Dorothy Hassett

By Stacie Florer

     I was the second of four children, two younger brothers and an older sister. Both of my parents were from Kentucky, but don't ask me how they met, because I don't remember. There's a lot that I don't remember. But my dad married sisters. He married my mother's sister first, and her name was Sally. She didn't live too long after they were married. I don't remember the length of time they were married or how long after she died. They didn't have any children, and some time after she died, he married my mother. My mother's name was Margaret Ruby, and my dad always called her Maggie, Maggie Branson.

     My mother had her babies at home, but I don't remember who helped her. It was probably a neighbor lady. My mother was an extremely quiet person. When there was a baby in the family, my mother always slept with whichever one of us was the baby instead of having to get up so many times in the night. After my youngest brother was born, I don't remember my parents sleeping in the same bed anymore. The only form of birth control back then, I guess, was just not doing it. We didn't talk about such things back then, and if I would have asked my mother about sex or where babies came from, she would have said, "You don't need to know. Go on." It was a different world back then.

     My father was a public worker, and he didn't have that much money. He made barely enough for our daily meals. Where we were, in our vicinity, everybody was poor. During the Depression, my father could hardly make enough money for us to eat. I remember how hard he looked for work. He would work at public jobs or anything he could get to support his family. He would help other, more affluent, families by planting crops, anything that the farmers needed help with. He helped at hog-killing times and would bring home fresh meat in the fall. And that was like, oh man, we were living high on the hog! It was great. Those were great meals to us. He worked during school where my sister and I were attending as the school janitor. In the cold months, we had stoves in the classrooms, and he kept the coal and the logs going. He also used to cut wood on the halves. I think that's right. The person who owned the land got half, and he brought the other half home to heat the house.

     My parents were very strict; we all had to tow the line. My brother and sister and I fought and scratched and told on each other, much like kids do now. But, when spring and summer came around, us kids did whatever work was available. We all had to work. Whether it was pulling plants—like tomato plants or cabbage plants—people would sow the seeds and sell them, or picking peaches or cotton. Whatever was available. Let's see. I would pull plants in the spring and cotton in the summer.

     Oh, man . . . pulling cotton was horrible. I'd be bent over dragging my heavy cotton sack, and it gets heavy depending on how much cotton you put in it. The sun beams down, of course; you pick cotton when the sun's hot enough to fry an egg. And picking the cotton? It's a miserable job. Your fingers get ragged and rough from the cotton bolls. We would work from daylight till dark, sometimes more. Everybody in the family had to do it. The women would bring the little ones, since they couldn't stay by themselves, and put them on a pallet made of old quilts down at the end of the row. They would check on them once they got to the end of a row.

     We didn't have any neighbors that I knew of who had washing machines, and our water supply was a well. Everybody had a big, black pot to boil clothes in outside. You built a fire under the pot, and there was a bench next to it for the washboard and the tub. We washed clothes the hard way. We'd have to rub the clothes and boil the sheets in the pot and then hang them on the clothesline to dry.

     Nobody had showers that I knew of back then, either. We took a bath in a number two or number three washtub out by the well. Everybody had a well. Nobody had running water that I knew of. We'd fill the tub up half full of water from the pump and the sun would warm it up. That's how we took our baths. And in colder weather, we'd take what you might call a spit bath. We'd get a washrag and a pan of water, and you know, take a sponge bath.

     My mother made lye soap, and to my knowledge there was no such thing as deodorant. I don't recall that there was an odor about us or anything; we'd just scrub our underarms during our baths. Now, we must have splurged on soap from the store to wash our faces, since I don't recall using lye soap for that. But other than that, we'd use lye soap on everything else. We'd wash our hair inside the house in a big pan with heated water from the stove. We would stay inside to let it dry, although that depended on the weather. A lot of the men would just use Crisco or lard to grease down their hair. Everybody was just so poor back then.

     I was in the fourth grade when I was seven years old. My older sister taught me everything she knew before I went to school; we had an oblong kitchen table, and that's where I got my lessons. We were in a different world than the teachers. I remember the name of my fourth grade teacher, Miss Alma Lane. She was an old maid, and I was scared to death of her. Everybody was on their best behavior in her class because she'd come around and slap you with a ruler.

     I never though about going to college; it was just out of reach financially as far as we were concerned. My father was just a public worker. I don't think I've ever been sorry that I didn't go to college because I've thought that a business course was more important than college. And that's how I made my living later on. You know—typing, shorthand, office-type work.

     We walked about two miles down the railroad tracks to school. And you know, that was back in the days when people were so poor, and there were . . . we called them tramps. They traveled the rails. I remember meeting a lot of these tramps because we walked the rails every day. We would meet these tramps, and they would always get off of the track and stand to one side until we passed by. They didn't give you a direct gaze; they didn't look at you; they didn't say anything to you. There was no such thing as being molested back in those days. I never heard of it. Everybody was more or less in the same boat; we were just as poor as church mice.

     I was twenty-three when I got married. I don't remember how long I dated Grafton before we got married. We didn't have a wedding or anything; we just went to the Justice of the Peace's office. He came from a poor family just like I did.

     I was never sick when I was pregnant with Paula and David. Didn't go anywhere, so I didn't really have a maternity wardrobe. There seemed to be a feeling that if you were pregnant, you'd done something that you shouldn't have got caught at. You were not out in the public that much because you would hear remarks like "Look's like she should stay at home if she's looking like that." Even though I was married, the feeling was that you just shouldn't be seen. Such a different world, then.

     When the kids were in school, I took a job working for the school superintendent in Murfreesboro. Grafton and I and the kids lived in a house out on the highway, and I would ride the school bus with the kids. I believe the superintendent's name was Raymond Robertson. I was his secretary. But, I just can't remember much about that time in my life. I do remember one morning after Grafton had hit me in the face, Mr. Robinson said, "Dorothy, you better learn to duck if you stay married to him." That's all he ever said to me about it.

     Grafton and I had some good years together before he went sour. He was the youngest—and a spoiled brat. We moved to San Francisco early in our marriage, and I believe we might have made it if we had stayed there. You know, he was an excellent carpenter. But, his mother kept whining, wanting him to come home. So we did.

     When I finally had enough of Grafton, I left him and took the kids to Louisville, Kentucky. My mother's sister was there, and we stayed with her for about a month until I could find a job and a house to live in. I found a job as a secretary at the local Ironworker's Union, and that's where I met Claude.

     A man had a better chance if he belonged to a union. Men back then had such hard jobs. Management didn't even try to be fair to their people. If you got hurt on the job, it was your bad luck. The men had to stick together. I don't know how to describe them. They fought, and ragged, and cussed each other all the time. But you know, the kind of work they did, I could see why they were the way they were. None of them got mad at me. I remember them sounding off at each other about their dues. But if they had a beef, they'd go to the business agent, Corky Cravens, and then you'd hear a lot of cussing.

     I really enjoyed working with those old hairy-legged ironworkers. Yep, they had to be tough on the job. But they were just men with families and kids in school. The work was so hard and dangerous. They'd come to the union meetings, and they'd just about jump through their shirtsleeves, they'd get so mad. I remember some meetings were always noisy—a lot of shouting and carrying on. They had some rules though. The meeting was held in the hall, and they would pay their dues to me before they went into the hall. It was just a big room and would really carry a man's voice. I could hear their voices through a couple of doors between my office and the hall. They would blame the business agent, Corky, if anything happened on the job.

     "If Jimmy Johns got work, then why the hell don't I get work you son-of-a-bitch." That's what I would hear on the other side of my door sometimes.

     "I want you to know that I voted for you this last election. Heaven help me if I do it again, you no good bastard!"

     I could hear them, and I would say: "Shh . . . shh . . . don't be so goddamned loud!" I overheard a lot more than they thought I did.

     Corky Cravens looked like a red-faced bulldog. He was a prizefighter in his younger days. He always kept a loaded pistol to protect himself. There was a bar across the street where Corky would go after the meeting. Those ironworkers were hard drinkers, too. They couldn't wait to get off work so they could tank up on beer.

     They were hard men, but they cared about their families. They would show me pictures of their children and felt like they could talk to me about their problems. I remember one day, one of the ironworkers was standing out front paying his dues. His wife was with him. He was doing the talking while he was paying. He was telling me something, something that happened in their life, and she kept saying, "Shh . . . shh . . . honey!"

     He'd say, "Oh hush, this is Dorothy I'm talking to." I heard a lot of stories about people's problems back then.

     I met Claude at one of the meetings. He must have struck up a little conversation with me. I don't know, it must have been gradual. He didn't push himself on me or anything. We got married at a Baptist church on Crystal Hill in New Albany. Claude was taking private pilot lessons and teaching people how to scuba dive in his spare time. He was always into something or another. I loved that man. Being married to him was nothing like it had been with Grafton.

     You know, I didn't learn how to drive until I was 54 years old. And Claud tricked me into getting my license. My learner's permit was about to expire, and I was traumatized by the whole thing. So, one day Claud said, "Get in the car, Dorothy. We're going for a ride." I'd been putting it off to go get that test. Claud, just as pretty as you please, drove to the police station, and got a cop, and I took that test. And I passed it.

     Claud was my Rock of Gibraltar. I can't tell you how much I miss him. I got no business living, doing for myself, now that he's gone. I'm still in shock, in a way, because he went so fast. Claud was a heavy, heavy smoker. The day he died he was supposed to go into the hospital for some lung tests. I guess it was better for him that he died so quick. He wouldn't have had the patience to die slow if he did have cancer.

     What I want to do now is try to get my mind to working a little bit better than it is. I don't know why I have such a loss of memory. I hope it doesn't continue. I gotta bring some things back.