Though the midwestern, plain-and-simple style didn’t touch the gypsy soul that lay shrouded within me—it was here, from the front porch, that I was given a taste of life connected to the land, the ever-present wind, and the changing patterns of clouds above prairie.
How often do you see people along your suburban street sitting in stylish retro chairs drinking iced tea on a front porch?
My friend Brenda moved from our rural community back to an affluent neighborhood where house after house is lit up by the eerie glow from wall-size TV screens. She tells me she misses evenings where neighbors walk together, children come out to play, and people are more interested in what kind of music you like than what kind of car you drive.
Just around the corner from me, my dad sits on his front deck (Northwest jargon for “porch”) in his aluminum camp chair. He is there, he says, “to watch the parade go by.” The parade includes kids riding every size bike imaginable, dogs running at their sides; joggers mingling with Rollerbladers, and walkers strolling around the curve past the house—always with a wave.
Dad hasn’t forgotten how to sing, either. These days he’s more likely to launch into his own nostalgic version of “Kansas Land.” Five children live across the street from him, and one evening the oldest yelled, “Mitter ‘mith! Mitter ‘mith! ‘We don’t care if you sing!” Then the boy added with the same determined but courteous tone, “But we don’t want you to.” My father laughingly tells the story as often as people will listen. Porches, it seems, not only give us places to tell stories but stories to tell as well.