Some Memories about a Porch
By Maggie Nerz Iribarne
May 5, 2025
May 5, 2025
We inched along the gravel drive approaching the home of my youth, the only one all six of my siblings and I shared. My husband had never seen this place before. He was not as shocked as I was by the fallen nature of the once well-cared-for grounds, farmhouse.
It had been sky blue with black shutters. I described it once in a poem for my mother as clear blue eyes with dark black lashes. Now, its dismal, peeling grey walls and dangling shutters suggested different metaphors, but my mind went blank. At first, I purposely avoided looking at the front porch, the site of so many treasured family memories. When I finally forced my eyes porchward I saw drooping steps. I saw stuffed garbage bags. I saw old furniture. I saw cast-away junk.
Of course the porch’s use changed with the seasons.
There were six wide, white steps displaying red geraniums in striped pots. Plants tumbled over the porch’s white railings, creating a snug sanctuary. Every May we brought out a white wicker sofa and chair with floral cushions and a table holding a reading lamp.
Reading on the porch was our summer sport. As a kid I spent hours curled up on the couch, sticky with sweat on a hot day, enjoying some book retrieved from trips to the downtown library. It was here that I teased my sister for crying after she read of Beth’s death in Little Women, which of course prompted me to secretly read the book myself, desperate to find out how it all went down. My voraciously reading mother could also be found porching it at lunchtime, enjoying some rare privacy, engrossed in whatever story had captured her attention. Later, after dinner, she’d return to her porch perch, prematurely greyed head bent toward that aforementioned lamp, enveloped in the chirp of crickets and other summertime sounds.
The summer porch was where my parents took their pre-dinner cocktail, Canadian Club on the rocks, my father’s legs stretched from his wicker chair onto that white wood railing. While they chatted about their respective days, we children came and went, slamming the door or lounging on any available furniture or sitting on a step picking our scabs or watching caterpillars creep. Time passed nice and slow on that porch.
In fall the porch hosted our first day of school launch and picture taking, after which my mother gained personal daytime freedom but paid a price: the knowledge we’d never return exactly the same again.
Most importantly, the porch in fall was the pumpkin carving production center. My father grew a great big garden and was particularly good at vine plants, resulting in an abundance of pumpkins. Since kids plus pumpkins equals happiness, we keenly watched their growth all summer long. Oh boy, did we want a big harvest! When the pumpkins became ready for carving and display we toted them away from the garden to the porch and commenced our month-long carving.
We protected the porch floor with opened newspapers, but these coverings could only do so much. We were entirely unprotected ourselves, unsupervised as we wielded sharp knives, cutting, scooping, and sculpting so many pumpkins, all the pumpkins. This was before anyone used a template for a pumpkin design, so all of our carvings were basically the same face, just different numbers of teeth. Legions of goofy grinning gourds loomed from the porch steps, illuminated with flickering candles. Once we surprised by abandoning our normal practice, carving out the letters of our last name, lining the monogrammed pumpkins up in order. When a bell alarm system created by our father to stave off pumpkin thieves failed, we hauled every pumpkin (and there were usually at least thirty displayed on the steps!) into the house, placing them on garbage bags spread on the dining room rug. In the morning we’d lug them all out again. A labor of love or lunacy, who knows?
At Christmas, we adored the look of our house, the sparkling evergreen centered on the porch, the spot-lit wreath on the door, a candle on every windowsill, shining out in the darkness. One year it was unseasonably warm during the pre-Christmas weeks. My sister and I decided to hang out on the porch reading at night beside the illuminated tree. We loved all the Christmas stories in the special holiday editions of our mother’s magazines. The porch became our stage as we acted out a version of A Christmas Carol included in Good Housekeeping that year, the Christmas lights brightening the porch- turned- stage.
The spring porch brings a few sad memories. We’d found a baby bunny, whom we named Steve Martin. We kept him on a porch bench, even though the spring air was wet and cold. I remember sitting beside his box crying after he died, kicking myself for not thinking of a better way to keep him warm. When we finally moved to Pennsylvania, my sisters and I lined up for a photo on the empty porch, our smiles recalling the pumpkins’ grins of yesteryear, our projected happiness a cover for suppressed sadness.
That day my husband and I returned, we’d only pulled into the drive a bit, just enough to note the changes to the back and sides of the house and yard, and finally, the porch. My head crowded with the sounds of old voices, my heart sagged with the bittersweet feelings of nostalgia. I had aged as much as the house. Futilely, I hoped I was not as neglected-looking, broken down.
After a good long look, my husband shifted the car and slowly reversed out of the driveway, turned onto the road. I fantasized the front porch mourning our departure, wishing we’d return and never, ever leave.
It had been sky blue with black shutters. I described it once in a poem for my mother as clear blue eyes with dark black lashes. Now, its dismal, peeling grey walls and dangling shutters suggested different metaphors, but my mind went blank. At first, I purposely avoided looking at the front porch, the site of so many treasured family memories. When I finally forced my eyes porchward I saw drooping steps. I saw stuffed garbage bags. I saw old furniture. I saw cast-away junk.
Of course the porch’s use changed with the seasons.
There were six wide, white steps displaying red geraniums in striped pots. Plants tumbled over the porch’s white railings, creating a snug sanctuary. Every May we brought out a white wicker sofa and chair with floral cushions and a table holding a reading lamp.
Reading on the porch was our summer sport. As a kid I spent hours curled up on the couch, sticky with sweat on a hot day, enjoying some book retrieved from trips to the downtown library. It was here that I teased my sister for crying after she read of Beth’s death in Little Women, which of course prompted me to secretly read the book myself, desperate to find out how it all went down. My voraciously reading mother could also be found porching it at lunchtime, enjoying some rare privacy, engrossed in whatever story had captured her attention. Later, after dinner, she’d return to her porch perch, prematurely greyed head bent toward that aforementioned lamp, enveloped in the chirp of crickets and other summertime sounds.
The summer porch was where my parents took their pre-dinner cocktail, Canadian Club on the rocks, my father’s legs stretched from his wicker chair onto that white wood railing. While they chatted about their respective days, we children came and went, slamming the door or lounging on any available furniture or sitting on a step picking our scabs or watching caterpillars creep. Time passed nice and slow on that porch.
In fall the porch hosted our first day of school launch and picture taking, after which my mother gained personal daytime freedom but paid a price: the knowledge we’d never return exactly the same again.
Most importantly, the porch in fall was the pumpkin carving production center. My father grew a great big garden and was particularly good at vine plants, resulting in an abundance of pumpkins. Since kids plus pumpkins equals happiness, we keenly watched their growth all summer long. Oh boy, did we want a big harvest! When the pumpkins became ready for carving and display we toted them away from the garden to the porch and commenced our month-long carving.
We protected the porch floor with opened newspapers, but these coverings could only do so much. We were entirely unprotected ourselves, unsupervised as we wielded sharp knives, cutting, scooping, and sculpting so many pumpkins, all the pumpkins. This was before anyone used a template for a pumpkin design, so all of our carvings were basically the same face, just different numbers of teeth. Legions of goofy grinning gourds loomed from the porch steps, illuminated with flickering candles. Once we surprised by abandoning our normal practice, carving out the letters of our last name, lining the monogrammed pumpkins up in order. When a bell alarm system created by our father to stave off pumpkin thieves failed, we hauled every pumpkin (and there were usually at least thirty displayed on the steps!) into the house, placing them on garbage bags spread on the dining room rug. In the morning we’d lug them all out again. A labor of love or lunacy, who knows?
At Christmas, we adored the look of our house, the sparkling evergreen centered on the porch, the spot-lit wreath on the door, a candle on every windowsill, shining out in the darkness. One year it was unseasonably warm during the pre-Christmas weeks. My sister and I decided to hang out on the porch reading at night beside the illuminated tree. We loved all the Christmas stories in the special holiday editions of our mother’s magazines. The porch became our stage as we acted out a version of A Christmas Carol included in Good Housekeeping that year, the Christmas lights brightening the porch- turned- stage.
The spring porch brings a few sad memories. We’d found a baby bunny, whom we named Steve Martin. We kept him on a porch bench, even though the spring air was wet and cold. I remember sitting beside his box crying after he died, kicking myself for not thinking of a better way to keep him warm. When we finally moved to Pennsylvania, my sisters and I lined up for a photo on the empty porch, our smiles recalling the pumpkins’ grins of yesteryear, our projected happiness a cover for suppressed sadness.
That day my husband and I returned, we’d only pulled into the drive a bit, just enough to note the changes to the back and sides of the house and yard, and finally, the porch. My head crowded with the sounds of old voices, my heart sagged with the bittersweet feelings of nostalgia. I had aged as much as the house. Futilely, I hoped I was not as neglected-looking, broken down.
After a good long look, my husband shifted the car and slowly reversed out of the driveway, turned onto the road. I fantasized the front porch mourning our departure, wishing we’d return and never, ever leave.
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Maggie Nerz Iribarne is a 55 year old woman, lives in Syracuse, NY, writes about witches, priests/nuns, the very very old, struggling teachers, neighborhood ghosts, and whatever else strikes her fancy.
Website/Social media:
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Author’s Note:
This piece was written in honor of or because of my mother’s death this past December. I think I like this memory about my mother reading the best: Later, after dinner, she’d return to her porch perch, prematurely greyed head bent toward that aforementioned lamp, enveloped in the chirp of crickets and other summertime sounds. I was blessed with good parents and a stable, happy childhood. This essay helps me honor and preserve these precious memories of the home we shared in Newburgh. New York.