by Kathy Fortune M.D.

Created on: December 14, 2008   Last Updated: November 29, 2009

I was raised by my funny and fascinating maternal grandmother, Liza, whom I adored. She was a sweet, loving and caring person, but she was as tough as nails. While I ran from the alligators, she ran towards them with a 2x4 in her hand and a Smith and Wesson in her bosom. I do not believe there was anything or anyone that she feared.

Early in my life, I learned from grandma how important religion was to our family. Unlike today, I was not eager to attend church, so I spent a lot of time scheming and trying to figure out ways to stay home. Grandma was always one step ahead.

My best effort to avoid church came after I attempted to perm my hair one Saturday. My hair "blew up" and I looked like a troll doll. While I was briefly disturbed, I rejoiced when I figured out that I would not be able to attend church.

On Sunday morning, my grandmother asked why I was not ready for church. I said, "Grandma, there is no way I can go to church with messed up hair." My grandmother, who was a charter member of Slow Talkers of America, looked at me and said, "Honey, what you need to know is that God is not looking for hair. God is looking for souls. Let's go."

Now, my grandmother had a soft side and wanted me to be kind and generous to others. Every morning before I left for school, she would say, "Honey, I want you to always remember to give to the poor people." I said, "O.K., Grandma." Well, when I was 8 years old, there was a girl at school who had only two dresses. I figured that the girl was one of the poor people, so I placed all of my clothes in a large bag, took them to school and gave them to her.

The next day, my grandmother Liza noticed that my clothes were gone. She screamed my name and asked about the clothes. I said, "Oh, Grandma, you are going to be so proud of me because I gave all of my clothes to the poor people." She said, "Girl, we are the poor people!"

My Grandma Liza practiced medicine without a license. She believed that people could be cured of chicken pox if a rooster flew over their heads.

When I was 6-years-old and my Cousin Jean was 12, we contracted the chicken pox. Cousin Jean was as tough as grandma and was not afraid as we walked to the Chicken Coop. Cousin Jean thumped her chest like a gorilla and was ready to go. I was scared of chickens, so I did not thump anything.

Cousin Jean waited impatiently for the rooster to fly, then poked him with a stick. The rooster became angry and scratched her legs up pretty bad. In turn, Cousin Jean attacked the rooster. The rooster's whipping fell short of murder, but left him with a permanent limp. After the commotion, the rooster was delighted to fly over our heads.

I still miss the woman who wrestled alligators; the woman who made roosters fly over my head; and the woman who adored me and held my hand as a little girl.

She now holds the hand of God.

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