bigger (12/17/82)
Scott Bigger 203 West Fowler Ave. #2 West Lafayette, IN 47906 (was supposed to be for) 11/12/82 Fencing with Kevin There's something in the way the soil turns between us when we're digging postholes. I bust the sod jumping on the shovel, you auger out the dirt, I square the hole. together we lower in the heavy ties, done living under trains. There's something to the way we never have enough dirt left to fill the small space around the post. I measure in the dirt, you tamp the dirt firmly, more dirt, more tamping. We know this science of fencing and the tension of the strands; three barbs are enough for cattle and nothing will hold sheep. We know canvas gloves, and how two pull the stretchers. The pulleys squeek and the wire sings the warning we recognize: too tight and the wire can snap in a volley of barbs that slice like scythes. Thrum a note, turn the stretcher peg. We've studied long, this course of brace posts and pastures. I drive the steel post with the iron pipe, slipping the open end over shaped metal lined along the wire and jack it into the ground You chase the strands and fix them to the posts; the clip is bent just so, the fencing pliers hook here, only twist this far. We can count the hours and discern the placement of meals by the acreage we've sectioned. We know the song of days in the weight of the bag of staples and in the strength of our hammer hands. I measure the handspread between the barbs and woven-wire and hold it against the post. You drive the staple at 70 degrees to keep the pole from splitting. We haven't mended fence for years, but sheep still graze, and the snow still packs heavy in the winter. When next you and I roll wire, you bust the sod; I'll dig.