Today we are having tea out on the veranda. You might suspect we are on the veranda because the sun is shining, actually it quite the opposite. It is raining. The emperor and I feel at home when we are close to the rain. So when it rains we move our tea to the veranda. We do not exchange words on the veranda. There is something sacred, something holy, something deeply personal about sitting on the veranda. So we keep to our own thoughts.
Today, my thoughts have not drifted very far. In fact, I am pondering the veranda itself. The word is beautiful and beckoning. "Come out on the veranda" is a warm invitation. But then I think of the times a porch is just as pleasing. The word itself doesn't look like much. It rhymes with 'scorch' and 'torch'. It sounds a bit harsh. A clever disguise for something so precious.
My grandfather never sat on a veranda. I never called him grandfather either. I called him Papaw(first is a short/a/...this is important.) Papaw sat on a porch-or perhaps I should say 'the porch'. The porch he made with his own hands, along with the house that holds the porch up. He sat on the porch everyday, usually with a glass of ice cold tea, a brass spittoon, and a bag of Redman chew. If you wanted to find him, most of the time you could find him on the porch. He was usually counting cars, seemingly his favorite hobby. After dinner, we would all go out on the porch. I would sit on the porch swing with Mamaw(same pronunciation as Papaw).Sometimes Mamaw would sit next to Papaw who always sat in a rocking chair. Although, I don't recall him ever rocking in it. We would admire Mamaw's tulips and the garden that my dad and uncle planted. "Look how nicely the squash is coming in," Mamaw would say. The honeysuckle would tickle our noses and Mamaw would tease Papaw. Mamaw and I would giggle at Papaw's reaction. After the laughter would die down, Mamaw would go back in the house to wash the dishes. Papaw and I would sit quietly sip our ice teas, while I read a book and he counted cars.
I do love the veranda, but sometimes I miss the porch. I glance over at the emperor who is looking out into the rain and sipping his tea. He has a porch he misses, too.
