It was September 25, 1919. The small cabin in Tolleson, Arizona was abuzz with the excitement of the imminent arrival of a new baby. My grandfather was out on his large cotton plantation, but came rushing to the scene when he heard the news of the approaching birth. A doctor and a midwife had also been dispatched. It proved to be a very difficult birth. My grandmother was struggling for her life. Finally, the new little baby girl made her appearance, but she wasn’t crying. Her little bottom was slapped, but there was not a sign of life. She was a blue baby. She was born dead! My grandfather was devastated. Sadness filled the cabin, but was soon replaced with a sense of urgency. The dead baby was set aside. Everyone’s focus was now concentrated on saving the mother.
The doctor turned to my grandfather. “Run and grab some ice, quick!”
There was no time to waste. My grandfather nervously stumbled back dropping a small piece of ice. The little piece of ice dropped on the dead baby girl’s forehead, snapping the life back into her. Coincidence, you say? I think not. My grandmother was spared and lived a long life. The little baby became my mother.
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