Turn right at the first star, then on ‘til morning...

 

Turn right at the first star, then on ‘til morning...

Clinton, IA

1951 – Early August - Age 3

These were fairly stable times; the last world war had been over for some six years, but now we needed to cope with another “police action” that was rapidly becoming a full-out war that was called Korea. The economy, though, was strong. Not many troops were actually getting called to deploy to Korea at that time. Otherwise, money was stable, we had enough to eat, we kept our two vehicles in decent shape, and helped others when we could. I had a (mini) tank bicycle, and a white collie named Snowball.

As I’ve mentioned earlier, I’d devoured the Britannica in less than six months. It was simply my idea of cool fun to read adult-level, post-grad science content. We had subscriptions to National Geographic and Life magazines, as well as the New York Times (in those days it was actually delivered either by hand by local carriers, or by USPS). I asked Mom if I could go to the (only) public library in the county, down by the Mississippi River highway bridgehead, and spend the four or five hours that came along on weekdays during school, or when Pop got an assignment somewhere else on the “road” to fill in for a telegrapher, a clerk, or an agent (he would also be called by the railroad police when they needed an investigator). That way they’d know I was safe, and happy, and (most important of all!) reading “like a vacuum.” My dog, Snowball, would always be at my side (except at school...she followed me to class the first three days, and laid patiently outside the classroom door for me) they made her go back home...frankly, ‘cuz I think Snowball was smarter than a couple of the teachers…)

We’d moved into the third of the three small acreages that my folks saw as their “occupation.” The first two had been relatively large (120 acres 4br/3ba/K/2nd story house w/4-stall barn for the first, and a 40-acre smaller spread just down the gravel road for the second), with a nice 3br2ba California bungalow style home, 3 car garage, a basement, and 20 acres, for this one. I had my own room, maybe 10x12, on the north side of the house. We had the old-style sash windows; there was a small, oil-fired furnace in the basement.

The family had enjoyed a really nice dinner of roast beef with potatoes, carrots, and onions, along with thick slices of homemade wheat bread. I could never complain about not eating well during those years...unless it was by choice as part of some task or exercise.

Mom planned to take me to the library in the morning, after breakfast, to drop me until she got back from the men’s store where she worked. Pop was working telegraph at the depot that day. It was Saturday...no school, but life went on.

When we got to the library, Snowball and I bailed out and, with my usual notebook, pencils, and slide rule headed up the steps, waving at Mom as she rolled on toward the store.

I noticed as I came out of the glass foyer at the top of the steps that there weren’t any other folks there, other than the three librarians, and a custodian. It was a large (100x100x3 stories) stately building of quarried stone. It was pretty early in the morning for most folks, and someone mentioned that there was a community event going on in a nearby park; I wasn’t aware of it. No worries. The subject wasn’t interesting to me.

I had been reading up on the search(es) of that period for Atlantis (purely curiosity at this point), and had only scratched the geology, and archaeology, of the various candidates. I had quickly run out of sources for data in what I referred to as the “Kids” section. I asked the librarian (one of the three) for entrance to the adult and reference section, without an escort.

There was a long pause.

Librarian: “Well, there’s a rule…”

Me: “Yes, I need an escort. You’re not busy, are you?”

Another long pause. Of course she wasn’t busy.

Librarian: “Uh, what is it you need from there. I can retrieve it for you.”

Me: “Uh, no, thanks...I know the rule says that’s option one, but I need to scan for works from Plato related to the Atlantis theorem, and cross-reference those with the base data to either build a statistical likelihood of a location, or not. I just need you to point me to the classics.”

Another really long pause...and a glaring stare at my pocket slide rule.

Librarian (as she fingers a cross on a chain around her neck): “You’re three years old...well, almost four...and you read Plato? (Her face was pale, muscles dropping...her tone became condescending) How is that? You probably don’t understand what you’re supposedly reading.”

I felt angered by the inflection of “supposedly” but kept it in. I could feel she didn’t like me, and was actually afraid of me; I could also feel, however, a deep sadness and general lack of hope having nothing to do with me...except that I was triggering it. I knew better than to confront her directly; it seemed very similar to occasions my (few) Black friends had related.

Something made me notice her shoes...old, beat-up, black penny loafers.

Me (trying to sound normal, reserved): “Actually, ma’am, I do. My mother taught me phonics as soon as I could speak and recognize writing on paper. I was reading the paper by two and a half. Uh...I’ve got a lot to do...can I get started? Which way to 321.07?”

That was the Dewey Decimal number for Plato’s Republic. The librarian nearly fainted, but shakily pointed to her back left, to the racks to the right of the main desk.

Librarian (as I walked to the stack): “This is most extraordinary. I’ll need to speak to the head librarian...this isn’t normal!” as she backed off toward her work station, her voice rising.

I knew what she wanted. She wanted me out of there, and the sooner the better.

She was afraid of me. A three-year old kid (OK, so I was three feet tall, spoke better than the pastor at the Methodist church, walked with a white collie and a slide rule, and looked six).

I could tell from her clutching the cross that the threat she felt was supernatural. I just quietly and smoothly went to the classics section, parked my books on the table, and started work.

I simply got what I needed in terms of hard data; I wrote it down in the notebook, so that I wouldn’t have to hassle about actually checking them out (this was before copiers or cellphones with cameras). It took maybe thirty minutes.

I picked up my “stuff” and wiped down the table I’d been working at (back then they were all solid oak, finely finished 6-ft tables) and headed back to the main desk. I could hear (my hearing was much better then...pre-war…and the place was practically deserted) the librarian I’d been talking with, verbally attacking me to some unknown person, a man from the sound, and as I tracked it, it became clear he was the head librarian, whose office was in the back of the first floor.

As I rounded the stacks into the open, Snowball got in front of me and began to go very, very slow. I’d never seen her do that. I heard a snippet of “possessed” from the librarian, and another of “this can’t be real.”

And...where’s that clinical word again? It got weird. I had Snowball on a loose lead (well-behaved dogs were OK), but she now simply and (forgive the word) doggedly literally dragged me to the main doors, and down the marbled steps.

It was only a couple of city blocks to Mom’s office at the store, and we were there in a few minutes.

The rest of that day went reasonably well, at least for me. Helped Mom with a trial balance she was wrestling with; then helped the sales people do some restocking. It was 1700; Mom and I said our good-nights and headed home.

We had the usual family time that included dinner, some “touching base” that included a brief talk about the library experience, and perhaps an hour or two of TV (there was only one station). I went to bed at 2100, Snowball at the foot.

It was a beautiful evening. The sky was quite clear, saturated with stars.

We had been to the theater to see Peter Pan, the Disney film, a week or two earlier. This night, my dreams were gravitating to that genre...and, at a few minutes before 0100, I found myself floating, supine, looking down on my sleeping body. At first I figured it as a dream...a rather nice one. Snowball lay at the foot of the bed as usual, but she was now awake, and could apparently see the floating “me.” She was quiet, her eyes simply fixed on my image. I gave her the signal to stay. She didn’t get up.

At that moment I knew it was not a dream. Something about it was clearly a part of reality.

I felt something inside tell me to go back to the library; I couldn’t figure out what that entity was, but it was only a matter of holding the thought that I found my presence go through the (closed) window, turning a bit toward the city, and going for a bit more than treetop altitude.

It really was a rather wonderful feeling; weightless, I could feel the crispness of the night air, and occasionally could smell the aroma of someone having a late-night (or early morning?) coffee. It took no time at all to get to the library, the imposing 3-story stone structure not far from the bridge’s approach. I felt the need to “hold up,” to stop and look.

There was a tarp stretched between various structural outcrops, maybe eight by ten feet, on the flat rooftop not far from the stairway cover. I could make out, from getting a little different angle, the form of someone under a blanket. There was a pair of women’s shoes next to the blanket.

They were the beat-up penny loafers worn by the not-so-nice librarian. A part of me felt very bad for her.

I have no clue why, but all of a sudden I heard the clip of the song from the film...and quipped to myself, “Wow...didn’t even have to turn right…”

In short terms, I was a bit taken aback and hightailed it back to my bed (I doubt I broke the sound barrier). Snowball was still laying on her bed, but wide awake. The moment I felt myself “back,” she jumped on the bed and snuggled as never before.

When I mentioned this “dream” to my folks at breakfast, one could have heard a pin drop on the tile floor. Mom just kept silent. Pop was obviously on edge...not upset, really, but concerned. Mom, after a moment, simply said softly, “Earnie (Pop's name)...OSS?” Pop looked at her, smiled slightly, and just replied, “We won’t mention that again, dear.” She continued cooking scrambled eggs.

Pop (in a personable tone): “What you experienced, son, was real. It was not a dream, per se. There is a name for it...remote viewing. Some people call it astral projection, but that’s not exactly accurate. You probably shouldn’t talk about this to anyone else. They wouldn’t understand.”

It was odd, but I understood what he was saying. At the same time, I felt a need to somehow reach out to the librarian.

In my three-year old mind, given my upbringing and ethical framework, I could not see why a librarian would find it necessary (or comfy) sleeping on the roof of that building. The gist of what I did see made me feel that the tarp had been there for some time. It wasn’t just a day or two. I had a pretty good impression, even at my age, of comparative wages and living costs. Something wasn’t right.

I wanted to make it right.

They both promised to follow up with the head librarian, as he had to know about it. They both would talk to their lodges about it. I overheard bits of a conversation between them on that subject later that day; the lady would be helped...silently. From that day on, I was not only allowed in any section I wished, but invited...the head librarian had to know how they found out. Nothing else was ever said.

It wasn’t until 2007 that I learned just a microcosm of Pop’s work in remote viewing during, and some time after, the war (WWII). It appears I inherited this particular “gift” from Pop. It has only happened one other time, many decades later, when I lived in Washington state. I can’t “call” it, or control it.

I reckon that may be a good thing.

-30-