On Saturday nights, the family gathered at mom and dads for supper. Most of the time, some neighbors down the road would drop by. Mrs. Carrethers would always bring a pie.
After supper, they would all gather on the front porch. This was a time before air conditioning units. The closest thing they had to that was a deep cellar. The house was open-air in the summertime.
The supper had been filling, and dessert hadn’t been cut into slices yet. They’d meander out to the front porch.
They would spread out — from the porch to a way out in the yard. The seating was limited as far as actual chairs were concerned. Some sat on the edge of the porch, feet dangling. Some sat on the steps. Others stretched out in the yard, leaning back, using their arms as supports. Kids were running around and making up games.
There was chatter and laughs amongst the close-knit family and friends. Mr. Carrethers had brought his fiddle, and he and dad started playing a lively tune called Arkansas Traveler.
Somebody would get the Mountain Dulcimer, and a budding percussionist would get the washboard. One of the boys had made a washtub bass, and one of the girls was adept at playing the spoons. Others just clapped or tapped their feet.
They’d switch from tune to tune, sometimes not playing any particular song, which is how they created some new ones. At some point, the music got to somebody’s feet, and they’d stand up and take a turn flatfootin’ on the porch.
Neighbors could hear the high lonesome sound of the fiddle across the ridge and might catch a note or two of the dulcimer.
It was often coupled with the faint sound of a long blast from a steam engine passing in the night on some faraway track, along with the sound of crickets and the distant serenade of a timber wolf.
Now we have streaming services, smartphones, and don’t know the neighbors.
to the days of yore,
– Caleb
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