On the Fence

I'm too old for this.

About 21 years ago, more than a year after DW and I had moved into our home and just a few months after Kid 1 was born, we met with the four neighbours whose properties bordered on ours to discuss building fences. Our neighbourhood was new and no one had yet set up dividers to mark our territories.

DW and I measured the property lines and calculated how many posts were needed and how much lumber was required to build the fences. We asked our neighbours to do their own calculations to ensure that the numbers were correct. Thankfully, everyone agreed that red cedar wood was the preferred type of fence that we wanted: it made calculations even easier.

When we decided on a design for the fence, DW and I again calculated which types of lumber was needed, roughly how many screws it would take, and other pieces of hardware. When all of our neighbours were in agreement, DW and I ordered the wood and told the neighbours how much each of them owed. We had them sign an agreement to pay their fair share, and we were good to go.

We had a professional company drill the holes for the posts and set the poles into place. After the cement had cured, it was up to us to construct the rest. Over two weekends, Jack, the neighbour directly behind us, and I did the bulk of the construction. It was a lot of fun and not as difficult as I had feared.

The last bit of fence to be put into place was the section between our house and Jack and his wife, Maria's house. Before we put the last panel in place, Jack invited DW and I to his patio, where he an Maria set out a selection of Polish beer (they were Polish) and snacks. We toasted to a job well done and neighbourly friendship.

We also joked about leaving the last panel off so that we could stay in touch. Once the last panel was in place, we would barely be able to see each other. The only way to visit one another would be to walk around the block to the front of each other's homes.

We would continue to chat over the fence, and at one point, DW gave Maria some of our fresh-grown tomatoes—handing them over the fence—only to have Maria, some time later, give us mason jars filled with her homemade salsa.

Good times.

Jack and Maria are gone. In fact, all of the original owners of the houses that border onto ours are gone. (Was it us?)

Last winter, while DW and I were on vacation, a wind storm snapped two posts along one section of the fence and brought two panels to the ground. Because it was winter, we decided to wait until spring to deal with it.

And time went by.

Since then, I've met the latest neighbours who live behind us but are next door to where Jack and Maria lived. We've moved the panels so that they are not laying flat, and I told the young man who is renting the house that I'd figure out the cost of repair and get back to his landlord.

So far, no luck: I've contacted three businesses, all who have told me that they're already booked for the year, and that was before the derecho of two weeks ago. And so, DW and I made the decision that we would affect repairs ourselves.

The first step, we told ourselves, was to pull the remains of the posts and the concrete from the ground. We watched videos for the best way to extract the concrete, which was to dig out around the top of the concrete, secure a strong chain around it, and, by using a high jack, pull it out.

Easy-peasy.

We purchased the jack and took a chain from DW's dad's collection. but when we took a look for the posts, we couldn't find them. It seemed that they had snapped off below ground level and the ground resettled, hiding any evidence of them.

Using a spade, it was easy to locate one of the posts. One panel, to which it had been attached, was still connected to a standing post. All I had to do was line it up and dig.

Almost immediately, I hit some sort of wire that surprised me. In our neighbourhood, all electrical, gas, and other lines run in front of the houses. There aren't supposed to be any wires in the back, especially along the property lines. And this wire had to be there when the post hole was originally dug.

No idea what it is but I was careful when I dug down.

The top of the post was about two inches below the ground. I measured an area around it and kept digging, but because I didn't want the surrounding hole to be too big, I had to switch to a hand trowel to continue.

That's when I hit clay.

It took more than two-and-a-half hours to dig down about 14 or so inches, when I finally reached concrete. By then, my hand was aching from gripping the trowel, so I took a break for a late lunch and to get some easier chores done. But because I had other plans for later in the afternoon into evening, I put off the post hole to the next day.

The next day, my hand was pretty much useless. It hurt to make a fist and grip the trowel and one of the tendons in my wrist was swollen. I worked on the hole for about another half hour or so, with my left hand, slightly widening the hole and going a bit lower (the concrete was only on one side. Not wanting to burn out my other hand, I decided to give up.

New strategy.

Instead of pulling what's left of the posts, I think I'll rent an auger and drill three new holes, turning what was previously a three-panel stretch to a four-panel section. I'll need to get the landlord to agree to the cost of additional wood.

And I'm likely going to have to contact the phone or cable companies to determine what that wire is.

I miss Jack. He and I were a great team. We worked quickly and built a fence that held up for nearly 21 years. It needs a few replacement pieces: some two-by-fours that covered the top; a few trim pieces; some replacement caps for posts. But overall, it's holding.

Only the posts failed.

Wish me luck.