By the time Ennis Greenlea reached the edge of Butterfield, he had three things in his wagon that nobody had paid him to haul.
A wool shawl.
An empty pie plate.
And a small boy’s left boot.
The boot concerned him somewhat.
He could account for the other two.
When I had my little Chihuahua Allie, there was a walk I particularly enjoyed.
It took us up the main street, past a long row of honeysuckle bushes bordering the sidewalk at a corner house, then around onto Clay Avenue.
It was a perfectly ordinary route.
Which is to say, there was usually something worth seeing.
A Black Walnut tree stood at the corner property. In late Summer and Autumn, its green-husked walnuts lay scattered across the ground. Some had already received considerable attention from squirrels and other neighbors whose dining arrangements were less formal than ours.
I liked looking at what they had left behind.
Someone had been busy.
Allie and I were merely passing through the workplace.
In Spring, the honeysuckle gave us another reason to go that way.
Its fragrance reached the sidewalk before we had finished approaching it. The bushes continued around the corner, and farther along came a row of lilacs with a lovely fragrance of their own.
There were days when that corner deserved a longer visit than the schedule had allowed.
Fortunately, a dog understands that a walk may contain several appointments nobody wrote down.
Farther up Clay were beautiful two-story homes, with carefully tended landscaping and decorations that changed with the holidays. Somebody had taken time choosing what to plant, what to set beside a doorway, and how to welcome the season.
I enjoyed seeing what was different.
In Autumn, I watched the ground for leaves.
Maple. Sweetgum. Pin Oak. Sycamore.
Different shapes, different colors, different ways of catching my attention.
A particularly beautiful leaf might come home for a friend’s collection. Pine cones went to another friend.
That gave the walk a pleasant little extension. Something noticed along the sidewalk became something to share after I got home.
“I thought you might like this.”
A small thing to say, holding a leaf.
A good thing to have a reason to say.
Of course, those sidewalks required attention in the practical sense, too. Walnuts can roll beneath a foot. Wet leaves can be slippery. A twig in the wrong place needs stepping around.
I would never suggest that enjoying the scenery means ignoring where we are putting our feet.
But there was room along that walk for both kinds of attention.
I could watch my step and still admire the tree.
Sometimes I think hurry takes more from us than we realize.
We know where we are going. We have worked out how long it should take. Everything between here and there becomes something to get past.
The familiar places are especially easy to overlook.
We have seen that house.
We know that corner.
We walked beneath that tree yesterday.
Yet yesterday’s tree may have had considerably more green in it. Someone may have put pumpkins beside the steps this morning. A neighbor we usually wave to may have time for a conversation today.
Familiarity can persuade us there is nothing left to discover.
Autumn is very good at proving otherwise.
Its changes arrive a few leaves at a time, then suddenly seem to have happened all at once. We remark that the season went quickly, and perhaps it did.
Perhaps we were also occupied elsewhere.
I understand being occupied. There are errands, appointments, unfinished jobs, and things that cannot wait simply because a maple has decided to be magnificent.
Still, I would like to make a little room for the maple.
Taking the long way home need not mean adding distance.
For those of us whose walking has become more limited, that matters. A few extra minutes on a bench may do it. A pause beside a window. A little longer looking across the yard before going inside.
We can give a familiar place another look from wherever we happen to be.
And we can do the same for the people in it.
Stop long enough to hear the answer after asking how someone is doing. Notice the flowers a neighbor has been tending. Remember who would enjoy a pine cone or a particularly fine leaf.
There is a kind of companionship in paying attention. We begin carrying little reminders of one another as we go about the day.
I think back fondly on those walks with Allie.
The honeysuckle and lilacs belong to Spring in my memory. The green walnuts and gathered leaves belong to the turning year. The houses along Clay had something to offer in every season.
We went out for a walk.
Often, I came home with something I wanted someone else to see.
That seems a fine return for taking a little longer.
Till next time then —
I once took the long way home because I thought I remembered a blackberry patch.
I remembered correctly.
Getting home took somewhat longer after that.
Images have been created for this piece with the assistance of AI . . . lovingly prepared and styled for Honey Hill Country and the world of Little Red Bear.
Cinnamon Charlie had checked the cake table three times before there was a cake on it.
He was taking no chances.
October 15th was his birthday, and Little Red Bear’s cabin on Honey Hill was getting ready for company.
For readers meeting him for the first time, Charlie is a young yearling bear whom Red took under his wing, giving him a home and helping him find his way in the world. He has curiosity, enthusiasm, and a growing interest in anything happening near the kitchen.
He also enjoys one of the finer arrangements available to fictional characters — a birthday every year while remaining a yearling.
We do find it keeps the cost of candles down.
The cake, however, still needs to be substantial. Cinnamon Charlie will have no other than that.
Outside, Autumn leaves gathered along the path to Red’s cabin. Inside, a few colorful branches and strings of paper leaves made the room festive. Small pumpkins stood near the hearth, and extra chairs had been brought in wherever a chair would fit.
Charlie inspected the table again.
“Is this where it goes?”
“Yes,” Red said.
“Just making sure.”
“You’ve made quite sure. Several times already.”
Charlie straightened a napkin.
There was always something useful a birthday bear could do while waiting.
Jeffrey the Rabbit and his wife, Jolene, were among the first to arrive, bringing their youngsters up from their home beneath Red’s cabin. The little rabbits studied the decorations, then joined Charlie in studying the table.
Mrs. Nettie Clover, an elderly rabbit down the way, followed with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
“I see you’ve finished your carrying of grass bundles for the week,” she told Charlie.
“I could carry the cake,” Cinnamon Charlie offered.
“I expect someone has that attended to,” she replied.
Bobo and Lily, Little Red Bear’s best friends and former circus performers, arrived together. The two black bears brought cheerful greetings and helped settle the growing company without making much fuss about it.
Before long, Albuquerque Red, the self-appointed Fox Sheriff of the Backwoods, was visiting near the doorway. Swinestein, the little genius mini pig who also made Little Red Bear’s homestead his home, examined the paper decorations with interest, while Rusty the Fairydiddle found a place where a squirrel could see most of what was happening. Up in the rafters.
Cooter, the old Leader of the Hopper’s Holler Raccoon Platoon, came in with a question.
“Am I late?” he inquired.
“For visiting? No,” Red said.
Cooter glanced at the empty cake table.
“For the cake?” Cooter questioned again, a little more anxiously.
“No again,” Little Red Bear answered.
“Good.”
Stanley the Cardinal and Will the Whip-poor-will added their greetings as more neighbors gathered. Farmer Turner and his wife and children came up the path, followed by Alma Mason, Aunt Ivy Willoughby, and Red’s Cherokee friend John Forester. Myra Cookson, of Myra’s Pie Pantry & Goodies Shoppe in Butterfield, brought a covered plate that found a welcome place among the refreshments.
Soon, conversations filled the cabin and spilled onto the porch. Someone moved a chair. Someone else made room on a bench. There were greetings to exchange, parcels to set down, and children to keep gently clear of the serving table.
Then Joanelle arrived.
Charlie noticed immediately. Perhaps it was his little bear nose kicking in.
Joanelle Williamson, proprietor of Joanelle’s — Cakes & Specialty Baking on Main Street in Butterfield, arrived with a Cinnamon Streusel Bundt Cake. White powdered sugar glaze ran in pretty drizzled streaks down its golden ridges.
Her experienced assistant, Agnes Ovenburn, carried it to the table. A sturdy, silver-haired woman who knew her way around a wood-fired baking oven, Agnes also knew when a young bear was getting a little too close to a cake.
“After the candle, Charlie,” she instructed. “Not before, young bear.”
He took a small step back. A little one.
Then he leaned forward slightly to admire it from there.
The cake smelled of cinnamon and warm sugar. Across the room, Autumn treats brought by the neighbors added their own pleasant scents — pumpkin spice, baked apples, and the sort of goodness that makes people ask who brought what.
I have a particular affection for Cinnamon Streusel Bundt Cake. It was one of my favorite cakes to make back in the day, and one of my children’s favorites, too. I always finished it with powdered sugar glaze drizzled over the top and down the sides, and I don’t recall one ever seeing the next morning.
It seemed just the cake for a bear named Cinnamon Charlie, don’t you think?
Of course, a Bundt cake has a hole in the middle, which presented a small question when it came time for the candle.
Swinestein considered the matter.
Red placed the large “1” candle securely in the cake’s ring, on the side facing Charlie.
Swinestein nodded his approval. A satisfactory solution, he concluded.
Charlie’s attention was fixed on the cake as he watched Agnes light the candle’ wick.
The room gradually quieted. Friends leaned nearer, the rabbit youngsters found places where they could see, and someone at the back stepped aside so someone shorter could have a look.
For once, Charlie did not ask about cutting the cake.
He looked around the room.
There was Red beside him. Bobo and Lily smiling nearby. Nettie with her paws folded over her shawl. Jeffrey and Jolene keeping their little ones close enough to see and far enough from the table.
So many neighbors had come.
Cinnamon Charlie smiled.
Then the birthday song and wishes began, and the cabin was full of voices again.
When the singing ended, Red bent toward him.
“Ready?” he whispered in Charlie’s ear.
Charlie nodded. Of course he was. He had been ready since he got out of bed in the morning.
He drew a deep breath . . . . and . . . . Blew!
The little flame twisted around, flickered once, and went out.
For a moment, a thin curl of smoke rose above the white glaze.
Then everybody applauded and cheered —
Charlie looked at Agnes.
“Now?” he asked.
“Now,” she said.
That was an excellent word, he thought.
Plates began making their way around the room. There was cinnamon streusel to admire, glaze to enjoy, and more than one request for a small additional piece.
Cooter the Raccoon appeared quite willing to help prevent leftovers.
On the porch, neighbors settled into conversation while the children compared their portions and the afternoon light moved across the floorboards.
Charlie opened his parcels slowly enough to enjoy them, though now and then he looked back toward the cake.
Red noticed.
“There’ll be some more for later,” he reassured.
Charlie relaxed.
A birthday ought to have a later, don’t you think?
There is something especially pleasant about an Autumn birthday.
The leaves help with the decorating. Cinnamon belongs in the air. A warm kitchen feels like an invitation, and gathering together gives an ordinary afternoon something to remember.
Charlie’s party had all of that.
By the time the plates were cleared, there were crumbs on the table, paper wrappings to gather, and borrowed chairs that needed to find their way back home.
Cinnamon Charlie stood beside Little Red Bear as the last guests called out their goodbyes.
“Can they come again?” Charlie asked.
“I expect they can,” Little Red Bear responded.
“Before my next birthday?”
Red smiled.
“We needn’t wait that long,” he laughed.
That pleased Charlie almost as much as the cake.
Till next time then —
Charlie asked whether being the birthday bear meant he could have the last piece of cake.
I told him we ought to see whether anyone else wanted it first.
He is now considering how early next year’s guests should go home.
More Visits with Little Red Bear
If you enjoyed celebrating with my story friends Cinnamon Charlie and Little Red Bear, you can meet more of their neighbors in The Adventures of Little Red Bear, a collection of short stories from Honey Hill Country. The first collection includes “Sir Snapsalot,” the story in which Red meets and takes young Cinnamon Charlie under his wing.
For yourself, for someone who enjoys a good story, or for a little reading together as the evenings grow cooler — you are welcome to Explore the Little Red Bear Books! here.
A note about images — Original artwork throughout The Front Porch has been created from my concepts and creative direction with the assistance of AI.
Heading outside on a beautiful Autumn morning to gather my thoughts and develop a work strategy for the day, I encountered a squirrel in the yard.
I had a list in hand.
The squirrel had a walnut.
At first glance, I appeared to be the better organized of the two. My intentions were written down in a reasonably orderly fashion, with little boxes waiting to be checked.
The squirrel had no notebook, no calendar, and nowhere obvious to keep a pencil.
Nevertheless, he was making considerably more progress it seemed.
I watched him cross the grass with his walnut, stop beside a tree, and look around.
Then he changed direction.
Welcome back to the Front Porch, friends.
Have you ever noticed how much faster time seems to move as we get older?
When I was a boy, waiting for Christmas seemed to take approximately three years. Summer vacation seemed to last forever. Until we got to the middle of August and started back-to-school shopping and reality set in, of course. Birthdays took their sweet time getting around to us. And school days could occasionally demonstrate an impressive ability to stop the clock altogether.
Now?
January arrives, I turn around twice, and somebody is talking about Labor Day.
Same clocks. Same sixty minutes in an hour. Same twenty-four hours in a day.
So what happened?
Let’s talk about that. Because maybe the clock isn’t the only thing that determines how long a day feels.
There are some Spring mornings that feel as though they’ve been set out just for noticing.
Last week offered one of those.
The air had that early-season softness — not quite warm, not quite cool — in between — the kind that carries sound a little farther than usual and lets the world arrive in layers. Across the street stood a White Dogwood in full bloom, its branches lifted and spread like open hands, each one holding those unmistakable cross-shaped blossoms that seem less like flowers and more like small, quiet declarations.
And there, settled comfortably among them, was a Cardinal, its crimson feathers glowing in the sunlight.
Not just present — but singing.
Filling the morning air with his full-throated melodies. Steady, and sure of himself, as Cardinals tend to be. The kind of song that doesn’t ask for attention so much as assuming it will be given.
On my side of the street, just ahead, stood a Red Maple — not yet committed to Spring, its branches still mostly bare, holding back just a little longer before leafing out. And from somewhere within those branches — though I could not see him at all — came the bright, quick voice of a Carolina Wren.
It is one of those things, where if you know that sound, you know it — sharp, cheerful, almost insistent, as if every note matters. Such a loud song coming from such a tiny bird.
And then something curious happened.
