The problem with fences

That fences can fend off or screen out, either way, any hint of thievery, as it turns out, proves to be an illusion. Where I live, a break-in two weeks ago at the northeast corner ground-floor suite, stirred us in the last council meeting to tackle what has been a daily heartache over rotting parts of the wooden fence—with some slats baring cankered edges just waiting for a push, and a few hanging on to loose nails, flapping enfeebled in the wind. 

Mike, tossing his head, disagreed that such weaknesses could not but be tempting for Peeping Toms, and especially inveterate thieves; he claimed that “fence or no fence” they would, on a spasm, find ways into someone’s suite—like in Jena’s where they simply broke the gate’s lock, loped through the patio, shattered a window, and reached for the latch. With her gate weakened with caries in the hinges, so much so that a big heave from a truck could cause its fall, Debra, soon after the news, revved up her appeals for repair.

We voted for a new fence instead, but the consultant trashed our uninformed wishes, especially for something higher. Apparently as of old—among settlers ascribed in books today for the skill, even craft, in fence building, to whom these became a must to restrain horses, sheep, and farm animals and ward off predators—the originally staked or dug-in foundation may not be changed. For us, just a solid one then, the consultant approved, even as I, in particular, quietly lamented changing the pleasant design of alternating slats, like a pleated skirt with slits—which has never failed to invite passersby to peek in, ahhh…but where danger lurks.

Mike could be right in that prying eyes would be the enemy, more than emboldened thieves—like the recent ones who could have cased Jena’s family for months. I resonated with him, recalling how neighbors back in the Ilocos with our sheer wire fences, and in Manila, some thickened by aging chico or mango trees, owned full knowledge of our lives. When did I leave and come back? What haircut did I sport next? Who fetched me on a Mercedes Benz with a diplomat’s plate?

Worse, fences could not buffer sounds, especially at night. Who hasn’t memorized real-life funnies retold a hundred times or heard of plots to avenge the supposedly wronged among them, often a huddle of inebriated toughies, clutching San Mig bottles in an unlit fence corner? What about the slightest rise in decibel of a familial row that booms in the dark, hissing into insomniacs’ pots of suppositions, spiced with “siling labuyo” and stirred to a boil? I must have lost some to such thievery; yet, on the other hand, how many did I steal?

What about scent? No fence could contain this, as in Debra’s cow-contented Tomcats, Dili and Divo, in her corner suite. A neighbor’s Tom used to prowl, spying on their charmed existence, daring them with primal growls for a territorial war, engulfing the night. Once, pet-sitting for them, the invader-cat jumped over the fence onto the barbecue grill in the patio, sniffing for an open wedge on the window. Divo, enraged, attempting to push the screen, dug his teeth into my thin arm as I attempted to pull him back. No war of claws ensued but Divo’s bite caused an infection that healed with black scars, which took months to lighten.

While fences still serve as property demarcation and safeguard for animals, as well as convenient screen through which we surreptitiously engage in others’ lives, I’ve also received and returned food and sympathies from across and over them. For such prosaic structures, I now understand why a poem on fences by Robert Frost has been attributed with symbolisms; I suspect, though, if he ever imagined how much and in what guises thievery could mutate.