Prose for the Porch

There is a white house with black windows and a wrap-around porch my family has called its home now for over thirty years.

The painted porch and steps have changed colors over all those years; first a series of reds, then a blueish green and finally a soft grey. As a child who hated change, each transition felt pretty drastic to me even if I liked the new color. I felt deeply that I had to give myself time to acknowledge the passing of the old, the accepting of the new.

That curved porch has shaped quite a bit of our lives. Some of my earliest winter memories involve the careful construction of a sledding chute down the wide front porch steps to then wind down the driveway. It is etched in my memory; being so small that trudging up the steps in snow gear while carrying sleds and tubes was an extremely challenging task, and watching in amazement as older siblings put their back to the front door and then masterfully navigated the loose snow on the slick surface to just get a running start and leap into the slide.

In summer, I remember wanting to ride tricycles and rollerblades back and forth along the porch because it was a valuable smooth surface compared to our bumpy brick paver driveway. There were family meals in the screened in section, high school friend hang outs in the evening light, and so so many prom and homecoming group photo shoots with family and friends.

But it is impossible to separate talking about the porch from talking about its cleaning. Part of the induction into being a true Bowen kid was mastering the trade of cleaning the porch. It was a trade handed down from our parents when we were young, only able to “help” by “washing” and scrubbing specific sections assigned to us, too weak to even maneuver the mop. But eventually, with enough repetition, leadership was handed down to older siblings, and the torch was passed. My mom remained responsible for any initial instructions and final approval, but in between there was a world of navigating co-laboring as siblings. There was an inherent hierarchy of jobs from furniture movers to mopper and scrubbers, to the king of all… sprayer. This was the coveted job, the one reserved for the most experienced porch washer, the one able to pace the others, decide whether the right water ratio was present, remove all soap while avoiding spraying the floor length windows (a cardinal sin), and finally judge whether sections were clean enough to receive parent approval or needing a second scrub. Usually, the only path to promotion was when the current royalty went to college, graduating out of routinely expected porch duties, allowing the next in line to begin their reign. Sometimes a sibling would feel generous, give the younger a shot at the task like a true apprenticeship, only to have to take back control when it inevitably was less efficient and needing correction.

Additionally, there seemed to always be a psychological cycle that played out during the cleaning process...

At the start: beautiful weather, great porch cleaning weather, “come on we’ll do it together”, “this will be fun”, “it will go quick”. Sibling banter and laughter fill the air.

In the middle: realization it is taking longer than we remembered, sibling personalities start rubbing each other, conflicting comments arise about what or rather who is slowing down the process, someone takes something personal, someone gets sprayed unexpectedly, patience running thin.

At the end: realization that this ridiculousness seems to always occur, shared frustration slowly turns back into a bond, helpless laughter as everyone is wet and officially over the process, and a semi-unified push for a complete project that will gain our mother’s approval.

And so it went. Years flying by with countless buckets of soapy sloshing water.

And still it stands. The grand columns and hundreds of spaces between balusters where one hand on a soapy rag had to pinch and contort to thoroughly scrub clean. The steps we spent summer hours stooped over, wiping sweat and learning how truly grueling paint scraping can be.

That porch has glistened and glowed for an abundance of life’s celebrations, heard thousands of secrets and disagreements, creaked with roars of laughter and silently caught many tears. It is home to wicker gliders where people waved countless hellos and goodbyes, where coach lights welcomed headlights arriving late at night.

But the time is coming when our family will eventually have to wave our own goodbye.

I am genuinely thrilled for the new back patio beckoning us to come discover all it holds, but just like the little girl feeling conflicted about color changes, I want to honor that front porch and all that it represents.

#time #thankfulness