Our front porch was where it was at...

"Blogging" is all too new for me. I'm not sure of what to talk about, and not really sure that when I find out what to write, that I want anyone reading it. But I guess for now, I'll fill the first page with what I remember about my front porch.

I grew up in a rural neighborhood about 10 miles outside of Fayetteville, N.C. It was a great neighborhood. The kind of place where kids could play until dark and one need not worry if the doors were locked or windows were secured. Our house was located on the back street in the neighborhood which lent itself to a great view of the whole area. It was a ranch style home with cedar siding, but the best part about it was its front porch which stretched across the entire front.

Located on the porch was Mom's hanging baskets and potted plants. She even had a deacon's bench, but I don't recall any deacons, or anyone else for that matter, ever sitting on it. There were also several rocking chairs and a great old fashioned porch swing. My father had swiped a set of hood springs from an old wrecked '57 Chevy and affixed them to the eye bolts which held the swing to the porch ceiling. This caused the swing to have an extra bounce or two.

It seemed like our family lived on the front porch. Quite often we would gather on the porch after supper to talk and to wave at the cars as they passed by. Dad and I would even go out on the porch in the winter. We would raid the linen closet and wrap up with every blanket. Then we would venture out to the rocking chairs and sit. Our family decorated the porch for every season, whether it be strand after strand of Christmas lights or several pumpkins and a hay bale or two. My favorite times were when it would rain in the evening. Dad, and sometimes mom, and I would make our way to the porch to sit and listen to the rain. This would usually lend itself to a nap.

But it was more than naps, or porch swings, or even waving at the neighbors. The front porch was where I learned to listen, learned to counsel, and essentially, learned how to be a father. I often reflect on my family's front porch conversations, but I often look back to those times that my Dad and I sat, listened to the rain, and shared our lives with each other. It was in those times I felt most connected with my father. After Mom died in 2001, Dad and I returned to the porch one rainy evening. There, we remembered Mom as we cried and laughed. It was as if the front porch consoled us in our grief. I'll never forget that evening.

Yes, our front porch was great because of its size and furniture, and even its vegetation. But moreover, our front porch was special because of the way it nurtured a family through good times and bad.

I miss our old porch, especially now that my new house has sort of a stoop. Just enough to get a strand of Christmas lights around the door or maybe one pumpkin on the front step. No swing with hood springs either, but it does have a rocking chair. Well, I hear the rain, I think I'll go get a small blanket for my son...we're heading to the porch.