Fence: Phase One Point Six

Phase 1.6 of Sue’s Fence Building Quest is officially complete!

“Which phase is 1.6 again,” I hear you asking yourself, “Is that the phase where she complains all the time?”

Answer: No, complaining all the time is delightfully suffused throughout the entirety of the fence timeline. While it may be predominant in a particular phase, it will not be limited to a specific phase, no worries. There will be enough complaining to go around. A complaint in every post!

A quick recap of the stages then, for you who may have joined us late: 1.0 ELK; 1.1 Complain. 1.2 Look for local fence builder and fail. 1.3 Google “Fence/ELC/Elk/Seriously/I need a Fence” with zero results. 1.4 Turn down Gig Harbor company’s offer to build a fence all for the low, low cost of one of my kidneys. 1.5 Tree removal, which had many sub-phases, including branch clean up and buying a splitting maul. Finding a strong young man to wield it turned out to be easier than I thought. My kids and their friends showed up for Memorial weekend and I had beer and food. Easy, peasy, DONE.

Which brings us to 1.6: Clearing a path through a tangle of brushy-brush, slash and—apparently—a gigantic black hornet’s nest. A piece of heavy equipment was called for and I knew who to call. For purposes of this narrative, I’m going to refer to him as “A Nice Man” because I know it’ll get his goat. I’m sure he’d prefer to be referred to as “A Bad Hombre” or “Mr. Tough as Nails” but I’m going to stick with “A Nice Man.” 

          

Mr. Nice Man made short work of the brush, and slash, and pretended not to judge me for my White Trash Pile of hidden old lawn furniture I had stashed in the woods during the pre-wedding prep and promptly forgotten about. And he was not intimidated by no stinkin’ wasps. Or hornets, killer bees, whatever they were. “Were” is the operative word.

I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up—but perhaps, just perhaps, I’m ready for Phase Two.

Step Into My Parlor

I dreamed last night I built my fence...

In my dream, I had gone into my garage in stompy fit of rage and desperation—did I mention how very life-like the dream was? Anyway, I’m in my garage, after suffering an attack on my newly-planted tree, urgently looking for fence building materials—the elk are coming! The elk are coming! When what did I spy with my little eye but a jumbo-sized roll of duct tape. Viola! And Eureka! Gadzooks!

Dream fence building is a lot like home renovation “as seen on TV.” There are a few highlights of a bit of the construction, a couple of light-hearted blooper moments—ha-ha, look at Sue with the duct tape tangled in her hair—an uplifting soundtrack, possible some footage played at twice the normal speed for both time constraints and comedic effect. Before you know it, the fence is built, cue the long, sweeping shot of The Project.

The Project looked an awful lot like a giant spider had constructed a web around my property, nine feet high, sticky-side facing out, using duct tape. Even in my dream the visual was a sobering one. What god-fearing elk would dare stick his—more likely HER—face into a giant spiderweb? Zero elk.

Yet, even in my dream, the wicked perfidiousness of elk would not let me rest. I kind of blame my local telephone repair guy for frightening me with stories of elk laying down on the ground to squirm under his fence, wriggling and hoofing their way towards his pears for my dream devolving into a nightmare. And devolve it did.  After only a single dream-night, the elk returned in force to assault my fence. The first wave hung on the sticky tape like macabre decorations, but their shedding nullified the sticky defensive power of my fence. Then the next wave attacked.

Thankfully, it was at this point I woke up.

Chronic Weather Whiplash

You may remember that last year I was diagnosed last with a very serious condition---true, it was a self-diagnosis, but none the less valid. I’m pro self-diagnosis: the waiting room is less crowded, the magazines are better, and it’s less scary than googling stuff on WebMD. Self-diagnosis comes with fewer yucky pictures. So, in short, self-diagnosis is like regular diagnosis, only with less. And the co-pays are surprisingly affordable.

According to Wikipedia—or at least it was once I uploaded the definition—Weather Whiplash is what happens to you when the weather moves from one extreme to the other in a short period of time. The weather is careening from Cold and Damp, to Hot and Miserable, and back again, with very few stops at Mild and Lovely along the way. SPOILER ALERT: Mild and Lovely is my preferred weather destination. That’s where I like to summer. Please forward my mail.

As I said last year, there is no known cure for Weather Whiplash---although if y’all wanna start a Go Fund Me, YouTube Marathon Fund Raiser, I’m open to the idea—as Guest of Honor, of course. But short of that, the only thing we can do is treat the symptoms and wait for July 5th when summer begins...

Eh. That’s the rub. Mother Nature is not following the Rules of the Known Universe as Understood by Sue. The weather is allowed to be iffy right up to---and sometimes including—July 4th. But unless July 5th falls on a weekend, you can count on Full Blown Summer arriving on that week. Those are the Rules.

July 5th happens, rain goes away, Summer settles in, I drink iced tea on my deck whilst enjoying the blooms. That’s. How. It. Works. The rain stays away until some random day in August—often Jubilee weekend, but it can’t be helped—we might get a little sprinkle. Then right back to sun, sun, sun, all the time.

July 5th is now in the rearview mirror, but the windshield wipers are on up front. I’m drinking hot tea, inside, instead of iced tea, outside. I’m using commas recklessly and threatening to wear wool socks—WITH MY FLIP-FLOPS.

Things are dire indeed.

Hostages to Fortune

They say that when a child is born, so is a parent. I have watched my First Born and his Beloved undergoing this radical transformation. With six weeks to go until B day, Baby Sume has already reshaped the people that are becoming his parents. The car seat is ready. The crib is assembled. Conversations these days tend to revolve around child-rearing theories and the best brand of diapers.

Over the weekend, my gravid daughter-of-the-heart was showered with baby gifts: hand sewn blankets so fuzzy and inviting I immediately wanted a nap, impossibly tiny baby socks, all the latest baby gear and tools, books, and toys.

Served along with Great-Grandma Grethe’s multi-tiered, melt-in-your-mouth carrot cake was the opportunity for the party guests to offer their best time-tested parenting advice. So much to say and such a small piece of paper on which to offer it. Where do you even start?

“To have a child,” Elizabeth Stone wrote, “...is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.” I think every parent can relate to that feeling of tender vulnerability, the terrible joy exposed; pride and fear and celebration at war with one another as we watch them take their first steps.

We have given hostages to Fortune, and worry for their future—will the other kids at preschool be kind? Is college hazing still a thing? Should I worry more about the national debt and the imperviousness of plastic? What SPF is enough? 30? 50? 125? Is my car safe enough, is my house safe enough, is my neighborhood safe enough? What about the school district? Clearly, I need to move. My child needs a yard, and a best friend and a great art/science/sport/math program. And probably a dog. Pony? Goldfish?

Because we love our children, we would move heaven and earth for their happiness, walk on hot coals to ensure their safety---even drive a mini-van if that’s what was required of us. That’s our job. It is what parents do. It’s the universality of Love. We see it reflected in current events, we see it in our own families and I am awed at the transformative force. 

When a child is born, so are the parents.

AND the grandparents---anybody know where I can get a pony?