Confessions of a Fence Post: A Life Between Boundaries
Let me introduce myself. I’m a fence post. Not the glamorous kind you see in glossy catalogues, all cedar-stained and standing proud like a suburban sentry. No, I’m the weathered, slightly leaning, splintered veteran of the backyard frontier. I’ve been here since the Nixon administration, and frankly, I’ve seen things. Squirrels using me as a launch pad. Dogs mistaking me for a restroom. Teenagers carving initials into my torso like I’m some kind of rustic yearbook. I don’t mean to sound wooden, but I’ve got feelings too.
People think fence posts are just stuck-up sticks with commitment issues. Always standing still, never branching out. But let me tell you, it takes a lot of backbone to hold the line—literally. I’m the unsung hero of property disputes, the silent witness to passive-aggressive landscaping wars. I’ve heard whispered threats over hedge height and seen garden gnomes mysteriously relocated in the dead of night. You think diplomacy is hard? Try being the physical embodiment of “stay on your side.”
Sure, I’ve had my ups and downs. That time the neighbor tried to replace me with a vinyl post? Traumatic. I still wake up in cold sap thinking about it. And don’t get me started on termites. They’re like tiny anarchists with power tools. But I’ve endured. Through storms, snow, and the occasional rogue lawnmower, I’ve stood firm. I may be cracked, but I’m not broken. I’m basically the Clint Eastwood of landscaping.
Sometimes I wonder what life would be like beyond the fence. Could I have been a bookshelf? A canoe paddle? A rustic wedding centerpiece? But then I remember my purpose. I’m here to define, to protect, to support. I’m the line between yours and mine, the backbone of boundaries, the post with the most. And while I may not move, I’ve helped shape the world around me—one plank at a time.
So next time you pass a fence post, give it a nod. We may not say much, but we’re holding it together—literally and metaphorically. In a world that’s constantly shifting, sometimes it’s the quiet, grounded things that remind us where we stand. And if that’s not poetic, well… I guess I’m just barking up the wrong tree.
Nice post. —Barb Wire
ReplyDeleteAye, has all the qualities of a long squib this one. Hardly believe he writes them all himself, you think? I still think his wife & daughter ghostwrite a lot of them.
ReplyDelete