Out the Back Porch

Della, Eileen and Frank on the front porch at 153 Oak.

It made a sound like a rifle, but it was not a rifle. It was a simple, wooden screen door that Ira had outfitted with a heavy-duty steel spring mechanism that snapped it shut with a resounding CRACK! every time we barreled through. That sudden report was very telling, and it immediately identified the unseen visitor by name and reputation. If the sound were loud, convulsive and echoing, for example, one immediately knew that it was Susan, running at top speed through the kitchen, out the door and down the steps to the garden beyond. If there was a hesitancy to the point of a softer, double knock, it was Donna, stepping out on the back porch to evaluate Susan's activities and decide whether or not she wished to participate. If, having been held open as far as possible and then let go until the door slapped shut with a noise like a cannon, it was me--just for the sake of pure cussedness.

The door wasn't always disruptive of the neighborhood, however. There were lazy days of summer when--two houses down--you could hear it open and shut with a sense of quiet satisfaction that merged with the rising song of the cicadas in the backyard mulberry tree. It was a good bet, then, that whoever had walked through that door did so with a cold glass of lemonade or, even more enticing, an oversize cone of ice cream. We heard--and responded to--that siren call better than any plaintive shouting of our names.

Summer's heat was kept at bay in other ways as well. Kathleen had birthday parties in the backyard with a small, inflatable pool and a handful of swimsuit-clad friends. Better yet, we ran through the hose, spraying each other and shrieking until Dad--aggravated with the sound and lacking conversation with Kate, Ira and Della--came out to warn us that excitability (that most childlike of emotional experiences) led rapidly down a darkening path to "somebody" getting hurt.

Our forays into the yard on summer Saturdays were curtailed by the line of wash stretched across the backyard. A sturdy cotton rope sailed from the back porch to a pole set in the ground.The long, lazy sections--heavy with sparkling white linens--were propped up with gray, weathered lumber Ira had specifically cut for the purpose. Too short for laundry folding duty, we were tasked with policing the clothesline and ensuring that Kate's pristine wash didn't touch the ground and that the summer winds, which lifted the maples with sudden soaring sighs, didn't carry away her sheets.

It was the tiniest of yards and yet, to a child, it was the largest of worlds with plenty of opportunity for adventure and exploration. A mysterious old well, filled in with a century of trash and dirt, beckoned to the archaeologist in me, and I happily dug and scrabbled in the dirt for hours on end. I was fascinated with the shiny, soft pieces of jet I found, not caring that they were actually humble chips of coal intended for the home's original heating system. Susan, Donna, Becky and Colleen almost always played in the garden, picking flowers and weaving them into strands so they could play "wedding" or some other game specifically designed to proceed without male accompaniment (hence my fascination with coal).

In summer, rainy days were filled with storm, and Kate, Ira and Della were keen to keep us occupied and away from the windows where, we were sternly assured, we could draw the lightning cast down from above. Those were the afternoons when we huddled around the dining room table and collaborated on one of Della's many puzzles. She would assign each of us a particular section, reserving the expert challenge of a cloudless blue sky for herself if only to keep us children from becoming frustrated.

Nights were sometimes stifling in summer's open window heat and humidity, and yet they were always magical in the safety and security they provided. There was never any fear of the dark or longing for Mom and Dad in the middle of the night--just the soft, warm, enveloping sense of home and the promise of a bright tomorrow.