July 6, 2018
Dear Mother and Father,
It doesn’t seem possible that it has been two whole days since I joined the Massachusetts Blues. I am struggling to survive the privation being endured by the hundreds of recruits gathered on Boston Common. There is no WIFI to speak of, so many of us are scrambling to find pen and paper in order to write, only to find out that no one brought any stamps; indeed some of the younger members have no recollection of ever mailing a letter. We are also facing a crisis situation regarding our supply of coffee. It seems the Trumpite Regime has placed a heavy tariff on coffee imported from what they term as ‘sh*thole’ countries, so Starbucks is reduced to rationing our lattes and Frappuccinos. There is a rumor floating around camp that a FEDEX plane crammed full of coffee beans from Guatemala has landed at Logan Airport. If that is true, then I expect we will receive orders to load up our fleet of Prius’, drive to Logan, and commandeer that plane. I only hope that it isn’t during rush hour on I-93.
Well, I must sign off for now. Some of the fellows discovered where the Sam Adams brewery is located, and we’re off to enjoy some patriotic ale.
Your war ravaged son,
PB
July 7, 2018
Dear Mother and Father,
Loads of excitement to tell you about. Last night we were sitting by the Robert Gould Shaw statue watching the movie Glory on a widescreen TV donated by the Sam Adams Brewery (I imagine because we spend a lot of money there). The fellows were in a contented state of mind, munching away on white cheddar popcorn, and Junior Mints when one of the regimental Prius’ came racing into the compound, the driver, his head out of the window screaming, “The Red Hats are coming! The Red Hats are coming!” Our commander, Colonel Juan Montalvan (the title is honorary, he’s actually an IT professional) announced that the foe has been spotted setting up camp at the other end of the Common, and that we should get some sleep as there will be an early start the next morning when we will confront the opposition on the battlefield.
Reveille blasted out of the loud speaker at the unholy hour of 9:00, the sound of Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth, interrupting pleasant dreams, and rousing the regiment into action. The troops were dressed in an assortment of L.L. Bean polo shirts and khakis, their feet shod in Birkenstock sandals or Earth Shoes, and after a hurried breakfast of Au Bon Pain pastries, gathered to hear the plan for the battle to come.
The Colonel split our company into two groups and placed me in command of the group heading to confront the Red Hats across the Common at Frog Pond, while he led the other half on the raid to free the Guatemalan coffee at Logan Airport. My cohort of 24 placard carrying soldiers of the Massachusetts Blues sauntered at double time, the dew covered grass soon soaking through Birkenstocks making the march a dreary, torturous affair. Some of the fellows had worn socks with their sandals and were now especially affected by the added weight and discomfort of wet cotton.
Upon reaching the pond I formed my troop in a three row deep placard-shield wall at the edge of the pond facing our foes on the other side. There were 20 of them, an unruly, ill-disciplined looking group who unlike the ordered formation of the Blues, acted like individual berserkers racing forward waving their placards, often ungrammatical, and certainly vile, shouting abuse at us or praise of Trump. Our frontline buckled at the onslaught causing the second and third rows to push back. Due to the lack of rain lately, the pond was shallower than normal, and very muddy along the shore. Many in the frontline as they were pushed forward became stuck in the mud, sinking in some cases up to their shins. Two of the unfortunates fell face first into the muck. The men in the second row rushed forward to plug the holes in the line while the third line grabbed the poor muddied wounded and got them to the rear.
The roar of a Chevy Silverado came out from behind the Soldiers and Sailors Monument leading a flanking attack of another 20 Red Hats. In the bed of the pickup sat a loud speaker blaring music by Toby Keith. I rallied what was left of the first line joining them with the third line and had them brace for the flank attack. I then grabbed the least muddy of the injured and sent him running back to camp to fetch our loud speaker. I could only hope our artillery piece would get to the battle in time.
July 8,2018
The Battle for Frog Pond – continued
The exhausted Blues fought on bravely, shouting witty left wing slogans to combat the patriotic overtures of Toby Keith, et. al. Then, the Red Hats switched to Kid Rock, sending a wave of nausea inducing music to bombard and confuse the Blues. The shield wall began to buckle; a few of the already mud-wounded fell to the ground, gazing in horror at the devastation to their Birkenstocks and their ruined pedicures. It wouldn’t take much more to stampede the Blues into ignominious retreat. I turned when I felt the arrival of our Prius; the loudspeaker mounted on the roof. I yelled to the driver, “Monster chorus!” Seconds later the beatific voice of John Kay and Steppenwolf were lamenting, “America, where are you now? Don’t you care about your sons and daughters?” Kid Rock and the Red Hats were stunned; their advance halted but not broken.
The next few minutes were the most exhilarating of my life. The Red Hats, knowing they needed just one more surge to send the Blues running, switched from Kid Rock to their heavy caliber weaponry – Ted Nugent. As soon as I heard that maleficent voice and the screeching Cat Scratch Fever, I near panicked. My troops were falling, staggering backwards, the battle was lost. I then heard a voice screaming, “Jimi! Rockets red glare.” I glanced around to see who spoke but saw no one. The Prius driver heard it too and queued up the best version of The Star Spangled Banner ever recorded, then at full volume turned it on at the spot where Jimi is rockets red glaring and bombs bursting in air. The Red Hats threw down their placards and bull horns and ran. The Ted Nugent playing Silverado started shaking, and in a shower of sparks and smoke the loud speaker exploded.
One by one the Red Hat’s fleet of Chevy Silverado’s, Ford F-250’s, and Dodge Ram’s sped off toward the Mass Pike. The Blues were victorious; the field was ours. I was filled with pride, not in myself; I will let the historians drone on about my masterful battlefield leadership, and the historical-fiction writers to embellish it with so much hyperbole that it will rival Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar or Chamberlain’s on Little Round Top, but in the fellows who withstood the best the Red Hats could throw against them. I told the Prius driver to do a quick follow up on the Red Hat’s retreating pickup convoy and then report to the Colonel about our victory. It was then I came face to face with the stark reality of the cost of that victory. Of the 24 Blues that I led to Frog Pond, 11 of them were now causalities of war; many of them would never be able to wear Birkenstock footwear again, the painful memory of the mud, so thick and malodorous, would render them incapable of ever seeing them in any other way let alone donning them upon their feet. There were also cases of pulled muscles, the strain on hamstrings more used to sitting for hours in front of computer displays; the weight of the placards and bull horns too much for shoulders and backs to bear. An emergency medical situation faced us, our supply of Icy Hot and Ibuprofen having been accidentally taken by the Colonel on his Logan Airport mission.
The long march back to camp, under a merciless sun was ¼ of a mile of sheer torment punctuated by cries of anguish as the mud-wounded, and muscle strained troops limped back or were carried by the more fortunate among us. We were surprised, upon arrival, by the fact that the Colonel and his men had not yet returned from the Guatemalan coffee rescue. It probably would have been the right military decision to send out a search party, but sometimes leadership is more than going by the book. So instead of a search party my troop boarded the remaining Prius’ and headed to Sam Adams.
July 9, 2018
Dear Mother and Father,
The morning after the battle, the painful, traumatic memories receded a bit, replaced with painful, throbbing hangovers. Only our sense of smell gave rise to any hope for relief. The colonel and his troop returned during the early morning hours bringing with them sack upon sack of Guatemala’s finest, and two portable roasters that were now turning those green beans into light and dark roasts. The aroma was almost enough to allow me to fully open my eyes in the bright morning sun; after my first cup I was ready to dance a jig.
It turns out that the mission was delayed because of those two ever present maladies that snarl and befuddle travelers and commuters – Boston traffic, and perpetual road construction. Fortunately, the colonel had dispatched two of his men, armed only with MAGA hats, to take the subway to the airport, and scout out the FEDEX terminal.
Now by armed, and I should be clear about this as there might be future implications from The Hague, the two scouts were also carrying concealed weaponry, that although legal in the state of Massachusetts, would, if discovered, trigger a nasty response from the U.S. Attorney General. However, if successful, the two Red Hats guarding the warehouse would be in a state of blissful compliance when the Prius convoy arrived, having been subdued by the gentle ministrations of a smoked doobie.
When the colonel arrived on the scene, he was able to convince the two dedicated Red Hats that the President was arriving at Concourse A, and that they were needed there for a meet and greet with him. That certainly got their attention, but it was when he mentioned the all you can eat buffet that got them moving. The warehouse was now in our possession, the sacks of coffee neatly stacked on pallets. There was also a set of instructions for the guards in case of an attack – dump the coffee sacks in the bay. So, in a sense, it was because of a doobie that we did not have a repeat of the Boston Tea Party, and are now able to enjoy freshly roasted, freshly brewed coffee this morning. A morning to reflect on our successes, and to mourn our lost or ruined Birkenstocks. I do not know where the Massachusetts Blues will be sent next, but I do know that like our Minuteman forebears, we will be ready.
From the front,
PB
Wit,Wisdom and a Wandering Mind 