Growing up on a farm in Greene County, Mississippi, during the 1950s, life was different in a way that’s hard to describe in today’s world of constant connectivity. We didn’t have phones, we didn’t have television, and the nearest neighbor was a mile away. Yet, somehow, the front porch became the heartbeat of our home—a place where the day’s work could be set aside, the heat of the Mississippi sun could be felt in the evening breeze, and life’s most meaningful conversations took place.

Our house sat along Union to Piavue Road, an unpaved path where the clop of horse hooves was as common as the rumble of a distant car. But that was part of its charm—everything was a little slower, a little quieter, and the front porch was our bridge to the outside world.

The porch was filled with rocking chairs and spots to sit, a simple setup, but it was where we spent so much of our time. After dinner, after a long day working in the fields, and often before bed, we gathered there. Conversations drifted between neighbors, family, and strangers alike. The absence of distractions created a kind of sacred space for sharing stories, exchanging ideas, and learning from one another.

My father, George—who everyone called Preacher—was both a farmer and a pastor, a man who wore many hats but never seemed to get too busy to sit and talk. People often stopped by—sometimes on foot, sometimes in a car—just to chat, to share news, or to seek counsel. The porch became a place of connection for people from all walks of life.

I remember one evening in particular, the porch heavy with the sounds of crickets and the hum of warm, still air. Uncle Jim, my dad’s older brother, had come over, and the conversation turned to the 1960 Presidential Election. That was a big topic in our part of the world—a Democrat running against the backdrop of the South’s long history with the party. But what made it especially interesting was the fact that John F. Kennedy was a Catholic, and that was a point of debate in our household, too. As Uncle Jim and Dad discussed the significance of electing a Catholic president in the South, I listened, trying to make sense of what this election meant for our country. The porch, as it so often did, became a space where politics, faith, and history converged, and where I was quietly schooled in the art of conversation and critical thinking.

The porch was also where my father, a man of deep conviction and wisdom, often engaged in discussions about theology. His two sisters, Aunt Bess and Aunt Verna, would visit, and the conversations would shift from politics to faith. Dad knew how to make others think, often using the Bible to draw parallels, share insight, and challenge the way people viewed the world. He had an easy way of connecting with people, of speaking in a way that wasn’t too preachy but still profoundly thoughtful. It wasn’t just about religion—it was about how to live well, how to be kind, how to make sense of a difficult world. These talks, often in the quiet of the evening, left a lasting impact on me. They taught me that conversation could be a means of growth, that sharing ideas could build understanding and strengthen relationships.

And then there was Joe Grantham, one of Dad’s dear friends. Joe would often come by the farm to visit, and his favorite topic of conversation was baseball. Dad had played semi-pro baseball for the Laurel Lumberjacks, and his love for the game never faded. He was a devoted St. Louis Cardinals fan, and those porch talks would often spiral into deep discussions about the players, the games, and the soul of the sport. For me, it was a window into my father’s passions, his youth, and his love of the things that made him feel alive.

Those were the days when the front porch was truly the center of our lives. It was a place of refuge, a gathering point for families and friends, a place to celebrate, to reflect, and to be real. I miss those moments, the way the porch was a stage for so much of our family life, a gathering point for both big and small conversations. It was a place to build relationships, to create memories, and to pass down wisdom from one generation to the next.

Today, many of us don’t spend much time sitting outside, listening to the sounds of crickets or chatting with family on the front porch. Life is faster now, and the need to be constantly connected through technology has made the simple, quiet moments seem almost obsolete. But I often think back to those times, and I realize how much of who I am was shaped by those conversations—the ones that unfolded on the front porch, under the vast sky of Mississippi.

As I think about those days, I can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for those slow evenings, those porch talks that taught me not just about politics, religion, or baseball—but about the importance of being present, of connecting with others, and of making time to truly listen. The front porch wasn’t just a place to sit; it was a place to learn, to grow, and to deepen the ties that bind us as families and as communities.

The lessons of the front porch are timeless. We don’t need phones, we don’t need a television, to make memories with the people we care about. Sometimes, all we need is a chair, a good conversation, and the willingness to be present. That’s something I’ll always carry with me, wherever I go.