On the Porch

That’s porch. Not Porsche.

            I like porches (well, I like Porsches, too). These days everything is about the deck (and I do have one, out back. I don’t have a front porch any more). But when I was a kid, everything happened on the porch, in the front of the house, where all could see.

Porches make memories (well, maybe decks do, too, but they seem to be more along the lines of “Wow, we grilled some awesome portabellas last night” or “Did you see the size of those zinnias?”)
             Porch memories (at least for me) are more personal. The front porch is where I colored in my coloring books and played with my wooden blocks and paper dolls for hours. The front porch is where my best friend got into an argument with my cousin (he threw her crayons overboard into the forsythia bush). It’s where my high school boyfriend and I broke up. And it’s where my father took me when I was small and especially naughty. He often also carried me there in the evening—on his shoulders—to say goodnight to the moon.

            The front porch was where my mom and dad sat after dinner to watch the cars go by, and where my mom sat for years after my dad died, watching the cars go by alone. The front porch was where we hung out when it was just too hot inside the house, and it was where the glider was (upon which, as I recall, my lovely sister and her boyfriend often cuddled).

           We waved to neighbors passing by from the porch and often got into conversations about the weather or the state of old Miss so-and-so’s health. Today, we may not know our neighbors, and if we do, we’re all out on our back decks so we don’t have as many chances to chat. The porch was a great place to spy from and it was also an excellent elevation from which to have a lemonade-spitting contest (when mom wasn’t looking, of course).

            I guess I could go on and on about porches but you get my drift. Decks are nice, but I love porches, and always will.