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Date:9/22/2014 3:13:34 AM
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Porch Sitting, Part IV
And so it was on a beautiful Autumn day that I was putzing around outside. I loaded the wheelbarrow with rotting muskmelons and other detritus from the home garden and hauled it out to one of the deer hunting towers that Eldest Brother David had built. I dumped the wheelbarrow and as I was traversing the valley between David's property and my own, I looked over at his house. At first I couldn't tell if I was seeing an old, red clay flower pot sitting on his porch table or the side of David's tanned, weather-beatened face as he sat on his porch chair. Neither object would be capable of much in the line of movement. I stared for a good while. Then, the clay pot waived a tanned hand at the end of a blue, denim-clothed arm and I recognized it as belonging to my brother.

Never being one to pass up an opportunity for some "porch sitting", I left the wheelbarrow and strolled up to David's porch. In the old days, when I was in my 20s, I would forego walking around to the porch steps at its north end and instead, clamber over the railing and onto the porch. That day, feeling spry under the warm October sun, after a moment of hesitation, I did it again. Puffing a little from the exertion, I found a chair on the porch and talked with David and Belle Soeur Susie for a half hour. Finally, I returned to my wheelbarrow and my work.

Porch sitting; it is a true and venerable country past-time. Only a true countryman or woman can appreciate its nuances. --Gary
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