Vic Johnson’s house, the porch
Grandpa Johnson was sitting at the kitchen table having his morning coffee. I watched him as he put cream in the cup and then poured it into the saucer and with a lump sugar between his teeth, sip the coffee. If there was a korppu (Finnish biscotti) that would be included.
After coffee he would putter around a bit and then make his way out to the side porch into the morning sun. He would sit on the glider and watch the street. It was more of a road than a street. It was dirt and had hardly any traffic. Neighbors would already have come and gone, but every once in a while a car would drive-by, slow, and toot, to the man on the porch. He would nod.
Daydreaming can be active or passive. His were both, a nod to a neighbor was active. But he would return to his mid range stare. He had lived his life and was now reviewing more than planning. But plans there were, his family was there. They came with children of all ages, armed with their own plans, running around, making there activity very audible. Audible enough to keep him out on the porch a little longer some days. All days were to be cherished, some more than others, by the man who sat on the porch.