Porch Lizard
“We live on front porches and swing life away.”
– Rise Against, “Swing Life Away” (2004)
“No front porches. My uncle says there used to be front porches. And people sat there sometimes at night, talking when they wanted to talk, rocking, and not talking when they didn't want to talk. Sometimes they just sat there and thought about things, turned things over. My uncle says the architects got rid of the front porches because they didn't look well. But my uncle says that was merely rationalizing it; the real reason, hidden underneath, might be they didn't want people sitting like that, doing nothing, rocking, talking; that was the wrong KIND of social life. People talked too much. And they had time to think. So they ran off with the porches.”
– Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451 (1953)
***
Over a hundred years ago, in the midst of World War I and the Spanish Flu pandemic, someone built a bungalow in a southern city that is now my home. It sits on a modest lot nestled in a block that is within yet tucked away from the city and features a front porch running across the front. A home this old is a living, breathing thing with stories to tell. With all its charm, our house too holds ugly truths about the past century in which it has existed: in the dining room, underneath where our chairs rest, a brass mechanism that was once a servant floor call button; in the dank basement, plumbing hookups for a toilet and a large concrete sink.
With each new owner and each passing decade, the home shifts and evolves in ways unique to the time. We suspect that some original windows have been boarded up, nailed shut in huge wooden shutters for reasons unknown. What may have once been a back porch was converted to a dressing room with a brown and brass color scheme, lined with floor to ceiling mirrors and studded with an oversized vanity area and small cedar-lined partitions for hanging clothes. Maybe the partitions once housed long fur coats that grazed the floor and an assortment of scratchy colorful suits in plastic wrap from the dry cleaner, like old-fashioned hard candy in a bowl. Maybe cigarette smoke and floral aldehyde perfume and hairspray hung thick in the air. A dark outline in the dining room floor suggests a fireplace that once threw off warmth, ambience, and comfort to residents and guests, but is now long gone. While we work to make the home our own, reminders of its past versions linger.
The front porch is a timeless, unchanging aspect and the beating heart of our home. Wrapped in a slightly tinted screen, it has a mysterious and magical way of making its inhabitants lose track of both space and time. Enmeshed within the fibers of the screen are sacred memories, now part of the home’s ongoing story:
When we first bought the house and it had no furniture yet except for a wooden porch swing, that swing beneath my bare legs, the relief of a cold beer can on my hands, which were swollen from the heat of the summer night, feeling exhilarated and a little shaken because we had never spent that much money on anything before.
Our dog and cat heading out to the porch first thing in the morning to curl up in the light of a sun ray streaming through the screen.
Friends impromptu stopping by on evening walks and sticking around for a drink or two when they see that we are home.
Oysters and champagne over ice on Thanksgiving day, when we hosted the holiday for family for the first time at our house.
Catching up with an old friend, giggling like teenaged girls when we realized we overserved ourselves and she was late for dinner with her family.
Posting up with two tattered folding chairs and a stool for a table while we passed out candy to trick-or-treaters, eager to show off their polyester costumes and collect sweet treats, the flicker of the Turner Classic Movies Halloween marathon illuminating the family room, just inside the door.
Sitting safe and dry while hot, thick thunderstorms rolled through, feebly attempting to quench the thirst of the city in the dead of summer.
Reading, scribbling, and napping for hours, waking up a little sweaty, a little disoriented, but finally rested. My husband joking: “You are a lizard.”
This unfussy enclosed brick platform mercifully transforms me from an active (and exhausted) member of society to a calm observer; comfortably removed from both the outside world and domestic responsibilities waiting inside the house, but connected enough. From this perch, I am passively aware of the small yet intricate ecosystem that is our block. Car doors slam closed and screen doors screech open. Kids play in front yards and bounce basketballs in the street. Tiny and excited voices shout: Lemonade for sale! Squirrels and birds frantically go about their routines in canopies of ancient trees. Church bells ring. Cars zip through on main roads that run parallel to us a few blocks away. A train whistle erupts suddenly, deeply. The mail carrier drops off the mail and I thank her.
Spending time on our front porch ignites a muted version of joy I used to find playing outside when I was little, especially when the seasons turned from winter to spring or spring to fall. I played in our driveway or cul-de-sac or sometimes a nearby creek, frequently barefoot, soaking up hours outside, receiving a type of free therapy from the sun or coolness on my skin. In mindless, uncomplicated activities with a few friends and/or my brothers–rollerblading, catching (and releasing!) caterpillars and salamanders, sidewalk chalk, bikes, playing catch, playing pretend, basketball, rolling down a hill, grass stains and dirty fingernails, my trophies–I was, simply, happy. A small twinge of this also comes back to me now anytime my bare feet hit grass, pavement, or sand, even in the most insignificant moments, like when I’m taking a bag of trash out to the bin and forget to slide on shoes before heading out.
Over one hundred years since this home was born, and it’s clear how much has changed. Our communities are so much bigger than they were then; cell phones and the internet have made us a part of the whole world instead of just our respective cities, neighborhoods, blocks. At the same time, the world itself has shrunk because travel is more accessible and we are peppered with news updates 24/7, stripping us of any mystery of international goings-on. This dynamic leaves us more connected but more guarded. We screen visitors before opening the door using a Ring camera. Hyper aware of crime rates we do not, cannot, trust strangers–online or in real life. We avoid eye contact with them and are paranoid about sharing personal information. We are on the defensive.
But there are remaining threads, tethering the present to the past and us to the prior occupants of our home: wars, pandemics, and our front porch, to name a few.
