Front porches are the best, aren’t they? They allow one to invite the outside world in while at the same time giving you a front row seat to what’s going on out yonder. Folks can visit with their neighbors across the way, as long as they’re outside at the same time. It also offers a quick check-in with the weather or a place to scope out some different sounding bird… I can hardly express all that it is for me. I don’t look out on any neighbors—just trees, shrubs, and a creek bed out front, with a multitude of birds, lizards, and other species of wildlife everywhere. So, naturally, I commune with them.

            This year, it seems as though I spend way more time than ever before napping on the little porch couch. It’s an old thing I picked up off the side of the road back in 2008 and delivered it directly to my dad’s new ‘temporary’ place where he lived the last few months of his life. After that, we re-homed it to the front porch of our log cabin where it is now adorned with an old bedsheet. I’m trying to preserve my comfy outdoor ‘day bed’ for as long as possible.

          My grandma in Mississippi had a wonderful front porch. When we were kids, my sister and I would crowd onto the porch swing with our Southern cousins and tell scary stories on those sultry summer evenings. It would groan at just the right times to send us shrieking back into the house. Sometimes we’d go visit our aunt and uncle for lunch. You had to walk through their screened-in porch to enter the house. Everybody there had a front porch. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone to have it any other way.

            I’ve often dreamed about clusters of small homes, all with front porches, built around a communal green area—all facing each other. This way, if you saw anybody out there that would mean they were up for socializing: a quick “hello”, an opportunity to return the borrowed bowl of sugar, or a chance to join a community happy hour—all from the comforts of one’s own front porch.

            Some of the best conversations are had on the front porches across America—threading through time. Snippets of literary genius can be heard while snapping beans, singing songs or simply sitting for a spell. I’ve always needed to snatch as much time outside as possible, every day, or I just don’t feel very well. I’m not sure if it’s the fresh air or the breeze or the nature surrounding us. Porches help make all that happen more easily.

            Hammocks are a pleasure as well. Many an afternoon I’ve wandered down to the creekbed and reclined into the crisscrossed rope web to read a book, stare up through the tops of the trees, and then doze off. Not much reading going on, I’m afraid. The dog seems to enjoy the soft sand beneath and closes her eyes as well.

            Back up to the porch—the rocking chair beckons. The squirrels run to and fro, chirping their warnings over there in Squirrel Town. In the meadow beyond the creekbed, their elaborate burrows and tunnels, beneath the desert bird of paradise bushes, house a good many of them. Their visible numbers have dwindled recently as they prepare, or have already begun, to hibernate. Underground they’ll sleep, with their body temperature lowering to match the cold in the burrow. Heart rates drop and breathing slows as they fall deeper and deeper into a sporadic winter’s nap. They awaken as the surroundings warm up and their internal temperatures begin to rise, and a few may surface temporarily. When spring arrives, there are scores of them everywhere.

            So, I stand up and nod to my front yard neighbors, at least those that remain to gather a few more acorns to hide, and often forget about. And here’s a wave to you, my neighbors across town—from my front porch to yours. Let’s be neighborly.

Chi Varnado has four newly published books. The Old House in the Country, women’s fiction; and three YA novels in The Dance Centre Presents series. Her memoir, A CANYON TRILOGY: Life Before, During and After the Cedar Fire and her children’s book, The Tale of Broken Tail are also available on www.amazon.com. Her collection of essays, Quail Mutterings, can be found on www.chivarnado.com or www.dancecentrepresents.com. You can follow her on Instagram or on www.Facebook.com/dancecentrepresents.