Mending Fences

Grandpa Bill came in a dream. Standing at the top of a grand hill painted gold with the touch of Autumn. He showed me the beauty of the place where I call home. He was working on the barbed wire and I could smell his leather gloves as he lovingly twisted each wire in place. He made sure that the fence was secure before moving on to check each post one by one. He stopped and smiled at me. I put my arms around his neck and gave him a long awaited hug. I could smell my Grandpa from the mixture of Old Spice, hard work and lingering tobacco in his gray flannel shirt. He stepped back and held my hands and looked me in the eyes and with his gravelly voice said "Fences ain't walls. They're for settin' boundaries. You always have the choice to let folks in and you can use the gate to lead those horses out on an evenin' ride. Just remember, critters are like children, they need rules set so they know what to live up to. They need to know where they belong. They need a place where people love 'em just as they are. The world's not so good at givin' em that."

Grandpa's words stayed with me for weeks. Each time as I wandered out for my daily chores, the words he shared would tumble around in my head as I searched for the deeper meaning that I felt he had intended. Over the past few weeks, I have come to recognize some fence mending that has happened in my soul.

I attended a reunion of the Drill Team members of my high school. It's hard to believe that almost 30 years have past since I marched in those tall white boots and sequined uniforms. I had managed to avoid all of my other high school reunions. During those years I never quite felt like I fit in. I was shy and never had alot of friends. In junior high school, I was the freak of nature in polyester pants to accomodate the back brace I wore to correct scoliosis. In 1977 Bell bottom jeans were required to be cool but jeans wouldn't stretch when I bent over with the back brace on so I was stuck in "granny" pants. I loved my controlling mother who was a bit behind the times when it came to "style" in hair, makeup or clothing. If she had her way, I would have worn blue eye shadow and a weekly shampoo set just like she did. She also had a firm belief that if I washed my hair in the morning I would catch pneumonia and surely die, therefore leaving me a greasy-haired kid in stretch knit with a hint of a moustache and a mean mono-brow that any 50 year old Greek man would be proud of.

In high school, the girls next door who I had been friends with since 2nd grade took me in and said that we needed to make a few "tweaks" in the style my Mom had created. After holding me down and tweezing for hours, I came out of it with red swollen eyes that were bleeding yet apparently more acceptable. The girls guided my clothing purchases and as I grew out of the need for the back brace I became as normal as 5'9 and 110 pounds could look. My nicknames were skeleton and stringbean. I had been accused of being anorexic but my friends knew better as they hated me for my ability to eat entire bags of M&M's, whole boxes of pudding pops and pretty much anything else I wanted without ever gaining a pound. It's funny how we perceive ourselves, even though after my junior year on the drill team and being accepted as someone reasonably unrepulsive, the face I saw in the mirror was still that little freak of nature. At first the reunion invitation filled me with anxiety. Then finally I said to myself "these are just a bunch of 45 year old women, what exactly are you so afraid of? Are they going to judge me?" Reluctantly, I went and I was glad that I did. I had a great time getting to see everyone. None of my irrational fears were reality and I realized that I was the only one judging me. Hearing everyone's stories, I realized that I was not the only one who life had beat up a little bit. Some had more, some had less but we came together and shared the common thread of our memories back when life was much more simple. I let go of the resentment to all those who had hurt me in my past, most importantly myself. I took down my walls and let them in and it felt good.

As I grew from that experience I realized all the other places where I have mended. My relationship to God had been distant at best over the past couple of decades. After meeting Stan and having the love that I never knew existed, I realize the true power of unconditional love gives you wings to fly above your limiting beliefs and the walls we have built that keep us from realizing our true greatness and potential. I have been able to let go of the resentment that I had carried towards all things religious. The rules are there to guide me and give me something to live up to. We go to the Temple and it no longer feels like a place that I don't belong but it feels like home to me just as much as our farm does. I realized that even though it didn't win me any popularity contests, my mother did the best she could with what she had. She loved me enough to not want to loose me. Some of the things that I resented her for have actually been the things that taught me strength and helped me to endure. Thanks Mom.

This evening when I put on my own gray shirt and leather gloves before doing my evening farm work, I caught the scent of the worn leather and just for a moment, the mixture of Old Spice, hard work and lingering tobacco. Thank you Grandpa for the reminder that I don't need those old walls and I am loved just the way I am, with or without the Greek facial hair.