A Piedmont Porchlight Story

Curtis Pope was already halfway through breakfast when I sat down. Hattie looked up.

“The usual?”

“You know me too well.”

“I know everybody too well.”

She wasn’t bragging. Just stating a fact. Curtis folded the funny papers before Hattie could catch him.

“You know…”

“What?” I asked.

“I had to cut down that old maple beside the shop.”

I looked up. “The big one?”

He nodded. “Storm got it. Rot in the middle. Hated to do it.”

For a little while neither of us said anything. Funny how losing a tree can feel like losing a neighbor.

Hattie brought our coffee. “My daddy cried when they cut down the pecan tree.”

Curtis looked surprised. “Your daddy?”

She nodded.

“I never saw him cry before.”

“It wasn’t just a tree.”

“No.”

“It was where his daddy taught him to crack pecans with a hammer.”

I smiled. “I reckon everybody needs a favorite tree.”

Curtis nodded. “I had one.”

“So did I.”

Mine stood down by Terrapin Creek. Big white oak. So wide three boys holding hands couldn’t quite reach around it. In the summertime, it threw enough shade to cool your whole afternoon. I’d climb halfway up, find that one limb that fit me just right, and sit there thinking thoughts too big for a little boy.

Sometimes I’d fish. Sometimes I’d read. Sometimes I’d do absolutely nothing. Funny thing is, that tree never asked anything from me. It was just there. Waiting. Year after year. Summer after summer.

Hattie smiled. “My favorite was a dogwood.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause Mama always said spring hadn’t really arrived until that tree turned white.”

Curtis laughed. “My favorite was an old pine.”

“What’d you do there?”

“Nothing.”

“You climbed it?”

“No.”

“You swung from it?”

“No. I just leaned against it.”

I looked at him. “For what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seemed like the right place to think.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

Outside, a little boy rode past on his bicycle. He stopped under the big sycamore across the street. Dropped the kickstand. And disappeared behind the trunk. We watched him for a minute.

Finally, Curtis smiled. “I’ll bet that’s his favorite tree.”

“I reckon it is.”

Funny thing about favorite trees. You never pick them on purpose. One day, without even realizing it, you simply start going there. When you’re happy. When you’re worried. When you’ve got a pocket full of marbles. When you’ve had your feelings hurt. The tree never changes. So somehow, you do.

Hattie looked out the window. “You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“Children climbing trees.”

“So do I.”

“I reckon they’re afraid of falling.”

I smiled. “No. I reckon we’re afraid of letting ’em.”

That settled over the booth for a minute. Outside, the little boy came out from behind the sycamore carrying two acorns and a grin. He climbed back on his bicycle and pedaled away. I watched him disappear down Centre Avenue. Maybe thirty years from now, he won’t remember what he did that afternoon. But I’ll bet he’ll remember that tree. And maybe, just maybe, one day he’ll drive past it with his own grandchildren. He’ll slow down. Point toward the shade. And say, “That’s my tree.”

They’ll probably smile. Maybe even nod. But they won’t really understand. Not yet. Because everybody needs a favorite tree. Not to climb. Not to sit under. Just to remind us that some of the strongest things in our lives never had to move to change us.