The sounds of an ambulance or fire engine in the distance growing ever louder break the relative quiet of the evening. The wailing scream with its slurring pitch is replaced by a whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop, then back to the scream. The sound, though muffled, invades the house. Outside on the back porch the sound volume is annoyingly higher. Soon the sirens fade in the distance and only the din of normal traffic is heard.

On a summer evening when the heat of the day has waned it is pleasant to sit on the back porch and listen to the sounds that abound. Ignore the din of the traffic, now declining. As the light of day begins to dim we hear cicadas drone their evensong. They make a rasping jarring sound. My grandparents called them jar flies. We hear one in this tree and before it stops for a short rest, another over there takes on the song. Even while the cicadas perform, a mocking bird chimes in with his never-ending repertoire. Does he consider himself the chief singer among birds? Another bird speaks his piece and moves on.

A dog next door barks. Another, then another answers him, until all the neighborhood dogs have their say. They tire of their barking, but the mocking bird and the cicadas continue. From a few blocks away bells chime out the hour. They must be church bells, for a short time ago they were playing hymns. Squirrels are still playing in the trees, chirping at each other. They sound a little like birds with sore throats.

As darkness approaches the cicadas begin to quiet down. The crickets and their ilk are tuning up for their nightly serenade. A little toad hops toward the cover of a flowerbed. A few minutes pass and a soft peep comes from his spot among the flowers. A peep comes from another place and then another. They are on all sides of the yard.

Now that darkness is upon us, some katydids begin to accuse Katy of something, while others deny it. They continue the argument far into the night, apparently with no decision.

We hear the lonesome whistle of a train going through town, whistling for each street crossing. Catherine likes this sound when she is in bed. It lulls her to sleep she says.

It is a rare night. An unexpected sound comes from a nearby tree. It is a wavering call, descending in pitch: the call of a screech owl. I am reminded of an owl that was tricked one night. A group of night hikers stopped in a clearing where scrub bushes dotted the area. The leader turned on a tape recording of the call of a screech owl. He repeated the call several times at short intervals. A few minutes later, an owl settled into a nearby bush, looking for an intruder. He had come to protect his territory. Flashlights blazing, the whole group stepped forward to get a good look at the little bird. As soon as the owl regained his sight he took off, no doubt miffed at being tricked.

Jay, the resident dog, lies in the yard, evidently oblivious to the sounds of the night. Should it rain he will come into the shelter of the porch. Otherwise he will be will content with his nap into the night.

When I was a child, every house I saw had a front porch. Most were equipped with a swing and sported a rocking chair or two. In warm weather people sat out on many of them, watching their neighbors walk by, or maybe waving to a passing car.

Sometimes on a country road I noticed a porch with a machine of some kind, such as a washing machine, sitting with or without people, or maybe with a hound dog. A house on a hillside would likely reveal the porch as a shelter for a piece of machinery.

Houses were spaced closer together in town. People living side by side could easily converse from their front porches. Kids played on the sidewalk and the front yards. There was scarcely a time in good weather when all the porches were vacant. Someone was usually there to keep an eye on the children at play. Strangers were easy to spot. Rarely was there any serious mischief undetected.

It seems to me that a front porch is a good thing. It provides good shelter when entering the house from the street. It gives the paperboy a wide target. It is a great place to get fresh air and to get away from TV and other indoor distractions.

Few houses built since World War II have front porches. People who want to get outside go to the back porch, if they have one, or the patio, or just leave home altogether. A person could live in a no-porch neighborhood for a year without ever seeing many of his neighbors. We don’t have much of a front porch, but I feel very thankful for a back porch, especially on a summer night.