The wind changed, the air grew heavy, and the sky above my neighbor’s house began to pulse with an unholy light. Gary responded by carrying out two chairs and offering me one. The sky was green-black. The trees had gone silent in the way trees do before they regret things. My instinct, refined by eight hundred years of sensible ancestors, said: walls. Now. Gary said: "You want lemonade? It's about to get good." About to get GOOD. The storm was not a threat to Gary. It was programming. "Should we not go inside?" I asked. "And miss this? Nah." So I sat. On a porch. Facing the enemy. The thunder rolled in from the west and Gary rated it. "That one was decent." Lightning split the sky into rivers and Gary said, "There you go," the way one encourages a shy performer. In my land, a storm is endured. Shutters closed, candles ready, family gathered in the innermost room. Here, the storm is a visiting theater troupe, the porch is front-row seating, and attendance is a point of pride. The rain hit the street like applause. The wind sent a trash can lid rolling down the block and Gary said, "That's Pete's," with no further commentary. "You are not afraid?" I asked. "Of what? It's just weather. If it gets real bad, we'll head in." Gets REAL bad. So there is a line. Gary knows where it is. Eight generations of porch-sitting have taught his blood the exact difference between a show and a siege. I do not have this knowledge. I have Gary. A storm does not ask for an audience. It draws one anyway, and does its finest work. I have purchased a porch chair. It sits beside Gary's. When the sky turns green now, I do not hide. I attend.