Originally, this post started out to be an examination of the front porch, its place in Southern culture and the particular pleasure the front porch of our humble little cottage affords Anne and me. As I researched the topic, I found that a half dozen other bloggers had pretty much covered most of what I planned to say about the history of the front porch and its place in our culture, and all of them had lifted their material from the same guy: Scott Cook, a UVA student who published a very informative and scholarly paper in 1997 on the subject. Rather than regurgitate Scott’s work, I figured I would take another approach. When I looked thru my photo files, I found this little ditty I took three years ago.

Cool! I thought. I can wax philosophical about the times spent on the front porch in my Amish rocking chair contemplating my navel while sipping one of my favorite beverages, the Silver Bullet. For those of you who don’t know, the Bullet is the penultimate vodka martini. I learned to make them from my father-in-law, the late LTC Mercer Richard Smith, USMC. The Colonel was a Marine fighter pilot. In fact, he was the second American shot down in Korea and one of the longest held POWs. And he was a purist when it came to martinis. None of those fru fru Appletinis or Chocolatetinis for THIS Marine! He’d sooner vote for a Democrat. Dick’s recipe for a Silver Bullet is as follows: Fill a cocktail shaker full of ice. Pour in as much vodka as the shaker will hold. Shake. While straining the contents of the shaker into a chilled martini glass, faintly whisper……….. vermouth. Toss in a toothpick skewer of olives and voila! The Bullet has been my cocktail of choice for more than 35 years now.

Most times spent on the front porch don’t involve martinis though. Much to my chagrin, I’ve become a morning person. When I was younger, sleeping ’til noon on the weekends was one of my favorite pastimes. Now that I can do it anytime I want, I can’t. I’m usually up before daybreak, sitting on the porch, coffee cup in hand, planning my day. I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoy the morning bird songs and the way the sun creeps over Chestnut Ridge throwing its light on the far slope, reflecting off the red, tumbled-down shed on the wooded cattle farm across Rte. 52.

This is the time I see deer and the occasional bobcat or coyote head back up the ridge from their morning ablutions at the creek. Soon, the rabbits come out of hiding and begin feeding on the clover. The chipmunks chase each other along the edge of the near slope, while the squirrels sit, nattering in the hickory trees. The groundhogs peer out of their bunker under the old chicken coop, planning to lay waste to the side yard. It’s morning on Galena Creek.

Since the cottage faces west, we don’t get much afternoon porch time during the summer months. The heat can be daunting. But ahhhh those summer thunderstorms. The pounding rain crashing off the tin roof provides a symphany of percussion as we enjoy front row seats to nature’s panorama of thunder and lightning and storm clouds roiling across the mountains.

Around twilight, Anne and I will sometimes take a glass of wine to the porch to watch the night come on. The bats flitter back and forth, the night birds sing, and the cicadas add their voices to those of the bullfrogs for the evening concert. The water bubbling over the rocks in the creek adds a soothing rhythm. We sometimes set up the card table and have dinner outside. During the winter, we bundle up and watch the stars. For over 100 years, the front porch played an important role in American life, and I can assure you that for the foreseeable future, it will play an important one in ours. Cheers!