Whiskey Pines is the kind of place that looks quiet from the outside. You see the flower boxes, the wraparound porches, the perfectly timed stoplights blinking red at 2 a.m., and you assume it’s all peace and pies. But pull up a chair at Jenny’s bakery or browse too long at May Belle’s antiques, and you’ll realize quickly: this town hums with personality. Loudly. And often with very strong opinions.

If you’re new around here, consider this your starter guide to some of the folks who make Whiskey Pines exactly what it is; equal parts charming, frustrating, and unforgettable.

May Belle Don’t let the name fool you. May Belle is more steel than sugar. She’s run the local antique shop for over fifty years and knows the provenance of every chipped teacup and moth-eaten armchair in her care. She has a voice like gravel and a stare that can melt plastic. If you ask her for a deal, she’ll raise one eyebrow and say, “Bless your heart. That piece survived the flood of ’82.” No one knows which flood she means. There wasn’t one.

Boob His real name is Bob, but no one calls him that. Boob is a retired teacher, local hoarder, and self-proclaimed expert on everything from local history to crankshaft repair. He has the gift of eternal breath. Once he starts talking, you’re not getting away unless you fake a phone call or pass out. He’s known for borrowing tools he never returns and fixing things that weren’t broken. But even Boob has his uses. He hears things. Knows who’s been where and when. If you want gossip dressed up as historical fact, he’s your man.

Becky Owner of the bakery and softest heart in town. Becky is the kind of person who makes extra muffins “just in case,” and cries at commercials featuring golden retrievers. She’s also the only person who can tolerate my early-morning sarcasm without flinching. Her cherry scones are legendary, and she slips one into a paper bag for me almost every morning with a smile and a whispered, “Don’t let Dut see.”

Old Man Tibbett He occupies the corner stool at the bakery like it’s a throne. Tibbett wears three layers regardless of season, smells faintly of kerosene and licorice, and tells stories so wild they make Bigfoot sound plausible. He claims he once fought off a bear with a broom handle. He also swears he saw lights under the lake. I believe one of those.

Spencer Davis She runs Lake Treasures, the boutique near the marina. Spencer is elegant, composed, and probably the only person in town who owns more than one cashmere sweater. She’s new-ish to town but walks like she’s been here forever. She says little, but what she says tends to stick. I haven’t figured her out yet, which means I probably like her.

These are just a few of the voices in the chorus that is Whiskey Pines. There are more, of course. People who wave from porches, leave casseroles when someone’s sick, and show up uninvited with a ladder when your gutters overflow.

Small towns don’t have anonymity. What they have is memory—long, detailed, and often exaggerated. But within that, there’s warmth. And weirdness. And a sense that if you belong here, really belong, it’s because you’re a little odd yourself.

Which, as you might’ve guessed, suits me just fine.

With neighborly affection and a slightly raised eyebrow, Roxie Maxx

Whiskey Pines observer, unofficial biographer, and reluctant local