I was barely five years old and the brick steps in her garage were high. The railing was of little help to my short arms as I balanced from step to step behind my mother. As soon as we entered the kitchen the warm smell of a boiling chicken in a pot on the stove met my round face. My cheeks flushed pink with the sound of her voice, “Good morning Charity Ann…” I shyly tucked behind my mother’s hip, peeking around to my Nannie, my mother’s mother. She was at her usual spot at the stove stirring and checking. She was midway through her workday at 9am, as she often rose before the sun to read her Bible. A farm girl from Franklin, Virginia, she knew the importance of home cooking and hard work. She was equal magic and intimidation.