An Ode to My Front Porch

How I reclaimed the lost art of porch-sitting

Photo: Daniel Wallace/Getty Images

It was love at first sight.

I’d seen other porches during our whirlwind tour of prospective houses, but this was by far the best front porch. This porch was no hasty afterthought. It was the central defining feature of this small, old home, tucked behind a tangle of wisteria.

As I stepped onto the porch, I felt immediately engulfed in green. Later, I would joke that I had found my own private jungle in the middle of the Pacific Northwest.

My partner and I dutifully toured the rest of the house, but that front porch had me at hello.

//

Growing up, I never had a porch. I spent my childhood in San Francisco, and San Francisco doesn’t really do porches. Most homes have stairs leading up to a narrow slab of concrete that would best be described as a “stoop.” We never sat on our stoop. Back before climate change, San Francisco was generally too brisk and blustery for pastimes that involved sitting outside.

When I moved from San Francisco to New England for college, one of the first things I noticed was the abundance of porches. In late August and early September, shortly after I arrived, off-campus parties spilled onto these porches, where the humid air stayed warm late into the night. There, surrounded by other red-plastic-cup-clutching freshmen, I saw my new life unfolding.

The cold started nipping at the edges of the night just a few weeks later, and the porches stayed empty until May.

The first off-campus house I rented had an ample porch; there, my seven roommates and I converged on rare warm days. We once stole our neighbors’ porch furniture, for fun, thinking we would make a game of it. Alas, they never retaliated.

I didn’t know then to treasure that porch. After I graduated, a series of porchless apartments awaited me, first in New England, then in Washington, D.C. Sometimes, I appreciated the sense of detachment afforded by second- and third-floor balconies, enjoyed watching the bobbing tops of people’s heads as they passed by unaware. But mostly, I missed the intimacy and immersion of a front porch.

When my partner and I bought a condo in Washington, D.C., its spacious wrought-iron balcony helped me forgive its lack of porch. The balcony was at least three times as large as the small fire escape at our apartment, onto which we had managed to squeeze two folding chairs.

Then, on the day we moved in, we found an air conditioning unit hogging half the balcony and rumbling without shame. I was horrified. I wanted my money back.

But of course, we made do — because if you are offered the luxury of central air in a third-story abode in Washington, D.C., you don’t turn it down. We still managed to fit our two folding chairs in the small square space next to the rumbling, balcony-hogging beast. In the summers, my partner and I sipped vodka tonics and I enjoyed my nightly cigarette.

I cherished those humid summer evenings, humidity never having been a feature of my childhood. During the day, it suffocated me, burrowing into my crevices and making a mess of my curly hair, which was already prone to frizz. But in the evening, it draped like a shawl around my shoulders, still conditioned to hunch against the San Francisco chill.

We were the only people in our condo building who sat on our balcony. Our neighbors were mostly politically ambitious white-collar professionals who had no time for frivolous pastimes like sitting and talking and watching the world go by.

//

It wasn’t until we moved to Portland, Oregon that we were able to entertain the possibility of purchasing a single-family home. As we toured the narrow range of options within our budget, I became increasingly discouraged.

I didn’t mind the limited square footage — I’d grown up in a small home, preferred intimate spaces — but most of these homes were nothing more than a series of cramped rooms, each one entirely walled off from the next. No kitchens that bled over into dining and living rooms, and worst of all, only half-hearted attempts at front porches — if there was a front porch at all.

Where would we congregate? Where would friends join us for food and drink? I could forego an open living area, but I wanted a real porch, dammit. It didn’t seem like too much to ask.

So when I saw the modest home in Northeast Portland, its spacious front porch smeared with foliage, it seemed that the cosmic forces in the universe were aligning in my favor. The five rooms inside weren’t bad either — the dining area at least spilled into the living room, which offered the illusion of space.

Earlier that day, a young woman had put an offer on our condo, which allowed us to put an offer on this house. After two days on the market, there were already four other offers. I wrote the owners an effusive letter, praising the wood floors and yellow kitchen walls. In truth, I wasn’t sure if the floors were real wood, and though I do love yellow kitchens, this particular hue skewed precariously close to mustard.

But my praise of the porch was genuine. No matter that the sloppily painted cement was peeling in places, that the once-white railing was gray with age. This was where I would wave to neighbors, laugh with my partner, nurse my babies, and watch the world go by.

I sent the letter. Our realtor called us the next day. The house and the porch were ours.

//

In the 10 years that we’ve lived in our home, I’ve spent approximately 4,925 hours on the front porch. Before we moved in, the inspector recommended that we get rid of the wisteria, said it might take down the house someday. I nodded politely, knowing we never would.

The summer nights in Portland lack the cozy humidity of East Coast summer nights, but they stay warm. Though my “babies,” now eight and 12, haven’t nursed in years, they sometimes join me on the porch to chatter about their days or, more often, to make impassioned cases for why they absolutely, positively need things they know I have no intention of ever buying for them.

You have everything you need on this front porch, I tell them. A beverage to sip on, a place to sit, and people who love you.

My kids roll their eyes. Eventually they get bored and wander inside. Across the street, our eccentric neighbor is wielding some type of buzzing machinery, engrossed in yet another house project. His house is a series of projects; his buzzing tools help fill his days. Next door, another neighbor sits in his front yard. He doesn’t have a proper porch, but he sets up a folding chair next to his moss-encrusted motorboat. He just sits. He doesn’t sip anything, or read a book, or play on his phone.

He inspires me. It is so rare to find anyone these days who is capable of simply being. While I require the beginning and end of a beverage or cigarette to help me time my porch sessions, I try to follow his lead. When I sit alone on the porch, I leave my phone inside, resist the urge to read a book or listen to a podcast. It’s not quite meditating. There is no app to guide me, no rigid posture to hold. I simply sit and bear witness.

//

Most of the porches and front yards on our street are perpetually empty, and I am perpetually perplexed by this. I cannot understand why anyone with the luxury of a porch or front yard would never sit in it. I wonder, sometimes, if these empty porches symbolize the downfall of humanity. Everyone tucked away in their homes, plugged into their separate devices. Talking past each other, seldom with each other. Always doing, seldom being.

When Covid forced us even further into our homes, I was defiant. I wanted to follow the rules, but I refused to be caged inside. I moved our porch chairs six feet apart so that my small weekly women’s group could continue to gather. My daughter drew a flyer advertising a “front porch happy hour” that we distributed to neighbors. My hope was that we’d all emerge from our cocoons at the same time, some of us sitting on our front porches, some of us traversing the sidewalks. At the appointed time, a smattering of people tentatively ventured out front, squinting against the sun.

Luckily, that first Covid spring in Portland was mercifully warm. It gave way to a sweaty summer choked with tear gas and wildfire smoke. Then October arrived, bringing with it the last of Portland’s lingering warm evenings. I tried to enjoy them, but I was distracted by the darkness that descended with increasing urgency, by the gray spitting skies.

Our front porch was covered; rain was never a problem. But the cold was. That’s when it occurred to me to purchase a heat lamp. If the restaurants could do it, why couldn’t I?

They say money doesn’t buy happiness, but $120 did buy me a heat lamp, which bought me more time on my front porch, and that made me very happy indeed.

Ever since the fall of 2020, we’ve sat on the porch year-round. It’s like we added an extra room in our house for the cost of a heat lamp and propane. In the thick of winter, even under the lamp’s fierce red glare, I still bundle up in a blanket and hat. It’s cold, but we make do. Inside, our house bursts with noise and clutter. The moooooooms, the but but buts, the it’s not FAIRs! The slammed doors and manic wails, the ever-present trails of apple cores, shoes, Legos, and half-full glasses of milk.

But outside, if you can tune out the buzzing of whatever piece of equipment our neighbor is wielding, it is mercifully quiet. Occasionally, there is the shuffling of feet on the sidewalk, the jingling of dog collars, the hum of stroller wheels.

When the indoor energy threatens to overwhelm me, I tell my kids I’m taking a time-out, and I disappear to the porch. If it’s after 4:30 p.m. in the thick of winter, the darkness has already descended. But the air is crisp and our porch light staves away the gloom. I watch my breath curl into wispy tendrils. I sip my stout, which I drink only in the winter, savoring its heavy froth.

I love my time-outs. I love my small pocket of the universe, both removed and immersed, both private and in the thick of things. Whether alone or with company, the porch is my respite from life’s incessant demands.

In our constant quest for progress, I often think, we have overcomplicated pretty much everything. At the end of the day, all we need is a nice place to sit. To talk to people, spend time with our thoughts, and watch the world go by.