From the front porch swing of my grandmother’s house, everything slows to a crawl. I have spent weeks and weeks of my life in and around that home. I can remember sleeping on a well-worn mattress, listening to rain hit the tin roof, and feeling the hot summer breeze blow the curtains into the room. Granny’s house is not just full of memories. It brings up a feeling and a calmness. I feel safe there on that front porch – the trees, the birds, the quiet country road – they are an escape from the busy-ness of life. Everything moves slower in the country on that porch.
My kids think Granny’s house is safe and magical. My kids understand how I feel about that sacred place and share my feelings, although at 4- and 5-years-old, they cannot verbalize it yet – they just show it. They run in the back door, slamming the half door into the mudroom space with a crash, and after a quick hug to my granny, they run into the room that has been a playroom for as long as I can remember. The toys haven’t changed much either, but they do not care. They don’t ask for Legos or TV, and they are never bored there.
As a child, I can remember breaking beans and shelling peas from the garden, finding it fascinating that what we were working with our hands could be our dinner that night. I can remember fighting over space on the porch swing, sometimes piled in each other’s laps, and I remember the chains on that swing breaking on more than one occasion, sending one side of the swing to the ground. I can remember killing flies with a fly swatter while watching birds and butterflies feed on Granny’s countless flowers and feeders. I can remember mooing at the cows across the street as they lazily wandered around the nearby pasture.
My grandparents were married for over 50 years, and they went together like biscuits and gravy (which, by the way, my Granny makes the best of both – no argument). They built a modest farmhouse and added to the house as they added to their family – six kids in all. Although my grandfather passed away 15 years ago, there are still parts of him throughout that space – inside and out. In the front yard, two huge trees stand at attention, and when you look up between them, you can see that the branchesmy granddaddy twisted so that the two trees are intertwined from years of growing together. In the yard beneath each of these trees stands a large rock, hand picked by my grandfather, that many children (myself included) have used for jumping, sitting, and general perching.
In that house, Granny still holds court. She is in charge, whether she is feeling up to doing the work or not. She has worked all her life, providing for her family. She can whip up a meal in minutes, and she always remembers your favorite food. She is quick to give advice and encouragement, and the house remains largely the same as it was in my childhood. I love going there because it takes me back to a simpler time when I had one job there – to be spoiled by grandparents.
Thankfully when I imagine a place in this world that gives me comfort, I am reminded how many places give me that feeling – I feel it when I scoop one of my boys into my lap, I feel it any time I can sit and stare into a moving body of water, and I feel it every time I get to hold my husband’s hand. I feel it anytime I can curl up with a good book and some coffee. And I feel it every time the breeze hits my face on that front porch swing.
On our recent visit, my boys played with bugs on the porch, stared at cows, ran in the yard, sang silly songs at the top of their lungs, and took a ride on that tried and true swing. I was blown away in that moment, knowing that my special place is also special to them. And my special place was special to other people before I was ever around.
