曾几何时，我坐在我家门廊的秋千上看时光飞舞，女儿们也在这里无比惬意地吹着泡泡。如今，我们已搬离了那里，但有关这门廊的一切，依然萦绕在我们的梦中。
Friendsfromoutoftownwerevisitingwhenthedeepsummer[1] stormhit. Thelightningwasfierceandconstant, thethunderwas, well, thunderous. Ourfriendsarelongtimedeepsuburbanites[2], andIalwaysfeltthatwhentheycametovisitusinour 90-year-oldhomeitwaslikeatriptoaforeigncountry. Justadayearlier, their 14-year-oldsonhadaskedmewhat “thatbuilding” wasattheendofourdriveway[3]. Itwasanhonestquestion, he’dneverseena “building” likethatbefore, butIstillhadtolaugh. “It’sadetachedgarage[4],” Iexplained.
Oncethestormstarted, myfamilydidwhatwealwaysdid: Wewentouttothefrontporchtositontheswing[5] andwatchtheweatherrollthrough. Quickly, theneighborsonbothsidesalsocametotheirfrontporches. Wechitchattedwiththeneighborsonbothsides; theneighborsontheeastyelledacrossourfrontporchtotheneighborsonthewest.[6]
Atsomepoint, oneofourkidspickedupabottleofsoapbubbles. Theyknewfromyearsofexperiencethatbubbleshaveasupernaturalabilitytostayintactandtravelamazinglyfarinadownpour.[7] TheneighborkidswantedtoblowbubblessoItossed[8] abottletotheirdadacrossthedrivewayandtheyallblewbubbles, too.