A Piedmont Porchlight Story

Every house I ever knew had one good chair. Not the prettiest one. Not the newest one. Just… The chair. You knew better than to claim it for very long.

At Mawmaw and Pawpaw’s house, the chair was an old brown recliner that had already seen better days by the time I came along. The arms were worn smooth. The fabric had given up pretending to be new sometime during the Eisenhower administration. If you leaned just right, it’d squeak a little. If you pushed yourself back with enough determination, the footrest would grudgingly come up like an old mule deciding maybe it’d cooperate after all. This was long before handles on the side to lift your feet.

Beside it stood Pawpaw’s ashtray. Not one of those little things folks kept on coffee tables. This was serious equipment. A heavy glass ashtray sitting atop a bronze stand, with a brass handle arching over it so he could pull it closer without ever getting out of his chair. That ashtray knew as much about Pawpaw as anybody in Piedmont.

Right beside his chair sat Mawmaw’s green recliner. Those two chairs looked like they’d been arguing with each other for forty years. And maybe they had.

Now, if Pawpaw happened to be outside, or down at the barn, or tinkering with something that probably didn’t need tinkering, his chair became fair game. I’d climb into it like I’d just inherited a kingdom. That old recliner fit a little boy about as well as a rowboat fits a whale.

My feet couldn’t touch the floor. Didn’t matter. For a little while, I was king. Then I’d hear the screen door. The unmistakable sound of Pawpaw’s boots crossing the kitchen floor. Without fail, the same voice would rumble through the house.

“Un-ass that chair, boy, your Paw is tired.”

Well. That ended the debate. I’d launch myself out of that recliner so fast you’d have thought it’d caught fire. Pawpaw always tried to keep a straight face. He wasn’t very good at it. Half the time I think he enjoyed seeing me scramble almost as much as he enjoyed reclaiming his throne.

Once he settled in, the evening found its proper rhythm. The recliner creaked. The cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling. The standing ashtray made its quiet little scrape across the floor every now and then. Then Mawmaw would pick up whatever she happened to be reading.

The newspaper, a Louis L’Amour novel, or one of those well-worn paperback westerns whose covers always promised more gunfights than they actually delivered. Sometimes a mystery. Sometimes a Raymond Chandler detective story. It didn’t matter.

Pawpaw couldn’t read. So Mawmaw read to him. Every word. Every page. Every chapter. She never hurried. Never acted like it was a chore. She simply read. And Pawpaw listened.

Looking back, I reckon I witnessed one of the greatest love stories I’ve ever known. Not because they said “I love you” all the time. I honestly don’t remember hearing those words much. They didn’t have to. Love was sitting in a green recliner reading aloud to a man who couldn’t read for himself. Love was an old man listening like he’d never grow tired of her voice.

Sometimes I’d crawl up beside Pawpaw. Sometimes I’d end up asleep before the chapter was over. If I woke later, I’d still hear Mawmaw reading. The rhythm of her voice became part of the house itself.

Now don’t get the wrong impression. Mawmaw kept a house clean enough to satisfy the Almighty Himself. If Ol’ Man Wright had gotten the notion to sit there whittling in the living room, there would’ve been a household revival, and he would’ve been the one getting saved.

Wood shavings belonged outside. Not on her clean floor. And as for a dog… Lord have mercy. A dog inside that house would’ve lasted about as long as a snowball in July. No sir. The only creatures allowed on the furniture were grandchildren. We shed enough dirt to qualify as topsoil. Mawmaw somehow tolerated that.

Years passed. The cigarettes disappeared. The books wore out. The newspaper yellowed. The old recliner grew another squeak. Then one day, it sat empty. For a long time, nobody seemed to sit in it. Not because we weren’t allowed. Because somehow, it still belonged to Pawpaw.  

Funny how a chair can do that. It can become so much a part of a person that you can’t think of one without seeing the other. These days, when I see an old recliner sitting in the corner of somebody’s living room, I don’t notice the worn fabric. I don’t notice the faded arms. I don’t notice the squeaks.

I wonder whose stories it has heard. Whose grandchildren it has held. Whose tired bones it has welcomed home after a long day’s work. Because I’ve come to believe the finest chairs aren’t measured by how comfortable they are. They’re measured by the life that’s been lived in them.

Pawpaw’s old recliner wasn’t worth much at a yard sale. But I’d give just about anything to hear the screen door one more time. To hear those boots crossing Mawmaw’s clean kitchen floor. And to hear that familiar voice rumble through the house once again.

“Un-ass that chair, boy, your Paw is tired.”

I reckon I’d jump up just as fast today as I did back then. Only now…

I’d ask if there was room for one more grandson to sit on the arm while Mawmaw read us another chapter. May your memories be eternal, Jim and Lucy Wright.