Retrospect – The Pigeon War of 1952

By Kevin J. W. Driscoll (c) 2025

So, let me take you back to the bustling streets of Boston in 1952. My grandfather, a city boy through and through, loved to regale us with tales of his urban escapades. And none was more legendary than The Pigeon War of 1952.

“It was a crisp autumn morning,” Gramps would start, leaning back in his chair. “I was just a young buck, running errands for old Mr. Thompson, the newsstand guy on Tremont Street. He had the best spot in the city, right next to the bagel cart and across from Boston Common.”

Now, in the city, pigeons are everywhere. But back in ’52, they were more than just a nuisance—they were a menace. Mr. Thompson had been waging a losing battle against these winged rats for years. They’d steal his newspapers, dive-bomb his customers, and generally cause havoc.

“One day,” Gramps continued, “Mr. Thompson had had enough. ‘We need a plan, kid,’ he said to me. ‘These pigeons are ruining my business. It’s time to fight back.'”

Gramps and Mr. Thompson devised a scheme so elaborate, it would make a military strategist proud. They armed themselves with water balloons, slingshots, and even a makeshift pigeon trap made out of a cardboard box and some breadcrumbs.

“The first attack came at dawn,” Gramps said, his eyes sparkling with nostalgia. “Mr. Thompson and I were ready. The pigeons swooped down, thinking it was business as usual. But not this time.”

With a battle cry that echoed through the streets, they launched their counterattack. Water balloons flew, slingshots snapped, and pigeons scattered in every direction. For a brief moment, it looked like victory was theirs.

But then, the pigeons regrouped. It was like something out of a Hitchcock movie. They came back with reinforcements—dozens, maybe hundreds of them. The sky darkened with their numbers.

“We were outnumbered, outgunned, and out of water balloons,” Gramps said, shaking his head. “But we didn’t give up. We fought until the bitter end.”

In the end, the pigeons claimed victory that day. Mr. Thompson’s newsstand was a wreck, and Gramps was covered in feathers and pigeon poop. But they’d earned the respect of the neighborhood. Word of their valiant stand spread, and people came from all over to support Mr. Thompson’s newsstand, if only to hear the tale of The Pigeon War of ’52.

“And that’s how we saved the newsstand, even if we lost the battle,” Gramps would finish with a grin. “Never underestimate the power of a good story.”

Years went by, and the story of The Pigeon War of ’52 became a cherished family legend, told and retold at countless gatherings and here I am now telling it to you. My grandfather’s escapade turned into a symbol of resistance, resilience and camaraderie, a reminder that even in the face of the most ridiculous challenges, a bit of humor and determination could carry you through.

 

Epilogue:

As I grew older, I often walked by the spot where Mr. Thompson’s newsstand once stood. It had long since been replaced by a sleek coffee shop, but in my mind’s eye, I could still see the old man and my grandfather, battling the pigeons with water balloons and slingshots.

Whenever life threw me a curve ball, I’d think back to Gramps’s story and smile. It wasn’t just about the pigeons or the chaos—it was about facing adversity head-on, finding the humor in every situation, and when it is all over and done always having a good story to tell.

And so, the legacy of The Pigeon War of ’52 lives on, a testament to the indomitable spirit of city folk and the continued power of a well-told tale.

 

–30–

As I savor the feel

Of the radiating warmth

From the the flow of 

Electricity that I often

Take for granted

 

I think of the 

Women of Palestine

As they arise in the cold to

labor each day

As a rock in the river 

Of genocide that sweeps away 

Their children 

Lovers, husbands, sons, nephews

Sisters

Ribbonning through their hunger and thirst,

With jagged fishooks of generational trauma 

Are the currents of unstoppable fear-

The Male blood-red lust for control

And anger at a world that 

Will never give that…

 

Then the women of Sudan

Who bear the blackened waves of the

Men’s impotency turned 

To pain-giving thrusts of hatred 

Toward an earth who 

They feel

Never gave them 

A path forward, 

Churning and churning toward

Death and their 

Existential fear of it

through the violent 

Terror and torture of the 

sisters mothers aunties

Who birthed them, who held them

Who raised them

 

And the women of Afghanistan

Painfully close to the sound of freedom, 

Now hearing the demanding roars from men

To silence feminine voices that

Carry the power of the Goddess

That long abandoned the men

after the multitude of 

Rapes and attacks, 

That inconceivable lack of compassion leaves 

Bereft the women in blue enclosures

even as they 

Carry within them, the males of the next generation

Of oppression, fear and loss.

 

This perpetual mysterious self hatred of men,

Projected ever outward 

Despite the only love beyond love

They have experienced being in

The arms of the women who tunneled their

Pathway to the planet—

They seem to always turn in fury

On the women trying to survive

The refusal of the masculine

To reflect on its cyclic shadow

Of pain and agony

 

I feel paralyzed and unable to  

Attempt any sort of understanding

Of how we have become so unbalanced 

And my body so denied of its agency 

As to leave the sisters of our 

Collective body 

Dying of the perennial testosterone-fused cancer

fear

Encrusting every cell of creativity

Peace and joy

That could be

That can be

A beautiful human destiny

My sisters I pray for us

My brothers, I tentatively wait for your wisdom

To grow

In time for our survival.

I want a poem with legs

To walk around this great big world,

Striding over and into 

Many places, cultures and times

And Into the hearthstone of my 

Beloved fellow travelers

 

I want a poem that can pour a cuppa

And gently warm pairs of cold hands

Offering comforts for 

the anxious movements and twitches

That accompany being a human

And aware

 

I want a poem with eyes to see

And witness the wrongs of the planet’s people

Or take in the illuminated awe-infused moments

With the tongue and lips

To tell the thousands of stories

Our faces have turned from burning in shame

Or the thousands of other tales of surviving

And thriving

To reflect the beauty within the pain

And the treasure within the tempest

 

I want a poem with ears to hear

The ancient songs 

and whispered secrets of lovers 

The glory-triumphant proclamations

Or the desperate screams of the forsaken

Vibrating with the waves of 

Wonder 

And the anguished cries of heartbreak

 

I want a poem with long reaching arms

To wrap around the little things

The tender things 

That pulse with in each of us, 

To hold us up against a mighty

chest of strength

Like our Papas taking us to bed,

When we pretend to sleep, nestled against

The familiar smells and calming wisdom

Of our elders,

 

I want a poem that offers the breast 

Of the madonna,

Providing sustenance, healing and soothing

In heavenly manna freely flowing to all

And each as needed

Stopping the forever hunger for at least

These precious gulping moments

 

I want a poem with a rapid beating heart

And gasping lungs,

With the sweat of life long labors

And the vast relief of rest at long last

Alive with the exquisite perceptions

That beat with the love that longs to

Join in its harmonious rhythms

To the silver threads we weave and unravel

 

This poem I want is the desire to destroy

Our pathetic attempts at aggrandizement of 

The tiny fears and failings

The lost in loneliness meanderings through

The dark woods and vast night skies of 

Our need to be small and large at the same time

At the same time, to keep ignited the flame of hope

And wonder alight and alive

With trust.

 

 I want a poem to heal us, to see the wholeness 

Of us, 

To acknowledge our deep need

With each other

Even as we oft work to distance ourselves from that

I want a poem that builds the bridge 

Between us.