Dorothy June McVay Veal, March 1, 1922 – October 19, 2009

My mother died this morning, peacefully in her own home, as she had hoped. Her body had been slowly shutting down over the past few months, but her mind was clear. Until a few days ago, she read the Wall Street Journal every weekday. Up to the end, she would wake up now and then to tell my brother or sister, who were looking after her, about her comical dreams.

June (she always went by her middle name) McVay was born in Lacon, Illinois, on March 1, 1922, the second daughter of Thomas Newkirk and Leta Lockwood McVay. Granddaddy McVay made some mark on the world, or at least on the kitchen. He was a ceramic chemist who, among other accomplishments, produced the first piece of corning ware (an ashtray, which mother kept on display until a rambunctious child – not me – dropped and broke it one day). In 1928, he accepted a position as Professor of Ceramic Engineering and Mineralogy at the University of Alabama and brought his family from Illinois to Tuscaloosa.

Mother once described to me her first encounter with Deep South fauna. Granddaddy had purchased a newly built house. He took his wife and daughters there one evening to see it for the first time. When he turned on the hallway light, the floor was blanketed with thousands of cockroaches.

That was, incidentally, long before the abolition of poll taxes. In Alabama, newcomers had to pay the tax retroactively to age 21 in order to be eligible to vote (a way to keep Yankee migrants off the rolls). Granddaddy, undeterred, paid 16 years of back taxes so that he could cast just about the only Republican vote in Tuscaloosa County. Grandmother thought that was a waste of money and wasn’t able to vote until the 24th Amendment was ratified in 1964 (so she got to cast her very first ballot for Barry Goldwater).

After graduating from the University of Alabama (where life as a professor’s daughter was a challenge), Mother enlisted in the Marine Corps. In high school, she had been Alabama state typing champion, and her contribution to winning World War II consisted of typing reams of personnel records. Corrections were forbidden; any mistake necessitated tearing up the document and starting over. Since males were incapable of doing such work, they were sent off to the Pacific while the women fought to battle of the keyboard. Thanks to their efforts, we don’t have to eat sushi today unless we want to.

A few weeks after V-J Day, PFC McVay married Lieut. (JG) Edward DeKalb Veal, Jr., a Coast Guard officer whom she had known in high school. For the first couple of months following the wedding, they couldn’t obtain married housing, and their life could have formed the basis for the plot of a screwball comedy. In time, that problem was remedied, and their first child (me) was born in November 1946, followed by another son, Ken, two years later. There was then an eight-year interval before the births, two years apart, of my sisters Janie and Katie.

Mother was a full-time housewife until the girls reached school age. She then got an education degree and worked for several years as a teacher.

My father’s job as a sales engineer with Honeywell had taken us to Freeport, Illinois (HQ of his tiny division), Seattle, Cleveland and, after I went off to college, Denver. When he retired, the family stayed in Colorado. Dad and Mother bought a book store in Cripple Creek, a picturesque one-time gold mining center that aspired to be a tourist trap. They operated the store happily, with no particular interest in making a profit, until Colorado allowed Cripple Creek to legalize gambling. Unlike most of their neighbors, they thought that casinos would bring the town no good. Events proved them right about the town, but the influx of starry-eyed gaming investors was good for them personally. They sold the store building for ten times what they had paid for it and retired to a life of traveling and leisure, including trips to Europe, an Atlantic crossing on the QE2 and other pleasant junkets.

Dad died in 2003. Mother remained active, enjoying time with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren (four so far) but slowly accumulating ill health. Not too many months ago, she came to the conclusion that she wouldn’t go on much longer. The thought did not depress her. The last time that I saw her, over Labor Day weekend, she was in good spirits. She said that she was proud of her descendants and glad that she had lived as long as she had. I said good-bye to her then, hoping that it wouldn’t be for the last time. But all that is mortal must end.

May her memory be for a blessing.

Comments

[Bill Althoff]

Tom, Long before I moved to the South, your Mom was the first gracious "Southern" lady that I had ever met. My wife Donna and I got to spend a night overtop that bookstore in Cripple Creek. The next morning at breakfast a part-time neighbor came over to get some water, as their city water hadn't been turned on. June allowed to us "He's from Texas, so I let him have some water but haven't told him that I have a key that can turn his water on." May your memories always be of the good times. Bill Althoff

[Carolyn Althoff]

Tom, I send sympathy and condolences. Both of your parents were always so special to me. When I moved to CO and would visit Cripple Creek, they always welcomed me like a family member. And I loved them for it. Treasure the memories that you have!!

[Joseph T Major]

My condolences. My mother was about her age, but we lost her a bit earlier. It's always hard to be severed from your beginnings.

[pbh51]

I lost my mother just about a year ago. She was my very best friend. Your mother sounds as special to you as mine was to me. I doubt that they would have agreed on politics, but my mother was very religious and I would like to think that if yours and mine had ever met they would have been good friends. All the best.

[Jim Ditkoff]

Tom:
Carol and I were very sorry to hear about your loss. But what wonderful memories you have! And how fortunate that your Mom, like Carol's Dad, passed away with loved ones nearby.

[Kevin Standlee]

My sympathies and condolences, Tom. Your mother sounds like a wonderful woman.