The porch at our front door is small, holding a round table, a small side table, and four chairs. That's the capacity. When I worked, this is where my wife and I shared a bottle of Prosecco and a snack or light supper on my days off. In retirement, this is where I spend much of my time.
This porch is where I discovered that the late afternoon light in the summer turns the oak leaves silver. This porch is where I exchange greetings with neighbors out for a walk or out being walked by their dogs. This porch is where I can spend hours enjoying a book and a drink (whiskey with Faulkner, gin with John le Carre, coffee with Robert Caro, tea with Barbara Pym).
When I smoked a pipe, the porch was where I could indulge the vice without defiling the interior. The porch is where I can sit on a still summer day as the wind picks up suddenly, then watch as a storm rolls in. The porch is where I can savor the calm of the evening twilight until the mosquitoes chase me inside.
Loafing comes naturally to me, perhaps hereditarily. My grandfather, Lucien Lundy Early, a lifelong inveterate loafer, used to spend time with other elderly loafers on the front bench of the general store in Elizaville, Kentucky. Growing up in Kentucky, I was enough of a Southerner to understand that the way to deal with the oppressive heat is to sit there and not move. A propensity for loafing (and reading) made sitting still an easy skill to acquire.
It is a pity that so many houses have been built without front porches, or that people who have houses with porches do not take advantage of them. Yes, I know that many houses have decks, but decks are in the back, for family, for privacy. When you sit on your front porch, you are identifying yourself as a resident; you are making yourself visible and known; you are helping to people the neighborhood.
So if you should be minded to come by sometime to sit on the porch with me, I am not averse to genial conversation. That is one of the things it is for.
