About that Time I Occupied a Federal Wildlife Refuge, by A. Bundy

About that time I occupied a federal wildlife refuge, I was only doing as I was instructed by God. And everything that has happened since the initial idea to occupy a federal wildlife refuge is clear proof that what we did, are currently doing, and will do in the future is exactly as God intended. Let me make this absolutely clear: I did not choose to occupy a federal wildlife refuge. God chose me to occupy a federal wildlife refuge. And on that first day, when nobody really took notice, when the media asked, “What is the point of occupying an uninhabited building on a federal wildlife refuge in the middle of nowhere?” and, “How is that a news story?” That was God telling us that we were doing the right thing. And then, on the third day, when the media did take notice and asked “What are you looking to prove by occupying a federal wildlife refuge in the middle of nowhere?” That again was proof that we were doing God’s work. And then, a week in, when the media forgot about us because there were better stories to report, that was definitely a sign from God. And then, when we started receiving dildos from all over the country, that was most definitely God sending a message to us. I’ll be damned if he don’t work in mysterious ways! And then, when we went to that town meeting and the citizens yelled at us to “Go home!” Yep, that was God telling us to stay. And then, a week later, when we tried to go to another town meeting and we were pulled over by the FBI and my good friend was shot to death—that was absolute proof that we were doing exactly as God wanted us to do. Gosh darn it God, if you’re not a crafty one. And then, when we were arrested and charged with federal crimes, again, God. And now, as we sit in jail cells awaiting our fate. You guessed it—God’s path. Now, let us pray…

Tornado Island

            The wind awakens me from my sleep. A gust pushes against the thin walls of my tent; then another; and another. Each is stronger than the one before. The hard smacking sound of air against fabric becomes louder with each blast, like a giant flag violently flapping high on its mast. The structure collapses in on me causing the small area inside to compress into an even tighter space. Tiny particles of sand blow through the tiny holes in the screen and into my eyes, making them itch and burn. I close the rain-fly, but it does little to help; the sand is stubborn and finds a way in.

            What the hell is going on? I listened to the weather report just a few hours ago and the voice on the radio clearly said it would be a “mostly clear night with a slight chance of scattered rain.” And now the wind is even stronger than before. A powerful gust flattens everything around me, snapping my tent poles like they’re twigs; my carbon-fiber tent poles that aren’t supposed to snap. I unzip the fly and hurry outside, for my tent is useless right now. It has transformed into nothing more than a large kite ready to take air with whatever is inside it. I’ve been through strong winds before but nothing like this. From the direction in which the wind is traveling the sky is dark. I look in the opposite direction, to the north, and see a clear night sky with a thousand stars twinkling in the warm summer air. Turning my head back the other way I see nothing but darkness. It’s as if the wind is visible, and the stronger it blows the darker its color and I’m staring at the blackest black that black can be.

            I bundle the tent in my arms, with most of my possessions still inside it, and run for the only cover available. There sits a plot of young trees, looking more like bushes, none over ten feet high and covering ground maybe fifty feet squared. There is nowhere else to go; I am on island in the middle of the Mississippi River with a half-mile of water on either side. I squat down between two trees and hold on tight, gripping each trunk like the thin end of a baseball bat. Before I fell asleep the temperature was over 90 degrees with the thick Midwest humidity making it feel well over 100. So now I’m completely naked and my bare skin stings from sand and leaves and the wind itself. And I’m chilled, not so much from the temperature dropping but more from the fear that has infected my mind.

            The wind becomes even stronger and my mind begins to comprehend the circumstances at hand. Could it be? I think it could. The worse of all possibilities, the most severe weather condition known to man—tornado! All right, stay calm. Think! I evaluate the situation and try to figure out the best course of action. What do I know about tornados? I know that just a few months ago a tornado ripped through a town not far from here, killing 159 people in Joplin, Missouri. I know that tornados are not very predictable and sometimes appear out of nowhere; otherwise those 159 people in Joplin, Missouri would not have been where they were when the destruction hit. And I also know that it isn’t the violent wind that actually kills people but rather the debris that the wind carries with it. I have a flashback of something that I once saw on television: a drinking straw shoots out of a machine, simulated to travel like it’s in the midst of a tornado; the small plastic tube penetrates a piece of wood like a bullet through Styrofoam. Somehow this brings about the slightest bit of reassurance. Because being on an island, surrounded only by water, there appears to be very little debris in the vicinity. Maybe my situation isn’t as bad as it seems.

            And the winds picks up. And the trees begin to bend. And I consider talking to God. But I think about Joplin, and all those dead, and how they must have talked to God just before the end and how God did nothing to save them, and unlike myself they genuinely believed in God. So instead I talk to the trees. I talk to them as if they are a higher power and understand my language. “Ok little trees,” I say, “I know that you’re not that old in plant years and you’ve probably been on this earth about as long as me, and over that period of time your roots have held strong and you haven’t been ripped out of the ground yet, so if you think you can hold on for just one more day, I will be forever grateful.”

            But wait. What if the trees can hold on to the ground, but I can’t hold on to the trees? What if my grip isn’t strong enough and the wind carries me off and drops me into the river? Is the water a wise place to be during a tornado? Or are waves going to crash on me until I’m pushed underwater and drown? I should put my lifejacket on.

             I release my grip on the tree trunks and take off towards the canoe. The wind knocks me to the ground and in all my 28 years on earth I don’t remember this ever happening before. I proceed forward in a diagonal stance with my upper body leaning forward, trying to find the perfect balance between falling on my face and being blown over on my ass. I reach the spot where I left the canoe but it’s not there. I look around frantically, my forearm pushed against my brow to stop the sand from stinging my eyes. But it’s no use; there is nothing to be found. I know where I left the boat, and I know that it is gone, along with everything inside it, including my life-jacket. So now I’m standing cold and naked on an island in the middle of the Mississippi River staring directly into a “darkness” that might or might not be a developing tornado. And all I can think is: How the hell did I get myself in this situation?

Will I live? Will I die? The answer can be found in my new book, The Road and the River: An American Adventure. To purchase a copy, simply click on the link below!

                                      https://www.createspace.com/5935714

My Star Wars Life: The Making of a Fan

            I was not a fan of Star Wars. Before you get all up in arms, notice the word “was.” The following is a story/essay about my conversion.

            In retrospect, my early objections to the Star Wars movies probably had little to do with the actual series itself, but rather, could be more properly attributed to a sibling rivalry. Josh, my older brother, was an absolute fanatic when it came to not only Star Wars, but anything in the Science Fiction genre. I, always trying to find an identity of my own, was not much of a fan of either. For me, outer space was boring. For me, Science Fiction consisted of Back to the Future and Jurassic Park, segments of the genre that took place entirely on Earth and that had nothing to do with outer space. And so, even though we came from the same blood, and shared a bedroom, we were entirely different people. Josh was in another galaxy. I stuck to Earth. Josh was a Star Wars kid. I prefered Indiana Jones. And that was the way it stayed, until about a month ago…

            My good friend J.R., a huge Star Wars fan, was recently married, and for their first Christmas as newlyweds, his awesome wife Megan got him a private screening of The Force Awakens. When I heard about this incredible gift, I thought there was a 50/50 chance that I would receive an invite. On one hand, me and J.R. are really good friends, so naturally, he would invite me to experience this once in a lifetime opportunity with him. But, on the other hand, I had voiced my disinterest over Star Wars—as well as cracking numerous distasteful jokes—so many times, that it wouldn’t have surprised me in the slightest if I was not invited. So, when I did receive the invitation to view The Force Awakens in a private screening room, I knew it was only right to revisit the original trilogy.

            Naturally, I watched original Star Wars first and to be honest, all I could think was: this movie was once the highest grossing film of all time? How? Why? But then I gave it some deep consideration and came up with a theory—it was just the right movie at just the right time. It was the late 1970’s, our nation was in the midst of a recession, we had only recently pulled out of the Vietnam War, and Hollywood was in an era of producing realistic, often-times artistic, sometimes tear-jerking, dramas. Though this era produced some of the greatest films of all time—The Godfather, The Exorcist, Jaws, Rocky, etc.—these films were often an exhausting experience. Star Wars, on the other hand, was fun. It was colorful. It didn’t take it itself too seriously (though its fans eventually would). It had robots and aliens and light sabers. It was exactly what the public needed at the time. Unfortunately, I didn’t see it at the time of its release—mostly because I wasn’t born yet—and when I returned to it as a child in my early thirties, I found myself, surprisingly, entertained. Sure, Luke is a whiny brat, plot holes are used to conceal larger plot holes, and that trash compacter is much smaller than I remembered as a child, but all in all, I found it to be a pretty decent movie experience. I was actually excited to see the next installment…

            I wasn’t exactly thrilled with The Empire Strikes Back. Quite frankly, I was a bit surprised that the filmmakers followed up Star Wars with such a dark sequel. But, trying to find a bright spot—always trying to find that bright spot—I did consider the special effects, and though they might not be deemed that impressive today, at the time, they must have been absolutely mind-blowing. So, the movie did have that going for it, until…

            I did something I probably shouldn’t have done. In the midst of my viewing of the original Star Wars trilogy, I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey. I know I shouldn’t have, but I was already in this Sci-fi state of mind, and it was playing in its original 35mm format at my neighborhood theater, and I had never seen it before. (I know what you’re thinking: How has someone with a college degree in Film Studies never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey? The answer: I went to a state school. They practically give degrees away.) So, I watched the movie, which was filmed in 1968, and its special effects were light years ahead of The Empire Strikes Back. I was suddenly starting to question whether or not this whole Star Wars saga was really as good as everyone so desperately wanted me to believe. But then…

            Along comes Return of the Jedi—with its Ewok villages, and Jaba the Hut’s strip club, and those awesome hovercraft skidoos—to save the entire franchise. Wow, what a fun film! And Hans Solo gets the girl in the end. Speaking of which, if I could sum up the greatest part of the Star Wars films in just two words they would be: Harrison Ford. For much of the same reason I love the Indiana Jones movies, I found myself becoming a fan of Star Wars. There’s just something about Ford’s acting that makes the audience feel like he’s an old friend. The way he can express any emotion with just the look in his eyes. The way he can be rude and charismatic at the same time. The way he can take over a scene in which he only has a few lines. It’s no wonder that his combined films have generated more money than any other actor in the history of Hollywood. Come to think of it, I wonder if the Star Wars movies would have been any good at all without him in them.

            The day finally comes to see The Force Awakens and I find out that not only do we have an entire screening room to ourselves, but we also have $250 worth of food and drink that we have to spend. Suddenly, it’s steak and champagne. It’s personal pizzas and White Russians. “Did I say a pitcher of beer? I meant two pitchers of beer.” “Well, if she’s having a glass of whiskey, I guess I’ll have one too.” This is how Danny Devito must feel everyday of his life. Hell, with this kind of royal treatment, I’d even watch Ride Along 2. I’d even watch The Danish Girl. I’d even watch…

            The lights go down and the film begins. At first, I’m skeptical. After all, I do have very high expectations. This is the biggest movie of all time. But then it delivers—Harrison Ford enters the movie and all is saved. He’s still got it—that smile, those eyes, that charisma. I drink another beer. It is extraordinary! I take another sip of whiskey. It is thrilling! More beer. It is at the same time a sequel and a remake—brilliant! More whiskey. It is the greatest movie ever made! And then it ends. The credits roll. And we have to leave. And suddenly our high-roller status is gone.

            The next day I realize that I was so intoxicated during the movie that I can’t even remember the last 45 minutes. I literally have no idea how it ended. But it doesn’t matter, because I remember loving it. And as long as they keep making them, and as long as Harrison Ford is still starring in them, I will definitely buy a ticket.

Snowlandia: Impressions of Snow in a City that Rarely gets Snow

           We wake up to white—covering our yard, and her car, and our street. Barely two inches, but still the first real accumulation this city has seen in nearly two years. It has taken over my Facebook feed—photos taken through windows, from the comfort of the indoors; photos taken in front yards, from the chill of the outdoors; photos of my friends playing in the snow, sliding in it, building in it;  photos of snowballs, midair, just as they're about to hit the person taking the picture. The word “Snowpocalypse” is used far too many times. The entire experience is wonderful and exciting and almost perfect, except it’s Sunday, and I already don’t work on Sunday.

We need groceries, but don’t dare to drive, not that I don’t trust my skills in the wintery weather, but because I don’t trust the other cars on the road. So we bundle up, two pairs of socks, winter gloves, winter hats, winter jackets that haven’t been worn in years. Mine is covered in cat hair and mildew. Katelin’s still has a snowboarding tag from when she was a teenager. We walk down the sidewalk, into the wind. Cars crawl by, some sliding, fishtailing, others with chains on their tires, causing grinding, crunching, jangling sounds against the pavement below. The parking lot’s half empty. Cars are stuck in place, their tires spinning, their drivers flooring the gas pedal, with the misunderstanding that speed means traction.

When we return home, I change my clothes. I lace up my running shoes. I head for the mountain. When I reach the top of Tabor, I stop for a while, to watch the park-goers play. The hill is high and steep and would be perfect for sledding—if it only had any snow on it. But it doesn’t matter. They sled anyway. Fast, down frozen grass and dirt. At the bottom is a bump, more like a ramp, about the size of a basketball cut in half, like the gutter of a bowling lane flipped upside down. There is no way to avoid it. I watch a teenager hit it full speed, lose his plastic sled, and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. It can’t feel much different than landing on concrete. He lies motionless on the frozen earth for a minute before one of his friends drags him to the side. This stops nobody from following his lead. Kids slide down on toboggans; teenagers on inflatable tubes; adults on plastic garbage can lids. They all get air. They all land safely. Until…

Two men in their late-teens, maybe early-twenties, create their own unique tandem experience. One man is kneeling on a knee board. His friend is above/behind him on a pair of skis. They sail down the hill, they hit the inversed gutter, the spectators hold their collective breaths, they gain air, they somehow stick the landing, but they’re going too fast, they have little to no control, they’re heading straight toward a stationary bench, and just as they’re about to crash into it, they shift their bodies to the right, turning ever so slightly, and instead of hitting the bench, they take out a middle-aged man who was looking the other way.

A group of people show up with a kayak and I want to stay and watch another disaster, but it has started raining, and I’m getting wet and growing cold. I run home, back down the hill, careful not to bite it. By the time I reach my house, the ground is slick, the roads frozen. I can barely walk without slipping. I shower, curl up under blankets on the couch. My curtains open, I watch out the window, as cars rush by, as they slip, as they slide, as they fishtail, traveling much too fast. I watch, as a few minutes later, an ambulance crawls by, as slow as a snail, its lights flashing, its sirens screaming.

I wake the next morning to a frozen city—the entire region little more than a giant skate rink. Everything is shut down—schools, the government, my work. My work! The ever-elusive snow day. From the comfort of my living room, I turn on the local news. It’s the best show on television—clips of vehicles sliding out of control, crashing into each other like bumper cars, like an episode of America’s Funniest Home Videos. I watch the frozen city as I eat hot food, thankful that I walked to the store yesterday.

An Open Letter to my Readers, 2016

Dear Readers,

First and foremost, Thank You! Whether you are a weekly reader, a periodic reader, or even if this is your first time reading my work, Thank You. Without an audience, a writer is doing little more than creating a diary.

Secondly, I am aware that not everyone is going to like everything I write. Criticism, plain and simple, is just another aspect of being an artist. To be honest, it’s tough to come up with something different to write about every week, and therefore, I understand that not every piece I produce will be outstanding. Some may even be considered by certain individuals to be “in bad taste.” Just recently, I received a letter from someone who couldn’t believe that I had the audacity to publish a certain story online. In response, I will not apologize for writing satire, for I believe that satire is one of the greatest tools a writer possesses, but I will apologize for corrupting the Internet, because we all know that before jonpenfold.com, the Internet was a truly pure and wholesome device that no one ever used to spread filthy, obscene, hateful, or pornographic ideas and/or images. I guess I opened a real Pandora’s Box. And for that I am sorry.

Thirdly, I’d like to talk real quick about what’s to come. Many may remember that in 2015 I decided to concentrate mostly on stories. Some were true. Some weren’t. Some were funny. Others, not so much. Well, for 2016, I’d still like to concentrate on stories, but I’d also like to contribute more essays. I know what some people may be thinking: Who cares what you (Jon Penfold) have to say? And you may be partially correct. Why would anybody care what I have to say about anything? It’s not like I’m a politician, or an actor, or a Kardashian. But maybe that’s what makes my opinion so important—the fact that I am just a regular person, with a blue-collar job, and bills that need to be paid. Are the opinions of regular, everyday people not only important, but perhaps more important than those of celebrities? I think they are, and I think, hopefully, that future generations will someday look back at these opinions and better understand what our society was really like in the early twenty-first century. Or they can just watch reruns of Duck Dynasty…

Last but not least: In early 2015 I made a goal to have my first book published by the end of the year. And, as a world-class procrastinator, on December 31, 2015, my goal was met. As of right now, my first book, The Road and the River: An American Adventure is available for sale at: https://www.createspace.com/5935714. (Or you can click the picture in the right hand corner of this website.) A quick rundown of how this all happened: About five years ago, I concocted a plan to ride my bicycle from Oregon to Minnesota, where I would then canoe down the Mississippi River. The trip took me four months to complete. The book took me two years to write. And the publishing process took another two years to figure out. But now it’s available! So buy it! Read it! And tell your friends and family about it! All royalties I make from it will go directly towards funding my next adventure (more to come…). Thanks again! Or, for those readers from other parts of the world: Dankie! Shukran! Do jeh! Xie xie! Tak! Kittos! Merci! Efharisto! Grazie! Arigato! Dziekuje! Spasibo! Gracias!

Sincerely,

Jon Penfold