A toothless smile and twinkling eyes were a stark contrast to her wrinkled and worn face, but the diminutive sprite we called Grammaw. She was always busy yet managed to take time for anyone and everyone she encountered.

She wore long black dresses her entire life of 87 years. Only the tips of her lace up shoes revealed what was under those skirt tails. The long sleeves were frequently rolled up as she labored in her kitchen with the ever-present long white apron boasting large pockets filled with whatever it seemed we needed— sort of like Mary Poppins’ magical bag.

Nancy Jane Hall Osborne was one of a kind. Born Oct. 4, 1871, in another time and world, she loved everyone, especially God. She spoke softly, and we spent hours together performing — well I mostly observed — mundane tasks while her petite, twisted hands never ceased.

She wore an encumbering bonnet with a ribbed hood and neck protector tied tightly under her chin when she worked in her garden and flower beds, which she was well-known for throughout the community. Her generation was wise as to the sun damage modern women seek.

She was older than I now am when my first memories of her were formed. I moved away from next door at age 5, and six years later she passed. Her youngest son and his family lived with her and Grampaw from their marriage. Uncle Roy and Aunt Lee Esther both died there as well, so she was never alone.

All the kids in the holler gathered to her home after school for snacks, and she never disappointed. It might be bowls of hot hominy, a baked sweet potato, hot cornbread dripping with hand churned butter or a bowl of beans, but nobody ever left her home hungry.

Since she had no teeth, she ate soft foods. She grew her own tobacco when younger for use when she still had teeth, because my mother used to help her make the twists she cut plugs from.

One day she invited me to have an apple with her. We picked out the prettiest ones we could find. She paused in the kitchen too grab two big dinner knives, and we headed for the ladderback chairs (handmade by Grampaw) on the big front porch.

She taught me how to eat them with no teeth. I was about four. She removed a small knife from her apron pocket and cut off the very top of the apple with a thin slice. Then she cupped the fruit in her left hand, used the tip of the blade of the dinner knife and began scraping the meat inside, turning the fruit in step. She licked it off the knife and went back for more. This continued until there was nothing but the core and the hollowed out shell of peeling left.

My hands were awkward with that big blade, but determination has always been my plight. It became a ritual for the two of us to sit out there eating our apples that way. Of course, she always used a mellow (meller) apple because it was easier to scrape.

Grampaw had made a huge quilt frame that was raised and lowered over the large dining room table with ropes. Grammaw made hundreds of quilts in her lifetime using scraps and old clothing. Despite her limited resources, she created masterpieces.

Poring over her well-worn Bible was as close to idle as she became. She gave me the best back scratches, too. Her tiny arms were always wide open, especially for children, which she adored. She smiled that toothless grin as she watched my cousins and me play.

She and Grampaw both had a peaceful countenance, twinkling eyes and a deep and abiding joy within.

Like him, she lived and died within a few miles of her birthplace. They married young. They carried heavy burdens of grief and pain from loss and other trials, worked hard and long and never saw a television set.

Married at age 16, she bore 13 children, raising 11 to adulthood. She and Grampaw were married 64 years when he left this earth. What a lot of living took place in their small homestead in Buckingham holler.

She left us Dec. 2, 1958. I had just turned 11 years old but wasn’t allowed to attend her funeral. My mother went alone with my baby brother on the Greyhound bus from Detroit. It still saddens me that there was no goodbye, but the memories are cherished still.

Lacking a formal education, she had something better: a pure love of Christ for every living person. The sphere of her influence continues still, as those who knew her share lessons learned at her knee —an enduring and perfect role model.

— A coal miner’s daughter born in Appalachia and schooled in Michigan, she currently lives in rural Athens. Hill describes herself as a cook and cookbook author, jack of all trades and master of none, a Christian wife, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. She shares her home with her husband, Bob, and their spoiled-beyond-belief dog, Molly.