As many of you know, we have a tradition at our home called “Porching.” Porching is the art of sitting on our front porch, watching the world go by, and inviting half of it to join us for a chat or a beverage. My wife is the Queen of Porching. I’m just the court jester.
There are a few rules for porching. First: no politics; find something else to talk about. Second: be kind: malicious gossip is forbidden. Third: be respectful: keep your voice down; remember some of our neighbors like to retire early so no loud porching after 9pm and no porching at all after 10. Just move inside. Finally, I’m happy to serve your first beverage, but after that’s gone, you’re on your own. You know where everything is.
I fear porching is becoming, if not a lost art, perhaps merely a passing fancy. Of course, weather plays a big part in this: there was very little porching going on this past winter, but things are beginning to look up. Our house is old—-no, historic (1889)—built in a time when a porch was not just a folly or an add-on, but also an essential room in the house, as crucial to social success as a cozy kitchen or a big dining room table. These days, young home buyers want family rooms, bedrooms, bathrooms, laundry rooms—interior spaces, useful perhaps, but hardly the stuff of small town living. I daresay no Millenial or Gen X, Y, or Zer ever said to a realtor, “We’re looking for an old wood house with one bathroom and a welcoming front porch.” No; home buyers today want a big lot with room for a sports court, swimming pool, and patio. Theirs is a completely different orientation: private and inward, not public and open.
Granted, our house is small (we named it Standing Room Only for a reason) but it lives much larger especially in good weather thanks to the porch. We can comfortably seat six on the porch with two additional chairs on the adjacent patio. There’s also plenty of standing room which is often necessary for friends who arrive to celebrate First Friday, our town’s traditional monthly downtown open house for residents and guests. I don’t like to brag but some people say that our porch is one of the epicenters of these mensual events. They’re not wrong.
The house in which I grew up had a big front porch covered by a canvas awning. On rainy evenings, I loved to lay in the hammock and listen to the rain pelt that cover. And when the water pooled and bowed the awning over the front steps, it was worth a million bucks to poke the awning with the handle of a broom and dump all that rainwater on an unsuspecting visitor. Worth it to me, anyway.
This is Master’s Week down in Augusta Georgia, one of my favorite weeks of the year, a time of azaleas and pimento sandwiches and a tradition like no other. Apparently, as the photo above indicates, for porching, too. I went to the tournament a few years ago and enjoyed it immensely, but I have to say I don’t need to go again. Television gets the Masters just right: minimal commercials, soothing theme music, and cameras on every flowering hole. There’s even a nostalgic aura that adds to the magic of spring.
And spring is the gateway to porching.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives with his wife Kat Conley on both sides of the Chesapeake Bay. His editorials and reviews have appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The People Game,” is available in bookstores and on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other reader platforms. His website is musingjamie.net.
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