I would’ve liked to have spent afternoons between Christmas and New Year’s Days kicking back and watching movies and napping but ‘twas not to be. The Lady of the House and I spent the time rebuilding our backyard fence.
The night after Christmas someone rounded our street corner too fast, rammed through our fence and came to a halt deep in our backyard. The tire tracks, flakes of chrome, paint chips and the damage told the tale. Black tire burnout marks in the frozen dirt testified that they had to work to back out then disappeared like a thief in the night.
The Lady of the House and I surveyed the damage.
“How could they just leave and not say a thing?” asked The Lady of the House.
“No one came running out of the house waving arms and yelling so they took off,” I said. We were sleeping.
“Why didn’t they come by the next day and apologize or something?” she asked. “Could YOU do this much damage to someone’s property and just leave?”
“Really?” I asked. “We’re in the 21st Century, this isn’t ‘Leave it to Beaver’ world anymore. Eddie Haskell isn’t coming to the door to say, ‘Gee Mrs. Cleaver, I’m sorry I messed up your fence.’”
“Well at least I’d know. Then I could say, ‘That’s okay Eddie; you, Wally and the Beev can put it back up,’” she said smiling.
Then The Lady of the House furrowed her brow.
“I don’t care if they didn’t have insurance or money,” said The Lady of the House. “Just offer to help, lend a hand. A couple of strong backs repairing the fence would be nice. What’s happened to America?”
Then I laughed.
“Yes?” she asked.
“I remember my parents saying the same thing,” I said. “I think we may have officially become ‘old farts.’”