My Implausible Memoirs

ONE

1947

1947 was an important year for me. It was my first on terra firma and the news of the day shortly after I was born was nothing short of bizarre. All I need to say is “Roswell, New Mexico,” and you should have a pretty good idea of some events surrounding my beginnings. If you are unsure of what happened in the spring and summer of 1947 in and around that desolate vicinity, I suggest you type Roswell, 1947, UFO, into the search engine of your computer. There is plenty to read.

My father was in the military when I was born. Until his private discussions with me later in life, we were never allowed to know much about his assignments. They were classified.

What I do know is that within weeks of my birth, the Air Force announced they literally had a flying saucer in their possession. Shortly thereafter, they awkwardly proclaimed it was nothing more than a weather balloon. As a nation, our confidence in the government plummeted on that bumbling public relations nightmare and has never recovered.

I was born and spent my childhood in the little town of Salina, Utah. In context, it now makes sense as to why my family, like clockwork, was visited by military upper brass in the early summer each year. My having been subjected to an intense physical exam on each of those occasions also comes into better focus after knowing the back story.

Just after I turned 10 years old, Mom and Dad whisked the family from our home in the dead of night. Thereafter, none of us were encouraged to return to or talk about life in Sevier County. In those days, communications were unsophisticated and we were able to live undetected and in relative obscurity 120 miles to the north, in Orem, Utah.

In the late spring of 1961, as if coming out of nowhere, military officials were once again on our doorstep. We immediately packed our bags and removed ourselves 260 miles south to St. George. This time, however, it was different. We lived there at the heavy handed command of the government and I was once again subjected to corporal tests.

With brothers and sisters, I thought it peculiar that I was the only one examined. It was a mystery to me as to why I alone was put through these ongoing checkups. Nonetheless, the routine became increasingly invasive as the years proceeded. The exams finally culminated in a crude operation on my stomach. Prior to operating, one of the officers held me down while the other forced my mouth open. He freely poured gulps of Jack Daniels Old No 7 Sour Mash Whiskey down me as fast as the liquid could flow. I almost drowned before they finally discontinued their amateur attempts to anesthetize me with alcohol.

Semiconscious throughout the blood splattered ordeal, I was quite aware that something large and throbbing was sewn into my insides, wrapped snugly around my spinal column to guarantee it could never be removed. My stomach still features a quarter inch wide, six inch long zipper-like scar starting just above my belly button as physical proof of the ordeal.

To demonstrate to their accomplices the mysterious organ was, in fact, inserted in me and not into some other earthling, they then proceeded to pull out a razor sharp meat cleaver and, to my horror, held my left hand on the table while the surgeon in charge swiftly brought the gleaming weapon crashing down with swift force. His aim was perfect, severing the tip of my pinky just enough to take a finger print trophy and send some bloody DNA to his superiors. The brute then applied a makeshift tourniquet on my finger to stop the profuse bleeding.

After my father died in December of 1996, my mother received a large settlement check from the government. It was then I earnestly started piecing together events surrounding my early life. The check was noted as settlement for exposure to atomic testing in the Nevada desert, not too distant from Salina and even closer to St. George.

The story went that the government had dictated where we lived and my father’s life was shortened because of continual exposure to radiation fallout from tests that have now been declassified. These tests caused the death of some 20,000 sheep in lambing yards near both of my boyhood homes. Later, human deaths began to crop up exhibiting similar symptoms. These tests were conducted very close to the mysterious Area 51 near Las Vegas, a UFO sighting hotspot.

Since 1947, UFO sightings have come mostly in clusters. Recorded UFO waves have occurred in 1947, 1952, 1965 and 1974; all dates corresponding with my life events. (1947: the year of my birth; 1952: the year I entered elementary school; 1965: the year I graduated high school; 1974: the year I was married.) A smaller and less defined wave occurred during 1987 and 1988 and finally, the greatest wave came between 1993 and 1997. These were years I experienced continual interruption from aliens, all in preparation for my future.

Areas of documented sightings are also of interest: Roswell, New Mexico, Gulf Breeze, Florida, Pine Bush, New York, Fyffe, Alabama, Las Vegas, Nevada and most recently, around LaGrange, Georgia.

Not coincidentally, in the mid 1960’s, I was assigned to serve as an LDS missionary in Florida, Georgia and Alabama. There is a pattern and purpose to UFO dates and locations and my father thoroughly discussed and explained this with me in his later years. All of these fantastic events were significant to my beginnings and purpose on this globe. The cliche is true: There is no such thing as coincidence.

UFOs do not often occur in urban areas. Instead, sightings take place in rural locations, which explains why we always lived in small towns a great distance from any urban population. There is a good reason for this: since UFOs are extraterrestrial spacecraft, they can be seen and located by humans. Nearly all of the close-encounter sightings come from isolated spots where there are seldom witnesses around. Also, most UFO sightings occur late at night and, interestingly, between Sunday and Thursday – times when most people are not outdoors!

Secrecy is essential for these craft as they can be seen and possibly touched if detected. For this reason, I have been instructed to reside outside the city limits, at least a few miles away from any significant population. In the 1990’s I was advised to buy property to build my family home near Johnson’s Hole, an ancient geological depression on the southwest side of Mount Timpanogos. For many years, this secluded spot had been a primary landing location of choice for alien spacecraft. Instructions were given to me to prepare my property for an abundance of inner-galactic spacecraft in the near future.

On clear winter evenings, while driving up Provo Canyon, you will undoubtedly see large, Christmas-like snowflakes brightening up the hillside on the north side of the highway. Although they appear to be holiday decorations, in reality they are special runway lights for alien spacecraft. I have been instructed to provide illumination throughout each holiday season for their safety. The purpose for the upcoming influx of visitors from outer space is presently classified.

I invite my readers to access and read information at www.pinebushufo.com for research documentation and to become informed about past, present and future actions of alien beings with whom I have acquired intimate knowledge; beings who have diligently orchestrated my life since 1947.

TWO

RELATIVE HUMIDITY

One of my early childhood recollections was the water drainage problem created in Salina when we had an extremely rainy spring season. An overabundance of humidity in central Utah was a rarity, but in May of 1954, our cup was filled to overflowing. Father Noah would have felt right at home in such an uncharacteristic deluge.

Children love to play in mud puddles and we were no different. Mom always took extra precautions to bundle us up from head to toe in a montage of all-purpose rain gear. Rain slickers in that day were not very sophisticated, but we got by. We looked like a rag-tag gang of misfits, wearing hand me downs of all sizes, shapes and colors passed to us from cousins, aunts, uncles and neighbors. Even dressed so unfashionably, nothing could keep us from frolicking in the muddy waters found in the overflowing ditches and swampy bogs that season.

One problem persisted, however, which forced our youngest sister, Janice, to leave the party and go into the house early, missing much of the fun. Inexplicitly, the rigors of participating in childhood water games left the toddler suffering miserably from severe chafing in the area near her crotch. This mysterious malady recurred daily until in desperation, with Janice writhing in pain, Mother loaded all of us into the bed of Grandpa’s ‘49 Chevy pickup and we rambled to the doctor’s office to find a cure to visit the town doctor.

Dr. Noyes served all of Sevier County in just about every aspect of doctoring. I have yet to meet anyone born in my era within one hundred miles of Salina who had any other doctor usher them through the birth canal and into mortality. He was always the doctor on call and his office was right at the hospital.

Still dressed in wet weather attire and dripping little pools of water and mud wherever we went, we trundled in a hodge-podge herd right on Mom’s heels into the doctor’s small office. Due to our marginal income, Mother never enjoyed the luxury of a babysitter, even when taking one of us to the clinic (if you could call it a clinic) for these types of serious medical conditions.

We were intimidated when Dr. Noyes took charge of eliminating the confusion. He sternly ordered all five of us to sit down and pay attention. After a brief, but thorough diagnosis and to our collective horror, with total disregard for proper bedside manner, the less than sensitive physician pulled out an excessively large pair of razor sharp surgical scissors and cut two full inches off the top of our little sister’s rubber galoshes.

Chafing problem solved.

I hope you enjoyed reading the first two chapters of My Implausible Memoirs. To continue reading please purchase the book.