On a recent podcast this question was asked of me: What would I suggest to a would-be farmer as a first project? I replied that a good fence, specifically a perimeter fence, would be an ideal first step. Because in the building of a fence much is accomplished, learned, and discovered.
The replaced fence on the left. The sheep are still on the winter paddock.
While it may be somewhat unfashionable—in these days when global elites forswear borders, loyalties, and cultural identities, and even West Point decides that asking cadets to take an oath to duty, honor, and country is potentially divisive and downright antiquated—to discuss and celebrate boundaries, truly, good fencing does make for good neighbors.
One December day back in 1999 we set a corner post three feet in the ground adjacent to our barn. From that original post would evolve the fencing system that spans our entire acreage. That very first line stretched 224 feet westward toward the road, bisecting the upper portion of what would become our lower pastures. From that post and the resulting western terminal post, other lines emerged, merged, and enclosed the boundaries of our irregularly shaped farm. All of that initial fencing took a few years to complete, and factoring in improvements and repairs it is a task that has continued to occupy our attentions each year since.
On that first line we used Red Brand field fence, a thirty-two-inch-tall roll of galvanized wire held together by interwoven four-by-four squares, then topped it with three strands of barbed wire for good measure. While the height was less than adequate, the fence has, even while sagging in places with age, held to its original mission of keeping cattle and sheep in their intended pastures—though, it should be noted, on occasion an errant bull, ram, or even ewe has leapt over for love to showcase the limits on man’s will over nature. (As one farmer cleverly put it, “Where there’s a willy there’s a way.”)
That early fence held, more or less, until last Sunday. That’s when a large yearling ewe who in a bid for greener grass got her head stuck in a stretched-out square. Upon finding herself in such a predicament, she followed the instinct of every prey animal and panicked. Predators though we are, we followed suit. In the ensuing farce—as we hollered at each other, at the ewe, at the gods—we managed in spite of her antics and our collective panic to cut away some of the fencing and release her back into the flock. We closed the gap with stockman’s wire much like a fisherman mends nets. It was only then that we noticed the bottom of the fence. It had with the passing of the years become buried and rusted in the ground and was now broken beyond fixing by the ewe’s efforts to free herself. In other words, it was time to replace this oldest stretch of wire.
Forgive what may sound like an immodest boast, but after twenty-five years of near-constant work, our toolkit of basic competencies is more than adequate for many if not all challenges. Ripping out and replacing fence is old hat. Over the next couple of days, we both, together and individually, working in spare moments during our farm day, removed fence staples and clips and separated the old wire from the fence line. On Tuesday evening while Cindy prepared dinner, I pulled the last of the fence free from the ground.
The following day, a Wednesday, with the help of the Kid (the current one is home-schooled and has a flexible schedule), we rolled up the old wire, unfurled a thirty-nine-inch-tall field fence, stretched it tight with a ratcheted come-along, and attached it to the T-posts and wooden posts (including the two we set twenty-five years ago).
Total time from removal of the old wire and installation of the new wire to cleanup was only four or five hours. Working together gave us a chance to reflect on when we had put in the original fence and other stories centered around the many projects we have tackled. The manual competencies we have gained from working with our hands brings a satisfaction to our lives, a tangible “we did this.” When I get the questions from wannabe farmers, it is these moments I struggle to convey, because the answer is personal. It gets to the character of a man’s internal life and identity, and only that individual can look into himself and answer the question: will the prospect of sweat and physical work bring contentment, even joy, or will it be viewed as menial drudgery best “farmed” out to others?
For both Cindy and myself, it is in the moment of completion that we know ourselves; that we know what we can accomplish with hands to a task, that by embracing our limits and boundaries we are given a sense of who we are. That is the something, that is the everything. That is our analog to the message that place does not matter.
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Reading this week: I knocked out the first three of the Bernie Rhodenbarr mysteries (L. Block) in as many days. It has been close to thirty years since I read this series with some pleasure. The intervening years have done nothing to dim my appreciation. Think of a funny wisecracking version of Sam Spade, except as a Raffles-like burglar by night and rare book dealer by day, and you will get the flavor of Bernie. I’ve also started The Pursuit of Happiness, how classical writers on virtue inspired the lives of the founders and defined America (J. Rosen). I’m only two chapters in to the work but already am mentally placing this volume in my best-of-2024 list.
