Mama always said that neighbors were God’s way of teaching us patience, and Lord help me, I’ve been a student of that particular lesson lately. Seems Mrs. Patterson and her husband Earl woke up one morning, looked out their window, and decided their property line needed fortifying like Fort Knox. Next thing I knew, a crew was out there hammering and hollering before breakfast.
Now, I’m all for a little privacy—heaven knows I’ve got my share of loud family barbecues and Bobby Ray’s garage band practice keeping the peace shaky as it is. But there’s just something about a big, looming fence that changes the whole rhythm of a neighborhood.
When I was growing up, the only boundary markers we needed were Mama’s rose bushes and Granny Mae’s row of towering sunflowers. Neighbors didn’t need fences back then because everybody knew where one yard ended and the next one began—usually where somebody’s magnolia tree leaned over to share a bit of shade. Miss Lillian used to say that a neighborhood without fences was just one big front porch where everybody sat together.
A Tale of Two Fences
Now, don’t get me wrong, I understand the appeal. Mrs. Patterson says she wants to keep deer from nibbling on her hydrangeas and give Earl a little peace from my dog barking at the squirrels. Fair points, I suppose. But fences don’t just keep critters out; they wall people in.
Aunt Marlene swears that the day folks started putting up fences in her neighborhood was the day they stopped talking to each other. One minute you’re swapping squash recipes over the clothesline, and the next, you’re peeking through the slats to see if your neighbor’s gardenias are blooming before yours.
I reckon the thing about fences is that they send a message, intentional or not. They say, “This is mine, and that’s yours.” And while that may work fine for the city, it feels out of place in a town where everybody still waves at each other at the Piggly Wiggly.
Finding the Silver Lining
But you know what? Mama always said you can choose to be bitter, or you can choose to bloom where you’re planted. So I’ve decided to make the best of it. I planted a row of bright marigolds right along that fence line—figured if I’m gonna look at a wall, it might as well have some cheerful company.
And maybe, just maybe, it’ll inspire Mrs. Patterson to come out with her garden gloves and share a little conversation over the top of that fence. After all, fences can keep folks apart, but they can also be a place to lean and catch up on the news.
That’s the thing about Southern living—it’s not about the fences; it’s about finding ways to stay connected despite them. And who knows, maybe Earl and I will end up sharing more than a property line. Maybe we’ll swap tomato tips next season. Stranger things have happened.
