The Porch Is a Sacred Place: Where Appalachian Stories Begin

“Out of the mouths of babes,” we say, when our children surprise us with a truth that feels deeper than their years. One of those moments happened the other day as we were driving down our little backroad toward home—a peaceful, winding stretch through the hills, dotted with old houses facing the road. My daughter glanced out the window and pointed to a modest home with a small porch, just big enough for a single lawn chair. “Mom, how come we never see those people outside?” she asked.

I told her I wasn’t sure. Maybe they worked long hours.

A few minutes passed, and I could tell the thought hadn’t let her go. “Come to think of it,” she said, “I don’t really see anyone outside anymore.”

The truth of it hit me hard. She was right. Somewhere along the way—with modern conveniences, shift work, and the endless pull of technology—we’ve been drawn inside. We’ve been pulled into screens, into schedules, into silence. We don’t sit outside much. We don’t talk face to face.

In a world that’s forgotten how to sit still, the front porch is holy ground—quiet, weathered, and rich with the kind of stories that don’t need to be spoken out loud to be understood. 

As a child, we’d often visit my Granny’s house, where the whole family gathered. Cousins filled the yard, running barefoot through the grass, while our parents moved in and out of the little four-room house. It was simple, but the porch was nearly as big as the inside—and far more alive. Voices drifted through the screen door like music on the breeze, but there were always folks out front. Someone was always sitting on the porch swing, usually deep in conversation.

I remember settling onto the porch steps as a small child, listening to the grown folks talk. You’d hear how the corn was holding up, how the heat had withered the roots, or how the rain had made the beans shoot up, ripe for picking. That meant it would soon be time for the next tradition—sitting on that same porch with bowls in our laps, stringing and snapping beans until our fingers ached.

It’s a tradition we still carry on. These days, we gather on Momma’s porch. All the grandkids crowd around, listening to stories from her girlhood—tales about the tobacco patch and riverbank, when a Coca-Cola cost a dime and summers stretched long as the kudzu vines. It’s harder to hold their attention now, with screens glowing in every hand, but when Momma or Daddy start painting a picture of those days, something shifts. The children lean in. We all feel that quiet pull, back to something simpler—something we’ve nearly forgotten, but still long for.

While we listen, we work. And in that work, there’s a language all its own: the creak of a rocker, the chirp of birds, the snap of green beans, the hush of running water in the distance. An easiness settles in the air, the kind you can’t find anywhere else. There’s no other place that forges family quite like a front porch.

It’s where we say hello, and where we say goodbye. Where prayers are whispered—“Lord, just let them make it home safe.” Where tears have been shed and laughter has rung off the tin roof like a hymn.

And yet, it’s disappearing. These days, most folks pull straight into their garage, close the door behind them, and slip into the air-conditioned silence of their home. The TV flickers to life, but the porch sits empty. It’s a loss you can feel in your bones—even children sense it. I believe that’s what my daughter noticed that day: not just the empty porches, but the quiet ache of something missing. The loss of community.

The world has drawn us inward. It’s pulled us away from one another. Away from our kin and neighbors. And in a time of rising loneliness, depression, and higher crime rates and violence, I can’t help but wonder—have we traded the cure for the cause?

The front porch is more than wood and nails. It’s communion. It’s belonging. It’s where meals are shared, where stories take root, and where we remember we’re not alone. If we lose that… what else might we forget?

I read an article in Dwell recently that said homes built with porches rose from 42 percent in 1994 to 66.4 percent in 2022—but I can’t help but wonder how many folks actually use them. A porch isn’t a decoration. It’s an invitation. A sacred in-between—public and private, grief and celebration, story and silence.

Think of how many hard things have been worked out on a porch—through quiet prayers, whispered tears, or just sitting shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing at all. I’m not sure I could tell a single story that doesn’t, in some way, trace its roots back to a porch.

I pray those stories continue. Not just mine or my family’s, but all families’. So that we might once again find that sense of community, know that feeling of belonging.

So if you're reading this, I urge you: step outside. Breathe in the air. Look around. See your neighbors. See your people. Not just for yourself, but for the generations watching. Sit on the porch after supper. Sip your coffee. Tell your stories. Snap your beans. Wave at whoever drives by. Remember who you are. Remember where you come from.

It’s my hope that my children—and yours—will grow up knowing that sacred slowness. That hush. That holy creak of a porch swing at dusk.

Reference:

Serratore, Angela. “The Rise, Fall, and Return of the American Porch.” Dwell, May 13, 2025, www.dwell.com/article/history-of-porches-american-home-design-57e23b83.