Shhhh…if we’re quiet the grownups might forget we’re here.

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I don’t know if my friend Marilyn and I ever actually said those words aloud, but we certainly acted on them. Sometimes we’d sit cross-legged on the concrete of her family’s wraparound porch, in clear view of her parents but silent as church mice. Other times, we’d sprawl, semi-hidden, in the bushes surrounding the house, listening to the “music” playing above us. Swoosh, tap, swoosh, tap, swoosh, tap – the rhythm of the pale green wooden swing rocking to and fro followed by the patter of feet lightly landing before lifting again was as hypnotic and soothing as the sleep of a slumbering baby.

Year-round, Marilyn’s parents remained faithful to their end-of-the-day porch ritual. On brisk days of fall and early winter a cozy fleece blanket and hot cocoa replaced the hand-held fan and lemonade of spring and summer. Only the most biting of winter days kept them inside after their daily work was done.

Marilyn’s family farmed. Her father labored in fields stretching just across the road from their modest wooden frame house. During some harvest seasons, the crops burst with bountiful abundance. Other times, the fields lay decimated, beaten by drought or driving rain. If you knew the language, the land across from Marilyn’s house foretold her family’s upcoming days and whether they’d celebrate a time of plenty or endure a time of want.

Yet, in all our eavesdropping, I never once heard anything that indicated how close to the bone my friend’s family lived. From their rock-steady porch talk, it seemed obvious even to a child that they considered themselves rich in what mattered. And why not? Each day, they experienced wonder and joy.

I remember once, for instance, when Marilyn and I perched on the coveted porch swing while her parents worked. From a distance, we spied her father, tall and thin, approaching. His face resembled Abe Lincoln’s, worn and gaunt, but kind too. As he came closer, we saw that his calloused hands cradled a ball cap.

“Look,” he said, a wide smile transforming his homely face into handsomeness. We gasped when we saw three tiny bunnies, bunched in a cuddly mass of brown and white fur, all quivering ears and twitching noses. From the field where he worked, he’d rescued the abandoned babies near the spot where their mother’s still body lay. For the rest of the day, the swing became a makeshift cradle as we cuddled and fed Marilyn’s new pets.

To and fro, up and down, swoosh, tap, swoosh, tap, Marilyn’s family rocked together day after day, joking, laughing, teasing and comforting each other through the thick and thin of their lives, no matter the circumstances. Just as the rhythm of the swing never faltered, neither did their contentment with their lives. They drew strength daily from their closeness to nature, to family and to the Almighty.

We were young. We couldn’t have articulated why we wanted to immerse ourselves in those purloined porch moments. Yet somehow we knew that what we were witnessing went far beyond casual conversation. Wrapped up in those words, woven tightly in and out like the threads of a warm, thick blanket, was abiding love, pure and simple.

About the Author
Nancy Dorman-Hickson, a Southern author, writer/editor and speaker, co-wrote Diplomacy and Diamonds, the memoir of Joanne King Herring, who was portrayed by Julia Roberts in the movie Charlie Wilson’s War. She has also edited the “Tennessee Living” section of Southern Living and served on the staff of Progressive Farmer. Find more about her at www.nancydormanhickson.com.