When it comes to repairing broken items and keeping things organized and straight I can be very meticulous at times, sometimes a little too exaggerated they say. Take for instance that fence of ours. It starts at the side of our house, goes back eleven meters or so before turning left to cover the back side of our garden and then after thirteen meters or so turns left again to divide the neighbor's backyard from ours. This has to do with the other side which is adjacent to the street (you see our house is on the corner). Alot of kids run around in the street and play soccer (they call it football here, "voetbal" actually). The problem is that the kids get carried away and kick the hard ball all over the place, often against the fence. They even use the fence as a backdrop for the goal which really gets me mad. Slam, slam and bounce away, sometimes over the top and into the garden where we are sitting. A couple of times the ball actually barely missed my left ear, struck the top of the picnic table between the plates and drinking glasses and bounced over to the neighbors backyard. I thought that I was on TV. Not that the noise or this risky business of balls bouncing everywhere gets me and rattles my nerves. Wherever would you get that impression? The problem is that the wooden planks of the fence get battered so badly that they fall off because of the constant wear and tear. The soccer ball as a pumped-up battering ram. Big open splits form in the fence so that the passersby can look into our garden and see us sitting there. Watch live and in person as the next soccer ball flies over, nearly slicing off my left ear lobe before bouncing off of the table. I yell at the kids again, and I act like the grumpy neighbor. This only helps for a day or two, sometimes longer but more often shorter. The kids always come back and use the fence again for the goal. Slam, slam and bounce away. Preferably when I am not around, but if they are numbed enough by my persistent grumpiness I could be standing in front of the goalkeeper and it would not matter. This weekend I put the fallen wooden plank back in place. With loving hands, caring so deeply for this cherished flatness of wood. The screws which are supposed to prevent gravity from acting and pulling them off get rusted, and the brittle screws tend to break and snap off. One fragment remaining deeply embedded in the wooden beam, never again to see the light of day. Not only do I have to pull out the four screws with a wrench and forceful twist, but I also have to re-drill four holes just above and as close as possible to the original entry points. This is necessary so that the plank remains flush to the others on the left and right, without anyone noticing that the poor wooden plank has been bashed to the ground by the thoughtless youth and their puerile kicking motions. This is an endless cycle of replacing, warning, yelling, and in the end replacing again. We have lived here in this house for four years and I think I have replaced just about all of the wooden planks on the right side at least once. Repetition makes us crazy but keeps us going at the same time.
