The Sleeping Porch

B. Morrison

Summertime in Baltimore made it almost impossible to sleep, so we kids moved to the sleeping porch for its duration. Many houses in those pre-air-conditioned days had those screened second-floor porches. Ours hung over the hill behind the house, a hill so steep that my mother dug in railroad ties to keep the house from tumbling down. From the porch, we could look out at the very tops of the beech and oak trees that covered it. On summer nights, four of my siblings and I—all but the baby—crowded onto the porch, sleeping in an odd assortment of chaise lounges, Army cots, and a squeaky glider.

The worst thing about being part of a large family was never being alone. My older brother kept to himself, but I was beset by my four younger siblings demanding attention, whether it was picking up toys the baby threw on the floor or breaking up a fight between my little brothers over toy soldiers. I avoided my next youngest sister, who copied everything I did and tried to tag along whenever I went out with my friends, whether it was a hike to the nearby woods or just a game of gin on their porch. Sometimes I stayed home from family treats like bowling or the State Fair just to be alone.

The second worst thing about a large family was the amount of clutter everyone generated: doll clothes and baseball gloves and glasses dropped on floors or tables and forgotten. I remember lying on my back on the living room rug, looking up at the ceiling: it was white and flat and empty. I wished I could have a whole room like that, white, empty. Even when I finally got my own bedroom, after years of armed neutrality sharing a room with my sister, my mother filled it with cast-off furniture and trinkets. She papered it herself but ran out of the busy flowered wallpaper, so she decorated the rest of the room with paper printed with tiny stars. Still, when the nights turned steamy, I didn’t hesitate to grab my spot on the sleeping porch.

The door to the porch led to the master bedroom, but our being so close to their bedroom didn’t seem to stop my parents from fighting. They didn’t usually fight in front of us, though of course we were aware of the tension. On the glider on the sleeping porch, I remember lying awake listening to the steady breathing of my brothers and sister, to the crickets outside, and to the arguing voices in the room behind me. At the time, marriage didn’t seem like a great bargain to me; even a big house wasn’t worth the fighting. I thought, someday I will live alone, and sleep in a white room.

And I do.