I needed a fence builder. He turned out to be a rock star.
The story of my new fence begins 15,000 years ago.
Its builder, Grant, was recommended by a friend. Grant pulled out the existing fence and a rotten trellis. He tore out shrubs, yarded in lumber, and dug postholes.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onEven boulders erode, eventually. But integrity endures.
And the whole time, he was a fountain of cheer. He hummed, he whistled. He is well past retirement age and has the constitution of a good-natured bison. A new fence emerged.
The gate whispered open and shut like a butterfly testing its wings. But months later, it became petulant. Ultimately, it wouldn’t close.
I called Grant.
Of course he’d be right over! The heavy gate was pulling its post off plumb. He sturdied it, and we were good – for a few months.
I called Grant.
“It’s all these rocks,” he said. “It makes the post unstable.” We live on a gigantic gravel bar of cobble scoured off a petite volcano to the east and deposited here during the ice age floods.
Grant strategized. He put in a post perpendicular to the fence to fortify it. It will probably work.
But if not, “how many times will you let me call you about this?” I queried.
“I’m good for life,” Grant said, with a smile. And I believe him.
The story of my new fence begins 15,000 years ago.
The fence builder, Grant, is not that old, but he’s up there for a working carpenter. A friend recommended him. “He’s retired,” she said, “but he doesn’t like to be bored.” So I called him. Would he be interested in building me a fence?
Well, gosh, he would, ordinarily. But he was slowing down. And he had a surgery coming up in a month and really shouldn’t be doing anything strenuous. He was sorry.
Why We Wrote This
A story focused onEven boulders erode, eventually. But integrity endures.
A half-hour later he called me back.
“I just wanted you to know, when you’re looking for a fence guy, make sure they use three-quarter-inch boards and not the half-inch boards. And be sure they don’t use a nail gun. You want hand-hammered galvanized nails, or you’ll get rot and staining. And make sure they ...”
He went on for about 20 minutes. As he wound down, he realized he simply couldn’t bear the thought of my getting a poor-quality fence – it wouldn’t be right. He wouldn’t hear of it. Could I wait until he had his surgery and then he’d make me a nice fence?
I could. He showed up soon after. The surgery had been canceled due to the pandemic. Over the course of the next few weeks I began to suspect the procedure may have had more to do with the surgeon’s boat payment than any infirmity on Grant’s part. He pulled out the existing fence and a rotten trellis and hauled them away. He busted up a thick old concrete pad and hauled it away. He tore out shrubs and hauled them away. He yarded in lumber. He dug postholes.
And the whole time, he was a fountain of cheer. He hummed, he whistled. The man is well past retirement age and has the constitution of a good-natured bison. A splendid new fence with three-quarter-inch boards began to emerge, nail by hand-hammered nail.
The gate, he swore, would never go out of square. It was a massive thing with two sides sandwiching a diagonal brace and might have tipped a scale with a rhino in the other pan. And once he’d hoisted it into place and installed the hardware, it whispered open and shut like a butterfly testing its wings in the sunshine.
It didn’t look cheap, and it wasn’t. But a few months later, the mighty gate showed signs of petulance. It was reluctant to latch. Ultimately, it wouldn’t close at all.
I called Grant.
Of course he’d be right over! He’d see me right. And he did. The gate was so heavy, it tended to pull the post on the hinge side off plumb. He sturdied it up. And we were good – for a few more months.
I called Grant. He was living at the coast now but he’d get around to it as soon as he could. Maybe put in a diagonal brace for the fence section nearest the gate.
I wasn’t in any hurry. The gate isn’t to keep people out. It goes straight into the neighbor’s yard. She always has the best parsley. Also a rosemary bush.
“This is the first gate that’s ever given me a problem,” Grant said. “It’s all these rocks. I’ve never pulled out so many rocks digging a posthole in my life. It makes the post unstable.”
Oh, I knew all about those rocks. All the gardeners on our little rise complain about them. It’s because we’re living on a gigantic gravel bar of cobble scoured off a petite volcano to the east and deposited here during the great ice age floods, when glacial Lake Missoula repeatedly emptied out across Idaho and Washington and past our future house and into the ocean.
Grant strategized. He put in a second post perpendicular to the fence to fortify it. It will probably work.
But if not, “how many times are you going to let me call you about this?” I queried. “I’m good for life,” he said, with a smile for the ages, and I believe him.
We’ve got a relationship now. It’s all part of the majesty of time. The mighty floods destined to bedevil a carpenter came 15,000 years ago. This good man doesn’t have that kind of time, but he’s a man of his word, immune to discouragement, and just a little stouter than a fence post.
This might be the final fix. But just in case, I’ve got a drawer in the guest room all cleaned out for him. The rest of my life is not a geologically significant stretch of time, but it’s plenty long enough to enjoy a good fence. And a new friendship.
