The great, golden ball sinks behind the western trees facing the front porch of the house at the end of Westwood Road. That’s the signal for those inside to gather there ready to rehash the day and unwind. Supper’s over, the dishes are washed, dried, and put away, ready to start over the next morning. There will be four generations on the porch—the elders telling stories of days gone by, the youngsters listening. Remember—no television.
Stars crowd the night sky like diamonds on black velvet, and every night Grandmother asks us to find the Big and Little Dippers. Soon we can find them almost immediately. No street lights to compete with the Milky Way.
The fireflies start their twinkling as soon as complete darkness falls. Sometimes we can go outside to chase them. Sometimes we put them in a jar with holes in the lid—our own little living lantern for awhile until we turn them loose before we go to bed.
Nearly every night we hear the hooting of the owl who sits in my special tree—the one I climb to watch for cars coming down the road. We see his yellow eyes shining through the darkness as he waits to spot his supper. Other night sounds start up. Crickets chirping, frogs croaking, the bellow of an alligator on occasion.
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Porch furniture I remember were two Adirondack chairs and a slatted bench with a back and arm rests, also painted white. The only thing left today is one Adirondack chair at my brother Wally’s house in Tennessee. It made the trip from Louisiana to Tennessee tied on top of the car, ala “The Beverly Hillbillies,” but that’s another story.
The only tale from those evenings on the porch that I remember was one Granddaddy told us of him having to spend the night in a tree somewhere in Texas. It seems a javelina took exception to him and chased him around until he found a safe haven among the leaves.
Mornings on the porch found the grownups taking their coffee before their day started. I learned to shell peas there with my great-grandmother in the summertime. Whatever was on the docket for dinner that day was what we shelled in time for it to go into the pot. Black-eyed peas, lima beans, sweet peas—nothing tastes as good as something right out of the hull.
Sometimes I miss that simpler time. I always miss those I spent that time with.
Those were the days. So sad that our grandchildren and greats will never know that kind of fun with all they have.