Adventures in Lumberjacking

A few years ago, we had a pretty bad ice storm. Because I live in Ohio. During this storm, the ice caused a couple of rather large branches on two trees in my front yard to buckle under the weight. These huge branches, seemingly defying gravity, hung on, only to dangle precariously.

The following spring, I used a highly technical procedure to remove the lower of the two limbs. I yanked it down. Literally. I pulled and twisted until what splintered wood and tenacity held it in place cracked and it crashed to the ground. After some light chainsawing and heavy raking, all that was left of the branch was the splintered arm from whence it was severed. The other broken branch was out of my reach. It hung there by sheer willpower, awaiting the next ice storm to bring it crashing down, potentially through my neighbor’s bay window.

Summer came. Then autumn. Followed by another winter. I lived in fear of the storm that would bring about its demise. Fortunately, it was an uneventful winter. Another round of spring and summer passed. Every day I looked at this sagging appendage. Never knowing when it might make its move. It stared me down. Daring me to leave it be.

Then came autumn. My neighbor implored me to have someone remove the limb. He even offered to help me fell the tree. I nodded and agreed that it needed to be done. No action was ever taken.

Winter reared its ugly head again. As if conspiring with the tree, it brought another ice storm. Not nearly as ferocious as the one that had inflicted the damage. Just enough to cause me to worry every day that I would be replacing a window as my neighbors stood staring, shivering. Giving me a look as if to say, “I told you so. Look what you have done to my family.” The limb held fast.

I devised a plan. I have an extension ladder, purchased some time ago. It extends to 19 feet. Or 22 feet. I can never remember. I would prop the ladder against the sturdier part of the branch and use my chainsaw to slowly work my way up the hanging branches (that were miraculously still alive). Once I reached the thicker part of the branch, I would not have to worry as much about the branch bouncing off the smaller sticks, propelling itself into my neighbor’s home. Nor would I have to worry about the release of the weight causing the tree to recoil, sending me flying towards the ground from 19 or 22 feet with a running chainsaw in my hand. Quite ingenious, I must say.

With my college-aged pseudo-son in town, the time to attach was now. The sturdier part of the branch is more than 19 feet. Or 22 feet. There is no way I could execute my flawless plan. I had to come up with something else. As we were preparing for the mission, I was told, “I’m not too fond of heights. And I’ve never used a chainsaw before.” Very well, then. I would be the one in the tree with the potentially lethal tool. His job at this point was to hold the ladder.

“Should I tell him I’ve never held a ladder before?” I heard him say as I scaled the tiny aluminum frame. No. Don’t tell me. Even if it’s true.

Plan B was to tether the broken branch with a rope of some sort. With it secured, My pseudo-son could stand behind the adjacent tree and pull, ensuring the falling limb followed the expected path. I have no rope. I have some small twine. But the longest piece is maybe 6 feet long. Not long enough to reach, well, anywhere. Being the resourceful type, I got my ratchet straps. I expertly secured one end as high as I could reach. (Keep in mind, the broken part was still 10 feet or so above my perch, which was a 5 foot climb from where the ladder reached. I tied this ratchet strap to another one. This barely reached over the limb of the next tree I planned to use and the fulcrum for this experiment. Time to tie on a 3rd ratchet strap. While this was still not long enough to be reachable over my fulcrum branch, it was long enough for pseudo-son to find shelter behind the tree as he pulled it taut.

I grabbed the chainsaw and climbed back up the ladder. Chainsaws are heavy. Heavier still when you are climbing a ladder. A rickety feeling ladder will slide a little back and forth across a tree trunk. It will slide even more if you are climbing a chainsaw.

Being the expert lumberjack I am, my plan was to cut a notch on the side of the branch facing away from the houses. I would then slowly cut through the opposite side, allowing the branch to slowly fall under its own weight, rather than just slice it off and have the tree trebuchet me across the neighborhood while my wife, pseudo-son and 3-year-old watched helplessly (though, what a story it would be). The trickiest part was to position myself to be able to cut through the limb, yet still be able to steady myself, should anything not go according to plan. But how could this plan fail? “What if the end of the branch comes back and hits you in the face?” my pseudo-son asked. “It won’t,” I replied. “Then I’ll get knocked the eff out and fall to my death. Thanks for jinxing me, kid,” is what I thought.

Pseudo-son grabbed the rope and took his position. I started the chainsaw to begin my notch. I was nearly done with the notch when then chain started slipping. Not completely off, mind you. But enough to affect its ability somewhat. Now I’m perched in this tree, some 24 to 27 feet off the ground, my arms wrapped around a thick limb, trying to fix the chainsaw, while a half-notched limb waited to fall and do who know what. After fiddling for a few minutes, I decided that it was still working well enough. And I didn’t want to be messing around at that height with no recourse, should the branch choose now to exact its revenge.

I started the cut on the opposite side of the branch. I cut almost halfway through the remaining branch and told Pseudo-son to pull.He pulled. Nothing. Barely a sway. I Kicked the branch. Nothing. I resumed cutting. I stopped again and instructed him to pull. This time, it moved a little. I kicked it again and grabbed onto the solid branch. Still nothing. “What the hell, tree?” I said. It was just taunting me.

I cut almost entirely through what was left holding the stubborn branch in place. It started to sag a little. I told him to pull again. This time, there was no kicking on my part. I wrapped my arms tightly around the solid branch, grasping the chainsaw handle tightly with both hands. I don’t know if this would have helped any, but I was going to do whatever I could. Crack…whoosh! The limb fell to the ground. Mostly. Being the a-hole tree that it is, it was still holding on, somehow. And I think the tree was laughing at me.

I would have to reach out and cut the last sliver of tree. My fear was that there was still enough weight from the branch pulling on the tree, that when it finally let go, I would be flung from my now unsecured position. Adding to my worry was the fact that my leg would not stop twitching. What’s a man to do, though? As the kids say, you only live once. I might as well go out with a bang, right? I started up the chainsaw…

Obviously, I’m sharing my tale, so nothing happened. The branch fell to the ground. My plan worked perfectly. Not that I had any doubt.

Because science!

My own personal Hangover

The other day, I notice that I have a scar on my forehead. I don’t know where it came from. Or when it happened. All I know is that I now notice it every time I look in a mirror.

For 3 days I looked at my scar. Trying to remember from whence it came. No luck. I could not recall what might have caused the gash on my head. Perhaps my loss of memory is a result of this mysterious wound.

Slowly, it started to come together. I vaguely remember I might have hit my head on something some time ago. But when? And how? I remember something about a door. Then I realized that is what actually happened. I remember making a joke about it having actually walked into a door.

I asked my wife if she recalled what had happened to my head. She gave me a blank stare. “What are you talking about?” she replied. “This. Right here,” I said, pointing to my forehead. “Something about a door. Do you remember what I did? I remember it was right before something important. I was concerned I would have a black eye for…whatever it was.” She rolled her eyes and walked away. Either she is involved in this conspiracy somehow, or that is just her normal reaction whenever I open my mouth. I still haven’t decided.

Desperate to find out what happened to me, I searched my pockets. Car key. Wallet. Phone. I decided to start with the easiest thing to search. My wallet.

Driver’s license. Credit cards. Loyalty cards. Target gift card (that has been there for…I have no idea how long. Or how much is on it. I’ll remember it the next time I leave Target.) Nothing much to speak of. Until…I found these.

Two raffle ticket coupons. Maybe these are some sort of clue. I pulled them out and began examining them. There was some writing on the back of both of them. I tried to decipher their message. “Dwayne Bailey.” That’s helpful. Just my name. What kind of clue is that?

Next up was the car key. I walked out to the driveway to see what may be parked there. A black Nissan Sentra. Where did this come from? Wait. That’s my car. Temporarily distracted by the 11-year-old yelling something at me about getting to her bus stop, I drove to work.

Hours later, while looking through the open apps on my phone, I remembered my quest. The only item left in my pocket was my phone. I decided to take a look. Twitter. Vine. Angry Birds. Hours later, I resumed my search.

“Wait a minute!” I thought. “I’m sure I would have taken a picture of it when it happened. That’s the type of person I am.” So I scrolled through the camera roll on my phone. I’ll spare you the details of all I found. But then I came across this.

February 13th, if I recall directly. I know this because the picture before it was a list of things that needed to be done before the wife opened her shop. And the picture right after was of people at the shop. But what had happened? Surely I didn’t walk into a door all on my own. Someone had to have…I probably did it myself.

And then I found this. This must be involved! Why on earth would I have a photo like this on my phone?

This pirate wench and shiny knight must be involved as well. Perhaps they are working with my wife. Perhaps they are in cahoots with the door.

I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want. I will look for you. I will find you. I will be avenged!

These aren’t the dogs you’re looking for

Last night, the 12-year-old and I were outside with the 3-year-old while she was driving around in her mini Mini. Driving probably isn’t an accurate word. She would go forward 5 feet. Stop. Get out to pick some flowers (usually dandelions). Get back in the car. Go 5 feet. Stop. Get out to get a pine cone. Get back in. Go 5 feet. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

A lady was walking her dog down our street. She stopped to talk to the 3-year-old. They chatted for a few minutes. Then we all went about our merry ways.

This morning, while taking the 12-year-old to school, we saw a lady walking her dogs.

12-year-old: “I think…that’s the same lady from last night.”

Me: “No. That’s a different lady.”

12-year-old: “Oh. That lady looked familiar.”

Me: “Maybe. I don’t know who she is.”

12-year-old: “I think she volunteers at my school.”

Me: “She does? That’s cool.”

12-year-old: “No, she doesn’t. I just feel like…”

Me: [in an uncanny Yoda voice] “You feel like what?”

12-year-old: “I…what?”

Me: “Like someone’s watching you?”

12-year-old: “No…I…huh? No. I don’t know…”  [trails off]

Jedi mind control, ladies and gentlemen.

The Percolation Paradox

Coffee, and our dependence on it, has a major flaw. You have to make it. Before you’ve had your first cup of coffee.

For most people, functioning before they have had that first dose of the nectar of the gods is a struggle. And that’s on a good day. Some days, it is a miracle that one can navigate the few steps it takes to get to the kitchen without seriously injuring themselves. How is it, then, that one can be expected to properly brew that mug full of perfection when the brain is performing at sub-optimal levels?

This morning, thanks to my wonderfully lazy coworkers (who apparently don’t know either how to make the coffee, or that they are supposed to start a new pot when they finish the last one), I was tasked with making an entire pot shortly after arriving at work. In a haze, I removed the filter holder and was somehow lucid enough to find a filter that wasn’t half-cut down one side. I placed it in the filter holder. I removed the pressure straw, or whatever the piece is called that actually pumps the coffee from the urn, and placed the pot under the percolator. I then replaced the filter holder. It was at the moment I was about to hit the “Start” button (suck on that, Windows 8!) that I realized one minor step. The coffee itself. That was a close one. Perhaps I should take a lesson from my 3-year-old, who, thanks to educational shows on the telly, does everything in three special steps. And those steps are repeated aloud before starting any procedure. Maybe I will adopt this behavior, myself.

Sure, there are any number of gadgets designed to help with this issue. There are coffee machines which require little more than adding some water and a small prefilled cup and the press of a button. Some people are as advanced as having machines which can be prepared the night before, when the brain is fully functioning, with some sort of magical clock that brews the coffee at the precise time it will be needed in the morning.Either of these devices would require one of two sets of circumstances:

1. Not being at work, where we possess no such devices
2. Owning one of these devices myself and getting up early enough to procure said easily brewed demitasse. And we all know that isn’t going to happen.

Yes, I have heard of such contraptions. While appearing to be an extraordinary invention on the surface, there is something…devious in allowing a device to be in control of one’s lifeblood. This is how the machines will take over.

I think that’s what it means

Spring Break is over. Which means back to driving the kids to school. Which, in turn, means more adventures with the 12-year-old.

As we were driving, she closed her eyes and put her knuckles up to them. She sat like this for a few minutes. Very still. Very quiet. A somber look on her face. I put my hand on her shoulder.

Me: “It’s ok. You don’t have to cry.”

Her: “I’m not crying.”

Me: “Oh. Ok.”

Her: “I’m going to cry if this water doesn’t stop coming out of my eyes.”

Me: “Ummm. That’s what crying is.”

Her: “…”

fin

What’s a man to do?

It’s April. that means rain. Or snow. It is Ohio, after all. You never know what you’re going to get. I love this state. (Of course, I’m referring to both Ohio and precipitation confusion.)

The worst is on days like the past few. It has been that light, drizzling rain that lasts most of the day. Of course, this being Ohio, these gloomy days bring with them the chance for a severe thunderstorm. The kind of thunderstorm which causes my DirecTv to lose signal as I’m recording shows on my DVR. That’s my favorite.

I always hate when I’m carrying an umbrella in light rain. The rain is not heavy enough to warrant carrying an open umbrella to keep what few drops are falling off my head (and glasses). At the same time, I don’t want to look like an idiot, carrying a closed umbrella under my arm as I slowly becoming wetter. This raises the risk of developing “elbow arm” (a term we coined in college. It is a condition similar to tennis elbow brought about by carrying an umbrella unnecessarily open in such a light rain). So I compromise.

This solves the problem of looking a fool by either carrying an open umbrella when it is not needed or by getting soaked while carrying a closed umbrella.

Sometimes, I take another approach, again, avoiding looking foolish when carrying an umbrella. Plus, I get to feel fancy and avoid any awkward stares from passersby.

Often, when walking with a closed umbrella, I imagine I may be attacked on the walk to or from my car. I then wield the umbrella as a weapon. Surely, no one can defend themselves from my mêlée attack. (Given my desire to become a superhero, I’m sure this comes as no surprise to anyone.) And, yes. I do practice spinning and flipping it around as I walk the streets. I realize this poses the threat of exposing my secret identity as Umbrella Man. It’s a risk I’m willing to take.

In short, I’m torn between my disdain for rain and the pleasure I get from carrying an umbrella. It’s quite the conundrum.

You can’t argue with that

I was driving the 12-year-old to school this morning. I may have launched into a light-hearted morning rant about how I woke both girls up before I started getting ready, showered, dressed, brushed my teeth, did my hair, took out the trash, did the dishes, and made two lunches and I was still ready before both of them. I don’t get it.

It was as I was finishing my rant that I noticed she was wearing a light spring jacket.

Me: “Are you not wearing a coat?”

Her: “This is a coat.”

Me: “That’s a jacket. This [pointing to my coat] is a coat. See this? [pointing to thermometer on the dashboard] Two. Six. That means its cold.”

Her: “So? Some people wear skirts or shorts or tank tops in this weather.”

Me: “Yeah. And if all your friends wore a bridge, would you wear one?”

Her: “Wear a bridge?!?”

Me: “Yeah! A bridge! Sounds pretty stupid, now, doesn’t it? So does wearing shorts in this weather!”

Her: [blank stare]

Me: “I feel like I won this argument.”

Science!

(Parents, feel free to use this on your own kids. Completely infallible logic.)

I don’t know what the pho I’m doing

I picked up some Vietnamese chicken soup for dinner last night. Pho ga, as it’s called. I ordered two. When the woman confirmed my order, I swear she said, “You f-er.” Maybe it was “Two pho ga.” I don’t have a pho-ing clue. After a moment of confusion, I pulled up to the window and waited for my order.

The lady handed me 2 large bags of food. “Are these both for me?” “Yes. Two bags. Thank you.” Ummm. Ok. I headed home.

I got home and unpacked. This is what I found.

Hmmm. No instructions. No guidance. I didn’t know what the pho I was supposed to do.

So I did this.

And this.

Then, I figured I’d just go pho it. I’m not sure exactly what the leafy stuff is. It tasted a little like poison ivy.

The only problem, they obviously didn’t plan very well. I’m not complaining about the quantity of soup. But the container, well, you’ll notice a soaked paper towel around the base. Maybe the container should have been a little bigger. Like twice bigger. But there was no turning back now.

What is pho without some sriracha type substance and a little soy goo, right?

Boom!

I went to town.

Since there were no instructions, it was by luck that I discovered a cache of chicken in the bottom of the container. This was a game changer.

All I can say is holy pho, that’s a lot of pho. You f-er.

Where are you going?!?

Warning: This is going to be a long story. Almost as long as our “adventure.” But it’s worth it.

I went up to fetch my faux kids from college. They’re having a bit of car trouble. The plan was for me to drive up and then follow them back, to make sure they don’t get stranded on the side of the road. It’s about a 2 hour trip.

We get up there and start to head back. We get as far as pulling out of the apartment complex, then have to stop because the car is dying. Literally. We pulled out of the complex, crossed the street, and stopped at the carryout across the street. I didn’t realize just how dire the situation was until this point. I thought he was exaggerating when he said he gets about 5 minutes before it dies. We hooked up the jumper cables and let their car charge up. After maybe 10 minutes, we decided to make a go for it. I have the “premium” AAA membership, which allows for 100 mile tow. We’re 107 miles from my house (it’s dark and we’re wearing sunglasses…). 116 miles from the shop we’re hoping to get to. We don’t have to make it too far.

We made it 3 miles. Three. Miles. Long enough to get on the freeway and away from anywhere decent to stop. We pulled onto the shoulder. Of the freeway. Now we just have to get the batteries close enough to hook up the jumper cables. There is only one option. I waited for a big enough break in traffic. Then I whipped the truck around, facing the wrong way. Total badass move, I must say. The boys were smart enough to wait in the truck this time. We had heat. They didn’t have anything on. Everything they turn on drains precious volts. We waited about 15 minutes this time, hoping to get a little further.

After 7 miles, we were lucky enough to have found a weigh station as the car was dying. We pulled in there and hooked up the jumper cables again. As the kids discussed which horror movie this resembled, and how we would all die, I plotted our next move. There was a decent sized city about 10 miles down the road. If we could make it to there, we would probably get better response time from the tow truck. And, by all my calculations, we should be about 96 miles from the shop. Enough to provide a little cushion. “Alright. Let’s do this,” I said, feeling the car was sufficiently charged.

We pull into a McDonald’s and make the call. They said the tow truck should be there in about 45 minutes. Twenty minutes later, AAA called back, telling me they had to get a truck from a nearby city. They should be there in 45-60 minutes.

Of course, the truck shows up as we’re stuck in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s. Yes, we waited until the very last minute to get some food. As he loaded up the car, I asked if we needed to follow him or if we could just go home. It’s after 1:00am already. He said he would need someone to settle up the bill once we got there. It would be 105 miles. I questioned his distance and showed him my GPS that said 96 miles. “I plugged the address in and it says 105. It’s never lied to me before. We’ll just go and see where it ends up,” he replied. It was at this point that he became insistent that we don’t need to follow him.

He pulled into the gas station across the street. “I’m going to get something to drink. You guys can go ahead. No need to wait for me,” he said as he walked past us. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” We parked across the gas station and waited. Cletus (I have no idea what his name was. He seemed like a Cletus. That is what I named him. Cletus Farberger.) purchased his drink and headed back to his truck. Then he saw us. He went back into the gas station. Apparently the sight of us made him have to go to the bathroom. And chat with the attendant. And who knows what else. I think he was trying to wait us out. When that didn’t work, he hopped back in his truck, waited for the light at the intersection to turn yellow, and sped off onto the freeway. Obviously trying to lose us, as he tore off at 80mph.

I caught up to him quickly. Because I could. I followed him close enough for him to know we were there.

I became concerned when he missed the exit that would have taken us almost directly where we needed to go. As he continued to pass turn after turn that Jack, my GPS, suggested, I wondered just what he was doing. I called AAA to let them know he was taking what appeared to be a much longer route. Karen, the dispatcher I had been talking to is from Columbus and drives the route we were supposed to take frequently. She questioned what he was doing as well. “Oh. I know what he’s doing. He’s trying to add on extra miles,” she finally realized. Duh. I didn’t have much confidence in the way I was told I wouldn’t be charged for any overages. But I had to trust her.

As we sped past the next highway that still would have kept us under 100 miles, I called again. Karen was thoroughly confused. She was going to call his dispatcher, to have her call Cletus, so Cletus could call me. That wouldn’t be awkward at all. Minutes went by. No call from Cletus. Jack became insistent that the quickest route at this point would be for me to turn around and head miles back the opposite direction, rather than continue whatever path we were taking.

We continued down a dark, country road, heading, well, I’m not exactly sure. Cell phone coverage was getting sparse. I called Karen back. “I have no idea where we are and where we’re going,” I told her. As she was saying she would call the dispatcher again, the call dropped. No service.

The Cletus abruptly pulls to the side of the road and stopped. He leapt from the cab and stormed back towards us. “I have a bad feeling about this.” For some unknown reason, I rolled down my window. All the way. Smart move on an abandoned, unlit country road with no cell service. Maybe we’re writing our own horror movie. Maybe this is how it ends. I really had no idea what was about to transpire. Was he going to go off on me? Was he going to punch me? Were we all about to be slaughtered? All of this went through my head. I prepared myself for…well, not much. The only emergency plan I had in place was to run over Cletus. Of course, this plan was met with, “But what about my car?” Yes, your incapacitated car atop some psycho’s tow truck. That’s my concern right now. Maybe we can just get it down and outrun him. Three to seven miles at a time.

“Do you know a better route, buddy??” Cletus demanded.

“Umm. Yeah. Way back there. We should’ve taken 23 when we first started. My GPS was literally telling us it would’ve been quicker to turn around and head back the other way for miles.” I responded foolishly, not thinking about the potential consequences.

“I guess my GPS is a pile of junk then, huh? I usually just plug it in and go. I guess it’s junk, huh? Do you want to turn around?” Cletus said, menacingly.

“At this point, we should just keep going and take this way in,” I told him. In hindsight, I was awfully brazen, considering the number of horrific outcomes this conversation could have resulted in.

We continued on. As we got to the route that would take us into the city, I was a little relieved. And then he took the exit. We had just passed through a city called Bellefontaine. Bellefontaine is west of Columbus. Therefore, logic, and GPS, would say that you need to head east. Cletus decided to take the exit for 33 west. I believe my exact words at this point were, “What the f is he doing now???!!!?!? 33 WEST?!!? WEST??!?! WEST??!?!” There may have been a few additional words that are not fit to print. But I think you get the idea.

After flashing my lights at Cletus had no effect, we pulled alongside him and rolled down the window. “You’re going the wrong way!” we shouted. I convinced him to follow us into the city. This city, which was now projected to be a 116 mile journey from where we started. How had he added an additional 10 miles to his already inflated route? Not to mention the extra 30 minutes. We turned around at the next opportunity, and made our way east. You know, in the direction we needed to be going. We may or may not have ignored a sign with a U shaped arrow on it. How was Cletus going to blame this on his GPS? Did he really expect me to buy that his GPS told him to go in the exact opposite direction of where we were headed? I may have voiced this thought several times over the next few minutes.

It seems there may have been a reason Cletus didn’t take 33 east. I don’t know if it’s the rotation of the Earth, or the moon’s gravitational pull, but as Cletus now followed me in the right direction, his truck, which had previously been motoring along anywhere between 70 and 80mph, now could barely reach 50mph. Of course, I adjusted my speed, so Cletus couldn’t get lost again. This made for a very long drive home.

We continued along, going anywhere from 40mph to 55mph, all in a 65mph zone, mind you. Karen finally called back as we reached Columbus’ outerbelt. She wanted to make sure we were ok. I gave her a brief recap of what had occurred since we last spoke, including the current speed we were traveling. She laughed and told me he probably has to go a little slower, you know, because he’s driving a tow truck. I told her about his previous speeds. Karen laughed. “So you’re making your way back, then? Good.” Yes, Karen. Good. We were making our way back. Thanks.

A little before 4:00am, we got to the shop. Cletus unloaded the car and smirkingly apologized. “I’m sorry, buddy. My GPS got stolen last night. I had to borrow this one from a guy at work. I guess it’s a pile of junk, huh?”

At least Cletus was kind enough to not charge me for the extra miles. Or murder us all and leave us lying in a ditch.

Worst roadtrip ever

It was a bright, sunny day. I was driving along a highway in the country. Out of nowhere, a semi was stopped in the middle of the road. Apparently, there was some sort of traffic jam. I slammed on my brakes. Knowing there was no way I could stop in time, I swerved into the other lane. There was a local news truck, Channel 10, to be exact, stopped in that lane. I pushed harder on my brakes.

I wasn’t able to stop in time. I braced myself for impact. I tapped their bumper. A pretty solid tap. Before I could register what had happened, a big red pickup slammed into the back of my car. Hard. It was a flashback to the accident I had a couple of years ago. There was surprisingly little damage for the severity of the impact I had felt. We all exited our vehicles to take a look at the extent of the damage.

It was at this point I noticed the semi was nowhere to be found.

A loud “Pop! Pop! Pop!” rang out. Instinctively, we all ducked. We immediately recognized it as gunfire. Crouching as we ran for cover behind our cars, we looked at the hill behind us. (I’m talking a head-height mound here. Similar to the sand dunes you see at the beach.) I don’t remember this hill being there before. And the cars were all now parallel to the mysterious hill. I’m not sure how or when any of this happened.

The policeman who had pulled up at some point climbed out of his car, which was also parallel to the hill. He drew his gun. I ran over to the hill and ascended it slowly. I was feeling heroic, I guess. As I peered over the top, I saw two men standing there firing towards us. Target practice. Literally. There was an archery style target on the hill. I don’t think shooting at us was intentional. I don’t think they knew we were just on the other side of the dune.

Realizing I had put myself in harm’s way, I climbed back down the hill. I didn’t know what caliber guns they were using, and I was afraid somehow the bullets might penetrate the hill. Near the top, they seemed to be coming almost all the way through the soft earth. My heroicness briefly subsided. We all took cover again.

The sound of the gunfire changed. It was louder. Bigger guns, we thought. Next thing I know, a rocket comes flying over the hill. The large, burly man who had been driving the red pickup picked up the rocket, flames still shooting out the back. He spun it over his head, much the way a wrestler would helicopter spin an opponent. I’m not sure exactly what he had hoped to gain by this, but it made sense in the moment.

He stopped spinning the rocket and hurled it back towards the hill, hoping to send it back from whence it came. I’m not sure if his intent was to kill our assailants or merely to warn them there were people on this side. But that didn’t seem important. He was saving us.

The rocket flailed towards the hill. It didn’t make it over the top. It hit the side of the hill and tumbled back down on our side, landing a few feet from where I was crouching. I stood up and started to run. In the excitement, I don’t know if I was running towards it or away from it. I just knew I had to run.

Suddenly, my eyes popped open and I sat up in bed,sweating and panting.

What does it all mean? Where was I going? Why was the cop standing by idly, merely a spectator? Why was the news crew not at least broadcasting my heroic deeds? Where did the semi go? Why is it always so hot in my bedroom?