Floyd Kelly

This doozy of a story started when my Aunt Jezzie, bless her sweet soul, called from Winkelman, Arizona. Aunt Jezzie doesn’t just talk—she spills. If there’s a whisper in the wind, she’s catching it and spreading it far and wide. The gossip she has spread over the years has been … I guess … legendary.

“You won’t believe… believe!” she started, her voice climbing three octaves. “It’s true! It’s all true!”

I sat down, grabbed by LED fidget spinner and braced myself; last time she called like this, she’d mistaken a solar panel farm for a cathedral. “What’s true, Aunt Jezzie?”

“The aliens! They’re all over Roswell!”

Of all the things I’ve heard from her, this was, well … “Uh-huh. And how do you know this?”

She huffed, mumbled and became offended. “There’s a billboard on the highway! It says, ‘Welcome to Roswell,’ and there’s an alien waving on it! What more proof do you need sister?”

“Aunt Jezzie, that’s just a tourist thing,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.

“No, no, no!” she snapped. “Uncle Skidmark saw it too! He says it’s a sign from above! He’s already packed his five chocolate chip cookies as a peace gift. I’m helping him.”

“Five cookies. Not six, not a dozen. Five. Why?”, I asked.

“Apparently, he says that’s the number of cookies the aliens prefer for “first contact.”

“Oh. And where is Uncle Skidmark now?” I asked cautiously.

“On his way to Roswell, of course!” Aunt Jezzie said. “He’s got his cookies, and he hasn’t bathed in three days, just in case the aliens prefer natural smells.”

At this point, I was concerned, “Aunt Jezzie, please tell me you’re not going with him.”

“Oh, I’m not going,” she said with a sense of pride. “I’m staying here to monitor the community theater for gossip. Someone has to hold down the fort!”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that real aliens would probably skip Winkelman entirely. “And another thing!” she added. “It’s not gossip if it’s true!”

“Sure, Aunt Jezzie,” I said, hanging up before she could rope me in further.

Later that night, a photo arrived in my e-mail: Uncle Skidmark, cookies in hand, standing proudly under the billboard with the waving alien. He looked like he’d just solved all of life’s mysteries. And you know what? Maybe he had. Sometimes the truth is just a billboard away—or in his case, five chocolate chip cookies and a whole lot of unwavering enthusiasm.