The Wycorhst Family

The Wycorhst Family

Growing up as the child of a United Methodist Church preacher meant one sure thing: moving. In the 70s up through the 80s, we moved six times. I once thought it was just five moves, but mom recently corrected me. Unsurprisingly, I’d forgotten one of the earlier homes/churches because I was just a toddler. Even so, learning in midlife that I’d lived somewhere that I have little to no memory of was a bit of a shake-up. Luckily, my parents have many photo albums that document those years. When I look at them, I sometimes feel a kick inside of me, much like the kick of a growing fetus. It’s hard to distinguish a legit memory from what is conjured when gazing at those photos.

My parents met at the Candler School of Theology, Emory University. They were not the free love 1960s type of young adults. They never passed a bong or spent a long weekend in a muddy field listening to great music. However, they did share and support the ethos of the time, living the values they believed the UMC to also support. I was taught that all are equal and worthy of acceptance and compassion. Ironically, this sometimes risked Dad’s job security. Mom was raised in New York, having studied first at Drew University, and Dad arrived in Georgia from Oklahoma State University. The Deep South may have been familiar to Dad, but it was a culture adjustment for mom. When one of her good friends from Drew was passing through Decatur, she invited him to stay at the parsonage. This friend happened to be a Black man. She thought nothing of it, until she got word of a church member who had seen her in the driveway, giving her friend a hug goodbye. The upset church member began calling others to report it, as if it were some type of crime. I still bristle at this story, because it underscores the resentment I continue to hold for an organized religion that fails to embrace its espoused values, as evidenced by its recent split, ostracizing folks who happen to love one another and happen to be the same sex.

Mom and Dad, 1970s

Because both of my parents left their birthplaces and relocated hours and miles away to Georgia, there were no extended family members in our radius. Instead, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins spanned from New York to Oklahoma to California. To say we did not see some of these relatives regularly is not surprising. While we made occasional trips to Oklahoma City to see my dad’s side of the family, and I fondly recall a Christmas trip to Los Angeles, CA, where my maternal aunt and uncle lived. The emotional distance was covered mainly through phone calls. The exception to this was New York, specifically Pearl River, which became a summer getaway. My maternal grandparents lived in Rockland County, and we visited each summer, often staying a week or more.

Pearl River, NY, Pawlicki home

Sometimes my parents accompanied us, other times my brother and I were walked straight to the Delta terminal and handed off to a stewardess who was charged with ensuring we met up with Grandma and Grandpa Pawlicki upon landing. Once there, my brother and I would play with the McSharry children two houses down. The five children were rambunctious and fun and they even had the luxury of owning a pool. My brother and I loved to swim with them even though we found the water way too cold. We were accustomed to a summer in the humid subtropics so it took some time for us to acclimate. When interacting with McSharry parents, I had to learn to listen closely because it was my first time hearing an Irish brogue. It was also on these visits where I realized that Catholics not only attend Mass regularly, but raise a glass just as often. I found this shocking because when my dad drank his PBR with a splash of salt on the rim, he had to be sneaky about it. The preacher was not supposed to imbibe (and, for that matter, he was not to cut the grass on a Sunday). But in NY, my Catholic friends’ parents would openly have a drink. It was at this time in my youth where I began to understand the nuances of culture and upbringing and how they vary from one place to another.

During our summer stay in Pearl River, we would always take a trip to see the Big Apple. Before dropping the car off at a local grocery store to catch the bus into the City, I begrudgingly did as told by grandma and removed my gold shrimp ring and add-a-bead, not wanting to be mugged. Throughout my youth, we saw a number of Broadway and off-Broadway plays, visited museums, climbed Lady Liberty, and were exposed to an international microcosm of people, smells, languages, foods, and sounds that are nowhere to be found in Georgia, not even in Atlanta. I was both exhilarated and scared on these trips as an adolescent. I didn’t understand why folks didn’t smile and greet us warmly (even some of my own relatives). I was amazed that my grandmother could figure out what bus and what subway to take, as I was overwhelmed by schedules and stops. I learned not to look openly at strangers, and I began to feel self-conscious of my Southern drawl, which often garnered blatant laughs. I felt sick to my stomach when I saw a homeless young woman, barefoot and at a pizza joint in Grand Central Station, dart from the trashcan with half a slice of pizza in her hand. This scene was juxtaposed with a shopping trip with grandma for back to school clothes in Paramus Park, where there was no sales tax on clothing.

Since most of the towns we lived in were rural, the dichotomy of my upbringing was couched in summer trips to an international city and returning home to a parsonage next to a chicken house, dairy farm, or both. If you were raised in the rural South, you probably know that many families live in the same town, gather on Sundays after church for lunch, and sometimes run from one house to another, enjoying the freedom of running wild in the woods and on dirt roads. Many kids I knew were driving at least two or three years before they could get a license because they lived on a farm, had a four wheeler, or needed to make a quick trip to the store and knew the local cops wouldn’t stop them. While we did not have this extension of family, every church my parents served had kind parishioners who would invite us to Thanksgiving meals, after-church lunches, or other family gatherings. It’s a tradition to invite the preacher over, and we were a part of it. Sometimes we all clicked. Other times, it was somewhat emotionally taxing to join in with a close knit family group. I can safely say my entire birth family is comprised of introverts, and we would often return to the parsonage and unwind in our own quiet ways.

However, in the 70s when we lived in Newnan, Georgia, there was a unique group of families from the church that gravitated to one another on a deeper level. This group of adults connected in a way that went beyond an occasional meal. At my young age I could not articulate the connection, but I could sense that it was more than superficial. The adults were roughly the same age as my parents. Their professions ranged from being a pilot to skillful builders who built their homes and flipped others. One delivered newspapers on the side. They all had kids of their own. Two of the sons grew up to play football at the college level. Luckily there was a daughter who was a bit older than me, and we would often play together, spending the night at one another’s home. It was this group that became the Wycorhst Family.

Both of my parents are creative, and both were in a state far away from where they spent their youth. Like anyone, they yearned for connections that were close in vicinity. Blood relatives were either too far away or emotionally estranged, so they had to create their own. I’m not sure how it was decided, but I know my mother was a part of the naming of this group. They took the first two letters of each family’s surname to create a new family name. Wyrick, Cobb, Rhodes, and Stephens families became the Wycorhst Family.

All the adults became an immediate aunt or uncle, and their children were my instantaneous cousins. I had adults in my life beyond just my parents who loved me and my brother. They provided play dates, cared for us when my parents had other obligations. Aunt Faye made me birthday cakes. Aunt Alice had the best sweet tea I’ve ever had the luxury of sipping, and I had a big crush on her son, cousin Tony. He and his sister, Diane (my only girl cousin), had a pool table and PONG, one of Atari’s first video games. I found this luxurious, and remember visiting them as they literally built their home from the basement up. Other weekends I’d spend hours at Aunt Faye’s and Uncle Max’s house, reading the colorful illustrated Wizard of Oz books they had. I recall Halloween parties, where they all dressed up. My dad, always the jokester, was Groucho Max and there are photos of them all, laughing, cigarette smoke drifting. Sometimes the nights went late, and I would sleep on a pallet of blankets on the floor, Pooh bear next to me.

Author, asleep on floor

Aunt Alice would sometimes pick me up from pre-school, and I recall fighting over the newly invented Slinky, falling asleep with it in my hand, only to wake as another cousin eagerly plucked it away. We attended football games for cousins Kim and Sandy, both who grew up to play college football at UGA and Ga Tech. One year, we rented a cabin at Camp Glisson in Dahlonega, enjoying the sounds of the forest and water. When my parents found an odd growth on the back of my leg, I remember them showing it to Aunt Faye and Uncle Max, who echoed their concern. Soon after, I was at the hospital to have it removed. I have no doubt that the bonds my parents had with this self-made family helped them get through the trials of parenthood and life in general. It was a reciprocal arrangement. Years later and hours away, I got married, and it was Uncle Max who documented the ceremony with his photography skills. While my memory of the Wyrick side of the family is dimmer, I fondly recall the warmth of the Wyricks. Ed was a handsome Delta pilot, and his laugh was deep. Lois was witty and always impeccably dressed.

These adults provided emotional support for one another when things got tough, as they always do, and I instinctively knew there was a safety net beyond my parents. When it came time to move from Newnan, we were lucky enough to be placed at a church in nearby Fayetteville. This allowed the self-made family to stay in close proximity, continuing to gather and enjoy one another’s company. Even when we lived hours away in Lincolnton, GA, I recall a generous act on behalf of Aunt Faye. All of my close friends in high school were going to UGA for their freshman year, but I was to enroll at the small, UMC-related Young Harris College. I was not happy about this, and expressed as much not only to my parents but also to Aunt Faye. She wrote a letter to my mom and dad, asking them to consider sending me to the larger, public school. While I still enrolled at YHC (and I am grateful for it), I never forgot how she supported me. Aunt Faye has always lived in my mind as that cool aunt who was as beautiful as Natalie Wood and who championed the young me.

While the Wycorhst Family never usurped our blood relatives, they were the ones who were next to us in our day-to-day lives. While time, illness, death, and miles eventually separated the Family, my parents still exchange calls, letters, or visits to those still here. For all hurt that stems from my experience of the United Methodist Church, I do credit it for bringing these family members into our lives. In essence, I was blessed with two sets of families. I smile when I think back on a specific Christmas photo from the 70s. The entire Wycorhst Family is gathered, holding matching brown and white mugs that are filled to the brim with small gifts. The real gift is the connection, love, and support they have shared throughout this life, and I am grateful to have been a part of it.

The Rhodes Family, early 1980s