In the part of town Donella Sanders calls “Hollywood,” the homes are stately, the grounds ablaze with azaleas, and the porch furniture generally white wicker or black wrought iron.
In the part of town Sanders calls home–across the railroad tracks, behind the warehouses–the houses are far more modest, the yards less manicured, and the porch furniture more eclectic: tattered La-Z-Boys, rolling office chairs, spare car seats, full-sized sofas–pretty much whatever is left over after the inside has been furnished.
Some suggest this is a Southern tradition; others joke that, like the car on cement blocks, it’s a sure sign of the redneck presence. More likely, the use of indoor upholstered furniture on the porch is simply a function of poverty in the South–what happens when hard times and nice weather collide.
In Wilson, however, it’s also officially an eyesore, and a health hazard, and its days are numbered.
On July 1, under ordinances approved by the town council, Wilson will begin inspecting neighborhoods, ordering fines, removal of items that violate health and aesthetic standards, and, if need be, commandeering the offending furniture.
The ordinances, which address a range of “public nuisances,” have been called (more often by media and scholarly types than actual Wilsonians) everything from an assault on time-honored custom to a class war, the rich telling the poor how to live–or, rather, how not to.
Local officials scoff at that.
“I don’t think a sofa on the front porch is viewed by local people as a Southern tradition,” said planning director Jim Bradshaw. “And this is not one class telling the other class what to do, or one side of town telling the other side what to do. It’s just one town’s attempt to improve the quality of life for everyone.”
An editorial in the local newspaper, which supports the ordinances, agreed: “The South has many great traditions … but litter in yards, parking on lawns and indoor furniture being used outdoors are not the benchmarks of Southern culture.”
For residents who might be affected, the fear is not so much losing their heritage as losing their sofa; and many complain that if local government isn’t actually overstepping its authority, it at least should re-examine its priorities.
“They should be worried about feeding the poor people, not what they have on the porch,” Sanders, 40, said as she sat on a sofa on a friend’s porch on Atlantic Street.
“If you’ve got a decent sofa on your porch, it’s none of their business.” said the owner of the house, Eloise Reynolds. “Why should it be removed? I bought my house and I keep up my house, and I paid for it myself, and I should be able to keep anything I want on it.”
Reynolds–who, asked her age, said, “I’m not tellin”‘–spends hours each day on the Astroturfed porch of her well-kept home, sitting in a wooden porch chair. The sofa is used mostly by visitors–sometimes people, sometimes not.
Under the awning, Reynolds watches neighbors walk by, waving at some, ignoring others. She scrutinizes passing cars until they disappear, her head turning from side to side as if she were at a tennis match.
Retired from a job stuffing envelopes, she has lived in the house for 30 years, and has outfitted its porch with an industrial-sized ashtray, a three-piece porch set, and the white-yellow-and-olive-green floral-print couch. There also is a wooden swing, though nobody was sitting in it.
The couch, a gift from a friend, spent decades inside. A few years ago, when Reynolds bought a new one, she moved the old one outside. When its cushions were stolen, a friend brought her some orange replacements.
“This sofa was just as pretty as it could be,” she said.
Though its arms now are gray and dingy, and the cushions don’t match, it still serves its purpose.
“It’s been out here a good long time. The cats and dogs love to come up here and sleep on it, but they do dirty it up some.”
The ordinances were passed March 19 after a hearing at which only two residents spoke against them, arguing that they were government intrusion. They prohibit, among other things, the placing in open spaces (yards, carports and porches) of litter, unusable building materials and “any worn-out, deteriorated, or abandoned household or office furniture.”
Firewood stacked more than six feet high, and weeds or grass more than 10 inches tall are also violations of the ordinances, which are aimed at stemming neighborhood blight and conditions detrimental to property values, tourism, public safety, and “the comfort, happiness and emotional stability and general welfare of all citizens.”
Violations can lead to fines, orders of abatement, and, if not remedied in seven days, removal of the materials at the resident’s expense.
Block-by-block inspections will be conducted, according to Bradshaw, the planning director: “When we leave a block, it’s going to be a better place.”
Bob Turnage, sitting with his wife, Lillie, on a porch swing while visiting a friend on Hines Street–midway between the town’s richest and poorest sections–doesn’t think so.
“These people have been living that way for 100 years, you’re not going to change them overnight,” said Turnage, who owns a tour bus company. “They can’t afford porch furniture. They don’t have air conditioning, and half of them don’t even have a fan. So they sit outside.
“Leave them alone; they’re not bothering you. It’s just more government meddling.”
Annie Lamm, in a nearby metal rocking chair, disagreed: “I don’t want somebody to move next door and put a couch on the porch. It would lower property values.”
Upholstered furniture on the porch may not be a Southern tradition, but porch-sitting is, surviving even the advent of cable television and air conditioning, although it remains more common among those who have neither.
