Oh tear my stillhouse down, let it go to rust
Don't leave no trace of the hiding place
Where I made that evil stuff
- Gillian Welch
Saturday, July 2, 2005
I miss the old sounds from growing up. The clink-clink, clink-clink of the old turn signal in our Ford Maverick. The heavy thkk-thkk-thkk of the old VHF television dial, and the quicker tk-tk-tk-tk-tk of the UHF dial. I miss the thwack-thwack-thwack of a ball peen hammer driving a cartoon cutout into the spaces of a concrete apartment wall.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m gonna finish the fence.”
August 2000
The fire station sedan is an old Chevy Caprice. I like to drive it on calls because the other drivers mistake me for a police cruiser. I like it because it has a V-8 and a fickle transmission. I like it because the turn signal goes clink-clink, clink-clink.
I’m responding to another call at Mary and Pete’s. They are a daily emergency now, both suffering from emphysema and diabetes and a 35-year old son with a meth addiction. Mary had her leg amputated last month and is now bed-ridden. She is confined to a couch in her living room, next to her husband, who for as long as I’ve known him has always been bed-ridden. He lies in a hospital bed. They each have their own oxygen tanks.
Their son, Michael, answers the door. He is a tiny man, with a wisp of a moustache. His only job is to turn the television channels for his mom. It doesn’t have a remote. It’s one of those old Zeniths with the UHF/VHF dials.
“Hi Pete, hi Mary,” I say as I enter with the jump kit. Pete doesn’t recognize me, and I don’t think he has ever acknowledged me during one of these calls. He’ll talk to my dad, but no one else. Mary, however, always wants to hold my hand. She always tells me how handsome I am, how kind and responsible. She usually follows this up by yelling at Michael for one reason or another. This time, she tells him to go outside and smoke.
“Probably a good idea with all this oxygen around, don’t you think?”
Saturday, July 2, 2005
I turn the corner, and I lose half of the fence posts. I pull over and back up to the mess. I turn on the hazard lights and look behind the seat for a flare.
“Damn.”
I used to have them all the time when I was volunteering. But I left the fire department last summer, too busy with other things.
A Honda swerves, and pulls over. A very pretty girl gets out and asks me if I need some help. It’s a busy intersection, so I tell her not to worry, but she starts picking up cedar slats anyway.
“What happened?”
“I guess I’m just trying to get attention.”
August 2000
I change the channel for Mary, relishing the feel of the clicks underneath my thumb. I change her nasal cannula, throwing the old one in the trash, next to the bookshelves. She has over 400 horse figurines along these shelves, all across the room.
“You sure do like horses, Mary.”
“I used to ride and ride when I was a girl. I love everything about them, the way they move, the way they smell, the way they sound.”
I look back at Mary’s stump of a leg, and she notices.
“I got bit by a horse once,” I say. “On the shoulder.”
“What were you doing to it?”
I laugh. “I had an apple. And I didn’t want to share.”
“You had it comin.”
Saturday, July 2, 2005
I never had someone to teach me things like working on cars or building fences. But it seems that every week I’m building something. When I built the first part of my fence in 2000, I invited my step-father over to help, a way of bonding, making up for lost time, I suppose. We always talk about projects. We were going to change the head gasket on my old Chevy. We were going to build a greenhouse one time. It always ends badly.
June 2000
“So we’re going to build each section one at a time, and then place them along the posts, so each one has the same dimensions.”
“But I don’t want the same dimensions. It doesn’t match the contour of the land. I’m going for rustic.”
“Well, that’s not a good way to do it. You need to build each section one at a time.”
“Nah, that’s too much trouble anyway. Besides, I want to work outside, not in the garage.”
“Let him build the fence the way he wants. It’s his house.”
“Where are you going? Are you leaving?”
Saturday, July 2, 2005
“The metaphor you’re looking for is building bridges.”
“What?”
“Building bridges means to re-establish relationships. Building fences means the opposite. You know, like the Robert Frost poem. It means to put a wall between the two of you.”
“Oh. Well, what about mending fences? Is that what I was trying to say?”
“Yeah, I think that’s same thing.”
“So I should tear down this son of a bitch in order to mend it?”
“Yeah. You’ve got to tear it down.”
“But cedar is expensive. Can’t we just wait for it to rot?”
August 2000
“Mary died,” she says.
“Wow, she didn’t even make it to the end of the month.”
“Just a week after Pete.”
“I guess Michael’s gonna start selling all their things now.”
“Did you ever see her horse collection?”
“Oh, god, yeah.”
“Really? I thought they were nice.”
“She always talked on and on about them.”
“She used to ride, I guess. When she was a girl.”
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