Today I wish to speak to you about an evil that is so insidious that it threatens to destroy the family as we know it. An evil so terrible it should be forever banned from the planet. A presence so malevolent its' name should be stricken from the dictionary and never be spoken again. This is the single cause of the destruction of millions families. I'm of course talking about the demonic 'Unassembled Furniture'.
Let me give you an example of this devil, this king of liars, at it's nefarious worst. My wife and I were on our weekly trip to the local Big Mart and I'd ducked over to sporting goods while she was in household goods. As if drawn by the dark force, we met at a display of beautiful furniture. There were all manner of book shelves, computer desks, and stereo cabinets.The most lovely was a mahogany grained entertainment center. It would hold a TV, a stereo, DVDs, figurines, and a large preschooler. We both stood staring at it, imagining how fabulous it would be in place of the concrete blocks and plywood that currently held our most prized possessions. With great pain I broke eye contact with the thing to glance at the price tag. Today only, $159.99. My pulse quickened in excitement as I looked back into the eyes I sensed were behind the glass doors. "Buy me.", it said in a seductive whisper. "Take me home." I glanced at my wife and saw she must have heard it too.
I looked at the store shelf below the thing and found it held the unborn spawn of the entertainment center. They were in boxes, neatly banded with nylon straps to keep the evil embryos from bursting their cardboard shells. Speechless, man and wife moved as if in a trance, and levered the unborn, unassembled furniture thing onto the top of the shopping cart. Without blinking we slowly rolled it to the checkout line. "Take me home." it whispered.
I emerged from the cloud of my fugue state when I placed the box in the living room floor. We just sat for a long time staring at it. Finally, my wife slowly rose and taking my hand, led me off to bed. I fell into a deep sleep but awoke with a start in the wee hours of the morning.
"Build me." I listened carefully, thinking it was a dream. "Build me." The voice was coming from the living room. I crept down the hall and there seemed to be an eerie green glow from the box. I got the scissors from the desk and cut the nylon bands. A sigh reverberated throughout the house. Slowly I began removing the pieces of wood grain particle board and bags of screws.
My wife was standing over me when I became aware of my surroundings. "Have you been in here all night?", she asked. I didn't answer as I resumed screwing shelf KK to upright B. "That's upside down.", she said and pointed to the base. I looked at her, then at the base, and then at the Chinese instructions. I realized she was right, and began taking it all apart again. The furniture demon giggled in my ear as my wife left for work.
It seemed like only a few minutes when she returned but I noticed the sun was setting outside the door. She stood and looked at me in something like disgust. "The upright is backwards. The wood grain is in the back." she spat. Again she was right. An impish laugh erupted in my ear as I disassembled the monster again.
The work went quicker this time and by eight it was assembled except for one little board labeled 'Kick plate YY'. I reached for the four screws LL and my hand came up empty. In a panic, I threw everything aside and crawled across the floor, searching everywhere with hands and by eye. "Build me.", it hissed. I searched to no avail, and all the time it was hissing, "Build me, Build me, Build me."
Finally, I came to my senses. I walked out to the garage and retrieved my favorite hammer and four large nails. My wife rolled her eyes and muttered something unkind as I nailed the board in place. The splintering of the particle board was barely noticeable when I stood the satanic cabinet up and smiled at it. I think it was happy to be built after all of this time. It was a little crooked so I put a few playing cards under the right side and started loading it with the TV and other valuable things. Satisfied at last, the devilish entertainment center rested. I also felt satisfied and fell into bed with a smile on my face.
We both jumped out of bed at a loud crash. We ran into the living room to find the entertainment center on it's face. The TV sparked and smoked. Broken figurines were scattered around the living room and down the hall. My wife swore an oath in a strange language and stomped out of the room. For a moment I willed myself to wake up but soon realized I was awake and that this horror was real. Furious, I grabbed the splintered end of the demon and by superhuman effort flipped it over. I grabbed my hammer from the coffee table and hit it, and hit it again, and again. Wood splintered and screws snapped. Patented screw-lock fasteners fell away. Soon it was a pile of splintered simulated wood grain and broken glass. The broken thing laughed and laughed as I swept it up and threw it into the back of the garage.
My wife doesn't look at me the same way anymore. She barely speaks to me, and I think she may be seeing another carpenter. Sometimes when I come home things are already repaired. Our friends must know about the entertainment satan, because they speak in hushed whispers about me. Strangers slow and point when they drive by. My kids gaze at me with pity. The counselor thinks it's post traumatic stress disorder, but I know better. It's that thing that still haunts me. Late at night when everyone is asleep I hear it calling me from the garage. "Build me.", it says. When I look in the garage I can see it's malevolent eyes in the broken glass. I should get rid of it but I can't. One day I may put it back together. One day.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Hiking Giant City Park Illinois
Hiking Giant City
My wife and I like to backpack. It's challenging and relaxing, and puts us in touch with nature. Occasionally we get nature all over us. The biggest reason to backpack is to get away from our four highly interactive daughters.
Our daughters' are constantly in a life-threatening crisis that requires our undivided attention. After years of dealing with cars making funny noises, hairspray cans with clogged nozzles, and cell phone companies that always lie about how many peak minutes were used, we were ready for nature at her best.
We planned a weekend hiking the trail at Giant City State Park. We'd spend the night at the midpoint of the trail, in the lovely isolated primitive campground. We'd have no kids, phones, or distractions. It'd just be us in the great outdoors.
As an aside, the internet states that the Giant City trail is twelve easy miles. They lie. I hiked it and I'd estimate it at eighty-five bone-crushing miles, with hills the size of the Rockies.
We set out early in the morning on a perfect fall day. About a mile later I threw away my sleeping bag. I'd rather be cold than carry that three pounds all day. After that, the hike was perfect. That is, for a while.
After about the twenty-two miles, which the stupid map shows as the three mile point, we came to a beautiful rocky creek. I pulled out my water bottle and the nifty water purification pump I'd just bought. I'd just started pumping water into the bottle when I froze in terror.
Coming up the trail behind me was that most feared creature, the Great Midwestern Teenage Girl. Afraid to move, I stared wide-eyed as the creature scurried down the creek bed, snapped my photo, and ran up the other bank. Stunned, I blinked in disbelief. I heard more scurrying and turned my head to see another of the beasts, then another, and another. I soon realized that the herd was composed of at least twenty of the fiends.
My wives' laughing brought me back to reality. She was in histerics, guffawing so hard she had tears in her eyes. I just sat on a rock in despair. We'd come here to get away from our daughters and now we had the same thing, quintupled. How much can an old man take, I wondered. Is there no rest? Is there no place to hide?
Suddenly, I realized they were headed for the campground! If I could beat them to it, I could find an isolated spot far from where they'd bed down.
With renewed purpose I stormed down the trail with my laughing wife not far behind. Within twenty minutes we'd overtaken them and could barely hear their strange giggles behind us. Knowing the nefarious power of these beings I hiked ever faster until my wife wacked me in the head with her hiking staff.
With her subtle urging I slowed a bit but still made the camp by mid-afternoon. With not a girl in sight we set up camp in a quiet alcove just feet from the outhouses. As I lay back contemplating how I'd get my wife to share her sleeping bag I heard the footfalls of the herd. Looking up, I was glad to see they'd dropped their packs far away, on the other side of the campground. This isn't so bad, I remember thinking. How much trouble could they be?
All went well until evening. We'd finished a tasty dinner of dehydrated something brown, when the girls revealed they were some kind of encounter group. They put on a play about feelings that required them to wear signs depicting emotions such as remorse, grief, sadness, and guilt. I wanted a sign for the emotion "let me out of here now". Their lengthy play included lots of crying and weeping. Disgusting.
To cap off the night they sang. They sang loudly well into the night. They sang every song known to man, and some they just made up. They sang in long forgotten languages. They sang whole soundtracks. I prayed to be struck deaf.
When I thought they'd quieted down hours later, the outhouse door banged. Then it banged again, and again. Though their number was twenty I counted one hundred eighty-four trips to the outhouse, more or less. Then the wind reversed, to blow towards us from the outhouse.
At first light I gave my wife back her sleeping bag back and packed as fast as I could. Literally running the rest of the trail we were in the car by noon and home by three.
When we walked in the door the kids were arguing over a boy or lipgloss or something. It was so good to be home.
My wife and I like to backpack. It's challenging and relaxing, and puts us in touch with nature. Occasionally we get nature all over us. The biggest reason to backpack is to get away from our four highly interactive daughters.
Our daughters' are constantly in a life-threatening crisis that requires our undivided attention. After years of dealing with cars making funny noises, hairspray cans with clogged nozzles, and cell phone companies that always lie about how many peak minutes were used, we were ready for nature at her best.
We planned a weekend hiking the trail at Giant City State Park. We'd spend the night at the midpoint of the trail, in the lovely isolated primitive campground. We'd have no kids, phones, or distractions. It'd just be us in the great outdoors.
As an aside, the internet states that the Giant City trail is twelve easy miles. They lie. I hiked it and I'd estimate it at eighty-five bone-crushing miles, with hills the size of the Rockies.
We set out early in the morning on a perfect fall day. About a mile later I threw away my sleeping bag. I'd rather be cold than carry that three pounds all day. After that, the hike was perfect. That is, for a while.
After about the twenty-two miles, which the stupid map shows as the three mile point, we came to a beautiful rocky creek. I pulled out my water bottle and the nifty water purification pump I'd just bought. I'd just started pumping water into the bottle when I froze in terror.
Coming up the trail behind me was that most feared creature, the Great Midwestern Teenage Girl. Afraid to move, I stared wide-eyed as the creature scurried down the creek bed, snapped my photo, and ran up the other bank. Stunned, I blinked in disbelief. I heard more scurrying and turned my head to see another of the beasts, then another, and another. I soon realized that the herd was composed of at least twenty of the fiends.
My wives' laughing brought me back to reality. She was in histerics, guffawing so hard she had tears in her eyes. I just sat on a rock in despair. We'd come here to get away from our daughters and now we had the same thing, quintupled. How much can an old man take, I wondered. Is there no rest? Is there no place to hide?
Suddenly, I realized they were headed for the campground! If I could beat them to it, I could find an isolated spot far from where they'd bed down.
With renewed purpose I stormed down the trail with my laughing wife not far behind. Within twenty minutes we'd overtaken them and could barely hear their strange giggles behind us. Knowing the nefarious power of these beings I hiked ever faster until my wife wacked me in the head with her hiking staff.
With her subtle urging I slowed a bit but still made the camp by mid-afternoon. With not a girl in sight we set up camp in a quiet alcove just feet from the outhouses. As I lay back contemplating how I'd get my wife to share her sleeping bag I heard the footfalls of the herd. Looking up, I was glad to see they'd dropped their packs far away, on the other side of the campground. This isn't so bad, I remember thinking. How much trouble could they be?
All went well until evening. We'd finished a tasty dinner of dehydrated something brown, when the girls revealed they were some kind of encounter group. They put on a play about feelings that required them to wear signs depicting emotions such as remorse, grief, sadness, and guilt. I wanted a sign for the emotion "let me out of here now". Their lengthy play included lots of crying and weeping. Disgusting.
To cap off the night they sang. They sang loudly well into the night. They sang every song known to man, and some they just made up. They sang in long forgotten languages. They sang whole soundtracks. I prayed to be struck deaf.
When I thought they'd quieted down hours later, the outhouse door banged. Then it banged again, and again. Though their number was twenty I counted one hundred eighty-four trips to the outhouse, more or less. Then the wind reversed, to blow towards us from the outhouse.
At first light I gave my wife back her sleeping bag back and packed as fast as I could. Literally running the rest of the trail we were in the car by noon and home by three.
When we walked in the door the kids were arguing over a boy or lipgloss or something. It was so good to be home.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The Great Werewolf of Southern Illinois
Werewolves are fearsome things, or so my wide-eyed Grandsons told me. They're regular folks that grow hair and fangs and howl at the moon. They sometimes attack little boys, according to Tommy and Adam, who were six and five, respectively. Their narrative was rich with animation and weird postures.
The next day I realized I had to give them a way to fight these werewolves. I thought about giving them a silver bullet and gun, but settled for that time honored standard of werewolf repellants- "Howl Out" werewolf spray. I dumped the window cleaner and used the spray bottle to concoct the most effective spray a kid had ever seen. Starting with a base of grape kool-aid, I basically cleaned out the cabinet. I added garlic juice, onion flakes, nutmeg, a sardine, coffee, some "Hi Karate", and a bay leaf to give it that homemade flavor.
I'll admit that I tend to get a little carried away when I'm being creative, and this time was no exception. I made a label with instructions, warnings, and listed the contents. I lied about the contents on the label, but what the FWA (Food and Werewolf Administration) doesn't know won't hurt them.
I presented the Grandsons with my werewolf spray with great fanfare. They listened raptly as I explained all the nuances of werewolf repelling. I must have done a good job because their mother (my daughter) smiled a little, which in itself is a cause for celebration. They learned the werewolf must be sprayed as heavily as possible, but too much could kill it, which would be hard to explain to the werewolf police. Care must also be taken not to get spray in its' face, it could put an eye out. Then you'd end up with a blind werewolf bumping into stuff.
My daughter called me the next day. It had to do with her furniture which used to be white. It seems Adam had awakened from a dream about werewolves. Sure there was one in the house, and being a brave little man, he handled it. He denied the vile thing the use of the living room by spraying everything: The walls, the couch, the floor, the TV. Their mom awoke to a purple stain everywhere, including the formerly white couch with matching white easy chair and ottoman. The carnage was amplified by the powerful aroma of rotting fish mixed with other nasty things. She wasn't impressed when I reminded her that it's stupid to have white furniture when you have kids. My adult children have no sense of humor.
Shortly thereafter it occurred to me that we had an opportunity for a real adventure. I found a real good drawing of a wolf footprint, enlarged it, and made a stencil. The next day I used it and some black spray-paint to make wolf tracks on my daughters walk and porch. For good measure, I added a footprint to the kids' bedroom window.
When they got off of the school bus they noticed the tracks right away, and realized the beast had looked in their window. I helped with the charade by long explanations of werewolf behavior gleaned from late night TV and cheap novels. They drank in my every word. To quote my guru, Montgomery Burns, "Excellent".
The next was the third and final phase of the adventure. I went into the city to a costume shop and spent big bucks on a really good werewolf mask. Driving over to the werewolf proofed house of my daughter, I killed the engine and headlights and coasted up the driveway. Before easing out of the car I donned the mask and admired myself in the mirror. I looked like a character from "The Howling". The snout was in a snarl, and the rubber lips pulled back to reveal hideous teeth. Cool.
Easing up onto the porch, I kicked over the lawn chairs with a bang. I imagined the kids went still but instead Tommy almost caught me when he opened the door and looked out. Thank goodness he didn't see my car. I ran around to the side of the house, tripped over a bicycle, and let out a horrendous howl of pain. Limping to the back door, I slapped it repeatedly with my paws and growled as loudly as I could.
I put my ear to the door and the house was quiet. Too quiet. Were they up to something inside? Had to much fake fur and latex on my head muffled my hearing? I felt my senses heighten as I pondered the question.
I nursed my bruised knee as I limped back to the porch and fell over the stupid bike again. Hobbling up the steps I took several deep breaths to steady myself. I let out loud howls in rapid succession as I leaped through the door. Landing in a crouch in the living room, I hoped my knee would hold as I growled and reached out my paw.
As long as I live I'll never forget seeing the Adam clinging to his mother. But something was amiss. I'd forgotten Tommy had a hockey stick until I saw him swinging it at my head. As it crossed into my line of sight, I started to scream "Wait!" before everything faded to black.
* * * * *
The exam lights in the E.R. were blinding when I awoke. I raised my throbbing head and looked over to see my daughter and wife with amused looks on their faces. They and the nurse must have shared a joke because she was smirking too. Not expecting any compassion I stayed silent during the skull and knee x-rays and suturing of my head.
I sat quietly and stared straight ahead when we arrived at home. The Grandsons laughed at my stitches and limped around the living room on my new cane, saying, "Look, I'm an old grandpa wolf". Brats.
It's been a few years since then. Tommy is looking forward to joining the NHL, and Adam is becoming a wild wolf expert. The realtor says to sell the house we've got to get the wolf prints out of the concrete somehow. As for me, the scar on my head is barely noticeable when I wear a hat, and I have a new brace to support my mangled knee. My wife and daughter still tell the story of the Southern Illinois werewolf every time the moon is full or when they want to embarass me. They take great relish in my humiliation. If I could make a spray to repel them...
The next day I realized I had to give them a way to fight these werewolves. I thought about giving them a silver bullet and gun, but settled for that time honored standard of werewolf repellants- "Howl Out" werewolf spray. I dumped the window cleaner and used the spray bottle to concoct the most effective spray a kid had ever seen. Starting with a base of grape kool-aid, I basically cleaned out the cabinet. I added garlic juice, onion flakes, nutmeg, a sardine, coffee, some "Hi Karate", and a bay leaf to give it that homemade flavor.
I'll admit that I tend to get a little carried away when I'm being creative, and this time was no exception. I made a label with instructions, warnings, and listed the contents. I lied about the contents on the label, but what the FWA (Food and Werewolf Administration) doesn't know won't hurt them.
I presented the Grandsons with my werewolf spray with great fanfare. They listened raptly as I explained all the nuances of werewolf repelling. I must have done a good job because their mother (my daughter) smiled a little, which in itself is a cause for celebration. They learned the werewolf must be sprayed as heavily as possible, but too much could kill it, which would be hard to explain to the werewolf police. Care must also be taken not to get spray in its' face, it could put an eye out. Then you'd end up with a blind werewolf bumping into stuff.
My daughter called me the next day. It had to do with her furniture which used to be white. It seems Adam had awakened from a dream about werewolves. Sure there was one in the house, and being a brave little man, he handled it. He denied the vile thing the use of the living room by spraying everything: The walls, the couch, the floor, the TV. Their mom awoke to a purple stain everywhere, including the formerly white couch with matching white easy chair and ottoman. The carnage was amplified by the powerful aroma of rotting fish mixed with other nasty things. She wasn't impressed when I reminded her that it's stupid to have white furniture when you have kids. My adult children have no sense of humor.
Shortly thereafter it occurred to me that we had an opportunity for a real adventure. I found a real good drawing of a wolf footprint, enlarged it, and made a stencil. The next day I used it and some black spray-paint to make wolf tracks on my daughters walk and porch. For good measure, I added a footprint to the kids' bedroom window.
When they got off of the school bus they noticed the tracks right away, and realized the beast had looked in their window. I helped with the charade by long explanations of werewolf behavior gleaned from late night TV and cheap novels. They drank in my every word. To quote my guru, Montgomery Burns, "Excellent".
The next was the third and final phase of the adventure. I went into the city to a costume shop and spent big bucks on a really good werewolf mask. Driving over to the werewolf proofed house of my daughter, I killed the engine and headlights and coasted up the driveway. Before easing out of the car I donned the mask and admired myself in the mirror. I looked like a character from "The Howling". The snout was in a snarl, and the rubber lips pulled back to reveal hideous teeth. Cool.
Easing up onto the porch, I kicked over the lawn chairs with a bang. I imagined the kids went still but instead Tommy almost caught me when he opened the door and looked out. Thank goodness he didn't see my car. I ran around to the side of the house, tripped over a bicycle, and let out a horrendous howl of pain. Limping to the back door, I slapped it repeatedly with my paws and growled as loudly as I could.
I put my ear to the door and the house was quiet. Too quiet. Were they up to something inside? Had to much fake fur and latex on my head muffled my hearing? I felt my senses heighten as I pondered the question.
I nursed my bruised knee as I limped back to the porch and fell over the stupid bike again. Hobbling up the steps I took several deep breaths to steady myself. I let out loud howls in rapid succession as I leaped through the door. Landing in a crouch in the living room, I hoped my knee would hold as I growled and reached out my paw.
As long as I live I'll never forget seeing the Adam clinging to his mother. But something was amiss. I'd forgotten Tommy had a hockey stick until I saw him swinging it at my head. As it crossed into my line of sight, I started to scream "Wait!" before everything faded to black.
* * * * *
The exam lights in the E.R. were blinding when I awoke. I raised my throbbing head and looked over to see my daughter and wife with amused looks on their faces. They and the nurse must have shared a joke because she was smirking too. Not expecting any compassion I stayed silent during the skull and knee x-rays and suturing of my head.
I sat quietly and stared straight ahead when we arrived at home. The Grandsons laughed at my stitches and limped around the living room on my new cane, saying, "Look, I'm an old grandpa wolf". Brats.
It's been a few years since then. Tommy is looking forward to joining the NHL, and Adam is becoming a wild wolf expert. The realtor says to sell the house we've got to get the wolf prints out of the concrete somehow. As for me, the scar on my head is barely noticeable when I wear a hat, and I have a new brace to support my mangled knee. My wife and daughter still tell the story of the Southern Illinois werewolf every time the moon is full or when they want to embarass me. They take great relish in my humiliation. If I could make a spray to repel them...
Treasure
I was so proud I couldn't hardly stand it. My own house, with acreage. I walked out of the closing at Bob's Bank and Furniture Emporium with my mind full of sweet fantasies of what I could accomplish with my new plantation. Sure, it was only a 1.89 acre plantation, but the possibilities were infinite.
I took a little walk around the grounds of my new ranch and drank in all the sights. As I passed the prefab tin shed I felt the ground shake. Surprised, I stomped the ground and it reverberated. "That's weird." I thought. My imagination turned to thoughts of buried treasure, or perhaps an abandoned gold mine. I hopped in the car and sped up to the local bank which also sold tools and hardware, to get a shovel and pick. Chuck, the tool expert and chief loan officer looked at me curiously. Thinking quickly, I blurted "Mother-in-law coming over." That explained it, and he'd never expect I was digging up treasure. I wondered how I managed to be so smart as I drove home and started digging out the millions that must be buried in the yard.
An hour later and a foot deep I hit metal. Searching for the edge, I started clearing the earth in all directions. After a while I saw writing on brown metal. Brushing the dirt away, I read "B & O Railroad". I remember thinking it was a strongbox from a great train robbery.
It took about an hour to get to the edges of the metal and I discovered it was a door to a boxcar. I moved out a foot from the margin and dug down, but didn't hit the boxcar, darn it. Sliding my shovel under the edge, I pushed down hard and broke the handle in two. I decided it'd take more force, and promptly broke the handle of my new pick as well. The rest of the day was spent prying with various contraptions to no avail. The bumper jack raised the door a fraction of an inch but I nearly lost a finger when it it slipped. Just when I was about to give up I heard the unmistakable roar of the souped-up Bronco driven by my teenage daughters' boyfriend.
I looked up to the window of the Bronco on steroids. "Drive around back." I said. He hesitated, but complied when I gave him my best "psycho dad" look. I hooked a chain to the boxcar door and then to the monster hitch on the truck. Stepping out of the way I gave him the "go" sign and he gunned it. Nothing happened so he floored it. After scraping the mud off of my face I suggested he put it in 4-wheel drive, which he did to no avail. He pulled to the left, he pulled to the right. Nothing worked for a long time. It finally took me questioning his manhood for him to get serious.
Suddenly, the box car door released all at once. Boy-fiend and Bronco-beast rocketed across the yard, demolishing my shed and leveling the neighbors garden. "That's good." I said and waved reassuringly. I walked to where the door had rested for untold millenia and peered over the brink into a yawning abyss. Truck-boy joined me as we gawked into the gloom. "It's an old mine." I thought aloud. Looking at me sheepishly, he said, "It's a cistern." I withered him with my dad look and he faded back to the truck. "A mine. A gold, or silver mine.", I thought as I went in for a flashlight. My thoughts were full of gold and fame and more gold as I hurried back to the entrance to untold riches. Shining my light down the hole I saw it. Mud. Mud and concrete and no mine shaft. It was a cistern after all. I hate teenagers. Ever vigilant to safety I told truck brat to pull the door back over the hole as I went in for a shower.
The night was spent mulling over the hole in the yard and the lack of treasure. I awoke in the morning with an epiphany- my very own landfill awaited me in the back yard.
Months were required to fill the cistern. Tons of leaves and tree branches were laid to rest. Old newspapers, junk mail, and infinite Walmart bags met their fate in the hole. Many car parts went to their end there, until finally the hole was full. I stood at the brink, looking at my handiwork when it hit me that over time all of these things would decompose, and that I could speed up the process. I could compact everything except the metal with that most useful of tools, fire.
I started to lug the gas can to the hole when I remembered old Mr. Pulliam had once said, "If you're gonna use gas to burn somethin' mix in a little oil so it don't explode." Ever safe, I did just that. I put a pint of oil in about two gallons of gas and walked around my landfill pouring it in. I saved the last cup or so to make a little trail of gas, just like in the movies. It seemed the safe thing to do. In the safe zone that was at least three feet from the rim, I lit the gas.
I felt rather than heard the explosion. It was surreal laying on my back, watching burning paper and tree branches launching into orbit. Engine heads and hubcaps plummeted to the ground next to me. I rolled just in time to escape being squashed by a burning tire still on the rim. Still in a daze I sat up and felt my stinging face to find my eyebrows were gone.
I was looking into the newly empty hole when the fire department arrived. Then the police arrived followed by the ATF and the EPA. The worst was when the wife arrived. Unknown to me an unlicensed landfill is illegal. So is a bomb, even an accidental one. I was in for big fines, and weeks of sleeping on the couch.
This was quite an adventure. I experienced the thrill of discovery and met a lot of interesting people in court. All of my neighbors know me, and always smile and wave, though it looks more like they're pointing. The local officials never have to ask my name. I'm sure I'll go down in the history of this town. That's good enough for me.
I took a little walk around the grounds of my new ranch and drank in all the sights. As I passed the prefab tin shed I felt the ground shake. Surprised, I stomped the ground and it reverberated. "That's weird." I thought. My imagination turned to thoughts of buried treasure, or perhaps an abandoned gold mine. I hopped in the car and sped up to the local bank which also sold tools and hardware, to get a shovel and pick. Chuck, the tool expert and chief loan officer looked at me curiously. Thinking quickly, I blurted "Mother-in-law coming over." That explained it, and he'd never expect I was digging up treasure. I wondered how I managed to be so smart as I drove home and started digging out the millions that must be buried in the yard.
An hour later and a foot deep I hit metal. Searching for the edge, I started clearing the earth in all directions. After a while I saw writing on brown metal. Brushing the dirt away, I read "B & O Railroad". I remember thinking it was a strongbox from a great train robbery.
It took about an hour to get to the edges of the metal and I discovered it was a door to a boxcar. I moved out a foot from the margin and dug down, but didn't hit the boxcar, darn it. Sliding my shovel under the edge, I pushed down hard and broke the handle in two. I decided it'd take more force, and promptly broke the handle of my new pick as well. The rest of the day was spent prying with various contraptions to no avail. The bumper jack raised the door a fraction of an inch but I nearly lost a finger when it it slipped. Just when I was about to give up I heard the unmistakable roar of the souped-up Bronco driven by my teenage daughters' boyfriend.
I looked up to the window of the Bronco on steroids. "Drive around back." I said. He hesitated, but complied when I gave him my best "psycho dad" look. I hooked a chain to the boxcar door and then to the monster hitch on the truck. Stepping out of the way I gave him the "go" sign and he gunned it. Nothing happened so he floored it. After scraping the mud off of my face I suggested he put it in 4-wheel drive, which he did to no avail. He pulled to the left, he pulled to the right. Nothing worked for a long time. It finally took me questioning his manhood for him to get serious.
Suddenly, the box car door released all at once. Boy-fiend and Bronco-beast rocketed across the yard, demolishing my shed and leveling the neighbors garden. "That's good." I said and waved reassuringly. I walked to where the door had rested for untold millenia and peered over the brink into a yawning abyss. Truck-boy joined me as we gawked into the gloom. "It's an old mine." I thought aloud. Looking at me sheepishly, he said, "It's a cistern." I withered him with my dad look and he faded back to the truck. "A mine. A gold, or silver mine.", I thought as I went in for a flashlight. My thoughts were full of gold and fame and more gold as I hurried back to the entrance to untold riches. Shining my light down the hole I saw it. Mud. Mud and concrete and no mine shaft. It was a cistern after all. I hate teenagers. Ever vigilant to safety I told truck brat to pull the door back over the hole as I went in for a shower.
The night was spent mulling over the hole in the yard and the lack of treasure. I awoke in the morning with an epiphany- my very own landfill awaited me in the back yard.
Months were required to fill the cistern. Tons of leaves and tree branches were laid to rest. Old newspapers, junk mail, and infinite Walmart bags met their fate in the hole. Many car parts went to their end there, until finally the hole was full. I stood at the brink, looking at my handiwork when it hit me that over time all of these things would decompose, and that I could speed up the process. I could compact everything except the metal with that most useful of tools, fire.
I started to lug the gas can to the hole when I remembered old Mr. Pulliam had once said, "If you're gonna use gas to burn somethin' mix in a little oil so it don't explode." Ever safe, I did just that. I put a pint of oil in about two gallons of gas and walked around my landfill pouring it in. I saved the last cup or so to make a little trail of gas, just like in the movies. It seemed the safe thing to do. In the safe zone that was at least three feet from the rim, I lit the gas.
I felt rather than heard the explosion. It was surreal laying on my back, watching burning paper and tree branches launching into orbit. Engine heads and hubcaps plummeted to the ground next to me. I rolled just in time to escape being squashed by a burning tire still on the rim. Still in a daze I sat up and felt my stinging face to find my eyebrows were gone.
I was looking into the newly empty hole when the fire department arrived. Then the police arrived followed by the ATF and the EPA. The worst was when the wife arrived. Unknown to me an unlicensed landfill is illegal. So is a bomb, even an accidental one. I was in for big fines, and weeks of sleeping on the couch.
This was quite an adventure. I experienced the thrill of discovery and met a lot of interesting people in court. All of my neighbors know me, and always smile and wave, though it looks more like they're pointing. The local officials never have to ask my name. I'm sure I'll go down in the history of this town. That's good enough for me.
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