Where the Fence Ain’t Broke

There’s a stretch of fence out behind the Johnson place that doesn’t rightly go anywhere. Ain’t no cows on either side, and the only thing it keeps out are the tumbleweeds when it feels like cooperatin’.

I reckon that fence has been there longer than most folks ’round here can remember. Some say it was put up by old Jasper Johnson hisself, back when he first broke ground and called it a homestead. Others say it grew there, like the cottonwoods and the stubborn tumbleweeds.

Now, Jasper’s grandson, Luke, who still owns the place, though he doesn’t do much with it. He drives into town, drinks his coffee black at the diner, and reads the paper like he’s lookin’ for something that ain’t got printed.

One morning, I caught Luke out there, starin’ at that old fence. I pulled up in my truck, not because I had business, but because, well, sometimes a man needs company that doesn’t talk too loud.

“Fence need fixin’?” I asked, climbing out and stretching my back like I meant it.

He shook his head, still lookin’ past the barbed wire into nothin’. “Ain’t broke,” he said.

“Well, that’s somethin’, I guess,” I replied, and we both stood there quiet for a spell, like maybe the wind might say somethin’ worth hearin’.

After a while, he kicked at a clump of dirt and said, “Granddad used to mend this fence every spring. Said it was good for the soul.”

I nodded. “Ain’t a bad way to spend a day. Gets your hands dirty and your mind clear.”

Luke looked over at me then, real slow-like. “But it don’t do nothin’.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “But sometimes keepin’ somethin’ goin’, even if it don’t serve no big purpose, is how you remember who you are.”

That hung in the air a minute.

He looked back at the fence. “Guess it’s like sittin’ on the porch when the day’s done. Don’t accomplish much, but it feels right.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Not every good thing in life has to earn its keep.”

Luke smiled then — not a big one, but just enough to show he heard me. We ended up patchin’ a loose rail anyway.

Not ‘cause it needed it, but because that’s what men like us do. We mend things — fences, hearts, memories — with wire and silence and the slow, steady rhythm of work that don’t need explainin’.

Later, over coffee, Luke looked out the window and said, “You know, I think I’ll keep that fence up. Maybe even walk it now and then.”

I just grinned. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with fixin’ what ain’t broke.”

He laughed — honest and warm — and the waitress brought us pie without askin’. That’s the kind of town Spanish Springs is. Where folks know what you need before you do. Where fences might not make sense, but they still stand proud.

And where, now and then, somebody remembers that sometimes the best things in life are the ones you don’t need a reason for.