My grandmother, Addie, had her first child when she was 18 sometime in the late 1800s. She was living out in the country and the baby, a little girl she named Mabel, was born at home as most babies were back then. The doctor did come out from town, however, and was there for the birth. The baby was tiny, premature and prognosis for life was not good, so the doctor signed a death certificate rather than a birth certificate so when the baby died, he would not have to make another trip to the country.
Addie knew that as long as the baby was alive she needed to take care of her. She nursed her and then heated bricks in the fireplace, lined a drawer or a box with them, covered them with blankets and placed her tiny little girl inside this natural incubator.
When my Aunt Mabel turned 21 and wanted to marry, she had a dickens of a time proving she was who she said she was because all the official records had was her death certificate! :D She raised two daughters, lavished her grandchildren and nieces and nephews with love, was an amazing cook (fried chicken, homemade pimento cheese, and biscuits come to mind), seamstress, and lived to be 98.
Thanks be for Addie (we called her Mama Dear) who did what women have done for generations before and after her and loved and nurtured her child and never gave up hope or practical caring. Amazing woman and I am proud to be of her lineage.
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