I first learned of levitation when my children burst into the house one summer day. A young son recounted how the group had been playing hide-and-seek in the yard, and he ran into the cornfield to hide. He roared up a row of corn stalks. When he crested a hill, a skunk stood there — locked and loaded, ready for battle. The son related how he levitated 2 feet into the air, helicoptered in reverse with the use of his arms, and when he came down, his galloping tennis shoes spit an arc of dirt that scared off the skunk.

I myself eventually experienced levitation. It was a dark and blustery night. Suddenly a bolt of lightning shot out, the searing light like a thousand arc welder flames. Thunder rattled the windows and shook the bed frame where I’d been asleep. I levitated upward. When I came to my senses, I was standing at the bedside clutching my pillow. The strike zapped the pump house. The old well pump suffered cardiac arrest, and we were unable to resuscitate it. We had to buy a new pump.

A cousin to levitation is morphing. As related by a hunter, he located a four-point deer and cornered him in a canyon. With stealth, he circled the site, monitored wind direction and exhibited master woodsman skills. Later, the hunter dazzled his family with his hunting prowess tales.

What the hunter didn’t relate until he heard of my research and contacted me — the deer had morphed into a burnt Jeffery pine stump!

My research led me to a situation where a group experienced both morphing and levitation.

A critique group of romance writers arranged for a tour bus travel trip to a western rangeland to get the feel of sagebrush and juniper stands. In the country, they hiked down a trail and paused at a log stretched across the path. At that point, the act of morphing occurred when the log looked at them and morphed into a snake with the girth of an inflated fire hose.

The romance writers experienced rapid, low-level levitation back to the safety inside their vehicle, save for Betty who levitated onto the hood of the bus. It took two of her fellow writers to pry her fingers off the windshield wipers so they could maneuver her up the steps to her seat.

As a researcher, I’ve had the opportunity to experience morphing. After a wind storm, I heard noises in the wood stove. I opened the stove door and out flew a rabid bat that brushed down my arm and disappeared. Since we are a family of folks who remain calm during times of fright, I calmly screamed. I located the rabid bat beneath the sofa where she had morphed into a frightened wren. I easily caught and freed her.

My research continues especially with longer nights, wind-whipped branches scratching windows, potential power outages, flashlights that dim…

Jean Ann Moultrie is a Grant County writer. She’s exploring grants geared to research involving levitation and morphing, including hunters, and those who live on dark, lonely roads.


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