This little yarn is so old now that I’m the only one left to repeat it.

One summer, Uncle Dick was getting ready to put up a fence in his front garden so he could grow a few vegetables. He summoned his buddy, Vince Butler, to help with the task.

Both Vince and Dick were what you’d call eccentric, with a way of speaking you don’t often hear among Bay Men anymore.

Dick had hauled home some good stakes (fence posts), longers (railings), and palins from the woods in his ’72 Ford pickup. He trimmed them up and was ready to set them in place.

I happened to be visiting, watching this fine work of art unfold.

They stopped for lunch, and Uncle Gus — Dick’s brother — had prepared a Herring Hog Stew, which they called Puffin Pig. Refreshments were London Dock Rum with a home‑brew chaser.

After a few drinks, Dick asked Vince, as they gazed out the kitchen window, what he thought of the job so far — keeping in mind that some of the stakes were crooked.

Vince took a slow look and replied:

“Well, there are stakes… and mistakes.
What we have here, my friend, are mistakes.”

A few laughs, another glass of that vegetarian brew, and then back out into the fog they went to finish the fence.