When I was 12 years old, my father built a screened porch on the back of our house in the shade of a black walnut tree. It was a simple structure with a plain wooden floor, a picnic table and a few old wicker chairs. The family often gathered there on hot, summer evenings to feast on steak, chicken or hamburgers that Dad cooked to perfection in the outdoor barbecue pit. You could also find us there on Sunday mornings eating pancakes, bacon and eggs before church.

It was my job to set the table and carry out the toaster from the kitchen. I loved making the toast and buttering it right at the table, then eating it while it was still crisp and hot and smothered in homemade jam.

Although it was nice to be gathered together for a family meal, my favorite times on the porch were spent alone during the early morning hours, before my mother made the coffee and mixed the pitcher of Tang, and my dad drove off to work in his pickup.

The eldest of four children, I needed as much quiet as I could find, so I made the screened porch my own in the brief pocket of time when the remnants of night gave way to the pinky-silver glow of another new day.

Sitting in my summer nightie with my bare feet tucked under me, I listened to the birds and watched the dew dry on the grass. I wrote poetry in a black-and-white, speckled notebook as I daydreamed, waiting not only for that day to begin, but for the rest of my life, and all its wonderful possibilities, to unfold.

The screened porch was reincarnated many times after I left home. Over the years, my dad, who was a carpenter, improved, expanded and renovated it.

Finally, professional contractors created a spacious showplace that could be used year-round. The sunroom, with its expanse of windows, flickering gas stove and cushiony chairs became the heart of the house, not only in summer, but in winter, spring and fall.

For years and years, I’ve carried the ache of wanting a screened porch in my heart. Living in nearly 15 different homes in five states, as well as in another country, I never once had any type of “summer place.”

I fantasized about a space with windows thrown open to the ocean breezes – a room to decorate with wicker furniture where I could drink lemonade, play Parcheesi or read trashy novels; a place to rock on a creaky glider and listen to the birds.

This past spring, I made a big decision. I scraped together all my money and called a builder. I hired him because he reminded me of my dad. Today, for the first time in my adult life, I have a summer place. Not as large and plush as the final version of my parents’ sunroom, yet fancier than that screened porch from my childhood, my sun porch looks over the marsh with its resident eagle, deer, gray fox, blue herons and red-winged blackbirds.

I’ve been shopping for wicker chairs with fluffy cushions, a glider for afternoon naps, a stack of books for summer reading, a table for family meals – and a toaster I can leave right there.

I’m protected from bugs as I spend my evenings serenaded by peepers and crickets. I watch for fireflies and contemplate the glittering galaxy. I plan family cookouts that include little children who brim over with laughter as they run out into the yard to play in the sprinkler, slamming the screen door behind them.

Most of all, I cherish the early morning hours. I get out of bed and start the coffee before I unlock the door. Then I go to my summer place.

With my spiral notebook and pen in hand, I tiptoe across the wood floor in my bare feet to witness the sun rising in a pinky silver glow as the dew dries on the grass. I make toast, pour cream into my coffee, then settle in to witness yet another day – a day unfolding into countless possibilities.

Karen Schneider is a freelance writer living in West Bath. She may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].