The porch—that old-fashioned idea from the good old days—has been reborn. For most Americans, it is a remnant of the time when, as the country song goes, families
really bowed their heads to pray and daddies really never went away.1 The consensus is in: People want the porch back. They want it back not just for architectural charm but for the values it represents.
The porch is the place people roosted before TV interrupted their lives. Summer evenings on a creaky porch swing with both my parents was entertainment that has been lost to succeeding generations. Mother, feet wedged against the railing, waved to the occasional neighbor passing by or worried aloud about Mrs. Unroe next door. Twilight fell like a blanket on our shoulders. Daddy sang “Somewhere Out in the West” in his wobbly voice. My sister and I chased fireflies, tucking them into peanut- butter jars with holes in the lids. I sometimes extracted the glow lamp from their midsection and placed it on my finger like a diamond. The fragrance of summer air smelled of sweet peas. Ample, unhurried time meant my fill of lap sitting, arms wrapped in arms.
The front porch is where I learned what it felt like to be family. But in the latter twentieth century, the picture became a cliché stereotype, languishing along with hopscotch and jacks. When urban renewal became suburbs, and suburbs became hypersuburbs, something went desperately wrong. The rise of the gated community along class and economic lines fostered division, disconnection, and alienation. In castle like McMansions common spaces and porches were nearly nonexistent. Sidewalks too were excluded in favor of golf-course-type lawns extending to the street.