Margo Oxendine
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My porch becomes a ninth room for about eight
months, from mid-April to mid-November. I eat my lunch and dinner out
there, while reading newspapers and magazines.
Aren’t porches wonderful? Especially if they’re
screened, in my opinion. Those flimsy screens let you see everything,
yet keep the bugs and critters outside where they belong. Most of them,
anyway.
It hasn’t happened this year — so far — but every
so often a certain wily wren manages to somehow make it inside the
screen. As I’m sitting here at my desk, I suddenly see him, darting
about in a madcap fashion. Then, I must go onto the porch, prop open the
screen door, and hope for the best. It has worked so far.
Almost daily, a determined wasp, hornet or stinkbug
manages to get inside the screen. I can barely bring myself to recall
the seeming thousands of ladybugs who show up inside the porch in spring
and fall. I let them accumulate — something like a Woodstock or
Coachella of ladybugs — and then go out, madly spray everything, and
watch them fall like unarmed soldiers. Finally I go outside and vacuum
them up. Some are wounded; they get sucked up, too.
My porch becomes a ninth room for about eight
months, from mid-April to
mid-November. I eat my lunch and dinner out there, while reading
newspapers and magazines. After a meal, I go out and read a book on the
porch, until it becomes too dark to see. If I bring a lamp out there, I
can stay there until bedtime. Many times this summer, I have read a book
a day, outside on the porch. It’s much cooler out there. I’d like to
sleep with the porch door to the inside open, but there are those danged
mice. And, what if that pesky little wren — I think it’s always the same
one — somehow manages to get inside the house? A bird flying madly about
the house is a disconcerting thing, and requires a complicated and
hopeful arrangement to get it back outside again. Not to mention the
invariable clean-up afterward.
It’s fascinating what you can observe while sitting
on the porch for eight hours a day (don’t forget; I’m supposedly
“retired”). This summer, I’ve watched Mama Robin raise one batch of four
babies. The second batch of eggs is in there right now (in late June).
There were four again, but … one morning I checked on the eggs at 8 a.m.
and there they were. Two hours later, there were just two blue eggs.
Where did they go? I was dejected for days.
I seem to have a bumper crop of baby bunnies this
summer. They’re impossible to count, but they only seem to be
increasing. They are fun to watch. Just yesterday, a big, golden doe and
her fawn daintily tiptoed their way across the lawn. They were headed
for the woods that separate my place from a busy highway. I called out a
warning to them; I can only hope it was heeded.
Last week, I saw a thrilling sight: two of my
favorite birds, pileated woodpeckers. One was pounding away at a
telephone pole. The other was hammering on a wooden railroad tie that
marks off Mom’s old “church garden,” where glorious gladioli once
flourished. (I am not a successful flower-grower.) What drew my
attention from my book to the woodpeckers was an odd sound, like a
kitten mewing. It was being emitted by the smaller woodpecker near the
ground. Weird. And wonderful.
My sister recently observed a rare sight early one
morning: Two mourning doves mating on a fence outside her porch! What
are the odds of that? I mean, without going into details, haven’t you
sometimes wondered? Now, she knows. Wish I’d seen it.
My dear late mother and I used to spend a lot of
time together on the porch, rocking in the cushy chairs and watching
nature. Early every spring, we’d have “Porch Day,” when we’d wash down
the 20 sills, vacuum the floor, shake the rugs, wash the floor, wipe
down the table and every other surface. Finally, we’d move out all the
houseplants. Then, we’d take a well-deserved rest and enjoy lunch out
there.
I remember well that Porch Day we did all our many
chores, wiping sweat from our brows and stopping to rest. We finally
brought out most of the plants, except for one. As Mom carried it out,
she dropped it. The pot broke; potting soil and plant parts scattered
everywhere. We had to start all over again.
We were able to laugh about it. Much later.
Spice up your summer reading with Margo’s “A Party of
One,” a compilation of columns from the past. Call 540-468-2147
Mon-Thurs, 9-5, or email: [email protected].