Neighbors & Nails

“Sometimes the best days lean a little sideways, just like that fence.”    — Cole Burnitt

 

Told by Cole Burnitt

Funny thing about fences — they’re meant to keep things in or out, but most of the good stories in life happen leaning on ‘em.

One morning I was leaning on mine, sipping coffee, when the whole section groaned like a mule too tired to pull. Post leaned over, rails sagged. That fence had given up, and if I didn’t fix it, the cows would be in my wife’s tomato patch quicker than you can say “supper’s ruined.”

Now I had plenty of wood but not a nail to my name. Which meant one thing: time to see Joe.

Joe’s my neighbor across the way — a man who never has exactly what you need but always has something else, plus a cold beer to go with it. Sure enough, when I asked if he had nails, he scratched his chin and said, “Straight or crooked?” I told him straight would be nice, but I’d settle for anything that’d hold two boards together longer than a sermon.

We ended up in his shed, digging through a coffee can full of nails that looked like they’d been pulled out of Noah’s Ark. Rusty, bent, some curled like fiddle strings. Joe grinned, handed me a handful, and said, “They’ll hold if you drive ‘em hard enough.”

By then he’d already popped the tops off two longnecks, and fence repair had turned into a porch conversation about last year’s fishing trip, the weather, and how the preacher’s cow somehow got out during Sunday service. His wife hollered from the kitchen, “If y’all are gonna stand around jawin’, at least cook something while you waste the day!”

That was all the permission we needed.

Joe had a barrel smoker that looked like it had been rescued from a junkyard, but the old thing still drew smoke like a hymn draws hallelujahs. I’d brought over a rack of ribs from my fridge “just in case,” and we threw ‘em on, promising ourselves we’d fix the fence while they cooked.

Trouble is, barbecue don’t keep time by your watch. Every time we hammered in a board, the smell of ribs pulled us back like a hound to a bone. Joe mixed up a mop sauce — sweet, tangy, sticky as flypaper — and before long, the hammer handle was slick. I tried to drive one of those bent nails and nearly glued my glove to the post. Joe laughed so hard he about dropped his beer.

At one point his cousin Earl wandered over, drawn by the smoke. Earl leaned on the half-fixed fence, held it steady with his belly, and said, “Looks solid to me.” He stayed long enough to claim a rib for his trouble, which was more than his muscles offered.

By sundown, the fence was holding — barely. Crooked as a politician’s grin, swaying just enough to make me nervous. But the ribs? Lord have mercy. They were perfect. Smoke clung to the meat, sauce set just right, bones sliding out easy.

We sat on that sagging fence with sauce on our shirts, grease on our fingers, and nothing but laughter drifting between us. That fence may not have been square, but the day was.

And you know, I thought about it later — how often the best parts of life get built sideways. Folks think community comes from town meetings and handshakes in city halls. But out here? It comes from bent nails, borrowed tools, shared smoke, and plates you send back licked clean.

That fence still leans today. I could’ve straightened it, sure. But I left it crooked on purpose. Every time I see it, I remember ribs sweeter than the hammer was steady, neighbors closer than boards were square, and a day where friendship mattered more than plumb lines.

Lesson is simple: you can keep your fences neat if you want. Me, I’d rather they lean a little if it means the neighbors still lean on ‘em too.