Annetta Jacques Bryant, the mother of my paternal grandmother, was 70 years old when I was born. By that time, she was a widow and lived with my grandparents in their large old house on Wayburn Avenue in Detroit. Grams called her Nettie, and I did, as well. Although it seems strange now, it seemed very natural at the time, and “Nettie” was a term of affection.
