Belinda Gordon
Mrs. Gresham was my best friend Terry’s mother. All through late elementary school, junior high and high school, Mrs. Gresham allowed me to “be” in her home day and night, night and day. It seemed I was always reclining on a sofa or bed over there, with a bowl of ice cream balanced on my stomach, as I reread a book of teenaged romance entitled CROSS MY HEART for the millionth time, as the cats Coco and Vanilla dozed next to me. Or Terry and I would be cooking one of hundreds of pizzas we must have cooked in their oven — doing the cheer “Spirit, Drive, Ability” through once to make SURE the pizza was just right. Mrs. Gresham NEVER complained about it — she just let us, which included this non-family member, BE. I never heard a harsh word out of her, and I appreciate so much that, to her, her home was my home, too. I don’t know how many times I walked the half mile or so over to their house because things were so happy, peaceful, and fruitful on Gina Drive. Those hours went a great deal toward making me the me I am today. Thank you so much, much love and bon voyage, Mrs. G! — Belinda Killough Gordon