Under the Porch Kingdom

Every kid has a kingdom, and mine was under the porch.

The house we lived in had these hollow concrete support pillars, square and mysterious, holding up the east-side porch like sentinels. They were the kind of structures that adults ignore but children see as portals.

I spent entire afternoons there with my Tonka trucks — the bright yellow dump truck, the rusting scoop loader — digging roads in the cool dirt and building entire cities in the shadows. Dori, my lab puppy, would dig along beside me, kicking up dirt in excited sprays.

The space under the porch smelled like earth and wood rot and damp leaves. It felt like a hidden world no one else knew how to find, a secret domain tucked into the corner of reality. I could hear the muffled sounds of adults, geese honking in the fenced yard, the wind sliding along the farmhouse siding.

Every trench I dug was a canyon.
Every mound of dirt was a mountain.
Every truckload was an expedition.

Sometimes I pushed toys into the hollow pillars, imagining them stored in some immense subterranean warehouse. They’re probably still in there — tiny plastic artifacts sealed inside the cement ribs of the porch, like offerings.

If childhood is defined by the size of your world, then mine was infinite — because a kid can build entire universes out of dirt and imagination.

And under the porch, I did.