Email: thomreed.official@gmail.com

We Interrupt This Broadcast

Labor Day, 1969, was unusually warm — a blistering hot day that reached 95 degrees by mid-afternoon. Due to this unexpected spike in temperature, 20 degrees above normal, many had spent their afternoon indoors.

Now, the town of South Egremont, was renowned for attracting out-of-staters,  and, not just because of the exclusive ski shops or high-end designer apparel, but for the eateries and golf courses. The sought-after Jug end Resort sported a 9-hole Alfred Tull-designed golf course. Due to the excessive heat, a few Club members had decided to take advantage of the zero-wait time and put in a quick 9 holes, something not usually available at the trendy club. The four golfers were now wrapping up their Labor Day golf game while their fashionable, yet flirtatious socialite wives mingled over drinks in the dining hall. This took place around 6 pm on September 1st, 1969. The guys were on the final green, they were rich, fit and in their forties, loud, outspoken and could  drink most under the table. They were notorious for dropping hundreds on dinner and even more on top shelf liquor. It was commonplace to see crowds of men and women around them as they,  clowned, took shots at their wives outlandish shopping sprees, personal lifestyle choices, and detailed side dishes. But shadows were fading, and the conversations changed from blondes on  overnight business trips, to who’s under par; as their minds and palates were now set on aged scotch, prime cut filets and seasoned swordfish.

While the caddies arranged their golf bags, the men removed their embroidered gloves with drollery and banter.  It was the 9th hole when an object in the sky grabbed the attention of one of the men, who now stood quietly in place, as if only his bodies shell remained. The others, now bound in timeless state, watched the object seemingly morph and instantly change direction.  The Disk/Berkshires UFO was in such clear view that it was, speculated  that perhaps it wanted to be seen. Either way its bold greeting sent a  silent, powerful, and an effective message. Official reports cited that the disk resembled a turtle shell, 100 yards in size and performed astonishing maneuvers. To include instantaneous jumps in space. Where it went from being in one spot and appearing in  another, in a second’s time. It was also observed merging with a large white illuminated sphere, as if absorbed by it. Then moments later descending out from the bottom of that same sphere. One of the more common sightings was the immediate drop from miles high to the ground, in less than a second. I was one of those witnesses. Also reported was it made maneuvers impossible by conventional aircraft. The sighting lasted for a good ten minutes.

The Berkshires UFO then slowly traveled in the direction of Sheffield, MA, and at a very low altitude. It remained in clear view for several more minutes until simply fading into the distance. The object fueled a slew of colorful metaphors and f-bombs from the men, along with an  immediate need to notify someone, and fast. The uncharacteristic language from the men was as profound and telling as the sighting itself. The golfers and their caddies shared a collective moment before heading across the course to the main hall, to report what they saw, nervously joking that nobody was going to believe them. But to their surprise the sighting had already gone  out on local radio and the police were involved.

The  golfers reached the main hall. They were met by the swarms of onlookers  who had gathered in front of the  dining hall. Most had even abandoned their tables, entrees and drinks,  to also have a chance to catch a glimpse of the object themselves. Until  today the 1966 and 1967 sightings were only discussed openly within the  walls of the Village on the Green Diner  in Sheffield, owned, and run by my mother and grandmother.

It was around 5 pm in the neighboring town of Great Barrington when local disk jockey Tom Jay of WSBS Radio ran the looping real to real which would now be heard over the airways.  He turned off the lights, locked the station's door, and drove home.  Once home he pulled his devoted wife Marilyn into his arms and kicked off his boots. His dinner was in the oven and the days bills were on his table. Tom Jay sat down at his desk, opened the mail and switched on his Ham radio.

Tom Jay was an avid Ham and C.B Radio operator, and while awaiting his call for dinner, he flipped on his Ham Radio and overheard some restless crosstalk about a massive object hovering low in the sky not far from the town of Sheffield. A radio operator on the Ham Radio then says he saw something hoverning over the Hustonic River while others reported the object in and around Berkshire County. The Berkshires UFO was first reported around 3pm in Cannan, Connecticut, moving towards New Marlboro, then circling back towards Pittsfield, then Lennox, Lee, Stockbridge, Great Berrington, South Egremont, and finally Sheffield. The Ham radio community was tight-knit, and many knew each other. They were friends and neighbors. Tom Jay, knowing the character of some reporting, called for his wife, who was setting the table. After some firm advice from her, Jay headed to the kitchen to make a call to the local police department.  His wife took over the Ham radio, jotting down names, locations, and descriptions.

Tom Jay reached the police department, the officer on the other end of the line confirmed that they, too,  were receiving calls about an object and others about sphere shaped objects as well. (multiple objects) Due to the amount of calls coming in from Pittsfield, Lenox, Stockbridge, Great Barrington, and Egremont,  Tom Jay offered to help the police by getting back on the air and reaching out locals for help/assistance. Tom Jay returned to the radio station with dinner in hand and was now working in tandem with his wife, who remained on the ham radio monitoring the sightings and locations. Tom Jay opened the phone lines at about 6:00 – 6:15 pm, interrupting the real to real in mid-play.  Breaking into the prerecorded broadcast, he said. “We Interrupt This  Broadcast to ask for your help!” This was a first for listeners, he had never interrupted a prerecorded airing before.  It became apparent to those listening that this was serious. He advised  listeners of the day's reports and urged the community to call WSBS with any information, especially if they had located the UFOs.

A young woman at Jug end Resort was listening to the radio around 6:00 pm and overheard the call for help, from the anxious disc jockey and shouted, "We need to call the radio station!" The golfers and others gathered around the black rotary phone in the office and called the radio station. At first the phone lines were busy but they continued trying again and again until they reached Tom Jay, where they successfully reported the Jug end sighting and its projected location, Sheffield, MA. Tom Jay then phoned the Sheffield Police department who were dispatched. Eddy  Galata, the son of the Chief of Police of Sheffield, accompanied his father in the search. Notably, the call to the police department reported that the UFO was seen on the ground.

National Investigation Committee on Aerial Phenomena UFO Investigators were present the day these events took  place in South Egremont, MA.

The events of that night solidified earlier reports in the area. The incident strengthened the talk in neighboring communities. Some who called WSBS described beings from other realms, and others witnessed technology that defied any colloquial understanding of physics. We sometimes forget how important local radio stations were in the 1960s, without the internet or instant  communication. Even some smaller police departments were vacant at times, so, neighbors called neighbors, and they called the radio station if the need surfaced to inform the community. The  near one hundred witnesses from that night are referred to in a 1969  historical report that was given a Hynek and Vallee of rating of CE1. The report  states “An object was sighted by multiple independent witnesses that had  an appearance and acrobatic performance beyond the capability of known earthly aircraft.”

The Fix

Great Barrington's racetrack was  actually named the Crown Jewel of New  England’s Fair Circuit. It was  within walking distance from the center  of town, and like most kids in the area, I would sneak into  the  fairgrounds after school. The far side of the track was lined with   brush and weeping willow trees, which hung down so close to the track  that the lance-shaped leaves whisked in the wake of the horses. The fair   and track, although fun, brought millions of dollars into the  community. However, high-stakes gambling can breed  corruption, and at  the time the Public Broadcasting System ran a special on fixed horse  racing about our track. The more informed bettors could  spot the  jockeys who artfully held back their  horses while beating them  viciously with a riding crop, giving the appearance of them making a genuine effort to win. Occasionally, a  frustrated or an overly drugged  pony revealed the darker side of the  sport. For instance, much of the  track's dealings were  under protection by the police department, which  had a satellite  station at the track. With that said, it was abundantly clear that no one was to disturb the cash flow or openly tarnish the  track's  reputation, the occasional tip on a predetermined daily double   signaled we take care of our own. 

A well-known secret among the locals was  a nearby park which had a path  to the far side of the racetrack used by  some residents to sneak into  the fair. The difficult part of sneaking in was timing our  dash to the rides, so most would run when all eyes were on the horses, on the opposite side of the track. The falling leaves in burnt gold covered the ground, crushing under our feet as we made our way closer to  the  midway and roller coaster. The wooden ferris wheel would let out an  eerie squeal as it came to a halt. We could hear the carnies, in their  ripped jeans and t-shirts, making  comments under their breath as we ran  by them, leaving us with an  uncomfortable feeling. Once on the midway  it was a party, rides, music, girls, food, gambling, drinks, shops, and  entertainment. Aerosmith's Seasons of Wither and Walk this Way often  welcomed us, blasting from the tilt-a-whirl. Girls would sport their halter tops , miniskirts, go-go boots, and bell bottoms. This  coupled  with the scent of carnival food, patchouli oil, and cotton candy, filled  the air and made for an intoxicating atmosphere. It was stimulating,  and why even at the age of 15 I worked there after school.

It was now 1975, and I was stationed at the bumper cars. Some claimed the job was too hazardous  for a minor, but then the job was fun. On this  particular September  evening, Linda dressed in her  typical torn  cut-off jean shorts, stack boots, and revealing halter top  walked up to  me while I was working at the ride. After being relieved  for the day, we strolled away hand in hand to the midway. We often talked about how my youthfulness and flexibility allowed me to free up the jammed bumper cars. I was able to quickly jump from car to car while they were still moving, holding on to the poles that connected the cars to the electric awning above. I would almost glide across the backs of the bumper cars  much like crossing a flowing river on a string of rocks. It was a fun  job but not one suited for heavy and less limber adult. I thought to myself, I made a few dollars and had a free daily pass for the  fairgrounds. 

We were now walking along the racetrack wall and bleachers, heading to a food stand serving sausage and pepper  hoagies. As we approached the  racetrack fence line, I could hear the screams from the fans.  The only thing louder than the crowd was the thundering hooves rumbling  under  the power and fervor of the thoroughbreds. We were about 15 feet from  the tracks wooden fence and barricade when the wall exploded, and a   half-ton racehorse tumbled at 30 miles an hour onto the concrete in  front of us. The Jockey was launched into the crowd, and shattered  planks were hurled throughout the fairway. Police tried to control the area while screams for help were heard in the background. The many  injuries from debris had found their way into visiting families. Parents were seen using the height of the bleachers to look for their children and then seen jumping from the stands to scoop them up. Others grouped  under the safety of the  bleachers as the pony continued to try to stand, dragging itself awkwardly, with all its limbs intact but unable  to coordinate its movements. Like us, most had seen enough of the  cruelty that came with fixed racing. Many locals gathered next to us and feared for the poor ill-fated pony that had tumbled into men, women, and children. 

The panicked horse, hurt and scared, continued to crawl clumsily forward  but never stood again. Its head came to a rest on the fairway below our  feet. The Police shouted to the crowd to stay back while paramedics attended to the blood soaked Jockey, who also remained still on the  asphalt. Police asked the crowd, “What happened, did anyone see what happened?" People in the crowd pointed to Linda and I. Holding her  tight in my arms, she wept in disbelief. I said something to the effect  that it crashed through the fence because it was drugged. “This is  F---ed and needs to stop” I shouted. Linda also yelled, “When are you going to do something about it!" Husbands and wives expressed concern over the injuries brought on by the drugged horse, which was now lying  lifeless  on the ground. Linda, filled with empathy for the injured  animal yelled  repeatedly, “It's not the fault of the horses, it’s the  fault of those drugging them.” I yelled to the crowd, “We all know what  goes on here,  right? It's cruel! Look at the stalls, you  will find the hypodermic needles. It was drugged!”

Officer Holcomb, a ruthless man, did not  have the disposition to be a peace  officer. He was a bully and wielded his weight around. He was a large  foul mouth neanderthal and he could only gain confidence by openly  harassing the younger citizens of Great Barrington. He began  to mock  me, right there in front of hundreds of people. "That's Reed,  the UFO  Kid. He’ll tell you there’s UFOs flying around here too. Don't  listen  to him!” He then shouted, "So, shut the fuck up kid, get out of the way  or I'll throw your ass in jail." Holcomb stopped in front of me, not a foot away, and glared at me. The crowd gathered around as they paid  close attention to what I was saying. They began asking questions. "Hey  kid, how do you know  this?" I replied to them, "I live here. We raise  ponies and it's common knowledge, what goes on at the track." 

Holcomb's glare became increasingly tense. I could feel by his look and change in  demeanor that he wanted to hit me. Because of the large crowd still surrounding me, he held back. The locals openly voiced their concerns  and feared for their loved ones. They talked among  themselves and  shared their disgust about the incident and their opinions about fixed  racing. They collectively agreed that there was a lot of corruption.  Some of the parents stated that the kids were right, it could have very well been drugged! I knew many in town were profiting from the track, but the extent of the  cruelty was uncalled for, sad, and  people were getting hurt. Officer Holcomb powered through me as if I wasn’t even there when he could have  easily gone around. He called Linda a fucking crybaby. He bellowed out,  "If you don't have the stomach for the races, then get the fuck out of  here, go home! You too, Asshole! Leave!" I said what I did next because  of what he said to Linda. “So,  Officer Holcomb, how many half comes does it take to make a Holcomb,” I  quickly replied. Some laughed at the retort, some didn't, and Officer Holcomb was fuming. 

The  paramedics had left, the Police reassembled in their satellite station and the onlookers had gone on their way. I still needed to get paid for working the bumper cars from the previous day. So I grabbed Linda's hand  and proceeded to the main office, where I would get my manila envelope  containing the 20 or so dollars that I had earned. To clear our hears we  amused ourselves with the usual carnival pastimes that reward winners with a stuffed dog and rode the roller coaster one final time. I  treated.  

Town Officials Reneged with Spite

After  months of disregarded phone messages and facsimiles, I finally received an email from Rhonda,  Sheffield’s Administrator. She had a date and time secured for my sit-down with Nadine, to discuss the future of the UFO Monument. With the meeting only days ahead, I called my driver as I opted to travel by car. I hit the grocery store for refreshments, filled the red travel cooler, and packed late into the evening. After a mere six hours of sleep, and coffee in hand, the Limo headed for Sheffield.  Following the 13-hour road trip through Tennessee, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and New York, we finally came upon the green neon lights  of the Holiday Inn. It was a lovely sight, and right near WSBS Radio. 

Now refreshed and fueled via a complimentary breakfast, courtesy of the  Holiday Inn, I awaited my friend’s arrival. Sporting my favorite black  dress shirt and a disarming camel jacket, I sat in the lobby adjacent  to the concierge’s desk and revised my notes in modest comfort. Morgan and Teri Davis, who oversee the UFO Park, entered the lobby with vigor as if a grand jury were about to be in session. John Coster, a Harvard graduate and published author, followed shortly thereafter. While  twirling his Mont Blanc Pen he emphasized the importance of documenting the day’s efforts, as well as affirming any agreement with the town  should be in writing.

With  the Town meeting in less than an  hour, it was time to head in that  direction. We piled into the limo and spread out in the back like a  bunch of former rock stars, dressed in jeans and designer jackets. The  Park staff and I were in good  spirits, as it was time for all involved  to shake hands and start over.  Sure, we anticipated some give and take,  but we were prepared as long as the Town agreed to return the Monument.  It’s worth noting that our scenic drive to Sheffield consisted of  Marijuana Dispensaries, a UFO Park, and eighties hair bands. Soon thereafter, our chauffeur announced our arrival, and we rolled to a stop behind the Gas Station seen on Unsolved  Mysteries.

We  entered the town hall and walked past the tax collector’s office, and  then a meeting room packed with locals engaged in a heated debate. We went up the rear stairs to the administrative offices to meet with Rhonda, the town’s Administrator. I was optimistic and had fresh ideas to discuss with the town, ideas that could also help expedite the  Monument's return. I was willing to bend a little too, as  it could save  both of us some time, trouble and money. With smiles, we entered the  administrator’s office. But, before we  could even introduce ourselves, a  rattled assistant jumped from her seat and made a call from the back side of the office. She returned to her desk, seemingly put off, and avoided eye contact. She knew who we were as she then belted out,  “Rhonda is busy today.” We all looked at each other as to ask ourselves,  how did she know who we  were? Something felt off. I politely reminded Jill, the assistant, of our confirmed 11:30  appointment. With a sour expression and tone,  that suggested Rhonda  would be unavailable for a while, she said, “You can leave your message   with me.” Unbeknown to me, Jill is not one for follow-up questions, and   let a dramatic exhale in the wake of my request for ballpoint. An   unassuming Bic pen was then slammed on the counter, and while all heads   were turned, I wrote my cell number and the time we’d  be returning,  1:00 p.m. As we turned and left, a woman standing outside the front door asked, “Are  you looking for the UFO Monument?” She discreetly said, “It’s in the  back of the Department of Public Works Building covered in a brown  blanket” I said, “How do you know?” She replies, “Everyone  knows.” 

With an hour to burn and fresh information, we headed straight to Sheffield’s DPW. As soon as we pulled in, it was clear that we were  expected. All eyes were on us, the overheads were  down, and not a  single person was working. The building was closed up with guys standing out front with guarded postures. I called to a guy in a white tee shirt who was leaning against a truck. He was slow to reply and took his time  walking over. He verbally  dismissed any knowledge of the Monument's whereabouts. In private discussion, however, it was his subtle gesture and tilt of the head that  signaled the building to our right. He then paused, looked down, as if completely alone, his mind seemed elsewhere, as if cycling through time, with harvest guilt. He nodded, looked down again, lit a cigarette, and walked back to his truck.

It was close to 1:00 so back to town we went. Morgan and John waited in  the hallway, while Teri and I walked  back into the administrator’s  office. We had been there for hours, so at  the risk of making  a light  conversation, I asked Jill if Nadine or Rhonda had any  intentions of meeting with us today. We waited for a response, but nothing. So, I  thought well, try a follow-up question. We all saw how well that went  over last time. So, I then asked Jill, could you please get Nadine on the line? Jill slams her hand on the desk and shouts, “They’re on the  phone!” Teri felt best to leave Jill with an encouraging message, with the hope she’d forward it to Rhonda. We knew they’d been speaking  privately. Teri turned to the now unresponsive Jill and said, “Thom is here with hopes of resolve; he is simply trying to save everybody a lot  of trouble”. I wrote, we will be back at 3 p.m. on a yellow sticky note  and left it on the counter. As soon as the front door shut, Teri yelled,  “What is wrong with these people”!

We went around the corner to a sandwich shop, and over a thick Ruben, I  proposed the question. How many think Rhonda’s meeting was a sham? Look,  you give a man a date that in all probability he will fail to make, and  when he does, he loses by default.

The  Selectmen knew we were all in the building, yet not a single call or a  relayed message. If this meeting with Nadine was in good faith, then  somebody would have conveyed something to us by now. They  were well  aware we had taken time off from work and traveled long distances. It’s  obvious they never expected us to show. I then mentioned that due to my  sincere attempt at a fresh start, I held off serving the town with a letter of an impending suit, by one of our sponsors for theft of property. It was unanimous; if Rhonda and Nadine do not meet with us today, it’s intentional, so, yes, leave the letter of the pending suit.We returned to Town Hall. It was clear that Jill was not overjoyed to see us. She pointed to a stalwart-looking fellow seated at a table in the  middle of the room. He was hunched over a stack of folders.  It was Martin C. Mitsoff, who sits on the Board of Selectmen. He looked up as I approached with my hand extended, though Martin scowled and refused to shake it. 

I made my argument for the return of the Monument, and in closing shared the Town's only other option: a lawsuit. However, the poker-faced selectmen chose to call my bluff. I sighed, reached into my jacket pocket, and presented the selectman with the letter of the pending suit. Teri then asked a testy Jill if she knew where the monument was being stored.  Jill replied, “No I do not!” Teri shouted,  "you just lied to me" and we went on our way.

The day had opened with hope and opportunity but would close with disgust and lawsuits.

As  we headed back to the Holiday Inn, we reflected on how obvious it was  that even small towns could be so driven by power, money, and politics.  And how we were powerless against the biased media and the easily swayed  municipalities that govern our own backyard. The limo slowed and  coasted into the now-abandoned fairgrounds. Feeling numb and near haunted, I took in the dilapidated landscape that had once  breathed  life into the community but now laid at rest. The track known for the  roar of the stands was now known for the roar of the tornado, that  leveled it. I found myself catching my breath when walking through the  weather-beaten grounds, now reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic landscape.  Where a plague  had taken the lives of men, women, and children,  leaving just the old structures to slowly decay in the grasp of needled  vines. The vines that had now crept up and over the paint-peeled  structures, had too suffered from a lack of oxygen. The days of  pari-mutuel betting and carnival culture would never rear their  cannibalistic head again, and perhaps it was just as well.