• Sunday, December 13, 2009 - The Front Porch

When I was a kid, there weren’t many TVs and certainly no central air conditioning. So no matter what place we found ourselves in the evening, the scene was much the same: After dinner dishes were done, everyone would wander outside to sit on the front porch. Perhaps a bit of orange sherbert or some vanilla ice cream topped with peaches would be passed about and enjoyed, metal spoons clattering in glass bowls. Mom was from Beardstown, IL. That’s where she grew up, although she’d been born in New York. Her dad, being a rail road man, moved his large three-generation family to Beardstown when mom was still very small. So we often went back to visit an aunt, uncle and cousins who continued to live not far from the family homestead. Sometimes we stayed with Uncle Bob and his family. But sometimes, we stayed with Mrs. Mose. Her house faced the flood wall that overlooked the river and smelled of dead fish, no matter what the season. She lived on the lower level of a two-story house with her sister. Of course, there was a front porch where all gathered in the evenings. Like most porches of the time, it was filled with furniture to make passing the evening more comfortable. There was a metal glider, several wicker chairs and a rocker or two. Someone would sit down and begin the evening song with the creak of a rocker. Soon, the squeak of the glider would join and the snap of wicker as someone tried to settle into a more comfortable position. All the furniture on that gray painted porch was covered in the hand made cushions fashioned by Mrs Mose. And every single cushion was covered with huge, swirling floral and leaf patterns. To this day, when I see that type of pattern, I’m automatically transported to Mrs. Mose’s front porch and memories of those warm summer evenings. Those memories include the music of the porch chairs intertwined with  voices sharing the events of the day, the latest gossip, the aches and pains of growing older. Neighbors might wander past on their evening walk, some stopping to pass a few pleasantries while others would position themselves on any available chair or step. And the day would drain from the porch as night crept in with cricket sounds and lightening bug dances. There, I sat on the glider, my feet not reaching the edges as I wondered just how long it would take for my legs to grow enough so that my shoes could rest on the floor like mom and dad's. I would sit by dad, sometimes studying his watch or his face. I'd also study Mrs. Mose's face and wonder how she got a name like Mrs. Mose...and where exactly was Mr. Mose and why did she live with her sister? They looked so different - those sisters. Mrs. Mose had black hair she wore in a single braid that went down her back at night, but was pulled and pinned against her head by day. Mrs. Mose was a sturdy and no nonsense sort of person, always chatting and laughing while her large hands created cookies and other things in the kitchen. I can’t seem to recall her without the white apron with straight, wide straps that bridged her shoulders. Unlike my mother’s aprons with their frills and fancies, Mrs. Mose’s apron was plain, starched and very white. By comparison, her sister was slight and thin and didn't say much. In fact, I can't even recall her name, let alone her voice. She had snow white hair that I never saw fall down her back. Her position always seemed to be supported by a rocker that she rarely left as hands rested quietly in her lap. She could well have been the resident ghost, but on occasion, she lifted a glass to her lips or quietly passed some comment on to others around her. When seated on the porch, she held the exact same position as she had in the house. The only change was the setting of her rythmic rocking. Eventually, the voices of the evening would be punctuated with yawns and stretching of arms that fell back upon a lap or belly. One by one, someone would drift inside the house to prepare for sleep. Us kids never wanted to join the sleeping. It was far more interesting to be here among the adults, listening to comforting voices speak of things we didn't understand but wanted to hear about all the same. As the evening ended, all would move into the living room where lights clicked on and different tones of creaking could be heard from the tired old wooden rockers and straight chairs. Us kids would be readied for bed and tucked into clean, white sheets for our ride to dreamland. That bed was a brass fixture in a back bedroom - tucked behind the kitchen and just off the back porch. Inside that room was dark old furniture that served as closets and dressers and such. At night, they became formidable giants gloating at us in the dim light showing through a single window. Sleep did not come easily with the monster furniture glaring upon us. But eventually, sleep did come - as did morning - and all the sleeps and mornings since that have spirited me from that long ago place into today. In spite of the years and the fact most of those people are long gone, I can bring them all back: Mom, dad, Mrs. Mose, her sister, my Aunt Hall - even my older sister. When those memories return, I'm not all grown at all. I'm still a small child nestled beside my dad and wondering when my feet will finally reach the floor....

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