The girls and I took a little day trip down to Supply on Friday to spend Thanksgiving with family. While there, we couldn’t resist stopping by Aunt Sandy’s house for hugs and a short visit.

After catching up on the aftermath of Hurricane Helene, the conversation naturally turned into a storytelling session. Before long, we were all talking about our favorite family scoundrels.

Aunt Sandy’s top pick? Delphy and Callie.

Who were they? The daughters of Worth and Jane Cochran, pictured above—my great-great Mamaw and Papaw. Worth and Jane were Mamaw’s paternal grandparents and parents to Papaw Cochran, the baby brother of the infamous Delphy and Callie.

Delphy and Callie were born in the early 1880s in the Alarka community of Swain County. They lived nearly their entire lives within a few miles of where they were born and passed away within a year of each other around 1960, leaving behind a legacy that’s anything but ordinary.

To the rest of the world, they might have been just two hillbilly women whose names faded with time. But to us, they’re legends—unforgettable matriarchs in our family tree.

Belle’s nickname is even a tribute to Aunt Callie, whose middle name was Belle—a small but meaningful way to keep her memory alive.

But what made these women so legendary? What could they have done to earn such a lasting reputation?

According to family lore, Delphy and Callie got away with murder.

In the early 1900s, when the sisters were teenagers and before they were married, Delphy ventured into town alone. On her way back, she was brutally attacked.

Bloodied and shaken, Delphy made her way home, where she found Callie waiting. Callie cleaned her up and listened in quiet fury as Delphy recounted the horrifying ordeal.

Callie didn’t hesitate. She grabbed Papaw Worth’s shotgun from its rack, determination etched on her face, and set off to find the man who had hurt her sister, with Delphy trailing behind.

The sisters tracked him down in a clearing. Drunk and cocky, he laughed at their presence, threatening to kill them if they didn’t leave.

Callie wasn’t moved by his threats. Calm and unflinching, she raised the shotgun, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

Without a second thought, Delphy and Callie buried him nearby—in a spot that now lies beneath the waters of Lake Fontana. It’s one body that’ll never be found.

Some families might shy away from stories like this, but not ours. We celebrate Delphy and Callie as fierce, fearless protectors of their own. Their names are whispered from generation to generation, a testament to the grit and resilience that runs through our veins.