Meet Me At The Fence Post

fence post

fens pohst

n. 

a post made of wood, metal or other sturdy material, that is a vertical support for a fence. The horizontal pieces or sections of a fence are attached to the fence posts, which are set at intervals into the ground usually secured with concrete or gravel.

Fencing plays a large part in our life. It keeps our cattle and goats and our old nag Dixie safe from predators unless there is a broken wire, a breech in the protection, a post that has rotted at the ground. Predators have a special sense of finding the cracks and entering under the cover of darkness. 

We have fences that have seen better days, tired and rusted they've served their purpose well. There is fence covered in briars where coyotes may have built a den, there is smooth wire and barbed and for much of spring and summer when the grass is lush and rich we spend hours putting up and taking down hot wire fence lines to rotationally graze our cattle.

The posts and runs need care in order to do their best job

They stand for generations with kids climbing on them, farmers lamenting over them, they hear the important and not so important conversations and they take a beating.

The posts are where the stability comes, the structure for the attachment, the strength that can weather any storm while keeping whats inside safe.

When we bought the land that has been a farm for over 100 years it was the fence leading up to the stable past the barn to the house that should have been knocked down that stole my heart. 

The split rails and the rough texture. 

I wonder about the conversation that took place during the digging of the holes the measuring of the runs with a side of frustration because no farm project especially a fence goes without issue.

Jer and Papa Moo put this fence in for Mrs Kraft long before we knew it would be our driveway. I hope she loved it as she looked over the pastures out the window of her dining room just as I do.

I've taken thousands of pictures of this fence as the sun rises above the river welcoming in another day in awe that this is where I get to raise my kids something Mrs Kraft never got to do.
I've stood watching their tender hearts run and jump over windrows of hay, where they have kayaked in the flooded pasture and they learned to show their county fair animals over the rails of the fence. I'll never forget the days they pulled out past this fence for their first solo drive with a lump in my throat. 

What's at the end of this fence is a place that I've always felt was going to be a place of healing, of rest, of resuscitation and it is; I just didn't know it was going to be me. 

I don't know where I'm going or what its going to look or feel like, but I'm inviting you on this journey with me as I journal my way through slowing and maybe stopping the burn of generational trauma (I know I know) and chronic pain. I expect there will be tears and triumph and a giant dose of letting go of control.

 

 I hope you know.. I love you big, Kal