I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD
APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
This is the backyard at The House of Noodles. It illustrates the effect of one too many winters in Central Alberta.
Now, for some reason, I see spending several thousand dollars on a new fence for our property as something of a tragedy. This is not how it appears to the man I live with. Nor, apparently, is it how it seems to the men who live in the homes on either side of us.
To them it is a project. It is an exercise in (late) middle aged male bonding. It is an adventure. It is a very good reason to drink beer.
It seems that all three of us need new fences this year. And as we share the fences with each other, the decision as to which fence we will buy, how it will be installed, and where we will purchase it calls for several evenings spent drinking beer, several trips to various fencing emporia (prior to the beer drinking, of course), and wild speculation or serious conversation (depending on one's point of view and the amount of beer imbibed ) regarding things like the number of sacks of concrete needed for the posts, the size auger one must rent for the job, and countless other very, very important things.
The people on either side of us have dogs to consider in all of this. The men appeared to have forgotten this as they stood by the fence, beer in hand, and contemplated just "knocking the damn thing down." Although, I had no particular reason to get involved in this part of the discussion, as we have cats, rather than dogs that might go a wandering, I did.
In any case, the fencing will be purchased tomorrow and the fun will begin on the weekend. I'm thinking of going to a hotel. I may take the cats, just in case the beer and the dogs and the (late) middle aged bonding becomes too much for delicate souls.
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