Making the Trip to Porchville

Dad called it "Porchville". At the age of 8, I couldn't wait to find out exactly what this jewel of a vacation spot entailed. He led me to the porch of our home in Philadelphia, where winter glass had been removed and screens put in their place for summer. Chairs were set up, ready for an easy afternoon rocking. Porchville. Approximately 66 steps from my bedroom.
I may not have been all that amused at the time, but today I sit in the wicker rocker that has come down from my grandparents, and watch an afternoon shower water the spread of green that I am blessed to call my yard in Florida. Spanish moss droops from the oak trees. (The best way to see Spanish moss is in the evening hours when the setting sun lights them from behind and they take on a magical glow.)
Rain is a beautiful thing in the hot summers of Florida. For a moment, the blanket of humidity and heat folds back. The sound of water striking the metal roof of the porch becomes a layer in the harmony of rustling leaves in the wind. As long as the rain continues to fall, the temperatures take a dip as well. Respite and refresh.
Of course, the refreshing lasts only as long as the rain. Once the sun revives, a few more wet blankets have been thrown over us and the temperature creeps slightly higher than what it was previously. That's alright. The beauty is in the moment. It's the Florida Natural Way. Something to be admired and enjoyed, even from the rocker conveniently located in Porchville.