A Piedmont Porchlight Story
The Coffee Cup was busier than usual that morning.
The freight train had rolled through right on time at eight-twelve, and by the time the last boxcar disappeared around the bend, Hattie already had bacon sizzling for the second wave of breakfast customers. I glanced at my watch.
“Right on time.”
Curtis Pope smiled without looking up from his coffee.
“That engineer must’ve heard you was checking.”
About then the front door opened, and a young fellow walked in carrying a map folded so many times it looked to be ready for retirement.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Can somebody tell me how to get to Blackwelder’s Hardware?”
The whole place got quiet. Not awkward quiet. Interested quiet. Hattie pointed toward me.
“You want Jim.”
I looked up.
“Morning.”
“Morning, sir.”
“I’m trying to find Blackwelder’s.”
“Well, you’re close.”
He smiled with relief and pulled out a little notebook.
“I’ll write this down.”
“You don’t need to.”
He clicked his pen anyway.
“Go out the front door.”
“Okay.”
“Take a left.”
“So far, so good.”
“Go past where Mr. Gentry’s Texaco used to be.”
His pen stopped.
“Used to be?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“It’s gone now.”
“Oh.”
“Then you’ll come to the corner where the old A&P burned.”
“I don’t see that on the map.”
“You won’t.”
“It burned.”
Curtis took a sip of coffee.
“Back in ’78.”
I nodded.
“Take a right there.”
The young man looked completely lost.
“But… if the store’s gone…”
“You’ll still know where it was.”
He blinked.
“I will?”
“Course you will.”
Hattie chimed in.
“If you get to the old pecan tree that lightning split, you’ve gone a block too far.”
“The tree’s still there?”
“No.”
“They cut it down twenty years ago.”
The poor fellow looked like he’d wandered into another language. I couldn’t help smiling.
“Tell you what.”
I picked up the sugar dispenser and set it in the middle of the table.
“That’s the depot.”
I put the salt shaker beside it.
“That’s the hotel.”
The ketchup bottle became Curtis Pope’s barber shop.
A jelly packet turned into Blackwelder’s Hardware.
Five minutes later the young man understood perfectly.
He folded his notebook shut.
“I think I’ve got it.”
“You do.”
He thanked everybody and headed for the door. Just before he stepped outside, Hattie called after him.
“If you pass the house where Miss Eula used to grow the prettiest roses in town…”
He turned around.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’ve gone too far.”
The door closed behind him. Curtis shook his head.
“Think he’ll find it?”
“Oh, he’ll find it.”
“How do you know?”
I smiled into my coffee.
“Because Southern directions ain’t about roads.”
“They ain’t?”
“No.”
“They’re about memories.”
For a little while nobody said anything.
Outside, folks were walking up Centre Avenue, waving to people they knew without ever slowing down.
Funny thing about little towns. Buildings come and go. Businesses close. Trees fall. Folks move away. But somehow…
The directions never change.
Even now, if somebody asked me how to get to where I grew up, I’d probably tell ’em,
“Turn where the old filling station used to be.”
Truth is… I couldn’t tell you what replaced it. But I can still see the filling station. Clear as yesterday. I reckon that’s how home works. It don’t disappear. It just keeps giving directions.
olbigjim 