Ever since I was a little girl I can remember my mother dreaming of having a white house with a big, bright red front door. I remember how she'd obsess over this specific detail - she'd cut out photos from gardening magazines and arrange the pieces into a scrapbook kept above the microwave full of inspiration for her future home. That door is the first thing I think of when I think of my parents' home in Kansas - with it's wide french windows and, usually, a dog staring at me from the other side of the glass. That porch is the keeper of my fondest memories. First kisses on the porch swing, learning to play the guitar on the front steps, writing poetry and watching the sun come up over the bright yellow soy field to the east. I loved that porch, and I think it loved me, too.
Charleston has some of the friendliest porches that I've ever met. There are 200 years of secrets that these porches keep - the coats of paint that have chipped and been replaced, the hands of every child that pushed their way inside, the embrace of every lover carried over their thresholds. I love to think about all of the families who have called these places home.