Notes on Southern Property Rights

The land that borders Winged Elm Farm’s southernmost pasture is a parcel of about fourteen acres of scrub trees and marshy ground … and it sold this month for three times what we paid for 70 acres and the construction of a 1,500-square-foot home twenty-seven years ago. Without trying to sound harsh, my guess is that the new owners are from California, New York, or the newest favorite contender, Wisconsin, all fleeing the tax man. My concern, however, is not with their origin or origin story. My concern on this day is with what I anticipate to be their complete lack of respect for property boundaries.

We have had new neighbors (fortunately they have been few) who treated a fence line as something to remove. Being ignorant of the reason for its presence, or simply choosing to disregard its purpose, poof! they pulled it down. Much like our culture approaches traditions whose historic significance can’t be easily determined: they’re casually dispensed with. Leaving a property line wide open works, mostly, at least for a bit, that is, until the cows wander through and tromp through the new neighbors’ garden.

Boundaries are important. Need I say more? Well, on this particular day I have decided to preempt these new unknowns (who have yet to be met or build anything) and post “No Trespassing” signs along our dividing barbed wire fence. Sporting large white letters on a bright red background, the signs are willfully offensive and cannot be missed. Truly, my goal is not to offend, only to gently remind the landowners or other would-be transgressors to think before tearing down that which I have labored to build, rebuild, and rebuild again over these many years.

This recent day, as I push through the first set of gates with signs in hand, is quite warm and humid. By the time I reach the end of the lane, although in shade I am already sweating through my T-shirt (which ultimately turns out to be helpful). Starting at the eastern corner of the fence and working my way west, I staple a sign every thirty feet onto the old locust posts. I have to push through some brush at the edge of the pasture for access, but, once there, the fence line is clear, thanks to the cattle, who love to walk the boundaries, keeping routes of egress in the back of their bovine minds for emergency scenarios.

While preparing to staple the next sign, just past a massive white oak, I see a large hen-of-the-woods mushroom growing on a stump. Sadly, it is about ten feet on the far side of the fence. Desirable, yes, but I leave it alone.

Just then, my mind focused on the task at hand as I reach for yet another sign, a distinctive yellow-gold catches my eye. There, off to the left of the hen of the woods, is a veritable carpet of chanterelles spread out in a lovely flush of goodness. It is but the work of moments for me to raise the barbed wire and squeeze through. I pull off my shirt and start stuffing the bountiful forage onto the sweat-damp cloth. A couple of minutes later, shirtless, my loot in a bundle, I ease back through the wire. Before heading down the lane toward home, I stop to staple a final no-trespassing sign onto a post. That should keep the new neighbors at bay!

Addendum: The next day, having been alerted to the presence of chanterelles on the adjoining property, a friend joins me and we forage in my own patch of woods. Between us, we return with eight pounds of golden delights.