é

Little Alien, Big Indian

LITTLE ALIEN

This birthday of mine last week was a special one. Not because I reached any milestone age, or was feted like a rock star, but because it involved activities both simple—playing Clue with my girls, getting help fitting a few pieces into an everlasting 1000-piece puzzle—and epic: meeting my new baby alien.

I would say, if we’re measuring my new alien on a human scale—as we tend to do with all things and especially our aliens—he’s not a baby so much as a toddler. He measures in at 29” tall, walking upright with arms somewhat extended (all the better to hug me with) and, though I say “he,” it might be more gender neutral as there are no identifying sexual parts to speak of, but isn’t that also how it goes with our aliens. We like to depict them pretty nondescript down below, maybe since they are always naked and need to remain television-appropriate.

I say “new” but my alien is also of undefined age, perhaps even older than his toddler size might convey. He is constructed of whatever kind of metal rusts eventually, which gives him a nice lived-in patina, with the only paint on him some black over the eyes (somewhat scratched). And my favorite quality about him is how he isn’t green.

But let me back up to properly introduce my new friend. This alien was abducted by my daughters on my behalf when they were traveling with their dad on a road trip to and from Georgia. They found him at the seven acres of The Zoo, Groovy Metal Yard Art in Mineral Bluff, GA, which they wandered for a while specifically on the hunt for a gift for their dear weird mom. There were many colorful creatures on display all over this metallic outdoor market from a 20-foot giraffe to pointy hat gnomes, and they didn’t know if they should get me flowers or animals, but then they found this guy. In the midst of this invading army of skinny green things, mine stood out as something I would want. Maybe just by blending into the background and not being flashy in the same way as everyone else. He was their chosen one, and for this I feel so seen. He was not just accepted for his otherness but specifically selected and celebrated. (Technically they did not “abduct” him, but pooled their teenage cash to pay their dad.) Then they rode home with the alien for the tedious 14 hours home.

Upon arrival at our house, the girls told me to cover my eyes while they took him to the safety of the basement where the gift wrap paraphernalia lives. This unidentified item then squatted in the living room for a few days pending my actual birthday, housed under a paper bag over his head and an Amazon sack for his lower quarters. I just assumed from the shape and size that this must be a stuffed animal. Or some kind of household cleaning appliance. But then they wouldn’t be so excited and have me guessing.

I was thrilled on opening night for this guy to emerge and not some soft sweet squishy lovie. My squeals were like a kid on Christmas. What! Oh I love him! Rusty metal objects are my jam! You girls did goooood! It’s a goal of mine to someday learn, and the have the equipment, to weld, and be the sort of Catskills homesteader who sutures car parts and cutlery (and “whatever I find lying around,” to quote Björk), into sculpture. Until then I have a wee menagerie I’m growing of some old wagon wheels from my former 1890 boarding house ruin, a hand plow, rusty metal dog, (mini) giraffe, homemade pipe tree, and now this delightful dude.

Will he be abducted if we place him close to the road? I debated where he should sit on our part woods/part meadow property, which seems like his rightful home in a region where many alien sightings are known to happen. Mountain peaks every which way provide for better starry night/UFO viewing ops. The whole corridor I travel along the Hudson River Valley claims it’s a hotbed of activity and most especially the town of Pine Bush, now home to the annual UFO Festival and the UFO and Paranormal Museum. Now I have a buddy to go with who doesn’t need a costume! Part of my birthday wish was that my girls would finally come with me to meet their new treehouse I’ve been prepping a bit for them behind the scenes, and now we had an important errand to do at the same time: situating our little friend.

Upon a quick survey of my rocky and/or floody terrain, my daughter and I thought this spot buffered inside a forgotten tire (every Catskills property comes with old tires) might be nice and cozy for him, reminding him of a mini spaceship. But in my vision of this, it needs more of an elevated platform to wait upon. I will cut a circle of wood to fit over the wheel so he can be the star of his own stage—all the better for the hovering mother ship to beam up their lost tike if necessary.

As with all things in my domain, naming is everything. The girls and I don’t speak alien (though I tried along with Amy Adams’ character to decipher some in the outstanding movie Arrival). But we wanted to name him something that might he might actually utter. Not a word we know, but a sound he might. The noise we came up with is “é” which is not pronounced eee so much as ay. Used often in French (resumé or café) it also shows up for various purposes across many languages, befitting his (other)worldliness. It’s become something of a greeting in our household now, to sort of bark or screech a loud é at each other like exotic birds in the wild.

What’s this é exactly? É with this forward flourish is considered an acute accent or e-acute, and it’s own letter in the Latin alphabet. From Wikipedia:

In English, it is used for loanwords (such as French résumé), romanization (Japanese Pokémon) (Balinese Dénpasar, Buléléng) or occasionally as a pronunciation aid in poetry, to indicate stress on an unusual syllable.

Languages may use é to indicate a certain sound (French), stress pattern (Spanish), length (Czech) or tone (Vietnamese), as well as to write loanwords or distinguish identical-sounding words (Dutch). Certain romanization systems such as pinyin (Standard Chinese) also use é for tone. Some languages use the letter only in specific contexts, such as in Indonesian dictionaries.

The full list of languages who use this include: Afrikaans, Balinese, Catalan, Czech/Slovak, Danish/Norwegian/Swedish, Dutch, Emilian, English, French, Galician, Hungarian, Icelandic, Indonesian, Irish, Italian, Javanese, Kashubian, Kurdish, Luxembourgish, Navajo, Occitan, Polish, Portuguese, Romagnol, Russian, Scottish Gaelic, Spanish, standard Chinese/Mandarin (pinyin), Sundanese, Tuareg Berber, Vietnamese, Welsh, Yoruba.

Finally I will get to add the e-acute to someone’s name! I’ve been wanting to do this for 14 years since my second-born Adelie. I wanted to name her officially Adélie but didn’t go as far to insert that accent on her docs. And Adélie, for the penguins of Antarctica named after the wife of the French explorer who discovered them, doesn’t ever use Adélie or even Adelie sadly as she soon just became Addie. Accent back in storage for the next victim.

Then there was the Japanese guy I was dating who became a US citizen. The coolest thing about the naturalization ceremony is it affords you the clean-slate opportunity to determine your own name—whatever you want. I thought his last name, Abe, always mispronounced as one syllable instead instead of the two it was meant to be, might benefit from the accent (and look awesome). But he didn’t choose to become an Abé. Because that’s his call of course. Oh well.

Onto my alien. An actual alien! This is quite literally what everyone should be talking about when they talk about aliens, the refugees of outer space, not our hard-working, family-loving immigrants, contributing to our collective American dream. This alien of mine has no job, no papers. He’s an outcast from a tribe of green, the only one doing his own thing. He can’t speak my language. I have no idea what his intentions are. For all I know he might be a bad hombre, but I don’t think so. At the worst maybe he wants my Reese’s and a phone home.

BIG INDIAN

Strangely he will reside in the area of the Catskills named Big Indian. A name I first met when it revealed itself as a very cartoony and unflattering painting of a Native American with a giant nose on the “Big Indian” firetruck participating in the procession for the Phoenicia 4th of July parade.

How did this name come to be? It’s not that his nose was specifically big but that this Native American himself was supposedly larger than life. From American Catskills:

The historical marker at Big Indian Park provides the context behind the legendary naming of the hamlet:

The hamlet of Big Indian takes its name from an 18th century Native American named “Winnisook,” who was said to be over seven feet in height, strong, well-built, and fearless. Much of the legend surrounding Winnisook’s activities in Ulster County were undoubtedly embellished over the years by local guides and lodging owners seeking to attract visitors to the area with an enticing, romantic tale. However, one fact is certain: the first reference to “Big Indian” as a location was recorded in surveys dating from 1786.

Winnisook, a member of the local tribe called the Munsees of the Lenape Nation, lived in the Marbletown area of Ulster County. There Winnisook fell in love with one Gertrude Molyneaux, the daughter of an early Huguenot settler in the area. However, Gertrude had been betrothed to a Dutch settler by the name of Joseph Bundy, a man said to be of questionable character.

After a brief, unhappy marriage to Bundy, Winnisook succeeded in getting Gertrude to elope with him back to his village and thereafter fathered several children with her.

Several years after this very public humiliation of Bundy, Winnisook led a livestock raiding party against the Dutch farmers in the area, which resulted in a number of their cattle and sheep being driven away by the Indians.

In response a posse was formed, including Bundy, to track down the raiding party. Allegedly, Bundy and company caught up with Winnisook in the area now named Big Indian. It was here that Bundy succeeded in finally getting his revenge by firing the bullet that killed Winnisook.

There are many versions of Winnisook’s death, one more romantic than the next, including stories of a huge oak tree that stood at the crossroads with Winnisook’s enormous outline carved into the bark. One version of the legend is likely true; that upon Winnisook’s death Gertrude moved her family to the area we now call “Big Indian” to be near Winnisook’s grave. Evidence of this can be found in old land title records that carry Gertrude Molyneaux’s family name on land in the Lost Clove valley of Big Indian.

I used to live in Stony Clove, now I can go find this Lost one near my new digs? Even better. And this may be a stretch, but other thematic matters é and Winnisook have in common: aliens, among the many stereotypes they too suffer, have also often been accused of lifting and/or transplanting cows.

My old travel trailer (that stays put) went by the name “RV Winkle” when we lived in that Stony Clove near Mt. Pleasant and the Sleepy Hollow valley in the Catskills mountain region that unbelievably mirrored my own permanent residence in the suburban village of Sleepy Hollow in the town of Mt. Pleasant (and each parallel home to its kinds of Irving connections and stories—from the “Legend” to “Rip Van”). But my new estate lacked an obvious history for me to bestow it with a fitting name. I was waiting for something to stir here. Suddenly it came to us while driving past this marker in the park one mile away. “Little Alien, Big Indian,” eureka!

I will paint this on the wooden sign I have in front of my parking spot in the woods, near my new old RV, the sheds, and the magic treehouse. My alien isn’t so little. Big Indian likely wasn’t so big. Perhaps they could have hung out and exchanged stories of the fears and assumptions to which they are always subjected.

I have planted é on my land pending a small platform on his tire where he can further rust and acclimate and break boundaries should he so choose. May he grow roots here. The possibilities are endless. Already, his little lowercase é with that cute acute has grown to name the land itself, become a friendly greeting between me and my children, made me feel more at home in this strange new territory. Once a rare individual in the Groovy Zoo, then charming mastermind of his own escape, and possible future intergalactic adventurer?

I call é “my” alien, but he isn’t mine to plant, root, domesticate, keep, name. Neither is this really “my” property that I’m squatting on for the time being in a series of “owners,” among the creatures and trees. Someday on a weekend when I return to this woodsy lot to read and toil, é might just be gone, poof, discarding his given name for his true calling while I can only wave to his taillights in the sky.

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