Destructive Reflection

When we lived in the house on 8^th Street our neighbor had a fence between our houses made of bamboo sticks. It was odd in that it didn't really match anything on his property. I don't know the man's name, but he was an empty-nest widow. He was old and nice. He once gave me a bunch of magazines about Native Americans (back then we called them Indians). The fence was probably about a 30 foot stretch of bamboo nailed up on posts vertically.

My friends and I would walk over there and tear off a couple sticks at a time. This was a rather simple task. It was just nails on bamboo after all. We never grabbed pieces that were next to each other. Grabbing nonadjacent poles made it a lot less noticeable that lumber was missing.

We used the sticks in sword fights, as bow staffs, hand made fishing poles, bows and arrows, etc. Really flexible. Also really fragile. I know that doesn't make sense, but you know what I mean. There were many uses, typically pretend weaponry was the preferred application.

Over time that fence looked very bare. Repeated trips to the great grass property divider began to show its overutilization in the imaginary adventures of a young boy and his companions. I knew the neighbor knew where the sticks ended up. I knew he knew it would continue. I knew one day I'd get in trouble. That day never came though. I regretted that imminent confrontation, but I was driven to continue, come what may. My recreation was too important to allow the consequences that lay on the horizon to interfere. But it never came.

I don't know if he didn't care about the upkeep of his property or if he smiled at knowing that something so banal gave so much joy to a young kid. Maybe he saw himself in me and it allowed him to reflect on days long passed? Maybe he was just nice? Regardless of the reasons, it was a Godsend for leisure activities. Eventually I would stop though. I moved past it and found something else to do, probably less destructive, I don't know.

I quit vandalizing that fence, it lay there in near shambles. Once it served a practical purpose as an aesthetic property divider. Then it provided hours of joy to some punk kids with too much time on their hands. Then, at last, it did neither. It stood there as a reminder of youth outgrowing itself, outpacing the shackles of playtime in the backyard and extending beyond the boundaries of my parent's property. It became lonely and decrepit. I hope the old man found similar joy or use in my little brother's youth? I'm sure he also found some destructive ways to achieve an ends filled with happiness. Did he ever pull down a bamboo stick? I'd ask him but am afraid he'd say “no.”

Maybe my neighbor was content in knowing I was on a road he himself traveled on, he reveled in knowing about what experience would yet come my way. I'm just speculating in my employment of a metaphor upon that old man, maybe he just didn't care about the fence. Maybe his wife had it put up before her passing. Maybe it just came with the house.

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Me in the tree, 1988.  The truck and car are blocking my neighbor's house and his fence.

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