We watched the fence growing, growing even as the snow fell, and there was bile and envy oozing from several pores in town.
This was the rich guy’s fence. The rich guy and his wife moved to our quiet little town to spend weekends. Their real home is two hours away in the city. He owns a factory or store or something down there. But here they bought that five acres on the edge of town and had people from the city come up and build their vacation home. They paid the builders to stay down at the Empress Motel while they worked, too.
Well, the house was finished toward the end of summer, and they’ve been up here several times since. Seem like nice enough folks. But the fence .…
The rich guy had no fence around the five acres, you see, and he had no firewood. So he decided to kill two birds with one stone and have some firewood cutters build a firewood fence, about four feet high, around his little country estate.
So we watched, as load by load the fence grew; first across the front of the property and then turning a corner to go back toward the rear of his property.
A firewood fence. Dud did some figuring down at the Mule Barn the other day. Dud always was handy with figures.
“As I see it, he has one fireplace in that whole house,” Dud says, “and he doesn’t need it to heat the house. They had a propane furnace put in. So, if he burns that fireplace continuously every weekend during winter, figuring winter lasts until about April, give or take, I figure it’ll take him 93 years to run out of fence.”
Those of us who cut and haul our own wood, and use it to heat the house, at first said nasty things about the rich guy. This fence was really gilding the lily, of course.
But then we started taking friends from out of town to see it.
“You think you’ve seen a fence?” we’d say. “I’ll show you one for the books.”
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