This past Sunday we trekked to the country and Uncle Joe’s Farm. At the niece’s birthday celebration among the throng of relatives and visitors, the sweet corn was plentiful and perfect. My blond tasseled 3-year-old grandson could not get enough. Wiping our mouths to the joy of fresh produce, we adventured out with the grandchildren to feed the remnant ears to the waiting animals and, from there, to wander the backyard of trucks, tractors and accumulated things.

Behind an old Deere, we stumbled upon a new CAT.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gazing at the attached sickle racks, I and the grandkids wondered, in our joint heads, what was the purpose of that mass of pointed metal following the flashy new machine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Could CAT stand for Cosmic Attenuated Telecommunications transport and were those prints in the mud the remnants of further alien intrusions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As our imaginations piqued, we caught the glance of a wide-eyed watcher where it had been neatly placed in plain view as the backlights of a resting and unsuspecting tractor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Advancing in line toward the garden, there, in front of our eyes, we gathered around the remains of a rusted intergalactic robotic device where it had smashed from outer space into the seat of Uncle Joe’s old mower.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carefully and quietly, we tip-toed between the garden rows, knelt and pushed back leaves to reveal a cantaloupe lander, obviously laden with a trove of latent and valued information seedlings.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sneaking together to the front of the house and the unsuspecting party within, we spied the transmitters on the tiny purple crawlers cleverly disguised among the petals of the flowering plant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not far away, a red camouflage monitor extended its nose to record our every action and observation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Then, the orange lily burst the sights and sounds of our investigations to the far Galaxy of CAT.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, the wonder of it all. What had we discovered out there among the resting equipment and shy plants? It was then we heard it – the sound of . . . the “Happy Birthday” song.

Uncle Joe opened the door and waved for us to join the singing, clapping and hooting crowd, as he extended a finger to point at the decorated and waiting strawberry cake, his knowing smile and wink of the eye revealing that little escaped his notice, including the edible microphones imbedded in the brightly colored pink frosting.

Nodding to each other, forks in hands and mouths silently moving with satisfied smiles, our countenanced features communicated well that a few aliens never hurt a happy farm and its friends, however far they may have traveled from their homes to join our fun.

Sit back and enjoy the sweet corn and strawberry cake.

You’ll never notice the transmitters.

See.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandpa Jim