A Piedmont Porchlight Story
Every town has one. A fellow who waves at everybody. Not because he knows everybody. Because he believes he ought to. In Piedmont, that fellow was Mr. Charlie Benson.
Now, if Charlie was driving down the road, one hand stayed on the steering wheel. The other stayed halfway out the window. He waved at pickup trucks. He waved at school buses. He waved at the mailman. He waved at folks pushing lawn mowers. He even waved at people walking dogs, though I never was entirely sure whether he was greeting the person or the dog.
If you happened to be standing in your front yard when Charlie drove by, you were getting waved at. Didn’t matter whether he’d met you before. Didn’t matter if you’d just moved to town. Didn’t matter if you’d had a bad day. That hand came up every single time. As a boy, I asked Daddy one afternoon,
“Who’s that?” He looked out the truck window. “Charlie.” “No, I mean who is he?” Daddy smiled. “Son, he’s Charlie.”
At the time, that seemed like a mighty incomplete answer. Years later, I realized it was all the introduction anybody needed. Charlie wasn’t famous. Didn’t hold public office. Never made the newspaper unless the church picnic happened to need another volunteer.
He simply waved. Day after day. Year after year. Eventually something peculiar happened. Folks started expecting it. Children waved first. Adults caught themselves looking down the road around the same time every afternoon. If Charlie drove by without waving, half the town would’ve followed him home to make sure he was feeling alright.
One summer, a young family moved into the old Harper place. They hadn’t been in town a week before Charlie came rolling by in his faded Chevrolet. Out came the hand. The little girl standing in the front yard looked around to see who he was waving at. There wasn’t anybody else. She pointed at herself. Charlie nodded. Then she grinned and waved back so hard I thought she might come right out of her shoes. By the end of the month, she was waiting on him every afternoon.
That’s the thing about kindness. It’s terribly contagious. One day I happened to ask Charlie why he waved at everybody. He looked genuinely surprised by the question. “Well, ‘cause they’re there.”
I laughed. “I noticed.” He shrugged. “Seems a shame not to notice somebody God put in front of you.” That answer stayed with me. Not because it was complicated. Because it wasn’t. A wave takes about one second. Costs absolutely nothing. Yet somehow it says, “I see you.” “You matter.” “I’m glad you’re here.”
You’d be amazed how many people need to hear that without a single word being spoken. Charlie grew older, like the rest of us. His hair turned white. His truck turned rust-colored. The waving never changed.
If anything, it became even more enthusiastic. Maybe old age teaches you that there ain’t much use in saving kindness for special occasions. Then one autumn morning, Charlie’s truck didn’t come by. Nor the next. Word spread quietly that he’d suffered a stroke. Nothing life-threatening. But he wouldn’t be driving for quite a while.
The first Sunday after he came home, something remarkable happened. Folks started driving past Charlie’s house. Slowly. One by one. Pickup trucks. Minivans. Old Buicks. Motorcycles. Even ol’ Roy Saus in his ancient Packard. Every single one rolled past with a hand sticking out the window.
Wave after wave after wave. Charlie sat on his porch in a lawn chair with tears running down his cheeks. He waved back until his arm got tired. Then he switched arms. I don’t reckon anybody organized it. Piedmont just knew what needed doing.
These days, whenever I catch myself waving at somebody I don’t know, I smile. Because I know exactly where I learned it. I’ve come to believe a town isn’t held together by brick streets or courthouse lawns. It’s held together by little things. A cup of coffee poured before you ask. A porch light left burning. A hand resting on your shoulder. A stranger lifting two fingers from the steering wheel as they pass.
Those little gestures don’t seem like much. Until the day they’re missing. Then you realize they were quietly stitching the whole town together. So, if an old fellow in a pickup truck waves at you someday, wave back. You never know. You might just become part of somebody else’s reason for believing the world is still a friendly place.
And that’s not a bad reputation for a town to earn.
Or a man.
