They are here!

The conundrum that we face is like a pustule, and the cause of it's neglect we should decry. Those that push away the truth to save a precious profit motive we should vilify -- respectfully despise.

The pustule skin is very near to breaking. The skin of it is hot and tight and dry. Any little touch could have it blow up in our face, but I'd like to clean it out -- at least I'd try.

I've stood alone with many, there were twenty five or so -- on a Sunday evening flying model planes. Some were gas, but few were flying, and were muffled when they were, it was rubber models folks would fly, for time.

Pastoral was the evening -- no alcohol or drugs, a simple breeze was blowing; it was silent as a slug. The ladies fixed the finger food while the old men flew their dreams; the sky a blue and crystal clear so sharp it leaps and gleams.

I see it 'cause I'm looking, but I do not jump or shout -- I nudge my nephew Mason, "Hey there, Mace . . . what's that about"? He looks, his mouth falls open, and he nudges at his Mom, who gets right up, and takes a step, to see it closer, Tom <g>.

It's flying slow, too slow my guess, to be a jet or plane. It floats along, majestically confusing watching brains. Like a BB held at arms length, but make it flat -- bright white.  It coasted by cigar like, and drifted out of sight.

There was general amazement. There was "what the hell was that"? No one mentioned UFO's. I was silent as a cat. Someone mentioned -- "Aircraft"! Other's offered "Blimp." I soto-voiced to Mason, "That's facetious, scared, and limp."

The *thing* flew by again, my friend, for the second time of FIVE, and fewer people watched it -- it is that I now provide. The third time fewer still looked up to wonder what it was; the forth was even less than that -- the fifth, just me, because <g>.

Call them up and ask opinions of the ones that would not look. I doubt that they'd remember, for their peace of mind it took. It reminded them that models are contrived to paint the sky with things WE built to fly up there -- not the ET's I surmise. The craft that flew that fateful day they did not glue together. They didn't sand the fuselage, or build it strong as leather. They did not spin the prop they bought with what they could control; they could not point out proudly _their_ invention they'd extol.