The Sleeping Porch

Those of us old enough to remember summers without air conditioning will likely have some familiarity with the ides of a sleeping porch.   Several of the houses my family rented during our gypsy years had them.  Some were screened in living areas with a sofa that opened to a bed, others simply a sheltered attachment to the house where one could catch the evening breeze while lying on an old sofa.  My folks never liked sleeping on them, nor did my siblings, I on the other hand loved them.

When we had a screened porch added to our home several years ago it was initially intended as a place to sit and enjoy the evening or morning, but in the planning stage it became so much more.  The finished product contains a table with seating for six, a swing hanging from sturdy ropes in a cypress stand, and a futon sofa that converts to a queen-size bed.

It is our sleeping porch.

I woke this morning to the sound of a light rain, a gentle alarm clock just before dawn.  The first sound as the rain starts is that of drops tapping the leaves of the maples and rhododendrons in our front yard, not yet raining hard enough to penetrate the green cover.  The intensity grows until it soaks and passes the canopy, a true rain, not hard, not demanding, but relentless in its pursuit of the earth.  As the morning grows gray and the trees become visible, I can see the movement of individual leaves when a raindrop hits them.  The randomness of the movement is mesmerizing.

I can't think of a better way to start a new day.