i know why the caged bird dines al fresco

buttoning up the patio

In a dream world, the fence around our patio would be waist-high, or at most, five feet.  You know, the kind of fence over which you see your neighbor, and you lean over and chat about lawnmowers or the paperboy or some other aspect of the idyllic suburban life of a bygone era.  Ours regrettably needs to be about eight feet tall, curving outward to prevent neighborhood toughs from jumping over and swiping our patio furniture, or, as appears to be the big hobby around here, spray-painting a scribbly symbol that indicates who was here.  Still, from the inside, with a few potted plants and maybe a string of twinkly lights, I’m hoping it won’t feel overly like jail.

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