Three Year Old Encounters,
Draws UFO In 1946 -
Before Roswell
By James Mortellaro, Jr <>
My mother and dad put up with a lot when I was young. Very young. At about age two I started having dreams which were real barn burners. I would wake up screaming about Lord knows what, mostly monsters following me or coming for me. The dreams were not dreams in my young mind. They were real events, even at the tender age of two or three years.
These memories, which were dreams to everyone but me, became more well defined after the first few. I would describe little "doctors" who did things to me. The things they did were not possible for a two year old to know. As for my family, you don't know them. I do. Mom and dad are still with me and Gramma died about nine years ago. They and Grampa lived with us. They are (all of them, even those who passed) loving, kind and gentle people; people who treated me only with love and tenderness. I was the little prince, the first grandchild to be born into the family. I was special to them and I still am. An only child, I had the best childhood any kid could have. And having come into this world in 1943, April to be exact, it was the best time to do so. Growing up in the country (the Bronx _was_ the country back then) we had the best house on the block, the best family (an extended one from the old country) and the best of everything.
I wasn't proud, because I knew that I was special for other reasons, only those other reasons were not so special, which took away from any pride or selfishness I might have developed back then. It was a reality check for a two year old.
I could speak by age three years. Perfectly. By four, I was reading. By five, I was past grade three in reading ability. My IQ was checked often because it wasn't supposed to be that high. In the high 1940's, like the date. It's gone up a notch or two since then.
When I was two years old, I started drawing the enemy. Flying saucers. Now listen up folks, this was before 1947. Before Roswell. Before Captain Video and his Space Cadets. Before "Beam Me Up Scotty!" It was even before TV. Because we didn't have one until I was eight years into this mess we call life. 1950.
So I started drawing the enemy in 1946. I was about two or three. Mom saved the drawings, all of them. Sometime in the very early 1950's she put them in the safe deposit box. They've lingered there since.
When I told Mom and dad I was writing about my experiences, she told me (only a few months ago) about these drawings. I saw them for the first time this weekend. We, that is, they, my parents, brought them to the attorney, I went after the fact to go through them. There are affidavits and papers to verify the dates and from whence these interesting child's drawings came from. From me. The attorney allowed me to view and scan them, take the disk only and the rest, is with him. These drawings will be in the book in their entirety. Some are really interesting.
But this particular drawing is most interesting to me and should be to those who've experienced this sort of thing. In the drawing, which is dated "1946" by Mom in her hand, with no other date, there are four objects.
The first object is the saucer. It appears as a decent enough rendition for a three year old, of a classic flying saucer. Only this one is hovering. In our backyard, which was more than 50 X100 feet. In the back of the yard were two relatively new cherry trees. They are there to the left and right of the saucer. One was a sour cherry tree (on the right) and the other a sweet cherry tree (on the left). Ultimately there was to be a most wonderful apple tree right smack in the middle which gave gramma huge, softball sized apples for her famous apple pie. One apple came darned close to making a whole pie. And God help me, but I can smell it and taste it now. Just as I can see that terrible machine. It is hovering above the yard by about twenty feet. This from memory. The perspective of the drawing is non existent. But it was usually tilted somewhat from the horizontal, as if someone put it there helter skelter and didn't really care about being neat, you know?
But the young cherry trees are there, as is the craft. And in the middle is the image of what looks a little like a pitchfork. Well, it is not one of those. It was something I could not make out even then. All I knew, was that this was something important, something I should remember. Something _very_ important.


This damned thingy bothered me for close to 42 years. Finally, one day in 1998, it came to me. Prior to this time, the pitchfork became a glockenspiel, one of those little hand carried instruments which most marching bands carry. Little xylophones. But one day I remembered seeing this glockenspiel during hypnosis. I was being hypnotized to help me stop smoking. The sessions became, for me, very revealing. For in the last session, the hypnotists told me to think of the most relaxing time in my life. I did. I thought of reading under one of the trees in my backyard. I looked up, in the trance, and saw this glockenspiel as if it had been written by a skywriter.
For another few years it disturbed me every time I thought about it. Finally, as I was writing my a chapter in the book, it came to me. What it was was nothing I had imagined. It was a letter of the alphabet, our alphabet, written in reverse and tilted slightly counterclockwise. It was as if I just discovered the cure for cancer. A revelation. Something which lit up some part of me inside and screamed out "How come you didn't know this until this moment?!?"
I could not answer that. Mostly because that's the way my recall has been ever since. I remember as I am writing or in the night by dreaming it. Then, it stays in my mind as a memory. This never happens with dreams. Never. But it happens with something which occurred, something which was traumatic to me.
Which brings me nearly to the end of this story. This symbol has something to do with the operation or control of the spacecraft. I know that to be true. Now ask me to prove it. Of course, I cannot. But the end of the story is a rather sad one. For me. Because every time I remember something like this, related to my perceived abductions, I become ill. Truly and physically ill. Sometimes it is worse than that. Sometimes I become depressed.
Around about 1998 I stopped taking antidepressants. I am depressed and suffered from headaches (which are over thanks to Jeff Rense - he sent me to a practitioner who literally cured me) and from IBS. There are other illnesses but they don't matter to this tale. What is important is that the recall brings on the illness.
Perhaps it is related to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I don't know. I do know that UFO and Abduction Researchers are not (as far as I know) following this lead which does not merely reflect my experience, but the experiences of many who are perceived abductees. It hurts to remember. And I don't do pain well. Never have.
So allow me the luxury of a few questions.
1) How can a three year old draw something to which he had not been exposed and likely would not until 1947? And even then, at age four, it is unlikely that I would be reading about such, as I did not read newspapers then. Books. Not newspapers. And no books written then were about UFO's.
Yet I drew them. I drew them all the time.
2) How can a three year old child recall dreams which he perceives as being memories to this day, at age 57? In perfect and unaltered detail?
I drew them then, they were saved then. Mommy never lies. And while I do not recall this particular drawing, I do recall doing many like this. I can even remember the place I sat at the family table in our downstairs kitchen. Gramma would always ask me, "What is that Jamey?" And I usually said that it was the hospital in the sky. The ones the little doctors took me into in the light. 1946.
Well, you can believe or not. Doesn't matter to me. But those of you who read this, behold yet another notch in the pistol grip. Another piece of the pie, or the undigested beef. It's real, of this I can assure. But you'll just have to take my word for it, and my mommy's word, and dad. And if Gramma and Grampa were here, they would tell you too, about the dreams and about the kid who could read at such a young age, and about the kid who at age three or so refused to believe in Santa Claus because it made no sense to him ... but believed in other things, much harder to believe in. Even for an adult.
Go figure.
Jim Mortellaro, Jr.

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