Napping on the Front Porch

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I have been a longtime practitioner of short naps for decades. I usually set my phone timer for 35 minutes. Longer naps can leave me groggy and unable to sleep at night. My favorite spot, weather permitting, is the wicker sofa outside on our front porch. The sofa belongs to my Beautiful Mystery Companion. It is old and battered, not unlike its napping occupant. I have spray-painted it three times, depending on its location. It is now white with blue cushions.

A couple of years ago, the frame that holds up the sofa bottom fell apart. I fired up the tractor, put the sofa in the bucket, took it down to the shop, rebuilt its frame, and returned it to the porch. That is how much I enjoy napping on that sofa, curled up under a quilt made out of old T-shirts — a gift from my BMC.

Our house here at Three Geese Farm is about 100 yards off a county road. Nobody can see me curled up on the sofa, become worried I am ill, and call 911. The road gets a fair amount of traffic, providing a steady hum of road noise to lull me to sleep. There is almost always a breeze wafting through the tree branches, whipping the American flag about, adding more background noise. Birds flit about the birdbath, singing soothing melodies from the trees.

My weekend pattern is to work around the farm, maybe write for a while, then repair to the front porch and its wooden rocking chair with a book. Inevitably, I get sleepy and deem it nap time, usually after 30 minutes of reading. I awake to a pleasant view of pasture and oak trees, a blue sky with wispy clouds.

One time, I awoke to find myself eyeball-to-eyeball with a giant mastiff, who was sniffing me curiously, apparently looking for signs of life. As Octavia Spencer said in The Help, that about gave me a Cadillac arrest. Turns out Max – his name was on his collar, as well as his owner’s phone number – was harmless but had developed a crush on Mollie the Maltese. His ardor was not reciprocated. Max kept returning. I kept calling his apologetic owner. Max finally went away permanently. I am not sure where. My naps resumed undisturbed.

In my previous life, I watched golf on television most Sunday afternoons, back when Tiger Woods was winning everything. Napping on the front porch reminds me of watching golf on television. I invariably ended up napping for a short while, lulled by the quiet nature of golf, the polite applause, and the sounds of birds chirping as everyone hushed while Tiger putted for birdie. I spent about a dozen years playing golf several times a week. That decreased to playing in scrambles a few times annually, then to giving up entirely. Golf takes up too much time. I sold my clubs last year. Now I rarely watch golf, choosing to read a book on the front porch.

When it is too hot to nap outside, or on the rare days that it is too cold even under a quilt, I prefer curling up on the couch. That means I will have company. Gatsby, our cavapoo therapy dog, hops up and positions himself behind my legs, with his head resting on my thigh. Mollie, the Maltese, then curls up next to my chest. Ozzie, the Terrorist Kitty, gets on the pillow just above my head.

This is why I prefer sleeping on the front porch. It is difficult to get comfortable napping on the indoor couch when surrounded by the critters, much as I love them. Gatsby usually decides that chopping on a hard dog toy would be a great way to pass the time. That is not conducive to me sleeping.

Research indicates that short naps are good at my age. They improve cognition, lighten one’s mood and can offset those nights when insomnia strikes, and it is me and Ozzie at the desk, him snoozing on the printer while I read, in a usually fruitless attempt to get sleepy again.

All the more reason for a nap on the porch.

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