A Strange Tale of Piedmont

There was one chair at Blackwelder’s Hardware nobody ever seemed to sit in. Mind you, it wasn’t anything special. Just an old oak ladder-back chair with one spindle missing and enough scratches on it to tell half the history of Calhoun County.

It sat over by the cracker barrel, close enough to the potbellied stove to keep your feet warm in winter, but far enough away that your britches didn’t catch fire. Any sensible man would’ve picked that chair first. Nobody ever did.

Now don’t get the wrong idea. It wasn’t empty. Not exactly. Folks gathered there every afternoon. Coffee was poured. Lies were improved upon. Somebody usually claimed Alabama would’ve won if the referee hadn’t been blind.

The chair just… stayed open. Every now and then somebody new in town would wander in, look around, and make straight for it. Before they could sit… some old fellow would say, “You might be happier in this one.”

He’d pat another chair. Nobody ever explained why. The newcomer usually shrugged and sat somewhere else. Truth be told… most folks forgot about it before the conversation was over.

One rainy October afternoon I stopped by for a lantern wick. Mr. Blackwelder wrapped it in brown paper while three or four of us argued over whether squirrels remembered where they’d buried every acorn.

Old Earl claimed they did. Percy insisted they forgot half of ’em. “That’s why we’ve still got oak trees,” Percy said. Everybody laughed.

Then a traveling salesman wandered in. Didn’t know a soul. He nodded politely. Looked around. Saw the empty chair. Started toward it. Mr. Blackwelder never even looked up.

“Coffee?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

He poured the fellow a cup. Set it on the counter. Then pointed to another chair. “That one’s a mite more comfortable.”

The salesman thanked him and sat down. Spent the next half hour telling us about selling wash tubs from Gadsden to Rome. Never once asked about the empty chair.

When he finally left, I looked over at Mr. Blackwelder. “You ever gonna tell me why nobody sits there?” He folded another paper sack. Thought about it a moment. Then said, “I reckon somebody always is.” That was all. Nobody asked another question. There wasn’t one to ask.

Years later, after Blackwelder’s had closed and the windows had gone dusty, I happened to look through the front glass one October afternoon. The shelves were empty. The cracker barrel was gone. The stove had long since disappeared.

But there… right where it’d always been… sat that old ladder-back chair. Empty. Just as it had always been.

Or maybe… occupied.

Depends on who you ask.

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Have You Seen The Irish Blackthorn?

Some folks remember The Irish Blackthorn leaning against that old chair. Others insist it was standing by the front door. Funny how memory rearranges a room.