Front Porches

 During the summers, we kids were trotted off to our grandparents’ farm homes, either the Timmins grandparents or the Woodstock grandparents. Our Woodstock grandparents had a screened in three seasons porch that was, in turn, surrounded by an outdoor porch. The three seasons porch was not heated and air conditioning was a long way into the future but it was a lovely room during the summer. It was very big, according to a six year old’s standards of ‘big’. Three walls were covered with screened windows that allowed the early morning breeze to cool the room and the adjoining outdoor porch gave just enough shade to discourage the day’s heat from finding its way indoors. The room was outfitted with a long old sideboard and an equally long wooden dining table that was covered with an oilcloth. The table could seat eight to twelve people on mismatched wooden chairs of various styles and quality. Each morning our grandmother would serve us three “early birds” (“uccellli” she called us in her Italian) breakfast out there while we watched the chickens strutting around outside. It also allowed the adults to watch us running around while they enjoyed their later breakfast in relative peace after we had been shooed outdoors. As an added bonus, we could watch an explosive summer thunderstorm in the relative safety of the screened porch or be afforded protection  from the sunset loving appearances of mosquitos. Come the impending fall, my grandfather, with the help of dad and-or various uncles would all help to install the winter storm windows. Then the door to the kitchen would be shut and that would signal summer’s end and our return to the city.

Our home, like most of the homes in the neighborhood, had a front porch. There were three steps that led to the front door landing. There was a green rail that matched the color of the front door and the white balusters matched the front window trim. 

That front porch could have told many stories during my teenage years but the most horrifying story that the front porch could relate took place during my senior high school year. It was the night of the annual Sadie Hawkins dance. We girls were allowed to ask boys to the school dance and so I invited a certain young lad to attend the dance with me. The evening went well; we danced, we talked, we laughed and then he walked me home. There we stood, on the front porch, hemming and hawing and working up to a big good night kiss when, much to my shock, my father walked out the front door with a shotgun in his hand. My young man levitated off the front porch and onto the street, gulping his “I was bringing her home, sir” as he marched, very quickly down the street. I stood stock still, unable to move, utterly outraged, I was so stunned at what had just occurred. My dad, in turn, looked at me with a vague and vacant “what’s happening?” look on his face. When my mouth finally opened, the only word that came out was “what!?!” He very innocently said that he was on his way to meet a hunting buddy. They had a long drive and wanted to be hunt ready at dawn. Yes, it truly was hunting season, but I strongly suspected that he did that on purpose and that he secretly enjoyed every minute of it.