Her name was Ollie Independence Crowe. And I have no idea what she was like except for the picture that my mother has of her. I wonder if she was different than the other women in her time. If, indeed, the name given to her by my great, great grandparents did make her somewhat self-sufficient. A woman with gumption, if you will. She raised four children with my great grandfather, the youngest being my mother’s daddy. I imagine she was a creative lady. I mean, who else would name their first daughter Nannie Hortense. I know, right? But, nonetheless, she was quite a proper woman. And religious, too. My mom and her sister, Betty Lois, still remember being dragged invited to revival at the church where Ninnaw attended. Maybe she thought taking them to hear the gospel twice a day for a week would burn Jesus into their little souls. I would have liked to have known her. To sit at her bedside listening to whatever she wanted to say. Her advice, her complaints, whatever she wanted to say. Why? Because she was Ollie Indepdence Crowe and she was my great grandmother. That’s why.