Front Porch
As I sit on my front porch in the well-loved yellow adirondack chair, I can hear the steady flow of water in our little front-yard creek and the birds singing each other to sleep - or at least I would imagine it is near their bedtime, but I am no bird expert. The sky, now a deep indigo, is minutes away from turning completely black, leaving me only with the bright yellow overhead porch lights to illuminate my surroundings. I breathe in the fresh, crisp breeze and savor the lingering notes of freshly cut grass that still hang in the air from when my dad mowed the lawn a few hours ago. The soles of my bare feet graze the worn porch floor beneath them as I swing my legs back and forth. The porch is a rustic blue and could benefit from a paint job, but I think the chipped paint adds a quaint charm to the house. As I sit writing, I anxiously anticipate the angry voices of my parents drifting out from under the front door. It should be any minute now before the argument begins. My front porch is a place of comfort for me. In the warmer months, I bring my breakfast outside to sit with my dog, Scout, who eagerly awaits any fallen crumbs at my feet. The porch looks out into the lush greenery of our perfectly imperfect front yard. It’s not a manicured lawn, with perfectly cut grass and symmetrically trimmed bushes. A few short white fences sit crookedly lining the curved bank of the creek. Prime real estate lies just to the right of the creek in between two large trees about ten yards apart from one another. On warm summer days, I nestle myself in my hammock between these trees. Gently swaying in my little nook, I look up and my eyes follow the curve of the tree trunk from the textured bark to the green leaves lining the branches to the very top of the tree and the unclouded blue backdrop. Wildflowers dot the grass, creeping their way up the hill that sits on the other side of the fairly flat lawn. In the winter, the hill makes for great sledding.
About three quarters of the way down the uneven driveway sits my prized possession, my car. She is a navy blue 2004 Saab 95 named Cornelia. She sits behind my parents’ cars - two also navy blue Saabs. It’s a funny sight, the three Saabs all lined up in the driveway - at least I find it amusing. My family has taken quite the liking to Saabs, and now that they don’t make them anymore, we are reluctant to get rid of them. Cornelia is more than a car for me, though. She is another one of my comfort places. She carried me to the White Mountains of New Hampshire for a seasonal job last year, the first of several gap year adventures. She has also brought me to and from work and school for the past three years, and in the hours spent at the wheel, I like to think we have formed a bond. The last two summers, I worked nearly every day bussing tables at a nearby restaurant. Every night at around 11 or 12 o’clock when I pulled into my driveway, I would sit in my car, sometimes for 5 minutes, sometimes for half an hour, and simply exist in my own company. It was my way of decompressing after long, tiring shifts on my feet all day. I have noticed that every car has a different smell, just like people. Cornelia’s is the comforting smell of old leather. The leather of the driver’s seat is worn, and a crack is emerging across the length of it. The passenger seat floor is littered with expired CVS coupons, empty plastic Dunkin’ cups, and miscellaneous wrappers. I also have a wonky FM transmitter plugged into the cigarette lighter, from which I play my more often than not staticky music. Cornelia is an old soul.
Following the slightly ajar fence which separates our driveway from the neighbors’ yard, I find myself at the (also navy blue) mailbox. From here, I have a good view of the street. Looking to the left, I see an umbrella of green treetops and a couple of blond children playing below. To my right, the street slopes down and I can see my favorite neighbor Trish’s house. The mailman makes his way towards me, stopping at each house along the way to deliver stacks of envelopes. Two houses down to my right, my neighbor Lou stands watering his tomato plants in a straw hat. The neighborhood now is bustling with young children and families, but when I was little, most of our neighbors were older retirees without children for me to play with. This peaceful street that I now describe with admiration and a tinge of nostalgia was a dreadful sight for 16 year old me as I dragged my heavy feet to the bus stop at 7 o’clock every morning.
Turning back up my driveway, I hear my dad starting the lawnmower. It’s a janky old thing, so it takes him several tries to get started. I walk into the house and head up the stairs to my room to try and block out the noise. My room might be one of my favorite places in the world. On the second floor of the house and with more window than wall, I almost feel like I’m in a treehouse. From my bed, all I can see out the front windows is a canopy of green. Funny enough, my room was actually destroyed by a tree during Hurricane Sandy. My bed sits in the far corner of the room under the slanted ceiling, which makes for a cozy little nook. String lights line the walls and, behind my bed, I have a bulletin board filled with pictures of my friends and family. I love sleeping with the windows open in the summer and falling asleep to the sounds of nature and the soft breeze tickling my bare skin.
Now back on my porch, this time on the red swing instead of the yellow adirondack chair, I close my eyes and listen to the trickling creek. It’s too bad I spent my high school years wanting nothing more than to escape this town, because now, three years later, my short visits home never feel long enough. I only began to realize after leaving for college how much peace and comfort I find in my home - and not just my house but also my town. But I suppose distance makes the heart grow fonder.