The Army of Angry Trees

The school district for which I work is one of the largest in the state, not in terms of population but in terms of area.  We cover 250 square miles of land; I would guess that 85% of that is rural, both farm and scattered woods (lots of hills, we are in bluff country after all.).  So, it stands to reason, there's a bit of wildlife hiding along and/or running across the roads in the school district.   There are the usual culprits: rabbits, raccoons, squirrel, possum, deer and turkeys.  But, specifically in and around my bus routes, there are wild creatures that only exist along the roadsides: the wolf turkey (largest species of wild turkey), the Blue-eyed Ditch Donkey (somehow related to deer but possess a laser like glowing eye of blue color), and the Angry Tree.  

Now, for anyone who does not know about angry trees, they are terrible beasts that sit among the fence lines and hide in the small woods scattered about the bluff country.  They usually exist in small packs of six, referred to as an army.  They will, sometimes without warning, descend upon unsuspecting humans and vehicles with flailing limbs, the attack can only be labeled as rude and vicious.  They act similar to a voracious pack of coyotes, and are charged with more property damage than any other creature in the district.  No one "round dese parts" knows why, but they claim a collection of six rogue armies of angry trees were the cause of the disappearances of the tiny villages of Snow's Corners and Ottman's Bluff in the late '50's.  I was almost half way through my fifth year of driving for Ellsworth before I made my first encounter with these scary creatures.

I was at my third noon route stop when one of the 100 million, spudillion cows that boarded the bus that day informed me of a most terrible thing.  (Yes, the fact that the large number of cows not only got on the big, yellow limousine, but they all fit inside, and the fact that the one talking cow was a boy not a girl were not the worst of things at that moment.  -Also, please, dear reader, do not tell any of the timelords, whom you may or may not have an acquaintance, about my bus; they will take it away as being a tardis that no human should have in their possession.)  No, the bad news was simply that we were being followed by an army of angry trees which were trying to bash up the bus with their whip-like limbs.  I screamed,"hang on to something!  We are going for a ride, people!... I mean herd!"  And the herd heard that, and away we went.

Around the sunken ravines and up, then down the steep sides of the narrow valleys, we wound our way through the countryside, eventually floundering our way through the Yard of Metal Things.  We managed to dodge a hay baler in an effort to save the whole bus from the angry trailing trees, careening off the back corner of the farm implement and leaving a scrape along the side of the bus.  We thought we lost the angry army as we made a quick turn on to one of the tiny township roads, but when we noticed a second encroaching army, one of the cows mentioned the "Bumpy Bridge."  Now, what I know about cows (and kids) is that they do not name things for the same reason an adult does, so when a herd names something, like "The Bumpy Bridge," it has to mean something.  (Besides, who am I to argue with a cow, even if one is a boy?  They know the territory better than any of us non-grazers.).    So, I slammed my foot on to the accelerator.

I felt like we were heading toward the church bridge from the Washington Irving story; yep, I was Ichabod riding hard to safety.  The bus sidled from side to side on the frozen road (Of course this story happened in the winter!  Drama, people!).  At one point, the back tires came off the road and the bus bowed down into the ditch along the side of the road.  But holding the road, the bus made contact with one of the angry trees causing a domino/bowling pin effect on to the entire blocking army.  Directly in front of us, free and clear, was the Bumpy Bridge and we made the edge of the bridge.

At that moment, we were all in the air, the bus, the kids, and me.  This was painful, for I was belted in and the restraint pulled hard on to my midsection.  But when I looked at the kids/cows suspended in the air with arms/legs extended, they were all filed with sunshine and lollipops.  I realized that they named the bridge not because it was a landmark but a moment in time when they all first learned to fly.  The moment was gone as soon as we bounced back on to the road with a hard bang and went back into the air.  We were airborne for good.  I looked down to see one of the trees splintered all over the road and the remaining trees snarled in a huddle around the debris.

The rest of the trip was peaceful and sunny.  With everyone of the herd on the bus, we glided into school unharmed.  Now, how do I explain the scar on the side of the bus?

7 February 2016.       Roy Edward Power