Page 6 of The Women of Oak Ridge

AUNT MAE WAS UP at the crack of dawn. I knew this because the bathroom was across from my room, and the old pipes sang an earsplitting song while she bathed and readied for the day. By the time I got up, showered, and dressed, the aroma of fried bacon drew me to the kitchen like a magnet.

“Good morning.” Aunt Mae stood at the stove, tending a big cast-iron skillet with enough bacon to feed an army. Peggy sat at her feet, as though waiting for some morsel to float down like manna from heaven. “How did you sleep?”

“Like a rock. I guess the drive wore me out.”

She nodded toward the counter. “There’s coffee. Cream and sugar if you take it.”

I poured myself a cup and loaded it with cream but left out the sugar. “I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker until I started working at the community college. Teaching Psychology 101 at seven o’clock in the morning to a group of uninterested freshmen required something stronger than chocolate milk.”

She chuckled. “I remember visiting when you girls were young. Your dad would have a cup of chocolate milk and a piece of toast ready in the mornings before you went to school.” She used a fork to lift bacon from the pan onto a plate overlaid with a paper towel, then cracked eggs into the hot skillet.

“Sallie isn’t the typical homemaker. I can’t recall her doing much cooking.

It was always Harris at the stove, loading the washing machine, running you girls to your activities. ”

I felt the need to defend my mother, even though Aunt Mae’s observations were mostly true. “Dad always said Mom’s talents are better suited elsewhere. He fully supported her art classes and the time she spends in her backyard studio.”

“Your mother is definitely a talented artist.”

I beamed. “One of the galleries in downtown Boston is showing her work, and she’s hoping to get a commission soon.

Some bigwig dude with a ton of money is building an enormous mansion and wants to hire local artists to paint murals of scenes from around Boston.

According to the gallery owner, the man has taken an interest in Mom’s style. ”

“That’s wonderful.” Aunt Mae’s face took on a wistful expression. “I’m proud of all that Harris, Sallie, and you girls have accomplished. Mama and Pa would have been proud, too.”

“I wish I could have known them,” I said as I settled at the table.

Both of my grandparents passed before I was born.

Dad often declared he learned his work ethic from his father, who was the hardest-working man in the world according to his son.

Grandpa died from lung disease after slaving away in a Kentucky coal mine from the time he was twelve years old.

Dad had been a teenager at the time, and he and Grandma moved to Oak Ridge to live with Aunt Mae while he finished school.

He’d received an academic scholarship to Boston University, met Mom, and started a life far away from the hills and hollers of Appalachia.

“Our parents were good, God-fearing, hardworking people.” Aunt Mae had a faraway look. “I always wanted to make them proud too, but...”

Her voice faded and a pained expression filled her face before she shook her head, as though flinging off whatever melancholy thought tried to take hold.

We ate an enormous breakfast of biscuits, gravy, bacon, and fried eggs, then lingered at the table, sipping coffee.

“I need to go to the market, but I confess my eyes have been giving me trouble this week.” Aunt Mae rubbed her temple. “The doctor prescribed some drops, but I haven’t noticed any improvement. Things are still a bit out of focus, and now I’m getting headaches.”

This news was troubling.

“I’m happy to take you wherever you need to go, Aunt Mae. I was hoping to do a little sightseeing anyway.” I bit my lip. “But I’m concerned about you. Should you call the doctor?”

She shook her head. “I’ve talked to him about it. The drops are supposed to help, and he wants me to get more vitamins. But, as he says, I’m getting older. Things are bound to quit working the way they did when I was younger.”

We cleaned up the kitchen, with me washing dishes and her putting them away. I’d forgotten she didn’t have an automatic dishwasher—something my mother considered vital to any household. An hour later we left the house and got into my Camaro.

“Harris was so tickled to surprise you with this car,” she said, smoothing the vinyl seat and admiring the black interior. “I wish I’d been there to see the look on your face when you realized you didn’t have to drive that big ol’ station wagon any longer.”

I laughed. “I’m not sure who was more excited that day—me or Dad. My college friends dubbed the wagon the brown bus , so it was very satisfying to leave it behind.”

As I steered the car onto Illinois Avenue, following her instructions to Winn Dixie, Aunt Mae asked questions about my college days. After I chattered on about fascinating classes and crazy escapades, she grew thoughtful.

“When I was a girl, I’d hoped to go to college. I’d wanted to be a teacher, like you.”

“Dad didn’t give us much choice. He drilled it into us that getting an education was imperative. Amanda plans to get her MBA soon, and Eliza is finishing her nursing degree at Columbia.” I glanced at my aunt. “Why didn’t you go to college after the war ended?”

She stared out the window. “Things were different when I was your age,” she finally said. “The war changed everything for me.”

I didn’t pursue the conversation. It was becoming clear the war years were hard on Aunt Mae.

I knew her father had been ill and eventually passed, leaving her mother and younger brother without a place to live.

That’s when they’d moved to Oak Ridge. I hoped in the coming days she’d open up and tell me more about her life back then, but I’d need to tread carefully.

I didn’t want to upset her like I’d done yesterday.

When we reached the shopping center, we parked and went inside. Along with milk, butter, and eggs, we purchased ingredients for cookies and her special lemon cake. While a teenage boy loaded our groceries into the trunk of the Camaro, a nicely dressed woman approached, carrying a single paper bag.

“Hi, Mae. I thought that was you I saw over in the produce section.” Her curious gaze shifted to me, and I recognized her as Aunt Mae’s neighbor. The one who’d waved at me the previous day.

Aunt Mae tipped the boy a quarter and sent him on his way. “Good morning, Georgeanne. This is my niece, Laurel. Laurel, this is my neighbor, Georgeanne Stokes.”

We shook hands. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Stokes.”

“I wondered who came to visit Mae. It must be one of Harris’s girls, I said to myself. And I was right. How long are you in town, Laurel? I hope you and Mae will come over for tea some afternoon before you leave.”

I glanced at Aunt Mae, who wore a patient expression on her face. She didn’t indicate whether she would enjoy tea with her neighbor or not.

“That would be nice,” I said. “I’m not sure how long I’ll stay. I’m hoping to get some work done while I’m here.”

“What kind of work could bring you to sleepy Oak Ridge?” Georgeanne asked with a friendly laugh.

“The most exciting thing going on here is the opening of a home for senior citizens and the long lines at Fiesta Cantina, the new Mexican food restaurant out on the turnpike.” She smiled at Aunt Mae.

“There’s torn-up ground, mounds of red clay, and stacks of two-by-fours all over town.

Reminds me of how Oak Ridge looked back when we first came to work here in the forties, don’t you agree, Mae? ”

Aunt Mae nodded, but she didn’t elaborate.

“That’s actually why I’m here.” I cast a quick sideways glance at Aunt Mae.

I hoped I wasn’t stepping out of line. Even though Aunt Mae didn’t want to discuss the early years after she came to Oak Ridge, I needed to interview other residents for my dissertation.

“I’m writing a paper about the history of Oak Ridge.

I hope to meet people—women, in particular—who lived and worked here during the war and hear their stories.

Would you be interested in answering some questions for me at some point?

It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so. ”

“My, that sounds interesting. Do you work for a newspaper or magazine?” Georgeanne asked.

“No, ma’am. I’m working on my dissertation. I hope to get a doctorate in psychology.”

The woman’s brow rose. “A doctorate?” She glanced at Aunt Mae. “You must be brimming with pride.”

Aunt Mae didn’t smile. “I am, but I also told her no one wants to talk about those days. What’s past is past and should stay there. The things we did and saw aren’t anyone’s business.”

Her hard tone seemed to surprise Georgeanne.

“Why, Mae, I don’t see the harm in talking about what went on in the Secret City all those years ago.

” She met my gaze. “People give all the credit for the bombs to those who worked at Los Alamos, but we here in Oak Ridge played an important role too. Without us, Oppenheimer and General Groves wouldn’t have had the uranium required to make Little Boy.

Same goes for the folks who worked in Hanford.

They produced the plutonium that fueled Fat Man. ”

I’d only recently delved into the history of how the atomic bomb was developed.

I found myself awed that Georgeanne threw out the names of the famous scientist and of the two bombs that were dropped on Japan as if they were common, everyday conversation topics.

Here was a woman who knew her stuff. I had a feeling she and I would get along splendidly.

My gaze ping-ponged between the two women. I didn’t want to hurt Aunt Mae’s feelings, but I was pleased to find her neighbor more vocal on the subject.

“Maybe I can come over and chat with you later this afternoon,” I said. It wouldn’t do to invite her to Aunt Mae’s.