as we called her, worked as a registered nurse at Memorial Hospital, inCharleston, working many years, after Doc¶s death. She never drove, so weeither picked her up at the hospital, when she finished her shift, or she rodethe bus home.The two of them lived in Rosedale, then Sutton, West Virginia, beforesettling on the West Side of Charleston, in 1921. They raised a son, Ralph,and daughter, Betty, my mom, in a crowded little court, called WoodwardCourt. It ran off of and perpendicular to Garden Street, which was brick-covered, as were many of the streets in the neighborhood. The houseslined both sides of the narrow walkway, which extended down the court,from beginning to end. They were crammed together so closely, that theoverhangs from their roofs nearly touched. In between the houses, was asmall, three-foot space.My grandparents¶ brown, one-story, wooden frame house was typicalof the vernacular architecture of their neighborhood. Doc was a master furniture maker, and built a woodworking shop behind their home, overtopof the garage. The house and shop were connected, by a stairway, which ledup to the shop, and down to the back yard. After he died, the gray woodendoor to his shop remained closed, as if there were memories behind that door too precious to be disturbed.