My First Front Porch

Going through old pictures (again) this am, I stumbled upon a photo of the house I grew up in Allenhurst, New Jersey, which my siblings and I refer to as “404” (the address). When I look at this house, I am overwhelmed with many fond memories. Of course, there are those that are not so warm and fuzzy (memories), but nevertheless, they are a part of my life.

There are those who say the “house” is merely a shell, and what makes the shell a “home” are those who live inside. I believe this as well, however, our “shell” had an extension in the form of a wrap around porch, and that’s where many of the great memories I have were formed.

The porch was huge (I’m not the best at math or configurations, but if I had to guess, I would say it gave us a HUGE amount of living space). Our parents collected most of the porch furniture from garage sales, and after cleaning it up and adding new paint, we had just about brand new stuff. It was old, mostly wicker, but it all added “charm” to the porch. And most was very comfy. And there was always room for one more. Always.

The bulk of the porch faced the lake we grew up on (yet more tales I could share) so the summer breezes that rolled off the lake added to our comfort, especially during the heat of the summer. We hosted many parties on this porch, including my sister Sue’s wedding (quite honestly one of the most relaxed and fun weddings I have ever attended).

This porch seemed to draw people to it like a magnet. Whether it was family, friends, the neighbors, or the cop on duty that day (my dad was also a cop so it was not uncommon for that person on duty to drop by to say hello), there was always something going on. We also had many meals out there, and food always seemed to taste better out there. Even a cold bowl of cereal was fun.

Watching a summer storm from this old porch was even fun. We felt safe there, like no harm could ever reach us (as if the rails of the porch wrapped themselves around us, protecting us).

They say a house has character and that character is an extension of its owners. I think that is true. My parents always extended open arms to those who came to sit on that porch. As inviting as that porch was, so were my parents to those who came to sit and visit with us.

I can remember vividly the tinkling sounds of my mom’s wind chimes that were scattered around the porch frame. I can still see the American flag blowing in the breeze. I can hear the laughter of the occupants. I can smell the fragrance of summer. I remember the love that enveloped that house like the porch, whose wrap around structure was more than a piece of shell. I miss that porch.