Ryan Ridge
FRONTPORCH
The Front Porch is the prologue to an American Home. Or perhaps an American Home is the prologue to the Front Porch. It depends on whose home. Also: it matters who is home. Depending on these variables the Front Porch (also called the “Initial Perch”) is a place where a wide variety of people post-up. For instance, at a Cocktail Party (See: Domestic Festivities) the smokers are generally sequestered to this area where they swap avant-garde tales of the afternoon in between coughing jags. According to the Nu American Center for Statistical Analysis, a person appears 40% more attractive with a cigarette in their hand. Hence the Front Porch (AKA “The Smoker’s Outlet”) is 120% more attractive when three or more people are smoking on it. It is the customary place where “Guests” wait for the Homeowners (See: Inhabitants) to acknowledge their presence. It is also the altar where teenaged boys kneel and pray that their date’s father does not answer the Door (See: Front Door). Front Porches are generally decorated with benches, rocking chairs, hammocks, and Porch Swings. Other key components of the Front Porch: animal carcasses and welcome mats. If a Porch has a welcome mat, consider yourself welcomed and invite yourself in. However, if a Porch is adorned with an animal carcass, say a goat skull smeared with menstrual blood, go somewhere else. Quickly. Many U.S. Porches are super-patriotic and feature prominent American flags flapping in the American breeze like proud testaments to 18th-century optimism. The Front Porch is one of the great nostalgias of our time. Which time? This time, which means: No time to look back! Even less time to crawl inside our minds. Here we are. Where? I don’t know. Look. Look at the Porch Swing.
PORCHSWING
The Porch Swing is a Post-Cynical literary device. It propels the plot forward, then back, then forward again. Oftentimes errors and felonies create excellent narratives. However, the Porch Swing is not now, nor has it ever been, either of those things. The Porch Swing is innocent. It is also a reoccurring motif in “The Anatomy of American Homes.”
BACKPORCH
Historically, the Back Porch (also called the “The Place Where the Bastard Sits”) is the place where ornery operators of human machinery once sipped cold lemonade in the antebellum shade while musing about insignificant shit as their slaves and serfs toiled in the murky, bloody soil. Fortunately, after the awesome and inevitable triumph of the civil rights movement, Back Porches were forever shamed and screened and covered and all but replaced by Decks and Patios (See: Decks & Patios). Thank God.
PORCHSWING II
So I was swinging on a Porch Swing the other night, writing “The Anatomy of American Homes” in my beat-up yellow legal pad, when a gentleman approached me with a sawed-off shotgun and asked me what the hell I was doing. I told him I was writing a book about American Homes, and he told me maybe I should write my book about American Homes elsewhere. He said, “This is my American Home, friend.” I said, “And it’s a beautiful American home, sir, which is precisely why I’ve chosen to write a section of my book here on your front porch.” He said, “Why don’t you write your book on your own front porch?” I said, “Because I live on the fifth floor of an apartment complex. I don’t have a porch.” He put down his shotgun, grunted, and sat next to me on the Porch Swing, “Got a name?” “Ridge,” I said. “Clarence,” he said. We shook hands. “So you’re a writer there, Ridge?” I considered it, said: “More like a chronicler I guess.” “Do you like Clancy?” he said. “No,” I said. “What’s your book about?” he said. “American Homes,” I said. “What about American homes?” he said. “Everything about American homes,” I said. “Right now, I’m writing about Porches.” “Let me see what you’ve got,” he said. So I did. I handed Clarence the legal pad and he examined my Porch notes. “Hell,” he said. “This is nothing but a bunch of goddamn gutless platitudes.” “Thank you, Clarence,” I said. “I think I’ve just found my title.” “What’s that?” he said. “Porch Platitudes,” I said. “That’s a terrible title,” he said. “Hey,” I said, noticing something strange in the opposite corner of the porch. “What’s that over there?” “That,” Clarence said, pointing, “is a raccoon.” “Yes,” I said, “but what’s that thing the raccoon is licking?” “Oh that,” Clarence said. “That is a goat skull smothered in menstrual blood.” There was a beat or two of silence. I said, “I better go.” “Yes,” he said. “You’d probably better.”