Something always hits you when you drive into the tiny town that generations of Eddy’s family have lived and died, life moves slower there. Almost immediately it strikes you. The speed limit drops, clouds don’t rush, birds glide slowly, horses graze quietly, people generally walk in a saunter (mostly due to their elderly disposition, in which case it isn’t that uncommon to see them creeping by on the elderly equivalent of a moped, loaded down with the daily purchases of prescriptions, depends and the mail from the p.o. box, the latter of which is an event in and of itself), and stores hardly look open sometimes because of the low level of activity.
At first it makes you feel tired, like you’re standing still. But as the stay continues, a deep sigh grows inside of you and you can’t help but long to sit on the back porch gazing over the yard watching the garden grow and excited to make some headway on the next crossword(ok, maybe that’s just me and Eddy’s Grandma, but you can fill in the blank with your favorite quiet time activity).
The porch is a versatile location, often conducive to conversation or quiet, socialization or alone time, building community or allowing private family time, eating or napping, but there’s one thing that’s impossible to do on a porch, be in a hurry.
There is a long tradition of porch-sitting at Eddy’s Grandma’s house, whenever we are there, we have to sit on the porch for at least a little while. This is something I hope our descendants will remember about us someday. Maybe they will even say we were addicted to porches.
Pics are of the only slice of porch I could dissect from our photos, Great Grandma S with Emma and Josiah(she was splendid with them, showing them where Pooh’s ears were and how the cement mixer works), reading with Grandpa G on the couch and holding Grandpa’s hand on a walk to feed the caged deer at the town square(a story for another time).