When I was a kid we flew across the country, rented a car, and drove from New York City to Fairlawn, New Jersey. Nip and Erva’s home was stone and brown, nestled among tall trees and lush, humidity-loving plants. Every house was linked with walking paths that led to pools and parks and endless hours of Grandma and Grandpa fun. By East Coast standards, their home wasn’t fancy, but it was extraordinary for a young granddaughter used to LA’s single-story ranch houses. 

They had a basement. They had an attic. But most importantly, they had a screened porch. 

After dinner, when the dishes were washed and dried, it was time to scoop ice cream into deep ceramic bowls. Nip was an ice cream fanatic and had a serving every night. My brother and I walked past the kitchen table holding cold in our hands. We bypassed the fancy dining room table, too. The living room was comfortable and inviting with a big sofa and TV, but we kept walking until we reached the screened porch. It pulled us toward night and that’s where we always had dessert. 

This is when my love affair with screened porches began. It’s a room I haven’t visited for over fifty years, but its echo is loud in my brain. I remember this room whenever I hear a screen door slam. I remember this room whenever I ease myself into our wicker patio furniture.  

Forest green cushions and woodsy brown walls surrounded us. Soft light spilled in from the living room and it felt like a protected version of outside. It was always humid and moist with the lingering scent of rain from the afternoon’s thundershowers. Cicada symphonies were an overture, letting us know the show was about to start. We looked through the screens. Waiting. 

Fireflies!						Fireflies!
			Fireflies!
					Fireflies!

Oh, the wonder of fireflies. Announcing night is here. Summer night is here!

“Grandma. Grandpa. I see one. There’s one! There’s another one.”  

We forgot our ice cream and burst through the screen door with glass jars in our hands. Earlier in the day, we punched holes in the metal lids with a screwdriver so our captured prizes wouldn’t die. Nighttime was all about filling jars with fireflies so we could fall asleep with nature’s twinkly lights on our bedroom dresser. 

In the morning when we woke up, the jars were always gone, our firefly friends released as soon as our eyes closed, but that never took long. At Grandma and Grandpa’s house, dark night wasn’t scary and we dreamed well. It’s where we captured magic in our hands and carried it through the night. 

This writing invitation was inspired by Tom Robbin’s book, Skinny Legs and All. I never finished the book, but the preface caught my eye because of the following lines about a room with deep memories:

This is the room…

This is the room where…

What room is this? A clue…

This is the room…

The early drafts of my piece included most of Robbin’s lines, but after lots of revisions I dropped them. What I love about borrowing lines from writers for early drafts is that they help me get started more easily.

Try it yourself.

Think of a room that holds a lot of stories. Borrow some of Tom Robbin’s lines and get writing. Pick up a pencil and tell only the story you can tell. Even if you begin with another writer’s words, your one and only voice will emerge.