I made several starts on this post—each a rant, and I don’t like to rant, so backspace, clear, delete … backspace, delete, clear … delete, start over.
What threw me off the path of serenity was an email ad from Boston Scally—the cap company. I own two Scally’s—one gray, the other black, not flashy like “The Back Deck” cap pictured below.
Nothing wrong with the cap, though plaids aren’t my thing—but it’s the description Scally used to sell the cap that set my thoughts adrift (emphasis mine):
“Whether it was growing up as kids watching the old man grill a few steaks or these days enjoying a few colds beers with our buddies--the back deck is where we have some of the best memories of summer.”
Back decks. I worked up a rant against the growth and popularity of back decks versus the decline and demise of front porches because, as a kid I lived on a tree-lined small-town street where people spent summer evenings sitting, rocking, playing, and talking on their front porches—I’d see them and they’d see me as I flew by on my bicycle.
“Come home when the streetlights come on.’’ Summer was heaven.
Front porches built community. Nearly every house in town had one, and those who didn’t had simple front stoops to occupy. Those were the pre-back-deck days. Neighbors walked by, stopped, chatted, shared news, and made plans to meet for dinner, drinks, dates.
There was one drawback: back then the elder’s eyes scouted the street the way the much-maligned FLOCK cameras do today—one false juvenile move on my part resulted in a report back to the head of household and a grounding. But hey, that’s what neighbors do. It’s called community.
But community shrinks when life is hidden away on the back deck. I’m starting to rant, so enough.
Back to the ad. I was flummoxed reading “the back deck is where we have some of the best memories of summer” because the front porch is the place of one of my best memories of summer.
It’s one of my earliest and most vivid. It includes, as in the Scally ad, “the old man,” my dad, who was the town high school football coach.
It was late summer, early September, late 1950s, I was six or seven years old. It was a cool, crisp evening, after dusk, darkening, and a streetlight partially shaded by one of the many trees lent a dull, dim cast to the grayish asphalt.
Nice evening on the porch.
Our attention was suddenly drawn to hushed whispering voices and the shuffling of many feet moving on the street, heading our way, beyond the leafy trees.
The shadowy group came into sight. We came to our feet.
It was a troop of a couple dozen teenage boys.
Recognition.
It was the high school football team, and it was the night before a big game.
Dad moved to the middle of the top step of the porch, probably wondering what the hell is this, or perhaps he knew—maybe he had once done what they were about to, or it happened in years past before I was born or too young to witness.
The boys stopped in front of the house, bunched together mid-street, center stage, and suddenly burst into song—the alma mater, the school fight song, and a few cheers for good measure.
The show went on for many minutes—the audience, including a mesmerized kid—stood at attention on the porch.
One thing for sure: it was a moment made for Norman Rockwell’s palette.
A round of applause before Coach dismissed the team with “Go straight home! No girls! Big game tomorrow!”
And they shuffled off, boisterous and much noisier than their stealth-like arrival.
That’s the kind of stuff front porch memories are made of.
Don’t apologize for ranting. It’s part of today’s culture. I love your front porch story and the photos from the 50s. Your story brought back a lot of memories for me.
The porch of my childhood was “L” shaped and my siblings and I would sit there from morning until late at night.
Then when I was a teenager boys would come over to see me. Mom said they couldn’t come into the house so we sat on the front porch.
Of course, we didn’t have an air conditioned house in those days. It was mighty hot and humid in my Midwestern city. The houses were close together where we lived in the inner city. I was an adult before I learned that my neighborhood was considered a “bad” part of the city.
We had one bathroom that was shared by my family of seven. Somehow we made it work. Our timing was excellent although we complained about dad spending too much time in there. He had intestinal issues and would read the newspaper as he waited for movement to happen.
It’s been a pleasure to return to the 50s that was a great time to grow up. It was before the sexual revolution and before the Vietnam War. People were nicer then too.
My porch short story:
I'm of Appalachian heritage. Appalachians are known for being tough and stubborn, among other not so noble things.
My mother's side of the family was Scottish/Eastern Band of Cherokees (the ones who refused to surrender and still have many living in Appalachia today). When Tennessee seceeded from the Union during the Civil War, Scott County seceeded from Tennessee. They weren't about to be told what to do. Not sure if they ever joined back, but my uncle David served in the Army and my uncle Josh served in the Coast Guard proudly. Everyone was a crack shot.
The Duncans were farmers and lumberjacks who went to church on Sunday and gossipped about it on Monday. The phone was on a party line and everyone knew everyone else's business. There was a lot to talk about. The men talked on the front porch and the women talked around the coal burning stove in the living room. It was the only heat in the house. There was no TV, just an old tube radio that played fire and brimstone preaching and gospel music.
Water came from a spring up the mountain. There was a bucket of water on the kitchen counter and a ladle. Everyone drank from the same bucket. Best water I ever tasted. There was an outhouse to do your business that had a giant spider in the corner ceiling.
My grandfather was a tanned, redskinned church preacher with a hawksbeak nose and a member of the local Masonic Temple.
They grew corn, beans, tomatoes, onions, squash, pumpkins and watermelon. After a rain the kids hunted for arrowheads in the plowed field.
They had their own sawmill where there were three piles of sawdust that the kids played on in the summer. Buffalo Creek provided the rest of the entertainment. They lived off the land. They picked blackberries for cobbler and genseng for a few extra dollars. The raised hogs and canned vegetables and bacon for the winter.
When my great-grandfather had a tree fall on his leg and take it off below the knee he refused to go to the hospital. If you were going to die you died in the home where you were born that you built yourself.
He was carried home and placed on the front porch swing where he stuck his stump in a sack of salt. He had a piece of lumber and a pocketknife that had been passed down for generations. He sat on the porch for about an hour and whittled himself a new leg.
I was 12 years old and playing with matchbox cars in the dirt under the porch. The only sounds I heard was knife on wood and a gospel hum.