In this episode, A Masterclass in Efficiency.
For nearly four months, the western border of our property has stood as a living monument to determination, dubious planning, and forensic-level lumber acquisition.
Since February, our neighbor Steve has been conducting what can only be described as a masterclass in deliberate calculation. This was never going to be one of those slick home-improvement shows where a cheerful pair of men installs a fence between commercial breaks, sipping lemonade. No. This was real life in retirement.
By this week—May 16th, for those keeping score—the glorious end was finally within reach. The fence stood proudly, the line was straight, and victory practically hummed in the air.
Only one major task remained: installing that final fence post.
Compared to everything else we had survived, this wasn’t even a hurdle. It was a victory lap. A formality. A simple little task.
Easy! And there it was.
The four-letter word that has destroyed families, delayed road projects, and summoned disaster since the dawn of civilization.
The morning was cool and overcast. Birds chirped peacefully. Somewhere in the distance, nature was minding its own business.
Steve leaned casually on his shovel and looked at the site of the final post.
“I thought this would be the easiest one,” he said.
At that exact moment, the universe stopped what it was doing, slowly cracked its knuckles, and whispered: “Oh, really?”
You never say the E-word out loud. That word is a cosmic tripwire. It is the verbal equivalent of tempting fate while standing barefoot on a rake.
“Never let that word slip out,” I warned, scanning the sky for incoming lightning. “It's a jinx.”
But it was already too late. The curse had been activated.
The remains of the old fence post and its fossilized concrete base had apparently fused with the Earth’s mantle sometime during the Clinton administration. This was no longer a fence project. This was an archaeological excavation.
By the time I strolled over, a little over an hour into the dig, Steve was already locked in mortal combat with Southern California soil. His left arm was bleeding. His shirt looked like he had lost a bar fight. The cool gray morning had shifted from pleasant to sarcastic.
And the hole? The hole was winning.
After another hour of combined labor, we had accomplished almost nothing. Steve had cut some major roots, we had removed several rocks, split the ancient concrete, unearthed what may have been part of a lost civilization, and learned a lot about our lower backs.
I attempted to introduce reason.
“Maybe we give this one a rest until tomorrow,” I suggested carefully, implying that perhaps the dirt would soften overnight out of guilt.
Steve's eyes narrowed. He had crossed beyond logic and entered the sacred realm of (HIP) Home Improvement Delirium.
“I’m not going to let this last post get the best of me!”
At this point, the fence no longer mattered. This had become a blood feud between one man and three cubic feet of earth.
I tried to lighten the mood. "Do you have an M80 or a Cherry Bomb? Maybe we need some dynamite?"
As Steve and I stood there, covered in dust—two exhausted men being silently evaluated by nearby crows as possible nesting sites—help arrived.
Our neighbor Don appeared over the hill like a cavalry officer arriving late to a Western. I’m fairly certain there should have been dramatic music playing in the background.
Don took one look at the situation and immediately recognized what was happening: two aging homeowners were attempting to dig through fossilized clay with the energy reserves of a phone battery stuck at 3%.
Without hesitation, Don stepped into the fight.
Now, youth may be wasted on the young, but persistence belongs entirely to good neighbors with tools and opinions. Don brought fresh energy, fresh determination, and the kind of confidence usually found in people who have never accepted defeat at the hands of dirt.
The battle resumed.
What followed was another hour of digging, prying, hammering, muttering, sweating, and occasional staring into the hole as if it might surrender voluntarily.
And then—miraculously—it happened. The rotted post finally gave way.
After nearly four hours of struggle, existential reflection, and several conversations with God, we became the proud owners of a hole.
A beautiful hole. Three feet deep. Perfectly ready for a post and fresh concrete.
We were exhausted!
The fence still isn’t completely finished, of course. But the hole is there, staring back at us like a monument to stubbornness.
And maybe that’s the lesson. With enough sweat, enough persistence, and neighbors willing to join the fight, you really can overcome almost anything.
Just never, ever call it “Easy.”
This is On the Fly. I’m Patrick Ball. Stay curious, ask better questions, and thank your neighbors.
Comments