Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, July 15, 1993 TAG: 9309180302
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Beth Macy
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
They hold sentimental significance because when we got married we didn't receive any of the traditional wedding gifts - no toasters, no fondue sets, not even a single chafing dish.
When we got married, we got wind chimes. Six sets of them. Each with its own unique ping, each with its own look.
We tried to analyze what our friends were trying to say about us: Did they think we were airheads? Free spirits? Outdoorsy types? Was it supposed to be a sexy kind of William Hurt-Kathleen Turner thing, like from the movie ``Body Heat''? We weren't sure.
But we liked the chaotic chorus they made, spread out under the eaves of our old elongated ranch house. Especially when a storm blew up and the song went from a baby-mobile lullaby to a John Cage kind of frenzy.
In the past three years, the elements have claimed three of our chime sets. (We didn't give them away to other newlyweds, honest.) But we still have three left, two of them hanging on opposite ends of our new front porch.
Wind chimes are soothing in this oppressive heat because they alert you to breezes - those rare moments of late when it's cooler outside than it is in your un-air-conditioned house.
Wind chimes are also refreshing because they invite you to partake in what some friends of mine call ``porching'' - sitting out on the front porch with a tall glass of lemonade, or beer, in hand.
I've always been a big fan of front porches. My first memory involved my first front porch, and I still have the scar on my left knee to prove it. I was about 4, playing Hula Hoop next door in my grandma's yard.
I distinctly remember how excited I got when my mom came out to sit on our front porch and I ran over to see her. As I stretched my arms out to hug her, still running, I tripped up the porch step, causing more blood than I'd ever seen to come pouring out of my knee. Which caused more screaming than anyone had ever heard to come pouring out of my mouth.
The whole neighborhood left their front porches to see what the commotion was about, and I remember being propped up on the kitchen table with all these people fussing over me, sopping up my blood.
It was my first dramatic moment. And I milked it for every bit of attention I could get.
Things seemed different back then, in my old neighborhood anyway. When the heat got to be 90-plus, people didn't cocoon themselves in front of the television in their central air.
People porched.
I remember my mom and her contemptuous fascination with the Williamses, our neighbors across the street who hailed from the coal mines of Kentucky. She called them ``hilligans'' because they ate their supper on their front porch.
I never understood why she thought that was so uncouth. I thought it was smart - sort of like a backyard picnic, only the chairs were more comfortable and you could still watch the traffic go by.
But Mom had her standards. Which meant that while the Williamses ate their mashed potatoes and gravy on their breezy front porch, we ate our mashed potatoes and gravy at our steamy kitchen table. And somehow we were superior.
People don't porch as much in the heat anymore, especially in the fancier neighborhoods where people have the privilege of keeping cool indoors - and, alas, keeping all to themselves. In a way, porching has become a symbol of the people who haven't quite made it yet.
My neighborhood is split down the middle. There are some central-air insiders, and there are some porchers like us, who just broke down last week and bought our first window unit, for our bedroom.
This was a difficult purchase for A/C snobs like us, though I must admit we've always done our fair share of dropping in on friends and relatives (who just happen to have central air) in July and August.
So we have this one cool room now, where we can finally rest comfortably at night. And then we have our porch, with its squeaky metal glider, creaking porch swing and tinkling duo of sentimental wind chimes.
When there's a breeze going, there's no finer seat in the house from which to sip your cool drink, listen to the sounds of summer and look out at all the other porchers on the block, the unspoken fraternity of neighbors who are tough enough to stand the heat - because there is no other choice.
I'll tell you something else, if you promise not to mention it to my mom.
Sometimes, when it's really hot, we even eat our supper out on the front porch.
Beth Macy, a features department staff writer, thinks there's no finer place to watch a storm than the front porch. Her column runs Thursdays.
by CNB