An Unprovoked Attack

You’d think it’d be a fair assumption that you learn to do some things over a lifetime of coping with the surprises the gods spring on you, like walking in a straight line and looking cool, so you don’t stumble or slip and break your bones, like drinking liquor without making a total fool of yourself and falling off your chair in front of all and sundry or like eating in moderation, so that you don’t embarrass your kids by belching or passing wind at the table, particularly if guests are present. I just turned 70 last month and I must say that for the most part that is so, but then come the relapses that remind you that you are far from perfect.

Case in point, the other morning, still wrapped in a corner of the blanket of my uneasy dreams, I got up and stumbled into the bathroom to do my morning ablutions. I should have known something was amiss, when I couldn’t find my glasses, which I usually leave on the night table next to my bed. I must have put them down somewhere else the night before. You don’t know how handy your specs can be in target acquisition, until they go AWOL. As I concentrated on improving my aim, I happened to glance into the mirror and I was shocked by what my diminished vision dished up. What the hell had happened to me? My face was a mess of scratches and clotted blood. My arms were covered with abrasions and cuts and blood. I looked like I had been in a cat fight and come out on the short end of the stick. As consciousness fought for the upper hand, I realized that my body ached all over as well, particularly my new hip and my legs. I was a sorry sight to behold.

It took me a while to get my bearings and then my memory slowly faded into focus. I had been at my neighbor’s for a friendly game of Texas Hold’em poker. There were six of us and we’d smoked some fine Cohibas, consumed a great steak dinner, drank a fair amount of good French wine from my neighbor’s well stocked wine cellar and pretty much solved the world’s problems among us. A good time was had by all. Everything was as well as could be at that point. Around 11, I decided it was time to go home and that’s when things began to come unstuck.

I, of course, refused the offered ride home. After all, a man’s a man and assistance is for the weak, besides I was in total control of all my senses. All I had to do was walk up my neighbor’s driveway, turn left and walk down my driveway. Piece of cake. It was pretty dark out and, of course, I didn’t bring a flashlight. That would have been unmanly, effete even. I could see the edge of the woods on either side of the path quite well and I picked up my pace, thinking about getting home and into bed. I was happy.

And just at that moment, without any warning and totally unprovoked, the trees decided to launch their attack. I should have known. I’d been in such situations before, but I didn’t count on trees being so deceitful. In retrospect, I guess they were exacting retribution for my chain sawing some of them in the past. And they did not give a hoot about the rules of war or the Geneva Convention. You think trees are harmless. They have a certain presence, magnificence even. They are stately and imposing, but you don’t think of them as malevolent, blood thirsty, conniving or evil. Here’s a news flash for you, trees can be a nasty piece of work. Their first move was to hit me in the face and snatch my glasses. Momentarily blinded, I countered by grabbing the closest one in a bear hug and squeezing. But trees can be uncanny. They somehow managed to get my legs entangled in the underbrush and the next thing I know I’m down flat on my face. Now, I’m not a quitter, so I staggered to my feet and as I was trying to get my balance back and go on the attack, one of them lays down behind me and causes me to do a backward salto mortale, to use the old circus parlance of my youth, and I land sprawled on my butt with my legs up in the air.

Now I am mad, but my old platoon sergeant’s reminder about keeping your butt below the horizon blinked on in my mind and I figured it would be best to stay on my hands and knees. By this time the trees have managed to lay down a solid smoke screen and I had no idea where I was. They closed in from all sides as I’m crawling around in circles. I tell you it was not a fair fight, but being German, I don’t believe in surrender. I flailed away at my assailants, but they seemed to be getting the better of me. The salal undergrowth is now joining the fray. I ended up draped over an old Douglas fir stump trying to get my bearings and get away from my crazed attackers. I sensed more than saw a lighter area in front of me and I headed towards it. I figured it’s my driveway. In my eagerness to escape, I stood up. Bad mistake, because the moment I think I have my two feet under me and start to move forward, something smacks me in the head and I went down cold.

It took a while to get the cobwebs out of the way and it wasn't until some 30 minutes later that I finally crawled out of the salal onto my driveway. I swear I will be back with my chainsaw to take revenge for this cowardly attack. The seizure of my specs will not go unpunished. And, on reflection and to hell with the perception of effeteness, the next time I enter the trees’ territory I will have a flashlight. I might even get one of those nerdy strap-on head lamps and there will be a pocket saw in my arsenal. This was the last ambush I’ll stumble into unprotected. Live and learn. Or is it learn and live?