From Red Earth Drive: "Do you boys believe in flying saucers?" Part 1.
On August 11, 2018, on a warm Saturday afternoon at the 104th Annual Meskwaki Nation Powwow, in central Iowa, I took photographs of a ttamakanetta-tetebatti or military helicopter. We were advised its name was Chinook. Thus, as a tribute to Meskwaki tribal members and others who’d served in the military services, the day was designated as Wetase-Kittekwi or Veterans’ Day. According to tribal news, it took several years of arduous intergovernmental planning to have the Chinook’s presence a reality.
On the morning when the huge tetebatti arrived, my wife, Stella Lasley-Young Bear, said its loud, repetitive propellors could be heard before it was visually spotted, descending from the south and flying over the Iowa River, including the remnant railroad tracks and old Lincoln Highway 30. The sounds, Stella added, resonated sharply over the canopy of the Iowa River woodlands. On its approach, with its nose held high to adjust to the steep angle, the tetebatti landed in an open area of the powwow grounds, making Stella think: So, this is what Meskwaki soldiers saw and heard during the war.
The ttamakanetta-tetebatti or military helicopter, from her perspective, reminded everyone the five American flags posted in the dance arena memorialized five Meskwaki soldiers killed in action overseas. It made the celebratory day more important. Far too often, Stella concluded, people forget sacrifices were made—in the name of freedom.
I was home that day…
Unfortunately, as the parent who stays home or locks up the house and feeds the dogs, I missed the grand arrival of the Chinook tetebatti. I was home that day when it landed. Not long after, through a video posted on social media, I could see the tetebatti was beyond spectacular. Yes, there was immediate regret for not being there. Arguably, to behold a military aircraft landing 200 yards from the tribal dance arena was a once-in-a-lifetime event. The video showed the powerful force of its propellor blades, splaying the tops of cottonwoods, willows and tall grasses wildly. For a day it sat impressively on what was once the center field of an old softball field.
A line from a song “Isn’t it ironic?” by Alanis Morrisette came to mind as the video of the Chinook’s arrival was watched: “Well, life has a funny way of sneaking up on you when you think everything’s going OK.” From there a distinct memory of another scenario in another time was triggered albeit the same location. While tree-sized propellors accounted for the Chinook’s flight, the four flying saucers that came down one night from the moonlit sky were phenomenally different. That event which was witnessed by three tribal members happened in the fall of 1968. I was one of them, at 17, being mesmerized by silver disks that operated seemingly by soundless propulsion. Aside from the disks being flawlessly identical, in size, shape and color, the synchronicity of their aerial movement was a sight never seen nor forgotten.
Not far from where the Chinook landed, the silver disks descended gracefully over the Union Pacific railroad tracks that were gleaming under moonlight. The remnants of these tracks today are located south of the powwow grounds. And the berm that once held two sets of railroad tracks has now flattened and is hidden by trees and thickets. Trains used to run all hours in both directions, east and west. This included some UFOs. The only indication these tracks once crossed over the Iowa River are the four concrete pillars that are still in the river.
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On or about 1968, a fellow tribal member named Bad Bear and I were walking home on a fall night. The weather was nice, with the land reflecting amicably under moonlight. Not only were we high school classmates but we were 17-year-old neighbors who lived akameeki, on the other side of the river. At most, four households lived here. Except for winters, the seasons here were enjoyable.
My paternal grandfather’s homesite was located on the southern end of the Meskwaki Settlement where Tama County, Iowa, farmland and agri-business enterprises form the invisible border.
For years I didn’t get why father enjoyed Johnny…
Typically, if Bad Bear and I couldn’t get a ride home from a high school event, the five-mile walk was often necessary. If the weather was tolerable, it wasn’t that bad. Moreover, since social activity for youth on tribal land was virtually nonexistent, we had the time and physicality as young adults to expend. Otherwise, staying home on a Friday night meant watching TV with family. After the 10 PM news, however, my father would watch nothing but Johnny Carson, a talk show host. Every night I’d fall asleep to TV screen flashes, corny-sounding jokes and laughter coming into my small room. For years I didn’t get why father enjoyed Johnny.
Thus, before walking through the powwow grounds, Bad Bear and I had been on gravel roads known today as Meskwaki and Battleground Roads. At night, when dim stars are barely a source of light, the latter road can be spooky. In stories told of lives lost there are also specific warnings. Here, if one was travelling at night alone, a choice was made at the entrance: do I take the long way around, staying on Battleground Road until it meets Old Lincoln Highway 30? Or do I frantically dash through the powwow grounds?
As a teenager with a plethora of imagination…
To run meant hearing your own shoes hit the cinder rocks and a heart pounding madly in the chest cavity, muting other sounds often imagined like wings or footsteps in pursuit. The advantage of walking was being able to hear movements or voices close or far or something else. While the prospect of a supernatural encounter was ever-present, most of the fear was self-induced. Yes, as a teenager with a plethora of imagination, believing in lions, tigers, bears—and ghosts had substantial impact to the psyche.
Oftentimes, regardless of whichever route was taken, the same question always surfaced: when do I run? It was done regardless perhaps to defuse. Of course, once the powwow grounds and Iowa River bridge were hurdled, there was yet another choice: do I take the long way home on open farm roads for several miles, or run the short way 15 minutes through the dark woods? These choices, my mother incessantly reminded me, wouldn’t be necessary if one wasn’t out late at night. Meskwaki people are taught since childhood that darkness is another realm. When are you going to finally understand that? she would half-scold. The belief was, if one persists in walking alone at night, that’s an invitation for dark, adversarial elements. As curious, wild-eyed teenagers we knew damned well there were consequences, but the coming-of-age naivete frequently superseded better judgment.
/ / /
And so, on that long ago night, when Bad Bear and I were about halfway through the powwow grounds, a silhouette of a person sitting against a large oak tree came into clear view. In a friendly tone, the person called out in Meskwaki, “Ho’a kwiseetike! Hello, boys!” I quickly recognized the voice of Witima, my uncle. He’d been to town, too, and was keeping a six pack of Grain Belt beer company.
“Well, you missed the party,” he said while offering us cigarettes and a can to share. “But you didn’t miss much. Everybody left before things actually began.”
In turn, we told him we’d been to town for the high school football game, noting which team won and that we were finally going home from the dance. Then, before resuming our travel, my uncle suddenly asked us an unusual question, “Nawatti-kwiseetike, Wait, boys — do you believe in flying saucers?”
That question really caught us.
We just stood and looked at each other wondering what to say. Mostly no one had ever said those words. There was never any reason. In fact, those words belonged to the stars, like the ones who made movies and TV shows like “Lost in Space” and “Star Trek” in Hollywood, California. We had seen outer space creatures depicted at the Mills Theatre in downtown Tama, Iowa. Some were short and amphibian-looking with fingertips that could extend with pointed metal rods, while others had gadgets that could make underground tunnels instantly.
Then, before we could answer his question, Witima pointed up with his arm past our torsos and said, “Well, boys, there’s four of them coming down over your shoulders. Wabatamoko, Look at them.”
In making a one-quarter left turn, we immediately saw four silver disks descending quietly through the sparse clouds. Two above and two below formation, slightly staggered and moving together perfectly, with each disk having their own space and path downward. They weren’t as brilliant as the moon, but they appeared increasingly brighter the closer they got to the tree line. When the silver disks got to about 80 feet directly above the railroad tracks, they stopped and remained stationary for a minute or more. Soon, in unison, they slowly began their flight west, picking up speed over the tracks until they vanished in an after-trail flash. The sight was remarkable. I don’t recall what was said afterwards. If anything, maybe we expressed being astounded by whatever it was we had just witnessed. Maybe my uncle said, “Ninamaeiki, Me, too.”
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In the fall of 1980, twelve years after seeing four flying saucers, I advised my companion, Stella Mae, we were going to stop the Chevy Nova SS at the end of the Iowa River bridge. For over a mile we’d been parallelled by a single, flashing UFO. This was after being subjected earlier to a series of non-ordinary manifestations, beginning with three owls with voices backed by supernatural wattage to several dozen fireflies assembling themselves to a V-shape like distant jets. They were so unreal we took them initially as supernatural manifestations. We may have been profiled before being mind-tricked. After being blasted by the third owl’s unworldly cry, which moved me several steps back, we should’ve left then. In choosing instead to defend our home with squirrel guns, other things kicked in. This eventually included a ground level orb that ignored my pleas we be left alone and a red flare-colored light that expanded from gunshots until it was the size of a school bus. Bullets were essentially eaten and converted to energy for a nightmarish display of lights. Whatever type of force we were up against knew our psychological fears and strengths. And that’s one factor the Pentagon has yet to discover about UFOs. That it or they are omniscient.
The strobe light UFO parallelled our Chevy Nova SS…
When we could no longer defend our home, we decided to leave. Not only did we deplete our bullets, but our sanity was fast splintering. That’s when a single UFO began strobe light-flashing from inside an apple tree by the driveway.
It was so bright we had to hold up our arms in order to see. As perhaps the designated escort, the strobe light UFO parallelled our Chevy Nova SS for a mile to the Iowa River and powwow grounds area. While crossing the highway bridge, Stella found a single bullet in the glove compartment. Next, we stopped to chamber the bullet into the Marlin rifle outside the car and fire, sending the strobe light UFO to the stars instantly. Or so we thought. On the next night, from my parent’s yard on Sac & Fox Road, a fleet of UFOs appeared when we dared to look up. They were escorting what may have been a huge mother spaceship. We saw their return in the presence of my parents as a sign that things were going to be OK. Our shock and fear began to subside.
/ / /
Thus, on that August 11, 2018, afternoon when I finally got to the powwow grounds to join family, I only took photographs of the Chinook tetebatti and the bustling activity it attracted. With the afternoon light impeccably soft and glare at a minimum, I positioned myself from a good distance, observing and studying at first. Multiple telephoto frames were subsequently taken, including a video, making sure the tree and sky lines, people, concession stands and tents of family encampments were artistically represented.
With the sound of drums, bells and the M.C. narrating the historic and spiritual significance of the tribal dances and songs, the Chinook was structurally impressive against the bright summer landscape. Long lines of people walked from the dance arena to stand under its fuselage and tree-sized propellor blades, being curious and astounded. Halfway across a field, one youth pretended to stalk the Chinook by crouching low and taking short, careful steps. With arms held high, he soon became overwhelmed by the aircraft’s enormity and tumbled slow-motion into the dark-green grass.
I’m still worrying about those owls....
Four orbs but three owls….pondering that.