Crop Circles in Greenbriar

by Kent Pettit

Author’s note: Some stories stay with you—not because they’re dramatic or life-changing, but because they’re perfectly weird, a little spooky, and downright hilarious in hindsight. This is a story about friendship, childhood imagination, and small-town legends that only get funnier the older you get.

Dedicated to Todd & Melissa Patterson, and In Loving Memory of Uncle Jack & Aunt Lynda Pettigrew

My boyhood home of Jennings County, Indiana, boasts some pretty cool paranormal legends—like the Crosley Monster, Bloody Mary, and the Farmer Ghost down in Old Paris. But there’s one incident that’s never gotten much press: the time North Vernon’s ritzy Greenbriar Estates might have been visited by extraterrestrials.

IU Fans, Cars, and Carpet Cleaners

Todd Patterson was the most loyal and considerate friend a person could ask for. When we were kids, we did just about everything together. We’d known each other practically our whole lives. I haven’t seen him in 30 years, but I still count him as one of my dearest friends.

Todd was thick-set, but taller than the kind of kid who usually got called that. He was physically strong and a decent athlete. But where he really stood out was in his obsessions—especially cars. To this day, I’m amazed by his encyclopedic knowledge of every make and model on the road. The only person I’ve ever known who even comes close is my son.

His parents, Rick and Barbara, ran a carpet and upholstery cleaning business. Rick handled homes and businesses, while Barbara focused on detailing cars—inside and out—in what they called “the shop.” It was a clean, elaborate setup: a well-kept basement and a big garage below a nice apartment on Park Avenue, down on the south side of North Vernon.

Rick was quiet and mostly kept to himself, but I’ve never known a bigger fan of Indiana University basketball. Actually, I’m not sure I’ve ever known a bigger fan of any team in any sport. Unless he was on the job, I don’t think I ever saw him not wearing some shade of cream or crimson. On their living room shelf, alongside the other VHS tapes, was one simply labeled: “Indiana 74 Syracuse 73.” It was a recording of the 1987 NCAA championship game—taped off TV, back in the days when we all used VCRs and those rectangular stickers that fit perfectly on the side of the tape.

Rick was known to occasionally skip church to watch The Bob Knight Show. And who could blame him? Why WTTV Channel 4 out of Indianapolis aired it at a time when half the state was sitting in a pew is beyond me. Back then, it had to be the most popular show produced in Indiana—you were guaranteed both entertainment and instruction.

Barbara was a bit more outgoing, and she’s the one I interacted with most. Todd, his younger brother Trevor, and I would often hang around the shop while she washed cars. Trevor was about four years younger than Todd and built just like him. He loved to laugh and horse around. Todd got annoyed when Trevor tried to tag along, but I always thought he was funny—and honestly, kind of a good time.

Barbara kept a little TV on a high shelf in the garage, usually tuned to Live with Regis and Kathie Lee. Her family was from Bigger Township and had deep roots with the Pettits. Her dad, George Smith, died when she was very young. Her mother, Betty, struck me as a really neat lady, but she passed away when Todd and I were in kindergarten. Betty’s older brother, Olin Estell, was married to my Grandpa Dale Pettit’s sister, Aunt Marilyn—so Todd and I actually shared an aunt, uncle, and cousins.

The White House

At the time, the Pattersons lived in Greenbriar Estates—the nicest, most expensive neighborhood in town. Greenbriar sat less than a mile east of Highways 7 and 3 (which run together through town as State Street). It was just over the hill and a short walk through the woods from Roger Lane, home of my Great-Grandma Pettit—and the legendary Bobbi Morin.

The Pattersons lived in a big white house with columns. Back then, I thought it was the very picture of prestige. Todd and I even called it “the White House.” It reminded me of one of those grand antebellum homes down South. About 15 years ago, I drove through Greenbriar and realized—it didn’t really look like that at all. But as a kid, I was convinced it was a stately mansion.

Greenbriar’s Finest

I don’t remember everyone who lived in Greenbriar back then, but I do remember a few who lived near the Pattersons: the Mackays, the Brights, the Pettigrews, and the Lees.

Lester Lee was the richest man in town. His house actually was a mansion—tucked into the farthest part of Greenbriar, in a whole section that felt like it belonged just to him. Nevan Hooker—who some of you may know—considered moving back to North Vernon a few years ago and toured the Lee compound when it went up for sale. He sent me a link with photos. The wood-paneled library looked like something straight out of an English country house. I was stunned that such a thing existed in North Vernon…and, I’ll admit it, a little jealous.

The Lees had their hands in multiple ventures, both domestic and international. Lester started out as a successful real estate broker and expanded from there—into a small regional hotel chain, a concrete company, and even an interior design firm based right here in St. Louis, Missouri. No doubt about it—they were successful. And from what I could tell, they seemed like pleasant enough people.

Looking back, I think it was a little ridiculous how some folks practically bowed the knee to the Lees. I suppose it’s human nature to venerate fame and fortune—especially in a small town, where success on that scale feels almost mythical. Still, it always struck me as funny how people would brag about their “connections” to the Lees.

I remember being at a Jennings County High School basketball game around the time this story takes place. There was an old geezer sitting nearby, and when Lester Lee passed by and said hello, the guy got so excited I thought he might salute, swoon, or wet his pants—maybe all three.

Yes, Lester Lee was the richest man in town—but the nicest was Uncle Jack Pettigrew. He was the older brother of my maternal grandma, Martha Simpson. The two of them were part of a family of thirteen children and grew up in real poverty and hardship. While other folks were getting TVs, the Pettigrews were just getting electricity.

But over time, Uncle Jack overcame every disadvantage and went on to build Pettigrew Construction—a business that thrived until his retirement. His success came from talent and hard work, without question. But I think it also came from something rarer: sheer goodness.

Uncle Jack’s place was the best spot in town for trick-or-treating. Out in the countryside, the champions were Lida Webster and Helen Littrell—both known to hand out multiple chocolate bars, smaller candies, apples, a can of pop, and a dollar bill. And yes, you got all of it. You couldn’t beat them out in the county, but in town, you always wanted to make sure you hit up Uncle Jack’s house. Most years, we did both.

His wife, Aunt Lynda, was just as kind—and deeply involved in local charities. Now that they’re both gone, I wish I had spent more time with them and known them better.

The Brights were good people, too. John Bright was the brother of Rick Bright—the KFC mogul. His wife was especially kind, the sort of person you could tell was decent within five seconds. They had two kids: an older daughter I didn’t really know, and a son named Johnny.

Johnny always seemed like a nice kid. We weren’t friends, but every time I talked to him, he was polite and friendly. Todd once told me there were rumors Johnny played pranks on the neighbors’ mailboxes—but I don’t know that anything was ever proven.

The Mackays were a friendly couple from the Deep South with two kids: a daughter I didn’t know, and a younger son named Craig, who I’d only ever exchanged a hello or two with. Both Jim and Lucy Mackay were teachers—Jim taught at the high school, and Lucy was a first-grade teacher at North Vernon Elementary.

She wasn’t my teacher, but she once complained to mine about how loud I was. When I got called out for it, I remember thinking: Says the woman who could’ve taught from across the street. But I guess teachers get to be loud, and students are supposed to be quiet.

The Maiden of Greenbriar

A cute little freckled girl named Katie Crane lived down the hill, near the entrance to Greenbriar. Her family had moved to town from Michigan about a year earlier. Whenever I was at Todd’s house, I always hoped Katie might walk by—or that she’d be outside if we passed by her place.

Todd sometimes called her “The Crane,” but not me. I didn’t think a maiden so fair should be referred to so casually.

I remember her mom—an attractive woman herself—once chaperoned a class field trip. I made my way over to chat her up, because even back then, I seemed to understand the value of “getting in good with the parents.”

And my goodness, a poor country boy like me trying to impress a rich Greenbriar girl? I was going to need all the help I could get. Unfortunately, the words didn’t come. And the ones that did? I tripped over them. The whole thing turned into a painfully awkward moment—for both of us, I think.

Thankfully, Todd came to my rescue, smoothly taking over the conversation and chatting with Mrs. Crane about their shared neighborhood—like some kind of ten-year-old diplomat.

Something in the Grass

We were in fifth grade when this story takes place. One afternoon, Todd and I were standing in the yard when we noticed a strange circle—perfectly round, about eight feet across. The grass inside it was faded and dead-looking. The boundary line was sharp—no slow fade or patchy discoloration. On one side, the grass was green and healthy; on the other, brown and brittle.

Unlike the crop circles you see in England, there were no cryptic designs or symbols. But still—we were stumped.

By the next morning, a second circle had appeared in the yard. Apparently, the Pattersons weren’t the only ones affected—Barbara had already heard talk of other sightings in their section of Greenbriar.

She could now safely tell the neighbors that the “White House lawn” had officially been invaded. At least two other households had them, and I think one had even popped up in Uncle Jack’s yard.

I don’t think any circles showed up near the Lee compound. Lord knows there was plenty of room back there for alien ships to land—or for pranksters to stage something elaborate. But Lester probably had the means to shoot down both.

Either way, there were now enough circles—and enough people who’d seen them—for confusion to spread like wildfire.

In total, there were about five of these strange circles—and they all seemed to appear overnight. People would step outside to grab the morning paper or head to their car for work, only to find a perfect ring in the yard that hadn’t been there the night before.

No one had an explanation.

One theory I heard was that the crop circles had something to do with septic tanks. But I always figured the fanciest neighborhood in town would’ve been on city sewer, not septic. Plus, I remember one of the neighbors dismissing that idea—though I couldn’t tell you why.

Beyond that, I don’t remember anyone offering any other explanation.

Armed and Alert in the White House

I stayed over at the White House the same night the second circle appeared. By then, I’d seen them with my own eyes and overheard Barbara talking with the neighbors about it. Evening was falling fast, and I was good and creeped out.

I think Todd was, too.

We were loyal, weekly viewers of the NBC documentary series Unsolved Mysteries, hosted by the great Robert Stack. In addition to crimes and disappearances, the show regularly explored paranormal phenomena.

The morning after an episode, we’d come to school ready to debrief—especially if there had been ghosts, cryptids, or UFOs. Robert Stack delivered a steady diet of all three, and always with that voice that made everything sound like the ghost was standing right behind you.

To this day, old Unsolved Mysteries episodes creep me out more than most horror movies.

The night I stayed over, Todd’s parents were gone. We already knew all about the crop circle phenomenon—and its connection to UFOs—thanks to Unsolved Mysteries, which aired two separate episodes on the topic in 1990, one in January and one in September.

The Greenbriar circles were smaller than the ones on TV, sure—but to us, that just meant these particular aliens travelled in smaller ships.

And we knew there was a good chance a third circle might show up by morning. It would be made by something, and it would happen at some point. That was enough for us. We decided we’d better arm ourselves, just in case the aliens tried to come into the house.

So we camped out in the White House den—two perfect, weird circles just outside, and a few more within a stone’s throw. We dimmed the lights and turned down the TV. Each of us had grabbed a baseball bat.

Todd sat in the recliner with his bat propped up against the arm. I was on the couch across from him, my hand never far from mine. We sat there, tense—every little sound made us jump, our hands inching closer to the bats. We kept looking at each other like, Did you hear that? But no one said a word.

Bats, Bravery, and False Alarms

And then—we heard something. Louder. Stranger. Before I could say a word, Todd grabbed his bat and sprang from the recliner. I followed close behind, weapon in hand. We tore through the kitchen and out to the garage.

With every step, I got a little braver. Somewhere down that hill was Katie Crane, and I was not about to wimp out. A battle against intergalactic invaders might be just the thing to catch her attention—and she had to see me victorious, bat in hand.

Or better yet, maybe the aliens were landing on the Cranes’ lawn. Maybe I’d rescue her. Maybe it would make Unsolved Mysteries. And maybe—just maybe—Robert Stack himself would be the one to tell our story.

But when we got to the garage and stepped outside—nothing. Just porch lights and Greenbriar neighbors living their normal lives. Someone was even walking their dog past the White House.

We went back to the den, relieved…but a little let down that the excitement was over.

This Was No Crosley Monster

Looking back, I doubt anything paranormal was really going on. Since then, I’ve never put much stock in crop circles, and they’ve never struck me as especially strong evidence of extraterrestrial life. But for what it’s worth, no one in Greenbriar ever offered a solid explanation, either. As far as I know, the whole thing got shrugged off and quietly forgotten.

I’m glad aliens probably never visited North Vernon. But if it was the septic tanks…then I owe the aliens an apology.

What I regret most, though, is that Todd and I never got to flex our fighting skills.

And worse—I never got the chance to rescue Katie Crane from aliens, or anything else. I haven’t seen her in over 30 years, but I can only hope she’s managed to fend off abduction on her own.