We don’t have a front porch or a back porch. Nor do we have a gallery, as
porches were called, mostly in the South.

Nope, I don’t have a patio, as I did in Southwest Philadelphia, am
awning-covered affair with a green-and-white metal glider, a matching
chair and a chaise longue with red-plastic cushions. The chaise was so
sturdy we often used it as a spare bed.

We don’t have a connecting front porch, as I had at two different houses.
The one at my grandmother’s was actually enclosed with windows and blinds.
It was so private, it was once used as a bedroom. Quite chilly in cold
weather, I’m afraid. I first read “Dracula” curled up in a chair on that
porch, the lamplight never quite piercing the darkness of the fall night
as I went from recipes to Romania in a sweeping supernatural adventure.

I also have no deck.

Ah, but what I DO have, in all its funky fineness, is a breezeway. What is
a breezeway, ask the uninformed among you?

In my case, it’s a connection between the house and the garage. It has 10
windows — thus the BREEZE — and two doors. It was built with the house in
the late 1940s.

Right now I am sitting on the comfortable cushions of a wicker couch.

Where the house is located — uphill from the Mantua Creek — the wind blows
in unusual patterns. I’ve stood in the driveway when the wind whirls in
around me sounding like a gigantic locomotive! It is quite impressive.

Today, though, I came out here to appreciate the cool breeze that was
blowing through those 10 windows and two doors. It’s magnificent.

I just ate two helpings of strawberries and blueberries for breakfast as I
soaked up the cool breeze.

As the Perry Como used to sing, “I’m just goin’ along as I please,
breezin’ along with the breeze.”

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