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In Sandcreek Township secrets were not necessarily prompted by promises or honor or deception ... or any of the stuff that thrillers are made of. Occasionally the necessity for silence came with innocence and a sprinkling of enthusiasm.

Once upon a time, for example, when sci-fi films held me spellbound on Saturday evenings, I believed it was possible to step through the late-night portals to excitement. Those movies depicted a world of gateways. A cave could lead to a hidden valley. Unchartered islands might host lost civilizations. So, it is of little wonder that I developed a boyish zeal for history books and encyclopedias. Surviving a journey into the unknown would demand a great deal of knowledge.

Admittedly, I strayed a bit from reality by over preparing for fantasies and under preparing for everyday experiences. Robin Hood and Daniel Boone were old acquaintances. African animals seemed easy enough to talk to after watching Bomba the Jungle Boy and Johnny Weissmuller. But, if I biked through the countryside, I couldn't tell you the difference between any of the breeds of pigs or cows or chickens; and the names of the vehicles that passed me were limited to car and truck and station wagon. Little attention was given to the model and make.

It was in those years that I made one of the most phenomenal discoveries of modern times. Yes, during the glorious days of books and movies, a mere Midwestern boy spotted the last of the pterodactyls when its monstrous silhouette swooped above the trees that lined the banks of White River. My heart pounded as the distant silhouette of the prehistoric form appeared again and then disappeared in almost the same instance. Distracted, I nearly crashed my bicycle in front of Mr. Thomas' turkey farm.

"Heaven help us all," I thought, "if that Jurassic reptile has been courting the Thomas turkeys, hatching time will be a nightmare."

Jules Verne laid the groundwork for surprise encounters with dinosaurs and giant beasts. World Book provided the images. National Geographic would have put Azalia on the map if a call had been made. Yet I was not sure that anyone would believe the tale and just as certain that a single sighting by a Walter Mitty personality would carry little weight. My lips, therefore, were sealed.

In the months that followed, carving the main entree at Thanksgiving and Christmas made me uneasy, but I never said a word as I checked the Butterballs for any physical deformities. Neither did I share that I was reading all I could about carnivorous, Stone-Age creatures that could fly. However, I would have broken my vow of silence and notified the authorities immediately if a cow or child had suddenly disappeared...or if a big ole tom had looked at me cross-eyed.

To be honest with you, the reason I kept the secret for a half century is that I lost confidence in the memory when a friend pointed out a Blue Heron standing in a creek bed a year or two later. It “might have been” the first time I had seen one, but I was not certain. When the long-legged bird launched itself and glided above the sycamores, it reminded me quite a bit of my pterodactyl sighting. The similarity was probably coincidental, but the seeds of doubt were planted.

It might not surprise you that I have always dreamed of discovering something that no one else had found. That particular ambition has made me susceptible to believing in anything the echoes the scripts of The X-Files or The Twilight Zone. As you know, the truth is out there, and some of it is strange.

Twenty years ago, for example, my brother-in-law and I were on a canoe trip when another odd sighting paralyzed my paddle hands. David Krueger pointed to the sky where a freak of nature, a hawk with a furry tail glided ahead of us. Once again my heart pounded the adventure rhythm as I searched for Anderson Cooper's number.  Luckily, the feathered hunter angled just enough to our left that the squirrel he had caught for lunch was visible. What an amazing sight! Yet had I jumped on the evolution bandwagon and made the phone call, I would have become a part of the food chain too. The reporters would have eaten me alive.

Not all secrets gnaw at my soul or slash with pterodactyl talons when I sleep at night. One or two remind me that the world still offers tremendous opportunities for unbridled imagination.

(Adapted from Nudge Me Gently, 2015, pages 72-74)