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| Warren O'Brien & Sadie Lee McCoy on their wedding day, March 23, 1946, Phelps Presbyterian Church |
My mother reclines with her coffee cup in the farmhouse where she grew up in the McCoy Bottom. Where I lived almost the first five years of my life.
I record our genealogy
and Sadie Lee McCoy’s personal history—the purpose for my visit to Peter Creek,
a stream that flows from the peak of Big Creek Mountain to the Tug River
bordering Kentucky and West Virginia.
Mom names her maternal
grandparents and their twenty offspring, ten each. I came to know most of my
forebears during childhood summer vacations south.
At last, Mom comes
to the McCoy/O’Brien branch of our family tree. She hesitates for we’ve seldom
mentioned Dad after their divorce in 1967 and his burial in March 1995.
“How did you and
Dad meet?” I nudge.
“Well, Warren worked
the farm with Dad and my brothers.”
“You mean Dad farmed
with Grandpa Floyd and my uncles here in the McCoy Bottom?”
“And across the
creek where I was born. Dad always hired hands. After his mining accident in
1932, Mom needed more help because I was only ten years old and Sarah and the
boys were younger. Dad said he liked the way Warren worked.”
“How did Dad work?”
“Hard.”
“And that’s how
your romance began?”
“The baby of nine
children, Warren O’Brien was a snotty-nosed boy back then.”
“Well, when did
you fall in love?”
“I guess it began when
Warren came home from the War. Some of our boys didn’t make it back, and that
hurt real bad. I went with Granny O’Brien and her family to the Williamson
Train Station to welcome Warren home. Everybody on Peter Creek was glad to see him.”
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| My granny, Ollie Jane McCoy, poses on her piano bench before the house where my mother was born |
Monday,
January 10, 2022: My Homeplace, Addison Township, Michigan
Today is Mom’s 100th birthday. I remove her wedding photo from the living room bookshelf. My parents smile, arm in arm, and I am comforted.
Dressed in his
Marine uniform, Dad seems eager and able to build a family and prosperous life
with his bride. The rosettes attached to the tulle skirt layered over Mom’s
slender, satin dress puddle on the floor around their feet.
I remember the
Scarlet O’Hara eighteen-inch waistline contest Mom said she won while in
high-school and recall her southern resilience.
In the day when
most war brides wore their best dress or suit for their wedding clothes, I
marvel at Mom’s fine bridal gown, headpiece, and veil.
I refer to my
notes from that August day twenty-one years ago. “Mom and Dad knew how to make
money. Dad kept two milk cows and fifteen beehives. Mom opened her own store with
a gas pump. She sold livestock feed, Dad’s comb honey, and her pound butter.”
Indeed, dear
Reader, my forefathers knew how to use what they had to prosper. However, what my
mother mentioned most from March 23, 1946, was this: “Dad held onto my arm and
walked me down the aisle with the help of his leg braces.”
Sometimes, hard
work is nothing less or more than a blissful moment we encourage another branch
of our family tree to grow.
The store Granny opened on the road above the McCoy Homeplace (roof visible to right of gas pump)
