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Sunday, June 19, 2011

Fence Line




The fence, straight and taut, divided the two farms.


On one side, Christmas trees, planted in precisely aligned and measured rows. Nobles, Grands, Nordmans, Douglas Firs and Scots Pine, each sheared to perfect symmetry, patiently awaited the fall harvest.

On the other side, an eclectic collection of pigs, calves, geese, goats and a two psychologically unbalanced cows.

The blackberry vines which once owned the land, struggled valiantly to weave their way over anything not moving.

For nearly two decades, perhaps a couple times a week, their paths would cross. They’d end up discussing life, death, war and the news, over the fence. Sometimes for a couple of minutes, other times for a couple of hours.

They made great plans, discussed heady subjects, and plotted ways to procure to more M80s for their tennis ball/mortar project. Properly aimed, and accounting for angle and deflection (one had been a Marine Corps tank commander in Korea) the tennis ball would arc a path hundreds of yards when the quarter stick of dynamite blasted the fuzzy yellow ball out of the 2 ½ inch pipe. They often agreed that the target sometimes should be adjusted to compensate for where the ball landed.

Some of the fence line discussions revolved around helicopters. One of them had flown as a rescue specialist, during several Vietnam combat tours. There were rules, and although the conversations would tug gently at the threads of truth, the conversation would stop just short of the killing.

The fence line conversations became a staple of farm life—a comfortable mixture of trees, values and destiny. More often than not, they would seek out the other, just to spend a few minutes remembering, planning and sharing.

The conversations would often turn to issues of spirituality, and the delicate balance of personal belief.

They agreed that the journey, and the lessons it afforded, were the essence of life—the critical attributes of decency. There was no right. There was no wrong, just the understanding that we all eventually find ourselves precisely where we are intended to be. What we do with that opportunity is what defines us, more than bank accounts, possessions or the ever diminishing echoes of success.

Years ago, they agreed that the price of decency was paid by the willingness to serve others.

This evening, cold wind blows the spring rain off the oak leaves. I stop along the fence line, shut the tractor down, and sit there, remembering, and remembering and remembering.

Nothing lasts forever—it simply isn't meant to. Nothing lasts forever…nothing, unless it dwells safely in the heart.

One day the fence line will be gone, and berry vines will reclaim their domain. What will remain untouched by the passage of time, are the memories and the cherished friendship the fence line witnessed.

The fence, straight and taut, divided the two farms, but never the two friends.

Thanks, Tom

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