Crop Circles In Halcyon

Crop Circles and Close Encounters
Life at the Halcyon Packet and Times
By Terrance Gavan
Halcyon is a village in rural Manitoba.
Nothing much happens in small town Manitoba, unless of course you happen to be working the editorial desk of the Halcyon Packet and Times, known locally as the “P and T”.
I landed on the doorstep of the P and T on a hot July day in 1987 and spent 5 years toiling under the avuncular tutelage of Managing Editor Lorne Bjornson, a “gruff and ready” Icelander who grew up farming and ice fishing just outside of Gimli on Lake Winnipeg.
Lorne left Gimli at 17 back in the 60’s and earned his stripes as a hard-hitting court reporter for the old Winnipeg Tribune before deciding to forego to the bright lights of Winnipeg for the more neutral pace of Manitoba’s Interlake.
He taught me that “fact” in the newspaper business stood for “Fast, Accurate, Concise and True.”
He hated bullshit, but he put up with a lot of mine.
And he used me like a lapdog, calling me on hot story lines at all hours of the day and night. Lorne was a night owl and assumed that all of his reporters were on the same dodgy schedule.
So I wasn’t surprised when the phone jangled me from semi-coma at 5 a.m. on a Saturday morning in August, back in 1987.
“Listen, get out to Thor Peturson’s place, right now… there’s something goin’ on,” said Lorne. The deep rumble and Icelandic angst literally jumped from the receiver as my feet hit the floor.
“What is it Lorne… fire?” I asked, reaching for my camera bag.
“Nope,” said Lorne perfunctorily. “Aliens.”
Lorne was not an aficionado of the practical joke, so I knew that there was a back-story here somewhere.
“Lorne… aliens?” I queried.
“Crop circles… get out to his place pronto, because I want pictures before the Free Press and the Sun get wind of this,” said Lorne. “And give me a call when you get ‘em.”
And then he hung up.
I had time to ruminate while driving out to Thor’s place, about 5 miles out of town.
Thor was a levelheaded, no-nonsense seed farmer who was very involved in local politics and had just retired from a 10-year stint as Reeve of the Municipality of Reykjavik.
I arrived at his place with my dog Spunky trailing behind me. Spunky loved trips out to Thor’s because his dog Maggie was a bright-eyed Golden lab who possessed a Zen mindset that seemed to mesh vividly with Spunky’s precocious take on life.
Thor ushered me quickly to the barn and we hurried up the stairs to the loft. As we moved to the large loft doors I saw it.
Three huge circles in the ripening wheat, joined by three distinct lines. They were, in a word, perfect. Round and straight, like they were cut from a master’s lathe.
Thor was chewing on a twig of straw. “So what do you make of that young feller?”
“Well Thor,” I said, mustering a grin. “I’d say the Sigurdson boys might be capable of this, but I know for a fact that they were still partying at Teddy Sigmundson’s place till 2 this morning. And they were too drunk to make anything this good.”
“It wasn’t a prank, I saw the lights and I heard a whirr… and Maggie has been strange since it happened.”
Maggie was not her regular self. Her ears were on full alert and she was staring intently at the vista laid out on Thor’s home quarter.
Thor and I stood there in the loft for what seemed like 15 minutes, not talking, just taking it all in.
Icelanders are taciturn by nature, but I had never seen Thor this quiet.
I opened the camera bag just as the sun was making its full turn over Gustavson’s silver granaries.
I started snapping shots and didn’t stop until I had shot 3 rolls of black and white and another 24 color shots.
I retired my camera and then pulled out my spiral notebook.
Thor still hadn’t said a word. Maggie was lying down at Thor’s feet, ears still fully alert. Spunky sat beside Maggie and shared what I thought was a peculiar knowing glance. We were all, men and dogs, glued to the wheated canvas before us.
“Look, Terry, I know you need something from me… but I’m not goin’ on record.”
He nodded perfunctorily and I knew, from my years of covering Reykajvik council that I wasn’t going to get anything about the “lights or the whirr” from Thor Peturson on this day. Thor stood 6’4 and weighed about 250 and he carried the edgy persona of displaced Viking on that massive frame. I knew Thor to be gentle, kind and compassionate. But I also knew that he couldn’t be budged on principle.
“I’ll tell you what young Mr. Gavan, let’s just say the lights might have been a pickup and the whirr could have been a large weedeater and we’ll call it done.”
We retired to his kitchen, had some coffee and I phoned Lorne.
We ended up running a huge color photo front page in the next Packet and Times.
The story ran on page two under the headline: Crop Circles – Prank or Close Encounter? There was a minor stir when Ufologist Stanton Friedman paid a visit and there was some talk of some Men in Black from the US snooping around, but that fell to the raw edges of hearsay and small-town paranoia.
Two days later, Thor and Maggie showed up on my doorstep.
I had phoned Thor the night before, because Spunky had been acting a little strange.
He said we’d talk a bit, but not on the phone.
And here he was, with Maggie in tow.
“Now, what do you mean, by strange young Terrance? How has Spunky been acting strange?” whispered Thor, as he followed me to the kitchen.
“Well,” I said, “like he’s been watching television… a lot… and not just when animals are on. He’s particularly fond of the late news on CBC. He’s never sat in front of the TV and just watched before.”
“Hmmm,” said Thor, “and what does he say?”
“Umm.. excuse me Thor… but what does my dog say?” I asked, seeking clarification.
“Yes,” said Thor. “What does he say?”
“Well Thor, let me see… does Maggie talk to you?”
“She does indeed,” said Thor. “Usually she’ll watch the news just like Spunky, then she’ll make a comment… about politics or economics… and no I’m not crazy. She started talking just after the circles appeared.”
And right then I heard it: A deep-throated guffaw, emanating from Spunky who was sitting with a bemused look on his face. And I swear both Spunky and Maggie were laughing.
“Well, we have to be getting back, so we’ll leave you with your delightful pets. Please remember they are without a doubt the best friends both of you will ever share,” said Spunky. The voice was melodic, pleasant and soothing.
“Oh and Thor, remember what I told you,” said Maggie.
And then we heard a huge whirring and a grand light enveloped my backyard.
And then the lights and the whirr were gone.
The dogs went to the window and stared until the strange lights disappeared high in the ether.
And then, Spunky found his old blanket and soon enough they were both playing tug and running roughshod over the furniture as if nothing had happened.
Thor looked at me and said: “I guess I don’t have to tell you that this one… we keep to ourselves.”
Neither Spunky nor Maggie ever again expressed an interest in the nightly news and neither ever uttered another word.
“So what did Maggie want you to remember Thor,” I ventured.
“She told me to… buy Google… whatever the hell that means,” said Thor, chuckling a bit.
About five years ago I managed to track down my old friend Thor… I googled him.
He spends most of his time now on his 500-acre estate in Hawaii.
He runs a rescue mission for pets without homes and harbors injured animals until they can find a safe haven or home.
He has liquid assets of 500 million dollars and spends a lot of his time walking on the beach with a selection of Maggie’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Oh, and he keeps 25 acres of wheat on a patch of land right next to the house.
Just in case.