Aunt Coy…

Sunday mornings…circa early 1980s. My Great-Great Aunt Coy’s house. Savannah, Tennessee.

The Southern gospel music hums through the speakers from the local AM radio station. Songs about mountaintops and revivals. A framed 8x10 photo of Jesus hangs predominantly on the wall- a clear declaration that Christ is, indeed, King.

Aunt Coy stands over her metal kitchen countertop, in a housedress and apron, long silver hair wrapped neatly in a bun, knee high panty hose and black patent leather lace up shoes keep her modest while protecting her tender legs and feet.

Watching Aunt Coy sift flour for biscuits, I anticipate the deliciousness of the sugar butter that will soon be served.

Little me dressed in something frilly, with frilly socks and getting the last few bits of directions on how to behave on our adventure to her one room church for a lesson on Jesus, open prayer and sweet, sweet songs out of the hymnal I can’t yet read.

Shortly after, the church van pulls up to the front of her house and I crawl in with all the other little old ladies who look, smell and speak much like my Aunt Coy.

Present day, I smile at what that scene would look like now…mostly because somewhere along the way, terrible city planning placed Aunt Coy’s precious white wood framed house directly behind the county jail. Her front porch view featured the back door of the institution, where all the local criminals would transfer from police cars into the building.

The front porch swing of Aunt Coy’s house could smell like the burning of confiscated marijuana, sound like the giggle of a drunk whiskey man, and feel like Mayberry on any given day. I never once felt unsafe out front, playing with rollie pollies and saying hello to the trustees as they began and ended their freedom-ish work days.

The single danger I experienced in my stays at Aunt Coy’s house came directly from her, ironically. She was fiercely protective of her home…so much that she slept with a revolver under her pillow. I always rested in the same bed as Aunt Coy and was a wild little sleeper. Late one night, I managed to squiggle my way down to the foot of her bed. She woke me with soft kicks and told me to get back on the floor. Half awakened, I knew she thought I was the dog, so I quietly stayed. Then she reached down and felt my arm and gasped…I heard the hammer of her revolver click back and I let out a low moan to remind her it was me, not an intruder. Instantly, the entire house lit up with Aunt Coy’s hysterics. So young, I didn’t grasp the situation as she did. She uncontrollably wept in what might have been. Saying my name like all the other Southern old ladies did, ‘Chris-chul Dawn.’ Over and over…

A few years ago, I was in Aspen, Colorado on a ski trip and binge watched Hatfields & McCoys on History Channel. I couldn’t help but wonder if my Aunt Coy, whose name was derived from her family name of McCoy, was a descendent of THE McCoys? The truth will always elude me…nevertheless, she is a legend on her own.

I don’t know why I spent so much time at Aunt Coy’s house, but I do know every bit of her is engrained deeply in me and I’m grateful for it. With an age gap of no less than 80 years, Aunt Coy was my very first best friend.

Forever.