Okay.

They weren’t for me.

I just thought it would be fun to get the song “Peaches,” by the Presidents of the United States of America stuck in your head. This song was hugely popular back when I was what — in sixth grade? Seventh? — and I’m pretty sure it hasn’t left my head since.

I’m reminded of it, of course, whenever I see peaches. Or whenever someone talks about peaches. Or beaches. Or leeches or breeches or Sneetches. And then it stays with me for hours — sometimes days — and I find myself singing it in the shower. Humming it while I wash the dishes. Fold the laundry. Peruse the produce at the grocery store.

Yep.

I hum in public.

I’m that girl.

But it can’t be helped. The song is sticky. Like peaches.

Aaaand here we go again.

The only way to distract myself is by playing “Lump,” my favorite song by the POTUSA.

And while the video is decidedly less exciting, with the band jammin’ in a boggy marsh as opposed to fighting ninjas in a peach tree grove, I’m pretty sure “Lump” has a deeper message.

I just haven’t figured out what it is, yet.

But I’m not here to talk about lumps. Or peaches. I’m here to talk about porches — the millions of porches to be found in Charleston, South Carolina that were not, in fact, for me.

Which is a huge bummer, because I really — really — like porches.

That is, at least, when they’re covered and it’s not too hot and there’s a respectable amount of air circulation and an excess of citronella candles and a very limited number of spiderwebs and, if we’re talkin’ dream porch here, a cushioned swing chair or a hammock.

A really great porch at our bed ‘n breakfast in Asheville, NC last fall.

My favorite part about walking through some of the ritzier neighborhoods in Charleston a few weeks back (and a really fantastic — and free — form of entertainment) was looking at all of the porches. Stacked porches, iron porches, porches with doors, and rooftop decks.

There’s no doubt about it — Charleston is a hot city, especially in the summer, and back in the days before air-conditioning, when most of these homes were built, occupants needed a way to cool down. Porches span the fronts and sides of homes, and I imagine that people in old timey times would open the doors and windows wide to allow cross breezes off the water.

It was interesting that while many of the mansions on the south end of Charleston’s peninsula were draped in porches like debutantes’ pearls, main level front porches were a rarity. The entrances were beautiful, grande, and often covered, but many of the porches were accessible only from indoors. I suppose that was to keep crazy tourists like me from popping a squat on a rocker and demanding a glass of sweet tea.

Of course, most of those porches were empty as we walked by. Apparently profuse sweating is so last century, but I don’t know. I feel like if I had one of these porches, I’d retrofit some fans (if that’s even allowed in these historic homes) to fight the heat and the bugs, pour myself a cocktail, and read out there for hours.

Of course, I don’t actually use my own porch, so maybe I’m full of crap.

How about you? Are you a porch person?