An incredibly heartwarming photo showing six generations of women from the same family has gone viral recently as it captured the attention of a large number of people.
At the top end of the age scale is 99-year-old MaeDell Taylor Hawkins who is holding her seven-month-old great-great-great-granddaughter Zhavia Whitaker in her arms while the rest of the women, including MaeDell’s daughter, Frances Snow, 77, granddaughter Gracie Snow Howell, great-granddaughter Jacqueline Ledford, 29, and great-great-granddaughter Jaisline Wilson, 19, are posing behind them. Today, MaeDell has more than 620 grandchildren from her own daughters and their children’s children.
“I know it’s rare for six generations … it’s even rarer for all of them to be the same gender,” MaeDell’s granddaughter Howell, 58, told Good Morning America. “We’re all girls — girl power, as well.”
When they snapped the photo and shared it on the social media, none of them knew it would attract that much attention.
“We just kind of planned a day, and we just all met and grandma knew we were coming,” Howell, who now lives in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, said.
MaeDell got married back in 1940 when she was just 16 years old. Her husband was 50-year-old rail worker Bill Taylor who at the time had 10 children and needed someone to take care of them while he was at work. MaeDell took the role of a mother and went on to have 13 children on her own.
The family lived a very simple life as they lacked electricity, running water, and a stove, among the rest.
Getting married young was normal back in the day. Speaking of it, Howell said, “Now we don’t. We have children later in our life, so families are not that big. Having six generations is very, very rare to start with.”
The Kentucky matriarch now boasts a whopping 623 descendants, according to a family chart shared by her daughter-in-law, Janice Taylor. They include 106 grandchildren, 222 great-grandchildren, 234 great-great-grandchildren and 37 great-great-great-grandchildren.
“If everything goes well, the baby’s doing well, Grandma’s doing well – we’re all going to meet back in June and get another picture,” the family shared.
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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