As a child of the 1960s I lived in the suburbs south of Boston. Summer nights were filled with silence; no cars, no voices, no music. Every house was a tomb and the deep darkness often found a pre-teen boy stealing out the back door to spread a blanket on the ground, strip off his pajamas and lie on the lawn, looking to the sky.

My ritual was always the same.

I was not seeking the mystery of God in the celestial night, but an aberration in the galactic traffic.

His conversations with old-timers from Roswell strengthened his own experiences in Space and Edgar Mitchell was convinced that NASA and the Pentagon have been vigorously prevented the truth from reaching a public more interested in potato chips than UFOs.

“Is there life outside of Earth?”

The Colonel thought so, although my late father considered billions spent on NASA a waste. He was an electrical engineer. He loved my mother. She only wanted to go to Cape Cod in the summer and that destination was good enough for him as well.

“There’s nothing out there?”

No go-go bars or romantic lakes or no marching bands, because tubas take up too much room on a spaceship, although I once saw a tuba on a Star Trek episode.

The former astronaut also says that the three crafts once hovering over Phoenix were not ours. They were from another planet and not Mars either. Someplace much farther away and we can’t even estimate that distance with our pea brains, but I no longer want to go to the stars.

I have five kids.

A three loving daughters and two busy boys.

Plus two grandchildren.

Those are my aliens, for ET are us.

Children from future.

MR. SPACEMAN by the Byrds 1968