|Out here on the front porch...|
March 14, 2019
I know our neighbours back home were completely used to my being on our beautiful front porrch, singing softly. It was a fine and a private place, that porch. The best part was our heritage sugar maple that shaded the yard, the porch and a good part of the street.
Last time he was here, just as they were leaving for a trip to visit their daughter, OldestBrotherInLaw was out on the porch, putting his boots back on.
Himself watched with that bemused expression on his face, for he thinks it is remarkable that now his big brother takes off his boots when he enters the house: front, back, side and off the porch.
He was talking about the beautiful blue glazed pottery pots we had bought and the view, then he looked at me and asked if anyone ever used the swing. Some people he knows said they had seen me sitting on it, rocking back and forth, with snow everywhere.
Soooo, as I have suspected, he just wanted a bit of adoration for putting that swing up, for he is very much like his baby brother and our boys: Big, quiet, hard-working men with very tender hearts and even more tender feelings.
Trembling inwardly, for I can’t throw off over thirty years of meanness from his Mum, sisters and other brother just yet. It is one of the hardest things about being here. I look at him or hear him and instantly I am that bullied little girl that married into this family so long ago.
I spend a lot of time on that swing, on our porch, no matter the weather. Winters in the Bluegrass are more snowy and icy than here. Just lavished praise on him and assured him that I love that swing and shared my Front Porch Playlists with him, joking that I feared the fishing fleet people maybe hear me, late at night, after a Himself goes to sleep. The lights from several fill the horizon right now and will sweep across the water and light my porch up too.
My songs are songs I love to sing along to, some for fun, some for practice, some because they always make me cry.
Anymore Travis Tritt
A Little More You Little Big Town
Living On Love Alan Jackson
The Night They Drove Old Dixie DownJoan Baez
Song Of The South Alabama
Killin’ Time Clint Black
Write This Down George Strait
Right Where I NeedTo Be Gary Allan
How Do I Live LeAnn Rimes
And I even shared my best song that always makes me cry and is just perfect to me for a zillion reasons:
Amazing Grace Judy Collins’ 1972.
Growing up with church services that were just the eerily hauntingly beautiful voices in the church, pianos, organs, choirs, guitars, ugh ugh ugh. My own father can stand up and sing all by himself old hymns that send shivers down listerners’ spines. He still sings The Old Rugged Cross doing yard work or sometimes on the phone and I just listen. Papa and Great-Granddaddy, Uncle Granville, his two sons, my Great-Aunts Grace, Evelyn, Rose, Jewel and Ruby were famous for their singing in church and at home.
The most fun song on this list is John Anderson’s Swingin’ . It is also a very private joke between Himself and I. Sitting together on a double porch swing is a big part of our courting days and early marriage.
Himself’s first medication at five just made it impossible to go back to sleep and the next ones, that require a small snack is usually around seven thirty so, I just came out here in the dark and cold.
I reckon the boats are all closed up since I don’t think they are actually fishing yet and the engine noises are loud anyway.
It is so funny, my boys have amazing voices and when they were growing up, sang all over the house and yard and in the car. Since they married, they sing again with the grand babies and me.
I can’t remember when I stopped singing if anyone is in the house but I just cannot anymore.
And someone is in the house all the time now and has been eighteen months.
I was so wired anyway, since, well, Austin SouthBySouthwest and waving goodbye to one person, then two, then three, off to Iowa. It’s coming!
I actually have many PlayLists but the Front Porch is fairly private. I had a baby hussy-fit yesterday, informing Himself I am not going to “correct” the grand babies when they call me Mama and call him Papa.
There is nothing in my family for grandparents to be called a Grandma, Grandmother, GrandPa.
Grandmothers are MamaFirstName. Grandfathers are Papa. Or perhaps Grandaddy if there are two grandfathers.
Our little grandson on FaceTime called me Mama as his sisters and nanny coached him. It was the sweetest thing.
IF people that did not grow up below the Mason Dixon are using you all and ya’ll and “Girl” and everything else, well, I come by it honestly.
My boys are starting to call me a Mama again and it is a big surprise but I love it.
The girls now call a couch, a sofa! ButterBean called her baby brother sugar and honey and even I recognised her inflection and tone. JellyBean called me Darlin’ when we said good bye.
Sometimes I spend over two hours at a time when the girls call me. One night, almost three. They had me “sit down”at the dinner table with and we had supper together and there is bed time stories and pep talks about school.
And that was not too bad. Bad enough. This waiting for a heart to “self-correct”, is very stressful. Certainly we should be used to it but it is almost the opposite. Waiting for the surgery in May, not being sure just what surgery it will be because it depends on what they find, the worry, just takes its toll.
Really thought for a few minutes I was going to have call the ambulance. The medication adjustment finally kicked in and he has gone back to bed.
Sooooo, I came on over to the LittleHouse. By opening the curtains to our bedroom, I can see him in bed there.
It is shaping up very nicely in here and recently one of the Children suggested a desk top in the smaller bedroom here. Himself has taken ours for himself, does not like laptops or other devices. This house faces the back, with stands of trees just outside the windows and is just very calming and peaceful.
And here I can listen without headphones to any music I wish and write and leave things on the table to be left alone.
The big bathroom is already fixed up pretty nice with towels and rugs and things from our house back home. I keep reciting that old verse, Peter Pumpkin Eater, not that this house looks like a pumpkin!
I slept part of last night in the big bedroom here. Mostly to get a sense of what it feels like but really, it is very nice here too.
When the garden comes on, I could can and preserve in the kitchen here! Could be our summer kitchen! Baker’s racks over there to hang and dry herbs.
The oddest saddest thought just crept across my mind: All this LittleHouse needs is a redhead, blue eyed baby crawling across this spotless wood plank floor!