Another Time, another place.

The Front Porch

The house was built about 1919, a classic, small, one story Victorian with a half wrap around porch. The balusters and railings were painted a light grey and the porch floor was a darker shade of grey.


Steep concrete steps rose up the front yard bank then wooden steps led onto the porch itself which provided a birds eye view of the street and the houses across the way.

A porch swing suspended by chains from the ceiling seated two and squeaked gently as it swung back and forth. There were two wooden rocking chairs on the porch but the swing was the favorite spot for daydreaming

The air was fresh and warm, sweet smelling, clear of toxins and gas fumes. Not many people owned cars. No jets flew over . Many peaceful hours could be spent sitting on the porch steps or on the concrete steps where the walkway ended at the street. There was no air conditioning back then so the porch breezes were a welcome respite from the summer heat.

You could sit on the steps at night with your brown and white beagle mix dog and count the stars and see the big dipper and the milky way. In the summer night time you could catch lightening bugs and put them in a glass jar. Or you could simply get up and you and your dog could walk up the sidewalk and enjoy the evening. No crime to worry about. No one locked their doors. No one used a key to the house. Did a key even exist ?

Your childhood friend might come sit with you on the porch steps, then the two of you, barefoot and skipping over the hot sidewalk pavement, would run down the street to her house and play Monopoly. Later she would show you the souvenirs her parents had brought back from the 1939 World’s Fair.

Neighbors would look up and call to you on the porch as they walked by headed for the market or up the street to a friend’s house or to the Baptist Church about a half mile up on the nearby main street, or perhaps they were walking to the down town picture show.


You might sit in the swing with your white haired grand daddy who talked with you as he whittled a stick into a whistle.

Years earlier grand daddy had sat in the swing with his hand resting on his chin watching silently as you had your 4 month old baby picture made. In the photo your older brother was in the yard below the porch holding you gingerly and looking down at you. You had a fat faced look of contentment as you gazed directly at the old box camera. Your chubby little cheeks and your dark fuzz of hair showed up really well in the photograph which would gradually fade with time but would remain viewable..

You were born in the bedroom to the left of the front porch. Babies were born at home in those days and not in the hospital. You were the last of 10 children but all but 3 had grown up and left home before your birth. You were the caboose.


Sitting on the porch was the perfect place to listen out for the bell of the ice cream truck as it made its’ way slowly down the street. When it got nearer you could run down the porch steps and stand on the side walk and gaze longingly down the street as you decided how you would spend the Buffalo nickel you mother had given you.


The handsome dark haired postman who sang bass in the church choir walked up the porch steps with his extra large well worn brown leather mail satchel to place letters in the small metal mailbox attached to the porch wall at the front door



You walked down the front porch steps and walked to school when you began kindergarten. And up again when the school day was over with much to tell mother about your school day.


You drank lemonade and ate cookies while sitting in the porch swing. Your brother taught you songs like “My Darling Clementine” there. This was before he went off to the US Navy after the beginning of World War 2. He came home safely, thank God so no bad news telegram was delivered to the front door.


After your dog followed you to town and got run over, the lady who hit him drove you home with your dying dog in the back seat and gently placed his lifeless body on the front porch by the door. You cried when the truck came to carry his sweet body away.

To get away from the sadness of the afternoon you and your mother walked down the porch steps to the end of the street.The two of you stepped onto the city bus and rode and rode and talked about your dog and how sad you were. You reminded her the dog first belonged to your brother before he went off to war and you were sad you did not take good care and let him get run over. Mother said it was not your fault. Your brother would understand. She said there will be other dogs but this one was special.


You grew up, finished high school and moved away. Saying good bye to the porch and swing, you tucked your treasured memories away and walked down the front porch steps for the last time, glancing back with longing and regret that the tender simple pleasures of porch days were over.