It is nice to see front porches coming back into vogue once again in new housing. Life can be so much richer for the simple act of spending an evening porch sitting while as the day unwinds into the night. I have read several articles touting the benefits of neighborhoods with generous front porch space, but feel that while writing of those benefits that the author really doesn't understand all the subtle and overt benefits of such a change in the architecture back to an older form. They say it is great to foster a sense of community, but delve no further than that statement.
I have lived in two established and two brand new neighborhoods in my married life. Only one of the four abodes had what could be considered a front porch. In my opinion it is much harder to move into a completely brand new neighborhood with no established pecking order or sense of history. The feeling was much like opening a brand new school, which I did three times in my life. Without that sense of history it is harder to put down roots.
So this is a story about the things I learned in the gentlest of ways about how communities are built one front porch at a time. Come sit a spell on this summer evening as I that you that neighborhood of long ago.
Our first house, a bungalow, had a half-front porch. The other half was glassed in and made for a wonderful look out on three sides of our corner lot. We moved in the winter of 1967-68 and didn't see much of the neighbors until the late spring evenings when they all came out to sit on their porches. Most evenings we worked in the overgrown yard trying to bring back some order to the neglected grass and gardens. We would then sit on the steps, for we hadn't any porch furniture yet and share a cup of coffee planning our next project or just talking of our day after the children had been put to bed.
We began to notice certain patterns of visiting and porch etiquette in the neighbors. This was a well-established block that had many longtime residents that had raised their families, some had even lived in the houses since they had been built in the early twenties, so were several decades younger than most. It was a time of social and political upheaval in 1968 with the Vietnam War. We were aware of that barrier and what it added to the equation of old vs. young.
That whole first year we were watched carefully for our manners and work ethics in maintaining our home and caring for our children. That year was a slow advance from nodding to waving to speaking a few words. The children were still toddlers so they were not yet our emissaries into the inner sanctums of our neighbor’s lives as I learned they were capable of doing, as they got older. But they did lend a neutral topic of conversation as the older residents enjoyed watching their play in the front yard on warm summer evening as we drank our coffee watching them carefully.
We lived on a southeast corner lot and directly across the street were the Toomey’s, an older couple, husband retired and yard as neat as a pin. Our yard was certainly shabby compared to his when we moved in with sparse weedy grass, over-grown bushes and a general air of neglect. When we moved in January we could see that the leaves from the previous fall had not been raked from the four large maples on the property. No doubt, Mr. Toomey had been fighting the leaf litter from our yard ever since then as each day found him patrolling his property for any stray detritus that may have blown into his yard over night. As soon as the possible we were out raking up the leaves on the fair days of winter.
A widow, Mrs. Malcolm, lived next door to the Toomey’s. We didn't see much of her until springtime when she was out in her billowing housedress, apron and massive sunbonnet. For the longest time I had no idea what she looked like as her head was always focused on the ground. Her front yard was tidy, but it was her backyard that was a flower lover's delight with nearly every inch dedicated to a blooming bonanza. It took a long time after being vetted by other neighbors before I was ever invited to tour her gardens and listen to her encyclopedic knowledge of each and every flower in her yard including the Latin names. She was the first true gardener in the serious sense that I had ever met. I learned how little I knew and how much I wanted to know.
Next door to Mrs. Malcolm were The Johnson Ladies, an elderly mother and her two daughters. I pretty much knew they were the ones that would issue the thumbs up or down and the rest of the neighbors would follow suit. There was nothing malicious about them, but the oldest daughter, Doris, saw herself as the arbiter of all things appropriate. She was very strict with herself and consequently everyone else too. With the adage 'actions speak louder than words', Doris was a very 'talkative' person by her actions.
If you didn't have a calendar you could tell it was Saturday by the freshly washed wastebaskets lined up across the top row of steps of the porch to catch the early morning sun. They were out there by nine sharp, year round, except when the weather was bad. Saturday was a big cleaning day for them as both daughters worked during the week. After the wastebaskets were taken in the front porch was swept and mopped.
You knew when Wednesday was in the summer for after dinner while Doris pushed the hand mower, Ruby, the adopted younger daughter, dutifully clipped the edges with hand shears on her hands and knees. Mrs. Johnson watched the proceedings from her chair on the porch. Then all remains were raked and swept-up for the trash man to pick up the next day. Sunday morning at precisely 9:30 would see the gleaming 1950 Dodge parked in front of the house to take them all off to church. Doris would never dream of making her mother walk to the garage to get into the car.
Next door to The Johnson Ladies lived Mr. Brooks, a widower. He was a spry scarecrow of a man that was allowed to spend a bit of the evening on The Johnson Ladies front porch and was even allowed to smoke providing he sat in the far corner and hung his arm over the edge of the porch siding. He had been a farmer and grew the most amazing tomatoes and cantaloupes that he shared with us in time when he saw how hard we were trying to learn the ways of growing things. It wasn't unusual to see him on the roof bending over the gutters cleaning them out in the fall and spring.
Next door to us lived the Neff's. They had raised their two sons in that house and were spending their retired years taking trips in a camper from time to time. You could set your watch each day for 12:30 when I would see them walk by for the after-lunch constitutional. Friday nights at 6 sharp Mr. Neff would put together three metal rings, wad up exactly three sheets of newspaper for his little newspaper grill and cook two small hamburger patties. That was the extent of their outdoor cooking. They were gentle, sweet neighbors with Mrs. Neff showing the first signs of dementia.
Next door to them lived Mr. and Mrs. Phail. They were in their eighties and had lived in the house since it was built in 1920. He was a reserved man who took care of his bedridden wife with the help of a part time service that would come in a couple of days a week. When Mr. Phail pushed his lawnmower he did so in suit pants, a white shirt and a tie. If it were brutally hot he would omit the tie. An old pair of dress shoes served as his work shoes. He was quiet by nature but once I got him to open up and tell me stories about the area from the twenties. It was wide open and he used to supplement dinner with an occasional fresh caught rabbit from the fields. It came as a big surprise that one day he laid down on the couch to take a nap and didn't wake up. Mrs. Phail was in such frail health that everyone assumed she would go first.
One door up from Mr. Phail's house lived the scourge of the neighborhood. Mrs. Russell, a woman that was always in high dudgeon about one thing or another. Since all the yards on our side of the street had steep, though very short front yards, she had chosen to build a high rock wall and a cement pad all the way to the curb. This did not sit well with the neighbors and had the look of a fortress with the jagged rocks sticking out of the wall.
When more young children moved into the neighborhood it became a magnet with the wide, flat, smooth area not heaved up with tree roots like all the other sidewalks that ringed the block. Kids on trikes, bikes and roller skates all made a beeline for that one spot. And god-forbid every once and awhile someone drew a hopscotch on her pristine cement. Since the kids were much shorter than the wall she couldn't readily see them from her front porch. They learned to be very quiet when playing there to see just how much they could get away with. But one day they discovered a way to really make her steam. They would ride their bikes up and down the sidewalk and when the reached her house, slam on the brakes and leave a black skid mark. After that they would all go hide somewhere and watch to see how long it took her to come out with a bucket and brush to scrub off the offending mark.
Mrs. Russell had lived in the neighborhood since she was a child but had never made friends with anyone. She thought she was so much better than everyone else as the story went and pushed away all efforts to be included. She never had a smile or a kind word and if you saw her coming toward you, you knew you were in for some kind of dressing down or complaint spree.
It was in the later days of that first summer that Doris Johnson wandered over one evening and after chatting with me for a while invited me over to meet her mother and sister. I was conscious of the importance of the moment. I was introduced and made some small talk, was peppered with questions about our family and received an invitation to return 'sometime'. I knew that ever action and activity of our outdoor lives had been duly noted and granted a passing grade with that invitation. Not wanting to wear out my welcome I made my first visits short but friendly. Now we started to receive beckoning waves from other neighbors too and made visits to their porches too.
I knew since we were the new people on the block and much younger to boot that I would have to be forthcoming when questions were asked. I was open but didn't give too much to freely. It was when they would respond with bits and pieces of their histories that I saw we were being slowly included and accepted as a real part of this block. From then on the visits to The Johnson Ladies porch took on a tit for tat quality. You see, Doris was a bit of a gossip on the neighborhood history and she definitely wanted me to know her version.
The Neff's and the Toomey’s loved to recite stories of their children growing up on the block. Mrs. Toomey was particularly happy I had a daughter as she so doted on hers. Mr. Neff loved to tinker and fix things and always was patient with the children's questions. Mrs. Neff always had a treat or two for them. Mr. Brooks would bring us a sack of tomatoes and turn shy at the compliments of my gratitude for his largesse. He offered to teach me the secrets of growing tomatoes, which I learned, and have used every year since. Mrs. Malcolm inspired a love of flowers and now I am that woman in a sun hat with my face scanning the ground.
I learned the tragedies of The Johnson Ladies that brought them to their tidy bungalow. Their farmhouse had been destroyed in a vicious tornado and Ruby's family had been killed by the same storm when she was in her teens so they just took her in is as neighbors have done in those heartland communities for years. The seldom talked about Mr. Johnson had died of a heart attack a few years getting them established in the new home. Doris for all her high-strung ways kept the family together and protected her mother and sister with fierce loyalty.
When I announced late in the summer of 1969 that I was expecting in the spring the collective eyes of the neighbors lit up like Christmas trees. You would have thought I was carrying a royal heir, as it was the first baby to be born on that street in a long time. The Johnson Ladies were all atwitter and fussed over me. The grandmother's of the block waxed rhapsodic over the blessed event. When I appeared in the yard in the spring I was invited over and given a plush chair to sit on and admonished to take it easy. I knew the house was being watch for signs of the big event and I told my husband when he went home after the birth of our youngest son to go straight over and tell The Johnson Ladies all that particulars as soon as he got home. I knew Doris wanted the glory of spreading the news. When I came home the day after the birth they flew across the street to be first in line to inspect the new arrival. They brought with them hand sewn gifts that were treasured and a hot meal that was gratefully accepted.
And so the days spun on for seven years that we lived in that house that was our first home. The day came in the middle of winter when a for sale sign went up in our yard. It was early on a Saturday morning when the Johnson Ladies' wastebaskets were lined up on their front porch that our phone rang. I knew who it was. Doris was on the other end and in a very sad voiced asked why were leaving. I had wanted to go over and tell her before the sign went up but the words kept sticking in my throat. We needed a larger home and wanted a better school system for our children. We didn't know it at the time but we were about to make the stupidest decision of our lives with that move to a new neighborhood and knew it almost immediately but it took us three years before we did anything about it. It took three long miserable years to reflect on the loss of the sense of community that was earned living in a neighborhood with front porches.
I have never had another experience like that since those seven years lived in a time of great political turmoil in the midst of different generations that taught me the gentle lessons of being a good neighbor by their words and deeds. In a time of distrust between the generations, much as it has always been to one degree or another, I learned the value of respect and kindness, of allowing others to have differing points of view and to listen without attacking and to look for common ground in the process to build upon. I learned to look at how people lived and negotiated peace in a small space and the value of live and let live. I learned that being judgmental builds barriers and resentments wall off communication. I learn that the best things in life have no price tag.