A Piedmont Porchlight Story

The Coffee Cup was settling into its usual Wednesday morning rhythm. Hattie Lane was filling coffee cups. Curtis Pope was pretending to read the newspaper while listening to everybody else’s conversation. The eight-twelve freight had just rumbled through town. I looked at my watch. “Right on time.”

Hattie smiled. “One of these mornin’s that train’s gonna fool you.”

“Hasn’t yet.”

She topped off my coffee.

“You know,” she said, “I heard somebody on television last night say they grew up broke.”

I stirred another spoonful of cream into my coffee. “Were they?”

“I don’t know, they had a swimming pool.”

Curtis lowered the newspaper.

“That ain’t broke.”

“No,” I said, it surely ain’t.”

Hattie frowned.

“Is there really a difference?”

“Oh, there’s a world of difference.”

She pulled out the chair across from me and sat down for a minute.

“All right; teach us.”

I smiled. “Broke means you don’t have much money right now. Poor means you don’t have much money… for a long while.”

Curtis nodded. “My daddy used to say bein’ broke was temporary.”

“Mine too. We were poor,” I said, but I don’t ever remember us thinkin’ we were.”

Hattie looked surprised. “How’s that?”

“Because everybody around us was livin’ about the same way we was. Nobody had much. Nobody expected much. But somehow… everybody had enough. Enough tomatoes to share. Enough beans to put on another plate. Enough time to help fix a fence. Enough room at the supper table for one more chair.

Curtis folded his newspaper. “My mama could make supper out of almost nothin’.”

Hattie laughed. “Lord, honey! So could mine.”

“Beans on Monday, bean soup on Tuesday, leftovers on Wednesday.”

“And somehow,” I said, “they all tasted different.”

Hattie smiled. “My Mawmaw could sew patches on blue jeans so neat you’d almost think they came that way.”

Curtis chuckled. “My brother had so many patches, Mama said the original britches were just holdin’ the patches together.”

The three of us laughed. Funny thing about being poor. Nobody around us spent much time talking about it. There was too much living to do. Gardens needed weeding. Wood needed splitting. Chickens needed feeding. The grass kept growing whether your wallet was full or empty.

After a minute, Hattie asked quietly, “Did you ever wish you’d had more?”

I thought about that longer than I expected to. “Sometimes. But mostly I just wished Saturday would hurry up, so I could go fishin’.”

Curtis grinned. “I wished for a bicycle.”

“You ever get one?”

“When I was fourteen.”

“Weren’t you a little old?”

“I rode it like I was eight.”

We all laughed again.

Outside, a little boy rode past the Coffee Cup on a bicycle that was obviously too big for him. His feet barely reached the pedals. He was grinning from ear to ear. I watched him disappear toward the depot. “You know what?” I said.

“What?” Hattie asked.

“I’ve known folks with plenty of money who were poor.”

Curtis nodded slowly. “I have too.” “I’ve also known families that didn’t have two nickels to rub together… and you couldn’t have convinced them they were missin’ anything.”

Hattie reached over and patted my hand. “My daddy used to say, ‘Money can buy a bigger house.'”

I smiled. “But it can’t make it home.”

She smiled back. “No.” “It surely can’t.”

Curtis stood up and folded his newspaper under his arm. “Well… I reckon we’re all rich enough to pay for breakfast.”

I looked at him. “Speak for yourself.”

He grinned. “I was.”

“I was hopin’ you’d buy mine.”

Hattie shook her head. “You two are proof that some folks never really grow up.”

Curtis winked. “Maybe not. But we sure had a good childhood.”

I watched him walk toward the cash register. “You know…”

Hattie looked over her shoulder. “What?”

“I reckon that’s the real difference.”

“Between poor and broke?”

“No.”

“Between having enough… and knowing you do.”