Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 6: Strike

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

With the takeover of Evergreen Estates by Proletariat Property Co-op having been completed, I guessed that conditions at our park might actually change for the better. After living in the community for over 20 years, I could barely remember any serious efforts to maintain or improve the general landscape. Streets, common buildings, and shared spaces were all long past the point of being repaired, without significant investments. Too often, maintenance projects had to be undertaken by the residents themselves. Even when outside orders were issued by the Ohio EPA, or other government institutions in the district, their pleas for action were ignored. Because distant owners changed so frequently, it had never been easy to keep track of their identities. Leveling fines was nearly impossible. Moreover, because it had been such a nuisance, officials in the county preferred not to acknowledge that the property existed, at all.

 

I didn’t know or care much about the new company. But figured that their stewardship could not be significantly worse than what we had already endured.

 

Linn Speck took this changeover as a blow against prevailing social mores, however. His nerves were still raw from having failed to create an association of residents, with himself as the reigning authority. He tagged the new group as an Empire State menace. Steeped in leftist, counterculture ideas, with a decidedly activist attitude. His conclusions were strident and aggressive. They resonated well with those who lived in our village of mobile homes, despite having little basis in fact. Yet upon filing an official Petition in Action of Rent Escrow, he was quickly rebuffed. This caused him to sweat and swear, and swing his fists, before leaving the courthouse. He had been neutered in a public forum, something that left him feeling censured by the justice system. His flabby jowls were tight with emotion, when hearing the judicial decision read out loud. He refused to accept his defeat. His appearance before the bench was sloppy and slouched, but unrepentant.

 

Judge H. Nolan Bartanski was visibly offended by this show of defiance.

 

“Sir, it is a common practice to set up these accounts when disputes arise. I have personally endorsed several against past owners of your neighborhood. But in this instance, the transition to another holder of the deed has only just occurred. Your rationale for diverting rent income is flimsy, and unconvincing. To use the supposed political slant of a financial cooperative as justification for withholding money, in protest, is patently ridiculous. I cannot justify it as being wise or legal. Therefore, it is my ruling that this petition for redress is denied! We are adjourned!”

 

His gavel dropped like a sledgehammer on an anvil. Reporters and spectators began to leave almost immediately. I was far in the back, leaning against the wall and on my disability canes. A snort of amusement betrayed my opinion on the effort. I had guessed that the plan would fail.

 

“That’s a tough loss, dude. You did better, collecting beer cans for scrap money. Stay with what you know. It ain’t smart to get in over your head...”

 

I concluded the day with multiple rounds of Tennessee booze, on my front porch. It did not take long for the brown liquor to eclipse my stamina. I faded out while still sitting at the top of my access ramp. Sunset turned the air colder, and crisp. I shivered and snored until around midnight. Then, coughed myself awake.

 

In my living room, the couch was a more friendly spot to crash. I slept there until late, on Tuesday morning. The furnace seemed to run all night long.

 

I had expected my boisterous, portly opponent to seethe about his humiliation for days or weeks, afterward. With some half-baked notion of saving face being the yield. But when the next weekend arrived, there was another sheet of printed matter rolled up and stuck in the handle of my storm door. I had to find a pair of reading glasses before deciphering its rambling, lines of prose. Then, I gasped with comprehension.

 

His latest proposal was stunningly bold, and ill-considered. An obnoxious and reckless combination.

 

“CITIZENS OF EVERGREEN ESTATES – You all know how hard I have worked on your behalf, as a legal liaison and leader of this park. I thank you for your gratitude, and support. But now, we are facing a bigger threat than anything that ever happened to this property. It is a literal takeover by outsiders who don’t think or believe as we do, and will not hesitate to use the income generated here to buy more properties! That strategy has to be stopped, and we can make it happen. That is, if you join me in a rent strike. At the first of this month, don’t take your checks up to our manager’s office. Let her rot in that little hole by the maintenance garage! She will have to explain to the PPC why there are no funds for payment. And we will have the power to make real change happen. Right here, and right now!”

 

Linn must have envisioned himself as a reincarnation of ancient royals. Though our junkyard environment was a poor kingdom in which to rule. I reckoned that it would not take long for sheriff’s deputies to begin enforcing eviction notices, once the lot rent was overdue. Though I wondered how many of my fellow inhabitants would support his call of duty, in the end.

 

Once a copy of his leaflet appeared on the desk of Dana Alvarez, it seemed certain that there would be plenty of evidence for expelling him from the development. Strangely though, I experienced a hint of sadness when pondering that eventual result. His presence was irritating and provocative, to be sure, but it kept me energized. His rants gave me a reason to drink and dabble in creative arts, that were a forgotten part of my personal story. His spit-spewing histrionics kept me centered as a contrarian thinker. I needed that guidepost to remember the importance of dissent. His stink of obtuse insincerity reminded me of what I never wanted to become.

 

Without that ugly, philosophical stench in my nostrils, I might relax too much. And perhaps, give up my whiskey bottle.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Junkmaster”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

“What is the crowning glory of your civilization... the symbol as clear a statement as the pyramids, the Parthenon, the cathedrals? What is this symbol? What is its name? Its name is junk. Junk is the rusty, lovely, brilliant symbol of the dying years of your time. Junk is your ultimate landscape.” – George Nelson

 

Years ago, when visiting friends near Lake Erie, on the west side of Ashtabula, a woman who was near my own age made a stunning observation. She said with confidence that any possessions, boxed-up and resting in storage for more than six months, without seeing the light of day, should be discarded immediately.

 

“I can’t stand clutter! Get rid of what you don’t really need! You’ll feel better, Rodney, believe me! Why hang onto stuff that you never use? It doesn’t make good sense! Clear out the cobwebs, and find yourself free again!”

 

Her scolding was the sort of admonition that I had received frequently since childhood. Yet in such a modern context, I needed to glance sideways, and wince. Especially upon hearing it delivered with such sober, self-assurance. However correct her statement might have been, it was not one that resonated with meaning, in the Ice household. I was used to a different sort of logic. One dispensed by parents who were both born of the Great Depression. They rarely got rid of anything unless it had been completely ruined by daily use.

 

My contact by the water described such sidelined goods as ‘junk.’ But in my world, that term was one used affectionately, not with any sort of judgment. So, I reacted with raised eyebrows, and a bit of diplomacy.

 

“Six months? That’s harsh, I think. Kudos for your persistence, though...”

 

From the very beginning of my personal journey, I cannot recall a time when our home space was unoccupied by some form of accumulation. There were always reference materials, books and magazines, outdated appliances, extra furnishings, leftover auto parts, and assorted relics in our basement, attic, or garage. We were used to moving regularly as a family unit, because my father was a member of the clergy. Therefore, at least a third or more of our stash lingered perpetually in trunks and boxes. It became a matter of course for us, something familiar and even comforting to experience. I did not know any other way to live.

 

When seeing the order of things at neighboring outposts along our street, I would be mystified by their stylish interiors. Most made some attempt to create a fashionable environment for hosting guests and relatives. Some sense of a design ethic always seemed to be in effect. It made for an artful and pleasing presentation. Yet differed from the natural evolution of my own space. One driven by a reverence for reading, for music, and for thrifty habits.

 

Anything of value was pressed into service over and over again, until it had literally been exhausted.

 

The home of my grandparents, in Columbus, Ohio, set the template for this methodology. It was an old farm, repurposed as a venue for self-education and memory-making. Generations of material had collected there, over the years. This meant that past and present were merged into a useful, homogenous whole for those entering our familial sanctuary. I remember, for example, playfully looking at images on a Holmes stereoscope as a youngster. Fully unaware that the device was likely one manufactured in the 19^th Century. I read vintage comic books, or plucked on a Stella, flat-top guitar from the 1950s, with no concept of the chronological eras that I had transited.

 

From that naïve, innocent perspective, everything was equal because it occupied the same physical spot. I did not comprehend that there was a spread of decades and more, in effect. This magic yield of being in the midst of a vast collection altered my perceptions, going forward.

 

I had no hesitation to keep plenty of ‘junk’ on hand, for future review and enjoyment.

 

Such things returned to mind, recently, when my niece reached the point of clearing out her late mother’s storage space, held under lock-and-key by a nearby provider. Among that bounty of forgotten treasures were boxes I had packed, when on the verge of leaving home, in New York. The contents therein were a mashup of childhood years, teenage angst, and a beginning of creative endeavors. Everything from a hand-carved nightstick, with a leather shoestring for a wrist-strap, made in grade school, to more current mementos. Along with souvenirs from a 4-H convention, in Virginia. And, a 1948 Sears & Roebuck television, found at the Painesville Fairgrounds during a massive, garage-sale event with my first wife.

 

Unsurprisingly, I had no room to receive this truckload of memories. Yet it arrived suddenly, on a Tuesday morning. The resulting mass quickly filled my living room. I could barely see the front door. Festive Christmas lights, already on display in a corner by the closet, were all but obscured. I had only a narrow path to my favorite chair remaining, at one end of the couch. For a moment, the emotional weight of this delivery made me consider sending everything out with the trash. But of course, that did not happen. After a restless night in bed, I woke to fresh coffee, and a stern reconsideration of the task at hand.

 

Slowly and with deliberation, I would sort through everything, and save what was still intact.

 

In 2010, I had made a similar effort to empty my own rental unit of its contents, so that budgetary expenditures could be reduced. That towering heap of junk was still sitting in the back bedroom, across from my office desk. It had collapsed slightly, under its own weight, since first reentering the household. This gave the room an off-kilter appearance. Something that I took an oath to put right, yet never accomplished.

 

My father provided an example of patience that had been woven into our family’s DNA sequence. He was someone who learned to live with what he could not change. And I found myself performing this same balancing act, when stymied by circumstances. After a week had passed, I managed to eliminate one single box from the pile. But, no more. That small step represented a beginning, at least. A start toward future goals.

 

The rest would have to wait until tomorrow. Now, I was ready for a cold brew.

“Dead Friends”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

Dead friends cannot make amends

It is a feat, impossible

So, when they come a-calling

It is better to greet the eventual

I know a lot about this chase

Far better than the catch

But when the clutter of life abounds

I want to strike a match

 

Dead friends carry no hope of change

Personalities set in stone

Now that they have gone away

I sit here, lost and alone

If I would ruminate about

The adventures that we knew

That energy will peter out

Like a pair of leather shoes

 

Dead friends live in a world of wonder

A place both dark and cold

Separate from the sunlight

With a stink of must and mold

But now and then their names are called

And the sound is sweet to hear

That is when I see again

These souls that disappeared

 

Dead friends make me tremble

As I recall their worth

I celebrate them annually

Upon their day of birth

Yet even that remembering

Falls too short of the mark

I yearn to touch and hear again

To tease fate for a lark

 

Dead friends cause a shake of the head

When considering their absence

The void they leave behind

Upsets my inner balance

Off kilter, I will stumble

And stammer out a curse

My muse has no gifts to bring

Except an empty purse

 

Dead friends may remain intact

Long after they have gone

In photographs and painted portraits

In glimpses of the dawn

But still, I want to choose another

A different path to tread

A stronger dose in retrospect

Of what lingers in my head

 

Dead friends do not call to chat

Though I might imagine a ring

I sit still by the telephone

And yearn for what time will bring

From the far side of a mortal veil

They cannot leap the divide

Though I hear their whispers

Before the receding tide

 

Dead friends keep their value

Despite the closing of a grave

In defiance of their passing

A spark of self is saved

What they have contributed

Is returned, a hundred-fold

And I’ll carry that inheritance

To the point of growing old

“Boxes”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

Boxes a younger self packed, in 1983

When it seemed quite amusing to be homeless and free

Now difficult to behold, from a vantage point so advanced

A product of choice and chance

Flung far down the road

Stuck in a trailer abode

Slipped into a time warp envelope, and sent to the stars

This remembrance of battle scars

And how they were earned

How these lessons were learned

Each fold of cardboard conceals a prize

That brings a tear of yesterday into my eyes

I would rather run from this sight

Much more content to sidestep the daylight

Yet as a gift, this delivery was bestowed

In the bed of a pickup truck, hauling its load

I might have declined to answer the door

A polite refusal of this everyman award

But with a twist of the doorknob latch

I netted a big fish, a fine finned catch

Batting its broad tail in my face

With the effect of a vision yielded by scholarly grace

This image in the looking glass, undeniably mine

Though reconstituted by the progress of time

I barely recognize the profile

An assembling of trinkets, saved from the rockpile

This must have been an impulsive act

To preserve such meaningless artifacts

Now, on the floor in my room, they are set

Blocking access to closets and cabinets

A distraction I did not require

Automotive spares, and a bicycle tire

A school desk from my third-grade class

A dimple mug, made of common, crystal glass

A trumpet in its case, ready to play

White shoes from a marching band, in western PA

Tape decks and bottlenecks abound

A set of hi-fi speakers, bereft of sound

Books and magazines

A faded pair of blue jeans

A quilt made in tribute, for an age long surrendered

From a county in the country, an anonymous burg

A lamp with no shade

A church bulletin, a mimeograph page

All of these useless things, and more

From a rented storage space, behind a rollup door

They are naggingly in the way

A roadblock gone astray

I sit outside in the cold exterior

Pondering my crowded sphere

Grumbling softly at the younger fellow who cast this lot

A boxed bounty of forget-me-nots

Fallen far into future days

Where guilt could not judge his reckless play

That simple sweep under the rug

Left a trail of breadcrumbs and bedbugs

Long and lasting into an eternity, undiscovered

An echo of events, now uncovered

With each strip of tape pierced and parted

Comes another round of reflection, on the departed

Whatever has been lost is found

Whatever goes around comes around

So, with a prayer for courage

I settle my rage

Silently, I sit, sort, and sulk

Each cube revealing its secrets, in bulk

Trash and transgressions

Before the setting sun

A load of consequences, left in the wake

Of a kid at the curb, burdened by his mistakes

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 5: Meeting

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

Evergreen Estates had never been a peaceful neighborhood for residents, the on-site manager, or local members of law enforcement. Instead, it had remained a focal point for citizen unrest, mayhem, and gossip. Wild theories about the outside world found fertile ground to germinate and grow, on its potholed streets. Pervasive suspicions about nearly everything were common. Underlying themes of paranoia and mistrust accompanied every discussion of literal events. When combined with a general lack of higher education, and a downward mobility in financial terms, this potpourri of damnation festered openly. But because the community had been situated away from any regional population center, and built inside a perimeter of unoccupied, wooded lots, it remained untouched by the natural evolution of more metropolitan environs. County leaders were never pleased to admit that the village of mobile homes still existed in their district. Yet after many efforts over the years, they remained powerless to erase it from their landscape. It was, in the imagery of a 1950s science-fiction movie, a beast that would not die.

 

At least, that is how I often thought of the junkyard oasis where my exile had continued for 20 years, and more.

 

With agitation becoming more intense over their acquisition by the Proletariat Property Co-op, Dana Alvarez decided to hold a meeting at the maintenance garage, for those who lived in the rural development. She had been in charge for a relatively short time, but felt empowered after being held over to continue acting as their supervisor, despite the change of ownership. Her fiery, Latina personality was evident, when calling everyone to order. She used a length of PVC drain pipe as her gavel.

 

A furious racket echoed, as she struck the concrete-block walls to get everyone’s attention. I did my best to avoid the spotlight, by remaining just outside of the access door.

 

“Ayyyyyyy! You are a loco bunch today! I wanted to get things settled down, but you gonna make that hard for me, right? Look, I don’t need no toro mierda from this crowd. I wanna pass out some papers, they are from the new company in control. Shut up and read them, okay?”

 

Aimes Hefti, a self-appointed leader of the militia contingent, was unimpressed by her boldness. He wore military attire and carried a sidearm and baton, despite never having officially served in the regular armed forces.

 

“WHAT THE FUGG, CHICA? Y’ALL ARE NOTHIN’ TO US, JUST ANOTHER BITCH ON THE PARK PAYROLL! I DON’T NEED YER PROPAGANDA. I ALREADY HEARD ABOUT THE COMMUNIST TAKEOVER! THESE TRAITORS CAN KISS MY RED, WHITE, AND BLUE ASS!”

 

Linn Speck, who had been leader of a failed residential association, stood up without asking to be recognized. He had dressed in a polo shirt and khaki trousers. His overfed belly strained at a pair of canvas suspenders.

 

“Yeah, I agree with our commander! We’ve already gotten the scoop on this new bunch. What kind of freaks bought this development, anyway? Hippie kids from Cleveland State? LGBT protesters? Maybe BLM or Antifa members? This is an outrage! We were better off being owned directly by the bank! What was Wells Fargo thinking?”

 

Dana paused for a moment, then stroked her long, black mane.

 

“I’m gonna say it straight out, don’t be an idiota! Listen to me carefully, when I talk. This place had no buyers lining up. Nobody wanted it, even at a sale price. The California dudes couldn’t give it away. So, they took an alternative offer. These guys are different, yeah that’s true. But their credit rating was solid. That’s all the gente del dinero care about. The big bucks! Now, I don’t get how it works really, but their plan is on the level. It’s like a credit union for teachers and students, and working people, you know? Trabajadores who get their hands dirty, people like you and me, who have regular jobs and empty pockets. People who want to own homes for their familias...”

 

Darby Stronelli could barely see from her spot by one of the bay doors. But she hopped up and down until being noticed. Her Carhartt jacket reeked of smoke from bonfires fueled with pallet wood and used motor oil.

 

“All I know is Garter Haines told me this new group is Chinese or Russian, or North Korean, or something like that! He got out of here a long time ago! And he did! Now I wish I had done the same thing! I don’t trust them, and I don’t trust you!”

 

Grumbling and grousing filled the stale air. Once again, Dana had to pound her pipe on the wall to restore a sense of decorum to the event.

 

“Don’t be crazy! Who you gonna believe, some old imbécil, or me?”

 

The cramped workspace became heated, unruly, and loud. But as chaos took hold, there was a commotion outside. My presence had been noticed by the mob. So, I decided to enter the room, thumping along on a pair of disability canes. My pace was slow and measured. I had the shocking appearance of a homeless hermit, shaggy and unwashed, and clad in thrift-store apparel long out of date. A statement of individuality that was unwelcome to some, but amusing to others. Only my Realtree, camouflage hoodie seemed current in style. That fit the neighborhood ethic.

 

“I get it, everybody wants to give Ms. Alvarez the business about this changeover. But I’d like to point out that she is just a spokesperson. A representative to answer phone calls and process rent checks. She didn’t pick this option. Or make any other decisions. This shithole, to put it bluntly, has always been looked down upon by those in the mainstream. Not to mention cops and journalists, elected officials, and even Pastor Forester up at our Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven! We don’t rate with much of anyone. This is a hideout for those who are down on their luck and strapped for funds. You might say, for those who are long on bad luck and short on hope. This park reminds me of something Charles Bukowski might have written about. Not that you’d ever have heard of him, or bothered reading anything so off the wall. Anyway, from what I can tell, this co-op is a novel idea. Not that I give a rip about their slant on politics, or society, or anything. I just know that they were willing to gamble on this community. Which your orange hero just did, meeting with New York City Mayor Mamdani, in the Oval Office. If it’s like all the other situations, this’ll pass before too long, anyway. Nothing lasts here in the pines. Then we get to do it all over again...”

 

Aimes frowned, wrinkled his stubby nose, and spat on the dirty floor.

 

“SHOVE IT UP YER ASS, LINK! Y’ALL ARE NOTHIN’ BUT A WORTHLESS, GAWDAMN BUM! GO BACK HOME AND DRINK YER HILLBILLY HOOCH! I HOPE YA FREEZE ON THAT PORCH!”

 

I grinned at his insults. They made me feel empowered.

 

“Thanks for the good words, neighbor. See you in hell...”

 

Manager Dana gestured with the PVC pipe. At last, she had run out of patience.

 

“That’s it people! Reunion levantada! I’ll see you all on the first of next month with your checks! This meeting is adjourned! Now, get out of here!”

“Throat”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

It sticks in my throat

That joy for the few comes in a glimmer of daylight

While more fortunate sons and daughters stay up all night

Chortling over the embrace of luck or happenstance

A product of choice and chance

Which comes wrapped in gold foil

From laborers who till the soil

Offering up a prayer of gratitude when rain falls

When gray clouds soak the sky

And children wipe the mist from their eyes

I might have joined that chorus of creditors

If not for being of lowly birth

Nestled in my crib, close to the earth

Anonymous, in swaddling clothes

When I hear the roll called, and realize

That my name is not included

For a VIP entry

With the gentlest, gilded gentry

It makes me certain of my intended path

A line drawn in ink, on a yellowed, Sohio road map

Dare I veer astray?

That sin might cause a stir

A reason for wise words to be deferred

Until better days amend

I used to pick apart the tales of Roman conquest

Thinking hard about their centuries of success

And my own lack of the same

But somewhere, late in the eve

I found that a loose brick in the basement wall

Sufficed, sufficiently

That escape trick evoked a slip of laughter

A footstep into the great hereafter

Taken, toe-first

Nose into the musty space

Peering through the imaginary gale storm, a-brewing

Wondering what I was doing

When pulling the ripcord on my poetic, skydiver jump

Booted off the plane

That tumble out of the cargo hold

Into the vacuum-bottle of a mortal soul

Fraught with failings and foibles

Arranged in strands of knitted, synthetic yarn

Causing me to turn like a corkscrew, on the way down

Flailing and failing

To appear confident before those waiting on the ground

I might have done better

To remain a seminal seed

Bred for my potential

A take on the eventual

The capricious yield of a gambler’s toss, chips pushed in

Cards to the chest

The outline of a shadow drawn in hues with no names

Vest buttoned to the chin

A pocket square folded once, and again

Which of these descriptions is the most astute?

A bloodborne pathogen, or a birthday suit?

I have lost count by that point in this exercise

And so, for relief, I close my eyes

Just for a moment, so as not to lose my mental check

A guitar pick rested on the cusp of a sunset

Low over the horizon’s edge

A crow’s talon, clinging to the ledge

Wings fluttering wide and strong

Feathers gleam with the grandeur of a genetic sire

I could not hope to rise

In a flight through those thundering skies

I am merely a serf at the moat

Guilt and innocence, carried in on the same boat

I must admit

That it sticks in my throat

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 4: Rhubie

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

Evergreen Estates was obsessed with new ownership for our park, as the Thanksgiving holiday was drawing near. This progression from a vibrant display of fall colors, to the impending arrival of winter, was moving at a pace too rapid for my liking. Yet the seasonal change was something known well to park residents. The transition of our distant caretakers, an event that happened rather anonymously and in a world of which we were barely a part, seemed less important. So, I did not dwell on it for any length of time. Having our property held by a co-op of benevolent, socially-conscious investors resonated with charity. I reckoned that their stewardship would be kinder in nature than the hard, fiscal attitude of previous owners. But this opinion was not shared by anyone else on my street.

 

As always, I was an outcast. Even among those already ostracized from regular society.

 

This role of being a loner and contrarian was very familiar. One that I embraced with great relish. Because I stayed drunk and oblivious, throughout most of my waking hours, the verdict of others meant very little. I did not care about their opinions. More specifically, because of my prevailing inebriation, I tended not to notice insults and verbal jabs lodged in my direction. When they did register, I always responded with a raised, middle finger. And perhaps, a rejoinder offered in loud, four-letter bursts.

 

Yet with the winding-down of cyclical meteorology, and a chilling in the atmosphere, I found myself waylaid by the passing of a younger sister, Rhubie. It was a dreadful happening that seemed to come out of nowhere. Blazingly hot and hard, and relentless in force. She received a diagnosis early in the year, of health issues that were undetected by regular examinations. A surprise to her, the doctors involved, and our family. As each condition was treated, some new wrinkle appeared. Then, pancreatic cancer was added to this ugly cyclone of circumstances.

 

Fearing her demise, I sat with her at a local skilled-care facility for three hours, and reminisced about our shared childhood. We had tackled many family woes together. Being the oldest, I found that she always turned to me in times of need. Though she herself was the hub of our brood. The axis upon which everything else turned. Our chat was emotional, but pleasant. Much like many that we had enjoyed over the years. I did not remark on the fact that she had become pale and sluggish. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken. Yet for that brief instant, she sparkled with energy and life. I was able to compartmentalize my unspoken concerns, and simply enjoy the experience. Without surrendering too much of a visceral reaction.

 

On the way back to Evergreen Estates, I passed a memorial field, not far from my trailer community. The sight of this sprawling, local cemetery did not resonate as I steered toward home. Though subconsciously, I must have been mindful of those friends who had already been laid to rest at the site. Only a few days elapsed before I received news that my beloved sibling had been transferred to a hospital in downtown Cleveland.

 

She died just after three o’clock on a Saturday morning.

 

I might have observed that this exit from our bloodline was one that left me in a state of numb indifference to maintaining my daily routine. But the truth was more complex. I had made a quantum leap beyond the guardrails of a polite, human existence, many years before. So, perhaps in individual terms, I found it easier to cope. Others in my lineage were wrecked mentally and physically. They struggled to maintain proper contact with each other. They lost focus, and their zest for going forward, toward future plans and goals. Everything had been scattered, like pieces on a gameboard. There was no certainty that tomorrow could or would bring a sense of relief.

 

But for me, little changed. I stayed sloshed, disconnected, and safe in my pit of darkness.

 

Eventually though, the noise of bickering residents invaded my metaphorical bubble. Reports about the land transaction between Wells Fargo, and the Proletariat Property Co-op, had been shared by media sources along Lake Erie. WCPN 90.3 FM provided a thorough analysis of the transfer, that I streamed through my cell phone. Though I doubted that anyone else in the park was also listening, those details soon became woven into a mantra of conservative rebellion and outrage. One that propelled members of my isolated community into action.

 

“Reports from our correspondents with National Public Radio indicate that a new form of financial innovation has been planted right here, in the northeastern region of Ohio... in a place that one might suspect would never willingly accept such a progressive and grassroots effort to grow. After many company changes over the past several years, a Geauga County enclave known for crumbling conditions, chaotic management, and surging militia memberships, has now become the largest holding of a group dedicated to citizen empowerment, social justice, and equity. The co-op is one started originally in 1969, by students at Cornell University. Their initiative at first roiled the world of high finance. With a period of uncertainty and gloom marking their early history. But today, the PPC offers working-class participants a chance to acquire homes and living spaces through a unique platform of shared responsibilities... every member of the group is technically equal to all of the others. Though in practice, there is some specialization with regard to duties in the collective. The laborite ethic of ‘from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs’ is central to their outlook. With inflationary pressures, credit tightening, and wage stagnation, more interest is being given to novel ideas of this kind. In a nation where the bottom 50% of inhabitants hold only 2.6 percent of the wealth, it is easy to see causative factors for this shift to more populist methods for gaining a foothold in the marketplace...”

 

Down the street, I could hear that Linn Speck, an active parishioner at our local Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven, was in his driveway with a bullhorn. The grating sound of his voice turned my stomach. Despite its digestive tissues already being scalded with copious amounts of whiskey and beer. His call to action was for a meeting to be held at the maintenance garage, on Sunday after services on our township square.

 

“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! MAKE THIS PARK EVERGREEN, AGAIN! MAKE IT GREAT! MAKE IT GREAT!”

 

I pumped my right fist in the air, as a mock salute to his zeal. Then, opened my glass jug, and took a blissful dive into Tennessee oblivion.