Of Powerful Women and Gentle Men

         I built a fence two summers ago, and it still stands in my backyard, solid, clean and clear in the winter sun. I had never built one by myself before, though I had been a “crew member” helping others build them. But the old ragged, half-rotten fence that had stood in that section of back yard since I bought my house blew down in a Spring storm, and I had family (with DOGS!) coming to stay with me for the summer - a full fence was required. 

        So, I calculated, watched YouTube videos, and made a shopping list, then stood in my back yard looking at the task before me. First, was knocking down the old fence. I went about this with some joy - hammering off old boards, knocking out the rails, and pulling (with considerable effort) the rotted-out posts from the ground. Later, I would go through all that detritus and save usable sections of wood that would, in time, to go other projects, but, at the moment, my task was erecting the new fence as quickly as possible.              The first task was digging the post holes. The previous holes had, it seemed, been placed randomly, but I wanted my posts even widths apart - and also wanted to avoid digging out any concrete from the old posts - so I measured and marked the spots for new posts, picked up the brand-new post-hole digger I’d

purchased, and set to. My first unpleasant lesson was why those old post holes had been random - the ground here is littered with rock and very very very hard clay, with only a few soft spots, and none of the equally measured spots were in any way soft. The first post-hole took me days. I was saved when one afternoon my son-in-law and family were visiting and he helped me dig the rest of the holes. It was the only help I got in the construction of the fence, and was greatly appreciated. 

        Next, was setting in the posts. I had all the levels necessary to keep the posts both plum and straight, and the posts were set in a day with quick-drying cement. From there, I went about setting in the rails in each section, then began the process of putting up the pickets, keeping them aligned with the dips and hollows in the ground under the fence, so the fence line remained clean. Last, the entire fence was painted white to match the other fences in my yard. 

         All of that took much longer than I’d anticipated, but was still done by the time my family arrived, and kept three dogs neatly contained and happy running about during the summer they were here. 

         There were many glitches and problems along the way (as anyone who has ever built anything can well imagine). Each time, every single time that one of these things occurred, one of two things happened. When I faced a problem with skill, with equipment, with lack of resources to acquire better tools, I would stand back, consider my work so far, and have a memory of either my father or my late husband, both skilled woodworkers, that carried me on. I’ll never have the skill or natural talent they did, but I got something else.          When I was three, I wanted a horse for Christmas. Santa might as well not come if he did not bring me a horse, and I (apparently) made this quite clear to my parents. My family was in no shape to purchase or worse yet house and care for a horse, but my father was not daunted - he went down to his workshop, gathered up appropriate pieces of wood, and built me a rocking horse. He did not have much in the way of power tools (they were very expensive then) so much of the work he did was with hand tools, but on Christmas morning I found a beautiful black-and-white rocking horse under the tree. I named him Dobbin. Dobbin survived my youthful abuses and destructive tendencies, then was passed to my older sister for her children to use, then to my children when they were born and old enough to rock (so to speak), and now, still surviving, Dobbin is in the use of my grandchildren. Made by hand with no money and no professional tools, my father had crafted a lasting family treasure. 

         My husband was similar - as a young couple, we could no more afford expensive tools than my parents had been, but he built for me a lovely coffee table and desk, which I still have and which has turned a stunning golden over the years, and built bookshelves which our family continues to use to this day.

        Both of them, faced with lack of resources but with clear vision, found ways to use what was at hand to create something beautiful. I could do no less - when I looked at the next step in building a fence and

considered what I lacked, I could feel them there - my father’s clear blue eyes watching, my husband’s hand on my shoulder, in the way he always did when he wanted me to know he was at my back. 

         Other times, when it was my body that failed me, legs aching, arms so weary they felt like lead, I would find my grandmother and mother there. While my husband and father both died too young, with too much more to offer (My husband at 49, my father at 39), my mother and grandmother both lived far too long, into a time when their minds left them but their bodies had not yet given up. In spite of all that, what stays with me about both of them was their powerful unrelenting spirit. My grandmother had hip joints that were decaying and a back bent by years of hard work, but every time she needed something for her kitchen or her family, she went out her door and walked the entire distance across town to her favorite store, and walked back - she never stopped. 

         My mother, left with six children and a mountain of medical debt, did not give up even when the city threatened to take our home for back taxes. She found a family who needed a larger home, and traded homes with them for our house plus $8000, and paid the back taxes, and several years forward on the taxes for the new home. Both survived the loss of their husbands, the loss of children, the loss of everything they had, and kept going. In the backyard, tired and aching, looking at all the sections of fence still undone, I could do no less. 

         Not everyone has a family heritage like this of strength and gentleness, and I am more grateful than I can say for what it has given me. But we all do have someone who was an example for us of what we hoped to be. I told a couple of friends recently that I had reached an age where had become the woman I’d always hoped that I would be, and was so content with that. I used to believe that this woman - the one I’d hoped to be - was out of my reach, that I didn’t have it in me, but here I am, and I owe it to those powerful women, and those gentle men. 

         I’m not saying they were perfect - I could write an entire new essay about the failings of them all and how I’ve worked to overcome those things in myself (still working, actually), but that is not the point, here. The point is that to become what we want to be, it is helpful, possibly necessary, to honor the influences that can take us there. 

         The same thing applies to writing. I look to the powerful women and gentle men I’ve known in the arts as my inspiration, those who stayed true to the kind of writer or artist they hoped to be, no matter what the world (or other people) were telling them that they should be. Those women and men (mostly women!) are with me when I sit down to write, even though many of them are gone from this world, and the most influential I haven’t seen in years. They taught me, through their work, through teaching me, and through their very selves, that the important thing is not what the world around you thinks you should do with your writing (or your art), but is instead the particular unique fire that drives you to the page, and being sure, day after day, page after page, rejection after rejection (and acceptance after acceptance) that you never let anything or anyone put out that fire.