A Piedmont Porch Light Story

The Coffee Cup sits just two blocks down from where I used to spend my days at Magnolia Mortuary. Most mornings, unless I’ve got somewhere else to be, you’ll find me in the same booth by the front window. Hattie Lane keeps my coffee cup full, and I do my best to keep her entertained enough that she doesn’t charge me extra for the refills.

She still hasn’t.

One of these days she’s liable to.

The Coffee Cup wakes up slow, just like Piedmont does. First come the folks headed to work. Then the retirees drift in, one by one, like leaves floatin’ down Terrapin Creek. Across the street, the old Piedmont Hotel is stretchin’ awake. Somebody’s always rockin’ on that wraparound porch, and if you sit where I do, you can see the depot, the freight warehouse, and just enough of the railroad tracks to know whether the mornin’ train is runnin’ late.

It’s a good place to watch a town remember itself.

Hattie topped off my coffee the other mornin’ and leaned against the counter.

“Jim,” she said, “my granddaughter told me I ought to get on Facebook.”

I looked over the rim of my coffee cup.

“What for?”

“So I can keep up with folks.”

I chuckled.

“Hattie, the front porch was Facebook before Facebook.”

She laughed.

“I reckon you’re right.”

“I know I’m right.”

She folded her arms.

“Explain it to me.”

“Gladly.”

I pointed out the window toward the hotel porch.

“See that fellow sittin’ over yonder?”

“I do.”

“By supper time, he’ll know who’s got tomatoes ready, whose grandson made the honor roll, whose dog got into somebody else’s chicken house, and who’s fixin’ to paint their porch blue.”

She nodded.

“Well…”

“He won’t know because somebody posted it.”

“No?”

“He’ll know because somebody walked by and told him.”

Hattie laughed that laugh of hers that starts in her shoulders before it ever reaches her face.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“We didn’t have friend requests.”

“No?”

“No, ma’am. You just walked across the yard and sat down.”

By then old Curtis Pope had wandered in, still wearin’ his barber apron.

“What are y’all arguin’ about now?”

“We ain’t arguin’,” Hattie said. “Jim’s explainin’ why front porches were Facebook.”

Curtis grinned.

“I believe he’s onto somethin’.”

“Course I am.”

I took another sip of coffee.

“Back then, if somebody got a new baby, the whole neighborhood knew before sunset.”

“If somebody burned supper,” Hattie added, “the whole neighborhood knew that, too.”

“Exactly.”

“If somebody bought a new Chevrolet…”

“Everybody came to look at it.”

“If somebody was sick…”

“Folks showed up with enough casseroles to feed the Baptist convention.”

Curtis eased into the booth beside me.

“And if somebody got too big for their britches?”

I smiled.

“The comments section met on the front porch.”

That got a laugh out of all three of us.

Truth is, front porches weren’t built because houses needed ’em.

They were built because people did.

Long before we carried the whole world around in our pockets, we carried our little piece of it across the street.

You didn’t have to click “Like.”

You smiled.

You didn’t have to share a memory.

You told it.

You didn’t have to wonder if somebody was lonely.

You could see ’em sittin’ by themselves and walk over.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not fussin’ at progress. If it lets a grandmother see pictures of her grandbabies halfway across the country, I’m all for it.

But I do wonder sometimes if we’ve traded a few conversations for a few notifications.

Seems to me a porch swing still beats a news feed.

Hattie came by one last time before I left.

“You know, Jim…”

“What’s that?”

“If folks had been postin’ pictures of supper back then…”

I grinned before she could finish.

“They wouldn’t have needed to.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause the whole neighborhood would’ve been sittin’ on the porch eatin’ it with ’em.”