If you’ve followed my writings over the last half century, you’ll not be surprised when I confess that when a problem besets me, I often seek out my old friend Buford, who is pure and simply a road’s scholar.  Like that old Hank Snow song about the long haul trucker, “he’s been everywhere.”

The recent uproar around these parts, of course, has been the numerous sightings of UFOs, especially around and about Erath County.  CNN has featured the phenomenon through Wolf Blitzer’s dulcet pronouncement from the situation room, but I’ve opted for a visit to my fount of limitless knowledge over in the cedar thickets of Palo Pinto County.  The home of my guru Buford who has never once answered one of my questions with an “I don’t know.”

He was in his old rocking chair out on the front porch when I drove up, and as I climbed the steps, he fished out his pack of Marlboros, shook one out, inserted it betwixt his lips and ignited it with his WWII Zippo.  His smoking is an unnerving sight to behold, which I can’t seem to get used to save me neck.  He puts the tobacco end in his mouth and lights up the filter end.  At one time I had been doubtful of the practice, but Buford explained the logic that instigated the bizarre practice.

“If you can’t beat the smoking habit, this here is the only safe method to best the filthy beast,” Buford said.

“How do you figure that?” I asked gently.

“Tobacco wreaks extensive damage to the human body,” he explained, “especially the lungs!”

“I understand that,” I admitted.

“Welsir,” he continued, “filters keep that from occurring.  They’re a healthful appurtenance, so I puff a few draws of that filter and keep my health for when I need it.  And I don’t smoke a pack a day – the aroma from a fired up filter will hold a man for several hours.”

“That is always an interesting thing to hear,” I said, “but that ain’t what I’m here to ask about.”  He finished the filter, threw the snipe into the yard, and once his coughing seizure passed he was ready for business.

“Whadda you want to know?”  He looked me square in the eye.  “Is there something heavy on your heart?”

“I’m wanting to know about these UFO sightings that are being reported—is there any truth to them or is the public falling prey to more B.S.—like what that sicced us on Iraq and got old Saddam strung up?”

“Aw, naw, they’re the real thing,” he smiled, “but they ain’t here to do no harm!”

“Have you seen them?” I gasped.

“Yeah, many times, as a matter of fact most every night.  They come right over this gallery on their nightly rounds!”

“Are they planning to attack?  We’re not going to be invaded are we?”

“Nothing like that,” he assured me.  “They’re hauling fuel for their UFO super service station up in the Milky Way.”

“Say what?  You’re joshing me!”

“That’s what the red worms say when a drill bit comes through their living quarters, heading for the Barnett Shale,” Buford smiled.  “Do you know what methane is?”

“Not precisely,” I admitted, “but I’ve heard the word.”

“According to Webster,” Buford said, as he lit another Marlboro filter, “methane is a colorless, odorless, flammable, gaseous hydrocarbon CH4.  It is produced by the decomposition of coal, and spent bovine excrement.  Methane can be utilized as a fuel and as a starting material in chemical synthesis and is the simplest of the alkenes!”

“Simply put, it’s UFO fuel, and they’ve got crews down this way every night siphoning up the methane that pools up in the air over dairies in this county.  Even back when I was a little bitty boy they hovered over that coal mine located in Thurber.”

“Sacre Bleu!” I expostulated.  “Is that all there is to it?”

“Yep, and if you doubt my word, you can mosey over tonight and we’ll set out here on the gallery and watch them running their route.  I might be able to rustle us up some toddy makings and we can smoke and down a couple of high octane snorts.  I’m usually on my second toddy when they come by.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I lied.  “But I’m taking a rain check.”  He was fishing for another Marlboro when I drove away.

Let me hear from you.  My phone number is 254-893-5063.

My postal address is:  333 W. Ayers Ave., De Leon TX 76444.

Or, you can send an email to chupp@charleschupp.com or check www.CharlesChupp.com.

Let me hear from you.

My phone number is 254-893-5063.

My postal address is 333 W. Ayers, De Leon TX 76444.

You can e-mail me at chupp@charleschupp.com.

By Charles Chupp, Copyright ©2008 Charles Chupp