Janis – Back Porch

Awakened by the light of a crescent moon rising, I step onto my back porch.

Hours before dawn, the crisp air excites my skin. I am alert; I am alive.

I look to the east, to the Mogollon Mountains that have given up this slip of a moon to an otherwise pitch-black sky.

I step off my porch, look up, and step into a world of wonder: Four stars shoot across the inky dome, one after another, in rapid fire.

My eyes adjust. I realize there’s an ocean of stars floating over my head and I reach out, palms upward.

Raising my arms in gratitude, I breathe it all in. I am a vessel for this glorious galaxy.

Back on my porch, I face the starry sky once more and smile.

Awakened by a silver moon rising, my body glistens in the lunar lamplight. I am the stuff of stars.

Janis Marston
Glenwood, New Mexico

Awakened by the light of a crescent moon rising, I step onto my back porch.

Hours before dawn, the crisp air excites my skin. I am alert; I am alive.

I look to the east, to the Mogollon Mountains that have given up this slip of a moon to an otherwise pitch-black sky.

I step off my porch, look up, and step into a world of wonder: Four stars shoot across the inky dome, one after another, in rapid fire.

My eyes adjust. I realize there’s an ocean of stars floating over my head and I reach out, palms upward.

Raising my arms in gratitude, I breathe it all in. I am a vessel for this glorious galaxy.

Back on my porch, I face the starry sky once more and smile.

Awakened by a silver moon rising, my body glistens in the lunar lamplight. I am the stuff of stars.

Janis Marston

Glenwood, New MexicoAwakened by the light of a crescent moon rising, I step onto my back porch.

Hours before dawn, the crisp air excites my skin. I am alert; I am alive.

I look to the east, to the Mogollon Mountains that have given up this slip of a moon to an otherwise pitch-black sky.

I step off my porch, look up, and step into a world of wonder: Four stars shoot across the inky dome, one after another, in rapid fire.

My eyes adjust. I realize there’s an ocean of stars floating over my head and I reach out, palms upward.

Raising my arms in gratitude, I breathe it all in. I am a vessel for this glorious galaxy.

Back on my porch, I face the starry sky once more and smile.

Awakened by a silver moon rising, my body glistens in the lunar lamplight. I am the stuff of stars.

Janis Marston

Glenwood, New Mexico

Kim – Back Porch

When I was a child, we did not have a back porch, although our two-hundred-year-old home housed a wrap around front porch. At one point, the porch was adorned with an ornate railing, but it was far too expensive for my parents to replace. As my father remodeled the old place, he decided to remove the railing entirely. The historical society had a coronary, and made mention in one of their little booklets that the home’s owners had “deviated” from the original design.

Our house was built by a sea captain, whom we are convinced was a friendly spiritual inhabitant. Years later, the house was divided into several living quarters, where my parents began their marriage in a two room apartment with a shared bath. Eventually they bought the house with my grandparents, and my father set about to gutting the second floor, one room at a time. When I was five, they took over the house entirely, and began remodeling the first floor. Neither the elderly couple living upstairs, nor my parents, took advantage of the front porch, save a quick step to collect mail. Mom and Dad were far too busy working inside the house, to enjoy sitting on the front porch. This memory gives me pause, as I contemplate the amount of time I spend cleaning my home, instead of sitting outside in the sunshine.

I loved our front porch. We’d spend rainy summer afternoons playing cards or monopoly, as a way to amuse ourselves, while remaining outdoors. Without computers, or video games, or air conditioning, summers were spent out of the house, rain or shine. And unless we had a book in our lap, our parents considered idle time hanging around inside, as an invitation to chores.

When I was very young, the porch served as a springboard to leap and roll in the grassy area beneath. The underbelly housed nighttime creatures, and only the bravest kid would venture inside this wooden cavern. My bedroom windows faced the porch, and it took me a few years, but I finally managed to grow enough that I could hoist myself up through a window and outside onto the porch.

Years later, when I returned to my parents home after a painful divorce, I lived in the apartment. The porch became a respite, a place to sit and watch the world go by, chat with a friend, and find a little outdoor privacy from my ever looming parents.

My son is not a child with many material requests, however, when he does speak up, it is usually something grand. One of his requests was a porch. Maybe the next house…

When I was a child, we did not have a back porch, although our two-hundred-year-old home housed a wrap around front porch. At one point, the porch was adorned with an ornate railing, but it was far too expensive for my parents to replace. As my father remolded the old place, he decided to remove the railing entirely. The historical society had a coronary, and made mention in one of their little booklets that the home’s owners had “deviated” from the original design.

Our house was built by a sea captain, whom we are convinced was a friendly spiritual inhabitant. Years later, the house was divided into several living quarters, where my parents began their marriage in a two room apartment with a  shared bath. Eventually they bought the house with my grandparents, and my father set about to gutting the second floor, one room at a time. When I was five, they took over the house entirely, and began remodeling the first floor.  Neither the elderly couple living upstairs, nor my parents, took advantage of the front porch, save a quick step to collect mail. Mom and Dad were far too busy working inside the house, to enjoy sitting on the front porch. This memory gives me pause, as I contemplate the amount of time I spend cleaning my home, instead of sitting outside in the sunshine.

I loved our front porch. We’d spend rainy summer afternoons playing cards or monopoly, as a way to amuse ourselves, while remaining outdoors. Without computers, or video games, or air conditioning, summers were spent out of the house, rain or shine. And unless we had a book in our lap, our parents considered idle time hanging around inside, as an invitation to chores.

When I was very young, the porch served as a springboard to leap and roll in the grassy area beneath. The underbelly housed nighttime creatures, and only the bravest kid would venture inside this wooden cavern. My bedroom windows faced the porch, and it took me a few years, but I finally managed to grow enough that I could hoist myself up through a window and outside onto the porch.

Years later, when I returned to my parents home after a painful divorce, I lived in the apartment. The porch became a respite, a place to sit and watch the world go by, chat with a friend, and find a little outdoor privacy from my ever looming parents.

My son is not a child with many material requests, however, when he does speak up, it is usually something grand. One of his requests was a porch. Maybe the next house…

Barb – Back Porch

I did not have a back porch growing up. I’ve read about them. Images of lovely evenings overlooking a lake or the ocean and a pair of adirondack chairs come to mind. It’s almost a shame I grew up in a city row home. There was no haven behind the kitchen, but a long narrow strip of grass with flowers on either side. Back then I was a bit of a high strung bug-wus. (I’m still working on that – I’ve gotten better with age.) Relaxation outside was a contradiction in terms, at least not without alcohol and a gallon of DEET.

Fortunately, I have come to appreciate (through a friend’s example) how beautiful some parts of this planet can be. While you’ll still never catch me camping, I’ve learned it’s possible to relax, gain perspective, and find a haven by shifting your focus from the bugs to the beauty in front of you. Sometimes I manage this better than others. Stress relief is such a huge industry and yet some of the best remedies are free. Any place I can really see the nature in front of me not on the way to somewhere else works. Who knew?

I now have a favorite back porch. It is in Massachusetts although my kitchen window is in New Jersey. There are no adirondacks or water nearby but beautiful mountains and an overwhelming feeling of peace that’s undeniable even to nervous me. It’s a yoga center I drag my supportive husband to once or twice a year. I do not do yoga (though friends have suggested I try it). I go there to write, to feed my soul. We got my mom to watch our baby and stayed at a glorious bed and breakfast nearby. I love our baby but I’m always sad to leave.

There is no physical room that’s all my own in our house as space is at a premium. A back porch is pretty much your own little piece of sunset over water, whatever its form. It is literally soul food. Of course, I can find this kind of haven for brief periods when I escape to my shower or lay down and listen to a relaxation CD when our baby naps. I do still look for opportunities to extend these periods closer to home.

When our daughter gets older and the stress of life can get blinding, I hope I can help her find her own haven. Like every parent, I want her to learn my lessons much earlier than I did. Had I realized how important it was to make time to relax and find some peace periodically, my high school years may have been easier. Life is not a to do list and sometimes the most important thing one can do is nothing. Watching a sunset, birds fly, or water lapping is a great reminder of how to appreciate the world around you and pull out of your own little vortex.

Those who are lucky enough to have a physical back porch that’s usable for its intended purpose (aka not loaded with junk), I hope you take advantage – at least once in a while. Some of us have to drive to get there!

Rajka – The Back Porch

I never had the back porch. I had balcony. I had roof terrace. I had a deck. I will never have the back porch. I miss not ever having it. Sometimes I have a distinct nostalgic feeling for the late summer nights, gentle motion of my rocking chair, sitting on the porch, waiting for the time between the day’s end and the edge of the night when present, past and future merge into one.

My back porch would be a place where my mind could wonder wherever it wishes, without interventions of “right here and right now.” As the twilight gently makes its tranquil journey, I am joining the timelessness of the moment.

Now I can invite alive, dead, real or fictitious characters. to join me. Sometimes an uninvited person just appears.

I am dozing off and on, wondering whom to invite that could provoke me into higher state of awareness.

“Are you sitting there, doing nothing again?” I did not need to open my eyes to see my friend and mentor. Stanko’s baritone is melodic, even tempered.. and at the edge of eruption.

“No, I am not sleeping. I was just thinking whom to invite tonight, You surprised me.”

“This is not a surprise.” He comes closer, bows and takes off his hat to put it right back on. He is a short man. His too long pants cover his shoes with raised heels, His jacket’s shoulders are oversized and he keeps on pulling up his sleeves. It is his hat, sitting tall on top of his head that became a talk among us who knew, respected and loved him. Entering cafe or restaurant he half tilts it and keeps it on. One of our mischievous friends asked him in front of a check girl: “Don’t you see that everybody checks in their hats?”

“Sure I see. Don’t you see that they leave they heads with their hats in check room?”

Ignoring my reflections. he says firmly: “This visit is long overdue. Tonight we shall talk about our last time together”

“But that was 40 years ago.”

“Now we are in a timeless world of memories, Let’s open the door to my apartment. I am lying flat on my bed. You are curled up in the armchair, watching me, fighting to fall asleep. After two days you are still with me.”

“Oh yes, I know. I could never forget it.”

“Don’t try to remember, go back to your armchair”…

“Yes, it is late in the evening. I am struggling to keep my eyes open. You ask me to lie next to you. I hesitate. I am frightened, horrified, scared to death. I know this is no time to panicky. I know that you are dying. Trembling uncontrollably I lie next to you. I do not dare to move. I am still as if I were dead, barely breathing. Now and then I am looking at you. You are sleeping peacefully, resting your hand on mine.

I do not want to fall asleep but do without knowing it. When I wake up you look peacefully asleep. Your hand is not holding mine any more. I listen for your breath. There is total silence. You are dead. What happened? I was right here. The death must have come while I was sleeping. It came in total silence without disturbing your body. You are lying as you were. There is a hint of a smile which was not there before. All is tranquil, My fears vanished.”

With a slight bow, tilt of his hat and a smile, Stanko turns around to leave theporch. Just as he came, without warning. His bodily image disappeared. His voice is lingering in the shadows of the night:

The death will be something entirely human.

Judy – The Back Porch

We called it a back porch

But really it was just two steps and a landing

Wide enough for two (medium size) people to sit next to each other on the stoop.

In the fifties when the Catholic Church thought

It had the copyright on God,

We three girls were dutifully disciplined to believe that

Non-Catholics were poison.

Names like Baptist, Atheist.

Agnostic, Hindu, or Muslim.

Were nonexistent in our vocabulary.

There were only two qualified camps

Catholic and non-Catholic.

Sandy and I (at the tender ages of nine and ten) spent time

Closely observing our older sister Marilyn

Growing into a genuine, verifiable teenager right before our eyes.

Along came Bob from the other camp.

He and our sister sat on the back porch step together.

We couldn’t just stare out the window of the door

Or the one other window in the living room.

So we rushed upstairs to the bedroom overlooking the back yard.

The back porch was so close to the house

That we had to smash our faces on the glass to see anything.

We took turns spying and praying.

I prayed and she spied

Then I spied and she prayed.

We begged God to not let her love him

We didn’t want our big sister to

Suffer the loss of heaven

And the pains of hell.

What was so critical, grave, and sincere then

Seems so sad and silly today.

Thank God!

Judith Safford

August 17, 2009

Toni – Back Porch

She’s heading out to the back porch. She’s fanning herself again, sprawled out on the rattan couch with flowered cushions. She laying, she’s sitting, she’s grabbing at the collar of her top and pulling it down, revealing her ample cleavage in hopes that just that little bit more of exposed skin will help lower her temperature. My mother was hot for most of my childhood.

The back porch was one of the best places in our house. With a cement floor and 20 foot ceiling, it was 500 square feet of screened in living. Besides the couch and two chairs, there were two tables, resembling square boxes, a wrought iron white glass topped dining table with curly flowers surrounding its edge and metal chairs with springy seats, direct from my grandmother’s house. In the corner was an old pinball machine with nails that surrounded the pocket holes, white marbles and a slot for a nickel that I must have inserted $10,000 into while trying to survive my adolescent boredom.

These floor to ceiling screened walls helped my mother attempt to control her raging hormonal fluctuations. You could find her there after dinner, late at night, in a polyester nightgown, in flip flops, in shorts. In the dead of winter, with the furniture securely under plastic wrap and the pinball machine draped in tarp, there was my mother, bathed in sweat, breathing in the frigid New England air, waiting for it to freeze out her menopausal moment.

I didn’t understand back then, a naive 10 year old, why my mother was always so damn hot. But here at 50 I now fully and unfortunately comprehend the heat waves that washed over my mother like Niagra Falls. Oh yes, what goes around comes around. Like mother, like daughter. When I least expect it, I’m a George Foreman Grill. Forget frying an egg on the sidewalk in a heat wave, just crack that thing on my forehead and put the bread in the toaster.

I don’t understand the whole thing, the shift of this hormone and that, whether it’s too little progesterone, or too much estrogen that creates my mini Hawaiian vacations, but I do know how, all things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia.

Other than her rather incessant descents into hotness, my mother didn’t talk much to me about the big pause. She didn’t tell me the finer points of no longer getting a period, the moods, floatie of fat that pads your middle, the interrupted sleep, or smooth skin that suddenly looks like a crinkled paper bag. She stayed pretty silent, on the topic, which is more than I can say I’m doing. I’ll whine to anybody who will listen, which is probably even less attractive than the sweat on my upper lip.

I am in the “Back Porch” time of life. If I had one, I’m sure I’d be living out there right now. But I don’t, and so open windows and doors and air conditioners and fans and cold wash cloths serve as my screened in solution. The memory of my mom back there fanning herself wildly like some sort of Tasmanian Devil, taking in the breeze through the screens, gives me a little laugh and a little comfort. If only. If only it could keep me cool.

David – Back Porch

There was no telling how many years I would have been able to sneak out of my parent’s house without anybody knowing had I not grown so much. Actually the problem was not growth as much as it was about weight because my secret route out of the back window and down a series of electrical boxes was limited by how much I weighed.

My father was an engineer so he was very observant and fairly intelligent. He was also very strict so getting permission to leave the house was difficult. There were also two brothers and a sister ahead of me so all of the really obvious escape routes had been discovered and sealed up. I used to jump out of the front window onto an enormous azalea bush that my father had carefully nurtured from a little sprig. Again my weight started being a problem because he could not figure out why the bush took a sudden turn for the worse at irregular intervals. That was out so I set out to adopt a plan for an alternate route.

I began to reconnoiter the possible opportunities open to me. We lived in a big; two story Victorian house in New Orleans and all of the bedrooms were upstairs. The ceilings were twelve feet high and the house was about four feet off of the ground so any thought about leaving from the second floor needed serious planning to avoid life threatening injury. The choice between a chat with my father and a twenty foot fall was not really hard to make. In fact, the house would have had to have been considerably higher for me to elect to get the OK from dad.

As I looked around I realized that all of the electric service was on the back of the house along with other appliances that were mounted on the back wall.  The back porch had a high railing that allowed a relatively small person to stand on and barely reach the housing for the exhaust fan in the kitchen. That person could then scramble up the electrical conduit to the fan and finally stand on the fan itself. From the fan the person could reach for the electrical panel and gain more altitude by getting on top of the panel. Once on top of the panel the trip became much more hazardous as there was no more electrical conduit to climb on. The final four feet to the bottom of the window casement required a leap of faith. I thought that I could climb up to the window but I realized that the first trip would have to be down that treacherous path. Could I get down from the window because, after all, I never had a problem getting into the house; only out.

My first decent went without a hitch. I had it made because no one would ever think that a person could climb up and down a shear wall to achieve a private access to the house. All was well for several months until one day, as I climbed down the wall, the conduit between the fan and the panel pulled away from the house and I fell backwards into my father’s prize fig tree. Somehow my destroying his fig tree allowed him to make the connection between his sick azalea bush and my spending hours in my room tree. Like I said, he was fairly smart.

John – Back Porch

The back porch at the Outermost Inn in Aquinnah, on Martha’s Vineyard is a magical realm and hidden secret in a busy world. It is the only place I’ve ever been that personified the summertime experience. Never too warm or too cold the air lightly touched my sense of smell with hints of Lavender and damp Roses. And though the ocean was down a half mile sandy path its cooling surf winds would breeze over this haven of peace refreshing the midday sun baked landscape.

In the morning the wide open back porch greets you with a panoramic view of a lush and natural backyard complete with nesting perch for the resident Osprey. While larger than the usual back deck, it didn’t hurt that there was enough space for a full service bar that would have kept Hemmingway writing a little longer. I could have taken in the ambiance of the entire island from one of those oak bar stools if not for my infinitely wiser spouse.

The perfect experience for those early August nights occurred regularly on the back porch as visitors to the Inn would gather to wait for dinner. Music softly played in the background as the sun would slowly set and the patrons became part of summer evening. They pleasantly chatted while consuming wine and hors d’oeuvres and it created a sense of wonderful exclusivity without having to know someone on the inside.

While conversation and laughter echoed from this quiet part of the island it was the brass ring toss game always held the center of attention. The ring was almost three inches in diameter and quite thick. It was tied on a string at just the right length from the ceiling to swing to a hook facing a support post. You had to swing the ring at just the right speed and angle to catch the hook. With each attempt there was an interesting knocking sound that came from the brass striking solid wood. It was a game of challenge that only seemed to get easier after you consumed a few alcoholic beverages. People couldn’t help but laugh and talk about the game as the night went on.

The warm air, the laughter and the wonderful aroma of fine gourmet food helped slow summer down those nights on that back porch. It was the only experience that ever rivaled my most cherished memories of summer evenings at my Grandmother’s house or of sitting at an open air café in Barcelona many years prior.

Terrie – Back Porch

I counted 23 hummingbirds on the back porch last night, tiny jeweled acrobats soaring around my head. Some darting, some dancing, some zooming like small dive-bombers in the Louisiana twilight. And one, stopping short to hover inches from my face, tiny eyes gazing at me for one breathless, spellbound second.

One hummingbird for every year I have been married.

I love our back porch. It is the place where I go to breathe peace. The music of the fountain out under the trees soothes me with its soft spilling song. Shabby, lush, and interesting things blend agreeably out here, with lots of plants, old porch chairs that have been chewed by dogs, and the odd cultural piece, like the life-size replica of one of the terra cotta Warriors of Xian, from our trip to China with our daughters.

Birds and dogs more often share the back porch with me these empty nest days, but it has served as a soothing place to many souls over the years. My girls and I used to have lessons out here, when I taught them at home and spring fever made our classroom intolerable. Evacuees from a dozen hurricanes have gathered here, to await news, share anxiety, and grieve. Many a spirit-restoring ladies night has been held out here, with women ages 18 to 80 gathering to share their stories and have a little revelry, country-style. Our family has grown up here, from nature walks to art projects, from raising butterflies to chasing lightning bugs, from childlike closeness to adolescent anguish and back again. And over a hundred puppies have been fed and cuddled out here, along with the occasional cats, rabbits, turtles, squirrels, and, once, a wounded fawn.

My husband wants to sell our house.

Although we have lived here since our girls were still in diapers, although his time and talent is reflected everywhere, in the design of the pool house, the marble countertops in the kitchen, and the vanities he fashioned out of antique dressers. And although we have talked, wept, prayed, laughed, and fought out on this back porch for over 20 years – He wants to leave here and get a house in town, something smaller, something new that doesn’t require as much work.

“But if you do all the things to our house that you will have to do to sell it, you’ll love it again,” I told him.

My husband doesn’t spend much time on the back porch. He says it’s too hot.

My husband doesn’t spend much time at home right now. He says he’s too busy.

When he wants to relax, he takes me on a trip, someplace glamorous, someplace exotic, someplace I will never forget.

And although I love the trips, resting with him, reconnecting, and exploring places of astonishing beauty – I am always ready to get back home. And the first thing I do when I come in is lavishly love my dogs, refill the hummingbird feeders, turn on the fountain, and sit down on my back porch.

MJ Gleason – The Back Porch

The back porch or back stairs can be an alcove, a retreat, a place to trade secrets. I have kissed, padded up the stairs gingerly after curfew, and damned them when my arms were full. Growing up our old white cat would lie out on the back steps getting a sun tan. The dogs later did, too. It’s where beers were silently finished at the end of a humid August, where the snow and ice would forever accumulate in an unforgiving January. No home or apartment is complete without its front or back steps. It surpasses the picket fence, manicured lawns, and cute mail boxes as far as what kind of glimpse we can get into the dwelling’s occupant(s). Three apartments ago I took a date to the back steps that separated the upper and lower stretches of yard at the apartment house. We thought we could kiss in solitude in the late spring evening. When we saw the headlights pull up did we get apprehensive. This anxiety abruptly passed as it was the tenant who lived below me who was expecting a midnight guest after she put her children to bed.

That same apartment house had other visitors, too. I do not profess to have any brand of ESP or clairvoyance but twice with the back stairway in that same apartment complex did I experience the good haunting. The first was not long after I moved in, felt ill, and I felt a presence climb the back stairway and peer over my bed which was practically on the other side of the back door. I found this quite soothing. The year I moved into that apartment house was one of the bigger transition periods of my adult life. I recall waking from a dream in late February. The wind had blown open a door that is usually locked. I emphasized February as there’s still snow on the ground with occasional snow dust-up from the rogue breezes. The door that was blown open was the driver’s side door of the car owned by the former landlord. The former landlord’s hat is still on the front passenger seat. The odometer has a high number per his expansive sales territory. The apartment house was a steady rental income. I give the car door a firm yet gentle shove. I walk up the back steps and head back into bed. However, the book that was on the floor was now on my bed and open to the last page I’d read. This was all in a dream. In real life the tenants upstairs received the strange, sometimes not as pleasant haunting. Such as the time their dog who usually liked to play fetch and get his belly rubbed would instead bark and show his teeth and whatever presence was coming up their stairs.

Out of the dream I’m missing my mother bringing my aspirin and ginger ale. The same presence that did hover over me the time I was ill also visited me during a late night writing session. It was when I was making fundamental mistakes with my writing: not writing what I know, trivializing the facts, and changing outcomes to the stories so should the people in real life ever see this in print they will like the better light I put them in.