The (mostly) true story of a time traveler
Clearly, we weren’t able to meet the August 14th publication date, BUT…The editing is almost done, the artists have started work on the cover design and it is my sincere hope that by the middle of MAY of this year you will be able to order the first book (which now has a title – YAY!) in both dead tree and e-pub formats.
Hang in there. We appreciate your interest and eagerness to get the book.
Dan
It’s slow, and though I know I should have all the time in the world, I don’t feel like that’s the case. Final editing is coming along nicely, but there’s so much to do. The first draft consisted of fairly polished narrative, but in a number of sections, Rich just provided notes and dialogue.
I’ve spent most of my career writing technical manuals, so the craft isn’t exactly unknown to me, but still, telling a story in someone else’s voice is never easy, especially when that voice is your…well, friend.
The August 14 date for publication will hold. Look for the book then.
It was only my third cruise, but it was obvious to me that the stress level on Ranger was much higher than usual this early. I’m sure a big part of it was the fact that we all knew we were going to be in a shooting war, but most of it was the exhausting flight schedule that was the result of winching our birds onto the ship instead of flying them out.
Under normal circumstances, the ship would sail and within a few days, the air wings would begin to arrive. Each crew had to execute four carrier landings, or “traps” in order to be qualified for flying during this cruise, something that a pilot would move heaven and earth to make sure he’d accomplished because not getting cruise qualified could be a career-ender. When the Wing flew out to the ship, that first trap accounted for 25% of a pilot’s qualification, traps that we wouldn’t have, since the Navy had loaded our A-6 Intruders onto Ranger. Spread out among an entire air wing, that was a lot of activity to make up, since each trap was preceded by a briefing, refueling, a pre-flight check, a cat (catapult) launch, and the actual flight mission, even if it was a trip around the “patch,” before the trap was logged. Furthermore, because of the logistical nightmare of shuffling aircraft around the deck, up and down the elevators, etc…We had to “hot seat” during these qualification missions, meaning changing aircrews while the engines were still turning. It could be dangerous, as well as stressful, having a bunch of different guys flying your aircraft.
The thing about other pilots and BNs flying your airplane wasn’t just that it was kind of like trusting your wife to another man (though there was that, too) but that there existed the very real phenomenon of “stranger-breaking.” In my other time stream, my best friend, Dan Garmen had one explained that materials get used to being handled in a certain way. Plastics, wood, even metals physically change as they are used, structurally adapting themselves to the forces acting upon them. Along comes a different person, who exerts different forces and stresses on the item and it breaks.
No Naval Aviator wanted to break another flyer’s kite. but, we had little choice, and if we wanted to fly during this cruise, we had to get cruise qualified, and that was that.
One of the reasons that Pat and I made such a good team, was that we both were proactive, and hated procrastination with a passion. For me, I hated putting off what I could do today because that kind of behavior had created a lot of the problems I lived with in my other life, and armed with that self-knowledge, had made it a point to not let that habit take root in THIS time stream. It had worked. I never put off for another five minutes, what I could do at that moment. I think Pat’s hatred of procrastination was because as the youngest of 6 Irish Catholic boys growing up in Boston, if he didn’t jump at the chances life offered, one or more of the other five would. Also, Pat was just wired that way and he had way too much energy to postpone something that he either wanted, or HAD to do. Just “F’in do it” was his creed.
So, there was no discussion about our strategy. When we weren’t flying, or otherwise engaged, we’d be suited up and ready to jump in if an Intruder opened up. The flight schedule was so stacked up, an aircraft with no crew to fly could bring things to a grinding halt. So, Pat and I would hang out in the passage way just inside the hatch to the deck, in case the launch officer found that he was an A-6E long, and needed someone to fly. It paid off the second time we did this, when a pilot from the other Intruder squadron slipped while climbing the ladder to enter his aircraft. He hit the deck hard, throwing his right arm out to break his fall and breaking the wrist. The jet’s turbines were still turning from the aircraft’s last flight, and the cat officer remembered that we’d been hanging around the day before, and had one of his sailors come looking for us. The young swabbie, clearly on his first cruise, poked his head around the open hatch, and seeing us, shouted “Lieutentant Biggs says if you guys wanna fly, you’re up!”
Pat and I looked at each other an then moved quickly for the hatch, slipping through it into the heavy breeze blowing on deck as Ranger moved through the water. The sailor got out of the way and then held the hatch open for the injured pilot and those helping him come through, then followed us as we ran, heads down, toward the Intruder, waiting to launch.
Even though the original crew had run the pre-flight checklist, Pat and I did it again. No distrust among aircrews, it was just the way it worked. Nothing from memory, either. We worked from printed lists that left no room to forget anything. That’s not to say we took our time, though. The cat schedule was already thrown into disarray by the minor accident that gave us the opportunity to fly, and we wanted to do our best to make up for lost time.
By the time Pat received the signal to taxi our Intruder to the catapult, we had settled in, were comfortable our aircraft was in good enough condition to fly, despite two complaints we found that weren’t serious enough to ground the plane. It was rare bird, especially later in the cruise, that didn’t have at least a couple gripes. The gripes this Intruder had were both “up” gripes, which meant they were problems that needed to be addressed, but didn’t keep the plane from safely completing is mission. “Down” gripes grounded the aircraft until they could be fixed. Pilots had the final say as to whether an aircraft was airworthy or not, and they took that responsibility very seriously.
As Pat did his part to steer the Intruder into position so the cat personnel could connect the plane’s nose gear to the hydraulic arm that would pull our airplane down the deck of the ship fast enough to launch us into the air, I had a chance to sit back with nothing to do. We would brief in the air, since we were a last-minute crew replacement, but it wasn’t a big deal. We would be refuelling inflight, meeting another Intruder that had been fitted with extra tanks, about 50 miles from the ship. Routine, but better than just circling the ship and landing again. But, for now, the task at hand was the launch, the “cat shot.”
There’s nothing like a cat shot.
I really don’t care what anyone says, there’s no carnival ride, training exercise, or even out of the blue accident as thrilling as being shot off the deck of an aircraft carrier. The whole operation is filled with ritual, partly because that’s how the Navy does things, and partly because if you don’t know exactly when something like a catapault shot is going to happen, you could really hurt yourself. When you’re a newbie, even with all the preparation, it’s a surprise when it happens. When you’re more experienced and you get in sync with a cat crew during a cruise, you know exactly when the catapault pressure is going to hit the critical level and when it will release, hurling you down the deck toward the end of the ship. It’s important that everyone watch everyone else. The pilot’s salute to the cat officer, his settling back against the headrest, and the beat of suspended time when all that energy is coiled and ready to fire are all important parts of the ritual.
My method was to always be just a bit ahead of Pat. I would nod casually to the cat crew member on my side of the aircraft, and settle back into my seat to the right and just below Pat’s a second or so before he made a crisp, snapped salute that would have prompted our Marine DI to say “Mr. Maney, please hold that while I go to my quarters and retrieve my Kodachrome camera so I can take a picture to send to my family, and to frame for all future generations of Naval Aviation Candidates to emulate.”
He’d actually said that to Pat once, but he done so sarcastically.
I’d be just a second or so ahead of Pat, so I was ready for the cat shot. But in truth, you’re never truly ready for one.
The next time you’re in an airliner, rolling down the runway, feeling the building power as the huge jet engines push the airplane forward, just before “rotation,” or when the nose wheel lifts off the ground, you may experience a momentary visceral thill in your gut.
I’m here to tell you that’s NOTHING like a catapault launch, but, I suppose it’s as close as a someone who never finds himself in an airplane taking off from an aircraft carrier will ever get.
Out of the corner of my left eye, through my tinted eye shield, I saw Pat’s salute, and his settling solidly back into his seat. Then, the nice, calm, stable and solid world liquified.
At least that’s how it always felt to me. The application of several Gs of force almost disconnects you from the world, making you feel as if you’re actually outrunning the world, getting just the least little bit ahead of it. There is no gentle pressure. It’s as if a huge hand, with a fist as big as the airplane, hits you, pushing your entire body back into the seat. In training, you’re taught to make sure your head is facing forward for the shot. It only takes one cat shot where your head is turned to the side and you cant face forward again until the giant fist let’s go of you to learn.
Different pilots and B/N’s behave differently on the shot. Some, like me, are quiet as they’re thrilled with the speed and G-Forces involved, but some yell all the way down the deck, as if they were on a roller coaster at the fair. I flew once on a ferry mission with an Intruder pilot who started a huge rebel yell as soon as the catapult fired, hurling his plane forward. Not only didn’t he stop after the G-Forces let up, he kept yelling and laughing halfway up to cruise, by which time he had slowly, but steadily recovered and seemingly unaware of his hysterics, became as quiet and by-the-book as they get. It was the most annoying thing I’d ever experienced. He’d been through three B/N’s (and after the launch it was obvious to me why)and I heard later that he’d finally found a flying partner who exhibited exactly the same behavior. Pat had told me that on the next WESTPAC (Western Pacific) cruise, the OPS Center would put their intercom on the PA during launch for the entire ship’s entertainment. According to Pat, that had been funny the first four or five times, but got old pretty fast. Still, he said that every now and then throughout that cruise, the OPS Center would, without fanfare or comment, pipe the Intruder’s intercom to the ship’s company.
Seconds later, as always, we were able to pull ourselves from the back of our seats, the G forces bleeding off, and seemingly miraculously, our airplane flying. Pat executed a shallow left clearing S-turn, to make sure the air around our aircraft was clear of any other planes or helos and we felt the engines, turning full, begin to get purchase and push the Intruder up into the air.
The weather was perfect. Crisp, and horribly cold air was held at bay by the aluminum skin and thick plexiglass of the Intruder’s canopy a few inches from our heads. Good to be in here, and not out there, I always thought, in times like this, when there wasn’t enough to do to fill up the minutes between the things that needed doing.
“Whaddya got, Richie?” Pat asked, and I knew he was referring to food, and more accurately, candy, that I carried in my flight bag, a stash of sweets and protein bars called “pilot monkey food.” It was the B/N’s job to always have a good supply of “PMF,” since the last thing anyone wanted was a nutritionally-deprived Intruder driver “calling the ball,” preparing to land on a dark, pitching deck.
In my previous timeline life, a pilot friend of mine likened an aircraft carrier landing to “turning all the lights off on a football field in the pitch black, running at full speed to where you think the fifty yard line is, and diving headfirst, trying to hit a postage stamp with your tongue.” I can’t remember if he had said with eyes open or closed, but you get the idea.
Obviously, you don’t want your pilot hungry when he’s trying something like that. “Clark Bar, I said, pulling open my flight bag and looking in. “Tiger’s Milk Bar…and three Hershey’s” I concluded.
“How ’bout a Hershey?” Pat responded, then upon receipt of one of the rectangular blocks of chocolate, adding “Thanks,”as he continued his instrument scan, even though the day was clear, and the aircraft behaving itself.
“Man, we lucked out, getting this ride,” I said, foregoing the monkey food for cut up pieces of an apple from a plastic bag. I hadn’t mentioned the apples to Pat,because…well, it was healthy food, and that just didn’t rate in his world.
“Heard that,” he said simply. This hop today would give us the last one we needed for cruise qualification, and we’d be able to give up out spots in the current, crazy, qualification cycle. our squadron would be done that much faster, and things could settle down to a more normal pace, if there was anything “normal” about 5,000 men and women cooped up in a ship, working practically around the clock. Still, it was amazing how quickly you acclimated to that sort of life.
The flight was uneventful, the weather being so cooperative and the shipboard air controllers so focused on safely moving as many aircraft around Ranger’s patch of ocean as they could in order to get the aircrews qualified.
Our inflight refueling went off without a problem as well, and in fact was much quicker than expected, since the tanker we met up with had revised orders to only serve us up a couple hundreds pounds of fuel, rather than an almost full top-off. I figured the next crew to fly this aircraft must need a tanker approach and refuel for their logbooks, or maybe the bird was going to be done for the day. After we disconnected our two aircraft, I watched the other Intruder recede into the distance after we executed a break-right departure and began our descent in the direction of Ranger.
Before we knew it, we were sliding into our “downwind” leg of the approach, looking at Ranger on our port, or left, side as we flew parallel, but on the opposite course as the big ship.
At this point, I was little more than a passenger, since the ship was in sight, the weather perfect and the seas only slightly rolling. In Naval Aviation, it’s never a good idea to think things were going to be too easy, since any number of things can go wrong in the last few minutes or even seconds of a flight, but I had to admit to myself, this one looked pretty simple.
In civilian aviation, pilots are taught to fly patterns with nice, sharp, square corners, the transition from “downwind” to “base” legs, and base to “final,” where you are lined up with the runway, intending to land, are both supposed to be square. Not so in the Navy. For a number of reasons I wont get into here,transitions in Naval aircraft are supposed to be smoother, more rounded.
So, when Pat was flying, the were precisely round. This approach to the ship was no different. among carrier pilots, a trap on a “severe clear” day was even more stressful than one on an overcast, choppy day, because more was expected of you. No excuses to miss the number three wire, or have to dive to the deck because your approach was too hot. When the weather was good, it was “Hollywood Time.” Perfection wasn’t demanded, it was all that was acceptable.
Pat performed. He “called the ball” when ordered to do so at a quarter mile. The. “ball” being an orange indicator light on the ship that indicated whether you were above or below the recommended glide path to the ship. On days like this one, where the ocean the ship is traveling throu is calm, a good pilot will keep the ball pretty well centered, with a but of a rhythmic up and down through the center. On a day with tall waves and a rolling deck, it was a much more complicated pattern the pilot had to manage. On this hop, I remember shaking my head in wonder as I watched the ball on our short final approach. If I didn’t know Pat Maney, I’d have radioed Ranger suggesting they cycle the ball mechanism because it appeared to be frozen. But I knew the ball was working just fine. My best friend was flying this Intruder, though mostly it was said in jest, with a big serving of sarcasm, there was some truth to the statement that like most everyone on deck, when Lt. (Senior Grade) Patrick Maney trapped, even the ball stood and watched.
Some of the biggest landing errors are made on perfect days like today, when routine rules the day, when the airplane is working perfectly,these is calm and the weather couldn’t be better, and a pilot is fooled into believing landing on a moving ship is just like landing on the painted outline of a ship on a runway. It couldn’t be more different. Most carrier pilots will tell you that the easiest trap is harder than the most difficult “terra firma” landing, that it’s harder to successfully land a plane on an aircraft carrier when the sun is shining and the weather is calm, than it is to land on 5,000 feet of concrete when the visibility is zero and winds are shifting all around the compass at 50 miles an hour . It’s at times like this, with perfect weather, that pilots get a little cocky, think they can’t fail, but do. And when that happens, aircraft that cost tens of millions of dollars to replace, and aircrews, that aside from the million dollars it takes to train them, are irreplaceable, are lost. War is full of tragedy and loss, but it is worst when the loss is pointless, a product of a moment’s distraction or carelessness.
In his personal life, I’ve seen Pat Maney do many stupid things. Pranks, alcohol-fueled fights, and stunts were simply a part of who he was. It took me a while to realize, however,that the only time Pat did anything that was dangerous and foolish was when no one that he cared about unwillingly shared any of that danger. I once watched,heart in my mouth, as he rode down a bumpy hill on a four-wheeled ATV crouching in the seat like a trick rider in a rodeo, yet he’s the first one I. The car to buckle up whether the passengers include his little girls, or me. Pat never took chances with the well-being of those he loved.
Which was why the trap on this beautiful day in December of 1990 was so perfect. There was no arresting wire in the world for Pat, save the third, and on this day, like on so many others, rain or shine, day or night, calm or or tempestuous, Lt.Pat Maney caught it, and Grumman A6-E Intruder 314, of Attack Squadron VA-145, known as the “Swordsmen,” part of the Air Wing of the USS Ranger came to a sudden, but completely expected stop. The universe seemed to pause for three heartbeats, then the arresting wire that held our aircraft in place pulled us backwards as if to demonstrate to the Intruder that even though it could fly through the air, so far that it couldn’t even see the ship, it still belonged to Ranger.
Then, the wire dropped to the deck as it was stowed to await the next airplane. Pat, hands delicately operating the throttles, drove the airplane toward the temporary parking spot to await the next crew as I watched for deck traffic, my “head on a swivel” to make sure we didn’t end up trying to occupy the same patch of deck as another aircraft.
Guided by “yellow shirts”, we made it to our spot, and to our mild surprise, got the “cut engine” signal. It looked like we were 314′s last hop of the day, and why not, I thought. It had been a good hop. Pat and I performed the shutdown checklist, and making sure we had gathered all our gear, kneeboards and papers, opened the canopy, unstrapped and climbed out of the Intruder, down the ladders the yellow shirts had placed against the airplane, to the deck.
About an hour later, we were in the Squadron’s ready room when the Landing Signal Officer, or “LSO” came by to give us the grade for Pat’s landing. To call Commander Garret Tully “brutally honest” was like calling the sun “fairly bright.” If there was anything to criticize, Tully would find it. On our last WESTPAC cruise on Ranger, I overheard him grading Commander Coleson on what was a pretty good trap under very tough conditions.The decidedly stiff breeze had been shifting all day, requiring Ranger to change course at least three times so her aircraft could land into the wind. The seas were rough, too, with swells that pitched the deck of the ship up and down each time by more than 10 feet. Coleson had caught the number three wire, and had done so without resorting to “diving” on the deck. Still, Tully had a list of at least five things the Squadron Commander could have done better, and told him so, as if Coleson had been a brand-new pilot on his first deployment. They were friends, but it was brutal.
I expected a similar diatribe from Tully this day, but was shocked when he came into the room, opened his metal clipboard, pulled a single sheet of paper from it, looked it over, then signed it and handed it to Pat.
“Pass.”
That even stunned Pat, who for the first time since I met him, and probably in his entire life, was speechless. A few silent seconds though, it was over, and life on the ship resumed for us.
Two pilots from squadron came in the room, laughing at something I couldn’t quite make out, mainly because my attention had been captured by the small television mounted high in the corner opposite the hatch that led into the ready room. CNN, captured by one of Ranger’s many satellite receivers, ran continuously these days, oddly enough, our best source of information about the coming conflict. The anchor, a beautiful girl in her mid 20s with long, wavy chestnut hair read the news, a video loop playing showing Marines disembarking from a C5 transport, other soldiers milling around in freshly sprouted camps in the desert and then finally, Ranger steaming out in the middle of the ocean, a single F14 Tomcat on approach. A small, ironic cheer went up in the room, small because there were only about 10 of us in there, and ironic, because we’d seen that same video a hundred times in the past couple days.
“Hey, there’s your girlfriend!” Rich teased, shoving my left shoulder as I watched the broadcast. “My girlfriend” had earned her nickname the first week of the cruise, when one of the other B/Ns commented that I seemed “all too interested in that particular news honey.” So, she had been assigned the “handle” of “Wax’s News Honey,” since they didn’t know her name.
I knew her name, though. The CNN reporter who had made it to the anchor’s chair during the conflict that would be come to known as the “First Gulf War,” was a 24 year old from Chicago, by the name of Molly Wallace.
Yea. “My” Molly, at least in another timeline, one in which she had given up the entry-level TV reporter’s job in Atlanta at the fledgling start-up network to move to San Diego to a potentially bigger opportunity with a local TV station, but in truth, for a boyfriend who didn’t really deserve her.
Me.
The draft of Chapter 10 – “Descent” posted at the bottom of the right hand column.
And a photo for you:
Hi TTB readers. Dan here.
I know, I know. It’s been a long time, but you’ll be happy to know that we’re turning onto the home stretch, and the story will be finished soon.
Though not much has been written about it, the time capsule Rich left for me to find was FULL of stuff. A couple items have been mentioned. The iPhone (which still worked after being charged!), a copy of the book that I’m putting together (which immediately upon realizing what it was, I put it aside – I’m not interested in any causality loops being my fault), and a number of moleskine journals that Rich filled while in the past.
My plan is to include a lot of the text he wrote, in the book, but it may prove to be too much. If so, these notebooks in their entirety will make up a separate book. There was no copy of that in the time capsule, so I’m not sure if I do that or not, though.
Rich had packed a number of black and blue moleskine notebooks in his “go bag” for when he traveled to the past, since they were of a classic design that wouldn’t attract attention if seen in the 30s or 40s. Rich wrote mostly with Pilot G2 gel pens, though he had to be careful, since they were far too modern to be on display in 1935. The gel ink has held up remarkably well, surprising, even though the notebooks were sealed for decades. The pages written in pencil have faded considerably, so two thumbs up for the Pilot G2!
From the first journal, a page dated August 16, 1933:
Ready to head East again tomorrow. It’s been a nice stay in Flagstaff, but I need to get moving on. Had a little bit of a close call with a guy last evening. Writing some notes, he came up to me, interested in what I was doing, who I’d been talking to and why?
I used my standard “I’m a writer” thing on hm, but he was insistent. “What kind of writer?” He asked. “Novelist? Academic? Journalist?” I explained that I was a journalist who was traveling, researching a book on the U.S.
Wrong answer. He began to ask questions about my views on Communism, Europe, Hitler and Jews. I think he took my reluctance to talk about it to be something other than what it was. I was trying madly to conceive of a cover story, but he saw me being dishonest. Which, of course, I was. Clearly, my ducking out of the diner looked to him like I realized I’d been unmasked as a communist. It’s time to move on. Fortunately, I know I’ll make it to Belton by November, so I’m not TOO worried. But I have to remember that this is a country and a time where the word “NAZI” is NOT yet a dirty word.
The journals chart Rich’s journey from his initial appearance in 1933 (which didn’t occur in Indiana, much to his surprise), his journey across the country, and the story of day to day living in Depression-era Indiana. It’s roughly written, in need of a lot of editing, but a fascinating read, which one way or another, I’ll make available to you.
Hi, Dan here.
As so many readers have noted, it’s been a long time since the site was updated. Work is progressing every day, it’s just that with me being the site’s only remaining editor, you’re not seeing what I’m getting done.
Let me update you a bit.
1. The story. It’s almost finished. I’m by myself here at Mobius Manor, but that’s okay. That’s what the fates have decided for us all. I’ll explain very, very soon.
2. The Book. Will be available VERY soon after the last post to the blog is put up. We’ve figured out how to integrate the site into an old-fashioned “dead tree” book that you’ll be able to hold in your hand, lend to your friends, or put up on a shelf never to look at again! I know for a fact that the book gets published, because I have a copy. I’m under strict orders from Rich NOT to even open it, because I’m the one who ultimately puts it all together. I didn’t reveal it at the time, but a copy of the book was sealed in the ammo can I dug up here on the building site. Rich had taken it back with him, and then returned it via the time capsule. I’ve checked the ISBN code, and it’s a number that’s not yet been assigned. The book’s the real thing.
3. The Movie. I’m really not terribly interested. I’ve had two different documentary film producers ask to talk about making a movie telling this story, but I’m not sure that’s in anyone’s interest.
There’s a BUNCH of work that I’m trying to get posted by Thanksgiving. At the very least, look for another 4 or 5,000 words added to the story by then. Maybe more.
THANKS for reading!
Dan
I think I’ve got it figured out.
I came back here with the basic outline of an idea that I wanted to try and convince Molly and Samantha about. When I woke up this morning, I had no idea how I was going to sell it to them, but knew I had to try. I haven’t been completely forthcoming about all the traveling I’ve been doing, but I’m going to have to tell them.
I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been able to travel both backward and forward in time. My trips to the future are short, and as long as they’re within a couple weeks of the date I’m “tethered” to, they are not terribly uncomfortable. But, if I travel more than a year or so into the future, it becomes very difficult. Painful. There’s a barely sub-audible “screeching” that I can’t quite hear, but which tears around inside my head, and is so disconcerting that snapping back to the time from which I departed is a blessed relief.
Though I haven’t exactly gotten used to the discomfort, I’ve become increasingly able to stand it, and on a couple occasions, actually stay put in the future for a couple hours. Let me just say this:
The future is not pretty.
At least not the one I’ve been to. War and economic collapse have ravaged that future. Even in the U.S., times are very tough, more difficult than at any time in our country’s history. And that future, which is not necessarily the one we here are on track to suffer, is not far off. Not far off at all.
There are so many different theories about how time travel is possible, and what form it would take if it were to somehow occur. I’ve personally experienced two types of travel myself, three if you count traveling to the future. When I went back to the 70s, it was clearly a different timeline that I traveled. Nothing that happened there had any effect on today, here. But my trip to 1933 Indiana clearly had effect here, and it appears to be the same (or a very, very close – almost identical) timeline. My trips to the terrible future I’ve seen may well be one of a myriad of possible futures. I’ve traveled seven times to the future, and my destinations all seem to be the same timeline. But, I refuse to accept that that one is the only possible timeline for this world. I just think it happens to be the one I am locked into traveling to.
Don’t get me wrong. All life doesn’t end. Armageddon doesn’t seem to occur. Life still goes on, it’s just really, really dark and depressing, when compared to world we live in, even today. I think that if I wanted to, I could stay anchored here in 2009, but I don’t want to. I don’t want my family to stay here. I want us all to go back to the past from which I came. America in the late 1930s is an interesting time and place, we will know what to expect from life here, and most important, it’s a long way from the dark future I’ve seen.
My goal coming back here was to take Molly and Samantha back with me. I have seen some evidence that I am successful in that.
More, later.
Rich knows something I don’t, and I think it disturbs him a little. Or, maybe a lot.
Dan’s mother, Samantha arrived last night, her driver, Christopher dropping her off, bringing her bags in the house and after politely refusing to stay for dinner, left. I’d heard of Christopher, but had never met him. Dan told us that he’d grown up with the family, his mother had been a long-time employee and when she passed away while Christopher was in high school, he’d stayed living with them, finishing high school and then going into the military for 4 years. He’d been Samantha’s driver and personal assistant since getting out of the Army, some 8 years ago, but I don’t know much more.
Samantha looks great, and says she feels the same. Dan, Rich and I walked outside when we heard her Mercedes pull up, tires crunching on the driveway, and she didn’t wait for Christopher to open her door, but instead did it herself and got out of the car. I got to her first, and hugged her, feeling her surprisingly strong embrace in response. When she let me go, I was surprised to see her eyes moist as they looked straight into mine. She seemed to catch herself then, and stepped over to hug Rich.
“Hello traveler,” she said, a small smile on her face, incongruous to her voice, which was ever so slightly choked. I didn’t really know what to make of all this, I’m assuming she’s been reading the blog and has gotten caught up in the story, as so many readers have. Many of the emails we get are touching, and it never fails to surprise us that so many complete strangers really care about what’s happening to us. I guess Samantha is one of the many who read, but don’t write.
When Rich and Dan’s mother’s embrace ended, I caught a fleeting look pass between the two of them, on Samantha’s face an expression more questioning that Rich’s.
“Uh, you know, your son’s here too, Mom,” Dan said, laughingly breaking the suddenly tense silence.
“Oh, you,” Samantha laughed, reaching toward Dan as he approached her. “I just saw you a couple months ago,” Samantha replied, “these two I haven’t seen for ages.”
“I know, I know,” Dan replied teasingly, “you always loved them better. I understand.” Samantha kissed her only son, stroking his head as if he were still her 10 year old boy.
She reached up with her other hand and held his head then in both hands and looked at Dan. “You look more like your father every day, my sweet. So handsome.”
This clearly embarrassed Dan greatly, but he still smiled, face red. I saved our friend by saying “I don’t know where Sam is, Samantha,” looking back toward the house.
“That’s alright,” she responded, “she’s probably taking a walk in the woods. Such a beautiful day!” Samantha looked around, seeming to marvel at the setting. “So beautiful here.”
“You know, I think you’re right,” I said, “she told me she was going for a walk.” We all turned to go in the house, and I glanced at Rich, who seemed lost in thought, clearly preoccupied with something that seemed to come up when Dan’s mother arrived and stepped out of her car. I lagged back to match Rich’s pace as Dan and his mother walked toward the house and he pointed out some of his handiwork. Dan was so proud of “Mobius Manor,” and for good reason. It was beautiful.
“What’s the matter, hon?” I asked Rich.
My husband didn’t reply for a few seconds, but then his concern seemed to melt away and he smiled slightly. “Nothing, my love. Everything’s fine. I promise you.” He sealed the promise with a bigger smile as he put his arm around my waist and pulled me closer for a kiss. “Everything’s fine.”
My first day in 1933 was far more difficult than I expected. It’s hard to understand how we’ve spread out, unless you go to a time when we weren’t that way. Remember, virtually all the pictures you see of the past showing the people, the fashions and the buildings of civilization were taken in the cities, towns and villages where people gathered. “The country” wasn’t in vogue through most of our history, that’s a fairly recent thing. So, when I found myself in 1933, I was shocked at how small the areas of human habitation were. The country was a big place, and again, I’d left my car in 2008.
Fortunately, I’d taken to wearing sturdier shoes than the 2008 knowledge worker usually wore, not because I knew I’d be thrust into a veritable wilderness without warning at some point, but because I tried to wear clothes that wouldn’t look completely out of place. The last thing I wanted to do was find myself in 1933 wearing a pair of running shorts, Michael Jordan t-shirt and Nikes. So, it was usually chinos, a plain shirt and heavier shoes. That turned out to be a really, really good idea.
It was pretty clearly morning when I appeared in in the scrub that would become Mira Mesa in the early summer of 1933, so with go-bag in hand, I set off for what would become Kearny Mesa, figuring I could “dead reckon” my way to San Diego, going from one landmark I knew was here in 1933 to the next. First stop, Montgomery Field.
What I didn’t know at the time, was that there was no Montgomery Field in 1933. A lot of my life (lives) have revolved around aviation. My Navy days in my second run through the early middle part of my life had me in the air a lot, and in my first trip through the 80s and 90s, I flew recreationally. If fact, I still hold a Single Engine Land Pilot’s License, though I’d be crazy to fly until I become completely capable of staving off a time shift. Anyway, I had assumed that with San Diego’s great aviation tradition, Montgomery Field existed in 1933. I was wrong.
I was also uninformed about what DID exist in the area in 1933. As I headed south-southwest toward what would become Kearny Mesa, I came out of the low spot in the scrub that I’d appered in, and began to see a HUGE building ahead of me. It was a long, long way off, but was clearly immense. I had absolutely no idea what this building was, until about 20 minutes later, when a massive shape started to emerge from it. It was an airship hanger. My military aviation memory then kicked in, and I realized that I was looking at Miramar Naval Air Station, home to the Navy’s airship program. Obviously, the program didn’t exist in the late 20th and early 21st centuries, but here, now, in all it’s gigantic glory was an airship and its hangar. It was breathtaking.
Since the airship program was on the cutting edge of military aviation at the time, I decided to take a very circuitous route and avoid the area altogether. I really didn’t have a good answer to why I was out here, slightly strangely dressed with a couple pieces of futuristic technology in my bag. Getting to my initial destination, which I decided would be Coronado, took a bit longer, but the extra steps were worth not having to answer questions.
More tomorrow.
Well, it’s been a long time since I’ve posted. 8 months for you, I’m told, but just over 3 years for me. Thanks to everyone who has written, followed the blog, sent your thoughts and good wishes, and generally been interested in what’s been happening to me.
I returned here three days ago, traveling from 1936. I did indeed travel to 1933, met my Grandfather, and somehow survived the experience of being tossed into the past. The fact that I had been warned and prepared for the trip was what saved me. I’m not sure I would have lived through the experience. Don’t get me wrong, 1930s America is a civilized place, there’s simply not the safety nets or systems to keep someone from slipping through the significantly large cracks in the society of that day.
My expectation was, if I traveled to the past at all, was that I would feel myself slipping into the “mist” as I call it, a “fuzzing out” of reality and a slow sharpening back in when I arrive at the new point in time and space. That’s what it’s like. I feel subtly disconnected with reality, a kind of depersonalization a few seconds before the light starts to dim and everything around me becomes increasingly more indistinct. When my entire world seems to be the inside of a cloud, shadows start to show themselves, then shapes, and then the world returns to clarity in a few seconds. I’m not sure what it looks like from someone else’s perspective, since I haven’t talked with anyone who has seen me disappear or appear. I expected to return to the physical world near Belton, a short walk away from my grandparents’ house.
I was wrong.
On that day in December, I was driving to work and had just gotten off the 15 in Mira Mesa, when I started to feel the “mist” coming on. I swung into a parking lot, speed-dialed Molly’s cell, jumped out of the car, opened the back driver-side door and grabbed my leather go-bag, a leather, 1950s vintage briefcase that I hoped would pass for the proper period piece in the 30s (it did, by the way). I started to tell Molly that “this is it,” – I was feeling like this was a big trip, but before I could get the words out, the world went away. When it returned, I wasn’t anywhere near Belton, but seemed to be somewhere close to the spot in Mira Mesa where I had disappeared. I was in a field of scrub brush near San Diego, California, and without the benefit of landmarks, couldn’t tell exactly where, but it somehow felt close to the place I’d been in 2008. I had traveled many years into the past, but not far at all in terms of geography.
I realized immediately that I had a long trip to Belton, Indiana ahead of me. The only problem was, I’d left my car in 2008.
I’m not here indefinitely. Dan tells me just over 2 weeks, so I’ve got to be judicious with my time. Over the next few days, I’m going to try and give you a brief account of what I went through in 1933, and share some things I feel compelled to tell you about. I have to warn you, it’s not all good news.
More tomorrow. Continued…
There is a countdown clock running. Every second that clicks away, means we’re a second closer to Rich leaving us again. He arrived here two days ago. I was in the kitchen, washing new glasses and dishes and putting the away, when I heard voices outside on the porch. I immediately knew that Rich was back. Putting the glass I was drying down, I crossed the front room in a few steps. It’s cool enough to have the front door open, with the screen door shut, and as I got there, I could see Rich and Dan both standing there, Rich’s back to me. The first thing I heard clearly was “I was trying to get to Molly. Damn it!”
I smiled and said “Looks like you found her.” The look on Rich’s face was wonderful, a combination of surprise and relief. He bounded up onto the porch and grabbed me in a hug. My husband was home. For a short time, anyway. Dan quietly made his exit, and we spent a few moments alone, not talking, just hugging, before going inside to find Samantha.
* * *
It’s late at night, two days after Rich’s return, and I’m the last one still awake at this place that Dan calls “Mobius Manor” I’m not sure exactly what it’s for, but Rich was insistent with Dan that he build it for him. It’s very nice, not exactly my taste, a log-cabin type style, but nice and comfortable. The setting is beautiful, in the middle of the woods, on a piece of property that Dan tells us the Rich who left the time capsule in 1952 purchased through a trust. Who is in control of the trust, I’m not sure, and no one’s talking. Both Rich and Dan claim they don’t know who is calling the financial shots, and I have to tell you, this concerns me a little. No, actually it concerns me a lot. I thought there were a lot of unanswered questions before, but that was just the beginning. This thing is getting deeper and deeper, and the only people who seem to know anything about it aren’t here. Richard Girrard obviously knows the whole story, but not the 50 year old Rich that’s here. The Rich he’ll become knows it, but he doesn’t exist in 2009, so I don’t have access to him. I guess that I, like everyone else here, has to wait for time itself to reveal the story.
In two days, Dan’s mother, also named Samantha (we named our Sam after her) will be here. We haven’t seen her in a number of years, but there are always Christmas and birthday cards. We used to see her often, but once Samantha got to about age 3, things seemed to change. She was still as attentive, just from a distance, by phone and later, email. Her husband, a successful attorney in Chicago, had died that year, so we attributed her withdrawl to that. Dan had no explanation, either.
Dan swears he hasn’t told his mother what’s going on with us, but I suppose it’s possible that she’s reading this blog. Samantha does email, but at her age, I’d frankly, be surprised if she was all that web savvy. Maybe I’m wrong. When Dan told us last night about his mother coming, it was obvious he didn’t know why. Samantha and I were shocked, as was Rich at first. We had just finished dinner, and were having some wine. All of us were in extremely happy spirits, but Rich’s mood changed when the information sunk in. He wasn’t upset, you could just tell that he was considering something complicated.
What would Dan’s mother have to do with that?
Anyway, Rich snapped out of it 15 minutes later, and our conversation turned lively again, as my husband told us about his adventures in the thirties. He’s got several notebooks of information – notes, stories, and information. It’s been 3 years (for Rich) since he typed on a keyboard, but he said he’d do a blog post in the morning. I told him how much the audience of The Time Traveler Blog had grown, and how many emails we’d gotten, and Rich was floored. He was a little uneasy about the story being so widely known, but both Dan and I assured him the number of cranks were few. He loosened up about it at that point.
Hopefully, more from Rich tomorrow.
Mobius Manor is getting crowded, but I have to admit, it’s a fun crowd. Rich got here yesterday. It was one of the most shocking, yet wonderful things I’ve ever experienced. It was about 8 in the morning, and I walked out onto the large front porch with a cup of coffee, knowing that according to the information that came to me through the buried ammo box time capsule, Rich would appear any minute. I have to admit though, that despite the fact that I had built this house in about a third of the time that was really needed, all on the prediction that my friend Rich Girrard would suddenly appear here from 1936, I’m not sure that I truly believed it would happen.
I had just taken a sip of coffee, and as I pulled the cup from my mouth, I saw him walking toward the house.
“Dan?” Rich asked, surprised to see me. Of course he would be surprised to see me, I thought. The Rich who told me he’d be here was much older, and this meeting was part of his past. The Rich in front of me didn’t know I’d be here. This Rich smiled and came trotting up to the porch, his hand extended. He was a little thinner. A little more fit than the last time I’d seen him. Significantly more in shape than the Rich who left here 8 months ago. 3 years in the past had been good for him. I was a little startled too, when I noticed that he seemed to have more hair. How’s that work? I asked myself, making a mental note to ask Rich that same question later.
We shook hands briefly, then he hugged me, slapping me on the back.
“What’s the date?” He asked.
“August 14th,” I replied. “Two thousand nine.”
He nodded, and considered the answer. “Just about what I was shooting for!” He said, excitedly.
Seeing my puzzled look, he explained. “I’ve been away for 3 years my time, and I’m starting to learn to control where I end up. I’ve even been able to hold off traveling twice!” He said, a proud look in his eye.
Then, Rich looked around, seeming to see the house for the first time. “What is this place? Where are we?”
“Well, I call it ‘Mobius Manor,’” I answered, “it’s your design.” I smiled, for once knowing something my friend didn’t.
“I designed it? What are you talking about?” He said. “Wait a minute,” he said, almost interupting himself, and turning around to look out from the house. “Where are we?”
“A couple miles outside of Belton.” I answered.
Rich frowned, sighed subtly and suddenly seemed distracted, looking off to the side as he seemed to be calculating something in his head.
“Why would I come here?” He said quietly to himself. Then, seeming to remember I was standing with him, to me, “I found that I’ve been able to direct my traveling to both places and to people.” He shook his head. “I was trying to travel to Molly. Shit.”
“Looks like you made it,” said a voice behind us, from inside the house. Rich and I both spun around. It was Molly.
Rich’s face lit up like it had done every time they were together when they first met. In the space of two heartbeats, Rich crossed the porch and took Molly into his arms, hugging her tightly. I could hear her softly crying as she held him.
I decided to go check on a couple jobs I was working on in the detached garage/workshop.
I have to admit, as I worked on sanding one of the legs of a chair I’d bought along with 3 matching pieces at an estate auction, the feeling I got from being an important player in the reunion I just witnessed choked me up a little. My two best friends were together again, and of all the things I’ve done in my life, the money I’ve made, the businesses I’ve built, the degrees I completed, this one project, that was just paid off with Molly and Rich embracing was the most satisfying I’ve ever been a part of.
I got to the workshop, a smile still on my face, and heard the chirp of my Blackberry, telling me an email had just arrived from one of my important contacts. I pulled the phone out of my pocket, and read the message.
For some reason, my Mother is coming to Mobius Manor. She didn’t say why, just that she’ll be here on the 18th.
What’s this all about?
Dan here. Molly and Samantha got here a couple days ago. I picked them up at the airport in Indianapolis, and brought them to the house. I was happy at how much Molly liked it, but Samatha? Not sure she was all that crazy about being here. Sure, she’s happy about seeing Rich, but as for the house? I think she’s a little uneasy about it.
Molly and I have agreed to update the blog without reading the blog, if that makes sense. We had a long talk the night she and Samantha got here, and decided together that we wanted to play this out on the website as it happens, from our own perspectives. I didn’t want to read what she’d written, and she wanted to stay insulated from my thoughts. There will be plenty of time to read the whole story later.
I hope.
As I said before, I believe Rich knows things about the coming years, and wants Molly and Samantha (and hopefully him) to have a safe place to live. I think the answers are all here, in this “storage device” that was in the ammo can/time capsule, and though I’ve got the cube that it fits into, I have no idea how to access the information on it. There’s no cable, power cord or anything. I put the cylinder in the cube the only way it seems to fit, but nothing happens. I’m guessing that Rich knows how it works.
And speaking of Rich, he’s due to return in a week, on August 19th. I understand his visit will last two weeks. I’m very much looking forward to it. He’s coming from a time some 3 years after he left. We here at “Mobius Manor” have traveled forward in time about 8 months, while Rich has traveled over four times as far.
I also wanted to tell everyone who has written that we appreciate your emails very much. I wish we had time to reply to all of them, but as you can image, we’ve been very, very busy, and I have to say it…Time is short. 
Samantha and I got here yesterday, Dan meeting us at the airport in Indianapolis, and we drove to Belton, following the same route Rich did when he made the drive that started this whole thing. Much like Rich described the weather during his trip, yesterday was beautiful. Sunny, in the 70s and only a few innocuous clouds. Samantha hadn’t been in Indiana since she was a baby, and so she had no memory of it. So different from California, though she usually laughed about the “hicks” and “hoosiers” who live in Indiana, she was clearly impressed by the fields, the beautiful green and yellow corn fields we passed as we sped along Highway 36. It was an adventure for her, made even more exciting by the thought that she’d get to see her Daddy, and not 70 years old this time, but probably looking the same as when he vanished in December.
I was excited too, if a little uneasy about what Rich was going to try and convince me to do. I hadn’t a clue what it was, but was somewhat comforted in that he was emphatic about what he wanted us to do, but not desperate. Desperation I would have interpreted to be his trying to undo something that had happened. I’m not sure it makes any sense to someone who hasn’t been through this before, but his confidence implied to me that what he wanted to happen, had happened in his timeline. And speaking of timelines, I’ve been reading a lot about time travel in the past few months, working hard to grasp the physics of the phenomenon, and fit the whole thing into what’s happening to us. I’m not at all sure that what Rich knows to have happened will happen in this timeline, but it’s possible.
We’re clear than Rich has traveled in time via two different methods, both in body and in, what I would suppose you would call consciousness or even spirit. He lived almost 15 years in his past when his consciousness traveled to 1976 immediately after the accident. Then, in December of last year, he disappeared from San Diego and, as he expected, traveled to 1933. If all goes as we think it will, Rich will travel from 1936 to now, here in Belton.
Dan was very excited to show us the house. It’s beautiful, from the rustic-looking sign at the gravel driveway gate that says “Mobius Manor,” to the elegantly simple, finished interior. Samantha and I got the grand tour, with Dan pointing out all the subtle, fine points of the house’s construction. He did a wonderful job.
Samantha though, was a little reserved, and I can tell that her intuition is saying the same thing as mine, that Rich is going to insist that we move here. Clearly, Dan built this house for us. If it’s for Rich’s return, that’s one thing, but if he’s going to ask us to live here without him because of something he has learned, found or figured out in his three years in the 1930s, that’s going to be difficult.
As he says in this post, Dan believes Rich has learned something in the future that has convinced him to shelter us all here, and that he’ll be able to control his time traveling and stay with us. Maybe.
Whatever the case, we’ll all have an answer to those questions in a couple days.
What a journey this has been. Oh sure, not as dramatic a journey as my friend, Rich’s, but still.
In the matter of a 4 months, I’ve built a house, and it’s a really, really good house. Small, but then in my opinion, that’s the best kind. Houses are meant to be shelter and home. The bigger they get, the more they own you, rather than the other way around. This one’s nice, log construction, a solid foundation, good basement for storage and best yet, completely liveable “off the grid.” That was very important for Rich, a point he made very clear in his instructions to me. There’s a generator, underground tanks for diesel, and above tanks for heating oil and LP gas. A big septic tank that’ll last 30 years, and a deep well, even though the water table’s pretty easily accessable here.
It’s a good house. The least I could do for my friend Rich.
I think he knows something’s coming. I haven’t written anything about it, mainly because I needed to think about what he’d written some more, but also because I wanted to talk with Molly about it before I put anything on the blog.
Rich is coming here in a few days from 1936. When he gets here, he will have been in the past for about 3 years, and the journals I have from him, that he left me in the ammo box, say that once he’d met his grandfather in 1933, he left Belton and traveled, both geographically and temporally. In other words, he time traveled. A lot.
Some of his trips were to the past, close to the period he was living in. But some extended to the future, even beyond now. Rich has written that when he traveled to the future before going back to 1933, being in the future was uncomfortable. The discomfort was greater the further into the future he traveled. I think he wrote that it was like a shreaking in his head that he couldn’t quite hear, but was very unsettling. Apparently, the discomfort wasn’t just internal, because in his journals he describes a near future that’s very, very difficult, and I think that’s what this house is for. I believe that Rich has found a way to stay put in time, and wants to have a safe place for his family to live in this difficult time. That he needed me to build this house now, suggests that the troubling times are coming up pretty soon, and that worries me.
I think the Rich that traveled to San Diego a couple weeks ago didn’t come from 1952 at all. I think he came from the future, to make sure his past happens as he needs it to. I believe that after he left two weeks ago, he traveled to 1952 to bury the ammo box and outline the preparations I’ve made on his behalf. I am confident that he’ll share the whole story, and what he’s been working toward when we see him in a couple weeks.
It’s going to be a great story!
I’m not going to lie to you. At first, it was a shock. My husband, who I last saw just over six months ago, suddenly standing in our kitchen.
And he was old.
70 years old.
If you had never met Rich, you would have probably thought hey, there’s a guy, about 60, who takes pretty good care of himself.
But to me, and even more dramatically, to our daughter Samantha, he was old. It was, to say the least, shocking. But at the same time, to see my husband, my partner, my love, the father of my beautiful daughter, here and safe, was a joy. I knew the exact time he’d be appearing in the kitchen, but I don’t think that was why I felt him here a couple seconds before I heard his voice.
“Hi sweetheart.”
I didn’t know where in the kitchen he would appear, so naturally, I wasn’t facing the right direction. I saw a little disturbance in the air to my right and then heard his voice. I spun around, startled, and saw him first check the clock. Rich reached into his pocket, pulled out a small notebook and a pencil and wrote something down. Then, before anything else, asked “what’s the date, honey?”
I told him, and he wrote that down too. Putting the notebook and pencil back in his pocket, he held out his arms and walked toward me. I met him halfway and almost knocked him down with a hug. We stayed that way in silence for a few seconds before we heard “DADDY!”
Samantha rushed in the kitchen and collided with us, still embracing. She was starting to cry, but I could tell there was relief in her emotion, not grief. As our daughter pulled back after a few seconds, though, and she really looked at her father’s face, concern came rolling over her. “Daddy, you’re old. What…?”
“I’m 70, munchkin. I’m here from 1952.” He smiled, and I have to admit that it caused a little flash of anger in me, that he would be so at ease and calm at seeing his family for the first time in over 20 of his years. I know how it felt for us, and it had only been 6 months since we’ve seen him. It made me a little mad. What kind of life had he been living in the past, I wondered. Obviously a comfortable one, I realized. Then, to me, Rich said “were you expecting me?”
I nodded. At this response, he closed his eyes, exhaled and smiled. “Dan found the box, then?”
I nodded again, a little confused at the priorities my husband was exhibiting here, and Samantha jumped in. “Uncle Dan’s almost finished the house you wanted him to build in Indiana,” she said.
Rich smiled a curious smile and said “excellent, honey. That’s great,” with a little chuckle. The strangest thought hit me at that moment that either there was a joke neither Samantha nor I was in on, or in some weird way (as if standing in your kitchen with your time traveling husband wasn’t weird enough), this wasn’t really my husband.
I looked back at him. “What?” I asked, shaking my head.
“Nothing.” Another smile as he replied. “Everything. Look, my dears, I don’t think I’m going to be here very long. Did Dan say just how long?”
“About two hours,” I replied.
“Okay. Let’s go sit down and talk,” Rich said, heading toward the family room. As he walked from the kitchen into the bigger, more comfortable room where we spent most of our time together, I caught him looking around as if he hadn’t seen the place in 20 years. Which, of course, he hadn’t.
Samantha got us lemonade from the fridge, and as she handed the glass to Rich, he looked at with a little smile on his face. It took me a couple seconds to again realize that he hasn’t seen this place in a long time, and the nostalgia had to be a little disorienting. But, he seemed to put it aside, took a drink from the glass and smiled at me.
“How have you been?”
How have I BEEN? I shook my head slightly and the ridiculousness of the question and replied “I haven’t seen my husband in almost 8 months! THAT’S how I’ve been!” I wasn’t exactly angry, but I have to admit, I was a little put off by his off-handedness.
Rich put his glass down on the coffee table in front of us, leaned in to me and putting his hand on my knee said “sweetheart, I know this is very strange. I know my behavior seems odd to you, but please trust me. This will all work out. I promise.”
I shook my head, sighing a little and looking over at Samantha, still standing in the middle of the room, hugging herself, clearly not sure what to make of all this. It was Sam who spoke next, after a few seconds. “You’re only staying for a couple hours, Daddy?” she asked, trying not to cry.
“Just a couple hours, I guess,” Rich answered, “But, I’ll be back next month. Not here, but I’ll be back.”
“What do you mean not here?” I asked.
“I’ll be at the house in Belton on August 17th. About 10am. I’ll be there for just over two weeks,” he replied.
“How do you know that?” Samantha asked.
“Because for me, that was 17 years ago,” he said. “I came here now from 1952. I’ll be going to Belton in August from 1935. I won’t know about this trip, because for me, it won’t have happened yet, but I need you to be there, at the house in Belton. The one I’m going to have Dan build.”
Then, he paused, shook his head and corrected himself. “The one he’s building now, I mean.”
“Okay,” I answered, “we’ll be there. Of course, we’ll be there.”
“And this is very important,” Rich said, his voice lowering. I looked in his eyes, still bright, but older. This was my husband, but a man who has been through some very different experiences than the one I saw last some 8 months ago.
I nodded.
“I’m going to ask you both to do something you’re not going to want to do, but it’s vitally important that you do it. It may be a little scary, but I promise you, it will all work out fine, and you will see that it’s the right thing to do. I’ve seen that, I assure you.”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but this didn’t sound good. I looked up at Samantha, and she looked as concerned as me. I could tell that this was almost too much for her.
Rich continued. “I’m going to sound a little crazy when I suggest it to you, but believe me, the years I’ve spent since then have done nothing but confirm that what I believed was true. Please do what I try and convince you to do, okay?”
I nodded, since arguing about it here would just waste the short time we had for this “visit,” and the mood lightened after that. We’d have time to talk about this next month in Belton, apparently. My Rich, one much closer to the Rich who left here a few months ago would be there with us, and that would have to be easier.
We talked a lot about what we had gone through here. The phone calls, what I had been telling people regarding his sudden absence. I began to notice that anytime the conversation turned toward what he has been doing in the 19 years he’s lived since disappearing on that December morning, he would direct the conversation back to us. We were talking about what Samantha was doing this summer, and mid-sentence, Rich stopped, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small clear cube, about three inches square, made out of some acrylic-looking material. It had a small opening in the top. Rich handed it to me, saying “I don’t want to leave this in the ground. It’s durable, but I don’t want to take any chances. Dan will know how to use it. It’s to read a stick I’ll bury for him to find. Don’t mail this to him, take it with you when you go to Belton.”
I took the cube and nodded, turning it over in my hand. When I looked back up to Rich to ask him what it’s for, it was just me sitting on the sofa. I glanced at the clock on the mantle. Just over two hours. I quickly looked over at Samantha, and she was sitting on the carpet in the middle of the floor, her mouth open, eyes wide.
“He was there and then…He was…Just…Gone.” And she started to cry.
Mobius Manor Building Site
Thing are moving faster.
The house is nearing completion. The work now is almost all interior finish and trim, and since there’s very little exterior landscaping (we’re going ‘natural’), once that’s done, this little place is done.
I have to admit, it’s been a blast building it, even though the timeline (no pun intended) has been tight. It’s a nice place.
Just got a call this morning from Molly, who was in an understandably strange mood, saying that Rich’s short visit is over. He ‘arrived’ exactly on time, and departed the same way. There one second, not there the next. Molly said that when she told him I almost had the house here completed, he nodded knowingly. She said there was the least little bit of relief in his face, but at the same time, he it was clear he wasn’t surprised.
The Rich who just left San Diego was 70 years old. Molly said she’d post a quick account of the visit here in the next couple days. Then, she’s got some things to tidy up before she and Samantha make the trip here next month. She’s going to come out a few days before Rich is scheduled to arrive here, but when I asked her how long she plans on staying, she said “I’m not sure. I’m buying one-way tickets.”
Molly cleared up the question of the “thumb drive,” as well. It IS data storage, and Rich brought a small device with him that apparently will read it. Molly said that Rich told her not to ship it, but instead carry it here to give to me. She said he told her that what it’s for will be clear when I use it.
I know. A lot more loose ends to clean up. We’ll get there.
As I finish cleaning the portable BBQ, seal up the last of the dinner scraps (raccoons have been nosing around a LOT lately) and watch the citronella torches flicker, it’s time to fire up the laptop, read a little of today’s news and blog about what’s going on here. It’s easier to do when a lot has been accomplished during day. Which it was!
I thought I would tell you a little more about this project, born when I dug up the time capsule Rich buried in 1952. He had put together complete specifications about what this house would look like, as well as the technologies that went into its design. It’s a small, compact design, but looks like it will be very comfortable and most importantly, self-sufficient and totally off the grid. Rich made it very clear in the letter to me that he sealed in the ammo box, that this house must be constructed to last, and to live off the electric and sanitation grid. As I look around the property it’s on, and think more about what I know Rich went through, I’ve come to conclusions that I thought I’d float here.
Rich traveled, bodily, from December, 2008 to 1933. According to the journals he put in the ammo box time capsule, in 1935, he traveled to August of this year. I’m building a house for him to stay in during that trip. He’ll be here for several days, and the house is so he, Molly and Samantha can have some time together. Though he won’t know it at the time (I’m assuming), he’ll be going back to the thirties and will be there, except for some side trips to other times, for the following two decades. He makes a trip in 1952 to later this month (July, 2009), and from the information in the ammo box, he uses that trip to San Diego, to convince Molly and Samantha to meet his younger self here in August. THAT’S why I need to have the house finished by then. His visit here is of longer duration, and he’s asked me to be here with them. I do know that he gets back to the early 50s for long enough to put together and bury the instructions I dug up a few weeks ago. He clearly had time to prepare the area as well, since a lot of the woods were planted about that time. I didn’t notice at first, but upon closer inspection, it became plain to see that this mini-forest was planted with fairly fast-growth hardwoods that in 50 years created an excellent source of renewable timber that would provide homesteading resources like building materials and firewood for decades.
Interesting, isn’t it?
In Rich’s notes, and earlier posts, he talks about making trips to the future, and how physically uncomfortable it is. I have a gut feeling that he’s been there quite a bit. One of the items in the ammo box, I still haven’t been able to identify. It’s about the size of a thumb drive, but completely smooth and a little warm to the touch. I have no idea at all what it is, but can tell you when I put it next to a compass, the needle goes crazy. It doesn’t react magnetically to any kind of metal, but it makes compasses go spin madly. I think Rich got it from the future, and I’m sure he put it in the ammo box for a reason.
Here’s what I think this is all about:
I think Rich is preparing to take care of his family in the difficult days that are coming. I don’t know how much time he’s going to get to spend here, but I think the house is for Molly and Samantha, because I think he knows something about the west coast that he’s not telling, and he’s building an “ark” for his family to weather some kind of storm. Not a storm of the rain and wind variety, but one of the economic / social variety. It’s not the details of this project that tell me that, however, it’s his zeal in getting it done. The letter in the ammo box is very direct and imploring. “Get this done for me,” he says.
So I will.
Rural America rocks, and is the USA’s future! I’ve spent the vast majority of my time either in a huge city, or spots so remote there’s virtually no civilization. While I build Rich’s house, I’m for the first time, living in a place that’s somewhere in the middle. Small town America is very cool.
The fireworks at a nearby lake were awesome. Met a bunch of very friendly people. Getting up early this morning, smiling at the great time I had, I’m really thinking of selling everything in Dallas and building my own house nearby. We’ll see if that feeling stays once I’ve finished Rich’s house. If so, I think I’ll do it!
Back to work today. Time is running short. Rich will be in San Diego, from 1952 in about a week and a half. He’ll show up here from 1935 in about 6 weeks. On schedule, but still need to keep the push on to get this place done and ready for his visit. How often do you get a visitor from 74 years in the past?
I know, I know. You need a timeline. So do I. The final product of this project will include one, I promise!
Got another section added to Chapter 9 “Angels 30″ from Molly. As you can imagine when you read, it was a particularly difficult section for Molly to edit, and quite frankly, it was when she was editing it that she almost gave this whole thing up. Fortunately, I was able to talk her off that ledge.
Molly has promised me she’d finish editing everything Rich had left in the next 3 weeks. It’ll be posted as soon as I get it. She tells me there appears to be 12 chapters to what Rich wrote about his time travel experience to his own past.
By the way, by popular demand, I’ve started Twittering. You can follow me on Twitter – DanGarmen is my Twitter username. Now that I’ve got 3G here at the construction site, things are much easier.
Thanks for reading!
"Mobius Manor" Under Construction
Outside of Belton, IN – Rich Girrard and I couldn’t be more dissimilar when it comes to lifestyle. Rich is all technology and gadgets, computers and iPhones, social networking and LCD screens. Me? Give me one of my Jeeps, camping gear, some MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) and a map and I’m in hog heaven. I’ve been “sleeping semi-rough” the past 3 weeks, building something for Rich, and having the time of my life.
The irony is, Rich is the one who apparently, found himself in 1933, in a time when a vacuum tube radio represented “high-tech.”
Molly and I have an agreement. I’ll tell her everything, except what Rich has asked me not to tell her. She’s agreed to believe me when I say that I’ve seen glimpses of the future and as far as I can tell, things may well work out so that we’ll all have happy endings. Well, almost all of us, anyway.
I’m not completely convinced, mind you, because I think the future Rich has seen isn’t necessarily the only future that exists, so I’m working hard to bring the “happy ending” future into being. Another irony in this whole thing, is that when you see what is “to be,” it makes you work hard to either make that future happen, or make it not happen. Then, looking back on the past you made, it becomes the only one possible.
I’m building a house. For a guy who died in 1962. How’s that for irony? Rich will be in San Diego in July. He’ll be there to tell Molly and Samantha to be in Indiana in August, in the house that I’m building right now. It’ll be a family vacation. Rich’s trip to San Diego will be from 1952, 10 years before he dies. I’m not going to tell him he’s got a decade to live, because I’m not sure if to someone 70 years old that would be a lot or a little. I’ll tell him “you’ve got a lot of time left,” and leave it at that. Rich will leave this time, return to 1952, put up a small concrete obelisk and bury an ammo case, that I will then dig up a few weeks ago.
Sometimes, all this makes my head hurt.
Rich’s trip here in August, however, will be from 1935. He’ll be a couple years older than the last time I saw him, and won’t have any idea about what is coming for him. The instructions written by his 70 year old self suggested I don’t tell him exactly what’s coming, but that I be positive and be supportive of his plans.
So, that’s what I intend to do. And that’s all I feel comfortable in sharing, here. It’s hard not telling the whole story as I know it right now, but I can’t, because of the agreement Molly and I have.
Rich and Molly are my best friends, but in truth, I’ve known Molly longer than Rich. Molly and I went to the University of Iowa together, and got to know each other when she dated one of my roomates. In fact, Rich and Molly named Samantha after my mother, even though they’ve only met a handful of times, more in the past 10 years than before. She dotes on her namesake from a distance, though, since I’m an only child. My mother, a healthy and active 86 has always kept the world at arm’s length, which we’ve talked about a lot, but she assures me she’s happy in that, and that she’s simply an observer of the world. That has been especially since my father died in the mid 80s.
The house, that I have unofficially named “Mobius Manor,” is very cool and taking shape quickly. The funds available to me have been more than adequate for the job, since investing when you know what’s going to happen in the world kind of makes it all a slam dunk. Everything from permits, to materials and getting sub-contractors to show up, is easier when there’s plenty of money to work with, too. The specifications for the house were in the ammo box, and it was clear that a lot of time had been put into the preparation of them. I’ve got another 7 weeks to finish the house before it’s needed. In the meantime, I’m up at dawn, working through the day and sleeping not long after the sun goes down. Except for the computer tethered to my Blackberry for internet connectivity, it’s like pioneer days.
Again, I’m having the time of my life.
More soon.
I’m hard at work for my friend Rich, the guy who died in 1962 and who I’ll see again in a few weeks. I sound very flippant about that, but you have to understand that flippancy is only a negative thing in a linear world, and that isn’t what we live in. Most of us believe we live in a cause and effect, straight-line, linear world, but we don’t. It’s all simply a burst of creativity, an expression of the “is” that is.
There is no beginning and no end. There just “is.” I know, very Richard Bach.
But you know, from what I’ve learned over the past few months, I’m starting to believe he’s very right.
I wish I had time to bring the readers of this blog up to date, but time is so short, and I have so much to do before I see my friend again. But do it I will, and some important pieces to this puzzle will be put in place.
I promise.
As you know, if you’ve been following this blog for any amount of time, there’s a lot going on here, mostly told from a place where the view is of the past. Rich’s story, the one in the sidebar that started in 2005, and wraps up just before he “leaves” for 1933, is only one of the tales. The other one is here in the blog, where you can track what is happening as it happens on the timeline you and I are traveling.
I’m not a time traveler. Well, as Isaac Asimov would say, I am. My time traveling is just one way, however. I’m going forward in time, like you are. Rich apparently was able to get off that one-way temporal highway for some side trips. That’s why, even though he died in 1962, I’m going to see him two more times, once in July and once in August. That’s from my point of view. From his, he made it clear that our time together in San Diego in July would be the last we’d see each other. He didn’t say how he knew that, only that he was certain of it.
In the collection of things he left for me in the ammo box, there were some very specific instructions about a project I need to complete between now and August, a project that he wrote he “knew I would complete.” I’ve begun that project, and will share some details with you in the next few days.
Sorry for the rather brusque, matter-of-fact delivery of the news about Rich. I received enough email to understand that it was a bit of a shock for a lot of readers. Sorry about that.
Here are a few details about how I came upon the details of Rich’s fate.
Rich had a drawer in his desk at home in San Diego, that he’d always told Molly to open if he was “gone” for more than a couple weeks. In January, after he’d been gone for almost a month, Molly opened the drawer and pulled out two sealed 8.5 x 11 inch sized packets. One was for her, the other had my name on it. Molly sent me the envelope, which I opened as soon as I received it. There were some pictures of Rich and me, taken at different events we’d both been at, a personal note from Rich and another sealed envelope instructing me to call and ask for an attorney at a small law firm in Indianapolis. He said in the note that a certain attorney would ask for a code word, which was written on a small piece of paper also in the envelope.
I called the number provided, asked for the attorney, introducing myself when he came on the line. As the note said he would, he asked for the code word, which I clearly spoke. He then asked if I had a pencil and paper. When I said I did, he gave me a set of latitude and longitude coordinates, said the date “November 17th, 1962,” and then said “that is all the information I have for you.” He repeated the coordinates, then asked me to read them back to him, which I did. At that point, he thanked me, and said that his firm had discharged their obligation to the client and that as is stated in the original instructions, all the files in their possession would be destroyed. He then hung up.
In early April, I arranged things at work (I own my own surveying and cartography service in Dallas) and took one of my Jeeps north to Indiana. Rich and I had talked about Belton, especially in the past couple years since his adventure started, but I’d never been there. The location referenced in the geographical coordinates the attorney gave me were about four miles outside of Belton, and easy to find with the sophisticated GPS equipment I use in my work and travels.
It was a nice bit of real estate. Not far off a main highway, it was about two acres of trees, bordered on all sides by farmland. When I got close, it was clear where I was going. A gravel road ran past the mini forest, and I parked the Jeep and with my handheld GPS, a pack with some tools, a shovel and a metal-detector, walked into the woods. A few minutes in, and I saw what I was looking for, a concrete obelisk about 3 feet tall. I walked up and examined it closely. No writing was engraved on it at all, but the weather had obviously taken its toll. It had been here awhile.
I sat the pack and shovel on the ground and fired up the metal detector. It didn’t take long for it to register a hit – a fairly large return of metal a couple feet from the oblelisk. I turned the detector off, picked up the shovel and started digging. 20 minutes or so later, I hit the top of a large, metal ammo box, wrapped in a thick polyethylene sheet. A few more minutes, and I had it out of the ground. I pushed the dirt back into the hole, picked everything up and left without opening the ammo box. I wanted to be behind closed doors when I opened it.
45 minutes later, in my room in a basic, but nice motel in Rockville, I opened the ammo case and saw that it was filled with an eclectic collection of artifacts. There were a number of black moleskine notebooks, several traditional composition books, a dozen or so empty Pilot G2 gel pens (Rich’s favorites), five 45 rpm records, some newspaper clippings, and one entire Indianapolis Star from 1952. There was also some hardware, a couple watches, a Nikon digital camera sealed in its own bit of plastic, a small stick of some sort of silicon-like material, about the size of a thumb drive and one rather worn looking Apple iPhone. I held the leather-cased phone for a minute, pressed the buttons to no effect and then got up from the round table I was sitting at, crossed the room and dug into my backpack. Being a Blackberry user, I don’t have an iPhone, but I do have an iPod, and wondered if the plugs were compatible.
They were.
Plugging the iPhone in, after a few seconds, I couldn’t believe what I saw. The screen came to life with the picture of a red-colored battery. It was charging. Steve Jobs would be proud. The first iPhone to be working, or at least charging, after being dormant for over 75 years! There was also a note from Rich, with my name on the envelope. I can’t go into the specifics of the letter in the envelope, since it contained some financial instructions, but will share some of it here in the next few days.
I read and reread the letter, and then looked through the stuff in the ammo box again, making notes on a legal pad so I could understand the whole thing. About two hours later, I checked on the iPhone and saw that it was halfway charged. I disconnected it from the cable and saw that it appeared to be working. 3 bars! Amazing. Not wanting to startle Molly with a call from Rich’s phone, I called her using my Blackberry. She answered, saying “Hi Dan. What did you find?”
“A lot,” I answered. Call me back on Rich’s phone.
“Rich’s phone,” she said, more statement than question.
“Yes.”
We hung up without “good-bye” and I waited 2o seconds or so until the iPhone in my hand, Rich’s iPhone, vibrated and then rang, his ringtone a bit of a classical trumpet piece he’d always loved. I saw that it was Molly and pressed the green “answer’ button on the touchscreen. “Hi Molly.”
My heart broke as I heard her sobbing, unable to speak. I waited a couple minutes until she regained her composure and heard her say, “What happened to him?”
“He died in 1962, Molly.” I could hear her stifling a sob on the other end of the phone, and waited a few seconds before continuing. “But he’ll be back home for a couple days in July.”
“What? How?” She asked, suddenly hopeful.
“He buried a box of stuff that I’ll bring to you. He intended for me to find it, and there’s a letter than says just before he buried the box, he traveled to San Diego in July of 2009. The 17th and 18th. He’ll be there in the house in the morning about 7am on the 17th.”
“Thank God,” Molly replied, “but only for two days? Maybe he can figure out a way to stay!”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Keep in mind, Molly. He’ll be older. About 70. He’ll be coming from 1952.”
“Oh.” A pause, then “I don’t care. I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“Good girl,” I said. “Listen, I’m going to take care of some things here over the next couple days, and then head back to Dallas. I’ll be in touch, and I’m going to fly this box to you personally.”
“OK. Thanks, Dan,” Molly said.
“No problem. I’ll email you some more details,” I said. “Chin up. It’s all going to work out.”
“OK. Good-bye.” Molly hung up.
I smiled. I’d told her everything she knew, but not everything I knew.
More in a few days.
Good news and bad news.
The bad news is, that Rich is gone. He died in 1962.
The good news, is that he will be back, for a short time, in July. I found his journals in Belton, and they tell a story I’m still working through, but am fascinated with. Here’s what I can share with you right now:
Rich did travel to 1933, met his grandparents, signed the letter his grandfather wrote, and left Belton. He spent the next 45 years, to use a Star-Trekism, “staying out of the way of history.” He obviously did that very well.
Don’t get me wrong, he used history to take care of his family (more on that later), but he didn’t interfere. Theoretically, he couldn’t interfere, after all. History was as he lived it. Both times.
Last month, I was able to take some time off and Jeep to Belton. I’d never been there before, but had some detailed information about the place Rich had imparted. I also had some latitude-longitude information I’d received (more on this later) that led me to a treasure trove of information, and I found the things that Rich wanted me to find.
Molly has decided to leave this project in my hands, something I completely understand. I think this has been harder on her than anyone else, and she’s concentrating on getting her life back together and taking care of Samantha.
Job one is finishing up the narrative of Rich’s “trip” to the past after the crash. Then, I’m going to work on the story of his trip to 1933, and figure out a way to package these parts together. I’ll make that package available, in printed form, to all of you following this site. Rich’s journals from 1933 onward are in fantastic shape, and are fascinating to read.
But, of course, the story’s not over yet.
Hi, Dan here.
We decided to put some more of Chapter 8 up, and Molly asked me to shed some light on what’s going on and why we’re slowly publishing the story.
First of all, we’ve had no word from Rich at all. I’m going to Belton in early April for a research trip and to see if I can find any evidence that Rich spent time in that area in the 1930s. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but have a few ideas. Rich left me a note with some instructions that after my trip, I may or may not reveal on the blog.
Secondly, Molly wanted to keep the pace of updates intact when we took over, so we decided not to just dump the whole story online at once. Rich would write, then edit and post. Most of what he wrote past Chapter 7 hadn’t been heavily edited and cleaned up, so Molly (who happens to be an online news editor herself) is doing that work. She then sends me what she wants to publish.
Working helps Molly a lot, but we’re both a little unsure about whether we want to keep updating the site, not knowing where or when Rich is. We see the web numbers, and know the site gets read a lot, but we’re not sure just how many people are really that interested in the story.
Feel free to email me at dan.garmen@gmail.com if you’d like us to keep updating the site. Your feedback and input helps.
