Barren Trees with Split Rail Fence 1940-43, Luke Swank
I remember when Papa decided to fence the farm. The war had been on for about a year and a half and it was looking grim. Every night on the wireless, there were more reports of territory being lost to the enemy and the deaths of our boys. Papa was adamant that we needed to build a fence. “What do you want a fence for?” Mama asked.
“Why do I need a reason to build a fence?” he asked. “Never needed one before.” Mama looked at him, her eyes bruised from lack of sleep.
“Split rail?” she asked.
He nodded.
She looked away, shaking her head. I wondered what good a split rail fence would do us if the Japs or Krauts marched up Mason Road or bombed us from the air. Nothing made sense anymore since the war began. Billy left for the front and I had no one to ask when I didn’t understand.
Papa cut down what Mama called, under her breath, “some perfectly good trees” and rolled the logs up near the barn so he could split them. He sharpened the ax and when he wasn’t tending the livestock, cleaning out the barn or pulling weeds in the vegetable patches, he chopped up the wood into posts and rails. The curlicues of bark left behind dotted the yard like small dogs. When I was out hanging the wash, I named some of them and called them to me which made Papa laugh. Mama just shook her head and yelled at me to quit fooling around and get the wash done. There were plenty more chores to do.
Once the posts and rails were cut, Papa called me to help him even though I was a girl. “Part of the war effort, Missy,” he said, and handed me an old pair of Billy’s overalls. I pulled them on and the legs ballooned like dresses. Together, we stacked the newly cut wood on the wagon and took it out to the field. Then, we measured the rails to set the posts at a proper distance from each other. When Papa passed me the first post, I gripped it with my hands, holding it as straight as I could, while he began to pound it in. I was always a strong girl but the unfamiliar vibration of the hammer jangled my arms and I dropped it. He told me to pick it up and then showed me how to hold it with a steadier grip. This time, it wasn’t so bad but I figured I’d be lucky if I could lift my arms the next day. We worked all morning, staking the short side of the field along the main road with only a short break for lunch. After lunch, we began adding the rails.
Midafternoon, I told Papa I had to go use the outhouse and he shook his head. “You girls!” He pointed to the large oak with its thick trunk. “You know what Billy would do if he was here.” He laughed. I walked toward the house thinking about Billy and wishing he was here. When I reached the turn into the farm lane, grimy with pigtails tucked up under Billy’s old ball cap, I heard Mama cry out. I looked up and saw her staring at me, her hand to her mouth, with a piece of paper fluttering in the wind.
Later at dinner, as we sat in silence, Mama refused to look at me and I understood why. With my sandy brown hair and narrow face, I’d always favored Billy. From a distance, people thought we were twins. I’m sure she thought she saw his spirit make one last stop before going on to heaven and was disappointed to see that it was only me.