Timber! A cutting tragedy in agonizing detail

The big news in my world is that our neighbors, who previously seemed like ordinary--although suspiciously perfect--people, have finally revealed themselves as a sleeper cell of militant terrorist lumberjacks. For reasons unknown, they have been visciously clear-cutting the trees in their premium, wooded lot--which abuts our wooded, but much-less-premium acreage--for eight straight days.

We've lived next door to the Perfects for ten years, but before we moved in and ruined their neighborhood, Jeff and I would drive over from the low-rent district and gaze longingly at their perfect home. We'd admire their perfect landscaping and perfectly manicured lawn. When we finally arrived next door, we discovered that although Mr. and Mrs. Perfect have two perfect children, their home has perfectly maintained white carpeting. Need I say more?

When the siege against trees began, Jeff and I reasoned that a few of their perfect trees must have perished over the winter. On the second day, we theorized that perhaps they were tired of cleaning leaves out of the gutters. When day three of non-stop chain saw and chipper/shredder activity arrived, I speculated that perhaps an in-law apartment was in the works.

Lest you start thinking that I’m the neighborhood eco-Nazi or a major control freak, you should keep in mind that I’m a freelance writer now. I’m at home in my formerly peaceful home, 24/7, absorbing every roaring engine, every grind, every chip, every shred. I love a good tree for the oxygen, shade and privacy it shares with us, but essentially it was noise that was driving me out of mine. By day four, I was downright twitchy.

When day five dawned, a beautiful rainy Monday, I was sure that blessed silence would prevail. I got up, took my daughter to the bus stop, then sat down at the computer to begin crafting gems of prose, when the first chainsaw started up with a roar. When a friend suggested I put on a hockey mask, start my chain saw and pay the Perfects a visit, this sounded like a plan to me.

Returning to reality, I realized that neither Jeff nor I have ever played hockey and our chain saw scares the poop out of me. I was strangely reassured by my personal cop-out when another friend reminded me of the danger of confronting neighbors who have large chipper-shredders available FOR YOUR DISPOSAL.

Luckily, the environmental carnage seems to have concluded with a three-day frenzy of stump-grinding and earth-moving equipment. We’re still debating its purpose. Perhaps a swimming pool? A football stadium? A putt-putt golf course? Perhaps we’ll never know. After all, as newly revealed eco-terrorists, the Perfects could tell me—but then they’d have to kill me.