean. One way or another, my Mother had a way of always knowing what I was up to. Our only phone was in the dining room-kitchen area of our small house, and Mom usually heard everything I said. If it sounded wrong to her or I was talking about boys, she would let me know and make me hang up. She and I were frequently at odds with each other over my friends. But, I have to say, my Mom stayed one step ahead of me. It was hard to get away with any shenanigans. I have to hand it to her.

In my early twenties, I was working and still living at home. Mom and I had a contentious relationship at best. She expected me to pay for room and board, and I thought that was crazy. So I set aside the money and threw it at her one afternoon. I was coming home all hours of the night and getting up the next day for work. I wanted to be on my own, so Dad and I went looking for an apartment, and I left home at 23. I did well on my own, went home for dinner, and visited several times a week. I was thrilled to have my own place, and I had them over for dinner as often as I could dream up a new dish. My parents were always there for me, and now that I was not living at home, I enjoyed my mother’s company even more and always remained close to her.

My mother’s retirement years included traveling with my father to Boy Scouting Conferences, Pittsburgh visits to see her sisters and in-laws, woodcarving Shows around Florida, and weekend events held annually by the 9th Infantry Division Association father belonged to. She also spent time at various rental cabins in Western North Carolina. She attended craft classes at John C. Campbell Folk School when my father taught beginning woodcarving during the fall. I can’t help but wonder where my mother would have chosen to vacation had she had the opportunity to go anywhere she wanted. She had no particular interest in museums or art. She had no desire to travel abroad, as far as I know. She seemed content to help my father do his “thing” and make sure he ate well and stayed healthy. I know she wasn’t thrilled with some of her trips with my father. She had an independent spirit but never acted on it. She was confident and self-assured.

I never heard my mother feel sorry for herself or say anything unkind to me. She never belittled me, and when I ran into her at the grocery or the mall, her face would light up when she saw me. She enjoyed cooking, eating out, and knitting in front of the television, but I never saw her read a book, play a record or enjoy animals. Our family dog, Spot, was a source of dog hair that annoyed her and my father’s grouchiness, and talking down to her hurt her feelings. She and I went to high-end antique shows and the Bayard flea market several times a month. I would take her to the mall when I went. She liked nice clothing and good shoes and never wore worn-out, sloppy clothing. She always looked nice. Her health was always good, having only been hospitalized once in her early forties for a hysterectomy. She had angina and arthritis, but that was it.

I called my mother almost every day from work. The day that Dad answered the phone and told me she did not want to come to the phone, I left the office immediately to see what was going on with her. My father could not explain why she wouldn’t talk to me, and I knew she wouldn’t do that. When I arrived at their house, Mom sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the wall. I called the rescue, and off we went to the hospital. After many tests without definitive answers about why she was so out of it, she was released and sent to Brooks Rehab Hospital. I demanded that the doctor do more testing. He called me at work on a Friday afternoon to tell me he suspected my mother had pancreatic cancer. The CT scan showed other troubling spots, and he said he would talk to us on Monday about what to do next. My father, brother, and I went to see her on Saturday and told her what the doctor had told me. She threw her arms up and loudly said, ‘WELL…. THAT’S what is wrong with me.” That was Saturday. On Sunday, she died. My mother was eighty years old.

My mother’s death was the single worst thing I have ever experienced. It took me almost two years to get over her leaving me. Then, one day, I came home from work and looked at her picture, realizing that I had not thought of her once that day. I knew then that I was beginning to move forward and ready to give her up. I was fortunate to have her for fifty years. She was a wonderful mother, and she loved me unconditionally. I loved her so much. How wonderful is that?