South of Somewhere 2006 © Stephen Bruno, Pyramid Lake Paiute Tribe Reservation, Sutcliffe, Nevada
South Of Somewhere
South of somewhere
Searching for someplace
Drawing me closer somehow
I found the elixir of something
© 2007 Stephen Bruno
After an extensive evaluation process including submission of my writing style and photography ability, I received an email today that I am now one of their freelance contributors & photojournalist for Western Colorado’s leading monthly news magazine for adults 50 and older with over 50,000 readers each month.
My first paid job was in high school taking action photographs of county-wide high school sports events and writing an accompanying brief news report for a large newspaper.
I am currently editing several fiction and nonfiction books and a coffee table photography book with 2020 as the publishing date.
Since I was drafted out of college at the height of the Vietnam War which deterred me from my journalism major, this Freelance Contributor & Photojournalist brings me back full circle to my first passion.
Early Writer – I was writing short stories on an old Underwood typewriter by the time I was four years old. In junior high school, I wrote two plays, Old Glory and Adelante! I was asked to have these play presented to the student body while given some director responsibility.
Avid Reader – I began reading at a very young age. Throughout elementary school, I read novels in class and ditched school to spend hours at the library near my home.
Editor in Chief – I was the editor of both my high school and college newspaper.
Rebel – I created and wrote articles and satire for an ‘underground’ newspaper I had the U.S. Army distribute in Vietnam during my fourteen-month tour of duty. I was nearly court marshaled and ordered to stop after two issues.
Columnist – For several years, I wrote a weekly Southern California newspaper column on diverse subjects.
Magazine Publisher & Editor – I published and edited a monthly literary, photography, and art magazine for several years.
Writers’ Conference Director – I organized and directed two national writers’ conferences in Oregon and Washington.
Writers’ Group & Workshop Instructor – I created and taught numerous writers’ groups and workshops, resulting in publication for some participants.
Daddy, why are there names on the wall?
They are Americans killed during the Vietnam War.
Daddy, why do the people touch the wall?
To touch the wall is to touch the dead.
Daddy, why are the people crying?
The dead are touching them back.
© 1989 Stephen Bruno
I wrote this poem at the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C., on Veteran’s Day 1989 during my first and most significant visit. I watched many people at the Wall tracing names, touching names, and staring off in reflection. After experiencing the same for myself as a Vietnam Veteran, I wrote this poem at 3 AM. I pictured my daughter, Kelly, as the child asking the questions.
Blessings to all of the veterans of all wars, their families and loved ones, MIAs, and the ones who gave their lives.
Years ago, when I lived in the mountains in Southern California, I owned a house in an area called the Valley of Enchantment. It certainly was enchanting for my Miniature Dachshund companion, Quincy. You may have previously read my blog posts about Quincy and his adventures, and by popular request, I am sharing another of his true tale.
The two-story structure had a wood deck that looked out the back door and wrapped around one side of the house above the basement, leading to stairs that climbed to the street where my vehicle was parked.
One cold crisp, cloudy winter afternoon, I observed Quincy beginning his “morning constitutional” along the deck on the way to the stairs when he suddenly stopped and looked up towards the driveway beyond my view.
I slowly peeked around the corner and saw a large Mastiff dog quickly and jauntily unrestrained presence stopping at the top of the stairs surveying the deck and Quincy with a curious tilt of his massive head.
Dachshunds were bred to flush out Badgers and can be fearless with other animals. Nonetheless, Quincy was about a quarter of the size of this self-assured Mastiff.
Each of them found their center of gravity and squarely facing each other from a distance. A decision to call the bluff and with an air of confidence, the Mastiff began to slowly descend the stairs leading straight to where Quincy held his ground. They each stepped forward five paces, their toenails clicking on the wood deck with every step. Each of them must be thinking, “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us.”
After a while, the low deep growl of the Mastiff broke the silence. Quincy stood his grand, silently breathing heavily and bound by a personal code of honor to protect the homestead. It was difficult to tell who was standing their ground best for several minutes until the water vapor from the heavy exhaling cleared the air.
Then, my unusually large Great Dane, Bruno, (yes, I know I he was my namesake – and, he never complained) came from behind me unbeknown to Quincy and locking eyes with the Mastiff. Long seconds passed.
When the Mastiff slowly began backing up the stairs, Quincy became bolder and started barking as he moved forward. The Mastiff glanced at Quincy like the morsel he could be but never lost eye contact with Bruno, who was so intimating he didn’t need to move or to make a sound. I was curious to learn what was going to happen next.
Quincy chased his adversary back up the remainder of the stairs and halfway down the street. When he returned to the deck to see me standing there alone, his chest was so puffed out, I thought it might burst from pride. He never knew the influential support he received from Bruno, the Great Dane.
Nevertheless, from that day forward, Quincy effectively chased away every big or small animal, including a large coyote. To watch the dramatic change in him, you’d think he was backed up by a pack of wolves.
Decisions 2019 © Stephen Bruno
Years ago, I was interviewed on television news stations by reporters after someone killed themselves, especially if the individual was a teenager or younger. My background included directing a suicide prevention hotline and counseling people who were experiencing suicidal thoughts in a clinic setting.
One reporter frequently interviewed me. She was always very professional and directed her questions about what people can do to prevent suicides and how to help loved ones when a suicide occurred.
She was one of those reporters you probably have seen with her hair coiffed, perfect attire, attractive in the classical TV personality way, and always expressing a professional attitude.
Uncharacteristically after an interview on camera, she pulled me aside away from the television crew.
“I don’t understand how someone can become so distressed and depressed that they want to kill themselves. It just doesn’t make sense to me.”
I shared my thoughts behind the reasons that people can become so despondent that they view suicide as their only reasonable alternative.
“I don’t think I will ever understand how someone would throw away their life when there were always alternatives and possibilities and support to help them move forward in their life.”
She described her idyllic childhood and acknowledged she was unable to relate to suicide as a means of reacting to stress.
I offered her my years of professional experience working with people who had reached their mental and emotional limits and viewed suicide as their last resort. I could tell that she was unable to relate to their desperation. She was interpreting their behavior from a more intellectual perspective.
A few months later, I was again interviewed by the same reporter after someone in the city committed suicide. She was as usual very professional and objective in her television interview questions, but I sensed something was different.
The interview took place in my backyard near a paddock where our horses lived, and she asked if we could walk around the paddock and away from the camera crew. I was curious about what she wanted to talk about. I waited patiently as we silently walked.
“I get it now. I understand how someone can reach such a level of despair that a person does not feel it’s possible to ever get past the feelings of desperation and helplessness.”
She then haltingly described a recent personal experience that shook her to the core resulting in her feeling for the first time in her life suicidal. It was an amazing transformation of this always professional person who prided herself on perfection, now privately exhibiting her vulnerability in all of her honesty and sensitivity.
I supported her moving beyond her traumatic reactions and finding ways to embrace the changes necessary so that she could move forward in a natural, grounded direction.
The next time she came to interview me about a young person who had killed herself, I noticed that her interview approach was different. There was a depth of compassion and understanding that had not been there before. Her questions had changed, and her responses, while still professional, were more personal and meaningful.
We never spoke about how she was different, and we didn’t need to have that discussion. It was a life transformed by perspective, interpretation, and compassion. Every interview with me that followed, she asked more in-depth questions, a meaningful eye connection emerging from her soul, and the partial smile that she shared with me said it all.
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