The Garden Gate

Tuesday my new garden gate went up. I haven't had one for awhile (the old one rotted and fell to pieces, after 60 years' use), which is the main factor on which I blame my burglary--I made it just too easy. So now I am making it hard--the height of the gate is above my head, and there will be a padlock to secure it when I am not at home.

I really dislike the way things are going--I've lived in this house in this neighborhood for more than 30 years, and for most of those years I would leave the house with a window open for ventilation and the back door ajar so my cats could go out and enjoy the day on the screened-in patio. No more; now it's padlocks and alarm systems, and after 30 years of feeling secure in my "castle," I jump at every noise, inspect the reason for the neighbor dog's bark, and leave a light on 24-7. It's a sad commentary. Also, it makes me feel OLD and curmudgeonly to be talking in this vein (no, I didn't use the phrase "the good old days," but that's the gist, isn't it?).

So here's a photo of my new gate--it's a beauty. Weather-proof, rust-proof, attractive, and secure. And below it is a painting I made about 10 years ago of the old gate, when it was aged, flaked and rusted, but still hanging. Not as nice as the new one, that's for sure, but what it symbolized was infinitely more precious.