Ode to a screened porch

A dear friend and poet used to wax poetic about his suburban screened porch, in the days when my slice of heaven was a rooftop in SoHo. I saw no need for screens; the insect world was not enticed by my tar turf. My only trees were the wood water tanks that stand sentinel on rooftops all over the city. Still, the view was lovely on a summer night, as the sun dealt its last card before dipping down below the Hudson. The chemical smorgasbord of New Jersey mixed up some spectacular sunsets. And the freedom of space and sky and air after a day on city streets was intoxicating.

Many years later I find myself on my own screened porch, surveying summer from a new perspective. This is the time I have longed for. The noise and heat have stayed behind, in the city. Is it really better here? Yes, it is.

I have made a nest for myself, on a bargainpriced rattan couch from the WJFF auction, outfitted with new cushions. It reminds me of the nest my mother used to make on the porch of our lakeside cottage in Connecticut. She would situate herself on a similar sofa, in her brightly colored summer clothes of pink or orange, her freckled arms in constant motion as she chopped or shucked or peeled the objects of our next repast. She combined her leisure time with the task of providing for us, so that you could not tell one from the other. She did it with joy and ease and a delight in our enjoyment.

My own nest is geared to more selfish pursuits. I have plump cushions and my notebook, a cup of tea or lemonade as the hour requires. On a recent evening, I escaped the glare of electric light inside to take refuge on the dim porch, while a vigorous rain splashed around me. Another night, I listened to the tree frogs whistle in the dark as fireflies danced by the river. I am at ease on my porch, as nowhere else.

Sometimes a child of mine joins me on the swing. The rocking motion brings us harmony, and often an insight into their inner life. It is hard to feel rushed, sitting on a porch swing, listening to your child talk about friendship or lifeplans.

My poet friend reminds me that the first two stanzas of his best poem came to him in one sitting, “Boom, like that,” on the screened porch while wife, kids, dog, cat were all a hubbub nearby. “It had been up there a long time, of course,” he says of the poem, pointing to his head, but the screened porch allowed it out.

A porch is also good for letting in. It’s an invitation to visit without the same level of commitment that accompanies a house visit. My friend Trina has recently joined the ranks of the screenedin. Her son, Kodi, saw the parallel between the porch and a sudden increase in guests. He compared it to a popular video game that allows a player to simulate building a house. When you add balloons to a “sim” house, it attracts guests. Porches, he offers, are like simballoons, in reallife. If you build it, they will come.