Good Fences Make Good Neighbors—Building a Privacy Fence
After I closed on the house and before I moved in, I stopped by once or twice a day to check on reno progress, work in the yard, or both.
And I began to notice something unsettling.
It began with a guy carrying a canvas shoulder bag, who walked by the house, then stopped.
“Are you moving in?” he said.
I assumed he was a neighbor.
“Yes,” I said, “I just bought the place.”
“Well,” he said, “You should know that the lady who lived here before was really friendly.”
“She used to let us party in her back yard.”
“Oh, really?” I said, disconcerted.
“Yes,” he said, “Just so you know.”
He then continued down the street.
I mentally shook my head and resumed my yardwork.
A few minutes later, my neighbor Traci walked over.
“What did he say to you?” she said, concerned.
I repeated the exchange.
Traci said, “Did you promise him anything?”
“Hell, no!” I said. “No idea who he is.”
She was visibly relieved. “That’s one of our neighborhood homeless guys. He is always hanging around, and the woman who rented the house before you bought it tolerated him.”
“If he gives you trouble, text me, so John and I can come over and give you support.”
“He’s a pest. We think he’s harmless—but you know how it is.”
“It’s fine—until it isn’t.”
The Situation Escalates
My yard is bordered on the left by a 6-foot-tall fence that separates my yard from a narrow strip of undeveloped property owned by the 7-11 that backed up to my back yard. The lot was overgrown with weeds, tall grass, and Oregon Blackberry.
It turned out that the lot was a hangout for several homeless guys, including the one who claimed that the tenant who had lived in my house allowed them to party in my back yard.
When I worked in the yard, they would try to start conversations with me over the fence. The guy with the bag (I started calling him The Bag Man in my head) would stand on a tree stump in the 7-11 lot, look over the back fence, and talk to me nonstop whether I answered or not.
One day, while I was showing friends through the house and back yard, The Bag Man threw his bag over the fence. Mystified, one of my friends threw it back.
He did it again, and she threw it back a second time.
A few days later, while I was working in the yard, he marched up my driveway, uninvited.
“Someone threw my bag over your fence and I need to get it.”
“No,” I said. “You threw it over, like you did a few days ago.”
“NO,” he said. “I SWEAR someone else did it! I NEED TO GET MY BAG.”
I went and got it for him, then told him that if it ever landed in my yard again, I would consider it my property and dispose of it.
At that point Traci’s husband John crossed the street.
“Are you OK?” he said to me.
The Bag Man fled. The following day he resumed his over-the fence monologue while I worked in the back yard.
When I ignored the remarks, (whihc was always) they would shout and curse to try to get me to respond. I continued to ignore them but the constant stream of unwanted attention continued.
Then they started walking past the 7-11 dumpster to throw their garbage (unbagged of course) in my garbage can.
The last straw was when a neighbor walking his dog past my house noticed one of the group trying to set my home’s wooden trim on fire with a Bic lighter.
This resulted in an epic chase between the homeless guy, my neighbor, and his dog from my front door to the 7-11 followed by a confrontation that ended with the arrival of four police cars with lights and siren blazing.
Traci texted me at my condo with the play-by-play.
I decided that it was time to reclaim my property and my privacy. And my garbage can.
Time to build a proper privacy fence.
Reclamation Begins
My neighbors’ attitude toward the situation was to shrug and say, “Nothing we can do.”
I decided to test that theory with a call to the local police. The dispatcher knew about the 7-11 incident and was sympathetic to my situation.
Even better, she provided me with a solution. Whenever I felt threatened, she told me to call the dispatcher on duty and report the incident so a patrol car could stop by.
She also suggested a taller fence.
I added the dispatcher phone number to my speed dial list and cracked open my laptop to look at the fence installation listings in Thumbtack.
I sent out several quote requests via Thumbtack and waited for responses.
I described the situation to each fencing company that responded. I wanted a fence tall enough to discourage The Bag Man and his friends when they tried to converse with me.
The winner wasn’t the cheapest bid.
The winner was Tony, who, looking at my yard, made three inspired suggestions:
“There’s a 6-foot height limit on fencing in your county—but no limit on the footing for the fencing. We can add a 2-foot footer so your fence will be 8 feet high.”
“We can install the fence so all the runners are facing your yard. That way, no one will be able to stand on the runners so they can look over the fence.”
“We can extend the front fence by two panels so access to your garbage can is blocked.”
“What do you think?”
“Tony,” I said, “You are HIRED.”
Tony understood that my new fence wasn’t just a fence. It was a way to get my house and yard back.
Fence Installation
Tony and his crew arrived on a brisk, sunny November morning, their truck loaded with the pre-built cedar panels, footers, and pressure-treated posts.
First they removed the old fence, which had been installed on the property line.
Using a power auger, they dug new 30” post holes, added Quikrete, and set the posts with temporary braces to keep the posts plumb and level while the Quikrete set.
After the concrete had set (about 4 hours), the crew started installing the panels. Tony invited me to come out and see if they were tall enough. I went through a gap in the fence, stood on the tree stump on tiptoe, and was delighted to see an extra 18-or-so-inches of fence.
“That ought to do it,” said Tony.
My hero.
By sunset, I had a new, taller, solid fence that also blocked access to my garbage can.
Tony and crew loaded the old fencing in the truck and departed.
I looked out my laundry room window and saw nothing but fence.
My house finally belonged to me—and only me.
When Spring arrived, I would be able to start my back yard garden without bags flying, over-the-fence monologues, and near-riots at the 7-11.
Then something else happened.
Working Within the System
When the weather began to warm up, and The Bag Man and his cohorts returned to our neighborhood, the situation started to change.
I had passed along the police dispatcher’s advice and phone number to everyone in the neighborhood.
At first, no one called but me.
When I called, a patrol car always responded within a few minutes. No lights. No sirens. No shouting. No drama.
Just two calm police officers handing the miscreant a free bottled water, gently shooing them into the patrol car, and escorting them out of the neighborhood.
I would always go out and thank them personally for their help (I refrained from giving them hugs even though I wanted to).
Traci was the first to catch on. One day she texted me, “What was that police number again?”
I texted it to her and waited at the window.
When the police car pulled up, I went out, waited while the officers moved the guy to the car, then approached for my customary thank-you.
Traci came out of her house to do the same.
After that, two things happened.
My other neighbors started calling police dispatch. And, over time, the problem vanished.
All we had to do was work within the existing system consistently and persistently.
Feeling powerless and being powerless aren't the same thing.
Every community has different laws and different resources. Learn yours. Ask questions. Find out what your options are. Then use them consistently.
You may have more ability to protect your home than you realize.
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With Spring coming, I plan my first backyard garden.
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