A Piedmont Lantern Story

Folks in Piedmont have always been peculiar about their civic duties. Some volunteer to keep up the flowerbeds downtown. Some help sort canned goods for the food pantry. Some make calls for the spring fundraising drive. And then you have the people who, for reasons unknowable, even to the Lord Himself, decide to create brand new civic duties out of thin air.

This story concerns that last category.

It was a warm April Saturday when Jimmy Matthew Cartwright announced that he had taken it upon himself to perform a service to science, to the community, and possibly to all future generations, though no one asked him to clarify the order of importance.

He stood on Jim Leroy’s porch, hands on his hips, face earnest as a minister at a funeral.

“Jim,” he said, “the time has come for a great work. A noble work. A work so vital that Piedmont ain’t gonna appreciate it till I am long dead.”

Jim Leroy, who had seen noble works blow up in Jimmy’s face before, said, “What sorta work we talkin’ about? Somethin’ that requires adults supervisin’ you?”

Jimmy shook his head so hard his hair flopped like a wet squirrel.

“No, sir. I’m startin’ the Great Pinecone Census.”

Jim blinked.

“The what?”

“The Great Pinecone Census,” Jimmy repeated. “See, every year we got pinecones fallin’ all over this town. Some big. Some small. Some downright weaponized. And yet, has anyone ever counted ’em? No sir. Not once. Not in the history of Piedmont. I mean to change that.”

Jim Leroy closed his eyes.

“You plan to count… every pinecone in town?”

“Of course not,” Jimmy said, insulted. “Only the important ones.”

“Important pinecones,” Jim echoed, already regrettin’ every life choice that led him to this moment.

“Right,” Jimmy said. “The pinecones that look like they got personality. The ones that’s shaped funny. The ones that fall with a purpose. I figure we’ll gather the specimens, study ’em real scientific, and submit our findings to the Piedmont Town Council. Maybe even the Smithsonian.”

Jim stared at him.

“Jimmy Matthew… you do understand that pinecones ain’t rare. Trees spit ’em out like gossip at the beauty parlor.”

Jimmy waved him off.

“That’s why we gotta act fast. They’re everywhere. We gotta perform our duties before somebody else gets the idea.”

Jim Leroy sighed.

“Fine. If it gets you outta trouble, I’ll help. But we are not presentin’ pinecones to the Smithsonian.”

“We’ll see what destiny demands,” Jimmy said, already headed for the woods.

The Gathering

Now, one might expect the Great Pinecone Census to be a calm and peaceful affair. Two boys walkin’ through the pines, pickin’ up tree droppings, mindin’ their own business.

But this would not be a story worth tellin’ if that were the case.

It began with Jimmy announcing he had invented a new scientific ranking system.

“We got three classifications,” he said, scribblin’ in a notebook that once belonged to his sister before she wisely hid all her good pencils.

“One: ‘Common Pinecone.’ Nothing special. Two: ‘Distinguished Pinecone.’ Shows promise. Three: ‘Pinecone of Unusual Circumstances.’ This one gets its own page.”

Jim eyed a pinecone Jimmy had placed reverently on a stump.

“What’s unusual about that one?”

“It winked at me,” Jimmy said.

“It did not.”

“I felt it,” he insisted. “In my spirit.”

Jim muttered, “Your spirit needs a tune-up.”

Trouble Arrives Right On Schedule

They had gathered fifteen pinecones, documented seven, and given ceremonial names to three when trouble finally showed up, as it always does when Jimmy Matthew is within a ten-mile radius.

The trouble was shaped like a man.

A very large man.

A very irritated man.

Mr. Farley Hollins, owner of the property the boys had wandered onto, was home to the well-known “Hollins Prize Pumpkin Patch,” where everything was grown with tenderness, devotion, and complete unwillingness to tolerate trespassers.

“What,” Mr. Hollins said, in a voice borrowed from thunder, “are you boys doin’ stealin’ pinecones off my land?”

Jimmy Matthew puffed up.

“Sir, with respect, we are conductin’ scientific research.”

Mr. Hollins glared so hard the trees leaned out of the way.

“What research?”

“The Great Pinecone Census of Piedmont,” Jimmy said proudly. “Future generations will thank us.”

Mr. Hollins folded his arms.

“Did the town commission this?”

“No, sir.”

“The school?”

“No, sir.”

“The Smithsonian?”

“Well,” Jimmy said, “they ain’t said they didn’t.”

Jim Leroy hissed, “Jimmy, stop talkin’.”

But it was too late. Jimmy had entered what scholars call the Full Delusion of Importance Phase.

“Mr. Hollins,” he said, “one day these pinecones will be historical artifacts. Folks will say, ‘This here is Cone Number Twelve, collected by the legendary boy naturalists of Piedmont, Alabama.’ And you, sir, will be proud you gave your land to the cause.”

Mr. Hollins let out a long, terrible sigh.

“Boys,” he said, rubbing his temples, “take your pinecones. Take all the pinecones you want. Just get off my property before I lose my religion.”

The Great Unveiling

Back home, Jimmy arranged the pinecones on the porch like prized jewels.

He took photographs.
He drew diagrams.
He drafted a letter to the Smithsonian that began with, “Dear Sirs, brace yourselves…”

Jim Leroy said, “Jimmy, what exactly do you expect the Smithsonian to do with a bag of pinecones from Piedmont?”

Jimmy shrugged.

“Probably put ’em in a museum. Or name a wing after me.”

“That ain’t how museums work,” Jim said.

Jimmy smiled.

“Not yet.”

The Punchline Arrives Late, As It Should

Two weeks went by.

One afternoon, Mrs. Cartwright handed Jimmy a letter.

The Smithsonian Institute had replied.

Jimmy tore it open on the porch while Jim Leroy held his breath.

The letter read:

“Dear Mr. Cartwright,
Thank you for your submission. While your pinecones show great enthusiasm, we regret to inform you that we are presently full. Please feel free to try again when you are older. Much older.”

Jimmy grinned from ear to ear.

“They said to try again!”

Jim Leroy groaned.

“Jimmy… that was a polite no.”

Jimmy slapped him on the back.

“Not yet. It was a ‘not yet.’ The future is full of pinecones, Jim. And so am I.”

Jim Leroy lowered his face into his hands.

This, he knew, was only the beginning.