The Last Time the Depot Clock Was Right

A Piedmont Porchlight Story

There are two ways to tell time in Piedmont. One is with a watch. The other is by remembering. Folks around here have always trusted the second one a little more. The old Southern Railroad depot used to have a clock hanging under the eaves. Big round thing. White face. Black hands. You could see it halfway down the platform if the afternoon sun wasn’t shining straight in your eyes.

Now, if you ask when that clock quit working… well… you’d better have yourself an extra cup of coffee. Because nobody agrees.

Sheriff Booker says it stopped the day Elvis died. Curtis Pope insists he looked up after cutting old Mr. Harlan’s hair one Tuesday in 1981 and it was still keeping perfect time. Miss Lorene says she checked her wristwatch by it the morning her husband left for Korea.

Mr. Blackwelder just snorted when he heard that. “Depot wasn’t even using that clock back then.” Miss Lorene smiled. “Then I reckon somebody ought to tell my memory.”

Nobody argued after that. There wasn’t much point. Memory’s a stubborn thing. Especially once it’s had fifty years to settle in.

One cool October afternoon I wandered over to the depot after breakfast at The Coffee Cup. The place was quiet. Just a breeze pushing dry leaves along the platform. The clock still hung where it’d always been. Hands frozen. Same as always. I looked up at it. Then down at my watch.

Then back up again. For just the briefest moment… they matched. Exactly. Hour. Minute. Everything. I remember smiling.

“Well, look at that.”

Then my watch ticked. Just once. The minute hand moved ahead. The depot clock stayed exactly where it’d been. I laughed at myself. Timing. Nothing more.

Still… I stood there another minute or two. Just in case. Nothing happened. A freight train rolled through an hour later without stopping. The engineer gave two short blasts on the whistle. I tipped my cap out of habit.

As I turned to leave, I noticed something leaning against one of the old wooden benches. The Irish Blackthorn. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. Matter of fact… I figured I’d probably brought it with me.

Reached for it. There wasn’t any walking stick. Just the long afternoon shadow of the bench stretching across the platform.

Now… I’m not saying the depot clock ever worked that day. And I’m sure ‘nuff not saying I saw The Irish Blackthorn.

Truth is… there are plenty of shadows that look like walking sticks once the sun gets low enough. But if you ask me when the depot clock quit…

I’ll tell you exactly what everybody else in Piedmont will.

Depends on who you ask.

⁂

Have You Seen The Irish Blackthorn?

Miss Lorene insists she saw The Irish Blackthorn leaning against the depot bench one October afternoon. Sheriff Booker says it was only a shadow. They’ve both stuck to their stories for years.

About Ol' Big Jim

Jim L. Wright is a storyteller with a lifetime of experiences as colorful as the characters he creates. Born and raised in Piedmont, Alabama, Jim’s connection to the land, history, and people of the region runs deep. His debut novel New Yesterdays is set in his hometown, where he grew up listening to stories of the past—stories that sparked his imagination and curiosity for history. Today, Jim lives in Leeds, Alabama, with his husband Zeek, a tour operator who shares his passion for adventure and discovery. Known affectionately as “Ol’ Big Jim,” he has had a diverse career that includes time as a storekeeper, an embalmer, a hospital orderly, and a medical coder. There are even whispers—unconfirmed, of course—that he once played piano in a house of ill repute. No matter the job, one thing has remained constant: Jim is a teller of tales. His stories—sometimes humorous, sometimes thought-provoking—are often inspired by his unique life experiences. Many of these tales can be found on his popular blog, Ol’ Big Jim, where he continues to share his musings with a loyal readership. Jim’s adventures have taken him far beyond Alabama. For seven years, he lived in Amman, Jordan, the world’s oldest continuously inhabited city. His time there, spent in smoky coffee shops, enjoying a hookah and a cuppa dark, foamy Turkish coffee while scribbling in his ever-present notebook, deeply influenced his worldview and his writing. When Jim isn’t writing, he’s thinking about writing. His stories, whether tall tales from his past or imaginative reimagining of historical events, reflect a life lived fully and authentically. With New Yesterdays, Jim brings readers a rich tapestry of history, fantasy, and human connection. Visit his blog at www.olbigjim.com to read more of his stories, or follow him on social media to keep up with his latest musings and projects, one of which is a series that follows Bonita McCauley, an amateur detective who gets into some very sticky situations. His book, New Yesterdays, can be found at Amazon US, Amazon UK, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble.

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