No Fences

The poem, “Mending Wall,” written by Robert Frost, is about two neighbors mending a fence between their properties; they do this each spring. As one neighbor questions the other about the necessity of the fence, after all, there are no cows to keep in; the only response he gets from the other is ‘good fences make good neighbors.’ We have boundaries and they must be respected, retaining the things we want and keeping out the things we do not. We build fences around ourselves too, intentionally and somewhat arbitrarily. And often we may never know the reason other than it is the thing to do in neighborhoods. But are neighbors such bad things to have in your lives?

I am blessed to have wackadoodle neighbors, a saintly bag of old fogies like me, who are always willing to rescue me from myself. We are a self-proclaimed Board of Directors of Nothing and Everything, that meet regularly to imbibe in some spirits and talk about world problems that fit into our narrow-minded realm. But the meetings are addictive for the pure pleasure of sharing our lies and lives in a forum with no criticism, no judgment, and no regrets. Often comical, never boring, but predictable to a point of knowing a reaction to some comment before the words are even spoken.

Neighbors can be useful and are often used for a variety of purposes, such as supplying homegrown tomatoes, Irish whiskey, popcorn, beer, and entertaining exchanges about rocks, guns, and dental care. They can be helpful in removing snakes or unwanted lizards from the house, or even Sunday morning emergency room visits, spending eight hours of their time for the treatment of a friend’s dislocated shoulder. Neighbors can take care of ant beds, errant bamboo shoots and weeds that grow on the sidewalk and gutters. Neighbors host football game parties, cook delicious meals and buy coffee for you in the bookstore. I can’t imagine why there are not more fences to keep the useless ones out.

Last summer I had a wonderful walk down memory lane one evening with my good friends who live next door to me. Pleasant times coupled with connecting past memories are rare in our world today, but they do occur and replay the story of the good old days that consumed our childhoods. Our historic district subdivision was faced with yet another developer proposing to rezone a nearby vacant lot as multi-family/commercial and we were given notice that the city planning commission would hear the proposal at 5:00 o’clock downtown in the City Counsel Building – first memory, in days of yore, the building was the main post office, marble stairs, rich woodwork and black and white tile floors.

The developer, who had asked for a continuance, was seen leaving the building when we arrived, but like children on a mission, eager to be seen in opposition to the rezoning, we didn’t read the signs and went into the meeting. Late, we entered the counsel room after the meeting had started and should have been alerted to the fact that no other neighbors were present, but we took our seats and waited for the action. We were handed an agenda and as I looked to see when our concerns would be heard, I noticed that the continuance had been requested by the developer – so we left, knowing that we had wasted a good afternoon nap on the couch which is what you do in Tuscaloosa when the temperature at 5:00 o’clock is 98 degrees.

Being hungry, we crossed the street to DePalmas Restaurant eager for Italian food and Chianti wine. Originally the restaurant was Adrian’s Department Store, a place to buy Villager dresses for school in the olden days and we were seated in a booth across from the area where they sold Estee Lauder perfume. After having a very pleasant meal, we left the restaurant, walked past Kress, the forerunner of Big K and K-Mart, and then Grants Department Store where Santa held court in the basement each Christmas, now the Children’s Hands-on Museum.

It was the ride home that evoked the fond memories of childhood, taking the route through the old subdivisions where we grew up in the ‘50s and ‘60s. We toured the neighborhoods where my neighbor and I grew up, eagerly pointing out to his wife the stores, family housing and areas that are now dominated by the increasing student population. We turned down Convent Street where Smalley’s Barbeque was located, as well as St. Mary Magdalene Catholic Church, which had been torn down in the 60s, combining the white and black parishes into one. After touring Myrtlewood, where he grew up, we moved on to my neighborhood Homewood, passing the location of Mack’s Bait Shop and Ginney’s Toy Shop. These times are rare and with a special endearment that will live on as long as we do. If it’s not on an I-phone or an electric devise, the younger generation has no interest, but to those who lived through the cold war, chimpanzees in orbit, and DDT; they are priceless. And we suffer in pleasant silence reminiscing about an era that young people would not appreciate.

In ‘Mending Walls,’ we can read the ambiguity in building barriers; those that segregate and insulate us, as well as an activity that may be doomed from the start. Fences require constant repair. But regardless of the reason, we seem to engage in it to our benefit. We surround ourselves with familiar walls because they offer that which is comfortable. But humans are communal beings and the world is a better place for those who are fortunate enough to share it with good friends and neighbors. Walt Whitman summed it up appropriately; “I no doubt deserved my enemies, but I don’t believe I deserved my friends.” So here’s to the best of the best; my neighbors and my good friends. And I will never fence them out.