The Front Porch or the Back Deck

Why would someone choose a lawn chair in a garage over a beautiful back deck?

Last week, Sue and I were walking Rigby through our new neighborhood. It was one of those beautiful late spring evenings that make you forget, if only for a brief moment, our long and unrelenting Central New York winters.

As we turned the corner for the home stretch, we came across two of our neighbors. Like us, perhaps a few years older, they are retired empty nesters. With one of the most beautiful homes in the development, our new friends were inexplicably sitting in lawn chairs in front of their garage, sharing a bottle of wine.

Half led by Rigby's nose and the other half by my never-ending quest for conversation, we ventured up the driveway to chat.

Without hesitation, I asked, "Why are you out in the driveway and not on your amazing back deck that was just finished a few weeks ago?"

Their answer was as instant as it was illuminating.

"Because the garage faces the street and that's where the action is."

By action, they meant kids playing in the street, neighbors walking their dogs, and the simple conversations that happen when people cross paths.

And that's when it hit me.

You can have the most beautiful back deck in the world. Peaceful, comfortable, and private. The back deck is where you gather with family and close friends. When life is full and moving at a hundred miles an hour, a little solitude feels like a luxury.

But retirement, or perhaps the relentless march of time, changes the equation.

When the kids are grown, and living lives of their own, and your circles of connection begin to shrink, something else grows in importance.

The front porch, or that literal garage facing the street, is where life passes by and sometimes invites you to join the circle.

Maybe those lawn chairs in the driveway offer something a beautiful back deck cannot.

A sense of belonging.

Retirement doesn't just change how we spend our days. It changes the communities to which we belong. The spontaneous conversations, shared experiences, and daily interactions that work once provided don't automatically replace themselves.

Sure, the kids call and video chat as much as they can. But by design, we raised them to become independent and build lives of their own. The connection remains, but the frequency changes. We become a little less central to the rhythms of their daily lives.

So we begin searching for new places to connect.

For me, that has meant pickleball and a new circle of friends. Sometimes it means the view from the window next to my desk where I write each morning. Or more recently, my front stoop, where I sit and pretend to watch Rigby explore the front yard.

There's something comforting about watching the neighborhood come alive. Kids returning home from school. Families out walking after dinner. Dogs pulling their owners down the sidewalk in search of adventure.

It reminds me of a different season of life. Our own children in the front yard. Afternoons and evenings at the ball field. The constant motion and noise that once felt ordinary and now feels like a treasure from a distant past.

I get it now.

I have the deck for when my family comes to visit.

But I have the front porch to make sure that I still belong.

And maybe the next time I head out with Rigby for an evening stroll, I'll bring a couple of extra wine glasses.

Thanks for reading. If you enjoy these reflections, you'll find more stories, essays, and information about my book at The Sunny Side of 57.