Summer of Strangeness  – Short version

By Murray Toews

The morning drive to work on an overcast Manitoba fall day was its usual chaotic tango with construction detours. Somehow, I managed to shuffle from the dusty parking lot to my office, craving caffeine more than clarity. A cup of coffee later, my brain stirred to life, neurons firing like a blast furnace. The day’s agenda loomed: emails, meetings, workshop requests, and re-prioritizing projects.

I paused, my gaze snagged by a doodle pinned to the wall just beside my monitor. Fading Scotch tape held up an old childhood sketch: a saucer-shaped craft with spindly landing legs, flanked by two googly-eyed aliens who seemed to beckon or wave. The drawing pulled me back in time…

It was the summer of 1973, and I was doodling in my sketchbook on the way to a family getaway in a rented web-infested cabin near Hilly Lake, a pinecone’s throw from Highway 17 in Ontario. The vacation checked all the clichés: hiking trails, fishing (or trying to), and roasting hot dogs beneath a sky drenched in stars—a scene worthy of a “See Ontario” tourism postcard.

In quieter moments, I escaped into my own world, armed with essentials: a drawing pad, pens, a homemade crystal radio (functional, when it felt like it), my Peterson Field Guide to the Stars and Planets, and J. Allen Hynek’s The UFO Experience: A Scientific Inquiry borrowed from the school library. The hefty Buck Rogers anthology stayed home—too bulky for an adventure.

Nights at the cabin felt otherworldly. No TV, just the steady hum of nature through mosquito-netted windows. By flashlight, I devoured Hynek’s musings about UFO phenomena, captivated by the idea that maybe, just maybe, there was more to the strange lights and sightings than mere fantasy.

Sometimes I braved the mosquito-laden night, staring through the pine silhouettes at an infinite sky.

So many stars…

…and so many bites. I’d retreat to bed, lulled by the sputtering of my crystal radio and the symphony of crickets, frogs, and rustling pines. Beneath that vast canopy of stars, I questioned everything I’d been taught by the ripe old age of nine.

The sharp ding of a Zoom meeting reminder jolted me back to the present moment. With one eye on a PowerPoint extolling the value of infographics and the other doodling UFOs, my mind wandered yet again.

I grew up straddling two worlds. My Baptist Mennonite relatives spoke of an omnipotent God crafting humanity in his image. My mother, pragmatic yet open-minded, balanced their certainty with curiosity. Meanwhile, newspapers, TV shows, and grainy photos fueled my fascination with flying saucers and little green men.

The universe, I reasoned, was vast enough for wild speculation. I secretly wanted to believe the tabloid headlines and doctored images. Was Elvis hitching a ride with Sasquatch on a UFO? Where was Bat Boy now?

This blend of wonder and skepticism persisted until SETI and Carl Sagan introduced me to critical thinking. But as a child, the chaos of competing ideas—theological, scientific, and fantastical—always returned to one constant: the stars, twinkling silently above, daring me to seek greater truths.

The age-old question—Are we alone?—lingered, even as discoveries like exoplanets hinted at countless possibilities. Some worlds might never support life, trapped by hostile conditions. Others might flourish, only to stagnate or self-destruct. And then, perhaps, there were those who transcended their limits, journeying into the cosmos, maybe even finding us as we search for them now.

Under the flickering green-white glow of fluorescent lights, I sipped my instant coffee and wondered if someone, somewhere, was pondering the same mysteries.

Tonight, I’ll skip my usual TV binge, put on a coat, and look to the skies. Maybe I’ll recapture the wonder I felt during that Summer of Strangeness.

“Murray Toews is a media and content creator specializing in educational materials, a practicing visual artist engaged in film and writing, and an endlessly curious explorer of the surrounding universe.”