Fences (c) by Michael Casey

Fences ©

By Michael Casey

I was on my way to Mass this morning and I was thinking about what I could write next. I’ve covered a lot of ground already with 500 shorts or blogs. They are on Amazon Kindle, but did you know you can also download to a PC if you don’t have a Kindle.

As I turned the corner I looked at the fence and that was it, I had the idea for the next piece of writing, and so here I am talking to you about Fences. Yes that’s how I get my ideas, I just see or hear something then away I go. An hour or so later you can see what I’ve produce on my www.michaelgcasey.wordpress.comsite. Then I share it with Facebook. When I have 100 or so pieces of writing I copy them off as an ebook, in total I have six books now on Amazon Kindle.

But what about Fences? Well my first memory is the hole in the fence, this allowed a bulldog to get into our back garden from the back streets behind our road. So we all ran and hid in the garden shed, only my brothers would not let me in , so I had to hide in the outside toilet. Nobody had indoor toilets in them days, 50 years ago. I could hear the bulldog barking. When he was gone I went crying back home to our house and the safety of my mum’s arms. She soothed me with fairy cakes, these were the cup cake variety which you make from a packet of ready mix.

Move on a few years and dad could afford to have a new fence built, one with concrete posts and slatted pieces of wood. Now the bulldogs could not come and get us. So piece reigned.

Well almost piece, our neighbour at the bottom of the garden had 3 sons and they loved  football. So my mum’s eternal worry was that they would break the fence. However sometimes they would kick the ball over the fence, so silence reigned. Sometimes me and my brother went to the other garden and had our own game of football with the borrowed ball. Or until Mr Q asked for the ball back.

Innocent pleasures, as was climbing over the fence to Mrs Dixon’s to get the ball when we kicked it over the side fence. She was posh and did not like us smelly boys climbing over the fence. Her son became a Policeman and actually made Sergeant, so he was Sergeant Dixon, as in Dixon of Dock Green the famous UK tv series. I imagine he was teased by his work mates, though I think he may have made inspector later on. He’d be retired now I imagine.

My other memory is the great storm in the 1970s, it really was immense. All our fences came crashing down, apart from the one at the back which was newish, have survived constant football, it stayed standing. The others were a mess, a total mess.

My parents would not let that stand in the way. So together my mum and dad built the 3 fences, we had 2 gardens you see, but that was an accident I’ll talk about another time. My mum went around all the building sites where builders were, and offered a few quid for timber which was going to be burnt. That’s the way builders worked in the old days, 30 years ago. No health and safety and pollution laws. If an Irish lady came with fivers in her hand of course  they’d give her the planks, and deliver too. They got beer money and we got timber, a perfect exchange.

The timber was thrown in a heap in the middle of what was the two gardens, a shipwreck of enormous proportions. A kind of Turner painting in the middle of our back gardens. A war painting that could have been hung in the Tate, made from planks galore, which had in turn had turned into a very good piss up for the builders.

Now how do you build a fence? One plank at a time. Dad got some concrete posts delivered and some supports. Then he dug holes and planted the posts in concrete about 18 inches deep. Once set the supports, the frames were attached to the posts. Then it was a question of nailing the planks to the supports.

I think he measured one plank, and cut it to 5feet, then that was a template for the others. It must have took a couple of weeks to build the fence, dad still had to go to Hell every day. Hell being a steelworks in Smethwick, where 400degrees plus was the norm.

So mum and dad built the fences, one plank at the time. Mum having to go in and start the dinner while dad hammered away. Now theses planks were from old floorboards from demolished houses, so they were ¾ inch thick or 2cms each if you know metric. This means they were as strong as girders.

On one side it was decided to make the fence 6 feet tall, it was only lower in the middle between our two gardens. So away dad hammered. I imagine I was sent around the corner with a jug to get a few pints from the off licence, a reward for all his efforts. I still remember the large lady who used to live there, occasionally we went there for sweets too.

So after a few weeks the fences were built. It was then I was allowed to chip in. I had to creosote the fences. Creosote is a brown thick and foul smelling liquid, it preserves wood. No Tom Sawyer could I be, I had to do it all myself. I stunk of creosote for weeks, or rather my clothes did, no matter how often you wash them. I had a green jumper I remember that, and it stunk.

Now I could talk of fences and walls between us, and so forth, and I did have that idea at the back of my mind as I was talking to you. But having come to the end of this piece, if you think about it, what have I really been talking about? I’ve been talking about love, the family of love I come from. In fact I suppose the first 500 shorts or blogs have been about that too. Now if only I could get them on the Radio, now that could mend fences.