A new lease on life

As most my male kinfolk, my uncle Herman McCoy, my mother’s brother, was a Kentucky coal miner. In his retirement, whenever I returned to Peter Creek to visit, Uncle Herm recalled his mining misadventures above, and underground.

He often mentioned a younger neighbor named Barry, also a retired coal miner, who suffered with black lung. “He has it real bad,” Uncle Herm would say with kindness in his eyes.

One summer visit I asked, “Who is this Barry?”

“Honey, he’s your cousin Barry Sullivan, on your daddy’s side,” he said, as if I should’ve known. “He and Loreen live across the creek at the foot of the cemetery.”

Living within hollerin’ distance, Uncle Herm and Barry gardened together. They kept Uncle Herm’s old tractor and tiller maintained to produce enough beans, corn, tomatoes, and watermelon each growing season to put up for winter.

Uncle Herm and Barry donated the garden’s surplus to the Peter Creek Senior Center. The cooks supplied a balanced meal for residents along the serpentine stream where their Scot-Irish ancestors settled.

The last several years of Uncle Herm’s life, he’d mention Barry with the affection of a father. “I hope he gets a lung transplant real soon.”

Concerned for my O’Brien cousin whom I’d never met, upon my visit two summers ago, I asked Uncle Herm for Barry’s phone number. I called and invited myself for a long-overdue visit.

Did my O’Brien cousin resemble my father?

Indeed, he did. Short and stout.

With his oxygen in tow, Barry led me to his immaculate barn and introduced me to his horses. “I love ’em,” he said.

“How do you manage to muck this huge barn?” I asked.

“My son helps. He and his family live beside us.”

Barry and Loreen invited me for her homecooked dinner of pinto beans, greens, and cornbread. My favorite southern meal. They explained the various and rigid requirements for lung transplant recipients.

“With the Lord’s and Loreen’s help, we’ll do it,” Barry said.

Afterwards, he introduced me to his son and family. The joy of Barry’s life.

I drove away from Peter Creek feeling as though I’d known Barry and Loreen all our adulthood.

Afterward, Barry kept me informed of his progress for a lung transplant. At last, he called with terrific news. “I’m on the list. My blood type is AB, a good thing.”

We met again this past June for the sad occasion of Uncle Herm’s funeral. One evening, Barry played his guitar and sang his favorite song in honor of the man who was like a father.

Dear Reader, Barry received his new lungs August 9, and all is well. He, Loreen, and his sister Susie count the days and months until Barry is released from the doctors’ and hospital’s excellent care.

Then, Loreen will drive them home to Peter Creek where Barry’s barn stands empty-one of the many prices Barry paid for his new lease on life.

A life and cousin I may have never known if it weren’t for my Uncle Herm.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com