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NOTE: This is a real story as best as I can remember it from when I was 16 years of age. I grew up after this encounter, but my belief in God watching over us got me through it. The four of us were Christians but we were like most teenagers looking for excitement and unfortunately - we found it. Stories of my run-ins with the paranormal and others who had similar run-ins are in my Amazon e-book, Divine Curses.
This was a Close Encounter beyond the First Kind and Second Kind. It was most likely an encounter of the Third Kind, and it was also of a long duration. By this encounter, I judge all other encounters I have ever had and probably will continue to have. It is the encounter which forced me to believe in UFOs as “extraterrestrial” controlled alien crafts. Had I been older or had other experiences that I now have under my belt, I would have taken an entirely different approach than what is stated below.
The autumn air smelled fresh on that special Friday evening. The sun rays were still warm as I walked across the grass to the mailbox to pull the evening newspaper with some mail from the metal container. I was an enthusiastic high school student in the first week of October 1963 who had spurts of being a scholastic overachiever. I no longer hated school as I did when I attended “elementary prison-camp” but enjoyed the extra freedoms offered at Hopewell High. On this particular Friday, I felt one of these overachieving spurts swelling within me. Before leaving school I had informed my friends that I would not be going out with them anytime during the weekend because I was going to start reading a book for a book report which was due the following month. When my father asked if I needed the car for anything, I informed him I was not going anywhere. At that particular time of my life, my father limited my driving to about 30 minutes. He had informed me months earlier that he thought all teenage drivers were crazy and reckless. At that particular moment, using his car was the last thing on my mind. My focus was set on finishing one thick book in one weekend even though I enjoyed driving much more than reading. I had begun reading the first page of Victor Hugo’s marathon manuscript, “The Hunchback of Norte Dame,” when I heard my father call out his abbreviation of my family nickname.
“Cork…” He yelled out loud and clear.
His words relayed that Reggie wanted to see me at the living room door. With the focus of my weekend in my right hand, I walked from my bedroom down the hall to the living room where a screened storm door separated me from my friend whose smile was wide and wild. While continuing to smile, Reggie whispered, "You want to come with us tonight? We're going to do some real cruising...!"
Feeling to some extent interrupted, I responded with, "I don't think so...I'm reading..."
It was about this time I noticed Bobby running towards us from the parked 1961 black and white Ford which belonged to Reggie's father. I opened the door and stepped out. Bobby whispered, "We got some good stuff out here...You don't want to miss out on this!"
I could smell his breath and I knew he had been drinking some kind of wine. I saw Ronnie sitting in the car holding up a bottle, and I held up my right hand to gesture that I had seen the bottle but I did not want my father to see it. Flinching a bit, I told Reggie and Bobby, "Hold on, I'll tell my Dad I'm leaving."
There was definitely a psychological conflict going on in my mind between finishing my book and wanting to go out with my wild and crazy teenage friends. Bobby had been one of my best friends since we were 12 years of age and he was always challenging me to do wild and crazy things that we knew years later were no less than insane. Bobby’s enticing me not to miss out on what was going to happen that night was the real motivator leading me to leave my home and homework assignment behind. This motivation led to the circumstances that changed my life forever.
Quickly I carried my book back to my bedroom where I tossed it onto my bed where pillows, soft drinks, and potato chips had been arranged for a long night of reading. I grabbed my wallet and my navy-blue HIS jacket which I threw over a shoulder.
"Dad, I'm going out with Reggie, Bobby, and Ronnie. We won't be out too late"
Looking up from a newspaper, he advised, "Okay, but be careful!"
If he only knew ‑ I thought.
All of us were under the legal drinking age but there was always some mom and pop store that would sell beer if the money were in hand and one of us looked close to being 21. Bobby always looked as though he needed a shave as far back as the seventh grade. Someone had to be in disguise as an adult and we usually counted on Bobby and his five o’clock shadow to play this part in buying adult beverages for us. It was difficult for the rest of us to disguise ourselves as adults but we all tried. Our ages ranged from 15 to 17, but at that "we know better than anyone else" age we felt we were old enough; more importantly, not one of us had yet suffered from our first hangover or anything that seemed negative from drinking alcoholic beverages. All of us knew as we examined the canned and bottled bounties of liquid rapture that this would be a night to remember. As we rode down the street in the springtime of our innocence into the bright evening glow of the autumn sun, I did not realize that this night would hold a memory which would bring about the autumn of discontent for at least one thrill seeker. I never would have believed that this night would become unforgettable for a lifetime. I guess none of us really know when we are going to have one of those really crazy days or nights.
Normally, when you get two ordinary people together there will eventually be some type of disagreement or misunderstanding. But when you get four teenagers together, absolute disagreements abound as well as the potential for complete chaos. On that night, one minor disagreement kept me from throwing myself wholeheartedly into a party mood. I could not believe these three friends of mine had bought National Bohemian and Black Label beer; both were even stronger than my father's favorite beer, Pabst Blue Ribbon. Real men did not even drink this concoction of what tasted like a combination of rusty nails and peroxide. These “brews” were NASTY! I was already beginning to wish I had stayed home, drank a couple of Cokes, and devoured a large bag of potato chips. Instead, I sat on the shotgun side of the car’s front seat and pulled some single dollar bills from my wallet. I complained bitterly of their selection of refreshments and hoped I was not wasting the little cash I had in my wallet. After grabbing the dollar bills I had used to pay for my share of the beer, wine, potato chips, and pork rinds (skins), Ronnie retorted with, “... Uh, you’re not man enough to drink some real beer?!”
My answer was silent with just the middle finger on my right hand popping up to make a gesture. The gesture was made in fun and I knew it would mean nothing to Ronnie whose wits had buzzed past being a little high. He laughed and was already beginning to display a pronounced buzz with louder than normal talking. Trying to talk sensibly with him soon became impossible.
Had I known before leaving home of the selection of beverages available on this quest for proving one’s manhood, I probably would have stayed home that night and finished reading Ms. Breakbill’s English literature assignment, Victor Hugo’s classic marathon challenge, “Hunchback.” Victor Hugo was never my favorite author but his stories were always challenging due to the thickness of pages between the book covers revealing gothic wretchedness. I could always find something interesting about any book I ever read, but my preference was a book depicting some traveling and adventure. Adventure books were my favorite. Robert Lewis Stephenson’s “Treasure Island” was the first book I had actually read from cover to cover and I was forever looking for some book to top this adventure story.
Although extremely young and not wise to the world, I had already selected my favorite beer. This easy swallowing brew did not taste half bad or have a nauseating smell like most beers I had tried. This connoisseur experience for selecting the best tasting beer I had barely acquired just a month or so earlier (drinking anything alcoholic was new to all of us). Now, I was being given a silent dare to drink one or more of an intolerable selection of beers chosen by my friends. My choice would have been Falstaff. It was my choice after one drink because I could drink more than one can without choking. After informing my three friends of my preference for the beer that advertisers and retired baseball greats like Pee Wee Reese and Dizzy Dean recommended was the best beer made, I swore I would not be able to drink the tainted venom they had purchased, but I also knew drinking would be the only way to break even. There was no doubt that all three of my friends had been drinking prior to their showing up on my doorstep asking me to join them. Since they had divided up the cost of the beer into four equal shares, I was not happy my share was used to buy what I found incapable, if not impossible, to drink. I had never felt a real high, instead, only a light buzz much like the ones I had experienced when drinking hard apple cider years earlier before I knew what “high” really meant.
Bobby told me while laughing, "If you don't like it, then try the wine; it's Sly Fox ...and if you drink enough, the fox on the label will wink at you."
Ronnie replied with, "Anybody who'd drink that stuff would drink ‘panthuuur pisssth!" Ronnie’s words had begun to slur.
I laughed with everyone else but it was more of a forced and bitter snicker. Before getting into the car, I had already decided that wine did not have that certain piquant sensation needed to whet my appetite for pork-rinds. Wine was tolerable with cheese, not potato chips or the fried skins of pigs. Instead, I opened a can of beer and persisted in drinking a third of its contents during my only guzzle; it tasted incredibly, putridly horrific. My natural reaction was to throw up the bubbling yellow filth. Instead of obliging the natural yearnings of my throat and stomach, I held the liquid down trying to cover‑up my disgust with a cough. I did not drink anymore for at least an hour.
Reggie was at the wheel and asked, "Where to?"
Someone yelled, “Hopewell High."
A friend of ours was playing in a band in Hopewell High’s school gym. After paying our admission, we went inside to listen and watch. We stood in a large open doorway where Bobby yelled and kidded with a few of the guys who were fast dancing with the girls. Fast dancing with the girls was considered immature or downright "sissy." During the band’s first break, we walked over to see our friend, Charlie, who played a guitar in the band.
"What's going on?" I asked.
Charlie looked up and smiled after examining his guitar. "Nothing here...All of these girls are young...none above the tenth grade…most look like eighth graders!"
Bobby, who was a junior, responded quickly and loudly, "Nothing but jail bait!"
Of course, our main reason for going to the dance was to let our friends know we had gotten some "booze." We probably could have used a whole carload of girls to help us drink the seemingly endless cans of beer and bottles of wine we had to go through before going home later that night.
Other things were also on my mind. One thing was certain for me; I was determined not to drink anymore of the fowl smelling, horrible tasting beer. Saving what little money I still had was a priority. I was not about to buy any more beer. Reggie and I were the last of a group of about a dozen friends who had not gotten out of the pigeon trading business, the rage of the boys in early 1960's Woodlawn section of town. My income from mowing lawns and cutting hedges during the summer had just about vanished as the green leaves had begun to turn to golden orange. I knew I had to preserve my little savings somehow.
As we walked from the gym, I mentioned to Reggie we could drive down to his Aunt's abandoned farmhouse in Prince George County and fill the Ford's trunk with freshly harvested corn. This would have kept me from purchasing any cracked corn for the last pair of pigeons I was hoping to sell or give away. After piling back into the Ford, we opened four cans of beer and began guzzling. I sipped, my friends guzzled. This time I managed to finish half a can without getting sick by sipping a little at a time and chewing a lot of the air-filled pork rinds. Reggie slowly sipped on his can as he drove. Bobby had finished at least four cans and Ronnie was beginning to have trouble getting down the last of his fourth. The chips and skins made the beer easier to swallow but could not reduce the belching which was a normal occurrence and one of the many side effects of drinking the strong flavored brew.
Along our way down Route 10, we pulled off onto a side road to stop at a creek which was a hangout in the spring when we went herring dipping (fishing for herring with nets). This layover was a much needed pit stop for our kidneys and bladders. The tree limbs overhead served as a canopy and covered our heads with a multitude of colors dominated by dark green which gave the appearance of an early sunset. It was at this point that I swallowed my pride and admitted to my friends that the beer was too strong for me to drink. Bobby exclaimed that the wine was delicious and he would drink some with me. He twisted the cap off a bottle of the grape wine and began chug-a-lugging it (mind you – this was not expensive wine!). Within a minute the quart bottle was empty. Bobby smiled after the last drop hit his tongue as he held it over his mouth and teased, "Mmmmm...That hit spot...Try it!"
Not to be out done, I grabbed an unopened bottle, twisted off its cap, and began to guzzle. I held onto one of the bridge’s side rails and felt my throat begin to burn.
Suddenly, I heard Reggie scream, "Stop, you crazy fool, two of us have got to stay sober!"
He pulled the bottle from my mouth after a few seconds had passed; at which time Bobby yelled, "Let him finish it!"
Most of the wine had returned through my nose providing me with a stinging warning I had better wait if I wanted to drink one more drop the rest of the evening. Only a small amount of the red liquid was missing from the bottle I had wanted to consume in one gulp. A combination of laughing and arguing overcame the moment and continued as we drove down towards the abandoned farm; a drive not lasting more than 10 minutes.
With the radio’s speaker blaring songs performed by the likes of the Beach Boys, Sam Cook, the Four Seasons, Roy Orbinson, Elvis, and other pre-psychedelic rock ‘n rollers of the early 60's, our ride carried us past Powell's and Ward's creeks and the small village of Burrowsville (Elvis Presley’s songs seemed to dominate the airwaves but Reggie would switch the radio’s dial to another station every time he heard an Elvis song beginning to play. The Beatles’ music had not crossed the Atlantic Ocean to begin the British Invasion.). After passing a sign which read "Brandon," we turned right onto a smaller road. This road led to a smaller gravel road, one which Reggie and I were familiar. The loose graveled road, little more than a wide path, led to a farm and surrounding land where we had hunted rabbits and other small game for the past couple of years. I did not know it then, but it was on this tract of land that I would fully realize that an advanced civilization other than the one I belonged to existed and was visiting us.
The light remaining in sky rendered a soft fading blue as the sun began to set behind the distant trees. A soft scattering of pinks and rosy orange hues were faintly visible at the skyline where the last sunrays surrendered to the oncoming evening shadows. Reggie drove slowly down the mixed dirt and gravel driveway and parked the car between the white farm house and a weathered wooden barn. Prior to the ignition being turned off, the radio's speakers had probably been shredding to pieces under the stress of thunderous sounds of rock ‘n roll music booming away at full volume. A softer sounding song, The Ronettes’ “Be My Baby,” was the last song we heard playing before the radio’s speakers rested in silence. Reverberations of the four car doors opening broke the serene atmosphere of this country setting where the house, barn and other out‑buildings stood in the middle of acres of cleared land and harvested corn fields. Bobby had finished another beer, and Ronnie was having considerably more trouble speaking without slurring his words. Reggie and I began to become more amused with our friends’ bizarre antics and laughed incessantly for the first few minutes after arriving at the farm. Bobby suggested we drink a while longer, but he offered no resistance when Reggie insisted that time was a driving factor for us getting the corn out of an old barn before we lost the little light which was slipping away. In fact, it was Bobby who first scaled a six foot high locked wooden fence gate to reach the corn. All of us were astonished that Bobby could still walk and talk considering all the beer and wine he had guzzled.
Besides acting wild and yelling which was part of his normal demeanor, Bobby seemed mostly sober. He was the wild one in our little group and no one ever knew what he was going to say or do the next minute. Upon reaching the other side of the fence, we grabbed armfuls of dried corn still attached to their cobs. We threw some the corn cobs over the fence and then realized we might have trouble finding them in the tall grass. After deliberating the corncob and grass dilemma, we climbed the fence with one armful of corn for each trip to the car. Someone had begun placing the dried ears of corn on the floor in front of the rear seat, and with each additional trip this pile of corn grew higher.
I was standing below the fence on one of these trips as I watched in horror as Bobby climbed the fence, stood on its top rail, and began an acrobatic flip in the air. Somehow the flip and a half looked graceful and the expression on Bobby's face seemed serene as if he had not a care in the world. This beautiful dive was surpassed in excitement by the sound of Bobby's head "plunking" loudly as it hit the ground prior to the remainder of his body parts bouncing on impact. To say I was scared is an understatement. “Frightened” would be the wrong term, but being shaken and shocked beyond normal fear was close – maybe, “damned scared to hell” would be the closest description. Cold sweat formed on my forehead and neck as I contemplated how badly Bobby might have been injured. At first I thought he had broken his neck and could be dying. The enormous amount of alcohol he had consumed must have hit him like a Mack truck smashing into his brain cells at a hundred miles an hour. Reggie and I dropped our corn and climbed the fence and Ronnie ran from the car. We reached Bobby about the same time.
Bobby was able to say he was not hurt even though he was glassy eyed and could not walk on his own. We helped him to the back seat of the car where he proceeded to blast enough concrete-looking vomit from his nose and mouth to plaster the entire back seat and all of the ears of corn. It was the first time I had seen anyone throw up after drinking beer or wine, and I was a little daunted by the awful sight and sickening smell. Ronnie reached over the rear and pulled Bobby out onto the ground; however, it was too late. He had already done all the puking he was going to do for that moment. To Reggie's grief, a grotesque greenish mess slithered slowly over the rear seat, corn, and floor in his father's Ford. A lot of expletives followed from a group of guys who seldom cussed, but everyone knew each of us would have our hands covered with this slippery, smelly mess as we anticipated cleaning up the interior of our transportation (ride). Even the raw potatoes brought by Bobby with the intention of us eating to hide the smell of alcohol from our breaths had to be thrown away. His upchucking of what we had first believed was liquid rapture had been transformed into repulsive lime slime, a sickening stew none of us ever wanted to see or smell again.
Earlier we should have recognized Bobby was starting to feel the effects of the wine and beer when he waved a knife around a potato in an attempt to peal it. At the time we thought he was kidding around. Ronnie was three sheets to the wind (slurring his words and stumbling around in circles) by now and was of little help although he tried to comfort Bobby by talking with him. One drunk trying to sober up another; you would have had to seen it to believe it. Reggie found the farm's well, a rope, and bucket. Water and old towels were used to clean up Bobby and the back seat. We threw out the slippery ears of corn, wrung out the towels, cleaned all surfaces with the cold well water, and worried about Bobby’s condition with every second that passed.
It was now dark. Reggie and I discussed how to get the smell and wetness out of the car. As our conversation grew more serious, we considered leaving Ronnie with Bobby at the farm and driving up and down Route 10, a rural and historic scenic highway leading eastward toward the cities of Suffolk and Virginia Beach. The intention of this drive was to have the wind blow through the back windows of the car until the seat and floor became dry. Suddenly we noticed that Bobby, in his drunken stupor, was trying to take off his pants.
We yelled to Ronnie, "Get Bobby's pants back on!"
We could not figure out what Bobby was trying to do at the time, but we found out the following Monday morning.
Cleaning up and smelling the vomit had a sobering affect on me. The light instant buzz I had gotten from the wine which had returned through my nose was gone, and I did not believe Reggie had enough to drink to even be slightly high. Again, we discussed whether or not to leave Ronnie and Bobby alone. Reggie and I had walked away from Ronnie and were facing away from him to keep him from hearing our conversation. I was still worried about Bobby’s condition and tendered a silent prayer to God asking for his help and forgiveness for anything we might have done wrong. Under a dark but brilliantly star speckled sky we looked towards the barn and felt we were in a no win situation. Again, I remembered one of my father’s sayings, “When something goes wrong, try to find a positive side.”
At that moment, I saw nothing positive but hoped and prayed for a little miracle to change the situation we were in.
If we brought Bobby back home in his condition, we were sure all of us would be grounded, and maybe a couple of us would receive really harsh punishments. We just did not know. My prayer to God for His help in keeping Bobby alive gave me comfort, but believing Bobby would somehow snap out of his drunken stupor was only a wish. As teenagers believing we were adults – at least almost adults, especially when we disguised ourselves as old guys - not being allowed to drive for any length of time would have been worse than any grounding, beating, or death. This was the one thing we both believed. Our main concern became the focus of the actions we took that night. An earthquake or anything else which would have tested us would not have caused us to change our minds. And we were really tested! Years later I questioned our actions of that night; then as now, I remembered we were teenagers. Being a teenager really says it all. I can not even begin to remember all the crazy things my friends and I did back then unless I am reminded. These crazy things included playing chicken and drag racing with our parents’ cars, skinny dipping in remote icy ponds we reached via a hike over a railroad bridge which crossed the Appomattox River, and accomplishing really idiotic acts of stupidity including guzzling a six-pack of beer within a few minutes, usually less than a half-hour.
On one occasion Bobby dared me to do something we knew would bring about some pain. We were either 14 or 15 years of age and pain meant little consequences to kids looking for a challenge. His dare was for me to pull both triggers of my double barrel shotgun at the same time. Bobby agreed to do the same if I shot the gun first – making our pact a double dare. Our bird hunt had yielded no game and his challenge sounded like a good idea at the time to end a day of hunting. When I pulled the triggers, my right shoulder felt as though it had been hit with a 15 pound sludge hammer but I smiled as though I enjoyed it. I reloaded my 12 gauge shotgun with two more high velocity shells and handed it to Bobby. His eyes rolled back and forth just before he pulled both triggers, and he quipped with a wild smile, “fun, huh?!” A split second later a tremendous explosive “BA-ROOM” came from the two barrels of the gun with Bobby reacting by falling back halfway to the ground and leaving the gun suspended in the air. An instant later, he jumped up and grabbed the gun again. Our double dare had painfully ended a slow day of hunting. The following Monday in one of the hallways of Hopewell High, we pulled back our shirts and compared our purplish-red and blue bruises that covered both of our right shoulders. Our arms and shoulders were really sore but we wore our discolored wounds like they were red badges of courage. Yes, when we were teenagers, we were crazy – and this one incident proved it. But at the time, we believed we were normal!
Some of the other incidents and times I can not remember at all even after being reminded, and it is probably best I have forgotten them. God must have blessed each of us because the odds were probably against any of us making it completely through all five years (8th – 12th grades) of Hopewell High alive. Forgetting can be a curse but is generally a blessing. Fortunately or unfortunately, everything I did and what I saw my friends do on the night of October 4th, 1963 has never left my memory. Thinking about this particular night thousands of times keeps everything that happened fresh in my mind as though that night only happened last week.
On that October night, I stood to the right of Reggie and occasionally glimpsed the panoramic star spangled sky. A clearer night I have never seen. The stars provided enough light allowing us to see the top of the barn and an outline of the distant tree line. The only other light came from the car's headlights. Reggie had turned on these lights because we needed to see what we had retrieved when we pulled the bucket of water from the shallow well. These lights were facing away from us and the barn. My view of the sky was completely undisturbed; just seeing the pristine sky was worth the trip to the farm. Reggie was concerned about staying out all night, possibly resulting in someone's parents calling out the police to look for us. On the other hand, we knew Bobby would need all night to get back onto his feet. We realized we were facing another dilemma; an unplanned, no win situation with a possible decision which would affect all of us that night, the next day, and probably for a long time to come.
We had just about reached a decision when I saw something in the far distant sky just to the left from where we were standing. It began as a bright muted gold-streaming sky-high explosion and instantaneously changed into a flash of orange light streaking towards us at an incredible rate of speed. In a loud perplexing voice I cried out, "Look at that light coming at us!"
In a split second, I thought the object was a fiery meteorite about to snuff out our lives because it was coming straight for us. In a split second my thoughts were transformed into believing this earthbound inferno was one of my ghostly visitors coming to see what I was doing on a nightly visit to an isolated farm with two hopelessly drunk friends.
Reggie answered me by saying, "There's another light coming from the other direction!"
Watching Reggie's reactions to the two lights, I realized he was amazed and in fear of what was happening just above us. I was glad he was sober but I did not like witnessing his spontaneous anxiety. I turned to see another light heading directly towards the first light we had seen streaking towards us just moments earlier. The brightness coming from both lights was brighter than a lighted ball park during a Friday night’s football game. Reggie looked at me with his face aglow and then his eyes squinted to the point they were tightly shut causing his entire face to wrinkle into a contortion. Continuing to react to what he was seeing, Reggie placed his hands over his ears in anticipation of the bright objects exploding on impact just above us or at our feet. I looked up just in time to see two bright disks come together. They both stopped in a split second as though time had been frozen around them. The distance separating them must have been no more than a few inches. Everything stopped in a moment, there was no movement, and just as strange was the absence of any types of sound. I realized I was watching history in the making; my history along with everyone else’s history. I felt no fear or anxiety. On the contrary, I felt completely at ease as though a smile were coming from deep within me. The closest feeling to this I might have had previously was the feeling I would have as a child waking up on Christmas morning. The orange disk on the left seemed to produce a familiar warmness around me. Its brilliance offset the blue-black sky which conjoined with the cool penetrating evening air to produce a surreal environment. The disk on the right, which was a few feet above the far left end of the corn-filled barn, emitted the most beautiful color I have ever seen; an intense iridescent emerald green which rivaled the fresh color of spring. Several times I noticed tiny white sparks jumping from one disk to the other. These sparks jumped so quickly, I could only guess in which direction they were moving, but it appeared as though they jumped from the orange disk to the green disk. The entire spectacle was incredibly dazzling; more spectacular than any Fourth of July fireworks I had seen before or since. Suddenly, one of these intense dazzling white sparks which were shooting from one disk to another streaked towards me hitting the middle of my forehead just above my eyes. Grasping what was happening to me had to be placed in the back of my mind because too much was occurring at one time. At the second of impact, my head felt like it had been hit by a high velocity electrically charged cotton-ball. Immediately upon impact, I heard low and high pitches of rolling sounds resembling the noise made when audio tapes are fast forwarded. These unworldly sounds persisted for a few seconds and ended abruptly with an accompanying lightening-fast display of light images. It was impossible to turn away from the light show displayed by the saucers. Reggie and I watched this display of lights for five to 10 minutes, possibly much longer. At some point, the back of my jacket, which faced away from the saucers, felt like it was receiving heat from a noonday sun during the middle of summer. This heat was in direct contrast to the cool air moving around my hands and face. There was nothing normal occurring other than being able to see the sky and ground. I thought one thing – WOW! Something resembling the sounds of a breathtaking orchestra accompanied by a pounding piano playing the opening of Tchaikovsky’s “Concerto Number 1” should have been vibrating the air around us but instead there were only the sounds of silence.
Finally, I heard Reggie ask, "What are they?"
In a loud voice but in a tone sounding as if it were a matter of fact, I answered, "They're UFO's!"
Until that moment, I was a nonbeliever in the existence of beings from other planets or places despite my bias for science fiction movies and television programs like the “Twilight Zone.” The being I had seen glide across my bedroom floor had convinced me as a five year old child that ghosts, heaven, and hell were real. Being a completely open‑minded youngster who had faced the unknown more than once had set the stage for my "teenage encounter.” My absence of fear seemed to be contagious. After Reggie noticed I was not afraid, his anxiety faded into a questioning concern mixed with a bit of perplexity.
Again he asked by yelling, "They're what!?"
And again, I replied, this time by yelling a little louder, "They're UFO's... same thing as flying saucers!"
After watching the lighted objects for a little longer (maybe another 10 to 15 minutes), I noticed we were almost directly under them. I could not see any windows and I attributed their absence to our inability to see the top of the disks because of their close proximity and the intensity of the lights. I am certain we could not have seen the windows even if they were right there in front of us.
Numerous thoughts raced through my mind as I continued to watch the two brightly lit flying saucers in complete amazement. Although I had never taken any physics courses in high school, I realized these objects had already broken all kinds of manmade mathematical laws. A far greater realization seemed to physically move me as I thought how humans, especially adults and authority figures, had something this big going on around them and were unaware of it. Where was the information to be taught about these objects and their occupants; certainly, not in schools or churches! I still felt an inner tranquility but it was mixed with a feeling of almost being ashamed of admitting I was a human being. It was a feeling of disgust concerning our level of understanding as intelligent beings. If humans, especially adults, were not willing to accept such a reality as I was witnessing, how many other realities were we avoiding as a race of frightened pragmatists? Making up theories to console our fears and to reinforce our pretentious role as the most intelligent beings in the universe amounted to nothing more than a marvelous amalgamation of insanity. I thought – Aren’t we better than this?
These questions were the focus of my thoughts as I stood beneath the two disks. Somehow, I felt I had been robbed of an education, and I felt even sorrier for the human race. Were we an intellectual civilization, or were we even considered to be civilized by the forces controlling the illuminated disks? Disgust filled my gut and quickly turned into a feeling of humiliated sickness. I seriously questioned the validity of our species as having only one superior, God. At 16, I suddenly understood human mathematics were inadequate and our concept of reality was fractured. This line of thinking was broken when I heard Reggie asking another question.
"What are they going to do?"
Turning from the humongous lights in disgust, I answered him, "They aren't going to do anything!"
I walked towards the car with Reggie following a few steps behind me.
He shouted, "What?"
Again I answered him with, "They are not going to do anything!"
Somehow, I knew there would be no landing or personal contact, at least contact we could remember. I still do not know how I knew this, but I did. More importantly, I wanted Ronnie and Bobby to be aware we were having unusual guests. Oh crap – I thought as I caught a good look at Bobby and realized he was hopeless. His eyes were crossed and he could barely keep awake. I held his head up and pointed it in the direction where his eyes would see the gigantic bright lights.
Bobby managed to say, "...Wanna go home...” when I questioned him about his condition and his ability to see the illuminated disks.
In spite of his drunkenness, Ronnie immediately began to argue when I informed him that I wanted him to see the two flying saucers. He refused to move. His defiance became a personal challenge as I grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him to his feet. I was about to drag him to a spot underneath the disks when Reggie stepped in as a voice of restraint.
"Mac, it's useless! He's plastered."
I had hoped to sober up both Bobby and Ronnie by letting them see the lighted disks, but their sobering‑up and enlightenment would have to come at another time. Reggie and I again discussed our situation. This time we had a bigger problem. Our first worry and challenge would be leaving our drunken friends alone. Now, we would not be leaving them alone but in the so‑called "hands" of space people or whoever was controlling the illuminated saucers. There was a hint of hesitation because we were not entirely certain what was going to happen next. So far everything that had happened that night was a surprise. Reggie expressed concern but I convinced him that the disks or their occupants would not harm our inebriated, paralyzed friends.
Reggie responded, "If you say so..."
Looking back on this incident, I am reminded of how odd Bobby and Ronnie appeared as they laid on the grassy ground like miniature beached whales incapable of helping themselves. Without much thought going into the possible consequences of our actions, we left behind our two friends, stoned drunk and alone. We slowly drove away from our alcoholically induced comical schoolmates, the brightly lit unworldly disks, and the barn still glowing from its closeness to the saucers. I looked back and saw no movement. This scene will remain surreal in my mind as long as I can remember anything!
Reggie asked, "Are they still there?"
After looking back again, I answered, "Yeah, they haven't moved."
Reggie stopped the Ford before we turned left onto a tree lined road. It would be our last view of the lighted saucers. At this distance, I could barely see the green disk while the orange light seemed to glow brighter than it did when we were practically underneath it. But somehow, the orange craft had lost its disk shape. The orange light seemed to brilliantly sparkle down onto the barn and ground as if it was a lighted opaque waterfall. It remained at a higher height above the barn than the green saucer had been earlier and I thought I could glimpse traces of the iridescent green underneath the brilliantly orange colors. At the time, I thought its brilliance, which paled the green light at close range, made the green disk’s shape dissolve into a camouflage of brighter light. Because of this, I assumed neither had moved very far from their original positions. This last view of the saucers generated confusion and questioning. As I watched the lightshow at the time and later in my mind’s eye, I realized something spectacular was happening – something more important than experiencing an encounter with flying saucers. My questioning mind refused to let this puzzle rest and it repeated its inquiry like a song that keeps playing in one’s mind. Before the end of the next day, I realized the two saucers were confronting each other at the time Reggie and I were gawking at their appearance. Was there more to it than this? I thought so at age 16. I convinced myself within a day or two after the encounter that the two saucers were at war and the waterfall of light flowing from the barn’s roof and onto the ground was the green saucer’s body being melted away by the orange saucer. If I had realized a battle were taking place when I was watching it happen, I would have had Reggie turn his father’s car around so we could witness a real star wars being fought less than 40 feet above American soil. With the black and white Ford bumping us around in its interior as we rode down the gravel road, we were more interested in more worldly concerns than trying to understand the reasons for the saucers’ appearance.
After a couple of turns, we were on a paved road again, Route 10, traveling east. This time, we headed for Surry County with all the car’s windows rolled down. It did not take long for the wet seat and floor to dry. This was unexpected and a little puzzling even for the minds of teenagers. I remember asking Reggie, “Can you believe the seats are already dry?!”
His reply was short but not without some expression of alarmed questioning, “How can that be?!”
During our drive to remove the smell and wetness from the car’s floor and upholstery, Reggie and I discussed whether or not we should report the encounter to the police or to the sheriff's office. We talked about an imaginary headline on the top of the front page of the Richmond Times-Dispatch and Hopewell News stating: “POLICE INVESTIGATE UFOs AND FIND DRUNKEN HOPEWELL TEENAGERS.”
The discussion went no further. Reggie, in a more serious tone recommended, "We shouldn't tell anybody what we saw tonight!"
His words caused me to wonder if many more people had seen what we had but were afraid to be labeled "nuts" if they reported their sightings. Between the UFOs, drunken friends, and the possibility of facing extremely upset parents, we had a lot on our fresh young confused minds as we drove back onto the gravel road. We became silent as the car turned right onto the road leading back to the barn.
"Do you see them?" Reggie asked.
I knew he meant the UFOs and answered, "They're gone."
As we drove up to where we had last seen our friends, the headlights caught Ronnie jumping up and down screaming at the top of his lungs. In unison we exclaimed, "What the hell is wrong with him?!"
Ronnie was having some kind of conniption fit, a bizarre behavior we had never witnessed in any of our friends, only in our parents. When Reggie turned the ignition off, we heard Ronnie scream that we had left him and Bobby alone for hours. We questioned his miraculous recovery from being stoned drunk. He argued that he had plenty of time to sober‑up since we had been gone for such a long time. Reggie argued that we had been gone no more than 20 minutes. I checked my wristwatch and was flabbergasted when I realized we had been gone well over an hour, probably closer to two hours. Unable to explain the loss of time and unwilling to give Ronnie more ammunition for his argument, I remained silent. Reggie was still apprehensive about the possibility of Bobby throwing up again. Consequently, we picked up Bobby's limp body and placed him on the floorboard of the back seat. His head was placed beside the door which remained cracked open until he was removed from the car. We figured if Bobby were to get sick during the drive we could open the door a little wider to let his heaving pour outside of the car as we rode merrily down the road. (Again remember, we were crazy teenagers and almost anything made sense as long as no one was being hurt!)
It was really late when we pulled up in front of Ronnie's front yard. An absence of light from Ronnie’s home and the surrounding houses reinforced our lateness in getting home. Ronnie tried but failed to open his home’s front door prompting him to return to where we had propped up Bobby’s comatose-like body against Ronnie's faded yellow 1959 Morris Minor. Ronnie’s father had bought this small English coupe because it was popular with college kids in the 1960’s. Ronnie’s coupe was about to become a makeshift recovery room. We struggled and were finally able to place Bobby into the back seat of this petite sub-compact two door motorized tin can. After straddling the two front bucket seats and a four‑in‑the‑floor gearshift for the purpose of appropriating a makeshift bed, Ronnie informed us he would see to it that Bobby got home safely in the morning.
Upon getting back into the Ford, Reggie and I began discussing how we were going to handle this really fine "mess." As we headed towards my home, we agreed to take our home phones off their hooks if our parents were not already aware there was a problem. We also agreed to admit “all” to our parents if we were forced to do so under pressure. "All" would not include the UFO encounter. Undoubtedly, we knew any UFO or flying saucer story would be too weird to explain, and we could never expect our parents to believe we were visited by wild things that seemed to come from the stars.
As I watched the two red circular tail lights of the Ford turn left onto the avenue where Reggie lived, apprehension built. I opened the screened storm door and then the wooden front door. My sister was engrossed in watching television from across the living room and everyone else had probably gone to bed. Shades of Lady Macbeth’s washing her hands into raw oblivion to remove an unwanted memory must have secretively stuck inside my head from an English literature class. After scampering down the hall to the bathroom, I took a “Macbethian” scalding hot shower lasting two or three times as long as I would normally bathe. (Thank you, William Shakespeare, for your Freudian insight into the human psyche long before Sigmund Freud began playing his mind games forever with everyone.) Fortunately, all of the ungodly smells washed off my body and down the drain. While pouring English Leather cologne and Old Spice aftershave lotion into the clothes hamper, I attempted to cover-up the putrid combination of odors coming from my soiled clothes that were barely visible through the warm steamy bathroom air. My reasoning evolved around coming up with a quick fix - assuming enough disinfecting alcohol in the cologne would overpower the gagging smells penetrating through the wicker clothes hamper. I quickly dried and put on clean night clothes. Quietly, I crept down the hall, slid the receiver to the rear of the phone, and promptly tip-toed to my bedroom.
Victor Hugo’s novel was in the middle of my bed as I collapsed beside it. While praying for sleep, faint almost inaudible words seemed to be coming to me as if they were whispers coming from the thick novel. I know my mind’s wishing manifested these whispered supplications into the novel’s fictitious words of wisdom. Those whispered words were – now, don’t you wish you had stayed home so you could have read me. My last thoughts before drifting off to sleep were of what I often did as a young kid before nodding off, hoping and praying no one else would see those “ghosts” when I was seeing them. As always, I wrapped my head in the sheet allowing my nose to be exposed to an opening for fresh air. This was an automatic ritual I did not think about, but it was directly connected to the strange beings and objects I had seen in my bedroom since I was five. Finally, at 16, I thoroughly realized the weird little specters were not ghosts, globins, or gremlins at all but real beings flying around in real vehicles – not made of smoke but of material far more advanced than human scientists could ever possibly imagine. My friends were with me when these “had-been ghosts” visited me this time, but only one of them would remember. Like me, Reggie was stone-cold sober during the encounter. He and I never discussed the flying saucers again until long after we had graduated from Hopewell High School. I guess the phrase kids use today would apply to our predicament back then – it just wasn’t cool!
Someone had already placed the phone's receiver on the hook when I checked on it early the next morning. Reggie called soon afterwards to ask if I had heard anything from Bobby or Ronnie.
"I think taking the phone off the hook worked!" was my answer.
Reggie happily replied everything was calm at his home, and revealed he had hid the remainder of the beer and wine in his father's garage. He asked me not to call him unless I heard something from Bobby or Ronnie. The rest of the day was taken up by making an effort to read the “Hunchback…” for my book report, doing chores, and finishing homework. My earlier over-achieving compulsion to finish my reading assignment weeks before it was due had evaporated - being replaced with a feeling of indeterminate apprehension. I had stopped worrying about anyone calling about the incidents of the previous night as the sun began to set. The pale blue sky seemed to hold the declining sun in the same place I had observed it the day before when I had contentedly strolled across the lawn to the mailbox to pick up the newspaper. I thought how much this late daylight looked like a carbon copy of the previous warm evening. For me, the world had taken on a new dimension within the span of one day. Regrettably, anything I did or tried to do the following day did not erase the previous night’s fantastic and startling recollections. My memory of the UFOs and the thoughts I had while experiencing the close encounter would occasionally flash back within my thoughts without warning as I read, waxed my father’s car, and tried to fall asleep. Each time this happened, I would try to think of something different to keep my mind from becoming engrossed in the encounter. However, the quiet of the evening allowed me the time I really needed for reflection and convincing myself what actually occurred on such a beautiful October night was real and personal.
Somehow I knew I would never be quite the same person again, and I knew my attitude towards people and everyone around me would undergo a complete transformation. More importantly was a realization of the insignificance of the human struggle for power, prestige, and property. Charles Darwin’s axiom expounding the importance of “survival of the species” was paramount in dealing with our strange visitors, and I truly believed the “big-shot” authority figures (powers-to-be types) on earth were little more than big-time incompetently clueless chumps. During the encounter and following day I began to form my own philosophy with a concluding belief: whenever the aliens allowed their existence to be known by everyone, our entire culture would be dramatically changed, at least for a short period of time. Even if it was for the betterment of humankind, the exposure of alien existence on earth would be a tumultuously shock for our "intellectuals" especially those within the theological and scientific communities. Again, I felt sorry for our pitiful advancements and acknowledged to myself that we were no more than a colony of technically advanced ants being scrutinized under a cosmic glass display case which stretched across an endless universe. For some reason, I knew my October encounter would be only one of many.
The weekend was over before I knew it. Monday had arrived and I felt unexplainably different as I walked directly to my seat in homeroom class without stopping to talk to anyone in the halls. At the outset, it was my initiation into watching my peers and seeing them as real people having diverse personalities. Maybe this is the point in my life where I stepped out of the “adolescent me” and into an awakening young adult. Everyone sitting in the classroom now appeared to be individuals. A couple of the girls who sat on the other side of the class noticed that I was staring. I had to glance at the ceiling to avoid the appearance I was flirting or noticing something was wrong with the way they were dressed. As a last resort, I placed my head on the desk and my right hand over my face while peeking through the cracks between my fingers. The previous Friday I could have cared less about seeing anyone as individuals. After all, these were the same kids I had seen every morning at Hopewell High, every school day, in every homeroom since the eighth grade. These were good kids with normal lives but I never saw a change in what they talked about. Not that I was bored with their conversations or did not consider any of them as friends, I had just gotten use to them as being a routine segment of my life – or part of the moving woodwork. I believe my reasoning for trying to see and hear them as individuals was that I wanted to see and hear something different and truly unique. Questions were now imbedded in my mind: had anyone in the class seen what I had seen during the weekend, or had any of these kids ever seen something which was impossible to discuss? I really strained to hear the conversations while I tried to read lips. There was nothing out of the ordinary; some of the "boy crazy" girls were talking about boys, someone bragged about what their parents had bought them, others talked about sports, and one or two complained about homework needing to be completed before a certain class period. The conversations were the same but my classmates had been transformed. From that point on, I really enjoyed listening to their conversations, even if I were not participating. School had also transformed itself into something I had not seen before, a living breathing theatrical performance – a three dimensional movie in the flesh. Life had become amazing!
I did not study any harder and most likely studied less, but I truly enjoyed school. For better or worse, I enjoyed a laid back attitude for the remainder of my high school days. Oddly enough, I did not want to reveal my enthusiasm for living day to day with these kids and enjoying the atmosphere of Hopewell High. As a senior, I dreaded graduating; I knew I would never see most of these kids again, and if I did, they would no longer be the kids I knew but what time and life’s experiences had molded them into. For me, this was a dreaded bummer. But in the “fall of 1963,” my life had changed. After one fantastic night and one homeroom period, I acknowledged that the classroom had not changed but I had along with every other breathing soul.
Later during the day, I bumped into Reggie in one of the crowded hallways. He indicated he had talked with Ronnie and found out that Bobby had crawled on his belly for three or four blocks to reach his home the following morning. Bobby had gotten home with dried excrement stuck from the top of his blue jeans all the way down onto his socks and into his shoes. For about a week, this was the biggest and funniest story to circulate within small circles of Hopewell High School. This tale became an ongoing joke for years. His parents, who were decent people and devoutly Christian fundamentalists, were shocked to find their eldest son on their doorsteps looking like a filthy drunken bum and smelling worse than a backed‑up sewer. He was placed on restrictions for two months and was allowed to go only to school and to church which he attended at least twice a week. Bobby’s terrible suffering from one night of drinking caused me to feel sorry for him, but my feelings about the two alien ships confronting the four of us were inescapably haunting. Reggie and I considered ourselves lucky, our parents never found out from anyone about the wild antics of our teenage friends on that October night. In my early 40’s I finally gave a full account of this 1963 encounter to my father. Bringing up the fact that Bobby and Ronnie had bought the wine and beer before coming by to pick me up seemed to agitate my father more than anything discussed about the UFOs. Before I finished, his mouth hung open and his eyes widened in complete disbelief. I managed to learn one thing. Even after we become adults, our parents sometimes find it hard to believe our stories, or they can not believe we were crazy as we were when we were teenagers! It is a good thing – more for the parents than their children – that parents do not know everything their teenagers have done. Being shocked into a heart attack because of a teenager’s mindless actions is not the best way for a parent to react to what has been referred to as teenage wasteland.
As a foursome, we never ventured out to drink again. Although the exploits of Bobby were often relived through our accounts saturated with laughter and jokes, exaggerations were never needed to make the truth amusing. Often my laughter was quickly silenced by the thoughts of the event we refused to discuss. It is strange, a dichotomy of two emotions, that the night I consider to be the most hilarious of my youth is also the most serious and chilling. As far as I know, none of us ever went back to the farm, at least not to drink; maybe Reggie did return to the farm to help his aunt or to hunt.
This encounter I consider to be particularly unusual because of its duration. We probably spent from 30 minutes to one hour watching the lighted saucers while standing a short distance from them. The missing time involved was much more than an hour-and-a -half and might have possibly been longer than two hours. If my watch’s hour and minute hands were on their mark when I glanced at them, then our time with the alien ships was over two hours. Occasionally, I would check on the time to bring some sense of reality into our unprepared for “futuristic melodrama.” In comparison, my other encounters have been extremely short, much like short commercials. Time with the two illuminated ships seemed much like an extremely long heart-throbbing movie. The gap which exists between the time Ronnie implied we had driven off to leave him and Bobby alone (which was confirmed by my wristwatch) and the time we thought we were gone can not be explained unless it fits within the realm of “alien induced amnesia.” Between 1½ and two hours are unaccounted for except for the approximate 10 to 20 minutes of time used to dry out the rear seat of the car while driving up and down Route 10. During the drive, the rear seat of the car appeared to dry within a minute or two. In itself, this would have been considered bizarre but after being visited by two illuminated flying saucers almost anything seemed possible. My Timex wristwatch had never failed me (I thought) up to that October night and lasted almost another two years before it had to be replaced due to its gaining time incredibly fast. The obvious difference in times fogged the perception of reality. My friends and I had either experienced missing time for approximately two hours which was verified by Ronnie’s accusations or my watch had fast forwarded two hours – for no graspable reason.
There has not been a week of my life that I have not thought about this incredibly zany and scary Friday evening and the missing time. For the next six months, I could not help myself from laughing about everything that had happened to Bobby. Every time my mind played back these amusing thoughts, I would in a flash realize the gravity of the situation we had been in and how we down-played it in comparison to our immediate earthly desires of keeping our driving privileges. In 1963, I believed we had been allowed to observe something which had been kept secret for dozens of years, possibly much longer. Yet, today, in the 21st Century, this same phenomenon continues to be criticized as unreal and misleading by our incorporated medias and some sadistic representatives of the U.S. Government. “Fooling most of the people most of the time” should never be the mission statement for any agency which receives its livelihood from deep within the purses and wallets of American taxpayers.
Footnote:
Maybe, no not maybe, but – without a doubt - I look at this problem of alcohol consumption completely different than I did when I was in my teens. Unquestionably and in no way do I condone the drinking of alcohol by underage “kids.” The use of alcohol and illegal drugs has caused the slaughter and ruin of an incalculable number of innocent lives. I realize kids in their teens and 20’s will read this and say the author had become too old and un-cool. But, I really believe it is better to be too old and un-cool than being a teenage carcass. Growing up is not an easy journey but being young is a blessing in itself, especially if you can make yourself think positively.
One of the most positive people I have ever met was a female sales clerk working in the sports section of the Colonial Height’s Wal-Mart. We got to talking about the high price of gasoline and its negative impact on everything, mainly sporting goods. She responded quickly by saying, “I go out of my way to put a positive spin on anything that happens to me. When I was in my 20’s, a doctor told me I didn’t have much time to live. (She did not indicate what her medical condition had been.) I didn’t give up…I went to MCV (Medical College of Virginia - part of VCU) and the doctors there saved me. I’m really blessed. (She never indicated she was a Christian, Jew, Muslim, or anything else.) I’m happy when I wakeup because I know I made it to another day. All I wanted … was to live until I was 30. (She appeared to be in her late 30’s or early 40’s.) Everyday is icing on the cake!”
After a pause, she continued, “My sister complains about everything everyday and I keep telling her she ought to be happy because she’s alive. She almost died in an automobile accident but it didn’t change her.”
About all I could answer her with was, “That’s great … You are blessed.”
If everyone thought like this positive thinking woman, there would be no drug or alcohol abuse or suicides. Because most people do not think positively, someone pays a dreadful price and many do not make it to be old and un-cool.
One of my friends did not make it, and died as a result of being a passenger of a car which crashed into a tree on a country road. His name was John and we talked almost everyday while in high school. He was one of the few seniors I knew who had his life mapped out from graduation until retirement. He wanted to begin with a career in the U.S. Navy, become a machinist, and finally - after retiring from the Navy – start his own business. The teenager driver of the car in which John was thrown from had been drinking; or at least that was suggested by someone who knew the driver. John did not make it to his graduation at Hopewell High because he was with crazy teenagers one night and his friends happened to be drinking some form of alcohol. This incident actually stopped my drinking beer or alcohol of any kind for a while and also reminded me of one of my father’s favorite sayings, “We aren’t here long!”
His axiom rang in my mind as I attended a memorial for John, and I remembered how my friends had purchased too much beer and wine on that Friday night when we encountered luminous floating objects in 1963, just two years before John’s passing.
At 16, I saw beer as a recreational drink for adults and did not have the maturity to understand the dangers of drunk driving or especially buzzed driving. In 1963, trucks and cars were few in comparison to 21st century road use; probably less than 10 percent of what was on the road in 2010.
In an odd way, the combination of alcohol and motor vehicles can be deadly even when alcohol has not been consumed. My father’s father, “Papa” Norman, was killed in 1951 in an accident involving alcohol on Main Street in Hopewell. Although my grandfather had not been drinking and the driver of the truck which hit him was sober, alcohol was involved in the accident. The driver of the truck who hit my grandfather stated Papa had stepped off a sidewalk into the path of his truck. My grandfather who had for decades made drinking beer a full-time pastime had begun to wean himself off the siren-like libation but informed one of my uncles that the thirst-quencher seemed to call to him. To make matters worse for this intended tea-sipper, God’s purpose evoked Murphy’s Law and dispatched a vehicle which sent my grandfather at age 72 to his grave. The vehicle happened to be a truck loaded with beer. In some cases, we can not dodge the bullet that is intended to get us. Plainly stated, some things are just meant to be. In no way am I mocking the dangers of alcohol. Being sober beats being drunk anytime, anywhere. More importantly, knowing that one or more non-human races are watching us should make anyone who knows about these visitors want to be as totally alert as they can be all of the time. As little as one alcoholic drink might be too much for someone who really wants to remain alert. In the case of my two teenage friends who had smashed their brains with beer and wine on one October night in 1963, they missed the visitation of a lifetime. Actually, they did not miss it; they just never remembered seeing it. Bobby and Ronnie might have been abducted and experimented on without knowing about their experiences because they were too stoned on alcohol. If this is what occurred, alcohol benefited the aliens, not my friends. Aliens did not have to use whatever apparatus they would normally use to keep their quarry unaware of what was happening to them.
I have an addendum. As bad as alcohol is for society and especially young people, narcotics seems to be Satan transformed into a chemical form. Remedies exist for abusers but carry no guarantees. While alcoholics endure drinking binges, they can turn to Alcoholics Anonymous for help with occasional rehabilitation sessions to follow. A more difficult road is traveled by hard drug users who use hard drugs followed by more hard drugs with a choice of facing quick unplanned deaths or serious rehabilitation sessions which repeat and keep repeating. Over one million people are in jails and prisons in the United States because of illegal drugs. Or, another way of looking at this quandary is realizing that this number represents approximately one-third of those behind bars. Where is the real support for those needing help to overcome diseased dependencies so that the rest of us do not have to pay billions of dollars for punishment and confinement? Where are our leaders’ compassion and a nation’s resolve to cure a social disease? Those controlling the government have adopted confinement as the answer rather than trying to construct anything approaching a solution. Although illegal drug use is a colossal social problem and a contributor to an escalating health crisis, it is not our biggest problem but the one which needed immediate relief – yesterday.
The government is not only the main player in solving big problems but a culprit in creating them. President Ronald Reagan is quoted as saying, “Big government is not the solution, it is the problem.”
Size is not the only problem with government but the lack of leaders having moral backbones. When our leaders in government cannot handle our country’s big problems, it is time to replace ineffective leaders with individuals willing to take on the worst of all political headaches especially if those headaches are decaying cover-ups. Much like the love of money, the abuse of drugs (including alcohol) and poor political leadership have become the rancid roots of evil. Unfortunately, all taxpayers are funding this 21st Century evil. (Sounds like the worst parts of the Bible!) Still, is it possible for earthly evil to be connected to anything evil in outer space or in dimensional dominions? In a world where people are being secretly visited by extra-worldly creatures, evil is more than a connection. It is an inseparable amalgamation of wicked reality and hell on earth.
See web site for more information: paranormalwarnings.com
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