The Little Town that Time Forgot

 My father affectionately calls our hometown of Vernon, Alabama, “The Little Town that Time Forgot;” an homage to Garrison Keeler’s Lake Wobegone.  Though separated geographically and across a fictional divide, the two share qualities: the hallmark being that both are full of interesting characters creating great stories. You just never know what could happen when you visit. If you keep your eyes open, you might see something unexpected.

Since Dad had a little spell of health worries, I’m spending more time back home. I find myself appreciating the qualities of the small community I took for granted when growing up.  Yes, everyone is still all up in each other’s business, but the good thing about news traveling fast is so do the offers of help. Like the pharmacist who seems genuinely thrilled to meet me when I pick up a new prescription, and tells me, “If Mr. Seay needs anything delivered, not just prescriptions, but anything we carry, we’ll get it out there to him.  We just love your Daddy.”

I’m running a few errands for him today.  Next up, I drop the car at the carwash and walk over to Jacks to get some breakfast.  I’m stopped by a woman on her way out who sat a few rows behind us in church on Sunday. She introduces me to her sister, and since I’m on foot she wonders, “Where’d you come from?” I point to a little green building less than two blocks away and say, “I walked from the carwash.”

“Law! You walked all that way?”

“Yes ma’am.  It’s not far,” I grin. The two sisters from Dad’s church finish our quick conversation by telling me how my father is, “. . .one-of-a-kind, and goodness, we love him so much!” I’ve heard this often now. As a matter-of-fact, seems like everyone has a story to tell me about Mr. Seay and how much they love him.

After my biscuits and gravy, I head to the bank, two buildings north, and walk between impressive columns, through large double doors in search of a cash machine.  “Do ya’ll have an ATM?” I ask the pretty young banker who greets me.

“Yes ma’am.  It’s at the far end out there.” She points back where I came from. I must be a sight to folks motoring by while I use the drive-through as a walk-through. Cash in hand, I hoof it back to the courthouse square that’s lined with abutting brick buildings freshly repainted below quaint awnings. I pass the newspaper office, The Lamar Democrat—always a copy on Dad’s table—the beauty parlor, District Attorney, old Lamar Theater (letters missing from its marquee still advertising The Backstreet Opry from years ago), then rounding the corner, I slow as I pass the judicial building where my mother worked so many years, before arriving at one of my favorite spots: Faulkner’s Antique Mall.

The owners greet me at the door and I get right to the point, “Is Sophie the Cat here today?” Last month one of my friends from high school posted a picture of the 15-year-old cat’s birthday party, celebrated with cake, lemonade, and a big sale! While I find at least a dozen teapots I barely resist buying, my search for the famed cat is a failure. Oh well, my chats with the merchants make me feel like I’ve never been gone.

Back on courthouse square, I match my gait to the pace of the Methodist church bells chiming the hour, and hum along to the pealing of a familiar hymn.  I squint toward the green building up on the left and see our car doors still open, workers in and out.  Lord knows what they’re finding in the nooks and crannies! Since I’ve still got time to kill, I check out the old storefront that was once the nicest shop of my youth, and rarely visited by this girl, who mostly wore her cousin’s hand-me-downs. 

The old “Town and Country,” sign is barely visible above the door. Now I find the interior dedicated to memorabilia and vinyl collections featuring local musicians whose writing and instrumentals shaped the Muscle Shoals sound that put North Alabama on the map. Dan Penn and Spooner Oldham are in just about every music hall of fame there is. This week, I’ve heard both Spooner’s cousin Katy, and my Dad telling me crazy stories about these two (which, if I didn’t trust my primary sources, I would never have believed.)  Mr. McNeese, the proprietor generously shows me around, tells me more stories of these music legends. “Spooner’s Wurlitzer is here in town in Dan’s F150, left behind while Spooner tours Europe with Neil Young, (who has a pretty nice Wurlitzer of his own.)”  I shake my head to think the two writers of “Cry Like a Baby,” and about a million more major hits, are kin to a bunch of people I know and love. Even so, I’m more tickled when before I leave, Mr. McNeese says he’ll be happy to offer Dad a ride to lunch whenever he needs one, since he eats with him at Todd’s BBQ most every day.

I’m back on the sidewalk, heading for my last stop when a bug the size of a mouse scurrying toward the salon catches my eye. I can’t resist following and snapping pictures of the most enormous insect I’ve ever seen in the wild. An image search reveals it’s The Eastern Hercules Beetle, rarely glimpsed unless an entomologist using special lights attracts one for observation.  Without even meaning to, I’ve had a once-in-a-lifetime encounter with another rare character, right on the courthouse square of my own hometown.  You just never know what’s waiting for you when you open your eyes to what’s been here all along.