Ahoy mateys! Come join me
on an open-ended excursion over the challenging waters found in the sea of
creative writing. Today (10/25/14) is my ship's maiden voyage. I have no idea
where we’ll be going – the important thing is to just keep the
"going" going. The focus will be on matters of human interest.
Nothing like giving myself lots of leeway. Incidentally, any critiquing of my
writing would be gratefully appreciated. There’s always room for improvement.
What to write about on a
blog? As I ponder that question, I hear the helicopters going over my house and
see the police cars passing by it. This has been going on for weeks. I live one
block away from the Frein residence. That's Frein, as in Eric. You may have
heard of him.
Quick back story: on
September 12, 2014 Mr. Frein allegedly shot two PA. State troopers, killing one
and seriously wounding the other. He then slipped into the deep woods of
Canadensis, PA, his hometown. Within a week of the incident Canadensis and its
surroundings became overrun by police, mostly from PA., but also from New York,
Maryland, Virginia, etc. Media of both the national and local variety also
swamped the area. Canadensis, a town of 2,269 residents, had never before gotten
so much attention, dubious or otherwise. It now had a sniper hidden in its
midst. With hundreds upon hundreds of law enforcement agents and countless
police cars, numerous tanks, whirly birds, assorted sophisticated detection
equipment (right out of a sci-fi movie) in the area, the town took on the look
and feel of being in a war zone. Several roads, including the one I live on,
were blocked to through traffic. Cars allowed to enter were first given the
careful once over by heavily armed police. Each ensuing day there grew an ever
greater and more organized police presence. Driving along Route 447, it quickly
became customary to see 10, 15, 20 or more police cars headed as a team to who
knows where, to say nothing of the scores of officers on foot, standing ground
alongside the road or heading into the woods. To be sure, no bombs have been
dropped and only a few shots fired, at least so far. This is not Baghdad. Yet
it’s not normal living either.
Things started to change
in my daily life.
September 22, 2014:
driving home from work at 9:00 p. m., I discovered that route 447 was
blockaded, leaving me stuck 100 yards south of my street. Hmm…If I take the twenty-five minute detour in an attempt to get to my
street from the north, who's to say there's not another blockade waiting for me there? I checked for police and, seeing none, pulled
into a driveway that had intrigued me for years. Why? It winds uphill to a
house that, in appearance, is not unlike the one that had been shared years ago
cinematically by Norman Bates and his mother. I'd never been sure if anyone
lived there but now might find out. If I could just get past that house, my hope
was then driving onto a large field that led to a dirt road that in turn led to
my street.
Up the driveway I went,
keeping a sharp lookout for any firearms should they suddenly poke out of the
house. After all, this was trespassing and, with a lot of my neighbors armed
and on the alert for Mr. Frein, I might be driving myself into a “shoot first, ask
questions later” situation. To my
pleasant surprise the driveway continued behind the house down to the
above-mentioned field. To my even more pleasant surprise, no lights went on in
the house and no rifle barrels reared their ugly heads from its doors or
windows.
Out of the frying pan,
into the fire (cliché!). Driving my car out onto the open spaces of the field
immediately exposed me to the air search going on night and day for the
suspect. Would I become drenched in overhead searchlights and hear a voice from
a helicopter scream: "You in the Toyota – stop the car and get out with
your hands up!"? Or, worst case, get blown away from above by an
overworked and edgy police officer? No
such bad luck. I crossed the field, got onto the dirt road and drove to my
street without incident. My lifelong reckless streak had not cost me this time.
Clara, my wife, was
waiting for me at home. Having encountered the same roadblock, she'd called a
neighbor who told her to find the cop sitting in an unmarked SUV just off Route
447. So she did, and the officer cryptically advised her, “You can proceed, but
drive slowly, very slowly. I'll call ahead to let them (whoever them was) know." Clara, ever the
cautious one, followed orders and arrived home. I did too, although I had
ignored the roadblock, not consulted with the police officer, and barreled over
hill and dale to get there. My wife greeted me with: "Did you have any
problems with that blockade?" I replied with a nonchalant “No.”
Just
another day of living in the line of fire.
To
be continued.
