On the Porch

Sweeping up oak leaves sticking damply to your old front porch after 
last night's rain, you notice a little peeling paint at the base of a 
column. Chunks of rotten wood fall away when you poke the base with the 
broom handle. You sit down on the top step for a closer look, and sigh. 
Now you'll have to hire a carpenter, and hope that fixing it's not too 
costly.

As the sun beats down, the air hot and close, your thoughts begin to 
drift. You recall a time long past when you sat in your grandfather's 
lap as he leaned back against this very column. You both had just 
planted the oak tree in the front yard, high and leafy now, but just a 
slender stick of a thing back then. Grandpa had kept an eye on a storm 
that threatened since morning, and when you'd finished planting you sat 
together on this same top step to share a cool drink of water.

The storm approached with a breeze and then a stronger gust with a few 
fat drops big as june bugs that stirred up that damp-dusty smell. 
Suddenly a downpour hit. You both scrambled back under the porch to curl 
up in a wicker chair. He told you about another storm just like this 
one, even more years back, one that blew in the day he built this porch.

Rain beating on a roof makes a youngster sleepy, and his story drifted 
in your mind. Something about a small mishap bracing a column against 
the wind, and aligning the columns with a level. The wind suddenly 
danced around the two of you, a chilly gremlin, and you worried that 
your granddad might've been hurt all those years ago, and about the rain 
pouring down now, and the thunder rolling around in the clouds above.

With a quiet respect he explained how the Corinthian columns were like 
trees, tapering up with leaves spreading at the top, "just like that 
little oak out in the front yard, drinking up the rain." Thunder crashed 
nearby and you snuggled deeper into his embrace. It felt good having a 
grandpa to shield you from the storm, and you were thankful that he'd 
built a porch as strong as oaks to protect you from the thunder.

Today, it's not rainy at all, just another hot, muggy summer afternoon, 
and that time is long past, and your grandfather lives only in your 
memories. The tree is still here, though, tall and sheltering, and so is 
the porch, in need of a little repair. So somewhere you'll find a 
sensible carpenter who will repair the column. Patch it up, so it'll 
protect your children, and in time their children, too.

Or maybe, you think, leaning back against that very column, maybe you'll 
just fix up this fine old porch yourself.

--John Leeke,
Plattsmouth, Nebraska,
June 1996

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