Fences


One of the first things Dad taught us as kids was how to go over fences. He said it was important to be able to escape quickly, and the best way to do that, was to be able to get over fences or gates quick.

It seemed odd enough to Sam and me. But it was something Dad insisted on.

I was ten, and Sammy was six when Dad first bought and assembled a nine foot iron gate in the middle of our back yard. It was held up by steel posts in the ground, and chains attatching it.

We both failed miserably the first time. Sammy chipped a tooth, and sprained an ankle before he even reached the top of the first side. He slid, fell, and slammed into the ground. I managed to get to the top, but I cut myself pretty good on the metal spikes on top. Actually, I tore myself up so bad I needed twenty three stitches. And then I fell, and managed to give myself a mild concussion to top it all off.

Dad patched us up, got us to bed... and woke us up early the next morning to try again. And the morning after that... and the one after that... You get the general idea.

It took us six long months before dad decided we were proficient enough. Six months of cuts and bruises, sprains and concussions, but I'll be the first to admit, the old man was right. There were a lotta times when we would have ended up in jail, or dead if we hadn't been able to clear fences or gates. Or in some cases, clear them quicker than whoever -or whatever- was chasing after us.

One of the things, looking back at it, that I thought was stupid and pointless, but it's saved my ass more times than I care to remember.

One more time dad was right.

Many more times he's kept me alive, even though he's not here.

One more 'I told you so'.

Damn.