Good Fences
Downtown Morgantown is cradled by a hilly neighborhood where anybody who’s a remotely liberal somebody lives. At its tippy top sits a 900 sq. ft. faux-cedar rancher that housed a family of five in the 70s. Now she’s a rental, for the past 5.5 years home to another family of five, if you count the dogs (and if you don’t, you don’t count). The Head of Household’s eclectic decor draws an odd contrast against Little Home’s modest 90s updates, but home it is because hearts it holds.
Of the home’s two male residents, neither is old enough to drive or wise enough to flush after peeing, and both are destined for greatness, one an engineer and the other an artist, or at least that’s what their mother predicts.
Their mom, on the verge of meeting decade 50 (or FIFTEH YEARS OLD per Sally O’Malley), is no longer sure what she’s going to be when she grows up. Despite being born to tell stories — both literal and branded — she’s in the throes of war with a job market that has the best army in the land backed by billionaire AI bros and professional platforms built to serve the Algo Master.
Upon moving to the highest hill in town from a grass-starved rental just a few blocks below, the two boys were stoked to discover the Biggest Yard Ever. Indeed, Mother Nature bestowed quite a swath of green to this little abode — an acre in a neighborhood known to be stingy with land. However, this dreamscape held a secret not visible to the eager eye: Mishandled by decades of hillside erosion and one excavator indifferent to re-grading, Mother’s abundance gave way to a mine field of lumps, holes, and rocks that came to spoil the glee of yard-thirsty boys.
The two female children in the home, canine by birth, remain undeterred to this day. A whole acre to poop and play? A dog’s dream — and a mother’s dismay given the excess of freedom, aka no fences. Anyone with a lick of sense or a therapist knows that a lack of boundaries spells trouble.
As Mamma has learned, yards are a lot like grownup decisions: If you don’t survey your options wisely, you’ll end up with a lot of emotional land you can’t use. Back in literal land, she does as all determined mammas do: tries to make the best of things, but strong boys are made of stubborn parts and strong fences are made with deep pockets. And so it goes: Year after year, the Biggest Yard Ever pines for the company of detached boys and chained dogs.
On summer Sundays, Mamma finds a fix: She gathers her brood and whisks them away to a place where blood is thicker than water and boundaries are sturdy with chain link. Another rancher on a hill, this one belongs to one Memaw of hillbilly heritage and one Nanoo rooted in southern Italy. Meticulously tidy and perpetually warm (to the chagrin of one mid-lifer suffering hormonal temperature swings), it’s a safe haven where bellies are full, dogs are free, and weary souls find rest.
If home is where the heart is, may we cherish where hearts abound.
