A Piedmont Porchlight Story

If somebody ever builds the Museum of Ordinary Things, they’d better save a place for an old tin dipper. Not one of those shiny decorative ones hanging on a restaurant wall. I’m talking about the real thing. The one that’s still hangin’ in my kitchen.

Matter of fact, I still use it.

Hattie looked at me over the top of her glasses. “You still drink out of that old thing?”

“Yes’m, I surely do.”

Curtis Pope nearly dropped his coffee cup. “The same dipper?”

“The very same one.”

“How old is it?”

I shrugged. “Nigh onto seventy years, I’d reckon, maybe older.”

Hattie laughed. “Well, don’t that beat all.”

Funny thing about an old dipper. It was never just yours. It belonged to whoever happened to be thirsty. I remember it hanging beside that ol’ galvanized water bucket in the kitchen when I was just a little fellow. Cold spring water. Cold enough to make your teeth ache if you drank too fast.

Brothers.

A sister.

Cousins.

Aunts.

Uncles.

Mama.

Daddy.

Mawmaw.

Pawpaw.

Aunt Myrtie.

I reckon every one of them wrapped their fingers around that same handle many a time. Somebody would fill it. Take a long drink. Hang it back up. The very next person did the same thing. Nobody thought twice about it.

Curtis smiled. “Nowadays somebody’d ask ‘who all’s been drinkin’ outta that ol’ thing?'”

“I reckon they would.”

Hattie nodded.

“What’d y’all do?”

I smiled. “We got a drink.” That was enough to make all three of us laugh.

Funny thing is, that I don’t remember a single soul ever worrying about germs. I surely don’t remember anybody getting sick from that old dipper. Maybe we were tougher. Maybe we were more trusting. Or maybe we simply understood that some things were meant to be shared.

Outside, Earl Johnson wandered past carrying a bucket.

Curtis hollered through the screen door. “Earl!”

“What?”

“You ever drink out of a dipper?”

Earl looked offended. “Boy, I grew up practically attached to one.”

The whole Coffee Cup laughed. When things settled down again, I looked down into my own coffee. That ol’ dipper is still hanging in my kitchen. Every once in a while, I take it down, fill it with cold water. And stand there for just a minute. Funny thing happens.

The water still tastes just as cold as it did when I was a boy. But something else has changed. Every time I drink from that old dipper I’m surrounded again by brothers, a sister, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and parents. They’re all there. Laughing. Talking over one another. Somebody’s telling a joke. Somebody’s shelling peas. Somebody’s calling children in for supper. The dipper never says a word.

It doesn’t have to. It’s already introduced me to everybody I came from.

Hattie picked up our empty cups. “You know,”

“What?”

“I reckon that ol’ dipper’s earned a place in your museum.”

I smiled. “No, ma’am.”

She looked puzzled. “No?”

“No. It’s still got work to do.”

If somebody ever builds that Museum of Ordinary Things they’ll have to wait a little longer for my old dipper. Because every now and then an old man still gets thirsty.

And I reckon the nostalgia tastes almost as good as the water.