The Porch.....

"Why the Porch?" you ask.

Come sit with me awhile and I'll tell you.

Although the answer will become obvious after you read my memoir, I’ll give you a peek into my world—and into the power and the call of the porch.

I did not realize it then, but every house I lived in as a child had a porch. None seemed fancy or special at the time, yet looking back, I see how extraordinary they were. With sunbaked floorboards and splintered surfaces, these outdoor sanctuaries sheltered me from dangers that might have lurked beyond their rickety steps. Each was my nest with a view, offering both shelter and freedom.

From those porches, I watched the world.

There was the porch above the funeral home, overlooking the hearse’s parking spot. When the hearse was there, I knew all was right with the world. When it was gone, I knew there was either a funeral—or about to be one. I spent hours on that porch praying neither of those things happened.

Unfortunately, death was simply part of the scenery of childhood.

One day, when I was perhaps four or five, I wandered downstairs and saw a dead body stretched across a table, blood running from it.

I can still see that blood today.

Nobody screamed. Nobody rushed me away in horror. The world did not stop spinning because a child had seen death too early. In those days, life and death sat much closer together. You could be upstairs eating supper or simply sitting on the porch while downstairs somebody’s mother or husband was being prepared for burial.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, there was still love.

Then came the Big Mill quarters, where dust filled your nose and seemed to fill the whole neighborhood. From my porch, I watched children playing, women talking across yards, and men returning home from work with sweat dried white on their shirts. Radios played gospel and blues through open windows. At night, porch lights glowed while grown folks talked about bills, jobs, sickness, church, and people who had done somebody wrong.

Back then, I did not see hardship when I looked around those quarters.

I saw life.

Another porch gave me a perfect view of a tragedy. From there, I watched thick black smoke burst from the house next door, followed by flames. An elderly woman who lived there alone had fallen into her fireplace and died in the fire. Later, I wandered into what remained of the house.

I wish I had stayed on my porch, watching from a distance.

The porch could shelter me, but it could not protect me from everything I saw.

And then there was the porch on Millen Highway.

Mama’s porch.

Of all the places that have mattered in my life, none holds a more permanent place in my heart. Mama’s house was not large, and it certainly was not fancy. But flowers bloomed everywhere, decorations appeared in unexpected places, and every corner reflected her creativity, hard work, and care.

Of all the time I spent with Mama, the hours I cherish most were the quiet ones we shared sitting on that front porch, looking out over her flowers and yard.

Sometimes we talked.

Sometimes we simply sat.

Either way, I loved every minute of it.

As a child, I thought of home as a place. As an adult, I understand that home is often a person—the one who makes you feel safe, welcomed, and loved. The one whose presence transforms an ordinary house into something sacred.

When I think of home now, I see Mama sitting in her chair on that porch, smiling as another car pulls into the yard. I can almost see her rising to greet whoever has arrived—ready to offer a hug, a meal, a kind word, or simply a place to sit and talk for a while.

What I would not give for one more day beside her, listening to the rain on the tin roof, looking out over her flowers, and hearing her voice tell one more story.

“Why the porch?” you ask.

Now you know.