Thoughts from a Place Called Home
Rooted in love, history and memory.
Nothing more defines the heart and soul of a Southern home than the front porch and a tall glass of Mama’s sweet tea.
My front porch is a place for quiet conversations, reflections after a busy day, al fresco dining, and greeting guests. We linger over coffee here at dawn, pry open oysters in the chill of the evening, crack crabs, watch sunsets, make plans, and share ideas and hopes for the future.
It’s the place for napping, laughing with family and dear friends after Sunday supper, for cooling down with a tall glass of sweet tea after a day at the beach on a hot summer afternoon. This is where we carve our jack-o’-lanterns, hand out treats on Halloween, put up Christmas wreaths, and string lights.
I’ve learned a true Southern woman must have a pitcher of sweet tea in the fridge at all times, just in case an unexpected guest should drop by the porch. If you don’t like sweet tea, well, bless your heart. It’s a sure sign you’re not from here. We’ve been taught to divide the North and the South at the Mason-Dixon line, but in reality, it’s divided at the sweet tea line. It’s that point on the map where the next Formica-topped diner just a little north doesn’t have a gracious plenty of sweet tea in a glass pitcher ready to serve. Just exactly where that line is may be a little blurred, but I feel sorry for folks who live above it.
When you’re in the South, you can be sure that in barbecue joints, roadside stands, seafood huts, fancy dining rooms, diners, and dives, folks will be stirring together a few humble ingredients to produce the elixir that tastes and feels like home.
Sweet tea is as basic to our way of life as loving football, Mama’s fried chicken, grits with gravy, magnolia trees, Moon Pies, Coca-Cola, and each other. For this is the land of gracious plenty where everyone is darlin’ and strangers say “hello.”
Growing up, I spent countless nights with my parents and friends out on the porch, watching the sun go down, anticipating the thrill of catching lightning bugs once dusk settled upon the land. The bullfrogs played their symphony in the pond out back while crickets got so loud they nearly drowned out our conversations. In the darkness, the whippoorwills called out to us from their woodland home, and each night the faraway sound of a train whistle broke the silence as the Southerner rolled through town on its way to Georgia and all points south.
As I grew older, we sat on the porch and shared dreams of our lives to come and the limitless possibilities. Eventually, I grew up and went to college far away. Those evenings on the porch with mom and dad, grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends happened less frequently until they became a cherished memory of my childhood.
Once I was married and had my own children, I realized how sacred those times on the porch were. It represented a time and place where slowing down was held in reverence above all activities. Somehow, we had time for it. Now there was soccer practice, horseback riding, choir practice, football practice—the race was on from work to school to extracurricular activities.
The front porch people are mostly gone now. I suspect they sit in air-conditioned comfort behind walls of wired components and TV sets. Lives of celebrities take precedence over the lives of neighbors and friends. We miss out on a part of what makes life rich and wonderful.
I love that neighbors walk by and greet us, and I’ve found that all food tastes a little bit better and conversations last a whole lot longer out there.
The porch remains the most sacred part of my home. It preserves the stories of our days, the endless ramblings of conversation, dreams of what is to come, and visions of endless possibilities.
A Memorable Soft Shell Crab lunch on the porch with Chef Robert Wysong, formerly Executive Chef at Colleton River, Bluffton. Recipe follows:
This recipe and story were first published in my book, Magnolias, Porches and Sweet Tea, and later featured in Charleston Style and Design magazine.
