Iris Underwood: The strong pull of home
This past Sunday, the strong pull of familial love gathered my younger California daughter and me to Morehead, Kentucky.
There, we met with three of my four sisters and brothers-in-law for a nephew’s wedding. The family drove from Michigan and North Carolina to a Holiday Inn nestled in the beautiful Appalachian foothills. There, after months of emails and phone calls to one another, we gathered in congenial accommodations, the wedding venue close by in view.
Regrettably, our baby sister and her husband could not join us. Yet, our late, resourceful mother had taught us as youngsters to use what we have. Therefore, we made the most of every minute, the hotel’s complimentary breakfast, and other amenities.
Meanwhile, our cellphones snapped a steady stream of photos, capturing the progress of this once-in-a-lifetime event, forwarded to our beloved missing sister and brother-in-law. Other guests checked into their rooms and gathered with us in the lobby for endless cups of coffee, introductions and stories.
The following morning, after months of searching for and finding the most gorgeous “grandmother of the groom dress,” a younger sister exited the elevator in the beauty and honor of her station. “Proud as a peacock,” as our mother would describe her disposition as grandmother of the bride or groom. Now, once the DJ cued his music, my sisters and I sprang to our feet, faithful to our American Bandstand and Motown legacies.
At one point after the DJ returned from a break, the music seized me. I took my immediate younger sister’s hand and led her to the dance floor. The only two dancing, my North Carolina sister, third of our five, followed my lead, twirling her as I did when we were girls as we watched American Bandstand. We tired all too soon and joined our family who’d meandered outdoors into the perfect weather of an enclosed garden.
There, I attempted to persuade my sisters and brothers-in-law to join me, my daughter, the grandmother of the groom and her husband deep into the mountains the following morning.
No takers for what I term my “annual trip down memory lane” to my birthplace, Matewan, West Virginia, and the McCoy Bottom where I lived the first four years of my life.
The little town is home of the Matewan Massacre, a violent confrontation between coal miners, their sympathizers and the Baldwin-Felts Detective Agency during the West Virginia coal wars, twenty-nine years before my birth.
I slept well in anticipation of dining in Matewan’s Wingo’s, a restaurant owned and operated by a McCoy cousin and his wife, an excellent cook and pie maker. Wingo’s is located across the street from the abandoned red-brick hospital where I was born. The following morning my family and I became better acquainted with a family of three Ohio farmers, two sisters and a brother.
Within a few hours, my Kentucky sister, my brother-in-law, and I toured the site of the McCoy-Hatfield Feud. A local historian confirmed what my brother-in-law said is a truer version than what Hollywood has portrayed in their productions. We stood beside the remains of the McCoy well that once stood beside the McCoy cabin, set afire by Hatfields.
Dear Reader, indeed, this past Labor Day recalls the bond of familial love, the strong pull of home. The longing to gather with the living, and remember those who have gone before us.
