An enchanted hour
“An enchanted hour was filched from the hereafter and tossed into the lap of the present, as a foretaste of what is to come…A mystic world, into which we step as soon as we cross the threshold of the porch.” — Ethelind Fearon (1946)
I don’t know why I have such a love of porches. Perhaps it’s because of the screened porch of my childhood home, where we spent many happy hours eating watermelon and chatting. Its metallic roof made such a wonderfully cozy sound during summer rains.
Or maybe it’s the mysteriously appealing “sleeping porch” of my Granny’s old house, the home where she was born sometime before 1900, and in which my father was also born. That “sleeping porch,” which was actually more of a spare bedroom, seemed to be full of delightfully exotic trinkets from the past. Large screened windows that looked out on the back lawn ran the length of the walls.
Or maybe it’s the swing on the front porch of the home where Jeff grew up in rural Tennessee, where he and I spent many treasured hours in the quiet evenings, with only the sound of crickets and an occasional car passing by on the highway.
Whatever the reasons, I find porches irresistible. I hope you have at least one to enjoy at present, or in memory. Save me a glass of iced tea and a seat in the swing!