Letter From the Editor : Spring 2002


The only place I could find in my bungalow for an office was the 7-by-11-foot, four-season front porch. I shoehorned my desk and file cabinet in, leaving just enough room for the door to swing open plus space for a coat rack and potted plant. With large windows on three walls, it has become a favorite place-a vantage from which I can work at the computer or talk on the phone while watching the neighborhood go by.

I was taken aback, then, by a friend's remark as I proudly showed him the cozy but functional room. "Aren't you afraid you'll get shot?"

I live in a safe neighborhood. The chances of being shot because I'm visible through a porch window are about the same as the chances of a Hollywood producer driving by, "discovering" me, and whisking me away to a life of fame, fortune and substance abuse. (Well, maybe the former is a tad more likely than the latter.) My friend's comment, though, did say a lot about how we've come to view city living and, in particular, the use of the ubiquitous bungalow porch as living space.

Part of the original bungalow philosophy was a deliberate blurring between indoors and out, a welcoming of nature into everyday life. This was a significant shift from the Victorian perception of nature as wild and uncontrollable, resulting in homes that were often fortress-like. Bungalows, especially those in warmer climates, made ample use of porches, verandas, terraces and gardens. Early Minnesotans quickly realized that the indoor/outdoor distinction here was a little more sharply drawn, especially during the time of year when it's not uncommon to have an 80-degree temperature differential. Still, most local bungalows feature a prominent front porch, or at least a room with plenty of windows up front from which to view the street.

All this changed after the bungalow fell from favor. The entryways of Cape Cod and Tudor style houses of the 'thirties and 'forties shrank noticeably, and post-war ranch styles have only a vestige of a porch. These design changes signaled shifts in American lifestyles. Instead of being oriented toward the neighborhood, houses, and the families who occupied them, turned inward. Patios spread out behind the house. Privacy fences sprang up. Garages were attached to the side of the house and automatic door openers enabled occupants to come and go in seclusion. Alleys, once the site of much casual interaction among neighbors, vanished. Even in bungalow neighborhoods today, many porches once filled with families are now used as storage space.

Not everywhere, though. During warmer months my retired neighbors virtually move onto their porch which is furnished with a sofa, daybed and television. More and more, one can see porches returning to their intended use. This is good, for porches actually help make neighborhoods safer.

I see many pleasant sights from my porch: joggers, dog walkers, parents with baby carriages and neighborhood kids playing (and yes, fighting). I see birds, rabbits and other animals. I've been motivated to drag my mower out after watching neighbors spruce up their own yards.

I've also seen some unpleasant sights from my porch. Once at dusk a car stopped out front and a teenaged couple emerged yelling-apparently a date gone bad. Once a group of young men gathered in the street, shouting each other down. And early one weekend morning, I saw a guy sauntering down the street, surreptitiously trying one car door after another.

In each case I rose from my desk, opened the door and stood. The simple presence of an observer had a noticeably calming effect on every situation, and a quick phone call meant the guy checking car doors wound up in the back of a police car.

I wonder-what would happen to our streets if, every time there was an ominous ripple in the peace outside, neighbors appeared in every doorway?

- Tim Counts, editor