Crooked Fences

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Bryce Angell – The outdoors has always been a large part of my life. My father was an outfitter and guide for 35 years and I was there to shoe and care for the horses and help him do the cooking. We took many great trips into the Yellowstone area. Even now that I’m older, we still ride into the Tetons, Yellowstone and surrounding areas. My poems are mostly of personal experience. I am now retired and enjoying life to the fullest. I plan to do more riding and writing.

Every year, each spring, my job was stretching up barbed wire. And every year I’d dream that we could put it up for hire.

I like to call it stretching wire but it’s really fixing fence. And we never bought new posts and wire. Wouldn’t meet the farm expense.

The worn, and rusty, coarse barbed wire would break with every bend. So, we stitched the wire right from the start until the very end.

One day I mustered courage. Said, “It’s time to buy new fence. It’s like patching up Methuselah. It don’t make a lot of sense.”

My father always listened. He gave credence to what I’d say. But never did I dream he’d buy new fencing on that day.

So he drove our ’69 Cornbinder, two-ton flatbed truck to Cal Ranch for new posts and wire, I guess to my good luck.

That night I dreamed of fixing fence with not an end in sight. When my sleep was interrupted barely 6 o’clock daylight.

My father hollered loud enough to soundly wake the dead. “It’s time to get a movin’ because people die in bed.”

I’d heard him yell a thousand times ‘bout people, death and bed. That was our morning ritual before we all got fed.

He said, “We’ve got some work to do up by the north-end gate. But I need to be away in town, so build the fences straight.”

My dad was kinda fussy ‘bout his fences straight in line. He said, “The fence that’s crooked sure ain’t no fence of mine.”

Back then we had no auger that would drill a fence posthole. You used a bar and shovel, kept your cussing in control.

That day I dug near twenty posts but held back all my brag. ‘Cuz looking down the fence my posts were planted in zig zag.

Well, sure enough, my father said, “Your posts have character. Were they drunk or did they suffer from a genuine hangover?”

His laughter was contagious and thank heaven he weren’t mad. He never showed his anger. He was that kind of Dad.

And then the twenty posts were pulled along with all my pride. But my father helped replant ‘em. He was right there by my side.

So then I wore new glasses. They were bound to be my fate. But they didn’t solve the problem ‘cuz my fence line still weren’t straight.

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