Why I Write: The Quiet Heroes of Piedmont
People often ask me why I love writin’ fiction, especially when I come from a place with as much natural character as Piedmont, Alabama. The truth is, small towns are goldmines for a writer’s imagination. You don’t need aliens invadin’ or spies chasin’ each other across rooftops when you’ve got good neighbors, strong opinions, and a church homecomin’ right around the corner.
One of my favorite things to do is take the real people I know and love, drop them into completely made-up, slightly ridiculous situations, and see what happens. Take my cousin, John Oliver, for example. In real life, John Oliver was the gold standard for quiet and predictable. He didn’t drive; instead, he walked miles and miles every single day, coverin’ every street in Piedmont with the unlit stub of a King Edward cigar tucked firmly into the corner of his mouth. Local merchants hired him to deliver circulars—advertisin’ clearances, special events, and weekly grocery specials—which he placed in mailboxes, tucked into screen doors, or handed directly to folks on their porches. That gave him just enough time to swap a few words, gather up the local news, and spread it across town Johnny Appleseed style before endin’ his route at the Dari King, just a stone’s throw from the house in the Mill Village where he lived with his parents, Clarence and Orbie.
He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t make a fuss, and he sure enough didn’t go lookin’ for drama. Which is exactly why, in my head, he was the only man qualified to handle a crisis.
In the version of Piedmont that lives in my notebook, a peaceful Friday afternoon was nearly ruined by what locals still whisper about as The Great Congregational Holiness Recipe Stand-Off. It started, innocently enough, with Beulah Mae Crabtree and Eunice Studdard. Both women were pillars of the community who worshipped faithfully at the Holiness Church on Hughes Street, and both were widely renowned for their cookin’. Beulah Mae’s specialty was a hummingbird cake so good it could bring a tear to a grown man’s eye, while Eunice’s cornbread dressin’ and giblet gravy had been known to settle family feuds on contact. Naturally, both women guarded their recipes like they were relics of the True Cross.
On this particular Friday, the church was preparin’ for a big fellowship supper, and both ladies were workin’ side-by-side in the fellowship hall kitchen. Disaster struck when a sudden gust of wind from the back screen door swept two handwritten index cards off the counter, sendin’ them flutterin’ straight down behind the massive, industrial double-oven that was pushed right up against the wall.
Within seconds, a full-scale culinary emergency was underway. Eunice was tryin’ to fish the cards out with a yardstick wrapped in maskin’ tape, while Beulah Mae was insistin’ the only way to retrieve them without smudgin’ the ink was to tip the entire cast-iron stove forward. Naturally, that was a feat neither of them could manage without takin’ half the wall with it. Neither woman could leave to get help, because leavin’ meant trustin’ the other alone near the recovery zone, where a stray glance might reveal a secret measurement of sage or crushed pineapple. They might’ve been good Christian women, but trust each other with a treasured secret recipe? No ma’am, thank you very much! By the time the pastor poked his head in, Beulah Mae was guardin’ the left side of the stove with a wooden spoon, Eunice was guardin’ the right with a turkey baster. The fellowship supper was officially in jeopardy.
Enter John Oliver.
He didn’t come rushin’ in with a grand plan. He was just makin’ his usual rounds down Hughes Street, a stack of Lively’s Grocery circulars tucked under one arm and his King Edward cigar stub restin’ comfortably in the corner of his mouth, when he stopped by to leave a flyer on the church bulletin board. Hearin’ the commotion inside, he stepped into the kitchen, took one slow look at the stove, the yardstick, and the two fiercely determined cooks, and gave a quiet nod.
Without one single word, John Oliver set his circulars on the table, reached into his little newspaper bag, and pulled out a fresh, crisp hardware circular from Street & Mobbs; the heavy, glossy kind. He walked over to the side of the stove, knelt down, and slid the stiff paper cleanly into the narrow gap along the baseboard. With one smooth, practiced sweep, the exact same wrist flick he used to slip circulars under tight screen doors all over town, he scooped both index cards right onto the glossy page and slid them out into the open, just as pretty as you please.
He stood up, handed Beulah Mae her hummingbird cake card face-down, handed Eunice her cornbread dressin’ card face-down, and gave his cigar stub a couple of quick chews.
Beulah Mae and Eunice stared at their rescued treasures in stunned silence before simultaneously declarin’ that John Oliver had clearly been sent by the Good Lord to save their recipes, and that he was guaranteed the first plate at Friday’s supper. John Oliver just offered a polite nod, picked up his circulars, and headed off toward the Dari King for a well-earned coffee break before walkin’ home to eat supper with Uncle Clarence and Aunt Orbie.
Of course, none of that actually happened. As far as I know, Beulah Mae and Eunice’s secret recipes never saw the underside of a church stove, and John Oliver never had to perform emergency circular-rescue maneuvers on Hughes Street.
But writin’ that scene reminded me of why I love puttin’ pen to paper. Fiction lets me celebrate the real details that make a town unforgettable: the smell of a King Edward cigar on a porch, the pride in a church kitchen, and the quiet, steady folks who keep everything runnin’ smoothly. In a world that can feel awfully loud and fast, there ain’t nothin’ better than takin’ a walk down the streets of a small town in your own imagination. Especially when you already know, and might even be kin to, every soul along the route.
