A Piedmont Porchlight Story

A young fellow asked me one time if it was ever quiet in Alabama. I smiled.

“Son, I don’t believe you’ve ever been here.”

The Coffee Cup had settled into that lazy time between breakfast and lunch. Curtis Pope was pretending to read the newspaper. Everybody knew he was looking at the funny papers. Hattie knew it too. She just hadn’t embarrassed him about it yet. I looked out the window toward Centre Avenue.

“You know, I don’t reckon Alabama’s ever been quiet.”

Curtis looked up. “It ain’t?”

“No. It just sounds different.”

Hattie came by with the coffee pot. “Explain that.”

“Glad to.”

She topped off my coffee. “Go outside tonight.”

“All right.”

“Stand perfectly still. Then listen. You won’t hear silence. You’ll hear crickets. You’ll hear katydids. You’ll hear tree frogs arguing with each other. You’ll hear a dog bark three roads over.”

Curtis nodded. “You’ll hear somebody’s screen door.”

“And if you’re lucky, you’ll hear the eight-twelve freight if it’s morning. Or the midnight train if it’s late enough.”

Hattie smiled. “I like hearing the wind in the pine trees.”

“So do I. It sounds like they’re whispering.”

Funny thing about Alabama. We’ve never trusted complete silence. If everything suddenly goes quiet, everybody notices.

I remember sitting on Mawmaw’s porch one summer evening. We weren’t saying much. She was shelling peas. I was doing my best to look useful. All at once, every cricket stopped. Every frog quit singing. Even the birds hushed up.

I looked over at Mawmaw. “Mawmaw.”

“What?”

“Why’d everything get quiet?”

She never looked up. “Probably a hawk.”

A few seconds later, every sound came back. Like somebody had turned summer back on. I never forgot that.

Curtis laughed. “My granddaddy used to say, when the woods go quiet, pay attention.”

Hattie nodded. “My daddy said the same thing.”

I smiled. “I reckon granddaddies all belonged to the same union.” That got a laugh. Outside, Earl Johnson walked by carrying a sack of tomatoes. He waved. We waved back. Didn’t need to say a word.

Funny how little towns work. Sometimes a wave is the whole conversation. After a minute, Hattie sat down with her own cup of coffee.

“You know what I think silence sounds like?”

“What?”

“Home.”

Curtis looked at her. “Home ain’t silent.”

“I know. That’s why I like it.”

For a little while, nobody said anything. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead. Somebody in the kitchen dropped a spoon. A chair scooted across the floor. Outside, a mockingbird had apparently decided he knew every song ever written.

I smiled.

Maybe that young fellow had the wrong question. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked what silence sounded like. Maybe he should’ve asked what peace sounds like.

Because around here peace sounds an awful lot like crickets. A screen door. Pine trees talking to the wind. And somebody you love sitting close enough that neither one of you feels the need to fill the quiet.

I reckon that’s about as close to heaven as Alabama ever gets.