COPADECKAPHOBIA

CAPTION: "Quick, hide in the bushes. It's the heat (baby boomer slang for cops)."   

 

     The local International airport here used to be one of my news beats (DIA). One of the ongoing stories there was all the noise being made about noise.

           It all became very litigious over an issue that in my humble opinion (it feels so good to express one once in a while) is utter nonsense.  Have you been around a major airport lately?

       The commercial airplane engine noise by regulation has dropped exponentially. It's what they call stage three noise reduction. And if you live near a general aviaition airport? The little Cessnas are now the loud mouths.

          A couple of times my photographer friend Jim Weis and I would be out shooting a story with a noise protestor. They'd see a plane coming over head?

          "See what I mean," the angry at noise person would decry.

           Jim and I would have our heads turned toward the street where a volkswagen noisily sped by.

           What's my point here? None, except I got to express my opinion.  Oh, and its not a bad way to go about introducing:

 

 

 

           ALL HANDS ON DECK

                                           Part Ten

 

         We got that good nights rest. The three of us beat the Sun out of bed. We don just enough clothes to be seen outdoors. We mutually survey the battlefield and check to see if my fountain cement job held. We quickly measure a foot down from the engineering feet. We line up the new spot with the end post. Our eyes all meet and our heads harmoniously nod a GO!

         Since I haven’t done it yet, I’m given the privilege of yanking the engine rope. Let me try some onomatopoeia here.

 

“WHITTTTTTAHPLLLLLLUKUHPLACHUUUGKEPUHPUHPUHPUHCHRULLLLKHARUMP.”

 

         It is something like that. Volume? Imagine a Harley driving by without an exhaust system.

         Well, lights come on up and down the block. The only actual human protest we hear comes for the other resident of our house.

 

         “What in God’s name is going on out there?”

         This is expressed in a volume greater than that of the imaginary Harley. We pretend not to hear. We are too anxious to complete the augering ofthis final posthole.

 When we reach the required three foot depth we let Jeff shut her down. Wow! What a difference. It is like walking from a factory assembly floor into a forest. It is so quiet. Mike reacts like he sees something.

“I’m pretty sure it was a cop car driving by.”

They are throwing their spot lights into the bushes, driving back and forth looking and listening for something.

 We nervously start looking around for hiding spots. But finally we all see the patrol car disappear at the end of the block.

Now we know we have only my wife to contend with. She arrives at the backdoor with a severe case of lockjaw. Her eyes now meet the dimensions of hard boiled eggs. She has twisted her normally lovely form into a Karate stance. This will challenge my diplomatic skills.

“Something wrong hon?”

 

She lets out one of those extended “ooooo”s that starts really low and slow and builds to a violent crescendo. This is typically followed by the tossing of some liquid or a plastic container in the direction of her disdain. But we are lucky this time. She doesn’t have her contacts in. There is simply this grand Karate chop at a pocket of air. Then she dramatically turns and heads back to bed. We hear the slamming of the bedroom door.

I can follow her and try out some more of my ambassadorial charm. But there is no need. I know she’s is back in bed sound asleep. I know she’ll not remember a second of this event.

I stand by for a minute or two before launching the all clear. The boys, no braver than I, are hiding in the garage.

“It’s okay guys. You can come out now.”

We all sit down in a pile of dirt mapping out the next steps in whispers.

The physics text appears along a geometry chart, the plans and the ever present level. In little time at all, we have nine perfectly positioned posts. Well I guess number nine isn’t perfect positioned. We carefully pour cement in and around all the posts. Oh, except for number nine.

I’m going to let you wonder about the “why” of that until next time.

See ya!.