Yesterday I was cutting up downed trees, backside of the farm. My old Stihl seemed out of breath and we needed a rest. So I settled among the deadwood, looked at the fence, hanging on the hill.
Actually, it was more memory than fence, more like nothing stretched on damned little. But the memory’s strong. My son built it in ‘95, always doing something that needed doing. He had taken a year off, left the Big Apple to help out while I was wrestling with the ‘Big C.’ I couldn’t do much, just watched as he drilled the holes, steadied the posts as he tamped them in and told him how I appreciated it. Looked good then, galvanized box wire on treated pine posts topped with a single strand of barbed wire. The yellow posts marching up the hill with a red clay footprints and the glitter of steel wire flashing through the trees, straight and taunt. It would hold a roaming herd.
Sure was an improvement on the five strand barbed wire I had built earlier, using posts and convenient trees in about equal number. That was in ’73 and it staggered through the woods for 22 years. Worked well on cows that weren’t going anywhere, less well on those that were, and meant nothing to the calves.
Now the old fence is hard to find, just rusty nibs from grown ‘round bark, the staples consumed by the tree. Even the new fence only makes the occasional appearance between windblown branches and fallen trees, a rusty web on faltering supports. And here I am still getting wood, funny how things work out.
Well, the saw has rested, but two deer are filing up and I wait to see them pop over. They don’t though, just walk right through. Deer have no respect. Of course, it is more memory than fence.
So I pull the cord, the Stihl roars blue smoke, the chain bites and chips fly. Winter’s here and it still feels good making firewood out of deadwood, even though we’re starting to sputter.
My son’s coming down for the weekend.
