The Twilight Zone is alive
The Sunday Column
The following story is true and nothing was changed, altered or added to protect the innocent.
Often when talking to people who are fans of my writing, the question, “How do you come up with the ideas for your columns,” always comes up.
While I have addressed this subject in my column before, an incident that occurred to me this past week brought that question sharply back to mind.
My home is located on top of a small hill outside of Duncansville. So, needless to say, when I am going home, it is a slight uphill drive. This past week, when returning from running some errands I had just made, one of the final turns to my house revealed what looked like a huge baseball at the top of the hill. I say appeared to be because it was about 3 feet in diameter and bright white with red cross-stitching. For the next few seconds, everything seemed to happen in slow motion as the ball bounced slightly and began slowly rolling downhill directly toward me.
My immediate reaction was to slow down as a ball in the street normally means children close behind. But as the ball rolled downhill toward me, no children appeared.
As the ball closed the distance between us, it made its way to the edge of the street and slowly onto the lawn of a neighbor where it rolled to a stop. As I pulled up beside the ball, I swear it was smiling and looked satisfied with itself.
The ball kind of reminded me of the look you see on a puppy’s face right after it has pulled all of the toilet paper off the roll in the bathroom and sits there seemingly so proud of a job well done.
Slowing to a crawl, I topped the hill and made the final turn leading to my house, keeping a sharp eye out for playing children.
I knew of two homes along the way that had small children or grandchildren and felt certain I would see someone in the yard looking frantic like they just lost a giant beach ball sized baseball.
Imagine my shock when all the lawns were vacant — no children, parents or grandparents anywhere in sight.
While my concern was for any children associated with the ball, it occurred to me that any kid playing with a 3-foot high bright white baseball might be about 40 foot high. Suddenly the whole episode seemed like a chapter out of the famous “The Twilight Zone” TV series that focused on paranormal activities.
Suddenly it occurred to me that I could have just gone through a time warp of some sort where maybe I live in a world of giant children and I am actually a little doll in a toy car. (This theory makes a lot more sense if you are a “Twilight Zone” fan).
Moments later, I related all that had happened to my wife who looked at me with a puzzled smile.
“What are you going to do,” she asked?
“Simple,” I replied. “Unless I see posters on the light poles for someone looking for a lost 3-foot baseball, I am going to keep my eyes peeled for a 40-foot tall kid carrying a huge bat and hope he doesn’t ask me if I want to wrestle.”
John Kasun writes from his home in Duncansville where he doesn’t make up stories, they simply happen to him and he just writes them down.