The Hacking

The morning frost was just beginning to settle on the housetops and lawns on Michael Park Drive as the hooded figure slowly walked down the middle of the street. All the houses were dark as their occupants snatched the last few moments of Saturday morning slumber. So no one noticed this figure also carried a set of crude tools of violence to be unleashed on unsuspecting innocent victims. His choice this time was a rusted saw and long handled pruning shears; "weapons of crass destruction."

Turning the corner he lashed into his first victim with pent up anger and frustration. The pruning shears cut off needled fingers and the saw sliced through limbs with precise extraction. The sun was barely rising to be the only witness to this horrid act of annihilation. Body parts were piled along the sidewalk as a warning to others to stay back and not interfere.

OK, this really happened. The figure with the hoodie was me. I had become frustrated with the pine trees along the sidewalk that obstructed my view as I tried to cross traffic in my car. In our neighborhood maintaining the trees and shrubbery behind homes are the individual homeowner’s responsibility. The back of these homes faced the highly trafficked street and the owners had planted these trees in an effort to block the noise. I guess I could have knocked on each door and asked politely if the owners would kindly trim these trees back. But, as usual, I took matters in my own hands.

After my morning walk I went into my garage and fetched the small hand saw and pruning shears. Then I went to work on these trees. Once you start pruning it triggers some sort of hacking cells in the brain and it’s very hard to stop. Every branch is under scrutiny for the cut. I worked quietly so the home owners wouldn’t react to this carnage. The branches began to pile up as I slashed and cut. Finally I came to my senses and looked at the heap of small and large branches on the sidewalk. I began to feel a little nervous about someone seeing these so I began to hide the debris under the juniper bushes, kicking the sawed off limbs under the pokey shrubs like one hides dirt swept from the floor under the rug. ( uhh, no Jan, I don’t really do that.)

As I was bending over, concentrating on the clean up, a voice from a passing runner startled me.
“I’m just cleaning up this mess that someone left!” I blurted as the runner distanced herself.
The larger branches wouldn’t fit under the already crowded bushes so I carried them to the irrigation ditch and tried my best to hide them along the surrounding fences. I didn’t want to think I was dumping clippings along the canal's path so I reasoned I would come back later and pick them up. My cutting finished, I hurriedly hid the pruning shears in my sweat shirt and the saw inside my sweat pants. As I walked back home the saw began to slip down the leg of my pants, causing me to walk with a limp to prevent the teeth of the saw from performing an amputation. I thought this was the way the trees were trying to pay me back for my clipping barrage.

Later that day Jan and I began our trip to get groceries. As we pulled to the stop sign at the entrance to the street I pointed out to Jan how clear the view now was. However, now a speed sign with a steel post still blocked the view to oncoming traffic hurtling down the hill.

After our errands we returned home. Immediately, I entered the garage and began to search for the metal slicing hacksaw while planning my next deed of dastardly early morning ventures.