My Neighbors Dug A Two-Acre Lake On My Land While I Was Out Of State—Then Told Me Their Contractor Said…

I think about him more as I get older. I think about the way his hands looked, cracked and scarred, always carrying some small injury from work he considered too ordinary to mention. I think about how he would have reacted if he had come over that ridge and seen water where his pasture belonged. He would not have yelled first. He would have gone quiet. Then he would have measured. Then he would have acted.

That comforts me.

Not because I need the dead to approve every choice I make, but because some values are inherited like land itself. You do not own them so much as steward them for a while. My grandfather gave my father a line to protect. My father gave it to me. One day, if I am lucky, I will give it to someone after me—not just the acreage, but the understanding that a boundary only means something if you are willing to defend it when defense is inconvenient.

The Bowers have been good neighbors. Their dog comes onto my side sometimes, a fat yellow lab named Biscuit who believes boundaries are for less friendly species. Tom always calls before retrieving him. I always tell him not to worry. Dogs, unlike people, rarely hire lawyers before trespassing.

Caleb eventually bought a small place five miles away. He still helps me during hay season and pretends he is doing me a favor when we both know he likes having a reason to come out. Rebecca remarried a good man in Huntsville. We are kind to each other when we meet, and I have learned that some losses can stop hurting without becoming regrets. Ruth Ann still sends me a Christmas card from her law office. Harold retired, though he claims surveyors do not retire, they just “stop charging for being right.” Curtis Hale still answers my calls, though now he begins with, “You need dirt moved or justice delivered?”