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A Day in the Life…

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A Day in the Life…

This dull-ass job is crap!

I am nothing but a frigging two-bit automatom, stamping tiny numbers onto white plastic wiring that will find their home on passenger airline jets in their electronic gear, but not before I tediously solder the metal wires inside the white plastic to their connecting joints – all to be approved by swilling quality control coffee drinkers in clean white smocks.

This job is the dull-ass pits!

Why do coffee-break times only go for fifteen minutes and lunch-breaks for thirty. This big-ass aircraft plant is for the shits, man, like a sterile prison where wire-stamping machines like the one I am on, pulling endless white plastic wires through a small fixed eye hole contraption on a long, long bench that goes forever down this interior part of the huge building that is called the sub-assembly Building ‘A’ – yeah, there is a ‘B’, a ‘C’, and a ‘D’…maybe, more.

Oh, and there are the arrogant guys who are referred to as the ‘Union Stewards’ (can you believe this crap?) and they live up to their frigging notoriety. The jerks march up to you while you are working and bark out orders, ‘do this’, ‘do that’, ‘keep your nose clean’, etc. You know what I’m saying here? The assholes are telling us how to breathe and not complain, what to say to the management if we talk to them.

Okay, I am bitter, if you have not gotten that far in this little ring-a-ding I am writing here. I have never ‘til this week worked in this kind of job, a lousy job controlled by a Union. Now, I can understand the rumors, the cold and hardass facts about Unions and big corporations…hey, yeah, it is a free country in which we live, and, hey, if this is your thing, come and get it. It is not for me.

For me, this is only temporary. I am young, just recently graduated from an Electronic Trade School, and this is my first real job of any kind. This is the job the school set-up for me…three hours in this plant and I want to take that bit of paper that I graduated and cram it up someone’s ying-yang at the school. Yeah, I know more about Electronics now, but ‘stamping those stupid white plastic wires! C’mon, it’s for morons, man.

These shifts at the huge jet airline plant affected most of my awake time. (Might have had some nightmares on troubled sleep nights.)

Remember, I was young – twenty-one years of age, so what the hell did I know? I looked at life as being then, as in, ‘NOW’, and I likely figured I was stuck in that horrible environment. To be fair, I am reasonably sure that some people who worked in that ‘Day-and- Night Mare’ perhaps enjoyed the pace the job required.

Yes, young, with some new realities in my life, some devastating to the ego and psyche, not to mention the heart and soul (then, maybe they are all one and the same…but, then, few women and men have lives sustained by all things beautiful, joy, love. peace. Some sorrows must enter at some point, some events that one spends a lifetime trying to understand.

NOTE: This was one of my first jobs after my discharge from the US Navy – before college, before any great transformation to social grace. This is most likely how I could have described the job referenced in the post. Thank God I was not there that long before a much better opportunity came up.

College, the English Poets and an English Major for my BA got my life in a reasonable place…not that life did not have a lot more to offer in way of disappointments, successes, and love. (BRC)

BR Chitwood – May 27, 2020

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©Imagine

Imagine your day beginning with blaring

New orders and bleak sameness…

Imagine new restrictions of a totalitarian

Regime, darkly, rigidly enforced…

Imagine new demands from a deep-state, a

Pledge of allegiance to the ‘Party’…

Imagine night-time curfews with electric

Blackouts and roaming patrols…

Imagine a new History without noble

Heroes and Patriots to honor…

Imagine your country with no borders

And angry demanding mobs…

Imagine the air you breathe filled with

Pestilent and toxic fumes of death…

Imagine no Libraries, no book stores to

Honor loves and happiness of living…

Imagine no memories of our brave millions of

Fallen Heroes Who sacrificed lives in Wars…

Imagine the Bigotry and Hatred in the Minds of

Fools who killed our dreams, Our Freedom and Liberty.

©Imagine

By BR Chitwood

MEMORIAL DAY – May25, 2020

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The Truth of Kay – ‘aka Kate’ –

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©The Truth of Kay

‘AKA Kate’

by BR Chitwood

In a post a few days ago I wrote a post entitiled, ‘A Pimple on Her Cheek’. While the short story was all that I wished it to be, a lingering nostalgia occupied my mind…there was indeed more to that story from a past that will stay active in my oft wandering mind until the end of my time.

There was indeed a beautiful raven-haired lady named, ‘Kate’, her real name was ‘Kay’, an actual name, an actual person, with whom I shared in a past time some happy, sad, confused and affecting weeks and months, drinking the nectar of love which I had never ever really known…

I had just left a marriage and three children after ten swirling years of Appalachian Mind Control, that is to say, a mind unable at the time to catalog and make sense of the world around me, a mind too young to make reasoned choices and decisions, a mind too eager to go to the next moronic level.

With the divorce, I began my odd California wandering. Bakersfield was a favorite spot so I decided to settle there for a while in morose mind-handling, feeling sorry for myself, sipping my cocktails, in and out of sorrow with my thoughts about my beautiful kids, when…

Kay Bruce came into my life, and she was a wonderful elixir to my grieving soul, that prior Appalachian Mind Control thing. Not only was she a needed and wonderful tonic, she was also beautiful, so delightfully English, a smart lady with a refined accent, long dark hair, and a sympathetic cushion for my cluttered head filled with bible belt guilt, remorse, and self-serving melancholy.

Kay and I were together for a time and she pampered me with her love and her good cooking, tried to assuage my mind and soul quakes. We went to nice restaurants, even met the great Hoagy Carmichael’s son, Randy, he a pianist of the first order, and we had a few pal-around weeks…even met his father, Hoagy, at an Airport dinner. Hoagy was between stops.

Beautiful Kay, for whom I did care so much, loved me, fed me her wonderfully prepared meals, and I fear I might have broken her heart. Too unsettled, at a crossroad in my life at which I could not emotionally deal or maturely understand. Hmm, perhaps that is still so.

Beautiful Kay, a singer with a lovely voice, while singing a wistful song of love and loss, all the while sadly and steadily looking at me as I sat solemn at the lounge bar of the nightclub. With tears about to come from a place of pain and poignancy on both our faces, I left the lounge and drove off into the night – where the tears did fall and I felt as small as a man could ever be.

That was the last time I saw the lady of beauty and love, but the haunt of her memory is there in the darkness as I try to sleep with all the crowded days and nights of yesterday.

Beautiful Kay, so many years have passed and yet your memory will never leave me.

I pray your life has found much happiness in it… Shortly after our time together I wrote a ballad for you. Were it possible, I would, together with Randy Carmichael, hop the first Time Machine to where you are, and I would sing it for you.

Here are the words…sing them softly, Kay. Bless you, dear Lady…

©Eyes That Dance

So beautiful the night

So beautiful and bright

So wrapped up in delight

Am I…

With you here near to me

Then heaven cannot be

So very far away,

Just but a kiss away,

Oh, you,

With the eyes that dance.

Eyes that dance,

Put me in a trance,

I don’t stand a chance –

I’m in love with the night

So beautiful,

And, you,

With the eyes that dance.

©by BR Chitwood

May 22. 2020

[Please forgive my huge Romantic, generational leap back!]

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A Pimple on Her Cheek

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A Pimple on Her Cheek

What beauty for the once lonely heart and idle mind to absorb, and, to Karma and its co-workers, thank you for bringing me this gift of the heart and soul – perhaps not the romantic at heart stories one might read about in a book of love clips and poetry, but could easily make those pages.

A major freeway was not the ideal and idyllic storybook place to begin love affairs, and I was one hungry candidate for a love affair with all the fairyland add-ons. Whether it was my fussy and outdated expectations of how an affair of the heart was to begin and guidelines that must be followed to nourish those marvelous moments, I knew when I saw the exasperated lady on the side of the freeway trying to manipulate a flat tire exchange, my initial thought was, ‘I have to help her. There were no ulterior motives to my stopping, knowing there was no appointment I needed to keep. no one waiting for me. My 1:00 o’clock Tucson meeting brought an end to my satisfying day. It was my turn to make another person feel not alone in time of need.

The lady heard me pull in behind her, lifted her body from the pavement, her hand still holding a tire-bolt tool. She cautiously gave me an incipient try for a smile. (She obviously kept abreast of bad news as well as the good news.)

“Please, don’t worry. You seem to need some help…”

She gave a slight showing of some doubt, so I spoke again. “Tell you what: close your trunk lid. Get in your car and lock the doors. I will get your flat tire off and put the new tire on. I will then get in my car and leave. Are you agreeable to that?”

My eyes could have fooled me, but I thought I saw some tear-streaks on her lovely face.

“I’m sorry,” she spoke softly the words , but I heard her. “This is not an occurrence I have experienced, and it is not my intention to be rude.”

“I know, Maam, the world has put up some road-blocks to civility and our people helping each other… I will stand right here while you close the trunk lid and get into your car and lock it. If you get hot in there, turn your motor on and get your air going – it will not take me that long to change your tires. Okay?”

There came a calmness suddenly, and it seemed we both had some sort of kindred acknowledgement. She smiled, “Oh, I’m sorry to be so rude to someone who wishes to help me. Please, thank you, do come and change my tires, and I will be happy to pay you for your good work…”

“No, no, there will not be any fees for my work…I’ll get you on your way before you know it. My name is Curtis Morley. May I ask your name?”

“Katherine Bruce, or, just, Kate, if that’s comfortable for you.”

“Kate is fine. Now, just move away so I can get your tires changed.”

Kate did a barely perceptible dip with her head and seemed now perfectly content with our situation.

We talked while I changed her tires, and it became a most enjoyable span of work and pleasure.

Kate was, of all the occupations in the Phoenix, AZ metroplex a Para Legal for Barnes and Dunlap, a firm with whom I worked occasionally. Talk of odd possibilities, I am an attorney with Morgan and Morley…”

“Oh, my goodness. Do not tell me, but you are just coming from a meeting in Tucson on the Dexter Weeks case? Am I right?”

“I’ll be darn, this is absolutely nut stuff. With all the millions of people in the metroplex and, this chance meeting on Interstate 10…”

There was an easy transference in play here. I stood from my tire changing from time to time, faced Kate, and we talked easily. It had to be the same for Kate as we passed all the detours, all the mud puddles, became electrically fast in our mood shifts…and something else. In those few minutes we came as close as two people can come in such a short period of time.

Our eyes darted here and there as we talked, assessing our bodies, Kate at points lingering a bit long on my hair, just recently culture-cut, the angularity of my face, the hazel of my eyes, my well-built slender physique, kept that way with a multitude of exercises on a weekly basis.

The stunning assessment for me? Kate was absolutely beautiful with a bit of English accent, her skin so smooth to the point of perfection, her long length auburn hair that fell six inches from her shoulders, and her figure was an easy ‘Ten’ by any standard of measurement, visible when she turned and allowed her body to more firmly fit into wonderful nicks and crannies of her pants outfit.

So, with no shock to the readers, we became live-in lovers and have been in that magical place for two years now, with no demons on periphery trying to harm what our good God made perfect.

Well, except for the small pimple crisis on my love’s left cheek.

My life had its imperfections of the skin – a small outbreak of acne in high school that upset me, certainly not to an anxiety level onto which I placed it.

It was not the pimple so much that caused Kate’s nervous spells. She felt it was perhaps an omen of some kind, the first installment of some cataclysmic series of destructive omens in her life.

Now, I did mention she is English and can certainly, in true Anglo-Saxon form and bona fide heritage make cute little mountains out of cute little mole hills. Remember, they were the German inhabitants that arrived in England in the Fifth Century up to the Norman Conquest.

The pimple did not grow larger, but it did develop more talking points for my sweet Kate. The pimple became at its apex white with a red ring around it, then ugly yellow, but she would not let me squeeze it out, even with my teenage experience on the matter.

“Oh, you must truly hate me,” she would exclaim on the bear rug in front of the fireplace on a winter night.

“Oh, sweetheart, how could I ever hate the love of my life? Please, allow me to get a cotton ball, a bit of alcohol, no, no, not from your Manhattan. We will use the rubbing alcohol. I will most gently squeeze out that little white spot of ‘yuck’, put on the spot some soothing disinfectant, my little ‘star’ bandage, with soft kiss on top, and you will be rid of that pimple forever, no more to make home on your beautiful face… and the truth is, I’ve hardly noticed it being there… I’ve a great idea visiting my head – we can make a beauty mark out of that spot. What say you, my darling?”

“I say, ‘I’m cursed, having the man I love look upon me as a sorceress of some awful kind…oh, okay, get the stupid cotton ball, the medicine you plan to use, and put your ‘star bandage’ on the spot. Guess I have made as much hay with that as I can. You do still love me? You said…”

“Forever and any days beyond, my beautiful lady…you sure you don’t want to get married?”

“We can talk about that later. Go get your arsenal of pain and operate.”

“How did I get so lucky to find you on Interstate 10 – out of millions of people in the ‘valley of the sun’, and you chose me. I do so love you.”

“You damned well better…I don’t let just anybody pop my pimples.”

I do hope the readers get it: that my darling and I had such a perfect union she had to practice displeasure more in an artificial and teasing design…it was our way to live within our atavistic tendencies. If it was not ‘a pimple on the cheek’, it would be some other deeply embedded Germanic gift from her history – and we both enjoyed that kind of foreplay rather than actual traits of hate and distrust.

On our third anniversary I talked Kate into a tattooed mauve star for that spot where the pimple had the gall to inhabit for a short stay.

Short Story/Flash Fiction by:

BR Chitwood

©A Pimple on Her Cheek

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Mama’s Madness – Book Review

Here is my Favorite Amazon Review of MAMA’S MADNESS, one of many readers’ descriptive views of a novel inspired by a real ‘Mama from Hell’ – If you have not read this book, up front, it is glaring in its fulfilling the evil displayed by a woman possessed of the devil.

In scouring ‘newspaper articles’ one lazy Sunday on the Sea of Cortez in Rocky Point, Mexico, I ran across this ‘mother’ in Northern California who totally and demonically tortured her children, particularly the three daughters – the boys, not so much. She murdered two of the daughters, transporting them to the high Sierras, placing their bodies inside cardboard boxes, and setting them afire…

The writing of the monstrocities of this mother from hell was paused from time to time for tears to drop on the laptop keys, so ugly, so far from any modern-day reality I had known, but I wrote it because the world needed to know that monsters lived among us (and, sure, I’m an author and wanted to write a ‘best seller’), that parents should be wary at all times, at the park, on school grounds, at home, anywhere their children and/or other children might play.

Of all the great reviews recorded on Amazon, the following review I single out here because it thrills me that someone likes my ‘writing’ that he would submit such an awesome book review. The reasons are obvious: the encouragement to continue my writing, that there are eager readers of well-written prose and poetry awaiting another book of comparable quality.

My endearing ‘thank you’ to John Howell, fellow author and genuine wordsmith…

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Here is John Howell’s 5-Star book review of the book, MAMA’S MADNESS…

So Well Written
By John W. Howell on July 8, 2018
Format: Kindle Edition

Mama’s madness is a work of fiction, but according to the author Billy Ray Chitwood, there are some inspirations from actual criminal behavior. This is a story about the meanest, lowlife, straight razor totin’ woman named Tamatha Preen. She is the mother of six kids and the ex-wife of four husbands.
Although this seems a little abnormal in everyday life, compared to mama’s proclivities having four husbands is normal in comparison. Let’s say mama has some problems and as you can guess the children are the ones who bear the brunt of her mental issues. To describe any of the abusive behaviors would be courting spoilers, so I’m just going to summarize by saying mama is evil.

The writing in this story is so good the reader feels like a transportation into the scenes has taken place. The descriptions of people, places, and events are jaw-droppingly beautiful. Mr. Chitwood has been blessed with a golden pen (or keyboard). He can show the reader all the sights, sounds, and smells of each scene through a tapestry that only can be woven by a perfectionist literary genius. I think that pretty much describes Billy Ray Chitwood. He has honed his writing art, and there is no more exquisite example of the resulting output than this book. I would recommend Mama’s madness to anyone who enjoys a deeply disturbing story told effectively and with great taste.
*****

BR Chitwood – May 17, 2020

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Stealth of Solitude

By BR Chitwood

These moments come

Where solitude settles

Softly, sweetly serene

Upon the selfless air.

In this quaint quietude

Along passive trails

The thoughts tumble

In silent speculation,

Memory peacefully pulses

With long ago reverie

Of loves and memories –

Treasures lost to time.

Slowly, a silent smile

Wistful in its pose

Is joined by tears in

Slow and tender descent.

Then, a distant doorbell ring,

Stealing these moments,

Displacing this golden,

Tender Cache from me.

Time, relentless, constant,

Bringing dreams and joy,

Capriciously at its pleasure

Giving and taking away…

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The Essence of Faith

The freshly painted clapboard church sat near a small creek, its white purity glorified by the neatly trimmed hedges surrounding it and the smell of newly mowed grass. The four big oak trees on the church property added a symmetrical elegance to the pastoral scene. Four Oaks Baptist Church, lined up in a photographer’s lens or portrayed on the painter’s canvas, would present a nostalgic and peaceful essence of faith and Americana.

It was a special Sunday morning with clear skies and a happy sun washed all that it touched with spring freshness and sparkle. There were few cars parked along the country lane as most of the congregation and visitors came on foot to Four Oaks, and today the numbers in attendance would break all records… It was indeed a very special Sunday. One member of the congregation had just returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan.

Jimmy Chadwick was fourteen years old when he was baptized in the Four Oaks Baptist Church. He attended elementary and high school in the county school system, played his basketball and football here, married his homecoming queen sweetheart in this prosaic place of worship. Jimmy worked on his family’s farm, plowed fields for barley, wheat, hoed the endless corn rows, and worked on the side for the county’s agricultural cooperative. Jimmy sowed some of his personal oats, played some petty pranks and even tried at times some bitter brews of John Barleycorn. In the total tally of Jimmy Chadwick he was a happy kid, a generous, kind adult, and a near-wholesome human being.

Jimmy Chadwick’s real claim to county fame came not on a football field or basketball court at home but on dreary sand and scrub in the distant country of Afghanistan. Jimmy, a marine, was stationed in Helmand Province at a USMC installation where aircraft hangars housed Harrier Jets. One quiet and sweltering night, a group of Taliban fighters dressed in US military uniforms penetrated the perimeter of the camp, killed two US service men, and destroyed a number of Harrier jets with explosives and rocket-propelled grenades. With only his pistol, Jimmy led an attack against the infiltrators and eventually all of the insurgents were either killed or captured.

By the time the Sunday service began, The Four Oaks Baptist Church was filled beyond its capacity for seating. The walls were lined with the simple and sweet inhabitants of the Four Oaks hamlet plus residents of the other nearby settlements. A virtual silence fell upon all those congregated there. Only occasional sobs and soft moans were heard. The preacher stepped to the pulpit and spoke:

Today we welcome home one of our own, Jimmy Chadwick, a young fellow we knew as a freckle-faced kid pulling the pigtails of giggling girls, a handsome lad always with a smile and the rough hard hands of a farm worker. We knew him as the young fellow who usually got the touchdown to win us a football game or a final-second dunk to win the basketball game. We knew Jimmy as a prankster, a devoted son, an honest and good man… So, welcome home, Jimmy. We love you and we are proud of you.

Let me just say that here in this little corner of the world our simple ways will not match the world’s big cities’ glamour and glare, their hectic ways and their belief systems that vary from our own. We hear and read about those who don’t believe in God and in the man, Jesus, who came among us, gave us some spiritual wisdom to live by, and died a cruel death for our sins. Today we see the book of Revelations coming to pass: we have wars and rumors of wars; we have the atrocities of history repeating themselves; we have nuclear weaponry that can annihilate civilization; we have miracle machines that can do so much good but can also wreak havoc upon us; we have enough people enraged by the Satan that runs loose inside of them who are too eager to smite their brothers and sisters; we seem not to have enough time to help and provide for those who truly need our help… We live in a perilous time, a time when a man, woman, and child can only deal with the darkness of the world with the hallowed light of faith. If not faith, if not a belief that transcends these ugly truths, that these mountains we gaze upon, these prairies, these oceans, seas, and desert are there by another’s hand and not our own… If not faith, what can we conclude from the pendulum swings of our lives? That we live but for the folly of a piece of gold and the dark pleasures that can only in the end seduce and leave us wantonly scarred? If not faith, why is there the warmth of sunshine? Why the evening stars upon which to wish? Why the meticulous nine months ritual of our births? Why the love and unity of family upon which to persevere?

Today, here in our little corner of the world, we welcome home our heroic son and brother who went to a foreign land because his nation called upon him, a man who wore his faith proudly and served his country with courage and valor.

May the sobs and tears of this congregation convey not only the sadness of his passing but a joyful recognition of our faith that Jimmy Chadwick has truly gone Home.

Let us pray…

Flash fiction by Billy Ray Chitwood – From my Archives

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‘Be Quiet, My Mind’

Even as a kid, long into the night, my mind played its ‘Tag Games’, giving me heroic moments, gallant thought-episodes, knight-like and noble – always, where I ruled the day, saved the damsel, fought the bullies and monsters of the world, and, guess what? Here, in ‘Twilight’, the mind still does not let the soft zephyr of sleep settle over me for a peaceful rest. It is for the most part a grand Annoyance, a deprivation of healthful refreshment.

As the night moments tick away, the thought patterns can change to Muse Moments, where poetic clusters come to me, urging me to rise, open the laptop, and capture some of these dulcet phrases for posterity, or, for self-glorification, or, sadness, fed by memories that might also bring unbidden tears to fall.

So, I rise, splash cold water on my face, retire to my comfortable chair in the living room, and open the ‘escape hatch’, the laptop, the sometime tech-wonder that I want to bash to ‘smithereens’ with a sledge-hammer – whatever the hell ‘smithereens’ might mean…ah, a ‘fragment’ as I check my dictionary… that would have bothered me all day had I not figured out why I was using that word… 😊

All those poetic dulcet phrases for posterity have gone AWOL on me since my rising…and you would have so enjoyed them. Darn, what’s a would-be poet to do? (Another reminder to keep a writing pad on the bedside table.)

In lieu of giving ‘my few post-regulars’ a hopefully titillating ‘run-on poem’, I’m left with this droll, sportive ‘spread of words’…

(Oh, please do not take my few ‘post-regulars’ comment offensively—I’m not visiting the blog sites I follow because of an ‘energy-factor’: by that, I mean, I’m writing another book and, hopefully, another after the present M/S is completed, and, while the juices still flow for ‘writing’, that is all I do – for as long I am allowed, and, in doing so, I’m not getting as many visitors to my blog posts as I would like, BUT, certainly, I do understand the non-visitors…why would others visit my blog when I’m not visiting their blogs? A ‘quid pro quo’ thing, and, as it should be… AND, I do thank so much those of you who do check out my posts on a regular basis. While on this long parenthetical ‘thesis’, my book sales records are not the stuff of which I’m proud, but it is somehow important for me to write at this point in my life. The books I write are good, he says with all modesty, and should have many more readers. It is my poor attempts at marketing and my ‘penny-pinching’ ways, I dare say. Suffice it, Writing is therapy for me… Quite enough on the subject, I suspect.)

Next post, I shall make it up to you loyal followers of my writing…again, thank you so much for keeping me writing. You are so much appreciated and warmly in my thoughts.

BR Chitwood – March 16, 2020

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