Reflections on Roots, Heritage, and the Land That Shapes Us

Reprinted with Permission | Lake Norman Currents | June 2026

By Mickey Dunaway

I have been blessed—advantaged, really—since the day I was born on December 8, 1946, in Brewton, Alabama. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth—not even stainless—probably tin-plated.

I had an older brother by four years, and my father had just returned from World War II service in the Navy. Do the math: discharged in 1945 plus nine months equals December 8, 1946!

One day I’ll write a longer story about our larger Dunaway clan, but for now, let me introduce a few of the characters. There were Grandaddy and Granny Dunaway, and their sons—Uncle Bubba, my Daddy, and Uncle Roy—all of whom served in the military during WWII. They were married, in order, to Aunt Gal, Mama, and Aunt Hazel. Aunt Mil came along between Daddy and Uncle Roy, married to Uncle James, who was wounded in the Battle of the Bulge and suffered what today we would call PTSD. He was still my favorite uncle.

There were others—younger, strong women who carried on while waiting and worrying—and like so many families of that time, they lived with uncertainty and faith in equal measure.

I was reminded recently of just how close the Dunaway family remains—patriarchs and matriarchs alike—and how those connections still run strong through me, my wife, our children, and grandchildren. Other branches of the family feel those same ties. It’s a blend of biology, shared history, faith, and something harder to define—but you know it when you feel it.

That’s why we still gather for the South Alabama Dunaway Reunion every third Sunday in October.  Now, I’ll be honest—I can still remember most of my first cousins’ names, but their spouses and children? That’s where things get a little fuzzy. All the more reason to keep showing up.

Back in mid-April, my wife and I took a two-day trout fishing trip to Bryson City in the North Carolina mountains. We fished the Nantahala and Tuckasegee Rivers—beautiful water, and thanks to some fine local guides, a few fish came to hand.

We’ve made several trips to the mountains this year, and by the time you read this, we’ll likely have made a couple more. But this last trip felt different.

It wasn’t just the rising peaks or the cascading valleys, the rush of whitewater or the quiet pools beneath waterfalls. It was something deeper.

We spent time along the Oconaluftee River, which flows through the land of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. We walked its banks. We watched elk feeding quietly across the river, just a few yards away. And in that stillness, we felt something—a connection not just to the place, but to the people who have called it sacred for generations.

When I got home, I did a little digging to better understand that history.

Before their forced removal, the Cherokee people occupied some 40,000 to 50,000 square miles across North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, and Tennessee—land the size of a small state, with towns, roads, trade routes, and even a written constitution.

Then came the Trail of Tears.

While thousands were forced west to present-day Oklahoma, a small group—perhaps 1,000 to 1,500—remained behind in North Carolina. Some avoided removal because they lived on land that was difficult to access. Others were protected through a remarkable effort by William Holland Thomas, a white businessman who had been adopted by the Cherokee people. He purchased land in his own name so that Cherokee families could legally remain.

That land became the foundation of what is now known as the Qualla Boundary.

Today, the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians is a sovereign nation—what is often called a “domestic dependent nation.” They govern themselves, maintain their own laws and services, and preserve a culture that has endured despite incredible hardship.

Standing there by that river, you can feel it.

I hope many of you have had the chance to visit that part of North Carolina—not just Cherokee, but the surrounding mountains, small towns, rivers, and valleys that make this region so special.

To me, those mountains feel a lot like the Dunaway family—rooted, enduring, shaped by time, and strengthened by connection.

Maybe I appreciate them even more because I spent most of my life in the flatlands—Brewton, Mobile, Wilmer, Auburn, back to Mobile, Alexander City, then on to Kentucky and Indiana, and finally here to Mecklenburg County.

So take it from a lifelong flatlander—don’t wait twenty years like I did when I got to North Carolina.

Head west. Or northeast. The mountains are calling.

Maybe culture, family, and the earth aren’t separate things at all. Maybe they are simply the threads that remind us who we are, where we came from, and where we still belong.

“When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced.
Live your life so that when you die, the world cries and you rejoice.”
— Cherokee Proverb