The Fence My Father Built Read Online Free PDF Page A

heaven, child. That fence was your daddy's doing, and I was sure we’d soon be seeing the fire marshal. But he knew how to make things sturdy, and hehad a way of finding a use for stuff nobody else wanted. Your father loved to build things, just like my Tiny.”
    The dreams I’d kept in the wallet of my thoughts threatened to dissolve. The educated, intelligent man I’d envisioned began to break down, limp as paper money run through the wash. Joseph Pond couldn’t possibly be this ordinary.
    “Where’d he get the oven doors?” I asked, although I was almost afraid to hear the answer. What if he was a criminal? Or worse, what if he had been like Mother, compulsive about everything?
    Aunt Lutie smiled; the edges of her eyes crinkled in a playful way. “When this appliance store went out of business in Prineville, he snapped up those old doors for next to nothing. By the end of the week we had us a fence. It's pretty crazy-looking, I suppose.”
    “Very inventive,” I said, as she motioned me back toward the front end of the trailer. “How many people would think to use an oven door that way?” It was the most polite thing I could think of to say.
    “Time was we didn’t need a fence,” Lutie said.
    “To keep the pigs from escaping?”
    “I know what you’re thinking.” Lutie gazed over our heads, as if the colorful barricade was a member of the family. “What kind of nut uses old stoves to make a fence?”
    I must have turned white as library paste. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
    Lutie waved off my apology. “Of course you didn’t. Even I thought my brother was odd. But Joe didn’t do things for fun. Your daddy put up that fence about five years ago, right after Linc started leaning on us to sell.”
    “Did he tell you why?”
    My aunt crossed her arms and paused a long moment. “I asked that very question. Everybody did. If I brought it up, Joe either got mad or changed the subject. Drove me batty.”
    I stood there, confused. Why would a dying man build a wall across the desert?
    Lutie seemed to hear my thoughts. “Joe never explained his reasons.” Her lip quivered. “But just before his passing, he said something I’ll never forget. ‘We can’t let our ancestors down, Lutie,’ he told me. ‘The fence looks silly, but it's for your protection, to ward off ghosts and grave robbers.’” Her eyes glittered with tears.
    “I’m so sorry.” I touched her sleeve.
    She patted my hand and smiled. “Whatever he meant, Joe built a sturdy fence. I’ve come to love those old oven doors, and that's reason enough for me. Every time I see that fence, I see your daddy.”
    I nodded, not realizing how true her words would become.
    Aunt Lutie stopped at a small bookshelf crowding the narrow hallway and pointed at the dusty books lining its shelves. “When Joseph took sick,” she said softly, “he only wanted to sit and read those history books of his, you know, Civil War and all. At the end I read them out loud to him. He loved history.” She paused, and then added, “Come on, honey, let's get the kettle going.”
    I relaxed some. My dreams began to reconstruct themselves then; they spread themselves out to dry. If my father loved books he couldn’t have been ordinary at all. I followed her across the living room to the kitchen area. It was a good five-foot walk.
    “Now these are for special occasions,” Aunt Lutie said after we’d gotten settled. She reached up into the highest kitchen cupboard and carefully brought down a pair of teacups andsaucers. I was ready to be served in Mason jars or glasses cut from old wine bottles. But these were genuine bone china. I picked one up and recognized the Spode trademark.
    My stepfather had given Mother a full set of Spode Christmas dishes just before her death. It seemed frivolous to keep an entire set of china to use once a year, but then she had pumpkin plates for Halloween, a horn of plenty soup tureen, and various other occasional dishes. Mom