Brewton, Alabama—the Huddle House restaurant is busy tonight. There are teenagers all over. A few wear formal clothes and styled hair.
Brewton’s prom was a few hours ago.
One girl wears white satin. The boy next to her wears a tux. Their smiles could be used in Colgate advertisements.
If there’s anything happier than youth, I wish I knew what it was.
So this is Brewton. Some visitors might drive through town and remark: “What a cute town.” Or they might say: “Those old houses are pretty.”
And even though the antebellum homes on Belleville Avenue are worth slowing down for, this place is more than houses.
This place means something to me. I’ll tell you why:
For starters, look at the railroad, cutting through the center of the downtown. Listen to the train whistle. I’m a sucker for trains.
The old storefronts on Saint Joseph Avenue. They haven’t changed in a million years. The flatiron building that was once Holman’s Pharmacy—which later became Old Willie’s.
Go have a look
at the new middle school. You’ll meet teachers with thick accents. And Miss Leola—the lunch lady whose tea is sweet enough to power chainsaws.
The redhead principal. A woman who has memorized a list of names longer than the Lamb’s Scroll of Life.
Visit the high school. It will make you believe in society again. Go to a football game on a Friday night during the height of the season. When the T.R. Miller Tigers take the field, you’ll go deaf.
I wish I would’ve grown up here, but I didn’t—I’ve wished for a lot of things that never came true. But this place has a way of making up for ungranted wishes.
Years ago, I wrote my first book. I wondered why I’d done such a silly thing. After all, I was thinking to myself, who really cares…