Maw’s old paddle-wheel sewing machine was humming in the front room, the steady rhythm clicking soft against the patter of rain starting on the tin roof. I can still see her there, glasses sliding down her nose, guiding fabric through the needle like it was a living thing. Paw stood near the window, hat pushed back, watching the clouds build up over the ridge. When thunder rolled, he said it slow and certain, like a man who knew the weather better than any forecast.
“Lucy, it’s time to go to the car.”
Maw didn’t even look up.
“Charlie, I don’t think it’s gonna get bad,” she said, that sewing machine still chattering away.
But Paw turned toward her, voice calm but firm.
“Lucy, get your things and get in that car. I don’t want nothin’ happenin’ to you.”
Outside sat his green Oldsmobile Rocket 88, tucked under the carport where it always rested unless winter coal had taken its spot. A big tree leaned close to the house—one of those old giants whose limbs brushed the roof when the wind kicked up. Paw never trusted it. He eased the car out slow, backing us into the middle of the driveway, far enough that nothing could fall on us if that tree came down. The house might take a hit, but we’d be safe. That was Paw’s kind of thinking—steady, deliberate, and always a step ahead.
Rain began to pour in sheets, drumming on the car roof while lightning danced across the hills. Maw sat quiet with her purse in her lap, and Paw’s strong hands stayed easy on the wheel, his boots planted solid. I sat in the back seat, feeling that odd kind of comfort you only get when someone loves you enough to outthink the storm.
When the thunder moved off and the air cleared, the yard smelled of wet coal and cedar. Paw parked the Rocket back under the carport and said he had one more thing to tend to. He came out carrying a tall metal pole and a heavy box. “New bug zapper,” he said, grinning like a boy.
By suppertime he had it standing in the fence line beside the house, humming like some strange electric hymn. That night, as dusk settled in, Paw walked over, plugged it in, and smiled wide when the first zzzt rang out. “Best thing I ever bought to keep company quiet,” he said.
We sat down at his red-cedar picnic table under that same big tree. The wagon wheels leaned nearby, and a few of his old stone jars from moonshining days sat beside them like relics of another time. The wood still held the day’s heat, and the air smelled like rain-soaked leaves and new earth.
Paw leaned back, arms folded across his sleeveless white T-shirt, khaki pants dusty from the day, and said, “Now, sugar, let me tell you somethin’ you can take to the bank.”
That night’s lesson was about men. Paw said if a girl wanted to know what kind of fella she was dealing with, she didn’t need a preacher or a friend’s opinion. All she had to do was take a little drive.
“You don’t have to say a word,” he said. “Just watch his foot on the pedal and how he works those brakes. A man’ll tell on himself before you hit the county line. If he’s jerky and quick-tempered on the road, he’ll be the same way when life don’t go his way.”
He grinned then, tipping his hat back.
“Look inside his car, too. If it’s clean, he likely keeps his word clean. But if it’s trashed and filthy—run, sugar. That’s a glimpse of how he’ll tend to you.”
Then came that laugh of his—low and slow.
“And check his shoes. A man with pride don’t show up with muddy, broke-down soles. How he keeps his feet tells you how he’ll walk beside you.”
Paw always had a way of mixing humor with gospel truth. He told me to watch how a man treated waitresses, dogs, and his mama.
“That’s who he really is when nobody’s watchin’. A polite man at the table’s a kind man at home.”
Years later, I still hear it—the hum of Maw’s sewing machine, the crack of thunder fading, the bug zapper buzzing at the fence line. Those were the sounds of safety. Paw didn’t just keep us out of storms; he taught me how to steer through the ones that come wearing a smile.
Sometimes when I see a young girl falling fast for a slick-talking boy, I wish Paw was still here to pour her a glass of sweet tea and say what he told me:
“Watch the way he drives, how he talks to folks, and how he wears his boots. You’ll learn more about his heart before the first song ends on the radio.”
And, Lord, was he ever right—you can take that to the bank.
Until next time, may your hands stay busy, your heart stay kind, and your porch light never go out.
With love and gratitude,
— Hannah Cedars
The Appalachian Sage
From the hills of Kentucky, where old wisdom still whispers through the cedars…