Aliens Spread Unrelenting Terror in New England Farmstead


I was never one to pay much heed to the cuckoos who have enshrined Roswell, New Mexico, as the principal landing zone for aliens intent on changing our way of life as we know it. But last week, I had an epiphany. Stay with me, it’s going to sound crazy.

The pipe in the downstairs shower bathroom of our 1810 Garrison Colonial froze. No surprise, and not the first time. Number one son, Jonathan, a building contractor, showed up with a kerosene heater, opened a little doorway in the garage and removed insulation which had been pushed off the shower pipes under the house by a mouse who had set up housekeeping.

Jon aimed the heater into the opening and before you could say, "Barney Laschever doesn’t believe in aliens," the pipes had thawed and the hot water was running again. Hooray and hosanna!


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So what’s this all got to do with aliens? You’ll see. Next afternoon, even though I had let the shower faucet drip, the temperature had dropped precipitously and the shower froze again. Enter my wife who, whilst I was pampering myself at Double D (Dunkin Donuts), was in the room next to the bathroom when she suddenly heard a strange rushing noise.

"It was like nothing I have ever heard before," she recalls. Her first thought was that the shower frozen pipe had burst and the house was entering its Katrina mode. Jon had assured us the pipe wouldn’t burst because it was plastic. I was only mildly reassured. But Dolores was clearly upset.

She found no water flooding the shower stall. Next she stepped into the garage. Still no water. She called Jonathan.

"Sounds like a pipe has burst," he said, advising her to open the little door in the garage and pull back the insulation. One pipe along the back wall was metal, he told her, and he hadn’t been able to fully swathe it in insulation. Door was opened; insulation pulled back — no water. Another call to Jonathan. "Should I look under the stairs leading to the garage?"

Jonathan thought that was a good idea. My good wife got down on her hands and knees and crawled into what only could be described as a freezer cabinet — our garage is an attachment with only electric outlets as amenities. No water was seeping out from under the stairs.


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Another call to Jonathan, who was working against a deadline to get one of his new houses approved by the building inspector. Nonetheless he was gracious. (Why not, he was trying to help his dear mother.) But at this point he had come a cropper. "I honestly don’t know what else can be making that noise. If it isn’t rushing water, then ....." He hesitated and then continued: "Maybe it’s aliens!" Jon was joking. He doesn’t believe in aliens any more than I do.

Dolores decided to give it one more try: Follow the sound.

Composing herself and getting her bearings, she slowly zeroed in on the trash can in the garage. She reached in and voila! She pulled out a small portable radio that had been sitting on the sink in the upstairs bathroom for upward of 30 years. She said — both on battery and plugged in — and it didn’t work, so she divested it. Somehow it had been left on, but its batteries were so weak it just emitted a persistent static, sort of like the noise an alien ship makes when it swooshes into Roswell.

She turned it off and brought the radio into the house. No more strange noises. When I arrived home and heard the story I got into my anti-alien mode. The batteries clearly were on their last legs, but there was a plug-in cord. I plugged in the cord, turned up the volume and started turning the tuning wheel. In a thrice I was listening to all my favorite public radio stations.


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Was there an alien in the radio who was making the noise or are we going to be rational nerds and explain the noise scientifically, i.e. it was just plain old static?

I like the "Alien in the Box" theory best. Spread the word in Roswell.

Which reminds me that some years ago Dolores was making a Herculean effort to dispose of some old diseased plants. In the trash can in the garage she had thrown them into, a long "root" was standing upright. Strange root, she thought, what kind of plant was at the end of it? Grabbing the "root," she pulled it out.

The "plant" at the end of the root was a possum! ‘Tweren’t no root, a-tall, t’was the tail of a possum, playin’ possum.

 


Barnett Laschever, the curmudgeon of Goshen, Conn., is a freelance humorist who also is co-author with Andi Marie Cantele of "Connecticut, An Explorer’s Guide."


 

 

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