Opening the window

Should you always make sharp distinctions?

We’ve had many days of good weather this spring.  Our consultant who recently moved to a new apartment defines “good weather” as days when he can turn off both the heating and air conditioning and open the windows; we’ve had enough of them to keep him mostly happy.  (Our astronomer uses different criteria, unsurprisingly, revolving around clouds.)  He grew up in a part of the country enjoying a milder climate, and indeed air conditioners were all but unknown.  He remembers large porches, with chairs to sit on or benches to lie on and rolled-bamboo screens in case the Sun shone too directly in.  They were occupied not only on summer days, but frequently on summer nights, and well into the spring and fall. Windows were open a lot.

It struck him that the distinction between “inside” and “outside” was softer then, for most of the year.  The porch was outside, but kept off the rain and one could eat and sleep there.  With the big window open there was hardly any distinction between that and the adjoining living room.  And he thinks that, over the years, we’ve made the distinction sharper and harder to cross, something he regrets.

It could be just a matter of him living in a different part of the country now, together with a nostalgic imperfection of memory.  But we think not.  We’re seen a certain process happen too generally in too many different places to dismiss it.  It’s a slow and varied process, but we can outline the basic form.

Start with a new house in a postwar subdivision.  It has a front yard and back yard of comfortable size.  In the latter the family can set out portable chairs or maybe a picnic table for relaxing and informal meals.  Soon there’s an umbrella for sunny days.  But the ground can be uneven and inconvenient to put things on, so when they can afford it the family has a deck built.  They’re still outside, but the table doesn’t sink into the ground if there’s been a heavy rain.  After a couple of occasions of hurriedly rescuing the lunch from a sudden thunderstorm, they install a roll-off canvas cover, or maybe something more substantial.  In older subdivisions or more traditional parts of the country there are front porches, a bit more sociable.  All are at the stage of our consultant’s porch, and we might say that living in the house has extended a bit “outside.”

The next stage is the insidious one.  To keep away insects, the porch or deck is covered over in mosquito netting.  (We’re certain our consultant’s memory is very weak on mosquitos.)  It’s a logical and popular step; but it’s now harder to say you’re “outside” on the porch.  A barrier has been erected, however permeable it may be to weather.

Then, some winter as the family is growing, they survey the porch/deck (where some miscellaneous items have been stored) and observe that they could really use a bit more four-season space.  They glass it in, and maybe even heat it; it’s now a room inside the house.  It may even be difficult to open a window.