Illustration by Lindsay Stripling
The screened porch was my favorite room of my parents’ house and is the only room of their house that no longer exists. It’s where my mother made sun tea: tea that required no toil, only time. The manifestation of tea in the pitcher matched the ethos of summertime, when an activity like reading a book or adventuring in the woods behind our house unspooled itself gradually — without anyone’s noticing it, my brothers, neighborhood friends or me — until it had colored an entire day. So, too, were hours that passed seamlessly on the porch.
The porch listened to backyard games of Around the World, Kick the Can, Wall Ball and Ghost in the Graveyard. It saw hiding spots during Capture the Flag and watched halting figures on the lawn during Spud. We had to exit the neighborhood pool at the rumble of thunder, but we were allowed to experience storms on the porch. Danger twinged through us as we drew our knees up to our chins. From this vantage, we could feel the cool wind and watch the rainfall darken whatever decking it could reach. Under the cedar roof, we listened to thunder and were lit up by lightning strobes.
The slide latch on the door was like one you’d find on an animal’s cage, rather than a true lock. That my guinea pig, Patches, was allowed to roam freely on the porch is an indication of the different behavioral norms of that space. Patches’ cage itself was like a porch: a base with metal sidings. The times I released her on the porch, unsure of her visual range, I figured I could grant her at least the illusion of freedom. At minimum, wooden floorboards offered her new terrain.
Along with animals, amateur artists were welcome in that ventilated area. Summers, I lugged out my radio/CD player along with canvases and paints. In that space, preteen music tastes needed no audience approval. Errant paint flecks went unobserved.
We should have known that room would be the first to go: Like a flip-flop, it was not designed for durability. We pressed on its walls, dented them like the children we were, leaning into and testing our boundaries. Sometimes an elbow or knee would land against a screen with more force than intended, as if the result of limbs outgrowing their owners’ coordination. Bumps that formed on the mesh over time were like acne erupting on an adolescent face.
Where once was a screened porch, my parents’ house now contains their version of a Florida room: a “Mississippi Room.” I appreciate the tribute to my mother’s native state, but I consider the Mississippi Room a museum erected on the former site of a screened porch. It requires dusting and vacuuming. Any breeze is manufactured by a ceiling fan. Its doors must be opened or closed, more like an adult conversation that takes dutiful turns rather than the banter of children, which shifts abruptly and is full of questions. Its walls are painted one color — yellow — unlike screens, which update their scenes by the second.
I’m unsure what precipitated the removal of the porch. I have no memories of its excision, which makes me think I must have been away at school when the demolition occurred. Whatever creeping cancer had metastasized throughout it wasn’t discernable to an onlooker. By all observable metrics it seemed to be a healthy, life-giving room. I am certain I would remember had there been a substantive reason for its demolition — mold or a termite infestation, say, silently subjecting the whole house to ruin. I hesitate to ask for a definitive reason for the porch’s removal. because I surmise there is none. My parents are proactive, so I suspect the act was a preemptive strike against a liability. It’s little use asking now, but I wonder if they had they tried any remedial treatments. Had the screens or posts been replaced? Had conservative measures been tried and found wanting?
The other week I passed by a house under construction in my neighborhood. Seeing its exposed wood, I thought about what is required to build a screened porch: less. A house starts with a firm footing — bricks and mortar — then, somewhere above the foundation, I imagine the builders feel a cool breeze on their sunburnt shoulders and decide on something different. What if we made a room less interested in itself, I imagine them thinking, that instead listened to what is going on around it? A screened porch starts substantially, then has a change of heart. It’s like a thought that turns into a daydream.
Erin Buckley lives in Richmond, Virginia, where she works as an occupational therapist.