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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required NOTE: THIS IS ONLY THE 1st half of this piece-- its 2nd half is posted separately due to Poetry Soup's poem-lengths-limitation. Be sure to check out the balance of this poem = "Tiny Town Events" 2nd half - and you might enjoy hearing it read in the AUDIO version. In June of 1955, as I was driving home from spending two long weekdays at a business seminar, At somewhere close to 9 p.m., with no big towns around, my engine overheated and I had to stop the car. Just ahead, a little group of lights would beckon me, so I began the journey to the only choice there was. I’ll admit I couldn’t have told you what the town was called. I’d only driven through the place - like everybody does - When doing so would save some time as I would make the trek from where I lived to work-related meetings here and there. But always being focused on my “being there on time,” about what lay between the stops…like most, I didn’t care. A slightly cool but gentle breeze became a sweet companion as I embarked on what I knew would actually do me good, And I meandered slowly through the solitude and calm, while sharing thoughts with only stars until, too soon…I stood At the edge of town where…right away…the breeze grew sweeter, with sounds most often heard at night - when life is winding down. A favorite tune from years ago had wafted out to greet me, evoking thoughts of waltzing, as I drifted into town. Like a scent, it filled the air, but teased the ear instead, and glad to let the soft seduction lure me to its source, Deep within, my soul became the compass for my journey, as anxious, unanticipated thoughts would chart my course. In my mind I saw the smiles of warm, inviting people. I’d heard the tales about the types that live in “tiny towns.” The porches looked inviting, and the music was delightful, but thinking you can judge a place by merely sights and sounds Is a trifle foolish, so I briefly stopped to ponder…what if they’re afraid of finding someone they don’t know Standing on their porch, so late at night, and asking questions? And, where’s the wisest place a man in trouble ought to go? Being prob’ly ten blocks wide…and maybe twenty long, a faint but clear suspicion fought its way into my mind. Even though I knew, somewhere, the help that I was needing lay within those houses, and was simply mine to find, How was I to know which one? Though no two were the same, I saw no indications that there was a “perfect choice.” But as I stood there contemplating how a man could tell, the sweet, enchanting answer that I sought would find a voice. “Hello, young man. You surely picked a nice night for a walk. There are so many stars tonight it takes your breath away.” But unprepared to chitchat with a stranger - in the dark, I quickly turned to face the sound with nothing nice to say. Staring through the void from whence the friendly comment came, I paused for just an instant (this would give me time to think), And then, at last - to no reply - the gentle voice resumed. “And if you listen veeeerrry closely…you can hear them blink!” Slowly it would permeate my unsuspecting mind that I was in the presence of…a “tiny town event.” On the porch of that old house, from off a rocking chair, that “tiny town” remark would serve to show me what they meant By claims that only tiny towns…with good old fashioned ways…provide the taste of days gone by for those who feel the need. Their lives, to some, seem so mundane, and yet…most never leave. They know a special happiness. They are a special breed. Only briefly wondering what the best thing was to say, and needing help the way I did (and knowing how they are), I quipped the first thing I could think of. Something in the way of…“I’ve been walking quite a while…had trouble with my car. “May I use your telephone? I’d like to call a station. They’ll prob’ly need a wrecker. I just hope it’s not too late.” “Yes, of course. No problem, dear,” the gentle voice replied, “but I’m afraid, if you need help, you’re going to have to wait. “Thelma usually doesn’t open up ‘til almost noon. When summer comes, she takes a bunch of kids who love to fish Out to Miller’s pond to spend the morning having fun. We’re making homemade ice cream. Come on in and have a dish. “And if you need a place to stay, there’s plenty room upstairs. All our kids have moved away. There’s only me and Ed.” “Oh my goodness, thanks,” I said, “but I just can’t impose.” I stood there stunned. I couldn’t believe she’d offered me a bed! “I’ll just use the phone and call my wife to let her know, then walk on in and get a room…but thank you, just the same.” “You just get on in here…while the ice cream’s good and cold,” she tenderly insisted. (She didn’t even know my name!) “Pinkerton has never had a genuine motel. We’ve got a church…a doctor…and a pretty nice café. Breakfast at Louella’s isn’t bad…but mine’s much better, an’ Ed an’ me’d be tickled pink if you would care to stay.” Like a book or movie, where the past is brought to life, I felt the warmth and kindness of an age from long ago. They giggled when I teased them, “If they can’t repair my car, perhaps I’ll take a taxi…to the airport…when I go!” When we’d finished laughing, and I’d grabbed myself a chair, Ed stood up and chortled, “Bertha makes the greatest pie. You just sit right there and I’ll go cut us all a piece.” Her blushing touched my heart, as did the twinkle in her eye. Wrestling with their quaintness, I was cautious with my words. I didn’t want to hurt them with sarcastic sounding cracks. And deep inside I reasoned that these two were very special. I knew the strong and honest man makes up for what he lacks
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