Originally posted on Mommy’s Martini.

One of my most vivid childhood memories is sitting in the dark, on the screened-in porch of my next-door-neighbor’s house, and listening to the grown-ups talking. In the moist, heavy heat of a Georgia summer, the little ceiling fan on the porch would force a breeze, and the crickets would begin to chirp as night fell. The puffs of wind beyond the screens carried the faint scent of magnolia blossoms, and the asphalt twinkled with embedded sparkles in the pools of golden streetlamp light where hard-shelled Junebugs gathered. There was no light on the porch, so as to avoid attracting insects, and as the darkness gathered closer and enclosed our little room, I felt cocooned in an almost magical place.

We lived in a house on a horseshoe shaped block of homes that had been built for returning GIs after WWII. Every single house on our street had the same front bathroom (what had once been the only bathroom), with the identical pattern of black-and-white tile on the floor and walls. You know the pattern; it’s very like the “retro” one you can buy at big box home DIY stores now, except there is something different, a bit glossier, and better, about the original. We all had the original.

These were small houses — two front rooms, a kitchen, bath, two bedrooms — that had been added onto over time so that by the time we lived there in the early 1980s, they all had a slightly different footprint. Except for three things: that central black-and-white bathroom, the wide front stoop, and the porch. Some houses (like ours) had enclosed the porch. But not next door.

The people next door were about 10 years older than our grandparents. Although we were taught to call the parents of most of our school friends Mr. and Mrs. Lastname, these grandparently souls next door were known simply at Teta (pronounced tee-tuh) and John. “Teta” was the lisping toddler pronunciation of her real name, Teresa. And as so many of the children on the street had grown up thinking of her as their local grandmother, they had stuck to calling her Teta even when they could speak better.

I don’t remember talking much myself on her porch. At least, not after the darkness settled in. On summer nights, between the ages of about 11 and 14, I had few options for how to spend my time once the dinner dishes were done: read, play kick-the-can with the kids on the block, babysit for $1 an hour, or go sit on Teta’s porch. We tended to call our games over once it got really dark; sometimes we would stay out talking till our parents called us in; sometimes the party would break up earlier. On any night with nothing else pressing going on, I would go to Teta’s house before it got quite dark — strategically early enough to get my favorite chair, a low wooden rocker.

We would talk, and she would tell me stories of her childhood growing up in Greenwood, Mississippi in the early 1920s. She had 10 (or 7?) brothers and sisters, the youngest of whom was called Hattie. Poor little Hattie was always getting into scrapes — dared to swing on the trapeze they’d rigged in the attic, then left hanging there, stuck half upside down, while the rest of them trooped on to the next activity. I don’t actually recall many of the specific stories she told, though I do recall her voice, the soft slight accent on some words, the exclamation of surprise that stood for any occasion that one might need a swear word, “Well, GAR-den SEED!” And I recall that as it got darker, Teta’s porch door would squeak slightly when a neighbor opened it, then bang smartly shut thanks to its spring, while someone new settled down into a chair for a chat. Sometimes it was gardening. Or children. Or I don’t know what else. I would sit in my corner in the dark and listen, loving the stories, the ritual, the sound of the door welcoming each new visitor with a wooden smack that reassuringly promised to keep out the bugs. I know that the woodwork holding the screens taut was painted white. I know that we (for I was not the only girl hunkered down there on the porch, though in my mind’s eye, I am the one there most frequently) were occasionally allowed, if we called our mothers to ask permission first, to drink an ice-cold “co-cola” from a little glass bottle. I know that most women brought their own large tumblers filled with iced tea as they sauntered over to Teta’s for a chat.

In my memory, there were only ever women on her porch. John took the little terrier, Barney, for a walk every evening, and saluted the talking ladies with a wave and a nod as he exited the house, but otherwise, we never saw him. Or any other husband or father that I recall.

This screened porch was a woman’s sanctuary. A place to relax, tell stories, laugh, reminisce, soothe heartache, talk about the neighbors, plan parties. A place to connect.

In retrospect, I see that the magic I felt when I sat in that rocker sipping my drink was the simple magic of being part of a community. I knew everyone on the street, knew my way to their fridges and bathrooms, knew the best hiding spots in their yards, knew the names of their parents and the teachers of their kids. I knew whose door had won the decorating contest at Christmas and whose had been kicked at by “The Prowler.” I knew the names and ages of every single one of the 30 odd kids who lived “around the block.”

And I knew, when I sat in my favorite rocker on Teta’s porch, that I would hear something that I did not already know. Something that I would be glad to know. Whether it was useful or merely funny, a curiosity or a necessity, I would learn something new every single night on her porch, at the same time that I was learning something very very old–the power of community.

As it turns summer here in Michigan, I miss those days immensely. Don’t get me wrong; I have some dear and lovely friends who live both near and far, and I am beginning to knit myself into a new community online too. I can call my friends, and make lunch dates, and email, and have an occasional girls’ night out. What I am missing is not love or the intimacy of good friends. What I miss is neighborliness. Having lived in my house for five years this summer, I can only tell you the names of families in four houses on my street. No one has a screened-in porch, much less an open door policy where neighbors just wander over, drinks in hand, and pull up a chair without an invitation. For on Teta’s porch, an invitation would have been extended only to a stranger. The guest of a neighbor, for example, would have been politely offered the best chair (the big wooden rocker) as well as some sweet tea. Everyone else just pulled open the door and sat on what was available. The rules were simple: if Teta wasn’t home, the door was latched; if she was, you came in, and you didn’t expect her to serve you anything except some delightful talk.

Perhaps there are still neighborhoods like this. I like to think there are. I like to think that somewhere adolescent girls are knitting themselves into the fabric of womanhood through the simple power of presence and talking. Perhaps I am over romanticizing. But I do wish that my own daughter could grow up secure in the sanctity of the screened-in porch, surrounded by stories of love and work, sun-tea making and gardening, childhood and milestones, until the nights wove themselves together into a tapestry of shared experience.

Editors pick by Catnip at Catnip and Coffee. So much of what it means to make a house a real home is to belong to a community. That’s exactly why I chose to put this post from MommyTime in the Homemaking Channel. MommyTime is a fellow Blog Nosh Editor over on the Family Channel and you can find more of her beautiful words at Mommy’s Martini. Don’t forget to subscribe to her feed and follow her on twitter!