Tommy Caldwell’s Porch: An Appalachian Storytelling of Memory, Forgiveness, and Healing

In the rich tradition of Appalachian storytelling, one man sits on his porch each morning, lost in a rhythm only he understands. Folks whisper about him, wonder about the things he leaves behind—and why he never speaks a word. But when a boy named Caleb comes looking for the truth, what he finds is more than a story... it’s a reckoning carved into silence and sorrow.

By Lugene Polk

They say some folks carry their grief quiet, like cedar smoke on a still mountain morning—rising slow, lingering long after the fire's gone out. That was Tommy Caldwell.

Every morning, he sat on his porch with a knife in one hand and a cedar stick in the other. He carved faces—not just any faces, but the faces of men lost long ago in the Bartley Mine disaster. He never said a name. Never gave a reason. But if it was your birthday, and your daddy or granddaddy had died in that mine... there'd be a walking stick leanin' on your porch rail by sundown.

Some folks called him strange. Others said he was touched by God. But the ones who had lost someone? They said nothing at all. Just held those sticks like holy relics, whisperin' thanks into the wood.

Tommy never charged a dime. Wouldn’t even meet your eye. Folks said the mine took his voice, but the truth was more complicated. He hadn’t spoken a word since January 10th, 1940—the day the mountain shook, and the Bartley Mine exploded like the belly of the earth had turned against them.

He pulled three men out of that collapse. But he didn’t pull out Boone. His little brother. Boone Caldwell had just turned eighteen. Barely started on his first real shift underground. And by sundown, he was gone. The only thing left of him was the memory—and the stick Tommy never carved for anyone else.

They say grief like that can turn a man to stone. But Tommy... he turned it into cedar.

Years later, a boy named Caleb Harper arrived in the holler. He wasn't from here. Not really. He came back to the mountains after his mama passed, moved in with his great-aunt down the road from Tommy's place. He didn’t know the history. Didn’t know why folks crossed the street when they passed Tommy’s porch. But he noticed him.

At first, it was the sound. Scrape... scrape... scrape... That steady rhythm, like a hymn with no words. Then it was the way folks looked at Tommy but didn’t speak his name. And one night, Caleb followed him.

Tommy left his porch just after dark, carryin' a freshly carved stick. His boots made barely a sound as he walked the dirt road, and Caleb trailed him, heart beatin' fast but feet steady. They reached a quiet house tucked back behind a split-rail fence, where the porch light hadn't yet flickered on.

Tommy climbed the steps slow, like each one remembered him. He leaned the stick gently against the doorframe—like settin' down a piece of his own soul—and turned to leave without knockin'.

As he stepped off the porch, the screen door creaked open. Miss Clara stood there, wrapped in her robe, eyes already glistening. She looked down at the stick, then up the road. With one hand, she patted her chest, just over her heart. Then she wiped her eyes, nodded once to the night air, and closed the door behind her.

The next morning, Caleb wandered into the store and asked the man behind the counter, “Who is that old man who carves?”

The storekeeper narrowed his eyes. “He does that ever’ day. Same porch. Same knife. Same kinda wood. Been doin’ it longer'n I’ve had gray in my beard.” “Does he ever talk?”

The man paused, then set down a can like it had grown heavy. “Ain’t said nothin’ in near thirty year. Not since the blast.” “What blast?”

That made the storekeeper look him dead in the eye. “You ain’t from ‘round here, are ya?”

“No, sir. I live up the road with Aunt Delma.”

“Then let me give ya a bit of advice, boy. Don’t go askin’ too many questions ‘bout the Bartley Mine. The ones what died earned their peace. And the ones what crawled out... some still ain’t found theirs.”

Still, the boy kept wonderin'.

He helped Miss Clara stack jars in her root cellar one afternoon. On her porch, over lemonade and a plate of vinegar pie, she told him, “That stick Tommy brought? It was my Ben. My husband. He died down there. There ain’t no photo left of him, but Tommy... he remembers. Carved that smile like he was lookin’ right at him again.”

She held the walking stick like it was made of scripture. “He don’t talk about Boone. Pulled three men out that day. Not Boone. But I think... I think he’s been talkin’ with his knife ever since.”

Reverend Amos remembered too. He’d been just a boy when it happened. “Tommy crawled out black as pitch, draggin’ another man with him. That man… he lived just long enough to whisper a name. Some things, you don’t forget. Some names… they carve themselves into you.”

The Reverend sat quiet for a moment, eyes fixed on the treetops. Then he said, low and heavy, “Folks think he only carves for the ones he loved. But I reckon not every face on those sticks brings peace.”

Caleb leaned in. “There was talk,” Amos continued, “that one of those men… he might’ve been the reason for the blast. Ignored a warning. Maybe cut a corner that shouldn’t’ve been cut. The company hushed it, and the records got murky. But Tommy knew. We all suspected. And yet, one morning, a stick with that man’s face showed up on a porch.”

“Why would he carve him?” Caleb asked.

The Reverend said it soft, almost like a prayer. “Sometimes you carve the ones you can’t forgive… not ‘cause you miss ‘em, but ‘cause you need to remember. Need to face ‘em again. Need to reckon with the ache. Carvin’ becomes the only way to hold what you can’t lay down.”

One evening, Caleb came by and saw the stick Tommy had carved but never delivered. He saw the face—soft, younger, marked with sorrow. And then he watched as Tommy took it inside, not leanin’ it on anyone’s porch. That one was for no one. That one... he kept.

Two days later, Caleb took the long way home, walking slow beneath the hush of the trees where the holler narrowed and the air turned cool. His boots brushed against last year’s leaves and fresh shoots of green. When he came around the bend by Tommy's place, he stopped short.

There it was—a stick. Rough, crooked, the grain still jagged in places. One he'd carved, or tried

to, out by the edge of the woods. He hadn’t meant much by it, just somethin’ to keep his hands busy while thoughts stirred in his head.

Now it stood upright, leanin’ gentle against the bottom step of Tommy Caldwell’s porch. Not tossed. Not forgotten. Set there with care.

Tommy wasn’t on the porch that morning. No knife in hand. No shavings underfoot. Just the quiet, and that stick, waitin’. It wasn’t a message. It was a welcome.

An invitation to come back, to sit a spell, and maybe—if the old man allowed—to keep carvin’.

He came back, and this time, Tommy spoke.

“Whittle it with the grain,” he said, handin' Caleb a knife. They sat there together, chippin' away at wood and memory, cedar curls gatherin' at their feet like a blessing.

“You remind me of my little brother,” Tommy said. “Boone?” Tommy nodded. “Boone.”

And down the hill, from porches and shopfronts and church steps, folks watched the two of them.

“Well I’ll be,” the storekeeper whispered. “Lord done sent that man a healin’.”

The bell rang once. Soft. Clear.

And for the first time in decades, the scrape of a knife echoed not in grief... but in grace.

Author’s Note

Appalachian Storytelling

This story was written in memory of the many coal miners and families whose grief and strength have echoed through the mountains for generations. Tommy Caldwell’s Porch is a fictional tale, but it was inspired by real mine tragedies like the Bartley Mine explosion in McDowell County, West Virginia.

I believe stories have a way of healing us—sometimes quietly, sometimes with a carved stick left on a porch. Thank you for taking time to read this one. If it moved you, I hope you'll pass it along.

— Lugene Polk