The day is measured by the thud and
twang
Open and close
Of the old screen door.
Run, leap, sneak
The years pass by with the press of
feet
Up and down
The wooden porch stairs.
*** ***
I would buy a house for it's deep front
porch and an old, wood-framed screen door.
The porch would be L-shaped, and access
both the kitchen off the short leg, and the front hall at the centre
of the long leg. There would be thick, curvy corner posts and a
substantial balustrade running the lengths, all in glossy white, with
here and there dried nodules of paint where the previous owners
hadn't caught the drips when they last touched up the faded bits. The
main steps from sidewalk to front door are wide, and creak slightly,
especially the third from the bottom which sags a little in the
middle. The sound of enthusiastic feet thumping up and down those
stairs echoes in the empty cavern under the porch, the sound of long
summer days when school is out and freedom means adventures, and
lemonade under the big oak.
The creaky screen door to the kitchen
has a handle just big enough to fit your finger under, and you have
to pull hard from outside to open the door. The coiled spring
protests rustily and quickly snaps the door shut as soon as you let
go. The screen mesh warps from true with the years of hands and
elbows and knees pressing against it. The thud and shudder of the
door closing can be heard all through the house, and mark the comings
and goings of everyone under the roof.
The porch is home to soft summer
evenings of iced tea in the swinging chair hanging from the ceiling.
It is comic books read laying on your tummy, legs bent and swinging
idly behind. It is pumpkins decorating the stairs in the Fall, and
twinkle lights cheering the bleak winter nights. This porch welcomes
friends and family to come in for fresh ginger cookies with a cup of
coffee and a cozy chat. It is cousins playing Go Fish and grown ups
sipping beer. It is where dad grills the steaks while mom hulls the
strawberries and a cat follows the sun in hour-long naps. It is where
we sit to listen to rain from the rockers and wave to our neighbours
as they stroll by.
The porch is home.
.. and this post took me home, back through the years, back to porches where neighbors gathered in the evenings. You could tell who was coming and going out of their houses, for you knew the creaks and slams of Larry's door, and Kay's door, and Charlene's...
ReplyDeletesigh...
ReplyDeleteI was thinking of my Opa's house from my childhood. That to me has always been the ideal. Golly, how I loved that porch and screen door.