A local author bares all . . . in matters of front porch sitting
The house where I live is the fourth I’ve bought in my life. I suppose that’s about average. The first three were fine places, nice homes with decent bones, but they were missing something, something I badly craved: a big front porch. My current house? Well, I spotted the For Sale By Owner sign about the same time I saw the front porch that ran the width of the house, and the deal was basically done at that point. I finally had my porch. I didn’t really care what the rest of the place looked like.
My adult desire for a front porch stemmed from a childhood of visiting Northeast Alabama, where my grandparents lived. Their house loomed at the crest of a steep hill, and from their huge porch, we could sit in that squeaky swing and look across the valley below, toward Lookout Mountain. That’s where we first heard my grandfather’s fox hunting stories, where we waited in December dusk for Christmas lights to twinkle miles away, on the face of the far slope. Sitting on that front porch, folks received good news and tolerated bad. Ate homemade ice cream. Read novels and the afternoon paper from Chattanooga. Tracked storms as they tumbled over the mountain and settled in the valley. From that porch, I learned the fine art of watching the world go by without having to jump in and play an active role in it. I learned the value of simply sitting and keeping my eyes open. And when I grew up, I wanted that place for myself, that place where I could spy on the world.
It took me four mortgages to get it. My first three houses had front stoops, sad excuses for front porches, just wide enough for a welcome mat and an Amazon package. But I got lucky with this porch. It’s long and broad enough for a crowd. The ceiling is painted blue to keep the haints away. It cants awkwardly in places, toward the street. These days, no matter the season, I sit and watch the walkers—the dog owners, the neighbors, the unhoused—make their way down my street. There’s no Lookout Mountain in front of me, but that’s okay. I have a couple of brick chimneys in the distance where squadrons of purple martins swirl through mosquitoes. My front porch is decorated (or perhaps, littered) with the flotsam and jetsam of three-quarters of a life: folk art birdhouses, bleached driftwood collected on paddling trips, half-melted candles, a half pack of matches, maybe an empty beer bottle. Sometimes, you might spot a guitar propped in a corner or a visiting daughter sitting cross-legged in a chair.
I can’t prove it, but I think big porches make for better people. Maybe we need more of them.
Scott Gould’s latest novel, The Hammerhead Chronicles, is available at your local, independent bookseller and online.
