Porches and Porch Swings

 

So many of the world’s problems could be solved if everyone had a front porch swing. Has anybody ever had an argument in a porch swing?

In its original state, my porch was smaller, with fancy railings. 

Later on, it was enlarged and screened in.  When I was a teenager, the screens were removed and it had a new concrete floor poured.  The swing has been there since before I can remember.  When I was a child, both swing and ceiling were painted “haint blue” in Southern tradition. Someday I’m going to repaint it that color.  The fancy railings are still around, stored in one of the outbuildings for years. Sometimes I toy with the idea of replacing them.

My grandmother is the first person I clearly remember sitting in this swing.  My great grandmother Shouse died when I was ten and spent the last year or two in a nursing home, so my memories of her are not as clear.   My great grandmother Colley had her own home in town and her own porch swing, and I remember sitting on the floor of that porch playing, while she and her daughters laughed and talked as they played bridge.  My mother spent a lot of time in that swing.  She always preferred to be outdoors.  We broke beans, shucked corn, shelled peas and watched my young cousins play in the yard.  The children she kept learned to love that porch and that swing, helped break beans and shell peas there, and some of them bring their own children to sit in the “magic swing.”

I still break beans, shuck corn and shell peas in the swing, and many of my stories are written there, taking shape in my head before becoming words in black and white.  Friends who come to visit often don’t make it any further than the porch – it issues an invitation to sit a spell, talk, laugh, and listen. One of my young friends told me the other day that even if she ever has her own house with her own porch, she doesn’t think it would ever be as peaceful as my porch.  That’s a high compliment.

On sunny mornings in the spring, I like to sit on the porch first thing.  It sets the tone for them day. Sometimes I catch the golden hour of morning, just before sunrise. Birds flood the air with their music and honeysuckle scents the breeze. 

My great-great grandfather built this house and planted four maple trees in the yard.  Three are gone, victims of age and vicious storms over the years.  Only one still casts its shadows over the grass and shades the picnic table.  It has lost a few limbs, but it is hanging on.  I hope it outlasts me.  Losing the trees broke my heart and my mom and dad never got over it.

Sometimes I think my favorite times in the swing are on rainy afternoons in the summer, especially after a dry smell.  I can smell the garden soaking up the water as distant thunder mumbles and complains.  Afterwards, the frogs sing and the birds return to their interrupted anthems.  The dogs lie sleeping, content to ignore the rain and storms, except Scout, who is the only dog I’ve ever had who loves to sit out in the rain.  I guess when you wear a Collie fur coat, you don’t notice the wet so much.

But then there are crisp fall afternoons, when the trees put on their party dresses and the leaves dance to the music of wild geese honking their way south.  Distant harvest sounds -combines and hay balers - reassure me that the crops are being gathered.  The dogs, glad of cooler weather, dash through the leaves and the birdsong is more subdued. 

Nights on the porch are special, too.

Nights alive with the call of the katydid, the croak of bullfrogs, the night birds chorus and the distant call of the owls; and moonless night so quiet the stars hold their breath.  Quiet nights can be peaceful and friendly, or they can be still and unsettled, haunted by strange spirits.  On those nights, the dogs draw a little closer and stay alert, perhaps catching my uneasy feelings.  Or do they sense more than I do and go into protective mode on their own? 

Winter is not always as pleasant on the porch, but around here we have spells of warms days here and there when I can put on a coat and spend some time in the swing, dreaming of spring and the arrival of the flowers.  The birds are busy at the feeders and bare trees paint a stark picture against the pewter sky.  Scout welcomes those days – he thinks everyone should be as comfortable in the cold as he is and doesn’t understand my preference for my seat in front of the fireplace.

I’m sure I would get more work done if I didn’t have that porch and that old swing.  But it’s a place to recharge and reconnect to my sense of self and home.  Problems seem to shrink there and worry is swept away by the breeze from the porch swing. Everybody needs a porch with a swing on it.