Kingsport Spirit

Rarely do you get this opportunity—a reunion of two cousins, now men, born three years apart, of sisters who were born three years apart. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly 50 years.

My grandfather and uncle worked for Mead Paper in Kingsport. In 1946, Mead teamed up with Inland Container Corporation to form the Macon Kraft Company, which built and operated a paperboard mill in Macon, Georgia. That took a chunk of my family to Middle Georgia, where the rest of us made annual pilgrimages until the mid 1960s when my grandfather passed.

My mom stayed behind in Kingsport. His mom, moved to Macon.

I was raised in our native Tennessee. He was raised in Texas as part of a military family, with a twin sister. They lost their dad at 9 years old. My aunt never remarried, raising them as a single mom until she passed when he was 36. He lost his twin sister 3 1/2 years ago. He had his first heart attack at 49, and he sees every day as a gift.

On the other hand, my only sibling was 12 years my senior. I had my dad by my side until I was 52 and my mom until I was 57. I lost my brother when I was 42.

We’re both the last ones standing from our immediate families. Life has a way of humbling you. You think you’re invincible, but as you age, your mind goes back to childhood, memories of your parents and grandparents, and you yearn to see and talk with someone with a shared past.

Social media, despite its flaws, created an opportunity for a reunion. Through posts, pictures, and little daily snippets of life, we got reacquainted.

When he said he was going to drive up and stay with us, I couldn’t imagine we would be able to fill 7 days. In many ways we were strangers, but in many other ways we were familiar mirrors of the sisters who raised us.

Our grandmother was deeply rooted in faith. The sisters instilled that faith in their sons. Both of us still attend Baptist services regularly—the denomination of our ancestors. He brought his guitar, and we sang hymns in my living room—something I never saw coming. For one week we shared a daily routine. We attended church and Sunday School together. We met up with cousins and explored the family cemeteries in the area. We discovered that we shared the same quirky tastes for meat and potatoes, peanut butter and banana, and disdain for spices. I imagine that came from our mothers’ country cooking skills, inherited from their mother—making do with the few available ingredients.

We’d load up in his Texas-sized RAM truck and take off on a whim, whether it be a country road or a mountain peak. He’d let me drive. I’m not going to lie, it felt awesome to rise above the surrounding traffic. I finally visited the Birthplace of Country Music Museum–long overdue.

Just riding, chatting, and singing Southern Gospel together was our way of bonding. We’d sit for extended periods sipping coffee on the front porch. We talked about all the dumb things we did in our lifetime and how thankful we are that the Good Lord saw us through it all.

And we rummaged through family photos and memorabilia, stored in hand hewn furniture from the family farmstead, and covered in homespun cloth. We talked about how our grandmother put back small, simple wedding gifts years before her grandchildren married just in case she didn’t live that long. She planned and prayed for us before she knew us–and our spouses and children before she knew them. She lived to be 104.

When it came time for him to head back to Texas, it conjured up memories of our moms’ emotional goodbyes. Our family ties are deep although we’ve been scattered across the country. I’m glad I’m still living here to know the sites and carry on the traditions.

As I watch my young granddaughters play, talking to each other in a language only they truly understand, I envision my mom and her sister at that age. I dream about my future great-grandchildren and hope they will stay close—if not physically, then emotionally. Having cousins is a precious gift that isn’t afforded to everyone.

I know that now.