The Front Porch

Hearing the clanging of the wind chime outside and the rumble of thunder always reminds me of both my mom and dad. But it’s when I’m drawn outside, to sit on the deck and listen to the falling rain, that I realize I am truly my father’s son.

Our father loved rainstorms. I believe it was his favorite time. It didn’t concern him how much the wind bowed the trees, or how bright the flashes of lightning. Whenever a storm rolled through, our dad would stop what he was doing and make his way to the covered porch.

The home where I grew up had a long porch that ran almost the length of the house. It was elevated slightly above the yard level and was lined with boxwood hedges growing in the dirt below. White circular columns every six feet supported the roof. In the yard, a canopy of trees shielded us from the glaring sun and from torrential rain.

Over the years that we lived there, we had several different types of rocking chairs, but the ones I remember most had an aluminum frame with webbed seating and wooden armrests. The porch was narrow, not much deeper than the rocking chairs lined up in a row. When you sat in a rocking chair, your feet easily reached the edge of the porch, meaning that when you walked down the porch to the first empty seat, you had to not only circumvent the columns but you also had to dodge the feet of those sitting in the occupied chairs - all while avoiding the perilous two foot drop to the yard below.

I recall many good times on the porch with my parents and siblings. It was a gathering place to drink a cup of coffee in the morning and plan our day. And it was a place to rendezvous in the afternoon or evening and share the events of the day just past. True to our Southern roots, it often meant a glass of sweet iced tea was part of the occasion.

Those memories make me smile, and feel nostalgic. Not because it was a simpler time (it was) or because life was easier then (it was), but because I miss those moments of bonding with my parents and my family. I think Mom and Dad knew how special those times were as they lived them. They savored the moments; they seemed to cling to them, drawing them out as long as they could.

Of course, I can’t speak for my siblings, but I can recall occasionally feeling there was something special about those times. Even though I may not have had the years or experience, as now, to fully appreciate them, I think I knew they were moments to cherish.

My mom, rocking her chair, humming a tune that only she heard in her head. The clink of ice as she rattled her glass before taking a sip of her tea. And talking. Our mom loved conversation. She asked us about our day, our plans, our dreams. I found it easy to talk to my mom. She always wanted to hear what we had to say.

My dad participated in many conversations, although he wasn’t as engaged. I think my dad, like many men of his generation, lived much of his life in his head. Oh, he could bend a stranger’s ear for hours, but with us, he was much more reticent. I sometimes wondered if it was because he wasn’t as effective at communicating as the rest of us. Or maybe he just didn’t feel like sharing very often.

When a storm raged outside, we always knew Dad had gone to his own personal happy place: the front porch. Sometimes Mom would join him and they would alternately talk or just enjoy the rain. But many times, Dad was there alone, quietly taking it all in. The rain, the wind, the lightning and the thunder. Our dad appreciated them like no one else I’ve ever met.

So when I find myself turning off the TV or the computer because a storm is approaching, and I make my way outside, I smile to myself, knowing that Dad lives through me.

This evening the wind raged, the lightning flashed and the thunder rumbled, but I was not daunted. I sat alone on the deck, just like my dad did so many nights on the front porch, and silently took it all in. The sound of the rain hitting the roof in particular reminded me of my parents. I miss them both, but in that moment, I felt connected to them through all these years.