Note: I’m excited to have Cheryl here today. I’ve read her blog since she introduced her crazy self to me in one of our blog groups. She makes me reflect on life and gives me plenty of reasons to laugh out loud. She’s awesome and I’m so glad she’s here. You can read more about her at the end of her guest post and please go take a look at her blog. I do hope that she comes back often!
This is a true story.
In June of 1972, I was dating a boy with a license, and a car.
I’ll let the shock wear off…
This was very important. Paramount to my very survival, in fact.
Without my own means to get the hell out of the house (I was fifteen), boyfriends were cultivated based on the following rules:
1) ability to spend money on me;
2) agreement that I was always right; and,
Don’t roll your eyes. So were yours.
This particular night was a Wednesday. I remember this because I was in Driver’s Ed class and Wednesday classes were at night (learning to drive after dark).
My date, Pat, was waiting in my parent’s driveway as we pulled up and I exited the Vega in a cloud of cigarette smoke mingled with other substances (Our ‘teacher’ was a Woodstock burn-out).
It was 8:30pm and dusk.
Pat and I were supposed to go to a movie, but it was too late to make the 9pm show, so we decided to go downtown and cruise the ‘Strip’ (and by ‘Strip’ I mean the 100 foot stretch of asphalt in front of Baskin Robbins. It was a small town).
After having done the obligatory four-pass ‘I can’t see you‘ head-tilt to the side, while rolling by with my arms around my guy with-a-CAR move, we decided the social part of our night was sufficiently accomplished and went parking.
Our town was situated on the cusp between suburbia and “the country,” which provided several excellent locations for getting nasty. All with straw poking up your nether regions.
One in particular was a favorite with me: a deserted dirt, dead-end road, close to home, which followed the fenced curve of a cow pasture bordered by wild flowers and the sound of high grass crickets.
It was called Riddle Road (I’m not kidding).
So there we were… smoochsmoochsmooch… zipzipzip… smoochsmoochsmooch.
The windows were down.
The cool night air was wafting through the interior, moving my expertly hot-curled tendrils in a most seductive way.
The radio was playing softly, accompanying the manly groans of “Why not?” and “Just this once,” when all of a sudden our vehicle was swept by the bright light of a police cruiser.
We unstuck our bodies and looked ahead, expecting to see our jailor.
The car was hit by another bright light from behind.
What The Hell?
Our necks twisted to the back.
The light scanned the field to our left, all of twelve feet away.
I leaned across Pat’s lap as he hung his head out of the driver’s side window, and looked up.
And there, hovering above the old 30-foot high telephone lines, nestled on the edge of the road, was a narrow (maybe 25 foot long), smooth and round object with no sharp seams. It was a non-reflective, dark metallic object with three colored moving lights (white/blue/orange). No doors. No windows. No engine. No blades.
It was just floating there, not moving.
The white light swung and lit us up.
Ducking back into the car goes without saying.
“Did you see that?”
We peeked our heads back out.
No sound. No moving air.
There was a moment of physical immobility except for our ragged breathing and thumping in our chests.
Then reality hit us like a lead pipe (being frightened to death has a way of doing that) as we rolled up the windows, looked to see if anyone–anything—was approaching the car, and got the hell out of Dodge.
Crying all the way, I had Pat not only drive me immediately home, but walk me to the door, and wait until my parents opened it, at which point I wished him well and dropped into my mother’s arms.
She woke my father and I told them about EVERYTHING– including that I had been parking with the eighteen year old boy they didn’t like.
My mother, ever the pragmatist, assured me it must have been my imagination.
My father (who never met a good story he didn’t like), called the police.
And then the Sheriff’s office.
And then the nearby Ohio Army National Guard military base in Ravenna.
“Go back to bed Mr. Smith. Your daughter’s been drinking.”
I hadn’t. And neither had Pat.
I slept with the lights on for months.
I never set foot on Riddle Road again in the dark.
I never told anyone other then my family, and they didn’t tell anyone (I was crazy- right?)
Pat and I broke up (I moved on to a football player who agreed to my three rules).
And I began to forget, or at least, got foggy about the events.
Until, I saw Pat again, fifteen years later, and found a moment out of the ear shot of others.
“Pat. I need to ask you a question.”
“Do you remember that night on Riddle Road?”
“Did we see what I think we saw?”
“I don’t know what we saw.”
“But we did see something, right? I’m not crazy?”
“No. You’re not crazy, but I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
Except for today…
Today, I’m telling the world.
Cheryl Nicholl lives in the spooky town of New Orleans, where she eats her way through restaurants, enjoys gardening at midnight, and driving her hubby crazy. She is living midlife to the fullest and you can follow her at A Pleasant House.