Let me relate a snippet. Each year, my parents and I drove to eastern Kentucky where my grandmother lived. My parents had grown up there, too, as well as my three sisters. The hill are steep and the hollers are deep.
My mom was afraid for my her mother to live alone during the winter months. She still heated her home with a pot-bellied stove that was fueled by coal, which meant going out back to fetch the coal. Mom was afraid she would slip and fall and no one would discover her. She had no phone.
We went to get her in October and drove her back in March - plantin' time.
She slept in my bedroom, which was downstairs. She got up every morning at 4:30 am, fixed her own breakfast of eggs, sausage, biscuits, and coffee so strong that a spoon would stand up in it.
My dad fixed a special chair for her by the fireplace he had built. She warmed her arthritic knees by the fire, and spit tobacco juice into a green bean can. One day, I had taken a bath and washed my hair, which hung to my waist. I put on my warm flannel nightgown and went to dry my hair by the fire. As I stood there talking to Mawmaw, I shook my hair to speed its drying. All of a sudden, my arthritic grandmother flew up out of her chair, grabbed the hearth broom that was used to sweep ashes, and knocked me to the floor, whooping the daylights out of me!
The only thing I could think of was, "What on earth did I say this time?"
Mawmaw saved my life. My nightgown was smoldering, and was ready to ignite. She knew the signs, and didn't take the time to explain. She just went into action. People from that era worked daily around fires, and had seen their share of burns. And, it probably gave her some satisfaction to be whoopin' that smart-aleck 13-year old grandchild of hers!
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