I remember a porch from
my childhood where the screens were rusty in spots, pushed in or pillowed out in others, all entered by a single screened door had a heavy spring that slammed it shut.
It was a strong spring
that grabbed and pulled quickly to close the door challenging any wandering fly to get in and me too holding a glass or plate.
Braced against the back wall,
facing the front screen was a squeaky glider with thin uncomfortable plastic green and
yellow cushions festooned with cartoon sunflowers.
When you sat down you’d hear
the swoosh of captured air escaping from the constricted sponge within the
pillow until your body was stopped by the metal frame lattice underneath.
It mattered not. I
slept on that glider many a hot and humid summer night. Air conditioning? Who had that
in those days?
The porch was small,
simple and special. Inside were two wrought iron tables with etched glass tops and a side chair with the same metallic construction as the glider and squishy
cushions.
A small glass coffee
table created a tiny alter in front of the glider. It collected glasses, books,
papers and an occasional crust from my sandwich.
Just outside the porch
and to one side was a grape arbor and vine. Once the leaves spread in the
spring and the tiny bunches of Concord grapes formed pyramid like clusters you could
watch the growth progression all summer. In the fall the clusters were as big
as green marbles and rapidly turned purple and sweet.
Several feet off the
front screen was sloaping rolling lawn, quilted with asparagus and raspberry patches.
At the base of the lawn was a line of tall blue spruces that kept a cattail
Savannah from encroaching on the lawn I had to mow with a push hand mower.
Along the side yard,
next to the grape arbor, was a vegetable garden of dubious productivity. I remember one year my Father planting some tuber vegetables upside down. They came up, but with visible difficulty.
The porch was my hermitage, my lair, my domain of quiet to hear the sounds
of nature, and most of all the wind. I became friends with the wind on that
porch. It has always been my invisible companion. It
comes in zephyr puffs, gentle breezes, and playful gusts, tagging bursts and
even in a stealth-like stillness as the silent breath of nature. The porch is
gone, but I’m still a friend with the wind.
