Porches

Porches come in all shapes and sizes. There are porches just large enough to protect the "come-er" and the "go-er" from the elements during the process of coming or going. Porches may have steps leading up to the landing, be flush with the yard, be large or small, be grand or simple, be welcoming with flower pots, welcome mats, tables, chairs, or swings, be decorated like a lovely indoor room complete with tea cart and silver service, be dripping with flowering vines and hanging baskets, or just plain be. But any self-respecting house of a certain age would never dream of not offering a sizable, covered, outdoor room for relaxing and entertaining. And the most respectable porches in of all porchdom, must have a swing...big enough for two or more occupants whether people, pets, or combinations there of. The swing absolutely must be wide enough for a single occupant to sit sideways. It must have pillows and pads inviting enough for naps, neighbor gazing, secret sharing, daydreaming, gossiping, and "remember when-ing." Such is a porch on Buffalo Street, in Cleburne, Texas.

The porch in question belonged to my Aunt Leila and Uncle Sam and was unselfishly shared with my mother when she rented the apartment adjoining them for 15 years of the 40 plus years they lived there. Remembering that particular porch brings back a flood of wonderful childhood, teenage, young adult, and married adult memories.

I must have been in the 5th or 6th grade when we began to visit them for extended summer vacations. Those weeks were much planned for, anxiously awaited, and simply the best of times. The porch was my very favorite place to hang out, either by myself, with cousins, or with the adults. Early mornings found me and my cousins, breakfast plates in hand, swinging, giggling, and planning our day. In the heat of the day, the swing would swing gently and empty, the porch just too hot and humid to be enjoyable After supper, the whole family would rush to the porch, sweet iced tea in tow for prime seating, either on the swing, the Adirondack chairs, the cane-bottom chairs, or the porch itself, leaning on the banisters and swinging our legs off the edge. Each person would grab a fan that was kept in a flowerpot on the porch. Some of the fans were woven cane and bore the owner's name written with nail polish, and some were advertisements from the local funeral home. All were needed and used on the hot summer nights. As dusk turned into twilight, we would watch for the first fireflies, and the evening star, groan about how full we were and talk about how yummy the supper was.

As darkness settled in around us, the voices became softer, and the mood one of comfortable belonging. Before long the sisters would begin with something like "Ruth, do you remember when we lived on the old Barton place and we...?" That would begin the magical stories of our parents' childhood, the telling and retelling of stories we never tired of hearing. They would laugh, tease each other, and sometimes cry together as the memories were shared and cherished. As they wove their stories, we were reminded of our heritage, and the security of knowing our place in it, of their unwavering faith in God, their love for each other and for us.

After the parents retired to the living room, we were allowed to stay on the porch until very late, sometimes long after they went to bed, as long as we didn't leave the porch. The windows to the house were always open...no air-conditioning...so we could eavesdrop on their adult conversations, or tune them out as we began our own.

The porch and swing heard our secrets, listened to our uncontrollable giggles, watched over us as we grew and matured into young women, witnessed our shy, first dates, first kisses, saw our young loves develop and mature, heard our wedding plans, swung our babies, and watched as they grew and played together. As the years passed, it listened as we grieved together when our parents and cherished loved ones passed away, and watched as we tried to comfort, hold and support each other during the unbelievable horror of the loss of some of our children. The porch was a refuge and a shelter, a place to return to again and again, a memory keeper never to be forgotten.

The house, the porch, and the much loved swing now belong to others who will write their own history there. Perhaps our stories still dwell there in the shadowed twilight, encouraging new families and generations to share their own.

I dream that our porch and swing will hear our childhood stories, swing our grand babies, hear their secrets and dreams watch them grow, and shelter our future generations' memories.

A self-respecting porch is never just a porch. It is so much more!