My grandparents would sit on the front porch every evening from late spring to early fall marking the official beginning and end of porch weather. The cushions on the glider bore the imprints of both of them, grandma’s on the right, and grandpa’s on the left.
From their perch, they would survey the neighborhood, spectators to the continuous baseball game going on in the lot across the street.
Next to the glider was a wicker basket filled with prewar National Geographics and post-war Arizona Highways. No radio, no television, air conditioning supplied by rice paper fans sent home from Hawaii by Aunt Bonnie.
From after dinner to the cool of the evening they sat and then repaired to bed.
What are your stories of the front porch?