Enter Phase: I’m Never Going to Get Any Sleep. Since we are so far out of the city, the night sky is the only light we are accustomed to seeing. Likewise, the familiar frog croak or dog bark is pretty much the only noise we country bumpkins like to hear. It’s beautiful yet poetic and almost haunting in its stillness. Late one evening I heard a rumbling, a whirring, and a strange audible reckoning deep within the woods behind our house.
I let our dog out to investigate. She didn’t return. After watching X-files with no lights on,(actually, it was the 10 o'clock news with Simone Wilkinson, same thing) paranoia crept into my psyche. I waited in vain for the noise to effervesce; it couldn't be ignored. My dog was nowhere and I became convinced that the undetermined sound had inexplicably snatched my little hound and was now hovering in the area like a Barbara Mandrell stalker.
As the dawn of light gave way to reason, I realized the humming, gurgling noise was a souvenir gift from the Marysville Pipe Dream committee. A compressor. A compressor the size of a mini-van ran all night in preparation for the next day’s work. ALL NIGHT. The fetid little beast never quit. So at night we are lulled to sleep by the hideous hum and hiss of a compressor and morning’s wake-up call is the back up signal of giant trucks.
However will we cope when they are gone? They are leaving, right? RIGHT?