It’s an ugly piece of detritus. A wobbling piece of nouveau-grunge-art consisting of ancient, half-rotted slats bound together with twisted wire. This is not one of those pristinely rugged rail fences that mark the acreage of someone who works in the city and likes to think of themselves as weekend country gentry. It’s not the lovely lattice of town. Nope, this is a piece of scrap that was hanging between a post and an old shed when we got here.

This is the quintessential “windbreak fence.” It’s old-school. And it’s been sitting rolled up in a corner of the yard while I was trying to remove the weeds that had been using it like a body-shield in a hostage situation.

Well, I went to reinstall the old fence the other day. I picked it up with some trepidation. When you lift, the slats like to slide together and try to pinch fingers. I hadn’t come in battle-gear. It was just a moment of spontaneous fence-frivolity. But I managed to get the ornery old thing semi-vertical, still in its roll.

It’s not very long, maybe 16 feet. It just nicely covers the back side of my favourite flowerbed, sheltering from the wind that comes screaming around the corner of the house. May I say, though, that it is plenty long enough.

I wrapped wires around one fence post and scrambled back frantically to try and keep the other end from whapping the snot out of my irises. Then the initial end let go and did its best to wonk the lilies. I jury-rigged one short, inadequate loop as slats shrunken in the sun tried to dance their way out of their wire constraints up and down the length.

Whew. Okay. Irises safe. Then I wrestled with the ends that threaten to stab passers-by at the path again, fighting to tuck them out of harm’s way. You know, if I were the fence, I’d fight it too. Having to get up… And then just stand there all stretched out… Getting bonked around by wind. What a truly sad existence.

However, fences were created for a purpose, just like people. And I insist mine fulfill its destiny. Not to mention getting it out of the way of the lawnmower.

Now it stands, blending surprisingly well with rusty wagon wheels and a cottagey bed of flowers. It may not be cedar board with nice square posts and finials… But I don’t care. It’s been a part of my yard since we moved here, and probably will be for a long time to come. At least until all those slats figure out how to stage a mass escape.

I step out the door and breathe deeply. It’s nearing the lunch hour. Elsewhere in the world, people are stuck in traffic, trying to negotiate meals with children who’ve run home from school, or hoping to get through the take-out line before the retail counter demands their servitude again.

It’s not exactly quiet here, either. There’s a ten-year-old experimenting with complex dissonance on the piano (read: sheer noise). There’s an eight-year-old spinning by wanting to explain the detailed workings of a toy. The two smaller ones, “the Littles,” are frighteningly well-occupied in the homeschool room. I’ll clean whatever-it-is up later.

Right in front of me, there’s peace. The air weaves faintly and carries birdsong. The world is relaxed, taking a day off from heat, wind or storm. I take a deep breath of sweet rain and fresh-cut grass. The sky is softly flowing with deep grey and mute blue. I cross the lawn and see an extra depth of colour in everything under the magnifying glass of moisture. I saw the spatter on the window earlier, and now I hear it dripping gently off the eaves. Nowhere else – the house is much slower than the sky to shed its tiny rivers-in-the-making.

I look out into the fields as I cross the lane. A mist rises up and waters the earth. Or maybe it simply trails down and brushes the ground from above. It gives the air both smell and taste, its own subtle prairie flavour. Trees of various kind leave strong scents – but the grasses and grains are wild and ephemeral, almost intangible to the senses.

I step down into the garden, and the faint presence of the black soil rises and hugs me. I find small leaves of romaine lettuce, spinach, chard, a few spikes of chives. They are clean with the gentle drizzle-mist. Two fists full of small treasures, I head slowly back. The poplars across the way sigh rattling whispers, a sound that has been with me all my life. It takes me to various places, most strongly, the cottage my grandparents used to have on a creek bank outside Winnipeg. It’s the sound of good memories.

From the side of the house, the flowerbed calls to my eyes with pink and purple, blue, yellow and white. After five years, it’s becoming more and more beautiful. This spring is full of irises, and I hope there will be a few left to send in to my garden customers when I take them the first week’s salad greens.

I come back in and wash the leaves for bugs, and I feel they come away from the sink less clean. Faintly chlorinated, stripped of trace minerals from invisible soil spatters. Next time, I’ll just inspect them by eye for anything that creepeth, and hang on to all the goodness of being near to the earth.

The ten-year-old has switched to volume tests on the trombone. The eight-year-old is enthusiastically baking all over the kitchen. I smile a little. Escape is costless, priceless and as simple as stepping through a doorway into another, calmer world.