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Coveting thy neighbor's fence
Perhaps had Moses been herding cattle or horses or even alpacas (rather than chosen people) across the great desert wilderness he would have added at least a footnote to the original ten.
Bless me, friend, for I am a fence coveter.
Our farm, consisting of corn and hayfields, horse pastures and clueless owners, is in need of a shot in the arm, fence-wise. The hand-cut posts that were driven into our hillsides back in the days before basic cable have seen better seasons.
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As we add animals, we try to use what little remains. It's not that we're historic or respectful, but more that we're cheap and tired, merely trying to avoid as much spending and back breaking as possible.
However, when the time came to fence a large, open pasture for horses, we bit the bullet, found the checkbook and hired a company. They did a great three-day job and when they left, we had a beautiful, safe, low-maintenance plastic-coated wire fence that has held our steeds for several years.
We try to avoid thinking about the money.
A second pasture, currently a patchwork of old barriers made of wire, metal posts, license plates, wooden branches, chewing gum, twine and good wishes, is ready for an update.
What I'd like and what we can afford are two altogether different things. It's the same old story and a tough day for those of us who covet fences.
Not far from us is a farm featuring exactly what I'd buy if I hit the lottery or my gas well came in - hundreds of yards of white, hand-cut, split-rail fence. It's the kind you'd see surrounding a movie set Kentucky horse farm.
I stare and drool as I pass.
My love of fences is not a recent development. Years ago, before we owned a farm, I spent most of a trip to Ireland staring at piles of stone. While others were enjoying the pubs and castles, I was taking photos of hedgerow borders, hundreds of years old, built by hand in stone, excitedly sharing my love with my love.
"Now that's a fence," I told my bored wife as she silently crept two steps back and reached for her purse Mace. "No, wait!" I said as she ran away. "Imagine the work! The craftsmanship! Honey! Look!"
Who knew that years later we'd own a Washington County farm, bringing my hidden fence fetish full front and center?
It could be worse, I guess. I could covet old tractors, cars or guitars.
Oh, wait. I do.
Get out your chisel, Moses. Time to add some more to that list.
To hear Scott Paulsen's column, visit www.observer-reporter.com. He can be heard each weekday afternoon from 3-7 p.m. on 1250 ESPN Radio.
