I remember Momma telling me family stories from the time I was very young. My favorite stories were about Granny, who I was named after, Emily. She was the strong heroine who placed the responsibility of her orphaned younger sisters before her own chance at a college education. My grandmother died when I was five years old.  I remember her a little.  My great aunts however, her orphaned younger sisters, were an integral part of my upbringing. I visited them with my mother every year. They were all tough and lovely. I heard of their hardships and triumphs growing up.  Their Southern heritage was a source of pride; family meant everything to them.  Their father was Francis Laurens Glover.  I heard how he was shot in the face as a boy when he went hunting with his brothers.  He was walking behind and the gun slung over the shoulder of one of the boys in front accidentally shot him.  I always thought he must have been very charasmatic with only half of a face to catch the eye of my beautiful great-grandmother Lily Ruth Hudson.  They had seven children, five girls and two boys.  One boy died very young and I will share that powerful story in another post.  The other brother I know little about.  But the five Glover Girls have a marvelous dramatic history that I wish to preserve.  The frailty of this oral history struck me three years ago when my last surviving great-aunt Doney died.  No longer could my mother and I go to her for forgotten details.  I grieved for the death of a generation and the possible death of these great stories.  I have the privilege and dream to gather these stories from my mother, aunt, and their cousins and preserve them in writing.  My grandmother and her sisters were not really famous.  They did not change the course of history.  But they lived and struggled.  They were remarkable and ordinary.   They were my family and are still alive in the wonderful stories I share with you.