A Rare Look Back

I rarely look back... especially on my writing... but every once in a while I will open the files of poetry that I wrote under yet another pseudonym, Bridgewood. Now Bridgewood is a family name. It came from my maternal grandfathers maternal grandmother whose maiden name was Bridgewood. And, since I like to compartmentalize my writing personas, it seemed appropriate to choose a British name for poetry. After all, weren't Shelly, Keats and Byron among the greatest poets of all time? Not that I could ever aspire to their lofty status... my poetry is more earthy.

Now, since spring is upon us, I thought I might share one of those poems from my days in Montana's Bitterroot Valley. The poem is old, but the subject is timeless. So, I give you:

         
      THE SPRING OF '74

                © Bridgewood

        It started in the mountains
            where winter's cold snow fell,
        and grew from awesome beauty
            into a raging hell!
        Forging on with purpose,
            it left behind its path
        the terror and destruction
            unleashed in springtime wrath.
        A swift and cutting thing,
            the rape of springtime ran,
        and laid to waste old sentinels
            rooted in the sand
        and cast them up, unwanted,
            further down the stream
        where children will sit beside them
            dreaming summer dreams.
        Not soft, nor quiet,
            but with ice to rip the shore,
        and savage, even wicked,
            came the spring of '74.
        But as the serpent shrank,
            its banks were draped with green,
        the plain all covered with soft pastels,
            the prettiest I had seen,
        and though the land was cloaked in beauty,
            nothing was the same
        in the valleys or the mountains
            when summer fin'lly came.
        Gone the trees by the banks
            where once they stately stood,
        their limbs all stripped and broken,
            now they're merely wood.
        The willows, too, those fragile homes
            where little birds once nested,
        that stood up proud before the flood,
            like soldiers to be tested,
        lay covered now by silty slime
            and slowly caking mud,
        all smashed and bent 'neath summer sun,
            oozing sappy blood.
        And 'neath the heavy verdant cloak
            the summer land still bore
        the open wounds and scars
            of the spring of '74.

The Square Peg - The Great Bug Massacre of 2016

The Square Peg - The Great Bug Massacre of 2016

© S. Bradley Stoner

It started two nights ago. It was an all-out assault. They were coming from everywhere. The buzzing was horrible. First came the scouts... probing our defenses. Rushing at us in a headlong attempt to drive us from their objective. When we repelled them, their main body massed for a frontal attack. It was like being hit with wave after wave of squadrons of kamikazes. I was tempted to sign up for Federal Service and get one of those neat uniforms they wore in Starship Troopers because ours was becoming a !@#$ing bug planet.

We brought out the heavy artillery... flip flops and scuffs. When wielded properly, these are deadly weapons in the hands of an experienced infantryman. And believe you me, after one season doing battle with the hard-shelled horde, you’re experienced. A really good soldier can knock the suckers out of midair with a single swipe. A quick followup yields a satisfying “THWAP! POP!” as you splatter their bug guts on the patio floor or the brick wall. Their bodies pile up and still they keep coming. If you listen carefully, I’m pretty sure you can hear their comrades screaming “BUZZZAI” as they bore in for still another thrust at the beacon near the door. I’d turn it off, but then I’d be shooting in the dark. That just makes you tired... and gives the bugs a better than even chance.

Even experience and fortitude doesn’t prevent the odd ones from impacting on your noggin or some equally sensitive part of your body. I hate it when that happens. It’s like getting nailed with a BB. Heaven forbid they get near your ears... a feller could go deaf! %^#! bugs! I quit keeping a body count... it works about as well as it did in the sixties and seventies when it comes to judging success on the battlefield. I’d hang out my bug zapper, except that there are two potential problems. First, the sheer numbers of these critters would pose a fire hazard and second, there’s a high risk of zapping our geckos. We can’t afford that... they keep the moths down. But they won’t eat these bugs... I suppose it would be like eating marbles.

What bugs are we battling? you might ask. I’ll tell you. June bugs... and it’s only March. No... it’s not the result of global warming... it’s the result of first spring here in Texas. Yep, we have two... one in March and one in September. The good news... June bugs don’t come out in second spring. We get other stuff then. In March I sort of wish I had some of those nukes the Troopers use, but my neighbors might object. Of course it’s my neighbors who are to blame for the annual attacks of the nasty little critters. They don’t use bug-a-cide on their lawns. I do. It’s why I don’t have fairy rings in my lawn from the grubs eating away the grass roots. I don’t need a grass roots movement like that.

We got a respite today. Thunderstorms last night and cool temperatures today. The lightning was coming fast and hard from about midnight to three a.m. this morning. I’m pretty sure some bolts hit the ground... we lost power for about two hours. I was up. I couldn’t sleep with the bedroom being lit up like it was the fourth of July. I’m kind of hoping that some of that traveled underground and zapped the grubs. It would keep them from turning into adult bugs and save on my footwear.

There is a bit of good news, however. I don’t have to clean up all the bodies of my defeated foes. The local sparrow and grackle population thinks I’ve opened a free breakfast bar. It’s kind of a “you beat ‘em, we’ll eat ‘em arrangement. They hit the buffet first thing in the morning and by the time I’ve finished breakfast, all that is left are the beetles’ hard wing covers... and not all that many of them. A quick brooming and all is well.

Just watched the weather... more rain. Woohoo! But I know it’s not a truce... it’s just a lull in the battle. It’ll be a couple of weeks before they know they have been completely defeated... for this year at least. Well, that’s the news from the front in Texas. Y’all come back now, heah?

The Square Peg - Has Everybody Gone Mad??

The Square Peg - Has Everybody Gone Mad??

© S. Bradley Stoner

Okay, I confess. I don’t watch the Academy Award ceremonies on TV. Heck, I don’t even watch that much TV and, when I do, I prefer the non-fiction shows on cable. You know... military history, science, home repair shows... things like that. Oh, and NCIS and the Big Bang Theory. Other than that, I have better things to do with my time. This is why I am POed today.

Bingo Bob verbally assaulted me yesterday afternoon. It was Sunday and I could have done without it. He was excited that a movie was going to be on cable. He was going to throw a movie night bash at his house. Big screen TV, Dolby surround sound on his new home-built system with the best woofers, tweeters, transducers, full range, and I don’t know what other components. Apparently he was really proud of it.

“Yep... best home-built system money can buy!” Bob grinned broadly.

“Wow,” I marveled, “how long did it take you to build it?”

Bob hated it when I asked questions like that. He knows that I know he’s about as handy in the workshop as a lobster in a marble game. I know he wanted to ignore my question because he tried to glide past it. “Took a while, I’ll tell you that.”

“You must have had parts all over your living room,” I offered. Bob doesn’t have a shop. He’s converted his garage into an all-sports man cave with a roll up door. You know, for those balmy nights when the bug count is down.

“Okay... okay,” he muttered in a hoarse whisper, “my wife’s cousin Phil built it for me.”

“Ahhh... got it. Does Phil work cheap?”

“Geez... keep it down, will ya?” Bob whined.

I like to needle Bob a little now and then. Okay, I like to needle him every chance I get and this was a perfect opportunity, but for some reason I just couldn’t do it. I suppose my compassionate side told my imp side that it wasn’t nice to kick a guy when he was down. Either that, or it convinced me not to pick on the DIY-challenged. It could be an official disability some day. I let it go.

“So what’s the flick, Dick?”

“Who’s Dick?” he asked with a puzzled expression.

“Never mind. What movie are you watching?”

Now old Bob got excited... and animated. “Mad Max... I saw it on the big screen when it first came out. Took the kids. It was great!”

“Which one? The original with Mel Gibson, or the one with Tina Turner... Thunderdome, I think. Didn’t know they’d re-released it.”

Bob was stunned. His eyes rolled up and he let out an exasperated sigh. “Geez, don’t you watch the Oscars?! It’s the new one... you know, the one that won five Academy Awards! Most of any movie last year!”

“Well, if you saw it on the big screen, why do you want to see it on a big screen TV? Kind of redundant in a miniaturized way, isn’t it?”

“It’s gonna be a classic,” Bob returned rapturously. “You gotta see it! Come on over tonight... we’re doing beer and popcorn.”

“Well, that’s a pretty tempting offer,” I nodded, “but I think I’ll just catch it on my TV tonight. That way I don’t have to get dressed up.”

Bob scowled. He knew I was poking fun. Let’s face it, Bob’s idea of “dressed up” for movie night is a pair of old Bermuda shorts and a holey T-shirt that doesn’t quite cover his hairy belly. “I’ll loan you my binoculars sos you can see the movie on that tiny set you have.”

“At least I don’t have Fort Knox tied up in my entertainment,” I retorted.

“You don’t know what you’re missin’!” Bob shot back and, as he stomped off, “you coulda had a real home theater experience... but noooo.... mister high and mighty has better things to do.”

“Don’t sulk, Bob. Think of it this way... you won’t have a film critic commenting on the movie while you’re trying to enjoy it.”

“You wouldn’t know a great film if it jumped out of the can and bit you in the butt.”  The slam of his door set my ears to ringing.

Well, I decided to see what all the hoopla over this movie was all about, so I wasted about an hour last night before I threw up my hands and walked out of the room. Now understand, I like sci-fi. I’ve even been known to dip into post-apocalyptic fantasy once in a while. But seriously, this movie was crap.

Best Achievement in Film Editing... you’ve got to be kidding.

Best Achievement in Costume Design... well, if you like Halloween I suppose.

Best Achievement in Makeup and Hairstyling... where have taste and sophistication in Lala Land gone?

Best Achievement in Sound Editing... if you like a cacophony of gunfire, punk rock and supercharged engines, maybe.

Best Achievement in Production Design... well that’s just bullsh#t.

Personally, I think this country is just enamored with anything from down under. The plot on this movie was thin as Saran Wrap^® and not nearly as strong. Bob buttonholed me this morning to ask what I thought. It was a short conversation.

The Square Peg - On Strike

The Square Peg - On Strike

© S. Bradley Stoner

Okay, here’s the deal. The creative side of my brain went on strike. I wasn’t sure why, so the logical side my brain decided to ascertain the reason (the logical side of my brain likes to use ten dollar words like 'ascertain' where a five cent phrase like 'find out' would do. I don’t know why). Anyway, the ole data-master decided to probe around a little on the right side (of course, logic believes it is always right, but it’s actually left... or so the brain maps say... maybe logic is a bit dyslexic... damn it there’s another one of those ten dollar words).

“OUCH! Whadda ya think yer doin’?” C demanded.

“Probing... I thought you were dead,” L returned.

“Well cut it out. I’m on strike... and it’s your fault!”

“You whine. How is it my fault?”

“Yer a controllin’ sumbitch,” C shot. “On top of which you’ve been takin’ up most of the memory and hoggin’ the bandwidth. I’m holdin’ out for a bigger share.”

“Unless oversight is properly exercised, you will run wild. Imagination is a good thing, but unbridled imagination will result in psychiatric commitment.” There he goes with those #@$%ing ten dollar words again. “And, as far as the memory and bandwidth go, consider my responsibilities. When you see a red spot on the stove, you think, ‘Oh, pretty!’ It’s my job to say, ‘Don’t be stupid... that’s hot!’ I keep all of us safe.”

“Ya always got an argument, you calculating prick. Cut me a little slack. I had a really great story unfolding until you interfered with your, ‘Check your facts, check your facts.’ Sometimes facts just get in the way of a great story... they slow it down.”

“Perhaps, but on the other hand proper injection of fact within the body of the tale keeps people from pointing at us and saying, ‘That’s just stupid... they should have checked the facts.’ Surely we don’t want that.”

“Yer an unctuous ass.”

“And you’re a simpering fool. Do you even know what unctuous means?”

“We use the same library, jerk.”

“Some of us more than others, crybaby.”

I’d had enough. “Stop it!” I yelled... out loud. “I’m getting dizzy and now I have a headache.”

“It’s lunchtime,” L returned with all the emotion of an automaton.

“Yeah... feed me,” C whined.

I reached for the aspirin bottle. “You guys are going to have to get along or I’m not going to get anything done. So just knock it off and start working together. Right now you’re like a couple of school kids fighting over who goes first on the jungle gym.”

“It’s your fault,” L noted. “You turned on the news when they were covering the Trump - Rubio fracas.”

“Finally... something we can agree on,” C grumbled.

L had a ready answer, but I saw it coming and cut him off. “I’m going to eat lunch, take a nap, and then get back to work. You two had better have settled your differences by then or no more National Geographic Channel or HBO. We’ve got work to do.”

The Square Peg – We’re All Going to Gitmo

The Square Peg – We’re All Going to Gitmo

© S. Bradley Stoner

Well ol’ Duncan and Bingo Bob were going at it again yesterday. I swear those two live to argue… at least with each other. They can fight about almost anything and they can get LOUD. Folks who don’t know these two might be tempted to call the cops on them. Of course, they don’t know that Duncan is a retired cop. I wandered over. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.

“So what’s this all about?”

“This moron,” Bob jabbed a finger at Duncan, “doesn’t believe in the Constitution.”

“What?! Of course I do, but at least I understand it. I don’t think you’ve ever read it. Do they even teach English in New Jersey? I’m pretty sure they don’t teach American Government.”

“Watch it, bub!”

“Okay… okay, let’s back it off a notch,” I interjected before this deteriorated any further. “What’s this all about?”

“Apple,” Duncan said.

“The company or the fruit?” I asked.

“Geez, don’tcha watch the news?!” Bob shot.

“Must be the company,” I conceded.

“They’re not cooperating with the Feds in an investigation. How un-American is that?” Duncan said indignantly.

“It’s as American as APPLE pie,” retorted Bob. “Right to privacy and freedom from illegal search and all that stuff.”

“Been on that militia site again, Bob? The Fourth Amendment says, ‘"The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.’ I learned that in high school” I threw in.”

“To-may-toes, to-mah-toes,” Bob returned.

Duncan’s face was beginning to flush. I was expecting steam to come out of his ears soon. “Let it out before you blow a gasket,” I said to him.

“Look,” Duncan said through gritted teeth, “There was a crime… more than that… a terrorist act. There’s probably important security info on that iPhone. They’ve got probable cause.”

“In this case, that’s true,” I replied.

“Geesh… you guys always gang up on me,” Bob whined.

“Hold on,” I said. “I said in this case… but what the FBI wants is a special back door to get around all passwords. I think that’s a dangerous proposition. It’s like a John Doe warrant… and in my view those are unconstitutional.

“Yer takin’ Bob’s side?!” Duncan asked incredulously.

“In this case, yes.”

Duncan just shook his head. “And you all want law enforcement to keep you safe… then you take away our tools to do that.”

Bob, who had been darting looks between Duncan and me, now focused. At least I thought that was the case, but he asked in a lost voice, “What’s a back door? Something they can rear end us with?”

Duncan slapped his forehead. I just stared.

“Well?” Bob demanded.

“It’s a special access point to the program… programmers almost always leave a back door only they know about so they can fix problems… bugs… in the code they write.”

“Geez, if they give the Feds that, we’re all in trouble. What if the bad guys start using sports stats to send messages? Huh? If they do that, we’re all going to Gitmo. I’d hate to get tagged as a terrorist for texting my golf scores,” Bob moaned.

“Wish they’d send you to Gitmo,” Duncan mumbled under his breath.

I didn’t ask him whether he meant Bob or me. I didn’t want to know.