Bricks of Warmth
- Jun 7
- 4 min read
By Diann Floyd Boehm
Some stories are too precious to be forgotten. They live on in family memories, in whispered conversations, and in the women whose courage helped hold generations together. This is the story of my great-grandmother Jane, a woman whose hands brought comfort, whose knowledge saved lives, and whose faith in life never wavered.
“Momma! Come quick—I think the baby’s coming!”
Lizzie leaned against the kitchen table, her face pale and her breath coming in waves. Water pooled beneath her feet as her mother, Jane, hurried into the room.
“You’re right, sweetheart,” Jane said calmly. “Take my hand. We’re going to my bedroom. Let’s get you comfortable.”
Lizzie was only eight months along. Her baby was not supposed to arrive for another four weeks, but life often ignored calendars. Luckily, Jane was no ordinary mother. She was the town’s midwife, the woman neighbors called when the doctor was miles away in another town or county.
Within minutes, Jane transformed her bedroom into a birthing room. She called out to her husband, James, asking him to boil water and fetch clean linens. Her youngest daughter, Betsy, ran for towels while Jane steadied Lizzie through each contraction.
The hours stretched long. Lizzie cried and pushed, her face flushed red and her breath ragged. Finally, a high, fragile wail pierced the air. Jane caught the slippery, tiny bundle and laid him on Lizzie’s chest.
“It’s a boy,” she whispered, smiling through her exhaustion. But Jane’s trained eyes immediately saw that he was much too small. His skin was delicate as tissue paper. He was premature.
The father had long vanished, leaving Lizzie to face whispers and judgment alone. Yet in that home, love drowned out shame. Jane knew her daughter’s worth, and now she had a grandson to save.
Jane cleaned and wrapped the baby tightly, then guided him to Lizzie’s breast.
As the baby suckled weakly, Jane noticed the burst vessel in her daughter’s eye, an effect of labor. “Don’t be alarmed,” she reassured her. “You’ll heal, just as your little boy will.”
The fall wind rattled the windows. Jane knew the baby’s survival depended on keeping him warm.
“We’ll make him a warm bed,” she said.
Jane called to James again. “Bring the bricks and cloth from the tornado shelter.”
Together, they built a makeshift incubator. One by one, James heated bricks by the fire. Jane covered each one in cloth to hold in the warmth and lined them into a rectangle, forming a gentle bed. She layered it with blankets and placed a soft mat inside, making sure the baby would not burn himself.
When the improvised incubator was ready, she laid the tiny boy, Frank, on his stomach, close enough to feel the fire’s warmth but safe from the flames.
Betsy watched in wonder as her mother tended both baby and mother with precision and grace, reheating bricks as they cooled, checking the infant’s breathing, and whispering encouragement into the quiet night.
According to my grandmother Pearl, baby Frank lived in that brick incubator for several weeks. Jane rarely slept, rotating the bricks and nursing her daughter back to strength. Against all odds, the fragile infant began to thrive. His tiny body filled out, his cries grew stronger, and one morning Jane smiled through tears as she lifted him into a regular bassinet.
Years later, Frank would grow to be over six feet tall and become a kind-hearted man, every inch a testament to the women who refused to let him go. He became a respected attorney in Oklahoma, dedicating his career to justice and the protection of others. After his passing in 1998, his commitment to fairness continued to inspire those who knew him.
“Grandma Jane saved my life,” he often said. And indeed, she had.
Jane’s journey as a healer began long before that night. Widowed young, she inherited her first husband’s medical books and instruments. Instead of setting them aside, she devoured every page, learning anatomy, herbal remedies, and childbirth techniques.
In a time when women were expected to stay silent and small, Jane chose knowledge. By the time she married James and raised her own family, she had become a beacon of care for her neighbors. Over the years, she delivered countless babies and saved two of her own grandchildren.
Her calling was not written in degrees or titles; it was written in the lives she touched. Jane turned worry into wisdom, fear into faith, and weakness into survival.
She taught her daughters that intellect and compassion walk hand in hand. She showed her girls that education was not just for men, and that a woman’s strength could save both body and soul. Above all, she showed her family that rising to the occasion often means simply not giving up.
When Jane passed years later, her legacy lived on not only through Frank’s accomplishments but through generations of women who learned from her example.
Jane never focused on scandal or misfortune; she focused on the miracle of life. She rose every time life demanded courage, using her hands, her mind, and her heart to keep others alive. In a world that often underestimated women, Jane quietly redefined what it meant to rise.
This is a true story based on my great-grandmother. Family stories and family history are important because they remind us of where we come from and what courage looks like in everyday life. As you read this, may you remember the women in your own story whose quiet courage helped you rise, and may you never stop telling their stories. Frank was my second cousin and my mother’s favorite boy cousin.
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