The Fence and the Rush

It was the summer I turned thirteen—the same summer I figured out my dad could outlast time itself, and probably had, more than once.

Now, my dad wasn’t the fastest man alive. He could make a sloth look jittery. But he got things done, and he got them done right. He had a steady, plodding rhythm, like a tractor in low gear—loud, deliberate, but unstoppable.

That July, he decided it was time to rebuild the north fence. And “he decided” meant I got drafted with no discussion. I didn’t have much say in my schedule, especially not when it came to “character-building” activities—which, in our household, usually meant blisters and sunburns.

We headed out in his old green pickup that smelled like a chain smoker and wintergreen gum. He drove slow enough that I counted no fewer than six butterflies that passed us.

When asked if the truck could go faster, he said, “She could, but Beulla don’t like to.”

Once we got to the boards and nails, I figured we’d start digging right off. But Dad sat on the tailgate, unwrapped a pair of egg salad sandwiches, and handed me one like we were on a picnic.

“Fence work’s hungry work,” he said, like it was the eleventh commandment. “And no good work ever started on an empty stomach.”

So we ate. The bread was squishy-moist, and the eggs were halfway to fermentation under the noon sun, but I was hungry and too polite to gag out loud.

Only after we’d finished and watched a couple of crows argue in the appletree did he nod toward the tools and say, “Alright. Let’s make some holes.”

I attacked that ground like it had insulted my mother.

Dirt flew. Sweat poured. I got four holes dug in no time flat—wobbly, lopsided things shaped more like soup bowls than postholes. Dad, meanwhile, had done two, calm as a man shelling peas.

“You’re going too fast,” he said, adjusting his hat without looking up.

“The dirt ain’t going anywhere.”

I thought he was trying to trick me so he could catch up.

But then I looked at his holes—straight, deep, clean around the edges like they’d were measured by a ruler and a sermon. Mine looked like raccoons had helped.

He didn’t scold me. My dad wasn’t much for lectures.

He handed me the canteen and said, “Fast don’t last. You want it to stand, you gotta take your time.”

By mid-afternoon, I had a stitch in my side, dirt in my ears, and a sunburn so sharp it felt like the sun was carving its initials into my neck. I slowed down—not due to the wisdom of it, but because I was flat worn out.

Funny thing, though. The slower I worked, the better those holes turned out. The fence posts slid in cleaner, and I didn’t have to redo every third one.

By the end of the week, we’d built a fence that didn’t just stand—it belonged there like it had grown out of the earth on purpose. I stood back, dirty and sore, and grinned at it like I’d invented fencing.

Years later, when I got my north-forty, a yard, and a sagging section of pickets, I didn’t rush. I got an egg sandwich. I took my time, recalling how my dad always said, “You’re not racing the world. You’re building something that’s supposed to last.”

And that fence? Still standing.

It turns out slow and steady doesn’t just win the race. Sometimes, it’s the only way to get the job done.