- 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
- 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
- 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.