This week has been one of grave disappointment here in Turkey Hollow.

Ever since the government's announcement that a huge, lumbering 'spy satellite' had run out of power and was due to come hurtling to earth, the denizens of Turkey Hollow had been hoping for the best - that it would crash in our woods. Think of the excitement! Think of the notoriety! Think of the big bucks!

We knew that the 20,000 lb piece of crippled space junk - zippily named USA 193 - contained the toxic chemical Hydrazine in its fuel, which could harm anyone coming into contact with it. We also were aware that the satellite carried a panoply of hush-hush 'state secrets'. And we read all about the griping of other nations, most notably China, that this maneuver may just be a cover for illegally testing missiles. But for us, those wonky fine points paled with the realization that if the hunk of NASA metal would just fall within our city limits, then Turkey Hollow would have a long-overdue economic shot in the arm! The added attraction of being able to mercilessly tease the Pentagon about having access to their famous "secrets" made us all the more giddy.

Within days, my friend Steven Guy and I had the full-on economic revival of Turkey Hollow all figured out. Even Livingston Manor, the big city in the area, is struggling in this recession. People all around us are disenfranchised or disillusioned in one way or another. So we decided it was our moral obligation to do anything we could do to help our local economy. Our plan was massive, extensively researched and comprehensively detailed. We also Xeroxed and circulated nifty "X-Marks-The-Spot" maps for townspeople to bet odds on where the crippled satellite might come crashing to earth as it split up into, what one NASA scientist opined would be "1,000,000 pieces of debris." Woo-hoo! That's all we needed to hear!

First off, we would enlist our neighborhood legend, Wayne Keller, who we all know can do anything. Not only would Mr. Keller protect us from the toxic chemicals, most likely he would also develop a renewable use for them. Before long, happy townspeople would be using the recycled hazardous waste as lighter fluid to start wood burning stoves. Or employing a pesticide derivative to rid the countryside of encroaching chickweed. Then, en masse, we would all carry the tonnage of downed metal up to Mr. Keller's 'shop' and help him cut them into pieces so we could date them and sell them on Ebay as "certified spy satellite pieces".

Think of the profit to be made sending all those tiny boxes of dated space junk to P.O. boxes all around the world! Half of Turkey Hollow could be gainfully employed just packing the shipments! The tourism boom would be incredible. People would come from wide and far to see the scorched area of the woods where the satellite came to its ignominious end. Our small bed and breakfasts would be packed to capacity and the local Robin Hood dinner would have to hire on extra help to handle the curious masses!

Even more satisfying, when the tourists got bored, we would still have the entertainment value of uniformed minions of the Pentagon, along with their Beltway lawyers, darting around the frozen terrain attempting to retrieve our new-found pirate booty. They would be holed up for months trying to negotiate down the narrow ice-encrusted dirt road out of town alone! Consider the huge financial boon for the local tow trucker, pulling black car after black car out of the side ditches. Imagine the glee of watching government bureaucrats, barking into cell phones, striving to maintain a modicum of dignity while facing the "Shock And Awe" of a pitiless Northeast winter!

Finally, what fun we would have exposing their secrets!The never-before-seen stats which revealed that the Industrialized Military Complex used 'energizer bunny' batteries instead of molecular solar implants. Or that the multi-million dollar satellite was intrinsically flawed from the beginning due to the discovery of one of the Pentagon's $700 screw drivers from the rubble. Or that the craft's guidance system was actually a GM GPS system swiped from a 2006 Yukon pickup truck. We were keenly aware of what happened to whistle-blowers in the oppressive atmosphere of the Bush Administration, but we didn't care. Duty, first, to the words in the Constitution. Honor, second, to the person who can successfully explain the words in the Constitution to George W. Bush.

So, in the end, the Pentagon's modified SM-3 missile not only destroyed the wounded satellite, but also shattered our collective dream. Our cash cow was shot out of the sky. To top it all, the contact blast was a disappointment - the earth didn't rumble, the heavens did not light up in a spectacular show. No bang, no boom, no "ooh and ahhs" like at the county fireworks display. It was all a frustrating, dispiriting dud.

Disappointed but undaunted, Steve and I have vowed to get back to the drawing boards and PowerPoint presentations to configure a new economic recovery plan for Turkey Hollow. Starting over. Back to the basics. Such is life.

Or such as life should be.