A Piedmont Porchlight Story
There’s an old rockin’ chair sittin’ on a front porch not too far from where I live. White oak. Wicker back. Wicker seat. Solid enough to outlast another generation if somebody remembers to keep a little linseed oil on it now and then.
Most folks drivin’ past would probably say the same thing. “Look at that ol’ empty rockin’ chair.” I don’t. I don’t reckon it’ll ever be empty. You see…
I grew up in a world where rockin’ chairs had occupants as dependable as sunrise. Pawpaws rocked in them after supper. Mawmaws shelled peas in them on summer evenin’s. Neighbors borrowed them without askin’. Grandchildren climbed into laps that seemed as wide as the whole world. On Sundays Uncle Clarence and Aunt Orbie came for a visit after church. Aunt Orbie swanned in and enthroned herself on that ol’ rockin’ chair like the very Queen of Romania! From there, she held court and passed on all the gossip from the Mill Village that was fit to pass on.
A rockin’ chair wasn’t furniture. It was where life slowed down enough to be noticed. The funny thing about rockin’ chairs is that they never seem to rock very fast. Even when you’re a child tryin’ your dead-level best to make one fly off the porch. An old fellow always knew exactly how far to lean back before things got excitin’. I never did figure out how. Experience, I suppose. Or maybe old folks just understood balance better than the rest of us.
Some of the finest stories I ever heard started with the sound of those runners easin’ back and forth across old porch boards. Creak… Creak… Creak… No hurry. No destination. Just enough movement to keep the conversation company.
Some evenin’s nobody said much of anything. The crickets carried most of the discussion. A freight train would whistle somewhere beyond Dugger Mountain. Somebody would sip their coffee. The chair would keep rockin’.
Lookin’ back… Those quiet evenin’s taught me every bit as much as the noisy ones. You learn patience from people who don’t feel compelled to fill every silence. I remember one evenin’ askin’ Pawpaw what he was thinkin’ about.
He rocked a little longer before answerin’. “Ahh, nothin’ in particular.” At the time I thought that sounded terribly borin’. Now I’d give just about anything to spend an hour thinkin’ about nothin’ in particular. Funny how age changes your ambitions.
One by one, the folks who occupied those rockin’ chairs took their last walk. The porches stayed. The chairs stayed. The conversations drifted into memory. For a while, the chairs sat perfectly still. Almost as though they were waitin’.
Maybe they were. Then something wonderful happened. A son came home from work and eased himself into one. A granddaughter brought her coffee outside before sunrise. A little boy climbed up where his great-granddaddy used to sit and began rockin’ so hard his mama hollered, “You’re gonna turn that thing over!”
Some traditions don’t need explainin’. They simply wait for the next person to continue them. These days, when I pass an old rockin’ chair sittin’ by itself on a front porch, I don’t see loneliness. I see an invitation. A place where somebody will eventually sit down after a long day. A place where a tired body can rest. Where neighbors can wave from passin’ pickups. Where children can ask questions. Where old men can answer them—or not.
A rockin’ chair has never demanded conversation. It has simply made room for it. I suppose that’s why I like them so much. The older I get, the less interested I am in places that hurry you along. Give me a front porch. A sturdy chair. A cup of good coffee. And enough daylight left to watch the shadows stretch across the yard. That’s all the entertainment I need.
Every now and then, somebody drivin’ past will glance toward that porch and think, “Nobody’s home.” I always smile. Because I know better. The people who loved that chair are still there. In the worn places on the arms where hands rested year after year. In the smooth runners polished by a lifetime of gentle rockin’. In the stories that still seem to hang in the evenin’ air long after the voices have grown quiet. I’ve come to believe an empty rockin’ chair isn’t really empty at all.
It’s simply holdin’ somebody’s place. Waitin’ for another conversation. Another sunset. Another grandchild. Another cup of coffee. Another ordinary evenin’ that somebody won’t realize is extraordinary until fifty years have slipped by. And if you’re fortunate enough to find one sittin’ on an old Southern porch, don’t just admire it from the yard.
Sit down. Lean back. Listen to the crickets. Wave at the neighbors. Let the chair do what it’s always done. Carry one more story. Because someday, somebody else will walk past that porch, see your chair gently rockin’ in the evenin’ breeze, and smile.
Not because it’s empty.
Because they’ll know exactly who belongs there.
