Growing up in Philadelphia, I would sit out on our back, cement porch, listening to the planes and trains and automobiles while petting our stray/pet black cat, Sabrina. That back porch with its plastic, AstroTurf rug is where I wrote my first poem, In the Fall, in first grade. During childhood summertimes, I cherished our porch in our Victorian cottage at Chester Heights Campground Meeting, ensconced in the privacy of the woods, built in the 1870s during the Second Great Awakening. (And even though it didn't have a railing, and was highly unstable, I also loved to sneak out and sit up on the rooftop outside the bedroom I shared upstairs with my three siblings.) On our porch at Chester Heights, I would while away the hours watching chipmunks scurry in the ferns outside or reading books I borrowed from our kindly, grandmotherly neighbor, Norma. (Laura Ingalls Wilder, Judy Bloom, Jerry Spinelli, and Beverly Cleary in those days). When I came to visit Norma to discuss the books she lent me, she'd make us grilled cheese sandwiches, which we ate together on her wraparound, gingerbread-adorned, screened-in porch.
Independence Day celebrations; horseshoe tournaments; Pony Penning; corn husking; the hum of a fishing reel on a rickety rental boat; and sticky, burnt, mosquito-bite-days at the Assateague shore – family gatherings in Chincoteague Island, Virginia were always busy and exciting. But my favorite moments were the secret, quiet ones tucked away on Gagoo's (Grammy's) porch. You could see the bay clear from there, and occasionally, a family of ducks would wander up and beg for food. Porches also remind me of my Nana, my great-grandma and my mom's paternal grandmother, whom we often visited in Kissimmee, Florida, where you could smell the orange trees that lingered outside the screen walls. I can still envision the plastic grid cross-stitch crosses she used to make that I would take for bookmarks, still recall the taste of Pirouline wafers.
My love for a good porch was recently rekindled on a visit to my dear friend Sarah's home on Long Island, New York. Our friend Lozana flew in from London, and, united for the first time in three years, we three filled our relaxing reunion with art museums, many bottles of red wine, homemade vegan meals, long walks on the beach, and long talks on porch.
To me, porches are more spirit world than physical plane, the liminal space between inside and outside, occupied by wicker chairs and rockers and lemonade and strung, colored-paper lanterns and a good book to get lost in. Porches are the place you go to be alone, to find solace in solitude.
That's why I decided to make our balcony into that very type of space.
Ben and I purchased our white, wicker chair inexpensively from Ikea, and thought it didn't come with a cushion, that was a problem easily solved. At our local Hancock Fabrics, I found an upholstery remnant– gray macaws against mustard yellow tropical flowers– for only $7 and purchased a 2" thick square of foam ($12) to go with it. I had enough fabric to not only cover a cushion for the wicker chair, but to make a matching, oversized pillow. Keep reading if you're interested in making a set for your own magic porch.
How To Sew a Seat Cushion Cover/ How to Upholster an Outdoor Chair
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