|My view of Grey Street North from my favorite front porch vantage point.|
|Lucy waiting for me to join her on our front porch easy chair.|
Is it just me, or have front porches become a thing of the past?
Being of the old school and appreciative of the best things in life that do not cost a cent, my front porch is what helps keep me sane. It is a solice and a place to relax on the lazy, hazy days of summer and a comforter when the rigors of life threaten to get the best of me. A front porch, for me, can be a place where life stands still for as long as you sit there enjoying the nature of your surroundings, mind wandering aimlessly -- reflecting one minute and projecting the next.
Whenever possible I take time to have my morning coffee on that blessed outdoor shelter that surrounds half of my house. Same with lunch at noon. There's also nothing like a glass of wine on the porch as the sun goes down in the small town quiet of the evening hours, with Lucy girl snuggled into my side on an old recliner that has survived four years exposed to outside elements. Generally, in most cases, we end up having a catnap. It is not unusual for me to wait out thunder storms too, hypnotized by the beat of rain hitting overhead porch eves and the driveway pavement below.
More often that not as I gaze across a large expanse of green grass and shadows created by the warm sun filtering through a dense canopy of overhead foliage teased by a gentle breeze, my mind drifts back to my childhood in Dresden, ON, in the 1940s when alternate evenings were spent on our front porch on Sydenham Street and at my Aunt Hattie Sharpe's on nearby Hughes Street with cousins Jim and Norma. Neighbors out for a stroll, would stop by for a chat -- Mrs. Ruttle, Mrs. French, Mrs. Henderson, Mrs. Hughson, Mrs. Henderson, Andrew and Dorothy Rigsby with daughter Margaret, Mrs. Tassie, Mrs. Craven, Mae Sharpe and the Tedford family (to name but a few). More often than not, a treat of some kind would enter the equation before the night was over.
It goes without saying that porches are a bridge to my past and there is something comforting about that.
With the exception of an odd cursory wave exchanged with a passerby who happens to glance our way, Lucy and I sit alone these days. I see a lot of cars, but rarely anyone I recognize. It is like we have Grey Street North all to ourselves. People are otherwise occupied doing what, I really do not know...Busy, busy, I guess! Porches, if in fact they do exist, are stoic and unused reminders of days when livin' was easy -- and more social.
But do you know what?...I really do not care. I'll continue to enjoy my little bit of Heaven in peaceful solitude on my front porch. This, after all, may be as good as it gets -- and it may not last that much longer. I'm never that busy!