The dark and sordid history of the fence

So, I’m settling in to the new homestead: Baked some zucchini bread and took it over to the neighbors.

It’s now confirmed: My fence is unpopular on all three fronts. Each of the neighbors, when I bring up the fence, folds their arms and says “it’s your fence, Chris.” One neighbor thinks it’s on her property (nope! Survey, done by the city! Right here next to the Deed!), back neighbor gives me crap when he sees me because it’s not straight in any dimension (sorry, gotta fix the plumbing first!), and the third one wonders why the previous owner needed to paint a perfectly good cedar fence.

But it gets better. I can understand the side where the neighbor hasn’t kept up her property for as long as anybody I’ve spoken with can recall. No paint, no mowing, no basic repairs, mid sized trees growing from the roof…I understand the motivation for the screening pine trees and the fence over there. But the other side, the neighbors are nice, they’re obsessive about their neat lawn. They’re kind and generous people, and they’ve been there 25 years.

The Z. bread brought it out of them: A few years back, they were thinking of selling the house. Apparently, wham bam, a fence went up. The prior owner of my house came over to them and said “I’m sorry about the fence. It’s not you guys, it’s just that a black couple was looking at your house.

The response (at least in the retelling) was: Um, if they move in, I don’t think that little fence is gonna hold them for long.

My fence has its posts steeped in racism and petty mindedness. My fence is the embodiment of centuries of distrust, doubt, and malice.

My fence is evil, and must go.