I Miss My Front Porch

I house sat for Ellen last week.  Or more accurately, I dog sat for her two big golden retrievers who happen to live in her house and were able to find my chocolate covered peanuts within fifteen minutes of my arrival and get them out from the bottom of my duffel bag without pulling out a single piece of underwear.  They also woke me every morning at 6:00 a.m-- exactly an hour before I had any intention of getting up.

 

But get up I did, as there's little sleep to be had with over a hundred pounds of dog  sitting on your stomach and washing your face. 

 

Ellen lives in a big turn of the century house on a big lot that she moved into nearly 30 years ago and that still looks much like it did when our kids played Barbie's together or fought over Christmas presents. She has a tendency to avoid change, so that the curtains that she thought she might need when she moved in have never been put up and pictures that are finally hung are never taken down.  Even when she redecorates, she tends  to use the same colors and same styles that she had before, so that although the house has been updated over the years, it's never really changed.

 

The Little Tikes plastic orange and yellow picnic table still sits under the tall evergreen in the side yard, lonely now, but likely to be rediscovered by grandchildren soon.  The back yard still has a huge wooden treehouse that is standing, but will need some serious attention before those same grandkids are ever allowed to climb up.

 

There are two fenced sections in the back yard that are intended to separate the area for dogs and the area for grass and flowers, but which Ellen is neglectful about policing, so that there is never a lot of grass throughout, and the flowers so carefully planted by a landscaper don't always make it through the season. The hole that was being dug to China by little boys is still there, as is a small grove of saplings planted by neigborhood kids over twenty-five years ago, although they're now trees in an awkward place.

 

The overall effect is a homey house, well loved and well lived in.  A remarkable house, really, but not a showplace unless your preference, like mine, is for overstuffed bookcases with popular titled paperbacks, comfortable couches that you can sleep the night on, lots of unmatched pictures and photographs (not a single one in a silver frame) lining the mantle and hanging a little crooked on the walls.

 

But best of all to my mind is the front porch spanning the entire house and then angling down the side with a separate section that is screened in and holds a ping pong table.  There is a wood floor throughout, wide front steps to sit on, and a swing to while away lazy days.

 

The daily newspapers are delivered there.  One at the end of the long driveway by an adult in a car with a huge route that might actually support a family.   The other more local paper right under the front door by a girl, maybe 13, on a bike.  Or at least it was a girl the last time I house sat.  This time I missed her, and I fear that I caught a glimpse of a slowly moving car delivering that second paper too.

 

The house we grew up in had a front porch nearly as big. It was the coolest place in the house on summer days and the wood floor was the perfect spot for sitting and playing all day games of tiddly-winks and monopoly and battleship. There was no swing, but the wooden railings encircling three sides became seats and horses and perfect jumping off spots that left huge holes in the hostas that grew at the bottom. There was only one lone lightbulb in the center of the ceiling so the shaded corners beckoned for good night kisses as we grew older. I loved that porch.

  

Ellen has a back deck too, added when they first bought the house.  I sat there sometimes while the dogs did their business and searched for tennis balls for me to throw. It's a nice deck with a hot tub and a weber grill and plenty of seating.

 

But it's the front porch that I miss--along with morning papers and papergirls.

Miss America

   When I was growing up in the pre-feminist 50’s, one of the yearly television highlights was the Miss America contest.  My whole family, Dad included, would gather in the living room to watch the annual pageant.  (Given that in those days our television received only two channels, this was not a huge sacrifice on my dad’s part!)  We would all curl up in the living room, Mom on the couch, Dad usually in his recliner, and Jeanne and me stretched out on the floor, where we would munch on popcorn while we admired the evening dresses, critiqued the talent contest, and cheered on our favorites.  

    Miss America was not just a one night phenomena that went away after Bert Parks sang to the winner.  For weeks after, Jeanne and I would play Miss America painting our lips with our mother’s lipstick and wearing gowns created out of her slips and petticoats.  My cousin Linda and I would spend hours walking up and down the stairs at her house with books on our head in an effort to perfect a graceful walk.  And I would fall asleep for many nights after imagining myself wearing a glittering evening gown and reciting a poem I’d written.  (I was enough of a realist to know that even in my wildest dreams I had no talent as a singer, dancer, piano player, or even a baton twirler but I thought I might make it as a poet. It does occur to me now, however, that in those simpler days, while I had doubts about my talent, I seem to have had no doubts about my beauty.)

    My Miss America dreams faded and dissipated as I grew older and the conservative ‘50’s turned into the rebellious and tumultuous ‘60’s and ‘70’s.  With one exception.  Miss American 1968, Judy Ford, enrolled at the University of Illinois in 1969 after her reign as the first trampoline jumping beauty queen, and I, an embarrassed budding feminist, hid behind posts in the armory and followed her around as she was registering for classes so I could see a real Miss America in person!

    The Miss America contest was an insignificant part of my life for many years after that ignoble event.  While I’m sure that I must have watched occasionally, I don’t have any significant Miss America memories while I was a newlywed or a busy young mother.  And, since by then televisions had many more channels than two, Jim certainly never felt compelled to watch the competition with me.     

    But the Miss America fascination must have been smouldering somewhere in my brain all those years.  That’s the only reason I can come up with for what I did years ago on a vacation to Florida.  My sister Jeanne and I established an annual tradition of a trip to Florida with her two daughters and my two youngest after the traumatic summer of 1988 that saw Johanna diagnosed with a brain tumor and Jeanne diagnosed with breast cancer.  For years we flew off to Florida in August right before school started for a week of sun and fun in a condo by the ocean.

    One day, after a long morning on the beach, Jeanne and I brought everyone inside during the hottest part of the afternoon and instead of just letting the four girls veg out in front of the tv, I proposed that we have our very own “Miss Florida” contest, with bathing suit, evening gown, and talent competitions.  The girls were delighted with the idea and soon were busy scrounging bed sheets and towels and beach coverups to create their costumes.  At first there was just lots of laughing and giggling, but soon I began to hear other sounds and I began to realize that my fun afternoon game might not be quite the happy event I had anticipated.  “What’s the prize?” asked Jill.  “Who’s going to pick the winner?” asked Alex.  

    I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Competition between these two cousins was fierce.  If they were diving in the pool, they would argue about whose toes were the most pointed.  They argued over who found the biggest sand dollar or the most shells.  One day they were bobbing.  “How many bobs did you do?” asked Jill.  “Thirty,” answered Alex too quickly.  “I did thirty-one,” said Jill.

    I tried the old ‘this is just for fun’ trick, but they weren’t buying it.  Out they paraded in their bathing suits for the first competition, glaring at each other.  Even they had to laugh at Johanna, who had stuffed tennis balls into the top of her suit, giving her a Dolly Parton look.  But Johanna wasn’t the competition they were worried about.  Out they paraded in their evening gowns, Alex looking confident, Jill less so.  And then out they came, singing.  Jill, ever dramatic, sang her heart out.  She looked confident, Alex less so.

    If I remember correctly, the judges tried their best to make everyone happy.  Johanna, we announced, was the swimsuit winner.  Alex, we announced, was the evening gown winner.  Jill, we announced, was the talent winner.  And Bess was Miss Florida.

    Bess was thrilled.  Johanna was happy.  Johanna, in fact, may have also won Miss Congeniality, because she was the only child who went up and hugged and congratulated the new Miss Florida.  Jill and Alex were both irate and complained about the results for the rest of the trip.  As to prizes, Jeanne and I bought trinkets at a souvenir shop.  I don’t remember what Johanna and Bess got, but Jill and Alex got tiny ceramic crabs!

    Both Jill and Alex have gone on to their own successes, but Jill at least has never quite forgiven me for Bess’s victory.  I have a picture of the four cousins in their contest finery hanging at the lake house and Jill grimaces every time she looks at it. “But Mom,” she says, “Did you hear Bess sing?”

    I’m pretty sure that to this day Jill regrets not slipping tennis balls into her bathing suit top!

The Learning Curve of a First Time Mom

                     

It's been a long time since I had babies, but I'm pretty sure I would have gotten Flynn's seat belt right on the grocery cart and not made it into a shoulder harness like Alex did.  She's a first time mom and still has a learning curve.

Not that I would ever say anything.

She bought one of those big fancy strollers that weigh a ton and have more cup holders than my Honda.

"No!" I wanted to tell her.  "It's too big.  It's too heavy.  You don't need all those bells and whistles. They irritate people on sidewalks and in stores because you push people off the curbs and hog the aisles.  You only need one of those little umbrella strollers with no suspension and a wonky wheel like we had in the 80's."

She thinks babies can't have cheerios unless they're broken up into little pieces.

"No!" I want to laugh.  "You don't need to buy expensive freeze dried yogurt melts that I'm going to eat when you're not looking. Babies have been eating whole cheerios for generations.  Sure, we may have been wrong about the hot dogs, but whole cheerios are fine. Even generic ones. You ate so many whole cheerios as a baby you probably have a few still digesting in your stomach."

She thinks it's time for Flynn to learn how to walk. 

"No!" I want to yell.  "If he can walk, he can run.  Out into streets, away from you at grocery stores, into the middle of clothing racks at department stores where you won't be able to find him and will have to call security. Crawling is good.  It's controlled.  You can still go faster than him. You want to keep him crawling until he's six or so."

She moved Flynn's crib into my room when we stayed together in a hotel for two weeks.

"WHAT?! Doesn't he wake up in the middle of the night and need a bottle? How will you hear him?"  I think I said this out loud.

Because she just grinned.

She may be farther along on that learning curve than I thought.