Dear Piedmont,

I’ve been meaning to write you for years. Truth is, I never could figure out where to mail the letter. So, I reckon I’ll just leave it here. Maybe the wind knows your address.

First off, thank you. Thank you for raising a skinny little boy who didn’t know he was making memories. At the time, I thought I was just living. Turns out, I was collecting stories.

Thank you for Terrapin Creek. For Dugger Mountain standing watch over all of us. For train whistles that could find their way into a bedroom window. For front porches where neighbors waved without needing a reason.

Thank you for Curtis Pope. For Hattie. For Charlie Benson and that paper sack that still makes me nervous. For Earl Johnson, who somehow always seems to be walking somewhere carrying something. Thank you for church potlucks. For church fans. For Mason jars lined up on pantry shelves. For old pocketknives polished smooth by honest work. For cast-iron skillets that fed families one biscuit at a time. For an old water dipper that still hangs in my kitchen, and somehow still knows the names of everybody who ever drank from it.

Thank you for teaching me that ordinary things aren’t ordinary at all. They’re where life hides. Thank you for every screen door that ever slammed behind a child headed outside. For lightning bugs. For favorite trees. For porch swings that rocked generations. For old coffee cups nobody in the Navy had enough sense to wash.

Well… Except me. Just that once. I appreciate you forgiving that mistake.

Most of all, thank you for your people. Not because they were perfect. Lord knows they weren’t. They were stubborn. Opinionated. Hardheaded. Funny. Kind.

The sort of folks who’d argue with you all morning, then stop and help you change a flat tire before lunch. You gave me people worth remembering. And that’s a mighty fine gift.

Now, I know you’ve changed. Some of the buildings are gone. The passenger train doesn’t stop anymore. The old Coffee Cup ain’t standing where it once did. Children who used to ride bicycles now watch grandchildren do the same. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. A town that never changes ain’t really living.

But here’s something I hope never changes. I hope somebody still waves at strangers. I hope children still stop to watch ladybugs. I hope there’s still a grandmother somewhere who can find anything in the junk drawer. I hope somebody’s still frying bacon in a cast-iron skillet this very morning.

And I hope that every once in a while, somebody sits on a front porch with no particular place to be. Because that’s where stories begin. You know, folks sometimes thank me for writing about you. Truth is, I’ve got that backwards. You’re the one who wrote me.

Every laugh. Every scar. Every goodbye. Every friend. Every lesson. Every memory. You wrote every one of them across my life long before I ever picked up a pen.

So, if these little Coffee Cup stories have reminded somebody of home, or made them call an old friend, or smile at a memory they’d nearly forgotten, then the credit belongs to you. I’ve just been taking dictation.

With gratitude, and more love than I know how to put into words,

Your old friend,

Jim Wright

P.S. Don’t worry. As long as I’ve got a story left to tell, you won’t ever really be gone.