A Piedmont Porchlight Story
There are two ways to tell time in Piedmont. One is with a watch. The other is by remembering. Folks around here have always trusted the second one a little more. The old Southern Railroad depot used to have a clock hanging under the eaves. Big round thing. White face. Black hands. You could see it halfway down the platform if the afternoon sun wasn’t shining straight in your eyes.
Now, if you ask when that clock quit working… well… you’d better have yourself an extra cup of coffee. Because nobody agrees.
Sheriff Booker says it stopped the day Elvis died. Curtis Pope insists he looked up after cutting old Mr. Harlan’s hair one Tuesday in 1981 and it was still keeping perfect time. Miss Lorene says she checked her wristwatch by it the morning her husband left for Korea.
Mr. Blackwelder just snorted when he heard that. “Depot wasn’t even using that clock back then.” Miss Lorene smiled. “Then I reckon somebody ought to tell my memory.”
Nobody argued after that. There wasn’t much point. Memory’s a stubborn thing. Especially once it’s had fifty years to settle in.
One cool October afternoon I wandered over to the depot after breakfast at The Coffee Cup. The place was quiet. Just a breeze pushing dry leaves along the platform. The clock still hung where it’d always been. Hands frozen. Same as always. I looked up at it. Then down at my watch.
Then back up again. For just the briefest moment… they matched. Exactly. Hour. Minute. Everything. I remember smiling.
“Well, look at that.”
Then my watch ticked. Just once. The minute hand moved ahead. The depot clock stayed exactly where it’d been. I laughed at myself. Timing. Nothing more.
Still… I stood there another minute or two. Just in case. Nothing happened. A freight train rolled through an hour later without stopping. The engineer gave two short blasts on the whistle. I tipped my cap out of habit.
As I turned to leave, I noticed something leaning against one of the old wooden benches. The Irish Blackthorn. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. Matter of fact… I figured I’d probably brought it with me.
Reached for it. There wasn’t any walking stick. Just the long afternoon shadow of the bench stretching across the platform.
Now… I’m not saying the depot clock ever worked that day. And I’m sure ‘nuff not saying I saw The Irish Blackthorn.
Truth is… there are plenty of shadows that look like walking sticks once the sun gets low enough. But if you ask me when the depot clock quit…
I’ll tell you exactly what everybody else in Piedmont will.
Depends on who you ask.
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Have You Seen The Irish Blackthorn?
Miss Lorene insists she saw The Irish Blackthorn leaning against the depot bench one October afternoon. Sheriff Booker says it was only a shadow. They’ve both stuck to their stories for years.
