Issue link: https://read.dmtmag.com/i/138965
82 • JULY 2013 • WORLD FENCE NEWS In memory of Jim Hart, fencer, storyteller, world class humorist and World Fence News contributing editor emeritus, we will occasionally reprint one of the many articles that he contributed to World Fence News over the years. Here is one that was originally published in April 1991. Jim passed away in Florida, where he lived, a number of years ago. • • • Hi there, ya'll! This sure has been an eventful week 'round here. We actually got a live customer, not bad for the "slack season." Mary also had a little lamb. Boy, were the doctors surprised! You ought to see 'em when Old McDonald had his farm! Couldn't believe their eyes! Anyhow, we sorta got into "truck farming" ourselves. I do believe this is a first for a fence company. We get a call for a fence estimate at a day care center. When we arrive, all the "accumulation" on the cab floor decides to get out with me – wrenches, fittings, paper, the whole schmear, including some stuff I never seen before! I tell the customer, "We live in the truck." She says, "I know what you mean! You ought to see our truck cab!" She says, "Guess you are one up on us though – you're growing your own vegetables in there!" I look in, and by Godfrey, she is right. There are green things sprouting all over the floorboards on top of a bunch of political literature from various candidates. Is this proof positive that all them campaign promises are just so much "you-know-what?" I bet the corn will be 40 feet tall next crop where the candidates made personal appearances! We got a squash crop started on the truck cab floor. I wondered where I lost that bag of seeds a while back! Now I know! The bad news is, we didn't get this fence job. A jealous husband in a king cab 3/4 ton truck pulls up and hollers, Stories about dirty trucks and baby possums BY JIM HART, WFN CONTRIBUTING EDITOR EMERITUS "You want how much for that little bit of fence?" He musta been "jealous" of our squash; he could get 40 bushels of corn outa his back seat if he tried. But you can't win 'em all, right? Our next job "clicks," though. Five hundred and ninety-seven feet of 48" with two 12' O.D. to go around a "rock farm." The customer is a "collector." She has boulders from all over the world, and knows each one by name and where it came from. I mention she must have enough rocks to replace what erosion took out of the Grand Canyon the last 3 million years! They'd make one hell of a stone fence! She says she has other plans for them. We got a squash crop started on the truck cab floor. I wondered where I lost that bag of seeds a while back! Now I know! Now, getting down to business, do we clear the right-of-way or would she have to hire someone to move all the boulders? she asks. All but two rocks appear to be "smack dab center" of the property line. About umpteen tons of 'em, and most have to be dug out. Now, I ain't supposed to push, pull, stoop or lift. So I recommend a neighbor's two teenage sons for the job. If I would of known what she was willing to pay, I'd have pushed 'em out with my nose! The boys made enough dough not to have to hit a lick for the next three summer vacations! Anyway, we finish the job and start for home. We pass a run-over possum on the road; a fairly common sight around here. We drive on, but the wife says, "I saw something moving on it." Well, curiosity takes over and we turn around and go back. Sure 'nuff, something's moving. I see two babies crawling over the "carcass." The last time we tried to save a baby possum, it died in a week. I figure, let nature take its course – put 'em off the road and forget it. Oh well, the best laid plans are for mice and men... It turns out there are seven of the little ones, not two! Five are still nursing. So my soft head takes over. Seven is too many to let die without a fight. We might save a couple of 'em anyway. I can't get the five to "turn loose," so I put the whole shebang in the truck and take 'em home. By the time we arrive, six are loose and asleep in a big ball. One is still hanging on. I shred a pile of newspaper and put it in a box, deposit the little ones in it, and cover 'em up. A quick call to my veterinarian friend and customer brings the information that, under state law, it's probably illegal to have them; nevertheless, try to get some animal milk into 'em. He asked if we have a nursing cat that might feed 'em. No, we only have toms. OK, he's got some canned dog milk – $4 a pint. Try to give 'em about 1 oz. a day of it, he says. Well, we try a doll's bottle on 'em, but they ain't taking it. So, in this case of dire emergency we call in expert help. We get the grandkids Steph and Chrissy over. They, of course, fall in love with the babies. Chrissy is amazed they have hands like us. The kids solve the problem right off when they rub the bottles alongside the possum's mouths. Their mouths open, and they put a drop of milk in. Well, you can't knock success can you? The kids name 'em after the seven dwarfs in Snow White – Sneezy, Doc, Grumpy, Sleepy, etc. There is one we calls "Ignatz." Ignatz is an old Latin term that translates into "shirt grabber." Ignatz lived up to his name. He was the runt of the littler, but he is damn quick. Let me tell you, every time I picked him up to feed him he ran up my arm and got a death grip on my shirt. I had to cut him loose each time. I look like I been welded when I wear a shirt he got hold of – holes everywhere! Well, we had 'em a week now, and all are eating on their own – plums, peaches, watermelon, honey, icecream and earthworms. They show a strong preference for the worms. I am learning to talk possum from 'em. They got a whole scale of "PST-PSTPST" that sounds sorta like when you are calling a cat! Ignatz has given up shirt-grabbing, namely cause I don't wear a shirt around him anymore. I can't afford a new t-shirt every day. He, of course, is the first one to latch onto any hand that comes near him. The others are "properly leery" of us. One bites, the others hiss. Ignatz wants to be held. He likes his back stroked and his ears scratched – very un-possum like behavior! We plan to return 'em all to the woods in a week or so. They seem to be equipped to survive now. They just need a little more size on 'em. "Ignatz" will be hard to part with. I get a "royal cussing" of hisses and "PST-PST-PST's" every time I pry him off my hand – usually upside down – into the box. I mean, he is mad about being put down, no doubt about it! He waves his tail like "another hand." Gotta go! Feeding time! "PST" – pause – "PST" – pause – "PST." That's possum talk for "We are hungry!" Really! Hey, I'm learning a foreign language! How 'bout that!