Front Porches and Sweet Tea

She knew everyone's first name, Suga, Darlin', Dumplin, and Honey.

Grandma’s house on N. Jackson Street had a short flight of stairs that led to a wide communal porch at the front of the house. We often sat in our favorite front porch rockers after supper with a tall glass of sweet tea and a big slab of Momma’s Apple Pie. She had a squeaky screen door that could lower a person’s blood pressure with each gentle slam.

Our front porch was where we sat and listened, kicked off our shoes, and swapped stories of the day.  It’s where we gathered to eat the best “mater sammiches” you ever tasted, slathered with Duke’s mayonnaise on white bread, shell butterbeans, and husk corn for supper.

This is where we greeted neighbors strolling by, got caught up on gossip as we watched the sun go down, and listened to railroad cars rumbling through in the distance. 

It was a special place to watch the sky darken just before a thunderstorm and listen in the night to the sounds of bullfrogs in the pond and the cadence of cicadas and Whipporwills from the depths of the forest.