Building a Sturdy Spite Fence

 

Building a Sturdy Spite Fence

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Unfortunately, I have friends stuck in a spite fight. As is often the case, one party is bewildered while the other party is self-righteously sticking pins in voodoo dolls, metaphorically speaking.

I’m the onlooker.

There is nothing I can do but watch it unfold. I feel sad. I know about spite. And I know who spite hurts. Not so much the intended victim, who often is unaware.

My first clear and vivid memory of my own spiteful action occurred when I was five or six years old. My Grandma made me share my favorite doll with my little sister. Okay. Sharing is good. But I was not allowed to play with my sister’s dolls. Catch the righteousness here?

I showed her. I cut the fingers off my favorite little rubber doll. So there! Play with her now!

Who did I hurt? Well, it wasn’t my sister who had to live with both a disabled doll and that ugly memory of spite.

My next most shameful and cringe-worthy memory is from high school and over a member of the opposite sex. Rightly or wrongly, I thought, rumor being such a marvelous tool, that she was after him and I had him! This is embarrassing to admit. I flaunted it in her face.

Immediately I felt shame and remorse. My behavior was despicable and I knew it. A part of me slunk away and died from that experience.

High school romances are fleeting but memory is forever. Fortunately I paid attention. I did not like those feelings of inner ugliness. Again, who did my spite hurt? Me.

Years later, I was moving house and my male helper was whingeing and whining. I showed him. Remember when television sets were huge, awkward, a 30-inch square box weighing half as much as myself? I wrapped my arms around that sucker, the television, not the guy, and stomped it down the long, narrow stairway, across the alley and slung it over the side into the pick-up. The guy was oblivious to my righteousness and my anger but my spine screamed, hyper-aware, for days.

Memories are painful. Learning often hurts. But these memories taught me a lot about myself, my own tendencies to righteousness and urge to get even for slights, real or imagined. For the most part I’ve been able to keep a lid on those tendencies.

 So it pains me when I see someone I love building a spite fence. Metaphorical or built with brick and razor wire, a spite fence works. It keeps one party righteous in indignation and anger at wrongs, real or imagined. It keeps the other party from opening communication, from attempting to solve what might once have been a solvable problem.

Everybody loses. The neighbors on either side of the spite fence lose friendship and trust. The fenced in neighbor loses sleep for a few nights but that will pass. The fence builder loses sleep too, ever vigilant to find more reasons for hate and anger, nightly reviewing and revising each possibility.

The reasons are very real. “He looked at me.” “He didn’t speak to me.” “He pushed ahead of me in line.” Think grade school.

Me, the onlooker. I lose too. I lose at least one friend. There is nothing I can do. I tried. This isn’t the first spite fence flung in the way of communication between these people.

Once, a few years ago, I asked the perpetrator, “How does that make you feel.”

“I feel great,” the answer. The words from his mouth and the expression on his face did not match.

Alrighty then.

There are a lot of kinds and examples of spite fences. My favorite, from a farmer in Utah.  He planted a row of old vehicles nose down along the boundary of his farm and a new housing development, after his new neighbors complained of farm dust and animal smells. He called it “Redneck Stonehenge”.

I hope his story had a happy ending. Neighbors got the message, were able to say, “Oh, well, sure, I chose to live next to a farm.” And perhaps the farmer uprooted his fence, easy to plant, easy to remove.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 21, 2022

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Fantasies of Phenomena

 

Fantasies of Phenomena

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I was going to write about the morning symphony, featuring “Variations on a Theme at Sunrise” with Bell-ringing Bird on timpani. This music assured me that the huge black cloud in the western sky was not a slow-moving tornado but a cloud of smoke coming from the landfill, recently plagued by brush fires.

I was going to write about “The Rule of Three,” a phenomenon in my family that mechanical failings trundle down the line in triplicate, always. This past week my washing machine broke down. My blender began emitting a stink similar to that black cloud filling the sky. My sewing machine, a cheap piece of plastic garbage I bought seven years ago, broke down. I signed its death warrant and destined its useless hulk to the landfill to add to the black cloud stink.

I was going to write about another family phenomenon, some would call karma, but I choose to call instant psychic feedback. With malice aforethought, I killed a spider. I know you find this difficult to believe.

That spider, the size of a flattened tennis ball, had lived in my shower stall a week plus days, sharing my morning ablutions, each of us warily eye-balling the other. I got to speculating it might be a female and soon my house would be overrun with cookie-cutter images of mama. What would you do?

I awoke three days later with a spider bite on my inside arm, an inch above the crease of my elbow. I watched the bite site expand, thicken, turn deeply red with a white pustule in the center. To the best of my ability, I kept my hands off the bite, slathered it in Bag Balm, and pretty much, took to my bed for three days. I still have a red circle but it no longer itches, burns or hurts. Debt paid in full.

Instead, I’ll tell you about my morning surprise. I got shot.

Oftentimes we don’t know what is coming until it comes. I’d been waiting eagerly for vaccination news for two months and a week. I knew Mexico had a huge vaccine shipment from Holland. But when would it be divvied out? Would our little municipality get the goods?

Leo showed up, pronto. “You can get your second vaccination today or I’ll get you a number for later in the week.”

“Let’s go now.” I grabbed a bottle of water, my paperwork and my green card. Off we went, John and Carol right behind us.

Hordes of masked neighbors and townsfolk gathered to be quickly sorted into lines, each of us issued a number. Those who were unable to be vaccinated today, were given a number for tomorrow or later in the week.

I don’t know if it was the lack of advanced warning, the rush of getting ready, the excitement, the anticipation, lack of breakfast or what, but by the time I presented my documentation, I could barely sign my name, I was so shaky. Leo kept saying to me, “Breathe.”

I quickly advanced to the nurse with the needle, sat in the chair and realized my body was one gigantic tight muscle. That would not do. I issued a quick order to my body, “Let go.” Amazingly, it let go. My entire body became as water, all that useless energy puddled at my feet. I got shot, and went to the back courtyard area to wait out my required half hour and sip water.

Once I got home, I stripped, scrubbed in the shower and threw my mask and clothing into the laundry, a practice taught me by Michelle and Ana, who go out into the community more often than me.

Residual nervous energy eventually translated to elation. Yes, elation.

I had reacted to the crowds of people like a sheltered child, taken to the State Fair, overstimulated by strangers and colors and voices and rides and games and other unusual activities, but without benefit of hot dogs, cotton candy, and stomach-roiling rides.

I need to get out more.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

April 29, 2021

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