It seems like lately, every time I drive down a street I’ve known my whole life, there’s a new fence. Not just any fence, mind you, but tall fences. Really tall ones. They’ve gone up around the new houses, and sometimes even around the older ones, too.

I remember when fences were mostly for keeping cows in or gardens safe from deer, and they weren’t usually all that high. You could always see your neighbor waving over the top, or at least see what kind of flowers they were growing. Folks used to borrow a cup of sugar, or a wrench, without feeling like they were trespassing.

Now, it’s different. The fences feel… permanent. They’re often privacy fences, they say. To keep things private. But I always figured a good neighborly wave was a kind of privacy in itself, a way of acknowledging each other’s space without needing a wooden wall between us.

My neighbor, Mildred Peterson, who lives next to the new condo development on North 7th, she mentioned the other day that her rhododendrons aren’t getting as much sun as they used to. The new fence around the condos casts quite a shadow. She didn’t complain, just observed it, like she does most things. But you could tell she missed her sunny rhododendrons.

I suppose everyone has a right to their own space. And with more people moving in, maybe personal space feels different than it used to. There are more cars, more noise, more everything. Perhaps the fences are just trying to keep up with all the changes, trying to hold onto a little bit of quiet in a busy world.

But I can’t help but notice what we might be fencing ourselves off from, too. It used to be you could glance over and see if old Mr. Abernathy needed a hand with his groceries, or if Mrs. Henderson’s cat was out again. These little daily acknowledgments, they were part of the fabric of things. Made a community feel like a community.

Now, with the new, taller fences, it feels like we’re seeing less, not more. Less of the sky, sometimes. Less of each other. And while privacy is a fine thing, I sometimes wonder if we’re losing a bit of our neighborliness in the process, one tall fence post at a time. It’s just something I’ve been noticing as I drive around town.

Phyllis Grainbelt has lived in the Gallatin Valley her entire life and remembers when the Co-op was just a co-op. She does not elaborate on what this means.