Spring Break
The preposterous picnic
Aaron Sakulich
Issue date: 2/16/07 Section: Ed-Op
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I'm not particularly fond of the city. It's too loud and crowded, there are too few plants, and the mayor's genius plan to tackle a rising murder rate was to introduce an anti-smoking bill that prevents the populace from lighting up in public places whose owners don't have enough money to get around the ban.
So, when I read about the convention that Buck Nelson had on his farm in the 1950s in Missouri, I thought it sounded lovely - a slice of the old, fading America. For a mere 50-cent donation, one would be admitted to a large picnic, where the attendees camped out in their own camping gear, there was live music from a local "hillbilly band," and there was an on-site cafeteria serving sandwiches, coffee, fried chicken and so on. I can imagine it now: sitting on long plank benches, a cold glass-bottled soda in one hand, a crispy drumstick in the other, the sounds of banjos in the air. Not even the fact that the picnic was a convention for lunatic space men would put me off.
The rest of the flyer, I am sad to say, reads: "SPACECRAFT CONVENTION - Speeches and Discussion - Hear Speakers Who Have Contacted Our Space Brothers." As I read this, it never once occurred to me to follow my usual course; to disparage, deny, denigrate and demonize the UFO enthusiasts in question and their insane claims. Why will have to wait. The convention was held the last Saturday, Sunday and Monday of June, and started at 10 a.m. Buck Nelson didn't just host it, though; he was a main attraction.
A local man who had at one time been a cowboy out west, Nelson moved to minor celebrity status after his supposed run-in with three spaceships. One night in 1954, he awoke to the three "things" hovering over his farm; when he shined a flashlight at them, he was struck by a beam of light "hotter and brighter than the sun." It wasn't an attack, though: The beam of light cured a back problem he'd had for a while, and he soon realized that his eyesight, which was deteriorating, had been much improved by the incident.
So, when I read about the convention that Buck Nelson had on his farm in the 1950s in Missouri, I thought it sounded lovely - a slice of the old, fading America. For a mere 50-cent donation, one would be admitted to a large picnic, where the attendees camped out in their own camping gear, there was live music from a local "hillbilly band," and there was an on-site cafeteria serving sandwiches, coffee, fried chicken and so on. I can imagine it now: sitting on long plank benches, a cold glass-bottled soda in one hand, a crispy drumstick in the other, the sounds of banjos in the air. Not even the fact that the picnic was a convention for lunatic space men would put me off.
The rest of the flyer, I am sad to say, reads: "SPACECRAFT CONVENTION - Speeches and Discussion - Hear Speakers Who Have Contacted Our Space Brothers." As I read this, it never once occurred to me to follow my usual course; to disparage, deny, denigrate and demonize the UFO enthusiasts in question and their insane claims. Why will have to wait. The convention was held the last Saturday, Sunday and Monday of June, and started at 10 a.m. Buck Nelson didn't just host it, though; he was a main attraction.
A local man who had at one time been a cowboy out west, Nelson moved to minor celebrity status after his supposed run-in with three spaceships. One night in 1954, he awoke to the three "things" hovering over his farm; when he shined a flashlight at them, he was struck by a beam of light "hotter and brighter than the sun." It wasn't an attack, though: The beam of light cured a back problem he'd had for a while, and he soon realized that his eyesight, which was deteriorating, had been much improved by the incident.
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