I love my porch.
It’s by far my most favorite part of the house that I grew up in. I didn’t realize my love for it until a couple of summers ago, enjoying the shade it offers so kindly and the quiet changes to its surface; every season the paint chips a little more, the weeds around it grow a few inches taller, the pine tree’s boughs reach through the railings a bit more. The colors of the porch are what first drew me to noticing it. Once a crisp, dark green, the paint now appears faded and more like teal, much of it completely gone and baring the gray, brown wood underneath. While most people would disapprove of the bright green growth on the wood, I admire it for complementing the other colors so well.
The porch is full of music, too. I often hear birds chirping in the pine trees and the wind rustling the yellow brilliance of the forsythia bushes. Mid-summer I hear jets creating new paths across the cloud-freckled sky and the boy next door practicing his swing, the crack resounding between the hills. In the fall, the gentle sound of a distant, huge motor in the farmer’s fields tell me they are harvesting; in the spring, the farmers, again, sowing, sowing. In the winter, when I miss the porch the most, I can still hear the music; the crunching of icy snow beneath my boots and the wind whistling through the railings, the structure creaking with shivers, whispering, Don’t worry; I’m still here. Spring will come soon.
I can’t capture the whole porch in one photograph. Looking at the whole thing, you wouldn’t be able to soak up its beauty, and looking at the little details, you wouldn’t be able to understand the connection between them and their significance. So I won’t even try. But I can share a glimpse of a moment, and with the few wonderfully warm days we have had so far this spring, I have a few to show you. Maybe they won’t mean much to you, having never experienced my porch, but I hope it will inspire you to seek out a place that means as much to you as my porch means to me.
A simple dinner for my parents and me.
Honey Wheat bread resting on the picnic table before the meal.
Pots containing little treasures: basil seeds.
(They never grew, but it was fun planting them. I’d like to try again).
If you do find a place, please describe it to me. I am curious..