Papa Tom's Front Porch

I grew up in a time when evenings were spent in conversation with neighbors, and front porches were outdoor parlors rather than a place to sit potted plants. These porches served as playgrounds for children, and spots of quiet repose, while reading a good book and sipping lemonade. I hope you are not too young to have a favorite front porch tucked away with your fond memories.

Papa Tom lived in a pre-civil war house, inherited from my grandmother, who died before I was born. Folks in Plymouth, North Carolina knows it as the Latham House. But, to me, it is known as Papa Tom's House. The thing I loved and remember most about the house was it's huge front porch.

Entry to the porch was made by climbing a wide set of stairs. The porch itself must have been six or seven feet off the ground. I know adults could stand under it, because that was where they kept the lawnmower and I saw my Uncle Thomas walk under there, push it out to cut the grass many times. There was a railing all the way around the perimeter of the porch to keep the children from falling off. At the far end of the porch was another, narrower set of stairs that led to the porte-cochere. A lattice covered with climbing roses walled the porte-cochere. They were the old fashioned kind that smelled good.

But the biggest attraction of Papa Tom's porch was the swing that hung suspended from the ceiling by chains. You had to be careful about holding on to those chains while swinging, or you might get your fingers pinched. The swing was made of wicker and could seat three grown-ups or a lot of kids. And we were forever being warned not to swing too high or it would tip over.

On the other side was another swing, but for some reason we children were not much attracted to it. It was heavier, with leather cushions, and it didn't swing as easily.


On sultry, summer nights, when my cousins from Raleigh came to visit, the grown-ups would all sit and talk on the front porch while we children played hide-and-seek or chased lightning bugs in the huge tree-canopied yard. In the afternoons, while Mama and my aunts prepared supper, the porch was OURS. My cousin, Patsy, and I usually played house with her dolls. Or we'd play in the swing, and one day we did swing to high and it did flip over backwards. We weren't hurt, but we got fussed at and weren't allowed back in the swing the rest of the day. That is not until Papa Tom came home from work, then he let us sit and swing with him.

Papa Tom's porch was most magical when I played there alone. I acted out every book I read and every movie I saw on Papa Tom’s front porch. The porch was most often a boat, where I'd fish off its bow with a pole made out of a privet switch. Sometimes I was Huck Finn, floating down the Mississippi on a raft, and other times I was Peter Pan battling it out with Captain Hook on his pirate ship. Sometimes the porch was a castle, and I was the resident princess. The porch saw me through my Davy Crockett at the Alamo phase, I fought off Indians as Daniel Boone and I entertained the Queen of Hearts as Alice, complete with a real rose garden.

The roses bloomed profusely. The wall of the porte-cochere filled my May basket every May first. And on Mother's Day, Papa Tom and I would ritualistically pick out the most perfect red rose for me to wear to church.

When I got older, and after Papa Tom had his stroke, the front porch is where he and I would visit on warm days. I remember being somewhat uncomfortable with him then. I was about fourteen, and I guess it scared me, seeing him sick. I still feel pangs of guilt for having made those visits too infrequently. When I did go, I remember swinging gently in that old wicker swing, not saying much, while Papa Tom quietly sat in one of the cushioned wicker chairs. I think perhaps both of us were remembering those exuberant days we'd spent on his front porch.