Spotlight on the Avenue

We bought our first home on Sixty-fifth Avenue in Omaha, Nebraska. The house was a white, one and a half story, nineteenth century starter house. Inside sported hardwood floors and wide oak trim. We poured our hearts and souls into the property to make it our own. I truly thought we would live there forever.

Behind the house was a nice sized deck jutting into a small backyard. A fence surrounded the lawn and across the back grew trumpet vines. Our rottweiler-chow, Dakota, had just enough room to get the zoomies and roll in the grass. We placed his kennel behind our detached garage which took up much of the available space. Everything seemed perfect.

Eventually, we added a baby to the mix and adopted another dog, Divot. Playground equipment occupied the middle of the yard, so Divot and Dakota zoomed around the outer boundaries during play time.

Because of the small yard, we took two long walks every day in an attempt to exhaust the young dogs. The neighborhood streets were lined with 100-year-old trees and sidewalks with plenty of cracks and bumps. We followed the same route most nights and often stopped to talk to neighbors. After the evening walk, we sat on the back deck and watched the dogs chase each other. They were always careful around Joanna as she toddled around her domain. We felt safe and protected living on the Avenue.

Most residents on The Avenue also had dogs, so sometimes we gathered at Terry and Sue's house. The dogs and toddlers played while the adults had a few drinks and chatted. Occasionally talk involved sketchy houses in the area where we worried crimes might be taking place. Just down the street, people suspected the young male renters of dealing drugs. A few blocks over lived teens accused of bullying and petty theft. Sixty-fifth Avenue might appear safe, but those who had lived in the area for years warned us to stay vigilant.

One spring night we were lying in bed with the windows open to let in a light breeze. Suddenly, we heard crunching noises coming from our yard. Ericka crept out of bed and peered carefully out the window. She couldn't see anything. Back in bed we whispered for a while about what the noises might have been, and then started to drift off to sleep.

We jerked awake to more noise outside and could see flashes of light glancing through the windowpanes. Both of us tiptoed to the window and spied a police car parked on the road in front of our house. Officers walked on the gravel path alongside our neighbor's house using their flashlights to search the area. I was scared spitless!

The next day everyone discussed the man hunt that took place along our street. Various theories spread like an invasive weed across everyone's backyard fence. Residents within a five-block radius encouraged each other to lock the doors and keep first floor windows shut. The hysteria continued for several weeks before complacency set in, and fear of the criminal element subsided.

Late in October, I stepped outside with the dogs so they could take care of business before going to bed. I stood on the deck holding my flannel shirt shut around my upper body. The silence seemed odd in the city, but I welcomed it as I peered around at lights twinkling from houses up and down the back alley. I patiently waited for Dakota and Divot while they sniffed around the tiny yard.

In the distance, I heard the beating of a helicopter's propeller. I scanned the dark sky attempting to spot it. Abruptly, the helicopter breached the roof of our house. A spotlight shone down and perfectly highlighted me standing on the back deck. I was a deer staring into the light expecting the worst.

It hovered. I waved. It retreated.

As the whirring of the helicopter faded into the distance, I stood frozen in place, my heart racing. The surreal encounter had left me breathless, so I gulped in fresh fall air and scanned my surroundings. The backyard was dimly lit, shadows dancing along the fence line. Calmness settled like leaves as I gathered the dogs to reenter the safe warmth of Obner Castle.