A Piedmont Porchlight Story
Rainy mornings always brought more conversation than customers to Blackwelder’s Hardware. Folks would come in to get out of the weather, stomp the muddy water off their boots, warm their hands around the coffee pot over in the corner, and remember whatever it was they’d actually come to buy about twenty minutes later.
Mr. Blackwelder never seemed to mind. He claimed rain made people honest. “Sunshine gets folks in a hurry,” he’d say. “Rain makes ’em sit still long enough to tell the truth.”
I stopped in one October morning for a box of wood screws. Outside the rain drummed steadily on the tin porch roof. Inside smelled like coffee, motor oil, cedar shavings, and damp canvas. Best smell in the world if you ask me.
There was an old black umbrella leaning in the corner beside the front door. Nothing special about it. Wooden handle. One rib bent a little crooked. Water dripping onto the floor.
Mr. Blackwelder noticed me looking at it. “Ain’t nobody claimed that thing.” “How long’s it been there?” He shrugged. “Depends who you ask.”
That was a peculiar answer for a perfectly ordinary question. Before I could ask another one, Earl wandered in shaking rainwater off his hat. Saw the umbrella. Pointed at it. “That thing still here?”
Mr. Blackwelder nodded. Earl laughed. “I remember that umbrella from when my daddy brought me in here.”
“Your daddy’s been gone twenty-five years.”
“I know.”
Silence.
Mr. Blackwelder just poured another cup of coffee. Nobody seemed interested in explaining anything. Finally, I asked, “Whose umbrella is it?”
Mr. Blackwelder smiled. “I’ve heard six different names.”
“Which one’s right?”
“I ain’t got the foggiest idea.” He slid my box of screws across the counter.
“Thing is…” He looked toward the umbrella. “…ever’ last one of ’em swore they’d carried it home.”
I laughed. “Can’t all be true.”
“Nope.”
He folded the brown paper sack. “But I reckon every one of ’em believed it.” By then the rain had eased to a drizzle. I paid for my screws and headed for the door. On my way out I reached over and stood the umbrella up a little straighter so it wouldn’t fall. Didn’t think another thing about it.
Until supper. When I walked onto my own porch. There stood an old black umbrella. Leaning beside my rocking chair. Wooden handle. One bent rib. Still damp from the rain.
Now… before you get carried away… it probably wasn’t the same umbrella.
Lots of umbrellas look alike. Especially old ones. Still…
I’ve never been able to remember buying one.
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Have You Seen The Irish Blackthorn?
Funny thing… I don’t remember where I’d left The Irish Blackthorn that morning. Somebody later insisted it had been leaning beside the umbrella.
