A Piedmont Porchlight Story

October always feels different in Piedmont.

Not because the leaves turn. Lord knows they take their own sweet time about that down here. It’s the air.

One mornin’ you step outside with your coffee and realize summer finally quit arguin’. The sun don’t seem quite so hurried, the shade feels a little cooler, and the porch starts callin’ your name before supper instead of after dark.

Folks linger a little longer this time of year. Maybe it’s because the mosquitoes finally waved their white surrender flag. Maybe it’s because October’s always been a month for rememberin’.

I’ve noticed somethin’ over the years. Come October, people begin tellin’ stories they somehow forgot all summer. Stories that start with, “Now, I don’t rightly know what to make of it…” Or… “You’ll probably think I’m crazier’n a Betsy Bug in December…”

Those are my favorite kind. Not because I believe every one of ’em. It’s because the people tellin’ ’em usually do. Now, before we get ourselves into this month’s foolishness, I reckon I ought to explain one thing.

Y’all have probably noticed the old blackthorn walking stick leanin’ beside my rocker. I’ve carried it on and off for years. Picked it up in Ireland while Zeek and I were wanderin’ through a little village that looked like it’d been there since God was a boy.

It was leanin’ outside an antique shop. Crooked. Knotted. Shined smooth by somebody else’s hand long before mine. The old gentleman who owned the place watched me admire it for several minutes before he named his price. I thought he was askin’ entirely too much money for an old stick.

Apparently, he thought I was entirely too cheap. We met somewhere in the middle. As he wrapped it in brown paper, he smiled. Not a salesman smile. One of those smiles old men wear when they know somethin’ they ain’t in no hurry to explain.

He handed me the stick and said, “You didn’t buy just a stick. You bought the stories.” I laughed. Figured that was just Irish charm. Brought it home. Leaned it beside my porch chair. Forgot all about what he’d said.

A few months later, Curtis Pope asked why I’d left my walking stick down by the depot. I told him I hadn’t been to the depot all week. He scratched his chin. “Sho’ looked like yours.” I didn’t think another thing about it.

Then Sadie Mae mentioned she’d seen it leanin’ beside the front door at Magnolia Mortuary. That would’ve been difficult. I’d been usin’ it that very afternoon.

Bonita asked me one Sunday if I’d forgotten it at church. I told her she’d mistaken somebody else’s stick for mine. She just shrugged. Truth is, old blackthorn walking sticks ain’t exactly common around Piedmont.

Still… Folks see what they expect to see. Or maybe what they want to see. Memory’s a funny thing. Especially once you’ve collected enough birthdays.

Now, I ain’t tellin’ you there’s anything unusual about that old stick. Matter of fact, I’d bet every nickel in my pocket there’s a perfectly sensible explanation. But over the years, enough people have mentioned seein’ it in places where I knew good and well I hadn’t been that I finally quit arguin’.

I just listened. Turns out… every one of those conversations led to another story. October seems as good a time as any to tell a few of ’em.

Now, whether they happened exactly this way…

Well, that depends on who you ask.

This story is part of the October series, Strange Tales of Piedmont. Drop by tomorrow evening. Around here, every story seems to lead to another one… and if you happen to notice an old blackthorn walking stick along the way, well… you’re payin’ better attention than most folks.

Have you seen the stick? Folks mentioned seeing the old Irish blackthorn walking stick at the train depot, though I never took it there.

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