Front Porch Memories
By Patti Perry-Armes © 2015
Online: April, 2015
(Editor's Note: Patti Perry-Armes lives in the country, just outside Knoxville, Tennessee. She enjoys writing short stories, particularly about rural life and living in the Appalachian region. A number of her stories have been published in anthologies, and both print and internet magazines.)
The front porch was such a part of my social and cultural upbringing. I know that was the case in many homes, particularly in the South. Some of my fondest memories took place on that porch. There wasn't anything particularly special about it. Wooden flooring painted glossy gray, it ran across the length of the house, with steps at both ends. But it was our world, and the world visited us there. It came in the form of relatives, neighbors, friends, church members, the milkman, the Watkins salesman, and various others with items to sell.
I remember the days when the road we lived on was covered only in gravel. The gritty white dust would settle on everything each time a car would pass and kick it up. It was a time when there were no house numbers, just rural routes, and everyone knew everyone.