Porch Code

Back when I was about knee-high to a washtub and full of more opinions than sense, there was an unwritten rule in our neck of the woods–you could talk about the weather, the price of feed, or how the neighbor’s milk cow had a nervous breakdown—but you did not, under any circumstances, talk politics, sex, or religion in polite mixed-company, especially when Great Grandma Ivy was within earshot and Lordy, help the poor fool who brought up all three.

Now, this was in a time when a “post” was something you set a fence with, and “followers” were folks who came behind you in the buffet line at the church potluck. We didn’t overshare because there wasn’t anywhere to share it.

You had your front porch, the feed store, and maybe the Methodist picnic if you wanted to hear what folks thought about the world. And even then, you were expected to coat your opinions in molasses and “bless their hearts” before serving them up.

But times have changed.

A while ago, I got myself on one of them social media sites intending to see pictures of my Cousin Eddie’s dog dressed like Elvis. Instead, I got a crash course in the modern world’s version of polite conversation—which, as far as I can tell, is the exact opposite of polite and barely qualifies as conversation.

It’s just hollering with better spelling.

Now, I ain’t saying folks didn’t have strong feelings back then. My Dad used to complain so much about Nixon he almost wore out his teeth. But he did it sitting in his Lazy Boy and living room, drinking real coffee and smoking Bel-Airs. He never once tried to win an argument by typing in all caps or posting blurry photos of lizard people at the Trees of Mystery.

And we knew each other—like really knew each other. You couldn’t unfriend a fella because he voted differently or liked the wrong preacher. You’d still see him at the co-op or behind you in line at the DMV, and you might need him in hay season. There was a kind of neighborly truce–live and let live, and don’t bring up sensitive topics unless you’re looking to lose a casserole or a riding partner.

The other day, I was sitting on the front porch—when my neighbor’s boy came by, phone in hand and indignation boiling in his eyes. He said he’d been arguing online with someone about religion and race and something else I didn’t quite catch.

He asked me what I thought.

I took a long sip of my coffee, scratched the Buddy-dog’s ear, and said, “Well, I think you can either spend your time hollering at strangers on the Internet or you can help fix Miss Claudia’s screen door that’s been hanging since Obama was in office. One of them makes a difference. The other just makes you hoarse.”

He blinked a few times, looked at Miss Claudia’s home, and tucked his phone in his back pocket.

He went home before returning with a screwdriver and plyers. I went with him, and we worked silently, save for the occasional groan from my knees.

And I realized something–maybe what we’ve lost isn’t manners, but that good old-fashioned sense of sitting with someone, shoulder to shoulder, fixing small things together while those other things sort themselves out.

Maybe we don’t need fewer opinions—just more porches.