COME BACK ANYTIME

Corrie Johnson
WKMS Short Story Contest
October 2016

I never shall forget the summer I was nineteen, when I learned how to slow down, sip life slowly,
and watch the corn grow.
That summer I had the world on a string and paychecks in my pocket from three part time jobs. I
served the college kids of my hometown by making fancy coffee in a plain paper cup. I waited
tables and poured plain black coffee in white china mugs for the white haired retiree. I rang up
blouses and dress slacks at the JC Penney for the mom finally going back to work now that her
youngest was in school. Always a new face whether in the coffee shop, the restaurant, or the
clothing store. The days sped by as quickly as I sped along the country roads, bouncing along in
a hand-me-down 1990 Toyota Corolla.
There was an old neighbor I passed regularly who sat on his front porch, taking stock of the
countryside. Hed lift a slow hand to wave. Id always wave back but still careen around the
curve well before his hand was back down. That curve ran at a ninety degree angle right in front
of his house and begged all drivers to slow down so they didnt go crashing straight into his
porch. Id slow down, but just barely. I had life to live, after all, and I needed to be there in five
minutes.
That old neighbor had sat there as long as I could remember. Id spent my growing up years in
the country, and every night we ever passed his house he faithfully sat on the front porch,
sometimes with a glass of tea sweating in the summer night.

The entire scene fascinated me. Sometime before I was a nineteen year old speeding my way
through summer I made up my mind Id go and sit with him sometime.
I dont recollect what it was exactly that caused me one day not to just careen through that curve.
I guess I didnt have anywhere else to be. I slowed down, pulled in and stepped out of the car
like it was nothing out of the ordinary, like hed been waiting on me to show up all along.
The sun beat down on my shoulders and a stale, hot breeze blew gently as I stood quietly next to
my car, fumbling my keys.
Hey, neighbor, I ventured. He nodded. That was the sum total of our conversation.
I walked up and he motioned me to sit on the porch down from him. We were a classy, unlikely
pair: I wore a gauzy, lilac dress and he sat in an old red shirt and crusty overalls and weathered,
leathered skin. We were at opposite thresholds of life: I was fresh and full of optimism and
enchanted by possibilities around every bend. He had seen every bend, walked every mile, borne
heavy weighted loads of hard work and heartache, and had come out on the other side with soft,
sad eyes, hundreds of wrinkles, and stories to tell.
That first day we sat in complete, full, lovely silence, total strangers sharing a porch and a view
of a freshly planted corn field. The stalks were just beginning to emerge, begging for someone to
appreciate their progress. By the time I left that afternoon, the corn stalks mustve been three
inches taller. The old neighbor and I had sat peacefully in silence, forging a friendship without
words. As the sun began to set, I stood up slowly. Quietly I acknowledged his hospitality.
Sure am grateful to you, I said.
He nodded. You have a good evenin, hon. Come back anytime.

I drove away, not quite as fast as I might usually. Something about that afternoon had stilled and
slowed my thoughts, and it affected my driving. I couldnt lay my finger on it, but I knew there
was value in sitting on that porch, and I knew I had to go back.
And I did go back several times that summer. Always sitting on the edge of his porch or in a
lone rocking chair, hed welcome me with a nod and a smile, holding a dripping glass of iced tea.
Every day we sat in silence, taking in the view of the countryside. Kindred spirits harmonizing
without a need to fill the air with words.
And every day the corn crept up taller knee high one day. Waist high another. Soon it soared to
eight feet, tassels and all, and set about drying out to a crisp in the scorching August heat. And
every evening when I left, hed say one thing: You have a good evenin, hon. Come back
anytime.
The days started getting shorter, and I wasnt always able to stop by for a spell to watch the sun
set over the corn fields. My visits with the old neighbor grew fewer and farther between. On the
days I felt pressed between my coffee pouring and coffee making, I found myself wishing I could
step away for a moment, freeze time, and sit in silence with someone who knew there was more
value to life than just speeding through it.
One rare afternoon in late September, I came home early, before the sun set. As I approached his
house, I sighed. It had been several weeks since Id seen him last. And as I lifted my hand to
wave a friendly but forlorn hello, I noticed something was different. For the first time in all the
years Id ever seen him sitting on his porch, he had a second chair pulled up beside him. That
chair was for me. He knew Id come back.

I slowed. I didnt take the curve in front of his house. I pulled into his driveway, and stepped out
of that hand-me-down Corolla. I fumbled with my keys like I had that first day so many months
behind me. Time seemed to blur and stand still. I smiled. He nodded toward the empty chair. I
took my place and he produced a second glass of tea out of nowhere. I settled into comfortable
silence. There was a sun to set, a corn field to watch, and a late summer evening to take its time,
unhurried by anything. There was silence to respect and tea to sip and nowhere to be except
there.
The summer I was nineteen I learned how to slow down and watch the corn grow. I learned how
to observe in silence and let an unlikely friendship bloom. I carry those spells of quiet, simple
hospitality with the old neighbor deep in my heart along with a few other cherished, handpicked
memories.
Many years have passed Ive cashed out those three jobs and that old Corolla for 24/7
motherhood and a minivan. I still drive that old country road sometimes. I glance in the rearview
mirror at my four little girls carrying on in the back seats. Little girls who Ive learned to slow
down for, learned to welcome into my space, learned to value just show fast they grow from one
day to the next. They holler crop identification as we pass fields: oybeans! Tobacco! Corn!
I pass that old house at the curve. The old neighbor is long gone, but as I round the bend, I can
hear his kind voice say,
You have a good evenin, hon. Come back anytime.
His words give wings to my heart.