The Special Art of Porch Sitting

Bolero Therm-O-Ware Cups like my Mamaw had - a piece of family history that I treasure

Some of my most treasured memories are stitched into the fabric of long summer evenings on my grandparents’ front porch, tucked deep in the heart of twentieth century Appalachia.

The old porch swing creaked gently beneath my aunt and I as we rocked back and forth, sipping lemonade from Mamaw's Bolero Thermoware cups, the kind that were multicolored like her summer flowers, and had just enough sweat on the outside to make you appreciate the ice inside. Their house sat just off a quiet, two-lane country road—sometimes as much traffic from tractors as cars—and across the way, horses grazed lazily in a sun-drenched pasture.

Further down the lane, you could hear the low, contented mooing of cattle, heading instinctively toward the barn, as if they had punched out for the day. My cousins and younger siblings were engaged in simple distractions, like playing cars on the front stoop, drawing awkward pictures on an Etch-a-sketch while laying on their stomach under a shade tree, making daisy chain jewelry and turning cartwheels barefoot on the lawn.

Papaw would settle in with his evening paper, unfolding it with a little snap that somehow signaled, All is well. Mamaw would ease into her favorite chair with a deep, quiet sigh, wiping her hands on her apron—dishwater barely dried—having just finished cleaning up supper. And there we sat. Not doing anything special other than waving with a simple hand gesture to neighbors driving by. Looking back, doing nothing special was the most special thing of all.

Porch sitting, my friends, is more than just a rest for the body. It’s an essential pause for the soul. These days, we’re told to chase, achieve, optimize. But porch sitting teaches us to receive—to let the day come to a close with no fanfare, just gratitude.

So if you’ve got a porch, a step, a stoop—or even a folding chair on a patch of grass—use it. Sit a while. Watch the sky change its colors. Smile at the sound of children playing. Feel the breeze shift. Wave as neighbors walk or drive by on their way home.

Because stillness isn’t stagnation—it’s stewardship of the moment.

Until next time, friends, may you find your own front porch rhythm—and may it bring you peace.

— The Seasoned Lady