("You'll never be a man, George. You'll always be just a little boy.")

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Dedicated solely to Grandfather Mattie Mandard Fulks.

All rights reserved by George Harold Fulks, May 16, 2010













(as told by James Rodgers, Monticello, Georgia)

A timetraveler from 1969 drives his automobile into the year 1934- six years prior to his own birth on June 3, 1940; and warns a Georgia teenager as to the time, date, and consequences of the Japanese secret attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.(December 7, 1941.)

Times do sometimes converge in strange ways. So many incidents of this have been reported that to deny their occurence would be evasive of true sensual experiences. How such things happen can not at present be explained. Perhaps they're phenomenons comparable to re-runs of old-style filmreels as those spun out of control- as a clock running too fast and the wagonwheel seeming to turn backwards. How do events such as time traveling and convergences occurr? No explanation is available. Nonetheless, I, James Rodgers, share here with my readers this true account of something that happened to me during a summer day in 1934. I was then 16 years old.

As a coin collector, I'm not trying to be boastful. Some of the rarest coins in the world are in my collection, but those most valuable to me are four bearing 1969 dates. Among my coin collection are a quarter, nickle, dime, and penny- all minted in the United States of America. Those were a gift to me from a young man of my future and prior to his own birth.(June 3, 1940) Ordinarily, those four coins would be worth little more than face value. But for me, they are the most rare in the world. How those came into my possession might frighten some people. The story frightens me, and I try not to think about how I acquired them.

It happened like this. My dad, mother, little sister, and I were living at a place in Georgia that was called Five Points. My dad worked for the Georgia Department of Forestry, and we lived in a green and white house there close to a firetower.

My dad was out on his job one day during August of 1934, and my mother, little sister, and I were alone at home. Hearing a faint humming and whining sound as I was sitting in the living room of our house, I walked outside to determine the source just in time to see a strange vehicle coming down the road from the east- the direction of a tiny settlement called Wayside.

The driver of a jade-black car came to a stop, blocking our long driveway as I watched from the steps of our front porch. Exiting his car, standing in our driveway, and looking up at the firetower, the young man, neatly dressed with dark crew-cut, and medium stature then glanced in my direction. As I walked out to meet him, he addressed me in a cordial manner. "Hello, " he said. As i came near, he offered me a handshake which I accepted. Continuing to talk, the young man said, "I used to live here in 1951. I'm a school teacher in Illinois visiting my sister who lives in Round Oak. You don't mind my stopping here do you"?

"No," I answered. "What kind of car is that you're driving. It runs so quietly, doesn't rattle, and has so many funny lights. Those tires- they're really strange looking".

"It's a 1969 Ford Torino GT. That stands for 'grand touring'." the young man answered.

"You're in the wrong time then." I said. "I've read about things like this, but never thought it could happen to me. We're into 1934. We've lived here about a year now. Will you let me see what your motor looks like?"

"I doubt if I'm from another time," said my visitor. "If that were to be the case, I don't know such a thing could have happened. I have a hard time believing there's such a thing as time travel".

First pulling a latch inside his car, the hood quickly popped a bit up, and that man reached a hand in a space that appeared. Then opening the hood and fully exposing the car's engine compartment, I found myself looking into a maze of parts I could not recognize. Then I had him open the door to that vehicle's passenger side.



An elementary school teacher in preparing his daily lesson plans finds himself engaged in conversation with a teenaged boy who is apparently from another time

Completing the morning lesson plans and preparing materials for his reading students, the teacher was the Waggoner Grade School's only occupant; so he thought. Finishing those tasks in fifteen minutes of the 7:30 A.M. hour, that teacher began writing on a chalkboard, but he was not alone.

Although the teacher had carefully secured the locks at the school entrance as required, he was in for a surprise.

Behind some rectangular tables and chairs were perhaps fifteen student desks. In one of those desks was seated a lanky teeaged boy- blond-haired and fair complexion. Neatly attired in clean overalls, white shirt with open collar and brogans, the boy was a perfect image of someone who must have been a farmer's son.

"Hello," said the teenager. "I've been watching you and have come here today to talk to you and find out what you're doing. There is a way that I can get back here, you know. I went to school here a long time ago. Eveything was really different then".

Hands slightly trembling, the teacher dropped the chalk and eraser he was using onto the hardwood floor. In response to his company, he stood momentarily in shock in search of a response appropriate for his visitor. "I don't mind your being here," the teacher said. "I thought I was alone. How did you get into the building when the doors are locked"? I don't work with students your age. Are you a Lincolnwood student?"

"No, but I do come in here to visit sometimes". said the boy. "I've not come here to be a problem for you. There is a way I can get in this here. The school here is not like it used to be. You don't do badly here, and I wish you could have been here to teach me. You just don't know what school was like for me here. The teacher gave me an awfully hard time. I spent more time outside the class than I did in. They were really hard on me. They were hard to get along with; so strict that we couldn't make a sound or ask a question".

Unable to find an appropriate response, the teacher stood shocked, opened-mouthed; and could muster no words. Mosr surely presenting to that teenager a negative image, that boy was repulsed and surrendered his pride and vanity. "I don't like the way you're treating me", he said. "I'm getting out of here now, but I may come back sometime. Sorry I bothered you". Then he arose from a desk somewhat confidently and indignantly. He was gone; and never seen again by that teacher.

Several years passed. Some time in the 1980's merged Into the year 1996, and that teacher had retired in 1993. By that time, Waggoner Grade School had been closed as a student attendance center; and had been renamed the Waggoner Centennial Building. Chosen as the rehearsal site for a dance recital, the eighth grade daughter of that teacher and others in a dance class were preparing for show of their skills. The former reading teacher had transported his daughter to that building.


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A visitor from another time provides assistance to an elementary teacher and a school districts' meintenance man in removing explosive gas fumes from an Illinois school building.


When on a primitive camping and fishing expedition in the Kentucky Woodlands, a man makes contact with a young lady from the past.


While fishing on a Kentucky's Lake Barkley, a man experiences a close encounter with a butcher in a boat- he's apparently from another time.


author: George Harold Fulks/June 11, 2010

Dedicated affectionately to a former student of mine- a native New Yorker with whom I had the privilege of working.

It was during a cold November, 1993 that I stood in a classroom during the 10:15 A.M. recess and prepared for my next class that would enter at 10:30. A bright and enthusiastic eighth grade girl suddenly entered and proclaimed, "Mr. Fulks! We don't get to come to your class. We're having an assembly in the highschool auditorium. Somebody broke one of the rules in 'The Student Handbook,' and we've got to listen to them lecture to us. I hate it. I don't want to miss your class".

Smiling at her,I very jokingly commented: "I'm pleased that you feel that way about reading, Doris. Let me tell you something. I can do magic. If it will make you happy, I'll fix it so you'll all get to come to reading class today".

In response I received the comment: "I wish you could do that Mr. Fulks. I'll see you in reading class tomorrow"!

Off my dear student strode to join her large class of other eighth graders for their one-hundred yard march in single file toward the highschool auditorium.

That was at 10:30 A.M., and instead of attending the "rap-session" with those students and the other staff members, I secretly remained in my room for what might have been forty minutes- working on lesson preparations and student records. That I was not attending that meeting was un-noticed. No-one inquired as to: "Where is Mr. Fulks"?(mot as far as I know)

Following that review of "The Student Handbook", the lovely Doris again entered the reading lab. She was upset. "Mr. Fulks!" she exclaimed. "I hate you< Mr. Fulks. Now we've got to come to your reading class and have history too. It's just 10:30. What have you done to the time, Mr. Fulks? Why can't you just leave things alone"?

After her red-faced and indignant exit there entered two more somewhat hostile beings- the school's principal and its custodian. Both were furious. I was not spoken-to kindly. Pointing one finger towards me as the custodian stood beside him, Mr. Brewster, the principal, proclaimed: "Mr. Fulks, don't ever fool-around with the time! That's one thing that we here in this school district can't handle is somebody fooling-around with the time"!

That day we all followed the regular schedule. This teacher taught eighth graders reading at the regular time. Then they attended history class as usual. Of course, the clocks had shown 10:30 when it should have been 11:45 or so. Whatever happened to that time the students were assembled in the gymnasium cannot be explained.

In a sense, that episode offers proof that changes within the time-space continum can occurr. Offering an explanation in that case is beyond my mental capacities.


Many individuals might conveniently be placed into a psychological category synonymous with that timid and memorable character depicted in The Secret Life Of J. Walter Mitty.(James Thurber) The man of household cast within that short story suffered from a loss of self-concept. Therein an individual had chosen for his mate a loud and domineering wife. Walter, a large city dweller, had also chosen a poor environment for his residence; a large city.

Despite being born and reared in the woodlands of Western Kentucky, identifying with that nimble character, Walter Mitty, has been easy for me. There have been times I've needed such a crutch to use in life. Time within such an imaginary world is a treat not forbidden by law. Not staying for long within that sphere, this writer is stable most of the time. Entry into Mitty's world can be a fun-place for short intervals.

Someone should have advised this writer that making a living with trumpet is next to impossible. One must teach along with it; and then some. If one loves to play but doesn't enjoy teaching, he'd do well to lay the trumpet aside and try for $l00 per week as a player for dances.

For example, one might look at Gustaff, pianist, member of metro music union. Gustaff wound-up with a pension of $600 monthly and carparel tunnel. He could not accompany me as I played trumpet into middle age. "I'm sorry, George; I just can't play piano now." Gustaff could earn money as a piano-tuner, but he couldn't mow or trim his grass. Crippled both mentally and physically, my friend Gustaff lived his last ten years dependent upon his wife,neighbors, and that small pension.

Fortunately, this writer had a strong background in a minor field. When no music job came along, I fell willingly into that trench, and the ending was very satisfactory. That brought me into contact with some strange characters. They were kept busy and away from me during much of my teaching career.

Strangely, visits to larger cities cause this writer to suffer a condition similar to cabin fever; and at the same time, the feeling of being alone among many people. Ever find yourself searching for familiar faces when in a crowd? Personal tendencies may, at times, border on a mild form of claustrophobia. Readers of The Secret Life of J.Walter Mitty learned that Walter spent much of his time in an unreal world. This writer will occasionally choose such a role and place.

Personal causes are not substance abuse or an overbearing mate or neighbors. Poor physical conditioning, minimal brain deterioration, and aging all contribute to my decline as a meaningful force in this life.

A more meaningful and useful aversion from such a dreamworld are those people who are deceased. They were people,(those of the 1940's-50's and earlier ) who despite human faults, placed great value on the happiness and welfare of their offspring. There were a few exceptions. Many spoiled their children while trying to delay entry into adulthood and maturity. Memories of having needs and being virtually penniless were experiences many did not want their offspring to endure. That was especially true during the 1940' and 50's.

My grandfather Fulks did not live to meet this writer.Deceased in year 1932, my grandfather, Mattie Mandard Fulks, deserves some literary attention; and this writer seeks provide it. This portion of my work is dedicated to Grandfather. Never encountering that ancestor, I was born on June 3, 1940. In a sense, Grandfather drew a poor hand; as did many others living in America during those times. By keeping the face of desperation on his image in mind, I'm the author of the following accounts. He will be dealt a better hand here; as a teacher and brave man.

Posted here is Lorenso Fulks from an old 1900 photograph. Lorenso, Father of Cousin Roy Fulks, is at school just to be in the photograph. His son Roy sits on the front row of Old Ironton School, Trigg County. Kentucky. That was a oneroom school located near a town named Ironton. Lorenso is included for reason that he was acquainted with most people in the area. He knew my grandfather, Mattie Mandard Fulks and all the Pinegars.(Roy married Trudy Pinegar.)

Dr. Jeckyl And Mr. Hyde
(Robert Louis Stevenson)

Summer 1953, Lyon and Trigg County Kentucky

During the month of June, a thirteen-year-old boy was taking an automobile ride with his father. On a summer vacation, the two were in Western Kentucky. It was Rum Fulks' annual leave from a wildlife refuge that was in middle -Georgia.

"Son, I don't ever want you to start drinking whiskey and beer." said Rummage Fulks. " I've seen the way people behave when they drink too much of it. My daddy drank so much whiskey that it killed him. A man who is drinks whiskey may have no sense at all."

"Duh!Duh!Duh!Da!Da!" said the teenaged boy.

Without further comment, the small, blondhaired and green-eyed child sat near his dad; enjoying the beautiful landscape of Kentucky and recording the words for future use in his memory bank. While the boy's memory and hearing were good, that teen was quiet and shy.

Rum Fulks was just the opposite in nature. By the the power of his voice and speech, Rummage could humble anyone sitting beside him with just the gestures on his face, his voice, his vision and control over the vehicle he was operating. People were afraid of Rum. The boy's father would not hestitate if either he, a child, or a friend were threatened; either socially or politically. Usually the oucome was not a fight. A kind of compromise known as a "standoff" was most often an outcome, but R.I. Fulks could fight and win.

Prior to 1944 and during presidential term of Franklin D. Roosevelt: Attitudes

Yearly spring flooding along Cumberland, Tennessee, and Ohio Rivers caused damage and loss of life along those streams and their tributaries. Also recognized as needs by government planners and engineers were methods of producing hydro-electric energy. Construction of large dams and electrical power units would allow the nation to emerge into a modern nation, create jobs, and improve navigation along America's rivers and lakes. The U.S. Government almost surely had knowledge of Japanese and Axis plans to wage World War II. America would need to outproduce and transport more easily and rapidly what was needed to wage and win that war. Ironically, the results were also many misplaced people along the banks of those rivers and lakes. Much of the land in possession of many early pioneers were purchased by the U.S. Government; a painful dose for those who had lived and worked on that land since the 1700's.

Although of little present consequence, Rum Fulks did not support some of the policies of the U.S. Government. He would state that fact; but only in private. Employed by those politicians, it was his duty to remain loyal and follow his orders much as would a soldier in civilian clothing.

The rein of President Franklin D. Roosevelt had been difficult for Western Kentuckians. Much of the conflict was that the land that Rummage Fulks and his people owned "between the rivers" was at stake with the electrical power and flood control projects. As his son sat beside his father, the boy recalled well his father's comments back during 1944-45. Rum allowed close family members and friends to know that he would have preferred to have had the Vice-president, Alben Barkley in office. The Vice-president was a wealthy Democrat with a home in Paducah. Kentuckians would be better-off if the president were from Kentucky. New York was a far-off place, and so was Stone Mountain, Georgia. The differences in dialect and personal mannerisms were also considerations. "A man should not talk or act like that," Rum Fulks would say. ( All of sectionalism shall likely never disappear as a force within this country.)

During that drive "between the rivers," Rum, a devout member of the Republican Party shared with his son these words: "my daddy was as nice a person as you'd ever meet when he was sober. He was " all hell" when he was drunk. During his last two years, he was drunk much of the time. He would get mean and violent when he was intoxicated. He'd find a place to get whiskey and not come home. Me and my brothers would have to get out and look for him. His, horse, Trixie, would come home without him. Several times, he had fallen off the horse and was injured. It took everything we could do to locate his whereabouts and get him back home. We found him laying on the road outside of Birmingham one time, and he appeared to have been beaten. Whiskey is an awful thing. I don't want you to ever start drinking."

The boy observed his father providing a ride to a man who was strutting erratically along a road from Cadiz during the 1950's. A fruitjar filled with "moonshine" in his hands, the man was staggering through the extreme humidity of a summer day in Western Kentucky. The boy moved to a rear seat of the automobile. Sitting beside Rummage Fulks, the man, one with whom Rum had been acquainted, placed his jar of whiskey on the floorboard. Heat exhausted and sweating profusely, the rider babbled; barely audibly. Glancing back at the child sitting on a rear seat, the rider said," Rum- I'm gonna kill you! You damned son-of-a-bitch!"

"You can't whip anybody now, Tommy," Rum replied. "You just think you can. You may die trying to get back home. Why- I could let you out of this car now, push you over in the gully there; and you might die there. I'm gonna to let you out of this car right in front your house so you may live to see another day. I picked you up; just so my son could see you and what that whiskey you have there has done to you."

Stopping his car near the riders house, Rummage Fulks set the emergency brake, walked in front of the vehicle, opened the passenger side door; and the man exited with his quart-jar of "moonshine whiskey" in his hands."You're back home, now," said Rummage Fulks. "I'll be back in a year or so to visit my mother. I may not see you again."

"Alright Rum," the drunken man retorted. Rum and his young son, George, left the man there; driving away in the direction of the home of Nay Dyer Pinegar and his nephews, Loretta and Benjamin Pinegar. Their home and farm were just four miles away.

A Man From Sixty-nine In Thirty-four

When I was sixteen and lived with my mother, father, and four year old sister, I had heard and read about people who could travel in time. I never had reason to believe that I would ever experience such a thing, but one day we were at home while my father was away. It was really a very hot day there at Five Points in a house near a firetower.

My daddy was not home that day, and I happened to walk out the front door at just the right time to see it. An automobile was comimg down the road from the direction of a town called Wayside. I'd never before seen an automobile such as that. It was long, jet black, and had all kinds of odd lights and trim around it. It ran so quietly that I could barely hear the engine. The man driving that automobile turned into our driveway, shut-off his engine, and got out his car.

The man, estimated to be in his twenties, approached me. A handshake and introduction followed. "I'm George Fulks." the man said to me. " I used to live here along time ago. I wanted to stop here and see the house and firetower again. You don't mind- do you?"

"No," I responded. "We've only lived here four months. That's a funny car you have there. I've never seen one like it. It has an odd design, makes little noise, and doesn't rattle at all. What kind of car is it, and in what year was it made?"

"It's a 1969 Ford Torino GT," the man said to me.

Cause Of Death

Grandfather, Mattie Mandard Fulks, husband of Carie Atlantic Gertie Dell Pinegar Fulks was born on August 10, 1888 and deceased on April 13, 1932. Enhancement of a tiny photo from year 1932 provides visual evidence that Grandfather succumbed to complications of snakebite. Shown are two definite fangmarks just above his left eye. Grandmother Carie Atlantic Gerthie Dell Pinegar Fulks reported sankebite as the cause of Grandfather's death. His death occurred eight years prior to the author's own birth on June 3, 1940.

Fulks Surname In Germany

Apparently use of the "Fulks" spelling for "Voltz" is still practiced as evidenced by an encounter with a WWII veteran who fought with the United States Army. When I entered the base barbershop in Spokane, Washington,(1964) the barber noticed the nametag on my military uniform. "I met an elderly lady in Munich, Germany when I was a soldier in WWII," he commented. "She lived in a small cobblestone bungalow, and her yard was filled with beautiful flowers of many different kinds. She was really a very nice old lady."(Study of family history is confusing.)

Another of Henry Andrew Jackson Fulks' and Nancy Mitchell Fulks' children I had the good fortune to meet was their daughter, Nice Jane. During that visit in the 1950's, Aunt Nicie was confined to a wheelchair and suffering from high bloodpressure and probable alheimer's disease. She did remember her nephew, Rummage Ira Fulks. She was introduced to me, George Fulks, and she did acknowledge me with a handshake and a greeting. I was probably about fourteen years old at that time.

The date of my updating and editing of the above portion is February 22, 2009.


THE UNCANNY ZONE is a temporary title for a series of true incidents. I dedicate this portion of "Rummage And" to my grandfather, Mattie Mandard Fulks. The documentation of these events is not necessary. This writer is willing to undergo polygraph test on the truth of these stories.(7-23-2008)



Buzzard Bay Encounter

George Harold Fulks, 9-6-2009

Summer, 1969

For certain, one of the strangest episodes of my life is that associated with angling in the Buzzard Bay area. That's a small inlet connected to Barkley Lake; not far from Kuttawa, Kentucky.

Storing my boat, outboard motor, and its trailer at Dad and Mother's house, I launched my boat for an afternoon of cast fishing. It was during a Summer and year of my completion of graduate school.1969 (I was married during that same August.)

Off hand, one might have preferred to have been spared incidence of several strange happenings within his life. Those thoughts and memories just won't go away. I've somewhat concluded that without those experiences, I'd have little to share in composition. That parallel worlds exist may be a lesson "something" is trying to teach me.

Well- this haunting tale should begin this way: A fisherman named George Harold Fulks was in his boat. He had anchored in shallow water between shore and three old grain silos that were submerged. Just a dozen feet of their tops extended out of the water.(A Kentucky farmer had once stored and dried gain within those receptacles.)

While there casting his spinning tackle, George Harold Fulks was surprised by a visit from a strange man in "his" boat; a "one-of-a-kind" craft and man. Appearing from out of "nowhere that can be defined" was a boat having a wide and raised middle, perhaps ten feet in length and a raised bow and stern. Within that boat stood a pale, white-haired, buxom man; short in stature, reddened and swollen eyes. There were no oars in that boat. It's occupant was dressed in a plain, white uniform, and he was weilding a butcher-knife. I immediately recognized his trade. He was a butcher.

Bumping my fishing boat with his, he said to me, "Come on in here now. I hate to do this, but I have to take you. That is my job."

"I'm staying right here in this boat," I replied. "I'm not getting in that with you."

"Who are you?" the man inquired.

"I'm George Fulks,"I answered. "I'm Rum Fulks' son. Mother and Dad live just a few miles from here off the Swanee Road."

"Oh, my Lord," the man said."What is the world have I done? You're Rum Fulks' son. I just might as well kill myself right now."

Dropping his butcher-knife onto the bottom of his boat, he covered his eyes with both hands and began crying in the most pitiful way; as if his heart were breaking. Tears literally streamed down his face.

There was no further conversation between that strange visitor and me. But as I sat in my own boat and watched in absolute horror, a battle ensued between the butcher and something I could not see; but my visitor most certainly could. As the butcher screamed, juggled, and bounced himself around his boat, it took everything he could do to avoid falling into the waters of Barkley Lake.

"Get away from me now"!the butcher screamed loudly. "I'm not going to do anything to Rum's son. I don't even know what I'm doing here!"

My strange,unexpected, and unwelcome company must have lost his battle with the "thing" that fought him. As quickly as the man and his boat had appeared, they were gone; vanished or banished into somewhere that nobody knows.

Once again, I was sitting in a quiet and peaceful inlet off Barkley Lake. Continuing there to cast my line and fish, I remained until near the last of that evening; but I still carry that incident as a clear memory.

For I, a question is presented. Are there two or more worlds that exist very closely together? There must be. Can those existing in each world occasionally enter that of the other; and sense in some way that the other is there? That's an enigma in which the pieces have been several times thrown atop my head. I'm presented with it, and now I'm sharing it. I can't piece that puzzle together; not in this day and time. I try, yet; one thing is almost certain to me. Parts of "The Land Between The Lakes" are haunted. There have been so many reports of ghosts and hauntings.




When I was sixteen years old, I made an effort to walk five miles from Camp Cornelia to Chesser Island. Coming within two miles of my intended destination, I glanced behind me. Mr. Thomas Chesser, owner of an island in the Great Okefenokee Swamp, approached me in his blue, 1950 Cheverolet pick-up. His homestead had been my intended destination. Telling me that he had received a physic message to come and get me, I was driven back to my residence at the refuge headquarters and counseled on the hazards of walking in the area I had chosen.

Important to note is that during my walk along the fencerow where Tom Chesser had planted grapes for bear and other native, animal species, I trod a dozen strange steps or more. My vision was not that of a human. Through the eyes of whatever had possessed me, I found myself staring into the face of a creature very similiar in appearance to the "gargoyle" as depicted in ancient mythology and as crafted by modern and ancient craftsmen. That was an unforgetable end to my first effort to reach Chesser Island by foot.

"original photo-image is of daughter, Tracy Denise Fulks as a highschool sophomore in 1998. Tracy also learned to play piano and has a special aptitude for music. Tracy once adorned the earrings and a necklace that once belonged to Cleopatra, an Egyptians queen. She also held the sword carried by Emperor Constantine II, Former Roman Leader. She looked splendid."


More than once I have seen a ghost. It was during the 1980's that I was a reading teacher living in a small, village located in Illinois.

My story begins this way: Finishing the mowing and all the yardwork, it was an extremely humid day in Harvel. Feeling hot and fatigued, I entered a bedroom where my wife had placed an old sofa; one that she intended to have hauled away. Laying on that couch to rest, I closed my eyes and would have drifted away into an afternoon nap. It was sudden that I opened both eyes startingly. Standing not more than three-feet away from me I saw the apparition of a blond-haired girl; perhaps thirteen years of age. Her dress was neatly designed with small, yellow butterflies. The ruffled pleats of her clothing suggested of the 1930's or 40's. Her eyes were filled with tears. She watched me sadly, then looked in the direction of a doorway.The young,lady just disappeared. Immediately sharing that story with my wife and daughters, they did not doubt that I had related to them a true event. They also have several incidents to share.


As a senior at Charlton County Highschool, Walter Petty and I were classmates. We were less than one month away from graduation exercises. It was one of the last dozen bus trips to Folkston and back to the family residence at Camp Cornelia. The total round-trip was approximately twenty-four miles. The driver, Odum Peacock, was in his early sixties. Mr. Peacock was a local farmer; supplementing his farm income as a busdriver.

Walter Petty, a classmate, normally exited the schoolbus prior to me. On the day resulting in this story, my classmate accompanied the two of us. The driver would allow him to ride, exit, and walk one-half mile to the Petty's farm house. Walter had never visited Camp Cornelia or seen the wilderness area. He was frightened and wary of the Okefenokee Swamp and its creatures. "George," Walter Petty said, "I'm going to get out of this area as soon as I can. I'm scared to death of the country here."

During that one and only ride with Walter, he and I were involved in a friendly discussion; a peaceful debate. "George!" he proclaimed. "You're always talking about travel to the moon and Mars. You're crazy. There's no air on the moon. A man couldn't live there. Nothing can gain the speed necessary to leave the Earth's atmosphere."

"Yes, we can; and we will." That was the basis of my argument."The men will ride in the nosecone of a rocket. The rocket will have three stages; and they'll take the air they need with them. I'll give you the name of the first man on the moon; and the name of the rocket." His name is Neil Armstrong, and the rocket will be called Apollo 11. I'll give you the date, too. It'll be July__,1969."

Taking his wirebound notebook, Walter Petty, my classmate in the class of 1958, recorded the information I had given him inside its cover.

That debate ended with an extraordinary event. We and the bus were no longer on the road to Camp Cornelia. Suddenly the road was blocked by large boulders; rocks similar to those depicted by modern-day photo-images of the Martian surface. We were surely there on the red planet; not in a spacecraft. We were in a schoolbus, and we were on Mars, "The Red Planet."

The engine of the bus would no longer run. After it had sputtered to a stop and stalled, Mr. Peacock exclaimed!"We're not where we're supposed to be!" cried our driver."I can't get to where I need to go. The sun is too bright, and the tires will be ruined. There's so much light that I can't see. Where in the world are we?"

Opening the exit-door for Walter, Odum allowed my classmate to walk down the steps and out the door. "Find out where we are, if you can," said Odum Peacock. After standing in the light of that day on Mars, Walter Petty reboarde the school bus. The driver closed the door for Walter.Then my classmate said to me, "I'm sunburned, George. What have you done to us. Are you from Mars?"

Can anyone find that notebook that belonged to Walter Petty? Are I from Mars? No. I, George, was born on June 3, 1940 near Star Lime Works, Kentucky.

Image used to accompany the following story is from a "White House Press Release."


A twenty-one year old private stationed at Presidio Of San Francisco in California, my assignment, on that day in June, 1962, was to drive the artillery battery commander to a base some eight miles away. On the day prior to that duty, I had taken and passed a driving test in a 1950, Cheverolet Pickup. To this day, I wish I had failed. The old vehicle was a three-speed manual shift.

Upon entering the motor-pool on the following day, my duty was to pickup the Lieutenant Colonel, a West Point Graduate; to drive him across "The Golden Gate Bridge" for a conference with the general staff at a remote missile site; and to bring him back to his headquarters safely. That part of my mission was accomplished satisfactorily.

Never having driven in a large city, the vehicle assigned to me was a 1962 Ford with an automatic transmission. It had a transmission that had been recently overhauled by an untrained technician. A single part was missing which was determined later to have been a washer. It can be said with all sincerity that I, Private George Fulks (RA147 865 24), got into my "pa JAM as."(the modern definition for "getting in trouble.")

Following the officer's orders, I parked the vehicle behind the quarters for enlisted personnel and sat in the car with the engine running. Something unexpected occurred. As I shifted from drive, then through neutral, and into park, the officer was, at that instant, walking in front of that vehicle. The Ford lurched forward for a distance of not more than one-foot. The Lieutenant Colonel stumbled slightly, lost his balance, and one knee touched the Earth. The result of that incident was that I was sentenced to be executed by firing-squad. How's that for getting into ones "pa Jam as?"

As I listened to President John F. Kennedy commute my sentence by radio, I could sense the love and respect he felt for his country and the personnel who served in the U.S. Armed Forces. I am especially grateful to him and Vice-president Lyndon B. Johnson for their influence and consideration.

How many of you remember me? Why was I denied the right to testify in my own defense?" That event alone is among the most "uncanny" I have ever experienced, but "justice" shall eventually be achieved with the "purification." You shall all agree with me that "you don't .... any differently than I." george fulks, e-mail,

By the way; have you every gotten into your "pa JAM as?" Would you kiss a bullmoose? a crawdaddy? the head of a dirty mop? your neighbors' dog? a hairball from an ox?

Facing A Firing Squad:The Follow-up

President John F. Kennedy's orders to stop my execution by firing squad was not the end of "pa jam as" there in the San Franscisco area. Applying for duty with an army entertainment group; I; still a private; was accepted immediately. It was my background in music education that helped me gain an assignment with that group.

Awaiting orders, I was transferred from headquarters battery to a Nike missile site just across the Golden Gate Bridge. For a week or so, I did KP and other light duties there on the site. But some of my superiors were unhappy with the outcome of my case. A soldier had been scheduled for execution, and the President of the United States of America had spoiled the plan.

On the fourth or fifth day of my assignment there at the Nike site, I was transported by military vehicle to what had once been a WWII bunker for an old artillery piece. Given a large spade, I was instructed to enter into that bunker and to pull the weeds within it. Then I was to remove all debris from the twelve by twelve space within the concrete fortification; and to stand by with the shovel.

In just a short time, two young men entered into the bunker with me. Dressed in civilian clothing, they were both about my age and stature. They did not act as violent people. It was determined later that the two were inmates who had gained temporary release from Alcatraz Prison. The two were there to even the score for the U.S. Army.

Each holding a spade just as I; an ax was laid down within the bunker. Following handshakes with each man and a friendly greeting, we entered into conversation. So similar were the two in size, they may have been brothers. Then one young man said, "George, you don't know it; but we're here to make you dig your own grave. There's another soldier buried here. Do you want to see his marker?"

Brushing away some soil and dried grass from the ground, I noticed a small marker on which was engraved- "Private Hensley."

"George, we're supposed to kill you here; and make you dig your own grave. That ax we have is to cut-off your head. But we ain't going to. We've already talked about it. You're not like those people that have hired us to do this to you. You're not a bad person. If we were to kill anybody, it would be somebody like them. I hate people like them. If we could, we'd kill everyone of them. We're not going to do what they've told us to. We've done a lot of bad things to people. We're not going to hurt you.

The three of us exited the bunker and stood on its north side in full-view of any vehicles that might pass us by on a highway that was just a matter of yards to our west. It was not long until an unmarked, black vehicle appeared from the south. With their shovels and their ax, the two young men entered that vehicle and occupied the rear passenger seats. Then, they and their driver made a rapid departure. Following just a short distance behind that car was a U.S. Army passenger sedan,operated by an NCO. It's driver, exited the vehicle and gave an order. "Get in with me, Private Fulks! I'm here to transport you back to headquarters battery. You have orders that to report for duty in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Your orders have been cut. You're to be shipped out of here in four days."

I was not guilty of assaulting the commanding officer of the artillery brigade. He had stumbled while walking on grass, and one knee had touched the earth. The automobile I had used to transport the Lieutenant Colonel to a remote missile site had a mechanical defect and had lurched forward as I shifted from drive, through neutral, and into park. That officer was not injured.

That officer soon resigned his commission at the request of President John F. Kennedy. Also accused of passing military secrets to nations that were then our enemies, I know not what became of that man whom I had respected highly.

I enjoyed my military duties in Colorado Springs and the tours we took with our entertainment group. Strangely, I presently reside less than four blocks from an area that was once named "The Moonlight Motel." There's now a newly constructed appliance store there. Our group was quartered a couple or more nights in that motel in 1964.)

Escape From Alcatraz

It would be safe for the former Private George Fulks to say that he was close-by when Clarence Anglin, his brother John, and Frank Morris escaped from Alcatraz on June 11, 1962. Someone had to serve as security guard for the U.S. Army motorpool for Presidio of San Franciso. I stood watch that night of June 10; not far from the support beams of the Golden Gate Bridge. Peace, solitude, a view of the lights and searchbeams of Alcatraz provided a unique experience for me as a soldier there at Headquarters Battery, Second Missile Battalion, 51st Artillery.

This writer has expected his guard duty to be routine. I'd sleep in the guardhouse and awaken to an alarm at te locked gate and release vehicles when needed. I'd aklso check-in vehicles that were out.My guard duty that night was not routine.

Awakened by the sound of a motorized boat, I centered my vision toward the island's west side west side-. I caught and eiry, foggy view of Alcatraz: a famous prison. My view was from the south beach of San Francisco Bay; the location of the motorpool. Soon I fell asleep and was aroused the next morning by one on the regular personnel working there.(June 11, 1962) "Fulks," he said, "I'll take over now. Walk on back to the messhall, and get you chow."

Upon my return to headquarters battery, Sp4 Schultz, our squad leader for men in our barracks, exclaimed excitedly, "Fulks-did you know that three men tried to escape from Alcatraz sometime during the night? They're looking for them now. They've more than likely drowned. Did you hear or see anything?

I did hear and see a large, motorized, watercraft approach the island from its west. I heard shouting. Someone yelled, "You're free, now! Let's get the "hell" out of here!" (Someone did escape. How many I do not know.)

Early Experience With Time Travel

Only once during this lifetime was the question presented to me:"George, do you believe in time travel and convergence?" Although an answer of any credibility is within what is termed quantram physics, the impact of hearing that question stuck with me. A childhood acquaintenance, Margaret Ann Wade, presented me with that enigma into quantram as the two of us were coasting our wheels up a steep hill along the road leading from her house to mine. That was during the summer of 1950. An inquiry likely inspired by that girl's reading of The Time Machine(HG Wells), that incident is one stored within the recesses of my mind.

I had not the slightest idea what she was talking about. In the practice of being a fourth-grade boy, I was doing well to see what lay ahead in the next second. But Margaret Ann and I had reason to be inquisitive on that subject. Margaret Ann Wade, an intellectually sophisticated child and avid reader, introduced this writer to the concept of time travel and convergence. I fully discovered that subject through a recommended list of books to read in highschool and college.

The impact of Margaret Ann Wade's question was insignificant during that time when introduced. I bore a close resemblance to Twain's Tom Sawyer as a third or fourth grader.

Matching my friend Margaret in talent, intelligence, interest, and educational background were beyond my reach. She possessed a gift and a "knack" for almost everything. Her manuscript was right out of the handwriting text- the Palmer Method. Not even the teacher could write as well as she. Taking piano lessons, that was easy for her. Verbal facility, math, and composition placed her within the gifted class. She showed high interest, but was not challenged. I, George, was truly a monkey as compared to Margaret Ann. Having no longterm goals, I lived in a tearfree," happy go lucky" world. As for the "monkey" label, that might have implications for today.(October 10, 2008)

Lending some credibility to Margaret Ann's introduction to the concept of timetravel, the two of us were pushing our bikes up an incline from her home near Five Points to where I lived, and a young man overtook us; walking beside us for several yards. The young man was I, the author of this dissertation.

"I just wanted to see you two," said the time traveler. "Don't be afraid of me. I won't do you any harm."

My female companion became terrified and stood as if petrified within her tracks. "It's you, George. Please get away from me. I can't take this."

Our visitor was twenty-nine years old. I recognize him today, August 22, 2009 from a photograph taken by the school photographer during that school term. My wife Hazel has that photo in one of her albums. (In response to Margaret Ann Wade's terror, the timetraveler vanished.

Later becoming interested in science fiction, I was inspired by the Time Machine book and movie. A more recent movie, the Final Countdown, held me spellbound. Space travel and the missions to the moon and Mars were glorious events for me. I feel that I may have traveled along on those missions. What's on Mars and the moon are no longer secrets. If invited, I'd be onboard all those spacemissions.

Although Margaret Ann Wade is deceased, if the question were asked of me on this day in October, 2008: "George, do you believe in time travel and convergence?" My response would be: "Yes."

According to modern theories, traveling to the past is not possible, but converging and timed exposures of the past do appear to be feasible. The past might somehow be recorded through faint sensors embedded permanently within matter, and the entire cosmos could be a super transmitter, receiver, and television transmitter and receiver. If one should examine the Egyptian Pyramids more closely, those might be components of those electronic marvels. Did those who first entered those tombs observe anything ususual?

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Haunting Near Energy Lake, LBL Kentucky

One visit to "the Land Between the Lakes" is especially memorable. During a winter trip to Salem, Kentucky, this writer abandoned his wife and family for a day and headed towards my earlier stompng grounds; through Grand Rivers and into the interior of what had once been "Kentucky Woodlands Wildlife Refuge." I'd made several turns onto sideroads leading to places that were familiar to me.

Reminising and hitting several sites that day, among those were Grandmother's homesite, Ferguson Springs, the Fulks family cemetary, Craven's Bay, and where Old Eddyville Ferry had been. Less than one hour of daylight remained.

Driving south, I was halfway between Grand Rivers and Golden Pond; which I had already visited. Noticing a large cemetary on my left and just off a left turn, I parked my car off the road and stood; viewing a large number of tombstones. Talking to myself, I remember saying aloud, "It's sad that all of these people are no longer alive. I may have met a few of them. I guess my grandmother Carie Pinegar Fulks, my ggrandfather Henry Jackson Fulks II, my own father were acquainted with many of these people."

Just then, a large red ant, an intellectual type, emerged from a tiny mound of earth. It seemed to have taken a quick photo of me and then crawled back underneath.

Not more than one-mile along a winding road,a young doe whitetail and her fawn crossed in front of me. The two deer was running from something in pursuit of them; the fawn stumbling directly in the center of that roadway. In stumbling, it landed on its forelegs, came to its balance and followed its mother into the forest. I'm pleased I did'nt run over that deerchild. Should I have harmed that fawn, it would have broken my heart. It was such a beautiful thing.

Fifteen minutes to Energy Lake, the sun was hanging low. Staying just a few moments there, I was prepared to return to the Bill Barnes farm near Salem, Kentucky. As I rounded a curve back in the direction of the cemetary, a spirit came out of a forest to my right. Happening at that time to glance into the car's rear view mirror, the one in the interior, a chill had enveloped my entire body. My hair and skin were ice-cold in terror. A blond-haired girl was seated amid the rear seat. My mind was totally possessed by the presence of that ghost.


Following my first visit to Camp Cornelia on the Eastern edge of "The Great Okefenokee Swamp", I became determined to attain a transfer to that wildlife refuge from "Piedmont National Wildlife Refuge." Okefenokee was an amazing eco-system, the headquarters in a sparcely populated area, and my son would have some protection from the Old Roman social system. It was seldom necessary that we squeeze our way into cramped quarters. The Roddenberrys were one-quater mile away at the boatlanding, and the Chessers were a distance of five miles on their remote island.

Our successful thirty mile fishing and sightseeing journey to Chase Prairie had aroused our interest in further adventure. When Brantley Gay, another refuge worker, mentioned that he and and his son, Kenneth(Catfish) had spent a night at a screened-in cabin and boatdock situated on Monkey Lake, George and I questioned him about it.

"Mr. Fulks," said Brantley Gay, "You are certainly welcome to try it, but I would advise against it."

"Why's that?" asked R.I. Fulks.

"It's this way," answered Brantley. "Something scared us so badly out there, there's no way in the world I'd ever try it again. I'm not trying to discourage you. It's this way. I sprayed for mosquitos, but a lot of them still got inside the sceen shed; so many we couldn't sleep comfortably. They just ate us nearly up despite everything we could do. But the main thing is that there were things out there, and we don't know what they were."

Brantley Gay continued, and fear showed in his manner: "At some time in the night, we were awakened to the awfulest thing you ever did see. You wouldn't believe it. Things started splashing around and coming out of the water, and they would fly around for a long way and then submerge. They'd come out again and again that way. They must had continued that for an hour or more. Finally it was quiet again. The things looked like they might have been flying reptiles like the dinosaurs you see in books. One of them came up on the deck of the boatdock. The latch to the door of the screen-cabin was turned, but it didn't try to break in. The door was hooked. It flew away after a while. I don't think it saw us.

In ending, Brantley stated: "As soon as daylight, Kenneth and I loaded our gear onto the boat and headed for home. We're not going back there for an overnight stay."

I'm R.I. Fulks, author of sorts. George and I visited Monkey Lake many times. We'd head for Roddenberry's boatlanding in time to get there before darkness. One reason was Brantley Gay's account of the night he and Kenneth spent there on that lake.

Include these accounts-Carie,Josie,Dyer near Star Lime Works; Visitor at room #4(Waggoner Grade School); Craven's Bay Apparition; St.Simon's Island; Carie Pinegar's story; Space Shuttle disaster; others.

This site is supported by Jennifer Parish