Piedmont Porchlight Stories — Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House

They held the meeting in the Baptist Fellowship Hall, because that was the one place in Piedmont big enough to hold both the people and their egos. Folding chairs filled the room like metal cornrows; the coffee urn gurgled in the corner as if dreading what it was about to witness.

By 6:47 p.m., the place was full.
By 6:48, it was overflowing.
By 6:49, the fire marshal, who was present only because someone promised him deviled eggs, declared the room “technically illegal but spiritually acceptable.”

Mrs. Delphine sat in the front row, arms crossed, daring anyone to misrepresent her boarding house. Behind her, the railroad men huddled shoulder-to-shoulder, looking like they were about to confess to a crime.

Up front, Preacher Boone cleared his throat with the gravity of a man about to bless an undertaking well beyond his pay grade.

Opening Remarks (Such As They Were)

“Brothers and sisters,” he began, “we have gathered here to discuss a matter of… an unusual nature.”

“UNUSUAL?” Sadie Mae hollered from the back. “A ghost rearrangin’ biscuits is PLUMB PECULIAR, Preacher. Call it what it is.”

There were shouts of agreement.

Preacher Boone held up both hands, palms outward, a gesture that usually settled the congregation but tonight merely muffled them a tad.

“Yes, Sister Sadie Mae, peculiar indeed. But let us proceed with dignity and restraint.”

This statement caused widespread coughing, snickering, and in one case outright laughter (from Clyde, who was asked to leave the room twice).

“Now,” the preacher continued, “our railroad brethren have prepared a statement.”

Cap’n Potts Takes the Floor

Cap’n Leland Potts stood, removed his hat, held it respectfully to his chest, and stepped forward with a grim sense of duty. His fellow railroad men stood behind him like pallbearers at the funeral of common sense.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Potts began, “we, the Seaboard crew, have formally investigated the situation at Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House.”

“What’d you find?” someone shouted.

Potts cleared his throat.
“Well… ma’am… sir… citizens… we found ourselves in the presence of…”

He paused. Dramatically. More dramatically than necessary.

“…a courteous apparition.”

Gasps rippled across the hall like a dropped pebble in a pond.

“Courteous?” repeated Miss Roberta Mae, clutching her pearls.
“Courteous,” Potts confirmed solemnly. “He saluted us with a lantern.”

Preacher Boone straightened. “A lantern salute? That’s a sign of deep respect.”

Clyde piped up: “Or deep mischief.”

Hank Bailey shook his head violently. “No mischief, Clyde. That ghost had purpose.”

Virgil added, “He tidied the Bible.”

“That’s right, he did,” murmured the crowd, impressed.

Potts nodded gravely.
“He straightened the lamp chain, too. And the bed was made with hospital corners.”

Mrs. Delphine stood and announced, “That was him. I didn’t do that. I ain’t touched hospital corners since 1952.”

Murmurs grew into whispers.
Whispers grew into audible theorizing.
Audible theorizing grew into full-blown chaos.

Theories Take the Floor (All At Once)

“He’s a conductor!” shouted one man.
“He’s an angel!” declared Miss Roberta Mae.
“He’s a Confederate general!” proposed Huey Parris.
“He’s a former guest!” insisted Sadie Mae.
“He’s a biscuit rearranger!” piped up a child, earning instant applause.

Fiddlestick McGraw rose to his feet, waving his rope.
“He nodded at us, folks! And I don’t know what that means, but I’m damn sure it means somethin’!”

This declaration had the effect of pouring lighter fluid on gossip already lit.

Arguments ignited:

• Was the ghost friendly or just selectively polite?
• Did he live in Room No. 3 or simply tidy it on weekends?
• Did he have unfinished business or a compulsive cleaning habit?
• Was he Baptist, Methodist, or merely spiritual?

Mrs. Delphine, her patience sinking like a stone in the Coosa River, finally shouted:

“He ain’t hurtin’ nobody! Let the man… er… spirit… rest! He’s quieter than half o’ y’all.”

This was irrefutable, and the hall fell briefly silent.

Preacher Boone’s Closing Benediction

Preacher Boone rose again, hands raised.

“Let us remember good manners are a gift, whether from the living or the dead. This ghost, polite as he is, seems not a threat but a presence. A reminder of tidiness, courtesy, and perhaps the need for us to mind our ways.”

A thoughtful hush fell over the crowd.

Then someone shouted:

“SO, WHAT DO WE DO ABOUT HIM?”

Preacher Boone paused, then smiled the gentle, weary smile of a man who has shepherded many fools and loves them anyway.

“We do what Piedmont has always done,” he said.
“We watch. We wait. We talk. We speculate.
And when the time comes…
we listen to the ghost himself.”

The meeting adjourned in a tangle of conversations so thick you could’ve harvested them with a rake.

And in the shadows outside the Fellowship Hall, a faint glow hovered near the Seaboard tracks… listening.

*****

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