South of Sunnyside

It’s good fences, right? That’s what it says in Frost’s poem, at least—though Mending Wall is hardly an endorsement of fences.

Perhaps we should define “good” when using this phrase. If the term refers to privacy, I suppose that depends on the neighborhood, after all.

But privacy isn’t all that a fence provides; it also provides visual boundaries that can used to enhance a property’s aesthetics (think “white picket” here). It can also detract from the aesthetic. Case in point: the modified barrier separating me and my next door neighbor. It’s comprised of the standard six-foot divide that the developer installed, and extended by a variety of boards, all of different heights.

Supposedly, this is to keep the neighbor’s dog from jumping, but given its age and size, I’m a bit skeptical that this feat is even possible (and he didn’t manage it in the first two months of living here).

Nonetheless, I’m at a loss of what to do; I’m not the only neighbor annoyed by the change in scenery, and I hear that I can report this as a violation, but our neighborhood hasn’t really connected as a community, and the family just reclaimed this property from foreclosure.

Perhaps it’s time to grow vines.

Since I haven’t been setting aside time to write regularly, I almost let this slip past, but Wednesday marked the end of my fifth year in Fresno, and the beginning of the next five. (Maybe.)

I could write a book about the things I’ve learned in that time (not to imply that anyone would read it), but there are a few overarching themes/lessons learned:

• No person is perfect; thus, no community of people can be perfect
• You get out of a community what you put into it (somewhere a former school teacher is smiling)
• Success is a relative concept
• Dogs make everything hairier

For historical purposes, I’ll offer a short overview of the move out here:

I was done with school—and with the South; Kim and I had been dating long distance for a year and I wanted to be closer; I had saved enough money to buy a truck, rent a trailer and fuel the 2,211 mile trek. What I didn’t budget for, however, was the expense of two (yes, 2) transmissions and an extra three nights in Elk City, Okla., where the first one left me and my brother stranded.

After five years, I’m proud to call Fresno home. Most of the time.