In Memory of Flora Bishop

June Harris wrote the following about her Aunt Flora:

Aunt Flora

My aunt Flora died recently, and a corner of my heart died with her.
I loved Aunt Flora. She was the only girl in a family of seven; she had six brothers, and the Harris boys were a rough and tumble bunch. I’m sure she had to be a tough cookie to stand up to them; I’m equally sure she was quite up to the task. Aunt Flora was a woman undaunted by life’s challenges.

I was the first grandchild of Luther and Maggie Harris, and Aunt Flora took me up for spoiling. She took me places, bought me things, and in general, made me a bit of a pet. She took me to see Snow White, for instance. (I fell asleep, but that’s not pertinent.)
During WWII, Aunt Flora went off to work in Washington, D. C. I’m not clear on what she did there, but I was certainly clear on the fact that I thought it enormously glamorous. Washington, D. C., had to be the center of the universe, and MY aunt was there. She came home with a husband handsome enough to rival Tyrone Power, and a fur coat. I think it was seal; whatever, I envied and admired that coat.

I was a child, sleeping in my grandparents’ bedroom, when my aunt came in to tell them that she was in labor and needed to go to the hospital. She was pregnant with my cousin Laurie. I don’t remember much more of that night, though I recall stories about it. She was taken to the local hospital, but this was during WWII, and most of the competent doctors were off in the war. Those left at home were somewhat less than able. My aunt was in labor for hours—it seems to me that it was something like a day and a half or more—before the doctors finally decided she had to have a cesarean section, and finally delivered my cousin, Laurie. That saved her life; she’d have died had they waited for her to deliver naturally.
Aunt Flora was a woman who was not put off or intimidated by anyone. She was as social as anyone I’ve ever known. My mother said her first view of Aunt Flora, long before my mom had met my father, was of Aunt Flora sitting on a fence, exchanging jokes and chatter with a group surrounding her. That would be typical.

Aunt Flora knew everybody. She’d say, “Well, you remember…” whoever. “No,” I’d say—I’d left Mississippi when I was twelve, and I didn’t know or remember all the people she knew. “Oh, yes, you do,” she’d say. “She was the cousin/aunt/mother of …” Okay.
Aunt Flora went to the Plantersville Baptist Church when she lived there, and her favorite church apparel included picture hats and big button ‘earbobs.’ White gloves were included, but that goes without saying for suitable 50s attire.

She kept my great aunts together and took them out when she was able. I was back in Mississippi in the early 90s and she picked me up and took me around to see the living great aunts. It was the last time I’d ever see them, and I was grateful to her for that.
Her grandsons appeared to adore her, and if they did not, they certainly kept the fact a close secret. They took her places, saw to her well-being, and were available for her whenever she had needs. She was fortunate in her grandsons; they were there whenever she needed them.
Toward the end of her life, she had to give up the handwork she loved because of failing eyesight. She traveled widely, and I was able to accompany her on her trip to see the Grand Canyon.

Her obituary said she was “opinionated.” Hah! That’s vast understatement. Every Harris I’ve ever known—and I’ve known more than a few—was opinionated, and Aunt Flora was no exception. Her opinions were strong, whether political, involving Ole Miss, or with regard to her family.

Aunt Flora was a force of nature, and I will miss her very, very much.

June Harris