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When I was twelve our house burned. So much of who I became, the person I am today, was sparked, ahem, by that fire.

The four of us, my mother, both younger brothers, and myself moved in with my grandmother. No one else stepped up. Not the church we faithfully attended 3-4 times per week, not neighbors or friends, not relatives. I understand, that as a twelve-year-old, my very proud mother may have rejected or discouraged assistance from others, but my memory is that no one else stepped up to help. Except for my grandmother.

It was the early seventies. Those that remember (or can do a google search)know that the country was suffering from a massive recession. My mother lost her job, my grandmother was on short time, and after moving, I took a job as a curb hop. A dollar per hour plus tips. Paid in cash nightly. Forty-five hours per week. (Don’t tell the Dept of Labor)

Times were tough for everyone. I remember eating a lot of pinto beans and cornbreads. Actually, I remember eating a lot of leftover pinto beans and cornbread. And then there were the leftover-leftover chili beans and cornbread.

The five of us lived in my grandmother’s two bedroom house. My mother took one bedroom, my brothers took the other. My grandmother slept on the sofa in the living room while I slept on the sofa in the den. Also sharing the den was a mynah bird named Willie-boy. One of my all-time favorite memories was my grandmother’s gloriously joyful laughter filling that house. Except sometimes is was Willie-boy. And then there were the times that grandma would laugh and Willie-boy chimed in. Stereo laughter. Stereo grandma.

My grandmother was on short time. Meaning she was working less than her usual forty hour week. More like twenty. I remember hearing the telephone ring at two in the morning and it was the cotton mill calling her to see if she wanted an extra four hours of work. She always did. She would tiptoe around – so as to not wake us – and she would walk to work at two-thirty in the morning for an extra four hours of pay.

With that example, I’ve never been one to shy away from work. As I look back this month (two days off) and August (two days off) and I look forward to the next two weekends (already scheduled to work), I remember my grandmother. I think back to when my daughter was young and I worked primarily night shift. More often than not we worked seven days. One year I tracked my days off. To include holiday, vacations, and weekends, that year I tllk 20 dyas off total. I would come in from work at eight am on a Friday, grab a nap, then go to my daughter’s school to have lunch with her. The same thing would happen on Sundays for church. There were many nights at work when I wished I ahd more time to spend with my daughter Megan – taking her to Carowinds or a movie, pulling her in her red wagon around Kings Mountain, or watching The Little Mermaid for the 174th time. I always hoped she understood and forgave my absence. Now? Seeing how many hours she works and how she anguishes over lost time with her daughter Cora – I know she gets it. And I know she gets her work ethic from the same place I got mine.

Now, I try to schedule 10-15 hours per week for writing my (second) great American novel. I remember my grandmother. Write what you know, you know? It’s not a coincidence that two characters in my first book experienced house fires, nor is it a coincidence that two prominent elderly female characters are written as loving, spunky, feisty, wise, amazing women.

I’ve never been much for heroes – not sports stars, movie stars, etc. But a little old woman whose laughter and love filled an entire house and who would walk to work at three in the morning for the people she loved will always be my first and best hero.