by Belinda Jolly

Created on: September 19, 2008   Last Updated: September 25, 2008

My favorite place as a child was my grandparent's home. A two-story, clapboard house with no apparent signs of ever being painted, built by my grandpa long before I was born. It was lacking in beauty on the outside, yet, there was more warmth, love, and peace inside than any child could ever need.

My grandparents had married in the early 1920's and they had a large family. They lost the youngest two children, a boy and a girl just about a year apart. This brought them much grief. Their faith in God kept them going, making them stronger than before. By the time I came along, they were grandparents to four, one of which they had custody of and were raising her as their own. Grandma was almost fifty years old and my mom needed a place to stay. She was pregnant with her third baby and had no support since my dad was serving time in the Ohio State Pen. I was born on a cold winter's morn in January of 1951.

The doctor gave up on me when I appeared to be black and blue up to my waist and I was not crying. So he tucked me under a blanket and tended to my mom. My grandma raced to my aid and started rubbing life into my limbs, softly praying and coaxing me to stay with her. She was the first one who bonded with me and I truly believe I bonded with her in those first few minutes of life.

I never knew all of the facts of my birth until I was about thirty-seven. My aunt had secretly stood at the top of the stairs and watched her mom take care of me after my birth. She wes 13 at the time and she saw her mom fighting to keep me alive. When she shared the story with me I finally understood why I always wanted to be with my grandma more than at home with my own family.

The house had no running water. They carried water from a spring. The was an outhouse off away from the back of the house. A Ben Franklin potbellied stove heated the entire house. Baths consisted of either a small, galvanized aluminum tub or a basin with heated water. I preferred to be wiped down at night and getting my feet tickled before I went upstairs to a fluffy, feather bed and a brightly colored, handmade quilt. I always felt so safe and warm under that quilt.

She had a passion for reading, from her Sunday school lessons and her Bible to the children's books that lined that upstairs bookcase outside the bedroom door. She never appeared too tired to read to us. Some nights she would entertain us by playing a piano that sat in her living room. she sang Fuzzy Wuzzy Was A Bear and made us laugh. Another silly

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