IN THE BEGINNING - a UFO over Ohio
PART ONE
Texas, March 2021
By Steve Douglass
I woke in the early morning hours to my phone buzzing.
On February 28, 2022, a short, blunt text lit up the screen:
“Mark is gone. Time to go public. Are you prepared?”
I stared at it. Gone?
Was he dead? Missing? I didn’t know. I only knew I wasn’t ready. There was too much to sort through, and almost no time to do it. Where do I start?
A familiar voice in my head—Mark’s voice—answered the question for me.
“Start at the beginning, idiot.”
MARIETTA, OHIO — 1964
I was six the first time I saw a UFO.
I didn’t understand what I was looking at, but that moment ended up steering the rest of my life.
It was late August. We lived in south-central Ohio. My mom, my older sister, our neighbor Georgie, and I were driving home from the weekly laundry run. With six kids, laundry took forever, but I liked the trip. We sang along to Beatles songs, I usually got something from the gumball machine, and best of all, it got us away from my father.
I was a mama’s boy, and she treated me differently from my brothers. They took after my dad—hard, cynical, always ready for a fight. I didn’t have that in me. Later, when my father grew more violent with all of us, I became the one who stepped between him and my mom. By sixth grade I was already six feet tall, which helped me shield her, but on that night in 1964 I felt small in a way I never would again.
Looking back from the last quarter of my life, with everything I’ve learned since, one thing hasn’t changed: what we saw was beyond anything a first-grader could process. And that moment left something in me—dormant for years—that eventually pulled me deep into the UFO phenomenon.
It also pushed me toward understanding something I now believe about Roswell, something that runs against the popular story. More on that later.
I was six the first time I saw a UFO.
I didn’t understand what I was looking at, but that moment ended up steering the rest of my life.
It was late August. We lived in south-central Ohio. My mom, my older sister, our neighbor Georgie, and I were driving home from the weekly laundry run. With six kids, laundry took forever, but I liked the trip. We sang along to Beatles songs, I usually got something from the gumball machine, and best of all, it got us away from my father.
I was a mama’s boy, and she treated me differently from my brothers. They took after my dad—hard, cynical, always ready for a fight. I didn’t have that in me. Later, when my father grew more violent with all of us, I became the one who stepped between him and my mom. By sixth grade I was already six feet tall, which helped me shield her, but on that night in 1964 I felt small in a way I never would again.
Looking back from the last quarter of my life, with everything I’ve learned since, one thing hasn’t changed: what we saw was beyond anything a first-grader could process. And that moment left something in me—dormant for years—that eventually pulled me deep into the UFO phenomenon.
It also pushed me toward understanding something I now believe about Roswell, something that runs against the popular story. More on that later.
THE DRIVE
We left the laundromat in Devola around ten at night, heading home on the twisting road through the hills. I watched the dark fields, the fireflies, the reflectors that looked like tiny lights switching on and off as we passed. My mom once told me a fast little elf ran between them turning them on. I preferred that version over my Dad's about the science of reflected light.
Every so often we’d crest a hill and see the Ohio River Valley in moonlight—the small towns glowing below, the water catching the moon like a tree of gold branches. My sister waited for the next Beatles song. I drifted in and out of sleep.
Then my mother’s voice snapped me fully awake.
“Slow down, Georgie! Slow down! What’s that?”
It wasn’t the words but the alarm in her voice.
“That’s got to be the moon!” Georgie said, panicked.
My mom twisted around to look, and the expression on her face scared me more than anything. Not fear exactly—more like shock mixed with excitement.
“No,” she said. “The moon’s behind us. That’s not the moon.”
My sister sat forward, already crying. Georgie was shaking. All I could see was a brilliant light filling the windshield.
“Pull over,” my mom said.
Georgie didn’t want to. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I don’t want to stop.”
But she did, and she immediately asked my mom to take the wheel. “I’m too scared.”
My mom turned to me. “Steven, up front. You need to see this.”
She only used Steven when she meant business.
I got out, waiting for her to open the door from the inside. As I stood there, something strange caught my eye. The shadows were moving—mine, the car door’s, the trees. They slid from left to right, the way they would under a swinging basement bulb, but brighter. Too bright.
I looked up the road.
And there it was.
A silent, blue-white light hovering maybe a quarter mile ahead and a hundred feet up. It drifted in slow, precise movements—sideways, back, almost like it was floating in syrup.
I wasn’t scared. I didn’t have a reason to be. I’d never seen anything like it, but it was hypnotic, not threatening.
Next thing I knew, I was in the front seat beside my mom. Georgie watched through her fingers. My sister sobbed. But my mom was steady.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Steven?” she said. “That’s a UFO. I always hoped I’d see one.”
I didn’t know what a UFO was, but she said it like she’d spotted a rare bird on a trail.
The object moved behind the trees, lighting the forest in sharp beams. My mom edged the car forward, following it as it floated above the road. My sister begged her to stop.
“It won’t hurt us,” Mom said. And somehow, we believed her.
It became a strange sort of chase. When she sped up, it drifted ahead. When she slowed, it seemed to wait. She showed me how to block part of the glare with my hand so we could see its shape.
That’s when I saw it clearly:
A glowing sphere rotating inside what looked like a transparent cube, rimmed with shifting colors—blue, orange, purple.
I’d spend years doodling that same shape without realizing why, a half remembered thing banging around in my subconsciousness.
The object felt heavy, like it had its own gravity. The air around it changed too. Sometimes it felt thick, like we were underwater. Sometimes the wind whipped through the trees, except the ones closest to us, which stayed still.
It made no sound. Only my ears felt muffled, like during a dive.
We followed it until, without warning, it shot straight up. One instant it hovered; the next it was a tiny dot, then gone. I was the only one who saw it leave.
My mother stopped the car and we all got out. The normal night sounds rushed back in, like someone had flipped a switch. I realized I’d been holding my breath.
AFTERMATH
The drive home took a long time. We were lost from chasing it so far. My mom and Georgie talked nonstop. I watched the sky, waiting for it to return. I still do that—look up before I look around. It’s automatic now.
When we told my father, he dismissed the whole thing. Airplane. Helicopter. Meteor. Anything but what we described. He warned my mom not to talk about it.
But she did.
The newspapers and TV news reported sightings the next week. That gave her courage to call Wright-Patterson Air Force Base the home of Project Blue Book.
She told me years later what that call was like—the long list of questions, the clipped tone, the way it felt like filing a police report. The part that set her off was when the man asked if she or anyone else had been drinking or treated for mental illness. It echoed every insult my father had thrown at her.
Still, she finished the report.
A month later, two men showed up at our door while we were at school. They flashed ID, asked for coffee, took notes, and left. My mother thought they looked like Mormon missionaries, which confused her because missionaries didn’t drive cars. My father said she imagined the whole thing.
About a year later, Frank Edwards—the radio broadcaster—visited. He’d heard of the Ohio River sightings and interviewed her for a book. He even sent her a signed copy of Flying Saucers—Serious Business. It’s long gone now. My guess is my father threw it out.
We left the laundromat in Devola around ten at night, heading home on the twisting road through the hills. I watched the dark fields, the fireflies, the reflectors that looked like tiny lights switching on and off as we passed. My mom once told me a fast little elf ran between them turning them on. I preferred that version over my Dad's about the science of reflected light.
Every so often we’d crest a hill and see the Ohio River Valley in moonlight—the small towns glowing below, the water catching the moon like a tree of gold branches. My sister waited for the next Beatles song. I drifted in and out of sleep.
Then my mother’s voice snapped me fully awake.
“Slow down, Georgie! Slow down! What’s that?”
It wasn’t the words but the alarm in her voice.
“That’s got to be the moon!” Georgie said, panicked.
My mom twisted around to look, and the expression on her face scared me more than anything. Not fear exactly—more like shock mixed with excitement.
“No,” she said. “The moon’s behind us. That’s not the moon.”
My sister sat forward, already crying. Georgie was shaking. All I could see was a brilliant light filling the windshield.
“Pull over,” my mom said.
Georgie didn’t want to. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I don’t want to stop.”
But she did, and she immediately asked my mom to take the wheel. “I’m too scared.”
My mom turned to me. “Steven, up front. You need to see this.”
She only used Steven when she meant business.
I got out, waiting for her to open the door from the inside. As I stood there, something strange caught my eye. The shadows were moving—mine, the car door’s, the trees. They slid from left to right, the way they would under a swinging basement bulb, but brighter. Too bright.
I looked up the road.
And there it was.
A silent, blue-white light hovering maybe a quarter mile ahead and a hundred feet up. It drifted in slow, precise movements—sideways, back, almost like it was floating in syrup.
I wasn’t scared. I didn’t have a reason to be. I’d never seen anything like it, but it was hypnotic, not threatening.
Next thing I knew, I was in the front seat beside my mom. Georgie watched through her fingers. My sister sobbed. But my mom was steady.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Steven?” she said. “That’s a UFO. I always hoped I’d see one.”
I didn’t know what a UFO was, but she said it like she’d spotted a rare bird on a trail.
The object moved behind the trees, lighting the forest in sharp beams. My mom edged the car forward, following it as it floated above the road. My sister begged her to stop.
“It won’t hurt us,” Mom said. And somehow, we believed her.
It became a strange sort of chase. When she sped up, it drifted ahead. When she slowed, it seemed to wait. She showed me how to block part of the glare with my hand so we could see its shape.
That’s when I saw it clearly:
A glowing sphere rotating inside what looked like a transparent cube, rimmed with shifting colors—blue, orange, purple.
I’d spend years doodling that same shape without realizing why, a half remembered thing banging around in my subconsciousness.
The object felt heavy, like it had its own gravity. The air around it changed too. Sometimes it felt thick, like we were underwater. Sometimes the wind whipped through the trees, except the ones closest to us, which stayed still.
It made no sound. Only my ears felt muffled, like during a dive.
We followed it until, without warning, it shot straight up. One instant it hovered; the next it was a tiny dot, then gone. I was the only one who saw it leave.
My mother stopped the car and we all got out. The normal night sounds rushed back in, like someone had flipped a switch. I realized I’d been holding my breath.
AFTERMATH
The drive home took a long time. We were lost from chasing it so far. My mom and Georgie talked nonstop. I watched the sky, waiting for it to return. I still do that—look up before I look around. It’s automatic now.
When we told my father, he dismissed the whole thing. Airplane. Helicopter. Meteor. Anything but what we described. He warned my mom not to talk about it.
But she did.
The newspapers and TV news reported sightings the next week. That gave her courage to call Wright-Patterson Air Force Base the home of Project Blue Book.
She told me years later what that call was like—the long list of questions, the clipped tone, the way it felt like filing a police report. The part that set her off was when the man asked if she or anyone else had been drinking or treated for mental illness. It echoed every insult my father had thrown at her.
Still, she finished the report.
A month later, two men showed up at our door while we were at school. They flashed ID, asked for coffee, took notes, and left. My mother thought they looked like Mormon missionaries, which confused her because missionaries didn’t drive cars. My father said she imagined the whole thing.
About a year later, Frank Edwards—the radio broadcaster—visited. He’d heard of the Ohio River sightings and interviewed her for a book. He even sent her a signed copy of Flying Saucers—Serious Business. It’s long gone now. My guess is my father threw it out.
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