The house was two stories with a basement. The basement was half above and half below ground – just sunk into the earth enough to provide cool relief during the hot and humid Midwestern summers. The white wooden siding encased the outside, creating the look of a typical high-pitched roof house common in Detroit in the 1930s – a cross between a farmhouse and a cottage. Five steps led to a porch that spanned the entire front of the house – a real porch that was wide enough for sitting and playing. It was a chilling six foot drop from porch to lawn. At least that is what it appeared to the seven year old brain.
The open white lattice work of the porch concealed the cinder heap where for thirty years cinders from the coal furnace had been dumped when the driveway could hold no more debris. The cinder pile was to prove an archaeological treasure when the porch was replaced many years later. Old bottles and tins made their appearance as the wheelbarrows of old cinders were removed.
Summers were spent jumping from first the lower steps to the lawn – crossing the eighteen inches of flower bed to land sprawling on the green grass. As courage increased, bolstered by only a few scrapes and bruises, we progressed to the higher steps until we were just a step below the level of the porch itself.
Looking around to make sure that none of the adults were looking, we would gingerly climb over the rail to the three inch ledge on the street side, balancing and gathering our courage to make the full six foot leap to the grass below. Two or three jumps were all we usually managed before the squeals of laugher and childish taunts reached the adults in the house.
My sister and I both descended those steps on the way to get married. From an adult viewpoint, they did not seem so high anymore. Those steps were just a short descent to a new life where houses seldom have façade-spanning porches to inspire the creativity of the children within us.
