A Piedmont Porchlight Story

If somebody ever builds the Museum of Ordinary Things, there ought to be a church fan in one of the display cases. Not a brand-new one, Lord no. I’m talking about one of those cardboard fans with a wooden handle. The kind that had a picture of Jesus on one side, and Magnolia Mortuary on the other. If you grew up in the South, you know exactly which one I’m talking about.

I got to thinking about that one Sunday morning at the Coffee Cup. Hattie was fanning herself with the breakfast menu.

Curtis looked over. “You know, that reminds me of church.”

Hattie laughed. “Only because the air conditioner’s limpin’.”

“No.”

“The fan.”

I smiled. “I don’t reckon there was ever a Southern church without one.”

Curtis nodded. “I believe the Lord created July just so church fans would have a purpose.”

That got a laugh.

Funny thing about those fans. They weren’t just for keeping cool. They were little communication devices. If somebody started fanning real hard, you knew the preacher had wandered into overtime.

If Mama fanned you, you knew you’d better straighten up and fly right.

If Mawmaw reached over and gave your knee one little tap with the handle, you suddenly remembered how to sit still.

Hattie pointed at me. “My mama never had to say a word.”

“My Mawmaw neither.”

“One tap.”

“That was all.”

Curtis laughed. “My daddy always claimed he could tell how long the sermon was by the speed of the fans.”

“How’s that?”

“If everybody started slow, it was a short sermon. If they looked like a flock of hummingbirds, Preacher Boone hadn’t found his stopping place yet.” The whole Coffee Cup laughed.

Outside, Earl Johnson walked past carrying a box.

Hattie looked through the window. “What’s Earl got now?”

Curtis squinted. “I’ll be…”

“What?”

“A church fan.”

Earl came in holding up a faded fan with half the cardboard peeling loose. “Found it in Mama’s Bible.”

Hattie took it gently. “Look at that.”

She turned it over. “Magnolia Mortuary.”

Curtis grinned. “I reckon they’ve advertised at more revivals than Coca-Cola.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Funny thing about church fans. They lasted longer than the funeral homes that printed them. Longer than the pew cushions. Sadly, sometimes, longer than the churches themselves.

But every time you picked one up, you could almost hear the old hymns again. You could smell ladies’ perfume mingling with furniture polish. You could hear babies fussing. The preacher clearing his throat. Pages rustling through well-worn Bibles. And somewhere, somebody whispering, “He’s almost done.”

He never was.

Hattie smiled into her coffee. “You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“The sound.”

“What sound?”

“Two hundred church fans all flappin’ at once.”

I closed my eyes for just a second. I could hear it. A soft flutter. Like a room full of little wings. Not noisy. Comforting. The sound of people trying to stay cool while listening to something they hoped would make them better.

If somebody ever builds that Museum of Ordinary Things, don’t put the church fan behind glass. Hand it to somebody on a hot August afternoon. Let them wave it a few times. Watch them smile. Because they won’t just feel the breeze. They’ll hear a choir. They’ll smell Sunday dinner waiting at home. They’ll see Mama, and Mawmaw, and the little boy beside them trying his best to sit still.

And I reckon that’s a mighty fine sermon for an old piece of cardboard to preach.