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My mom used to say — borrowing from her mom — “If you can’t say something nice, best not to say anything at all.”
When I was younger, I thought that was just her way of telling us kids to hush at the dinner table.
Only later did I realize it was her quiet philosophy for living, passed down from a time when kindness wasn’t optional — it was expected.
Most of those lessons weren’t taught in classrooms or even in church. They were learned around my grandmother’s kitchen table and on her porch. Her table was pure 1950s Americana — chrome trim that caught the light, a formica top you could almost see your reflection in, and matching vinyl-and-chrome chairs that squeaked when you shifted your weight.
I can still hear the sound of those chairs sliding across the linoleum, the clink of coffee cups and the steady rhythm of women’s voices trading stories and wisdom between bites of pie.
That table, and that porch just beyond the screen door, were the true heart of her home.
You could learn more about life sitting there on a warm afternoon than from a year’s worth of sermons.
The porch wasn’t fancy — just a couple of metal chairs, a hanging fern and a view of the gravel road out front — but it was where conversation moved at the pace of the day. Someone might stop by with fresh eggs or a basket of tomatoes, and before long, they’d find themselves invited to sit for “just one cup.”
Grandma didn’t talk much about patience, but she lived it.
She didn’t speak about grace, but she offered it freely.
If someone said something unkind, she’d pause, take a sip of her coffee, and say gently, “Well, bless their heart, I’m sure they meant well.”
It wasn’t sarcasm — it was her way of disarming judgment without feeding it. Somehow, those simple words had a way of softening whatever edge was in the air.
Her “porch rules” were simple but profound:
1. Wave first. Even if you don’t know them. Especially if you don’t.
2. Listen more than you speak. Not every silence needs filling.
3. Share what you have. Coffee, pie, or time — it’s all the same kind of gift.
4. And the golden rule: If you can’t say something nice, best not to say anything at all.
I think about that rule a lot these days.
The world feels louder now — everyone talking at once, quick to react, slow to understand. We’ve traded conversation for commentary.
Maybe what we need isn’t another argument won, but another porch conversation — one where you can disagree and still pour each other another cup of coffee.
Grandma’s chrome table and porch taught me that good living isn’t complicated.
It’s about showing up, listening well and choosing kindness when you can.
And when you can’t — well, maybe it’s best to just sit a spell, sip your coffee, and let love have the last word.
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Richard Stride is the current CEO of Cascade Community Healthcare
