Porch Talk
By Viola Brooks Cowles
Bush Springs, James City County
When I was young, we did not have a porch attached to our house so we would cross the street to my cousin’s house and sit on her porch. Her porch was the community hangout.
Many good things happened on that porch when people got together. There was always talk of the past which kept us in touch with our history. There were people of all ages and conversation flowed like running water.
Good food was always a part of those gatherings. I will always remember the freshly baked pies and cakes, fresh fruit by the baskets and enough chicken to make Colonel Saunders jealous.
Our social events were playing dominoes, cards and horseshoes. Voices were constantly raised with jovial hurrahs for the winners of games and loud groans for the losers. It was truly a place of peace andcontentment.
And if you had some health problem, then the front porch was the place to come for help. My cousin was the “Granny Clampett” of the neighborhood and many boils, ingrown toenails, bee stings and bruises were taken care of by “Granny.”
Reprimands were also handed out when needed. My cousin was the kind of person that knew everything that went on in the neighborhood. It didn’t matter what happened or who was involved, she always knew what to do in the situation. She was very outspoken and had no problem telling you her thought on any situation you were involved in. Everyone took her suggestions to stride because her wisdom was legendary. Whether it was, a pat on the back or a serious reprimand, her frank suggestions never kept anyone from returning to the porch.
While the adults talked and played games, the children played in the yard. All of the children of the neighborhood were looked after by all the adults in the neighborhood. All of the children I knew, when adults spoke to them, whether they were relative or not, that adult got respect. There was no talking back or disrespecting any adults in any matter. The proper responses were always—Yes Ma’am and I’m sorry I won’t do that again.
We didn’t consider our neighborhood as being any different to any other neighborhood except that 95% of our neighbors were relatives and the other 5% were friends of relatives. We were a close-knit group who daily put into practice the saying: I am my brother’s keeper.
Although times have changed a lot, it would be nice if we could go back and incorporate “porch talking” into today’s society. It would be a great benefit for today’s youth to have constant interaction with their parents, grandparents, cousins, neighbors and friends at one central location.
Maybe this sounds corny or unrealistic to you but believe me, the porch was second home to all. It was a place where families talked to, for and about each other’s problems and came to a solution together. If you were not fortunate enough to have a porch as your community meeting place, you missed a valuable community resource. Today the true essence of “porch talk” still goes on at my home. I believe that each community would be a better place if more families took time to gather and have little “porch talk.”
Stories from the Porch
By Sandy Carder
The Vineyards, James City County
Before air conditioning beckoned us indoors, barbeques regulated us to the back yard or television captivated our souls, the front porch was more than just a covering for the front door. It was a living space.
Sunday afternoon after dinner, the men would gather first. Pawpaw in his oversized wicker chair with the lumpy pillow, commanded the best spot. Then my Dad, uncles and visitors lucky enough to be invited for Sunday dinner, lined up along the porch, with their feet on the railing. While the children played hop scotch on the cracked concrete sidewalk, the men swapped fishing stories, worried about the Korean War, or debated whether Ike would run again. Back then, they all smoked their tobacco of choice—pipes or cigarettes they “rolled” themselves. I remember watching with wonderment as they prepared for this ritual. Each smoker carried his own packet of thin white paper and a tobacco pouch. He carefully sprinkled tobacco down the middle of the paper, rolling the cigarette into a “tootsie roll.” The trick of holding it together was “spit.”Once the cigarette was rolled, the smoker licked the entire edge of the paper and “glued” the roll together. To this day, I wonder why the cigarette didn’t fall apart as it burned away.
After the women cleared the dishes, they joined their husbands on the porch to “while” away the hot afternoon, fanning themselves with cardboard fans with pictures of pastoral scenes or biblical characters. We called them “funeral home fans” because there was usually the name of a local funeral home printed on the handle. All afternoon, people would come and go. As one visitor left, another arrived. Passersby were often invited to come up and “sit a spell.”
On weekdays, the porch was a workplace. Bushel baskets of fresh-picked corn, beans, peas and apples, still glistening with dew sat waiting. The women, big aprons protecting their printed cotton dresses, gather on the shady porch to break beans (“shellies” as we called them in Tennessee), shuck corn, or peel apples. I usually watched them from afar because those long curly apple peelings invariably invited a host of bees! Strange as it may seem, even though my grandparents lived in town, they still “farmed”—a garden, an orchard and believe it or not, a hog which got slaughtered right there in the side yard every fall.
Of all these memories the nights stand out most of all. Barefooted kids played flashlight tag or collected lightening bug in fruit jars. We delighted in watching them blink off and on like street lights. The grownups took up their normal positions on the porch, sometimes talking but mostly listening to the night sounds of crickets, kids and an occasional distant train whistle. Upon hearing the carousel music of the ice-cream truck, Papaw would rush out to the street to buy butter pecan ice-cream for all. We could hardly wait as he cut the rectangular blocks into thick slices. My memory tells me that slices tasted better than balls. Sometimes we would have watermelon which was wacked open right there in the front yard! What a sight we must have been! Old and young alike with big slices of watermelon, just dripping off our chins and elbows. Too tired to play any longer, the kids snuggled up in someone’s arms listening to tales of a haunted house, Civil War stories handed down or how the Whippoorwill got its name. Yes it’s been a long since I was a little girl playing in my grandparent’s front yard. But every time I hear the creek of a swing, the slam of a screen door, smell of freshly cut grass, or taste butter pecan ice cream, I always remember.
Back Porch Memories
By Mary L. Brett
Colonial Heritage, James City County
When I was a young child living in North Carolina, it was such a delight and a family tradition to gather with my family on the front porch of grandparents’ home. The porch was located on the front of the house and contained two rocking chairs, several straight back chairs and a swing. The swing was my favorite seat therefore I could hardly wait to get my space in the swing. I, as the second oldest would lead while my two younger sisters follow. We would crowd in the swing and begin swinging back and forth, waiting for everyone to gather. When dinner dishes were washed, table cleaned off, and food put into the old white icebox, which contained a block of ice, my parents and grandparents would retire with us on the porch. Sometimes my grandmother would tell us a few things about how to behave but my uncle who served in the military was a talker and story teller. We would try to behave as our grandparents and parents took there place in the rocking chairs and additional straight back chairs.
The excitement would begin with my uncle Sidney, who had been away serving with the Army. Each night he would have a story to share with the family and when he started to talk, we would give him our undivided attention. My favorite story was about when he was overseas in a foreign country where he was able to climb so high on a mountain that he could wash his hands in the clouds. This seemed so fascinating to me as in North Carolina the clouds seemed so far away. My uncle was animated as he told this story and it would spark dreams in my mind. The dreams were that one day; I too would be able to climb a mountain so high that I could reach up into the clouds.
For me, the story that was my second most favorite story was when my uncle Sidney, would share his rain stories. He described the rainy season when he was in Asia. He said, when the people felt they had had enough rain, the people would gather in groups and chant, “rain, rain go away come back another day.” This story fascinated me and the very next time it was raining, I went to the porch where my parents lived and looked up at the sky. I repeated the chant, “rain, rain go away, come back another day.” Soon it stopped raining, the sun began to shine and over the trees, a rainbow formed that looked like it reached to the end of the world. The beauty of that experience will always stick in my mind.
My uncle Sidney soon became our favorite uncle and we did not want to miss a thing that he was saying. We all loved him and wanted to hear more. The porch became our meeting place for his storytelling.