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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