My dad grew up in a little town in the foothills of the gold country, and must have been a darling young man. Let me explain.

He took me one day to visit some dear family friends, then an elderly couple. I was immediately enamoured of the gigantic tree in the front yard, perhaps a giant oak or buckeye. Hanging from it was a tire swing.

It was perfection.

Then my eye was caught by the wraparound porch, with its white picket border. I ran past the swing and up onto the porch, twirling in joy.

“Your daddy built this porch for us,” Mrs Collins said. Whoever would have guessed? It was at that moment that my dad became heroic in my eyes. His generosity in having done that sprang into my imagination like a fresh water spring bursting out of the ground.

And after that, I have had a major love affair with the wrap around porch. And I loved your story of your porch.