Tuesday, July 29, 2025

Michael Meets Mamaw Marine


Michael Meets Mamaw Marine

Some people walk into your life so gently, so naturally, that you don’t realize at first they’re changing you forever. Mamaw Marine was one of those people.

But before I can tell you about her, I need to rewind to the summer of 1974. I’d just finished high school the year before, working at Builders Manufacturing Company, and not entirely sure what life held next. A friend of mine was dating a girl named Krista Marine, and through her I met Melissa Faye Marine—Krista’s older sister. Melissa was bright, talented, and quick with a smile. She had the kind of easy grace that made people feel at ease around her. Melissa and Krista had voices that could lift the rafters and could play just about anything they heard on the radio. We did a lot of double dating in those days, and it didn’t take long for me to fall head-over-heels.

So I proposed.

And to my surprise, she said yes without hesitation. The next surprise came when she went home to tell her parents.

Now, let me tell you something about Melissa’s folks. Good people, both of them—deeply faithful and serious about doing right by their children. So serious, in fact, that when they heard the news, they packed Melissa off to her grandmother’s in Greenback, Tennessee, and invited me over for a little "talk."

That conversation was one of the hardest I’d ever had. Melissa’s father didn’t beat around the bush. “Ronald,” he said, “you’re not ready to marry our daughter. You need to finish your education and serve your country. Once you’ve done that, maybe we’ll talk again.” I left their house feeling not just rejected—but small.

But rejection has a funny way of becoming fuel.

Eventually, after nearly four years of being engaged, Melissa and I did get married—on a bright November day in 1978, surrounded by friends, family, and church folk packed wall to wall in Valley View Baptist Church. And not long after, we made a long-overdue trip to see her grandmother, Mamaw Marine.

I’ll never forget the drive—north through Chattanooga, then winding through Sweetwater, Vonore, and finally to Greenback, Tennessee. A storm had kicked up as we came across Tellico Lake, but it was just beginning to clear when we pulled through the first cow gate and made our way up the narrow driveway.

Mamaw Marine—born Nellie Susan Myers on October 1, 1900—was standing on the porch as we pulled in. She was the kind of woman who’d lived hard but loved harder. She raised six kids through the Great Depression, buried her husband Elmer in ’67, and kept right on going. Rugged? You bet. But also warm, funny, and welcoming. She wrapped me up in a hug like I was her own flesh and blood.

Inside her home, I discovered a different world. A handmade scale model of the Tellico Dam—Elmer had worked on it back in the day. A full set of Foxfire books lined one of her shelves, and I got so caught up in those stories of Appalachian life that I read them every time we came back.

That first night we talked late into the evening. Mostly about family, the old days, and the ways life had changed. Mamaw had a way of listening with her whole face—eyes twinkling, nodding gently as if she were adding each memory to her collection. The next morning, we had breakfast the way breakfast is meant to be: biscuits that could hold up a spoon, eggs fresh from the coop, and coffee poured from an old enamel pot. We spent the rest of the day rocking on her porch, swapping stories.

Years passed. Life moved on.

Melissa and I eventually moved to Hollywood, Florida. We didn’t make it back to Greenback after that, and when Melissa died in 1984, my world fell apart. I wandered for a while, then found my way again—with the help of Susan and her two beautiful kids, Tiffiny and Michael. By the late ‘80s, we were living in Chattanooga.

It was around then that I found myself near Knoxville for a construction job and decided, almost on a whim, to visit Mamaw again. I brought Michael with me.

We drove the familiar winding roads, through the cow gates and up to that same little porch. Mamaw was waiting for us, just like before. Her hug was just as strong, just as sure. She ushered Michael inside for lemonade and cookies, and before long we were back on the porch, the three of us—talking about Melissa, about family, about the twists and turns life had taken.

She made Michael feel like one of her own. Asked him about his hobbies, told him about her farm, and even brought out her old rifle to show him. “I’ve got an extra one,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Next time you come, we’ll go squirrel hunting.”

We never did make it back.

Mamaw Marine passed away on August 31, 1992.

But Michael remembered her. He talked about her for years—about the cows, the porch, the hunting trip that almost was. And me? I remember the kindness, the warmth, the quiet strength of a woman who had weathered the storms of life and still found time to love a heartbroken man and his curious little boy.

Mamaw Marine didn’t just welcome me into her family. She taught me that family isn’t always about blood. Sometimes it’s about open arms, warm kitchens, and quiet stories shared on a creaky old porch.


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