Front Porch Sitt'n.

I have a neighbor; his name is Sam. Sam sits on his front porch everyday, almost the entire day. He smokes cigarettes and survey's the neighborhood and swats bugs and tells stories.

I listen in, with girly delight, to this toothless man talk about Marine days in France, multiple wives, his son Wes, marketing success, working with adolescent boys. I listen to stories about bar brawls and bleeding knuckles, about singing Lady Antebellum at karaoke, about cicada bugs shedding skin. I listen to 190s mill-town adventures, black-woman hair combings, and the trouble he caused as a teen. He shares bits of church years growing-up, and says things about the boys I should date.

I laugh a lot, let my legs dangle over the rail, and sip sweet tea. I look at him, shake my head, and love the hours that pass between us.

Sam is sixty-four, smart, and as crass as a man can get. He takes me in, like a little daughter with a lot of sass. He speaks about things I should do, or shouldn't do, and watches the clock over my place. He swears and scratches his brows at watching me trying to haul boxes in my door, or power wash the siding, or string ceiling fans. He stares at the people going in and out of my house, and lets me know what he thinks as he sizes them up.

Front porch sitt'n with Sam is always interesting, always good, always something to love, laugh, and ponder about. I am so thankful for this neighbor, for front porch sitt'n with Sam.