Porch Sessions 6/14/2020

By: Jennifer Richardson Holt

There is thunder and driving rain outside my window.  If I am not mistaken they are the remnants of a tropical storm. I could very well be mistaken and it could just be standard summer afternoon weather, considering on most any given day during a southern summer there is the good chance that a thunderstorm may appear, have a tantrum then depart as quickly as it came leaving absolutely ungodly humidity and dripping sunshine in its wake. When the sun has the gall to burst out from behind the clouds after one of those storms, oh my, it is downright cruel.  Oxygen is no longer your option to breathe.  You breathe a mixture of water and heat that is like having your face over a whistling teapot.

And yes, before anyone corrects me, I am aware that “technically” it is not yet summer.  However, as far as I am concerned, and I daresay most of my fellow residents of this neck of the woods would agree, once the temperatures are in the nineties and the humidity is ruthlessly boasting similar numbers, it is summer enough.  The calendar here does not consult with the barometer, as a matter of fact there very often seem to purposely ignore each other and do whatever they please.  It’s not really just a summer thing though, we could have an uncomfortably warm Christmas or a weirdly cool speck of April so I suppose we’re use to such shenanigans at any old time.

But before you think that what you’re reading sounds like your classic, southern whine about the heat and humidity type of thing let me assure you, it is not.  While I admit summer isn’t my favorite season, nor my second favorite…or third if I’m being honest, it certainly does have some perks.  There are a few little bits of pleasure that one can pluck from the stifling season that, once wrung out and more closely inspected, are really shining moments that just can’t be properly valued here at any other time of year. So I write this to remind myself, before I go moaning about the state of my frizzled hair, dampened clothes and general muggy unpleasantness that every cloud, even if it is an awfully damp, oppressive one, has its proverbial silver lining.

Because I would certainly not be a good southerner if I didn’t touch on such things, I must first revel in the joys of a culinary delight that defines the summer. I must speak of the king of all the hot weather treats. Please know you’re welcome to debate me on this, and though you’ll be wrong I won’t hold it against you because you’re obviously reading my blog and that gives you extra points on the likeable scale despite your wrongness.  The king of all the summer confections is homemade ice cream.  He comes in endless flavors to please the most diverse palates and there is something so nostalgic about the sound of that motor running on the front porch.  The mere visual of a box of rock salt and bags of ice can easily induce a drooling anticipation. There is nothing quite like the sound of lurching movement in that ice cream maker’s bucket as the moment is getting ever closer to when liquid joy turns to cold, solid excitement. If you want to add that much more sentimentality to things, you can have an old fashioned churn that requires a hand crank, though the sentiment is somewhat lost if you are given the task of the cranking.  That first bite of cold, creamy sweetness makes whatever heat and strife that the day brought worthwhile and you settle into a contented, cooled-down state of pleasure that will linger well after the spoon is clean.

The ends of summer days bring their own entertainment.  Once you’ve had a hot day punctuated by the relief of homemade ice cream you then have the luxury of being able to lounge on that same porch while the heat is finally relenting as the sky paints itself in flaming shades that gradually fade to coolness.  Whether it be on a wistfully creaking swing or simply reclining upon steps one can watch as what many call fireflies, but we know to be lightning bugs, dance in the deepening shadows.  Their sparkling parade is accompanied by the orchestral musings of crickets, cicadas and the occasional whippoorwill. No matter your age, this show of light and sound automatically takes you back to a time when your next course of action would to be to find the nearest Mason jar and see how many points of light could be collected…and then released before they dimmed too much.

If one is brave enough to take the mosquitos to task, and trust me they will be there with a vengeance and complete disregard for your attempt to enjoy the out of doors without being the subject of a feeding frenzy, one could lazily doze on the porch listening to the song of summer.  If you are lucky enough to have a few members of your family or friends who have more years of wisdom to offer, you might have the opportunity to indulge in partaking of the favorite language of the rural character; the story.  My mother tells me of porch sitting sessions in the summers of her childhood where they would insist a grandma or grandpa would tell stories of their childhood. And so the generational circle would continue, older voices telling tales of summers past, when, quite possibly, there were those even further back sitting on long gone porches doing just the same telling of summers even further back.

So if you have a particularly steamy day this summer, and I feel like it is a pretty safe bet that you will if you are south of, or even close to the Mason-Dixon line, you do have a procedure your could follow.  You will need rock salt, ice, habitable Mason jars and a pair of willing ears.  If you take your time as the sun lowers its brutal gaze and find a comfortable spot on some veranda or even a stoop, you might just hear some anecdote that will take you from where you lounge fanning yourself to days long past.  The tale may have some different details, but there are a few things that will likely ring true even today; the tea will be sweet and cold, the humidity will be unholy and the memories will last a lifetime.