The Porch

Here's a short story I wrote many years ago about our summer cottage in Atlantic Beach, N.C.  Got to thinking about things I have written and was encouraged by a friend to republish some of the good ones.  This has always been a good one.  Hope you enjoy.

For many years we have been coming to the Taylor Cottage, a large beach house with a grand porch, always well cared for and stocked with extra large, white, rockers that make watching the ocean even better.  It never occurred to me how deep the roots of this place were inside of me until I visit on a cold winter day when there is no one here but me.

I find myself walking up the old steps to a porch with no one there, the boards creaking as if they miss the gentle massage of summer feet.  How strange it seems to see it quiet, with no one there but me.  I walk onto the porch as if I am looking for something.  Maybe I am.

My mind drifts to the memory of all the many summers I have spent on this fine porch.  It was the central part of the beach and its daily routine; a catchall for wet towels and swimsuits, special seashells saved from the beach, and sandy shoes abandoned by children and adults in too big of a hurry to clean them off.  It was always full of life, parents watching their children playing in the water's edge or building in the sand, a perch to watch for big ships coming into port or even small ones out looking for a school of fish, a gathering place for friends and family that stop by to test our rockers, and to watch for the daily trek of dolphins as they swim by.

But this porch is different.  On rainy days it became Fort Macon, complete with fearless soldiers to watch the sea for invading pirates.  Once it was transformed into a palace with gates that allowed Cinderella to be whisked away in a pumpkin coach pulled with mice horses.  It was a wonderful playground for our children limited only by their imagination.

On hot July afternoons, cool ocean breezes that seem to restore life and offer an instant retreat from the searing sand and heat wash the porch and its inhabitants.  It becomes a collecting place for those who would rather watch sunbathers than be one.  At night, it offers the sound of cards being dealt out in a hot canasta game, mysterious visits from the elusive "wine troll", an occasional gasp at the sight of a shooting star, the sudden roar of laughter from a joke well told, or a squeal of delight from a child being held close in daddy's lap watching nature's light show in a distant ocean thunderstorm.

One rocker is always home to someone reading the latest best selling novel.  One that should not be left in the chair while attending other duties, or upon return they may find it being read by someone else.  Maybe it is the flicker of these memories that have me visiting this porch on a cold winter day.  I find a place in the sunlight out of the wind and sit wondering how long it has been since I truly stopped to think how much this place means to me.  Every year when our vacation here is over and I pack up to drive away, I always look back and say a prayer that the hurricane season will spare us and we will come back to this porch, every board and nail still securely in place.

I look up and see a seagull riding the ocean breeze, watching me, and hoping I will help him with his daily search for food.  Today, I have nothing to offer.  I close my eyes....there should be more.  There should be the smell of bacon cooking in the kitchen for those wonderful, juicy, summer, bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches, so full of red vine ripe tomatoes, they run down your arm.  There should be the squeak of a cooler lid and the sound of a cold beer being dragged from the ice and opened, the creak of the screen door as someone passes by on their way to the beach, and the unmistakable sound of beach music.  These are not things we expect in the short days of winter.  We have all moved inside where it is warm.  Our TV and Internet perform their numbing magic and we only dream of this porch when we look at our calendars and see the long expanse till summer.

Finally, I stand.  It is time to get back on the road and off to the meeting that has brought me so close to this porch.  I touch the rail and feel as if I am saying goodbye to a friend.  As I walk down the steps to leave, the board creaks again.  Time will pass and soon it will be summer.  Everyone will be back, and then there will be more memories to be made on this very special porch.

PCQ