A Piedmont Porchlight Story
There used to be a fellow over on North Centre Avenue named Walter Gresham who never locked his front door. Didn’t matter whether he was gone ten minutes or ten days. The door stayed unlocked. He claimed locks mostly kept honest folks inconvenienced.
“Anybody crooked enough to steal somethin’,” he’d say, “already owns a hammer.” Couldn’t rightly argue with him.
Walter had a little white clapboard house with a deep porch and a swing that squeaked every time the wind shifted. Every evenin’, just before dark, he’d settle into that swing with a Mason jar of sweet tea and wave at every car that passed. Folks waved back. That was just Walter.
One October afternoon, I stopped by to return a book he’d loaned me. He wasn’t home. The front door stood open. Not unusual. I hollered. Nobody answered. So, I laid the book on the little table beside the swing.
As I turned to leave, I noticed somethin’ leanin’ against the porch rail. The Irish Blackthorn. I smiled. “Well,” I muttered, “I must’ve forgotten where I’d left it again.”
I reached for it. Only… it wasn’t mine. Close. Same blackthorn knots. Same polished handle. Same worn look. But this one had a tiny brass ferrule on the end. Mine has a copper ferrule.
About then, Walter’s pickup rattled into the driveway. He climbed out grinnin’. “Findin’ yourself another stick?” I laughed. “Told myself this was mine till I got a better look.”
Walter glanced toward the porch. His smile faded just a little. “What’re you lookin’ at?”
“The walkin’ stick.”
“There ain’t no walkin’ stick there.”
I turned. The porch rail stood empty. No stick. No brass ferrule. Nothin’. Walter chuckled. “You look like you’ve seen a haint.”
“I reckon I’m just tired.” He nodded. “Could be.” We carried on talkin’ about tomatoes, football, and whether we’d get an early frost.
Never mentioned it again. Walter passed away the next spring. Fine man. Miss him still. His daughter sold the house a few months later. The new owners painted the porch blue and fixed the squeak in the swing. Looks mighty nice now.
But every October… somebody invariably says they drove by after supper and could’ve sworn there was an old walking stick leanin’ against Walter’s porch rail.
Funny thing is… they never agree on whose porch it was.
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Have You Seen the Stick?
Walter never admitted seeing The Irish Blackthorn. Then again… he never admitted there’d been any stick there at all.
