“Fall”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

An epic fall over ramparts of the kingdom

Dust from bricks and mortar, crumbled and spent

Surrendering silently to consequence

The end of a jump over the playground fence

Caught by a sleeve on an ornamental spike

A tumble into eternal night

Looking around to see if a witness might betray this failing

A one-armed dunce, foolishly flailing

Hung up like a rat in the sun

Swinging from its tail

I thought myself to be impervious and strong

But one verse of a hymn

Had me gasping and grim

With the desperate attitude of a protestant prude

Facing down a battle tank

A violent twist of the crank

Sending me forward

From where this unwelcome adventure began

Some might say that to have stepped on the cemetery grounds

Was in itself, a call for fate to intervene

Yet I did not glean

That meaning from my capricious promenade

Through the gloomy graves

It might have been enough to sit and sulk while the heat of day tanned my hide

Enough to honor those who had lived and died

Now, I will never know

Despite counting cracks in the sanctuary windows

A short jaunt up the stone path

No more than a dozen steps, perhaps

Right at the slope of a hillside

Next to the tree line

That is where I tasted grass like a bovine beast

Falling weakly, on my hands and knees

Coughing and cursing

Reflectively remembering

My wandering through histories, carefully preserved

Eerily sensing voices, long unheard

Knowing in my heart

That this episode was sired

By a lazy, lackluster complaint of feeling intellectually tired

Unengaged and never quite attached

Laughing, loafing

Boldly boasting

That though I had been laid low by this quirk of chance in effect

I took it as no more than a mother bird’s peck

On top of my skull

“Fly away, damned fowl!”

I warbled and growled

Then leveraged myself back to a vertical position

On the iron gate

Rusty and rattling from years of neglect

Howling on its hinges

And turned to look up at the sky

Humbled now with an inglorious resolve

To eschew mysteries in favor of certainty

A task not so slight in merit, or easy

That decision put me off balance in the morning dew

Slipping and sliding in my cobbled-up shoes

Not smart enough to think my way through the maze

Or patiently contemplate

Gravity holding sway

Bang on target

Lest I forget

Mortality makes me weep for the end

And celebrate in the same instant of glory

That this time

The bell did not chime

For me!

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Pizza Parody”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

I was 16 years old when my family moved to Ithaca, New York in the summer of 1978. We had come from a city outside of Pittsburgh, and I was approaching my next birthday. This sort of last-minute relocation had become familiar, because my father was a minister in the non-denominational Church of Christ fellowship. We often had everything packed up in moving boxes, with no idea of our next destination. This gypsy mentality helped to shape my own psychology throughout childhood. I did not have a hometown, or an identity firmly rooted in geography. No favorite sports teams or thoughts of belonging to any defined social group. Only the traditions of our family, habits associated with education, music, creative writing, and faith bonded us together. Thankfully, those elements were sturdy enough to put down a foundation for intellectual growth.

 

And I loved to eat pizza.

 

In the Finger Lakes Region, I discovered college-town culture around Cornell University. It was in those days, still infused with leftover traces of the hippie generation. Incense and candles and marijuana were everywhere. Volkswagen Beetles and Microbuses were ubiquitous. Folk and Acid Rock could be heard on the radio. Along with Reggae and other world sounds of Jazz and ethnic variations. I soaked up this mix like a sponge. Midwestern at my core, I relished the opportunity to see and hear new things.

 

I had discovered Punk Rock while living at the Three Rivers, in Pennsylvania. A natural companion to this sometimes atonal, confrontational explosion of art came in the form of Genesee beer and fast food, inhaled at ungodly hours. But while exploring my new environs, I discovered a gastronomic temple called ‘Napoli Pizzeria.’ Apparently, this student-friendly restaurant had been open around two years.

 

From their very first slice, the product of Emilio and Leo Sposito, from Fondi, Italy won me over. It was a dish baked in the classic style. With a crust thin in body, yet bubbly around the edge. Ingredients were delivered with a generous amount of olive oil. When first pulled from the pan, a fresh serving oozed this natural cooking medium. Mozzarella cheese pulled away in long, stringy gobs. The aroma permeated everything in their dining room, which had the look of an old-fashioned banquet hall. Tablecloths were checkered red-and-white. The ovens were clearly visible, right behind their counter. A cooler of Italian brews offered Moretti and Peroni varieties. Another contained cold sodas, and had a cheap, black & white television on top. Some sort of vintage programming always seemed to be running.

 

Any excuse was reason enough to pause at this eatery. I often visited several times per week, if available funds permitted that kind of behavioral excess. Though most often, I had an empty wallet. Conning friends into covering the bill became a constant preoccupation. Thankfully, that slightly devious pursuit wasn’t difficult. Everyone loved their Paisano pies. A good value for money, delivered in a working-class setting. Fancier venues could not compare.

 

After I moved away in 1983, return trips always had to include a stop for pizza and reflection. Memories were plentiful. I would fill my belly, and wander through recollections of those yonder days, spent learning and growing in personal terms. My last taste of this Mediterranean manna came at a new location, nearby. They had moved in 2004, and a week of vacation time permitted me to land in the area, a couple of years later. That was my final spin through Tompkins County.

 

Napoli Pizzeria closed in 2019. I learned of its demise through an online article at 14850.com. The revelation struck me like a hammer blow. I had no equivalent on which to lean, for comfort. No similar meeting place to discuss bygone show ideas for Channel 13 on West State Street, where I had once been a crew member and program host. No common ground for debates over poetry and politics and the merits of European breweries.

 

I felt empty after reading this sad report. But a dream sequence filled my head, upon passing out, later that night. One rendered like a single-act play, performed in a coffeehouse setting.

 

“Enter with me if you will, for a moment, the Twilight Zone. A place that transcends normal boundaries of time and physicality. I present for you two men dining on a circular meal of baked dough, pepperoni, cheese, sausage and onions. One of these participants has slipped through cracks in the continuum, to meet himself at a point in history that defies the calendar. He will counsel his own childhood image, and offer hope. And perhaps, come to terms with what he has endured, as a product of fate and consequence...”

 

Rod Swindle wore a leather jacket, styled in the Ramones motif. His hair was a flowing mass of brown, uncut and rarely brushed. He was barely old enough to have grown a beard. Yet carried himself with a cocksure attitude that betrayed youthful ignorance. He sipped from a bottle of Italian beer, despite being underage. No one had ever checked his identification. He didn’t have a driver’s license, anyway. Walking everywhere kept him fit. Though he often bummed rides when they could be cajoled out of friends.

 

“Hey, thanks man! I love coming here. This is the best grub in our city. I didn’t get your name though. Are you attending classes, or just drifting through town to catch a show? I meet a lot of people that way, records and guitars are my thing!”

 

His benefactor was much older, and walked with a cane, and a limp of arthritic limitations. He had a similar lack of grooming excellence, but his facial hair had turned shades of white and gray. He was stooped over like a building with structural fatigue.

 

“Dean. Dean McCray. Does it matter? I’m following a caravan of concerts between here and Buffalo. My van needed a muffler, so that’s being done as we sit here. I wanted some company while waiting. You looked to be alone. That was reason enough to offer a spot at this table...”

 

The youthful miscreant nodded while chewing on a slice of steaming, savory pie.

 

“No big deal, I just wondered. I work over at the TV station, it’s a public access channel. There are all kinds of freaks and misfits on the staff. Everybody is older, and they’ve got lots of stories. I always like to hear a good yarn! One guy is a poet, he used to be on the radio. Four years of study at Cornell, and then two more in grad school. And he never got a real job! I like that, screw working a regular grind! The rat race is boring as hell!”

 

McCray shrugged and twisted the Harley-Davidson ring on his finger. Its design mirrored the one of his new contact, who was busy enjoying their feast. The rowdy kid seemed not to notice this match of blue-collar jewelry. He was more concerned with quieting his growling stomach.

 

“You’ve got plans then? An idea of what path to take, toward tomorrow? There’s an old saying, by Antione de Saint-Exupéry, ‘A goal without a plan is just a wish.’ That’s no joke, friend...”

 

Swindle spat oil and Mozz.

 

“What, you’re a damn expert at this game? I get it, you must think I’m a baby! Some of my friends treat me like that, they get their noses in the air. I tell them to piss off! Don’t worry about me getting stuck in traffic, I’m not going to turn out like chumps who spend their cash on earning degrees, to eventually don a suit and tie, and crawl around on their hands and knees. No way! I won’t be led through the tents like a circus horse or an elephant!”

 

His senior advocate laughed out loud.

 

“Calm down, I wasn’t passing judgment. I just wanted to know how seriously you’ve thought about the future...”

 

The ambitious punk snorted and twirled his own ring, with nervous agitation.

 

“Why do old people always get their boxer shorts in a bunch about that kind of shit? I’ll do what I do, don’t worry. I’m not gonna run or jump on command, like a trained animal. Eff that! I watched my father struggle for years, saying kind words, giving his support, uplifting others who were in need. And landing on his ass every time! He’s broke and doubled over, like a dog left out in the rain! The congregations he has loved all humiliated him, completely!”

 

McCray brought his fist down on the table. Plates and silverware began to bounce.

 

“YOU DON’T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HE WENT THROUGH! OR WHAT’S WAITING AROUND THE CORNER, WHEN YOU FINALLY GROW UP! THERE’S A REC KONING ON THE HORIZON, JUNIOR! YOU’LL EAT DIRT INSTEAD OF PIZZA, AND LIVE IN PLACES WHERE THE SUN NEVER SHINES! LIKE UNDER A BRIDGE ON GREEN STREET! AND ONCE THAT PRICE HAS BEEN PAID, YOU’LL GIVE THANKS JUST TO OPEN YOUR EYES, AND FEEL THE BREATH OF LIFE IN YOUR LUNGS. IT’S A PRIVILEGE TO WALK THE EARTH! DON’T SCREW UP YOUR LAST CHANCE TO SHINE!”

 

Swindle turned pale and cold. He looked at his left hand, and then squeezed the silver ring with emotion. A tick he had used many times over, to release stress.

 

“You’ve got the same skull band on your finger as me. And that mark in your forehead, is the same. The scar on your arm, long and rippled. Right by your elbow. And your handle is my middle name. All that is giving me the willies, right now. Why do you care so much? Why do you know so much?”

 

His shadowy compadre stood up and took out a leather wallet, with a chrome chain attached. Just like the one in his naïve guest’s pocket. He threw a wad of bills on the tablecloth.

 

“It might be weeks before you get fed again. Don’t take this for granted. Zip up that motorcycle jacket, you’ll need to stay warm. Winter is here. That guy you just spoke about is in Ohio, wondering if he’ll ever see you again. Your mother cries every night, in bed. They don’t understand you, and never will. But it doesn’t matter. Because the bloodline is intact. Believe it or not, once you’ve finished messing up your pitiful journey, things will get better. Trust me, I know. I know the whole story!”

 

The door clattered rudely as he made his exit. Despite the hot blast from pizza ovens that were busy, a frosty whisper of what lay ahead could be felt inside. And one young man, one impulsive, reckless soul, was about to fulfill his own destiny.

 

“The Twilight Zone is a place where even the humblest of fools may meet himself for a free dinner, and refreshment. And tidbits of wisdom, that perhaps, might offer a second chance at attaining redemption. It’s all a matter of choice. All a matter of courage, and meeting a time-traveler with the right perspective...”

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Sideways Sunday”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Despite being retired for nearly eight years I still have the imprint left after a lifetime of school and workplace schedules. This worrying idea that things need to occur with the discipline of an artificial timeline remains stuck in my head. So, when the weekend arrives, it brings notions of off-duty chores being accomplished. I typically make a trip to check my post office mailbox in Chardon, something left over from newspaper days. Letters and packages do not arrive there frequently, but I still use the address in all of my books, and on related websites and blogs. Therefore, I try to keep up-to-date with new arrivals, every week or two.

 

On the way home from this lazy excursion, I stopped for a case of beer at a favored depot in Hambden Township. A convenient RediGo store, which also offers Sunoco fuels. I noted that they had removed a row of refrigerator and freezer cases, which were troubling to maintain. The product contained therein didn’t seem to move quickly enough to justify being carried, anyway. I liked the extra space on that side of their emporium. Once this limited remodel was finished, I reckoned it would improve the flow of customer traffic, and offer more opportunities for merchandising what those patrons seemed to prefer. Namely, beer, wine, and salty snacks.

 

Coming home to my residence park in Thompson, I pondered that it was Mother’s Day. Somewhere in the back of my mind were recollections of the Anna Jarvis house, in Webster, West Virginia. A notable structure because it was the birthplace of she who sanctified this special date on the calendar. I would often pass that cultural temple when traveling to see my parents, who lived in Philippi.

 

In modern times, my celebration of the moment was muted by the fact that I had no living mater to visit, or call on the occasion. Yet I took joy from wishing good cheer to those who once carried the seeds of tomorrow in their wombs. In my family, and around the neighborhood.

 

Back at my home base, I sat outside on the front porch, with a brew. Our community matron, who lived across the street, was being escorted to a festive dinner by her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I remembered that she had reached her mid-80’s. So it seemed proper to call out a wish of good cheer, as she was climbing into her son’s vehicle. But when I delivered this ebullient vocalization, she returned the gesture by wishing me the same sentiment. Something I had not expected.

 

I had to laugh. My amusement caused beer foam to dribble everywhere.

 

While pondering the day, my cell phone began to ring. I had to rummage through a pocket to find my device. When I did, sun glare obscured its screen. But finally, I located the proper icon to click in response. My friend Janis, who had been receiving skilled care for health reasons over the past year, answered with a gasp and a gag that had me sitting up straight.

 

“Gahhhh! Hack! Hack! Hello, Rodbert! Ptooey!”

 

My right hand trembled while cradling the wireless link.

 

“Are you okay? What the heck is going on?”

 

Her explanation sounded ridiculous, but entirely believable in terms of her skewed thought processes.

 

“I tried to eat a slice of bread. That mush they feed me is disgusting! So, I managed to sneak something off of a friend’s plate. But it got stuck on the way down. I thought some chocolate milk would wash it out of my throat. Yuck! But nah, that only made it worse! Gahhhh!”

 

As she coughed and choked and spit, I started to panic.

 

“CALL FOR HELP! YOU SHOULD’VE HIT THE PATIENT ALARM! WHY THE HELL DID YOU DIAL MY NUMBER INSTEAD?”

 

She reacted with a predictable amount of sarcasm, while making noises that were troubling to hear.

 

“You’re a sissy, Rodbert! I’m okay, the bread just clogged my pipes. Gahhhh! Gahhhh! I thought something solid would taste good. That crap they send me is like bird poop! I hate it!”

 

I closed my eyes, and drooped with futility.

 

“Well now you must be a mess, right? Did you vomit all over yourself?”

 

My ornery friend cackled and continued to spit up moist crumbs of bread.

 

“Nah, I grabbed the trash can by my bed! They might have to wash it out though. Gahhhh! Ptooey!”

 

My face was burning. I had turned red with embarrassment.

 

“This is Mother’s Day! I know you don’t have any kids, but you’re a cat mom, at least! I thought maybe the nursing home would throw a little party or something...”

 

Unintentionally, my comment struck a raw nerve.

 

“MOTHER’S DAY? WHO GIVES A DAMN? I DON’T, MY MOTHER DIDN’T DO SHIT FOR ME, EXCEPT SHIP ME OFF TO GRANNY WHEN I WAS A KID! ABOUT EIGHT YEARS OLD, I THINK. THAT WAS IT FOR OUR RELATIONSHIP. WHEN SHE DIED, I FELT NOTHING. NOT A THING, RODBERT! DOES THAT MAKE ME A BAD PERSON? IF IT DOES, THEN YOU CAN KISS MY ASS! GAHHHH! GAHHHH!”

 

My belly grumbled with sorrow. I had to wipe moisture from my eyes.

 

“Yeah, I forgot. I’m sorry to have mentioned it at all! You’ve talked about your situation in the past. It had to be a hard experience to process. I don’t understand it happening that way. You’ve always been unconventional. But not worthy of being rejected by the one that carried your life forward, inside her own body. It makes no sense. Forgive me...”

 

Janis refused to deliberate over my comment. She raised a shield of defiance.

 

“DON’T GET ALL EMOTIONAL ON ME! I HATE IT WHEN YOU ACT MOODY! BOO HOO! BOO HOO! QUIT FEELING SORRY OVER IT, SCREW HER AND SCREW MY FAMILY! AND SCREW THIS STUPID PIECE OF BREAD! GAHHHH! HACK! HACK!”

 

I heard more spit bombs landing in her waste receptacle.

 

“Are you really okay? A nurse should check you out! You’ve got to quit violating those eating guidelines. They implemented them for a reason. You’ve had three strokes! There are consequences to what happened. Let them take care of you!”

 

She wheezed out the last of her ill-advised treat while gagging loudly. Then, wiped her mouth on a towel that had been left by the bedside.

 

“I don’t know why I called. It was the first thing that came to mind! Anyway, quit worrying. I’m okay, my throat is clear now. It’s a good thing, because this bucket is full! Hah! I’ll get yelled at by the staff. Oh well! Let them bitch about me, my nickname is ‘Scoundrel.’ I like it! That’s what I am, right, Rodbert?”

 

She didn’t give me a chance to reply. The line went dead before I could open my mouth. I wanted a fresh beverage to numb away the conflicted mood she had aroused. So, I fumbled for my cane, and stood up with both knees popping.

 

Sunday had gone sideways, but it didn’t matter. There was a full case of Miller Lite in my fridge.

 

 

 

“Mother’s Day”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Note: While thinking about this special day, I got a blast from one of my friends. that offered a dark contrast. She had been rejected by her own mater around the age of eight years old. So, when this day arrived for remembrance, my cohort confessed that she felt nothing. I could not process that groove personally, but had a flash of Lou Reed or Iggy Pop to let those emotions fly free... I wrote these lyrics after our conversation ended.

 

Mother’s Day and she’s not here

Her daughter barely remembers

Got shipped up their road around the age of eight

No one speaks of it now

Mother’s Day and she’s long gone

No pictures on the mantle

My friend says, ‘Hold on, I’m playing it straight!’

She abandoned me with a kiss on the brow

Said bye, bye, bye

Said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, not the same for all

My friend is numb to the meaning

She only remembers a few days out on the lawn

Dancing in the sprinkler spray, cool and wet

Mother’s Day, it’s a time for joy

But not when you were a jewel she wouldn’t wear

Not when she wanted to be gone

Not when she wanted to forget

She said bye, bye, bye

She said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, I can’t hear this side

Of a story so foreign and wrong

But that’s the jingle on my telephone this morning

I get it like a poke in the ear

Mother’s Day, I want to shout and sing

Yet there’s a drag on the bumper hitch

“Don’t mention that bitch!’ she gives me a warning

It makes me well up with tears

Mom said, bye, bye, bye

Mom said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, darkness on the horizon

That’s not the way it should be

I want my friend to feel the blessing of her birth

But that got crushed like a dried-up flower

Mother’s Day, I’m all warm inside

Remembering childhood and a touch of grace

But this wild, wandering, natural quirk

Stalls me in my finest hour

Said bye, bye, bye

Said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, I’m so sorry friend

The gift given didn’t take

You got recycled like a party favor, unwanted

Sat in front of the boob tube, empty and blank

Mother’s Day only brings it back

That sense of being in line too long

This celebration leaves you feeling undeniably haunted

A fish stuck on the riverbank

Said bye, bye, bye

Said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, I would hold your hand

But I’d get a slap in return

That kind of comfort ain’t your vibe, I know

You’d rather get stoned and drift away

Mother’s Day is a time to chart

A course through one life, unintended

Here and now caused to churn and explode

An echo of finality and fate

Said bye, bye, bye

Said bye, bye, bye

 

Mother’s Day, I won’t mention it again

Until hanging up the phone line

My heart aches, but I won’t confess that fact

I know she would only turn pale and grim

Mother’s Day, and that vessel of gold

Tarnished too quickly, like brass

Went from shades of lavender and pink, to black

Her patience worn too quickly thin

She said bye, bye, bye

She said bye, bye, bye

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes - “Investment Opportunity”

 

c.2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Gretel Ronk had acquired an interest in trailers at Evergreen Estates, through an investment opportunity at her bank. One of the other tellers mentioned during a lunch break, that a depositor owned bunches of mobile residences around her home base in Geauga County, Ohio. This factual tidbit was little more than a curiosity, at first. But then, the young college intern revealed that their patron was liquidating some of these assets, while moving toward retirement. A few of the employees had decided to pool their cash, and use it to leap into the world of property ownership. This made the taste of her taco salad turn oddly bland. Her appetite for adventure had been awakened! Yet she held conservative views on anything relating to money. This kept her pondering the scheme, throughout the rest of that afternoon.

 

At first, this bold step into being a landlord seemed risky and bound to fail. But after attending a seminar by one of the financial institution’s seasoned advisers, she decided to join in the effort. It was something she had yearned to do, for a long time. Only a lack of courage to enter the market had kept her sidelined. With this venture, she would have company to share in the rewards, or comfort for any downfall, if the plan fell apart.

 

Gretel took $10,000 out of her savings, and plunked it down like a stack of chips at a casino.

 

A month later, she and three of the other ladies were invited to take a tour of the park where they had bought these singlewide trailers. The trip was planned as an excursion to inspect and assess their longboxes first hand, and choose whether to renovate them before new renters moved in, or to forego that extra expense altogether.

 

They rode in a Chrysler minivan owned by their team leader. The drive deep into a rural part of the Ohio district was pleasant enough while in motion. Everything was green and pastoral, and subdued along the way. When they arrived at the development site, a sign appeared that read ‘Welcome to Evergreen Estates. A nice place to get started, or to retire!’ This friendly greeting made her feel warm inside.

 

Donna DiCenza was at the wheel. She had worked for Federal Falcon Bank for twenty years or more. Her maternal demeanor came from having endured an extended period of homemaking, that preceded a return to workplace duties. Now, with her kids in college, she had the experience of a den mother. She always looked after her clerks with care and affection.

 

The tall, chubby, big-haired woman gestured toward streets that lay ahead, while explaining what they were about to encounter.

 

“This is a community of mobile homes, everyone! Not a housing development, per se... I would characterize it as a blue-collar cluster. You’ll see lots of things here that traditional neighborhoods frown upon. Lots of day drinking, loud music parties, banners and flags representing controversial groups, firearms being carried openly, and lots of pickup trucks. Many, many, many pickup trucks! Some of them have wooden beds and loud exhausts, and lights stuck everywhere! Others sit high in the air, and may expel clouds of black smoke, on demand! Don’t be alarmed. It’s a way of life out here! These people work with their hands, and live by their wits! You won’t find any PhD graduates, or millionaires in these prefabricated shipping containers!”

 

Gasps could be heard throughout the vehicle. Then, Gretel cleared her throat and blurted out a real-time observation.

 

“Some of these trailers look really bad! I hope we got the better ones in our portfolio. Otherwise, we’ll be spending every penny of profit on repairs!”

 

Donna was dressed in a silk blouse and mid-length skirt. She had a glossy scarf tied around her neck.

 

“The units we purchased are mostly newer. They’ve been bringing in trailers with capital sent from the former land owners in California. We have a hard time keeping up with who actually holds the deed to this space. There have been a handful of investors who kept the titles to individual homes, and offered them as rentals or on a rent-to-own basis. The previous stewards discouraged that kind of operation, so people like the man who sold us this package are slowly exiting the business. I’m not sure what course the future will take here, but our possession of assets has been approved. We will work with whatever group wins out, in the end.”

 

Becky Truant was sitting in the back row of seats. She glowed with pride over their achievement. Her bank polo shirt was purple and green. Her straight hair was long and shimmering blonde.

 

“WERE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER, SISTERS! I SAY HOORAY! HOORAY, HOORAY!”

 

Gretel started to giggle, but then covered her mouth with one hand.

 

“I suppose you can’t expect much sophistication in a place like this, right? It isn’t exactly a high-dollar part of Cleveland, or a lakefront villa!”

 

Donna nodded in agreement, while steering the minivan toward Lot 12, which was their first destination.

 

“It is what it is, ladies! It is what you make of it. These people need places to live just like anyone else. They have families to raise, they pay taxes, and they vote! Their lives matter!”

 

Gadsden flags and Confederate banners were ubiquitous, along the street. A few Trump signs were still in place, from the 2016 and 2020 elections. Oil spots dotted most of the driveways. There were junk vehicles abandoned in the overflow parking areas. Though each had a current license plate attached, as if some mechanical wizard still intended to make them roadworthy, again.

 

Their introduction to ownership came at a Schult singlewide from 1984. An obvious exception to the claim that they somehow acquired newer residences. It had been repainted so many times that the actual hue was hard to determine. It had a translucent sheen of hooker makeup, applied too heavily. The front porch had been constructed out of discarded, wooden pallets. A series of forgotten satellite dishes and television antennas lined the roof.

 

As the feminine four exited for a closer look, they quickly noted an odor of stale must oozing through the open windows. A real estate lock had been fastened over the doorknob. While their supervisor fumbled through keys in her leather purse, a noise echoed from next door. One that made the quartet grimace with embarrassment.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln was on his bench, across the yard. Despite the early hour, he was already sloshed on beer and Tennessee whiskey. He belched so furiously that window panes began to rattle. Liquor dribbled from his beard. He farted to provide an exclamation point to this display of rude, redneck behavior.

 

“Good afternoon, everybody? Are you the new owners of this shithole? If so, then by goodness, you’ve got my sympathy!”

 

Donna shuddered and smoothed her white blouse.

 

“Not property owners, sir. We’ve just purchased some individual homes here, like this one. Through a deal with Federal Falcon Bank...”

 

The old hermit exploded with laughter. He swigged beer until it spilled down his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Foam formed a ring around his mouth.

 

“FEDERAL FALCON? WHAT THE HELL KIND OF NAME IS THAT? NOT THAT IT MATTERS, ‘CAUSE THEY KEEP CHANGING THE FIRMS AND ADDRESSES FOR LOT RENT TO GET PAID, ANYWAY. ACTUALLY, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHERE IT GOES! JUST SO THEY LET ME SIT HERE AND DRINK IN PEACE!”

 

Gretel clutched her satchel of paperwork like a child’s security blanket. She had to wipe the fog off of her oversized glasses.

 

“Sit here and drink? That’s all you do all day, sir? Get drunk and pass out?”

 

Lincoln slapped his knees and bellowed with the intensity of a foghorn by the lakeshore.

 

“YES I DO! BUT DON’T LET THAT PUT YOU OFF OF CHECKING OUT YOUR NEW DIGS! I FIGURE YOU ALL MADE A WISE PICK WITH BUYING INTO THIS PARK. IT’S THE LAST STOP ON A RAILROAD TO NOWHERE! NOBODY CAN AFFORD TO LEAVE! WE’RE ALL BROKE, BUSTED, AND BEATEN! SO, THERE YOU HAVE IT! WELCOME, MA’AM AND COMPANY! WELCOME TO THE END OF THE ROAD! WELCOME, TO EVERGREEN ESTATES!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “63 Days”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Nigel Poutierre had been in his singlewide trailer at Evergreen Estates for 63 days without opening the front door. Except for brief interludes when he heaved stinky bags of garbage onto his front porch. He had run out of everything. All the cupboards were bare. His refrigerator looked sad and empty. His laundry room had run out of soap and conditioners. He hadn’t taken a shower in weeks. Whenever someone called his cellular phone, he would manufacture excuses that were both bold and ridiculous. Standing by the entrance to his prefab hovel caused him to tremble uncontrollably. He would sweat and shake and feel dizzy. Only hiding out in his back bedroom brought a sense of relief.

 

But on Monday morning, he had reached a terminal point in this bout of emotional isolation. For breakfast, there was only one piece of sliced bread left on the countertop in his kitchen. And a single, stale teabag to brew. He had used up all of the coffee, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and other items, long before that day of reckoning.

 

He felt malnourished, and weak. His belly grumbled in protest.

 

As a young teenager, he had been bullied in school to the point where an emotional breakdown of sorts wracked his mind and body. But he tried to mask the symptoms of this affliction, using strategies that were dependable, but damning. He would spend hours in the library, studying. Moments in the classroom found him always in the last row of seats. Unless he had been assigned to sit in a place designated by the teacher. His instructors thought of him as highly intelligent and studious. Yet fellow members of the young population cursed him as a dweeb and a nerd. He was often laughed at and spat upon. He had to give up eating in the lunchroom, because his meals were always tainted intentionally, or knocked to the floor. Long days with no food made his blood sugar drop. The result was that his moods could be unpredictable. He would fight verbally with the staff and his peers. And then withdraw to lick his wounds.

 

These episodes made him doodle pictures on the pages of his notebooks. He became quite an artist while expressing the woes that lived inside of his mind.

 

Upon reaching the status of an adult, he had been somewhat successful working as an office assistant, and accountant for a firm in Lake County, Ohio. But when the company went bankrupt, he was dumped without any severance package. He avoided admitting this inglorious fate to members of his family, and eventually lost his apartment. Only one friend remained in his social circle, a woman he had known in the 12^th grade, named Nikki. She was reputed to be a prostitute and a drug addict, and lived in a remote, trailer enclave south of his native region.

 

Evergreen Estates became his home by that quirk of happenstance.

 

Living in the village of mobile homes was challenging at first. He had little in common with anyone at the park. But old habits of playing the recluse soon returned. He spent less and less time outside. Even opting to hire a local yard service to cut the grass, until his funds were depleted. He never answered the door, unless a police officer showed up to ask questions about one of his seedy neighbors. If they did, he always claimed to know nothing. Such declarations were easy to offer, because he rarely ever went anywhere.

 

Finally, his courage was tapped out completely. And the streak of 63 blocks on his calendar being crossed with a black ‘x’ from a Sharpie pen, began in earnest.

 

He survived fairly well for the first couple of weeks. Because of his history of living as a virtual hermit. Yet the grind wore him down, eventually. His computer quit working, after the internet bill went unpaid. The electricity and water were turned off, as notices came due and got ignored. He was broke and at the mercy of charities. He survived by candlelight. His propane tank dipped to a level that was dangerously low. He had to light the burners with old matches. His reserve of water jugs evaporated.

 

And as the new week was underway, he sat at his dining table with the dried-out slice of bread, and a mug of expired tea. This was his Armageddon. He had to summon the courage to open his door. There would be enough gasoline in the tank of his Chevy Cavalier to reach a local convenience depot, or a Dollar General. He had a wad of physical cash tucked under his mattress, in a spot that would only be discovered by someone inquisitive enough to rip the bedding apart. He had to be stronger, more so than the shy, skinny rube that he saw in his mirror.

 

This call to duty almost caused him to vomit. He went to the front door, and found that his hands were numb. He couldn’t twist the knob. His knees knocked together. His face burned, red hot.

 

The device in his pocket rang, as this moment of truth was unfolding. Nikki McCardle hadn’t heard from her pal in such a long time, that she wondered if he might have committed suicide.

 

“NIGEL! WHY WON’T YOU ANSWER? THIS DAMN THING KEEPS GOING TO VOICEMAIL! YOU BETTER NOT BE STRETCHED OUT ON THE CARPET, OR I’LL KICK YOUR DEAD ASS WHEN I SEE IT! CALL ME BACK, DICKHEAD!”

 

In a dark sort of way, her rant was amusing. He actually grinned for a moment, while replaying her message. Then, he tapped an icon to return the call.

 

“Nikki, I’m okay. I umm... couldn’t get to my phone. Don’t worry about me, I’m good over here on the west side of our little oasis.”

 

His friend wasn’t convinced. She chirped like a mother fowl.

 

“I haven’t seen yer ass outside in weeks, dude! What’s up with that? There’s a pile of bags ‘n shit on the deck! What gives? Did you fall and break your leg or something?”

 

The unemployed geek snorted and lied about his condition.

 

“You must’ve missed me somehow! I’ve been out for job interviews, and all kinds of things! I had dinner with a woman from the old office. I even went to a Captains baseball game at Classic Park! Things are great, and summer is almost here!”

 

The young female could sense he had twisted literal truth into a knot of deception.

 

“Nige, yer a dummy! You tell fibs like I did in high school. Dad could always figure shit out by the tone of my voice. I used to party at night and sneak back into my bedroom through a window behind the shrubs. I put pillows under the blankets so they thought I was still home. I was a naughty bitch, right?”

 

Her loner counterpart nodded and smiled.

 

“Yeah, I remember. Nobody else would talk to me. They thought I was a freak.”

 

Nikki had to pinch her nostrils. She laughed like the cartoon canine, Muttley.

 

“THEY THOUGHT YOU MUST BE A HOMO, BRUH! I KNEW BETTER THOUGH, AFTER I KEPT CATCHING YOU LOOKING DOWN MY BLOUSE! HAH! YOU WANTED A HOOK-UP!”

 

The quiet nebbish was completely embarrassed. But he felt vindicated by her accusation.

 

“I did, I did. You boasted quite a figure, for a teen kid in school. None of the other girls had blossomed like that, really. I was breathless...”

 

She cackled and tapped her long, glittery nails on the screen. This made a sound like hail falling during a storm.

 

“YER A PERVERT, MANNN! HA HA HA! JUST KIDDING, JK, JK! AT LEAST YOU NEVER JUDGED ME, I GOT CALLED A SLUT AND A WHORE RIGHT UP TO OUR GRADUATION, BECAUSE OF MY BOOBS! BUT YOU NEVER ASKED ME OUT, OR ANYTHING! YOU DIDN’T DROOL, WOLF WHISTLE, OR TRY TO GRAB MY BUTT! I THOUGHT YOU WERE KINDA COOL, ACTUALLY. I FELT SAFE WHEN WE WERE TOGETHER! I HAD NEVER MET A GENTLEMAN, BEFORE, YOU KNOW?”

 

Nigel wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or grateful for her remarks.

 

“Yeah, okay. Should I say thank you?”

 

Nikki turned serious again. She shifted gears in their conversation, quickly.

 

“So, here’s the deal homie! What’s really going on over at your trailer? No bull, just tell me the real story. What’s your sitch, Ron Stoppable?”

 

Her longtime associate cringed at this plea for accountability. He could barely hold the phone in his right hand. He needed a deep breath before answering. Then, he unburdened himself with a confession worthy of being delivered to a member of the priesthood.

 

“Alright, alright. Here it is... I’ve been huddled inside my longbox for 63 days. I’m out of everything. There’s one slice of bread on a paper towel, and a cup of tea, getting cold while I stand here talking. I am terrified by the thought of opening the front door. I lost my nerve to face anybody. My hands won’t stop shaking. All my clothes are dirty. I’m broke and busted and bummed out by life! The truth is, I’d like to crawl in a hole somewhere, and disappear! My mother had spells like this when I was a child. One of them lasted for a dozen years! I miss her, and I miss you, and I miss feeling like a human being!”

 

His solo contact was quiet for a minute, while pondering. But when she spoke, it was with the healing grace of a kindred spirit.

 

“NIGE, YOU FLING BACK THAT GAWDAMM DOOR, AND WALK OVER HERE RIGHT NOW! WE’RE GONNA GO OUT TONIGHT, AND DRINK AND DANCE, AND REMINISCE ABOUT OLD TIMES, BUDDY! YOU AIN’T GONNA SIT THERE ALONE FER ANOTHER DAMN SECOND! GET YER SCRAWNY ASS MOVING, RIGHT NOW!”

 

The thought of surrendering to her demands made him quiver and quake, inside. Yet for the first time in 63 days, he felt hopeful. Sunlight streamed through his kitchen window.

 

As they used to say, today was the first day of the rest of his life.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Intifada, Part Six”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Mama Molene Gant had sputtered while pleading for her former prodigy to rejoin the activist troupe in Cuyahoga County. Nothing she said seemed to have an effect. But a final thought turned the tide. As she reminisced about their exploits on the streets of Cleveland, a chilling observation spilled forth from her lips.

 

“You’ll be alone here, forever. Think about that, Dex! Alone in a field full of tombstones. Ohh, damn! Good hearts die out here, there’s no tolerance for diversity. Maybe we disagree right now, honey? I’m not so sure that ain’t just an illusion, but whatevs! Ya still belong with our tribe. We’re your fam, girl! Ya gonna regret spending another day in this dump. Trust me, I been around! I know the drill. Come home with me, right now!”

 

Darcy Trelane had to swallow hard. Guilt and alienation welled up in her throat.

 

“It’s true, Mama! I hate this effing trailer park!”

 

Her one-time mentor nodded and smiled.

 

“Of course ya do, woman! I bet a lot of these hillbillies do, too! This is a shithole. People don’t live in these boxcars by choice. They do it ‘cause they’re broke-ass mofos, with empty pockets and no hope! Come back to tha hood by Lake Erie! We gonna treat ya right!”

 

Her former pupil relented at last.

 

“Okay, Mama. Okay! But there’s paperwork to do, I’d have to meet with the property manager...”

 

Molene was adamant about making an immediate escape.

 

“NAW, SCREW THAT NOISE! PACK YA BAGS, WALK OUT THA DOOR, AND DON’T LOOK BACK! I’M NOT FOOLING, DEX! THIS TRASH HEAP GIVES ME THA HEEBIE JEEBIES! WE GOTTA RUN WHILE THERE’S TIME! OTHERWISE, WE MIGHT NEVER GET AWAY FROM THIS JUNKYARD KINGDOM!”

 

Darcy had her game system, T-shirts, and pajama pants. Otherwise, nothing else mattered too much. She stuffed everything into a duffel bag, and dragged it across the floor. A look of sad resignation made the corners of her mouth curl under.

 

“My dad will be pissed! And that old drunk across the yard, I’ll miss him in a weird kind of way...”

 

Her spiritual guide laughed and shook her long, gray locks in celebration.

 

“Ya gonna be better off, girl! I guarantee it! Yer soul will die out here, it needs some sunshine. We got plenty of that by the lake. Tha fam will be glad ta welcome ya home! Boo yah!”

 

Once they had squeezed everything into her Toyota Prius, getting on the road was an anti-climax. But as they pulled out of the property entrance, onto Pine Trail Road, a caravan of deputies from the Sheriff’s Department passed their tiny vehicle. Barricades were set up, quickly. Rifles and tasers were at the ready. Dogs and their handlers began to patrol the perimeter.

 

When the rambunctious horde of lifted pickup trucks rolled away from their township square, a mood of kinship united them in purpose. Everyone felt confident about their mission to put things right at Evergreen Estates. But upon reaching their destination, only a short distance down the hill, this confident bravado dissipated like morning mist.

 

Armed officers blocked their entry to the park. Not a single 4x4 hauler was given permission to cross the boundary lines.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath stood with a bullhorn in his hand.  His weapon was still in its holster. The lawman was tall, beefy, and had the look of a military veteran. Yet his voice resonated with the diplomacy of a gifted representative.

 

“Go home, neighbors! This development is on lockdown, per our governor in Columbus. We’ve had student uprisings all across America, lately. He doesn’t want that kind of thing happening here. I’m not a decision maker, I just carry out instructions. I keep the peace! If people have something to say, let them speak freely. Maybe you don’t agree? I probably don’t, either, to be honest. But it’s not your right to interfere. There’s no fight on the frontlines, every one of us is a citizen of this county. If you’ve got a problem with that, then get out and vote against me, when the next election comes around!”

 

Linn Speck had walked over from his prime lot on the corner. When he heard the impromptu speech being delivered, it caused him to redden with anger and resentment. He thumped his chest and strutted like a rooster.

 

“LOCKDOWN? WHAT THE HECK, SHERIFF? YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO US! OUR TAX DOLLARS PAY YOUR SALARIES! YOU WORK FOR THE RESIDENTS OF THIS PARK! DAMMIT, YOU WORK FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME!”

 

Rath nodded with a somber expression. Radio chatter crackled in the background, from his receiver.

 

“Friend, you’re not wrong. But in this case, I’ve got to enforce what the governor has decided. He wants things to stay quiet. Quiet is good. As a matter of fact, I like peace and quiet, myself. There are things happening around the world today, some crazy things! But none of them affect us here in Ohio. Not like some want you to think. I don’t care where your family came from, or what you believe, it’s all good to me. Do like that old saying, ‘Live and let live.’ Don’t stir up trouble just to get your kicks. Get on your knees and pray for this state. Pray for the world! I’d say that right now, we need some good words said for everybody!”

 

The residents who had followed Linn from his driveway began to chant, spontaneously.

 

“AMEN, SHERIFF! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Their ambitious benefactor was not pleased by the tone of comity, and tolerance.

 

“WE NEED SOME LEADERS WITH A SPINE, NOT WIMPS CRAWLING ON ALL FOURS! LIVE AND LET LIVE? HAH! I HAVEN’T BELIEVED THAT KIND OF NONSENSE SINCE I WAS A KID IN GRADE SCHOOL! IT’S BULL-HOCKEY, SHERIFF! PURE BULL! WE’VE GOT TO FIGHT OUR ENEMIES, WHEREVER THEY ARE! ABROAD, OR RIGHT HERE ON THIS PATCH OF GROUND!”

 

The enforcement chieftain took off his hat, and held it by the brim. He stepped closer to his vocal opponent, and whispered so only the two of them could hear.

 

“Linn, I’ll say this one time. Don’t ask me to repeat myself. Stand down, or I’ll be taking you to a cell in the safety center. Does that resonate inside your thick skull? Stand down! Let this end on a good note. Governor Moerlein doesn’t want another shoot-em-up like during the protests about our involvement in Vietnam. Go back to your singlewide box! Go home to your wife!”

 

The rotund instigator felt his boxer shorts getting damp. He looked at the service weapon hanging on Rath’s duty belt. Then, at all of the deputies who were standing behind him, fully at attention.

 

From a distance, Townshend Carr Lincoln stood while leaning on his mismatched canes. He was shaggier than ever, dressed in work clothes that were stained with bourbon and chicken grease, and a baseball cap. He saluted and then closed his eyes.

 

“Big J, Holy Father, I thank you. Amen!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Intifada, Part Five”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

After the failed attempt to organize a neighborhood association, Linn Speck felt his jowls burn every time there was an issue with park owners at Evergreen Estates. Being anointed as a leader of residents was something he had worked for since the previous year. He had canvassed every street, gotten signatures on his petitions, and negotiated a plan with legal experts who were eager to help the underprivileged people of their prefab village. Yet everything had gone for naught. A single note of dissent from one of the development’s most senior residents had scuttled his operation.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln gained notoriety as a thorn in his side, like no other.

 

Failure dogged him afterward. He became an outcast among his own community. That tag hung around his neck like an albatross. It fouled the air wherever he went, and filled his nostrils with a stench of irrelevance. He stopped looking at his own reflection in the mirror, because contemplating what he had become was too burdensome.

 

Until fate intervened at last. With a merciful crackle of lightning, that boosted him back to the pinnacle of their mobile-home ranks. 

 

When the ‘Never Surrender High-Tops’ of Donald J. Trump were introduced at Sneakercon in Philadelphia, everything changed. With that stroke of marketing mastery, POTUS 45 unwittingly rescued the pudgy, floundering Ohioan from his personal doldrums. A scheme of multi-level marketing ensued, with neighbors and friends being encouraged to buy into a business based on vending these trendy articles of footwear. What followed was even more challenging, yet rewarding for those who joined the effort – a citizen group dedicated to marching throughout their rural oasis, and beyond. Carrying a message of an America, restored. When the Trump Bible was added as another item likely to attract buyers, a groundswell of support resulted.

 

The ’Gold Shoe Brigade’ was Linn’s resurrection. His escape from intellectual exile.

 

He had planned a confrontational visit with Miss Poindexter, many times. But on each occasion, some quirk of fate interrupted his intentions. So, when a lavender, Toyota Prius arrived at her trailer on Monday morning, he was more than a bit irritated. The unannounced visit had stymied his vendetta, once again. Instead of putting plimsolls to the tarmac, he and his supporters could only sit in the driveway, and drink low-buck suds for comfort.

 

At Lot 12, a lone figure exited her Japanese economy vehicle, and stood in the front yard while contemplating. Then, she rapped lightly on the window.

 

Mama Molene Gant had driven all the way from Cleveland, by herself.

 

“Dex? I know ya must be inside, girl! I’m here alone, whoo, ya know my people didn’t want that to happen. I had a whole crew of volunteers ready to ride! Tha vibe was crazy! But I told ‘em it’d be better ta let me do things solo. Here I am! Let’s talk out this shit!”

 

Darcy Trelane pulled back a corner of her blue blanket, and peered through the expansive pane of glass. Her orange head of hair was a mess. She had been eating Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, while gaming on her console. Splotches of sugar and cookie dough dotted her Pokemon pajamas.

 

“Mama, I don’t know why you came out here. This place is a hole in the ground! We don’t get any tourists, and not many friends from the outside world. Just the Po-Po, now and then...”

 

Her former mentor cupped a hand over her eyes, for a better view through the glass.

 

“Ya know I love all my kids! Some graduate and move along, some hang around tha lake. Some lose their way and come home when times get hard. I figure that’s yer trip, honey! I know ya got to hurt, deep down inside. Ya been away from us too long! Now, I’m asking ya to make a U-turn. Come back into tha fold. Put that Palestinian flag up in this window, so I can make a Tik Tok video! Ya know, I sho wanna have that resistance shown where it belongs! Right here in tha middle of MAGA hell! We gotta flip tha finger to these bigots! You gotta flip tha finger! Do it, and I’ll forgive yer wandering. It’ll all be forgotten. Come home to yer fam!”

 

Miss Poindexter wiped tears from her eyes, nearly causing her black spectacles to fall on the floor. The lenses were smudged.

 

“Mama, I don’t feel right about our protest. That old dude next door made some sense, even through a haze of whiskey. You’re not saying anything to change my mind. We’re picking a fight when we should be talking about building bridges. People like me get beheaded or jailed in that part of the world. They don’t embrace LGBT rights. It’s a way of thinking we don’t understand. There’s a lot we don’t understand going on right now. We need to be listening more, and thinking more, before we speak...”

 

Her former influencer began to quake where she stood.

 

“DAMMIT, WOMAN! YA JUST WON’T LISTEN! THIS FIGHT HAS BEEN CHOSEN FOR US! SHO YA RITE! THESE PIGGIES IN THE ORANGE MAN KLAN IS THE PROBLEM! NOT US! PUT THE FLAG UP LIKE YA DID BEFORE! LET IT SHINE, LET IT SHINE! STICK IT TO THA MAN! PUT YO HAND IN THA AIR FOR PALESTINE!”

 

Darcy had soaked her garments with sweat. She was hot and uncomfortable in her front bedroom. Musty, stale vapors streamed from the faded carpeting.

 

“I’m on board with the struggle, you know that. These hillbilly hacks have always turned my stomach. But I’ve got all kinds of friends, Mama! That’s the groove you used to teach us, love for all colors and creeds and traditions. I remember getting called a ‘dumb polack’ in school. That made me cry as a kid! I was proud of my grandparents. They came here to escape the wartime occupation in Europe. They watched friends die, relatives die, and people they didn’t even know go to the ovens. That haunted them for the rest of their lives. That old bruh across the yard is right, we’ve got to quit fanning the flames. You used to stand for peace, and I bet a lot of kids would join in if you did that again...”

 

Molene hit the window with her bony fist. A crack spread from the spot of first contact, all the way to one corner.

 

“I AM FOR PEACE, CHILD! CEASE FIRE! NO MORE GUNS! NO MORE SUPPORT! DIVEST! DISCONNECT! DENY!”

 

Her former underling looked oddly sad.

 

“Remember you used to say that a plant won’t die unless the roots get dug up? That’s the truth, Mama! It’ll just grow again. Maybe even bigger and stronger than before. That’s the way hate grows. They hate us, we hate them. Nobody trusts the other side. Nobody believes what they hear or read. That’s where we are right now. Link has been my neighbor since I moved here, and he’s drunk every day. I never saw anyone swallow so much booze! But now and then, he sounds sober. Now and then, he makes a lot of sense. He sounds like you did, years ago. What changed since then? What changed your mind?”

 

The college organizer was livid. She kicked at the tall grass and spat forcefully.

 

“I GOT A WHOLE LOTTA LOVE IN MY HEART, YA CAN COUNT ON THAT, GIRL! BUT NOT FOR THEM ASSHATS WAVING THEIR SNAKE FLAGS AND SPOUTING MAGA BULLSHIT! OHH, I’M GONNA LOSE MY COOL JUST THINKING ABOUT IT! YA KNOW, I GOT A THOUSAND BODIES READY TA HIT THA STREETS RIGHT NOW! BUT THAT WINE WOULD TASTE SWEETER IF YA JOINED OUR PROTEST! SQUEEZE IN THERE WITH US! TRAMPLE THEM REDNECK MOFOS! KNOCK THEM DOWN, KNOCK THEM DOWN!”

 

On the corner, Linn felt his cell phone start to vibrate. He rummaged through his pants pocket, and answered eagerly, after recognizing the number. Pastor Cabriel Forester of their township’s notable Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven, was on the line.

 

“Christian brother, I’ve got six-dozen pickup trucks in our parking lot right now, up here on the hill. Everything is set for a ‘cleansing’ of your park. We’ll put up a tent and a cross in the front field. Then I’ll preach a sermon from God’s holy word. And we’ll send all the agents of Lucifer straight back to his hideout in the dark underbelly of eternity!”

 

The trailer resident stood up from his lawn chair. He looked around with a surge of excitement, and then put one hand over his heart.

 

“AMEN, AMEN! LET THE ARMY OF GOD SHOUT IT TO THE SKY! SHOUT IT TO NEIGHBORS AND FRIENDS! I SAY - AMENNN!”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Kentucky Kernel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

The recent anniversary of tragic events at Kent State University caused a moment of reflection for this writer. While many bowed their heads and remembered, others made online posts about the Star Wars movie franchise. Yet at my desk, the mood was somber. For many, what transpired on the campus in May of 1970 was a benchmark for the entire generation. A point reached where unarmed students met the fate of battlefield combatants. I remember a friend observing later, in New York, that he and others who were immersed in hippie culture at the time literally thought that they all might be exterminated in a similar fashion. But in my own life, the yield of this awful happening was more subdued and complex to process.

 

I was eight years old when William Schroeder, Alison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, and Sandra Lee Scheuer were felled by National Guard bullets.

 

In the Ice household, reading our local paper, and watching daily news broadcasts, was a family tradition. My maternal grandmother had a particular interest in staying informed. My father always caught the morning shows while having his coffee. As a young pupil in eastern Kentucky, I went to a school located in a district so poor and remote that my third-grade studies commenced each weekday in a trailer behind the actual building. I was too young to be self-conscious about this obvious token of poverty. When gunfire ripped through the air in my native Ohio, I took it as a bout of adult violence that made no sense. Hearing that kids who were busy working on their education had been struck down, had me stunned and befuddled. Being so naïve and youthful, I equated the four with members of my own class at Owingsville Elementary.

 

With an earnest desire to understand, I asked my father about what had occurred. He was a stout fellow with a solid education, and a calling as a Christian minister. A lifelong Republican. Someone who had voted both for Richard Nixon, and Buckeye Governor Jim Rhodes. So, my innocent query must have caused his stomach to quiver uncomfortably. I recollect that he paused thoughtfully before offering a wise assessment.

 

“Man may err in his beliefs or in his conduct. But God is always on his throne of grace. It is important to remember that, Rodney. At the end of time, it is his hands that will still cradle the world.”

 

My concept of soldiers was dictated in that gentle era by green, plastic Army men who populated our backyard when I played with friends. I was more concerned with riding my Schwinn banana-bike, and finding 45-rpm records at our local five & dime store, downtown. One of those was a single by the iconic, but largely unknown, Jim Ford. A native of the Bluegrass State who was expressive and talented, yet not destined to linger long as a figure in the world of popular music. I had so little life experience under my belt, that comprehending the conflict in Vietnam, and the unrest percolating across America, overwhelmed my budding intellect.

 

My mother and her side of our brood were all old-fashioned Democrats, who sprung from the soil of Appalachia. She stayed busy with the rigorous duties of running our home. But Grandma McCray, who was her own mater, had plenty of love and affection as I struggled with this dark point on the calendar. She was content to let me talk freely, and explore my nerdy sense of wonder. Then, offered assurance that I would always be protected by our benevolent creator.

 

“You will never be alone, child. It says that in the holy scriptures, in Matthew 28. “And lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.”

 

Grandma was a poet who frequently offered her humble vision of life in compositions of creative verse. She once received a letter from Eleanor Roosevelt, thanking her for material written in support of her husband, our 32^nd President of the United States. I trusted her every word without question. Because, while I knew that the admonitions of others were grounded in fact and reason, I could feel what she spoke in my heart. Everything that fell from her lips resonated at my core. Her spirit and insight provided fertile soil from which I would grow, and prosper, for decades to come.

 

After the shootings, Neil Young’s classic ‘Ohio’ was an anthem that would strike with the force of a lightning bolt. A talisman of distant lands which I did not inhabit or tread. As a product of Columbus and the river region below, my experience had little to offer with any sophistication. I knew of our military operations overseas, and about the counterculture pushback of some who were aligned differently in social and political terms. But this awareness came through the peering eyes of a virtual baby. I watched Beatles cartoons on our TV set, a colorless receiver bought from the Sears & Roebuck catalog. I listened to vinyl platters on our hi-fi, also vended by that same noted retailer. But cultural references echoed like a screeching of anonymous birds in the treetops. I had no frame of reference. Only the radio provided a link to what awaited, beyond.

 

The song about Kent State had an unintended effect against this backdrop, in personal terms. It wracked me with a measure of guilt. I was after all, a son of the loam. Sprouted from a seed planted in the capital itself. I also had the lessons and platitudes of a conservative consciousness instilled into my head. My identity, my concept of existing, had been predetermined by this reality. So, how could I put those factors together, while yearning to be a fully-formed participant in our national traditions?

 

This conundrum would stay with me for many years that followed.

 

Sometimes, I stayed up late, with my transistor device hooked to its earphone. And a blanket over my head, to cover up this sin of being awake beyond designated hours. Music beckoned for me to enter this shadowy realm, at first. But eventually talk radio, like the ramblings of Herb Jepko on his syndicated ‘Nitecap’ program, opened new vistas to be sampled. I tuned in on affiliate WHAS, in Louisville. Through the tutelage of this long-distance education, I began to learn about things beyond the guardrails of my family and faith. The process was one that inspired a lively debate, at home, and within myself. A continuing process of evolution, and renewal. My Kentucky kernel of wisdom offered a bumper crop of enlightenment that I continue to harvest, even now.

 

It all began with the daily news, in 1970.