Climbing Fences

We have a wooden fence on our back property line which is ancient. Over the past nine years, I have often lamented that this fence needs replacement. Since we moved on to the property we call home, this fence has been in an ongoing state of decay. It wobbles when leaned upon. It shakes when climbed. From afar it is an eyesore to most people. Sometimes I have been embarrassed.

This fence is so old that lichens grow from the wood and the shedding paint peels, entropy doing what it must. There is not much left of the white shine that used to cover the wood, but of that I am glad. In the past year, I have come to appreciate the more subtle attributes of this woebegone friend. There is a character and life there, which before I did not notice until I looked more closely.

Between the cracks and crevices where the paint no longer protects the wood, little universes exist. Microcosms, mini-universes unseen to our naked eye. Decomposition, insect havens, fungi. Paint flakes form a mosaic accented by sulfur-colored apothecia. As one kingdom of white picket fences crumbles another arises from the neglect and decay.

Rotting wood disintegrates where nail holes weaken cellulose. Boards tip from their once rightful position to hang and stretch down, down, down, slowly sinking as age and gravity pulls them to the earth.

This fence has character and personality. It is transparent and yet complex. It shows it's age with a story. If you climb this fence you could get hurt. It's a precarious adventure with a certain amount of risk. Who climbs these old fences? Not many people.

Another fence with another story lies in the distance. It is a fence of different color. A different make. A different purpose. This fence does not support living things, it contains them. It holds them from flight. It keeps them safe from themselves.

This metal fence, made of steel pipe, will last far longer than the wooden one. But it must be constructed of sturdier material to corral the animals who reside inside.

A lone mare isolated from her herd paces the fence line wondering when she will be returned to her friends.


With winter rains, the horses are locked in their stalls and paddocks and each have a turn in the round pen to frolic within the circle of metal bars. Freedom within a cage . . . But there's room to run and room to buck and that is something. There's just enough room to let off steam.

But it's still lonely in there.

Then a boy shows up. He's determined to cross the line. Meet the prisoner. Join the gang. This fence is stout and strong with no visible wobbles. He can climb it!

And the mare says, "Who are you?"

The boy says, "HEY! That tickles!" But he keeps climbing.

Then there is the stand off.

The Boy observes the Horse observing him.

Finally, a friendly gesture over a fence could mean the world to this someone.

I am glad this boy climbed the fence and that the fence could hold him. What fence should we each climb this season and can it stand being climbed?