My Front Porch

My Front Porch

My front porch, with peeling red paint and thick log supports, has seen every perfect Idahoan sunrise for six wonderful years. As I sit with my feet dangling off the higher edge, looking east, I see the ancient, regal Tetons in the distance, their jagged peaks lining the horizon. My front porch has sheltered me from the cool spring rain as I watched a thunderstorm work its way across the night sky. Those nights, I was wrapped in a warm fleece blanket and my own wondering awe. Together, my porch and I would wait silently to hear the distant rolling rumbles of thunder. Then, excitedly, I’d count the seconds until the glorious lighting would light up the clouds to an eerie, electric white, signaling its distance.

My front porch, running the whole length of my house, built with my dad’s own capable hands, has seen it all. From the pristine, frost-covered spider webs that decorated our porch the year the cat face spiders infested-- making my porch their home-- and the early frost turned their webs white; to the first venture outside for our nine rat terrier puppies. It was where I, trying with all my strength not to cry, shed those first hot tears when our German wirehaired dog, Slim, had died.

My front porch, more than a path to my front door, is the window to a million breathtaking views, uninterrupted by houses and businesses and noise. It is the key to finding beauty in scraggly sage brush, heart touching music in silence, soft pillows in weathered wood, and mouthwatering aromas in fresh air.