There is something about a front porch. There aren’t many here in the Midwest, but they are practically everywhere in the South where I grew up. This simple structure is, to me, a symbol of hospitality. Immediately when walking up to someone’s house, you’re sheltered before you even knock on the door. You are surrounded by hanging plants, chairs (preferably a swing), and a little table for iced tea. The front porch of my mind has a sawn baluster railing with white paint that has slightly faded over time. The roof over head is stained wood shiplap with an antique chandelier dangling from the center. There is a porch swing painted a bright turquoise and several rocking chairs surrounding it. There is a round, metal cafe table with a pitcher of iced tea with lemon, a few glasses, and a plate of brownies. The floorboards creak a little as you walk to and fro. It’s hot outside, but the ceiling fans whirring ahead and the slight breeze flowing through keep it comfortable.
Sitting on the front porch takes a good measure of vulnerability that back porches do not. You’re opening yourself up to whoever may be passing by. There is no privacy fence to block the view. The front porch invites a wave, a hello, maybe even a stop to chat and have a drink.
Do you have any front porch memories?
Kacie B. Sharpe 