Mending Fences

It was a muggy day,

even though the Gulf breeze

moved among the palmettos

and the pines softly whispered.

Papa and I,

drenched in sweat,

were mending fences in the wooded area

bordering the western side of the pasture.

Riding along the fence line

we would stop to tighten the sagging barbed wire,

replace the broken wire, or

put in another post.

Papa rode a section of fence

each week to insure that

the cows didn't get out of the pasture.

He showed me what there was to mending:

using the post hole diggers,

handling and cutting barbed wire,

stretching the wire taut, and

hammering u-shaped nails

into the hard lightered posts.

It was a simple thing in a simple time,

but I enjoyed doing it, 

being with Papa in the backwoods,

mending fences.

The sweat line around the brow

of his gray Stetson,

indented and folded in a personal way,

revealed a character of a man

who knew all about

living off the land.

And I, with my hair bleached by the sun,

was an enthusiastic young boy

who knew nothing of life's demands.

As I grew older I would recall

the times of riding the fences with Papa

whenever I heard or saw those

riding another fence.

I chose to be a mender

rather than suffer loss.

It was a simple thing in a simple time,

but I enjoyed doing it, 

being with Papa in the backwoods,

mending fences.