A place of peace, a corner of solitude and reflection, a perch to watch the live theater production of other people's lives, and even an upright bed to fall asleep on under a bright sun-kissed summer day, the front porch is all of these, and more.
Our porch at our house on Cedar was my place for dreaming. It was my sanctuary where I could read about and fantasize about cities far away from the small town of my birth. On Sundays, I would scrounge some change together and book it down to the Wallace Corner where they sold newspapers from Seattle, Los Angeles, San Franciso, and other exotic cities, I would usually purchase the LA Times.
Once home and settled down on our porch on one of the chairs that we had outside, I would open up my treasured paper, and with the bright, summer, sun lulling me into a state of euphoric trance, the words on the paper became alive with scenes of towering buildings, bustling sidewalks, sporting events, concerts, theaters, food, and beautiful people. I, of course, could envision myself in the middle of it all.
With all of these marvelous things dancing in my head, I would nod off to sleep, Oh, but as with all dreams and with all sleep, one wakes up, and I would wake up, wipe the sweat off my forehead, look around a bit confused, and it would hit me. I was not in LA, NY, Seattle, or San Francisco, no, I was right on the good old porch at our house on Cedar Street.
And that was the way it was, growing up Wallace.