A Piedmont Porch Light Story
There’s a funny thing about breakfast at the Coffee Cup. You can come in with every intention of talking about the weather, and before your eggs get cold somebody’s liable to remind you of something you hadn’t thought about in fifty years. That’s exactly what happened Tuesday morning.
Hattie Lane was filling the sugar bowls when she frowned.
“We’re almost out.”
I looked up from my bacon.
“Out of what?”
“Sugar.”
Curtis Pope glanced over the top of his newspaper.
“Better send somebody to the grocery store.”
Hattie laughed.
“There was a time I would’ve just borrowed a cup from next door.”
“There was,” I said, “and there was danger in it.”
She stopped with the sugar bowl still in her hand.
“Danger?”
“The most dangerous thing about borrowin’ a cup of sugar was that you never came home with just a cup of sugar.”
Curtis folded his newspaper.
“I believe Jim’s about to get started.”
“I already have.”
Hattie leaned against the counter.
“All right then. Explain yourself.”
“You’d walk over to your neighbor’s house with an empty bowl and knock on the screen door.”
“And?”
“And before anybody ever measured out the sugar, you’d spend fifteen minutes catchin’ up.”
“That’s true,” Hattie admitted.
“You’d ask how their tomatoes were doin’.”
“They’d tell you the worms had found ’em before they did.”
“You’d ask about their husband’s back.”
“He’d still be complainin’ about it.”
“You’d admire the new baby.”
“And pretend not to notice the muddy footprints all over the kitchen floor.”
Curtis chuckled.
“You’d find out whose cow got out.”
“Again.”
“Who’s gettin’ married.”
“Who’s movin’.”
“Whose boy just made the football team.”
“And whether Miss Lorene’s pound cake was really as good as everybody claimed.”
Hattie smiled.
“It was.”
“It surely was.”
She carried the sugar bowl back to the counter.
“You know…”
“What?”
“I don’t ever remember anybody returnin’ the sugar.”
“That’s because they usually didn’t.”
Curtis looked puzzled.
“They just kept it?”
“No.”
“They paid it back differently.”
“How’s that?”
“Maybe with fresh tomatoes.”
“Or a mess of butterbeans,” Hattie said.
“A loaf of banana bread.”
“A ride to the doctor.”
“Watchin’ somebody’s kids for an afternoon.”
Curtis nodded slowly.
“I reckon that’s right.”
“The debt always got paid.”
“It just didn’t always look like sugar.”
For a little while none of us said much. The only sounds in the Coffee Cup were forks tappin’ against plates and somebody pourin’ more coffee. Outside, a freight train eased through town. We all stopped talking until it had finished passing. That’s just what folks around here do. Finally Hattie broke the silence.
“My granddaughter ordered five pounds of sugar on her telephone last week.”
I smiled.
“How long’d it take?”
“Less than two hours.”
“That’s mighty convenient.”
“It surely is.”
I stirred my coffee.
“But I don’t reckon anybody delivered a neighbor with it.”
Hattie looked out the window toward the Piedmont Hotel.
“No.”
“I don’t reckon they did.”
Just then Curtis reached across the table and helped himself to two packets of sugar from beside my coffee cup. I watched him tear one open.
“You know,” I said, “that’s the closest you’ve ever come to borrowin’ sugar.”
He grinned without lookin’ up.
“I was fixin’ to ask.”
“You’ve known me forty years.”
“I figured we’d skipped that part.”
Hattie laughed.
“Don’t encourage him, Jim.”
“I ain’t.”
I picked up the last packet and slid it across the table toward Curtis.
“Go on.”
“Take it.”
“But remember…”
“What’s that?”
“One of these days I expect to be paid back.”
He smiled.
“How?”
I looked at the empty coffee cup in front of me.
“Buy breakfast.”
Curtis reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and laid a ten-dollar bill on the table.
“There.”
“We square?”
I looked at Hattie.
“Hattie?”
“Yes, Jim?”
“Would you bring us another pot of coffee?”
She smiled.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
olbigjim 