Summer of '69, I was a gnagly, awkward, runt of a kid, just turned 11, full of almost overwhelming ambition toward literary fame, bookish, squeaky-voiced---you get the picture. In June, I developed a crush on a 14 year old, barefoot Tennessee girl whose family had moved on to her street. Naturally, she let me know (as gently as possible) that she was beyond my reach, although we were friends in the same social circle for that whole summer. A few days later, I saw a picture of Bridget Hanley and Bobby Sherman on the cover of 16 Magazine. My passion for the barefoot Tennessee girl instantly transferred---to Bridget. And, as soon as I had opportunity that week, I watched Brides, in re-run. Of course, I despised Jeremy Bolt, worshiped Candie Pruit, and---believe it or not---admired Aaron Stemple. In Stemple, I could find the adult version of my own emotional state----overwhelming ambition almost crushed by incredibly frustrating circumstances. And, if I recall correctly, in the aborted second season (or was it the last episodes of the rerun season), his character began to soften a bit---due to his involvement with one of the girls (but whom, I cannot remember). In that same summer, inspired by the 19th century setting of the series, I tried to begin a "novel" that ran for a whopping four or five pages; but very, very much a carbon copy of the "feel" of Seattle as presented in the series. (I knew enough not to plagiarize the characters, although the main female character was definitely Bridget Hanley if not Candie Pruit). I agree with a comment already posted, that Candie was a much better match for Jason Bolt; or even Aaron Stemple (she would have turned him into a poet, definitely). I was heartbroken when Brides failed in the ratings; and I was heartbroken when Bridget married Swackhammer, but I transferred my crush from Bridget (who replaced the barefoot Tennessee girl) to Susan Cowsill who, from the publicity pics, seemed to be barefoot as much as the Tennessee girl. That was 34 years ago, but to this day I am haunted by the Seattle song that opened each episode, and by the woodcuts (especially, for some reason, the violinist, who looked like the composer Dvorak) over which the closing credits were run. Two great tv series helped shaped my formative years: Outer Limits and Here Comes the Brides. Each was better than the critics knew, and each was killed by the crass and ignorant indifference of nincompoops employed as network executives. And to each one I had a serious, overwhelming, almost emotionally violent reaction (in the sense of, say, roller coaster thrills; and yes, the closing photographs beneath the end credits of Outer Limits can almost send me into tears, just like the woodcuts and the violinist who looked like Dvorak). Now, three decades and almost a half later, I am a published poet (small journals; and online), with several original historical hypotheses to my credit (nut no novels). But the Brides, and Candie Pruit, were there at that first, tentative transition from little kid to early teen; when I realized that there was an emotion more powerful than pizza on Friday nights and Shock Theatre on Saturday afternoons; or balsa wood airplanes and bikes with banana seats and sissy bars on the back. It is odd, too, that my present wife is, through her maternal grandfather, a Pruitt also.

--Jer'