Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 15: “Goodbye”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

With leaves beginning to fall, and temperatures dipping lower at night, I had turned numb to the idea of time progression. One day literally blended into the next, with the muted colors of an impressionist painting. I did not keep to my normal routine so strictly as before. Eventually, this had me raiding the refrigerator stash, when a better choice would have been to work at my desk. Ambition was a word that I no longer recognized. I cared little about anything, not even the creative work that had once held so much importance in my life.

 

Then, a call registered on my cellular device. The number displayed indicated an office in New York City. I recognized it as being the home base of Bowery Beat Records, and Seely Joan Frye. Her persistence struck me as somewhat irritating, when I had already begun to drink. So, instead of waiting for the voicemail program to connect, I actually answered with a gruff growl of indifference.

 

“Yeah? You’ve reached the Swindle Shack! Say your piece, and hang up already!”

 

The entertainment professional was shaken by my tone, yet resilient.

 

“Hello Rod, I hope you are well my friend. My associates here at the label have been curious about your thought process regarding our offer of a contract.”

 

I was still sober enough not to lose control. But bristled at her confession.

 

“Alright, maybe I wasn’t clear enough before. I’ll put that on myself. Here’s the deal – there is no deal! I’m permanently out-of-service here, done with the grind. I don’t need money, don’t need a schedule, don’t need a boss to please...”

 

Ms. Frye hummed to herself with amusement.

 

“Right, I get your independent attitude. That fits your personality, I think. What about the writing though, has that continued?”

 

I breathed heavily, until a tickle in my lungs evoked a loud, reflexive cough.

 

“I’m stalled at the moment. Too much going on in my personal life...”

 

The music maven nodded and sighed, softly.

 

“Look, I’d like to be candid with you, Rod. We don’t operate like a regular business. This isn’t a large operation, with shareholders to satisfy. We all love music, and the performing arts. That’s our groove, to nurture the craft in all its forms. Specifically, songwriters and those who interpret words and melodies for self-expression. My staff is a co-op of volunteers and apprentices. We don’t chase profits, or seek publicity. This is more of a free-form archive here, we want to tap into the stream-of-consciousness, and document what is happening in real time.”

 

I shrugged while finishing a round of pilsner.

 

“That’s noble of you, kudos for your efforts...”

 

Frye chortled at my disinterest. She was a veteran of the industry, and not easily turned aside.

 

“Let me take a different approach on this, okay? What do you have on your desk right now? I know better than to believe someone like yourself has shut down completely. There are always ideas echoing from the ether. Awake, asleep, wherever and whatever you might be doing. There is always some spark of creative zeal even when nothing else connects!”

 

Instead of pursuing a pointless debate, I meekly surrendered to her insistence.

 

“On my desk? Right now? There’s a notepad with lyrics jotted down this morning. Scribbling with stiff fingers, really. I tried capturing an a cappella version on my phone, and it sounded like, umm, shit...”

 

The entertainment chieftess was stunned by my naked honesty.

 

“LIKE WHAT? DON’T BE RIDICULOUS!”

 

I decided to bargain with her, for an early release from our meandering conversation.

 

“How about this? Hang up right now, and I’ll send you the audio file...”

 

Ms. Frye was stunned, but satisfied. I could hear her purr like a contented kitten.

 

“Yes! That’s a gamble I’ll take. Don’t keep me waiting, Rod!”

 

I rubbed my face and temples, before searching for the recording. It was a Lou Reed sort of twist on Jim Carroll’s ‘People Who’ve Died.’ A representation of the point I had reached in my own, mortal journey. Where fellow travelers were departing, too rapidly to comprehend.

 

Goodbye Game

 

Lil’ Kim hit those register keys

A clerk on duty, a marketplace queen

She had a smile for every visit I made

A grinning grandma, young for her age

She posted videos of song and prose

A surprise to see this hidden rose

She bloomed whenever the sun would shine

But couldn’t jump the limits of time

Limits of time

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

Started out boldly, in a cornfield

But Illinois soon lost its appeal

A radio buff, a real bunker-buster

Hit the Gold Coast in a Plinko plunker

Terry had the groove to grow on air

He lived a dream, upstairs/down stairs

A hillside studio, a drive-in play

I never considered that he’d have to go away

Go away

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

David had a university vibe

A librarian, Dewey Decimals on the inside

Stacked his records up the bedroom wall

Boxes of magazines, tumbling in the hall

I knew him for so damn many years

Never got afraid that he’d disappear

But with a wicked whisper of fate

He checked out, months before his birth date

He checked out

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

Nascar Hillbilly was never a friend

Got tired of watching him disintegrate loose ends

He had one skill, to piss off the ‘hood

At that task, he was undeniably good

Could build a mansion from boards and sticks

Pulled out his trailer when the irony got thick

I heard last week that he’d passed away

Bowed my head, nothing good to say

Nothing good

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

The Grim Reaper is a respecter of none

He comes to call when the day is done

I’ve heard it said that all men must die

But so far, I’m still on this train ride

I know statistically the gamut can’t last

I will also be called upon to pass

But when I slip beyond that veil of gray

It will be after having a moment to pray

Moment to pray

 

Living on loneliness is a goodbye game

Sunrise to sunset, a dance in the rain

Reciting sonnets from a stonemason’s wall

A wealth of sorrows, scratched with an awl

 

At the Bowery Beat offices, Seely Joan Frye sat very still after listening. Her eyes were full of tears. So much that it was necessary to pause, and reflect on what she had just heard. Her reading glasses had fogged, while scrolling through e-mail messages. Yet a hint of sadness made her feel cold. Only the glow of an idling, computer monitor offered any comfort. Still, a nerve had been touched. She would wait for her emotions to settle. Then, perhaps later in the afternoon, make a presentation to the company’s assets acquisition team. This moment of opportunity could not be ignored.

 

She would never accept being rebuffed, again.

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 14: “Overload”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Hearing from Kookshow Baby had been a surprise. Yet the news she conveyed threw me off balance. I could not conceive of Cult Radio A-Go-Go being left without its founder at the helm. Though by example, Terry DuFoe had provided a durable template for the media cooperative that I suspected would endure and thrive, into the future. This faith in the inevitable cycle of life was something I expected to depend upon for decades to come. But instead, it lasted approximately one week.

 

Then, my co-host from days at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York, passed away after a long illness.

 

I first met David in 1978. He was known for working at the Tompkins County Library, and also for being connected with ‘The Guru’ who was our coordinator at the station. Upon being introduced, we had a long conversation about music. A subject that both of us held as most important in our lives. In the days, weeks, and months that followed, I came to realize that we were two strong individuals with wholly dissimilar backgrounds. Likely to have never been friends, if not for our shared love of tonalities and rhythms. This lone interest brought us together. On the air, we were a lively team, corralling a crew of correspondents and instigators that kept each episode vital and interesting. But in everyday life, our cooperation yielded a kinship of brotherhood.

 

We stayed in touch long after I returned home to Ohio, in 1983.

 

Both of us went through a succession of career woes, marriages and divorces, and the hardship of aging. Because he was older, his challenges seemed to appear more quickly. Yet his pure affinity for concerts and record collecting never waned. He battled diabetes for at least 30 years. And still never surrendered the passion for lyrical artistry, as a result. Instead, the difficulty of getting around seemed to sharpen his focus.

 

He and my radio mentor in California had graduated from the mortal plane, a mere eight days apart.

 

Briefly, my wordsmithing jones was nullified by these twin developments. I couldn’t do much of anything expect drink. So, I spent long hours on my front porch, staring into space while a rotation of Punk and 60s Garage tunes streamed wirelessly, via Spotify. These sessions sometimes lasted until long after sunset. I would swat mosquitos and belch, crush empty cans, and rock in place, on my wooden bench. Finally, I received word that a former neighbor, someone who was cantankerous, loud, and often obnoxious when living at the back end of my street, had died unexpectedly. That jolt broke my static mood. I had heard many times that such events generally come in threes, in a triple-strike of fate and consequences.

 

That was the last bowling pin to fall. Now, my emotional overload had dissipated, at last.

 

I tried to call my pigtailed counterpart on the west coast, but predictably, she did not answer. I guessed that her own routine had been exploded, and would perhaps, never return to a lasting state of rest. She would be busier by far than ever before. With cats and guests, online networks, and household chores, and her own, vintage doublewide abode, all on the property of their abandoned drive-in theater. I did not envy her predicament. Though there was a tingle of affection in my heart for the idea of rejoining her for more movie watching and country-fried cuisine. A fantasy that lingered, despite being situationally improbable and generally impossible.

 

My brother, sister, and close companion, Janis, had all landed at skilled-care facilities around our area. My brother-in-law had senile dementia. I was functionally disabled, and hobbled by a lack of mobility. These factors meant that in a sense, I was rooted to my spot. Yet able when at my desk, to imagine, and write freely.

 

To stay safe from the gloom of mortal finality, I wrote a tribute for David, which was posted online. In particular, I recalled an after-hours jaunt to the border with Massachusetts, from our home base at that time, in the Finger Lakes Region.

 

A group from the United Kingdom, called Gang Of Four, still echoed in memory. Their use of feedback and aural bombast, over a pounding bassline, provided a proper soundtrack. Both on the road many years ago, and now, as I reflected on the death of my eccentric pal.

 

“Woke up this morning, desperation AM

What I’ve been saying, won’t say them again

My head’s not empty, it’s full with my brain

The thoughts I’m thinking, like piss down a drain...

 

And I feel like a beetle on its back

And there’s no way for me to get up

Love’ll get you like a case of anthrax

And that’s something I don’t want to catch...”

 

I was grateful to have my mental block lifted, at last.

 

Questions of all sorts persisted in the days thereafter. What sort of funeral arrangements had been made for my chum, if any? What would become of his collection, which was considerable, and massive in scope? Who would honor his legacy, beside the few of us who had remained vigilant in our friendship? Ultimately, what would keep his trove of knowledge and experiences from vanishing, forever?

 

I had already faced such ponderous queries when our mutual bandmate and advocate, Paul Race, had passed away in 2014. And when my own father did the same, in 2018. Both had amassed huge libraries, and been dependable for wise words, when needed. A vacuum that could not be filled existed in their wake.

 

By comparison, my own limited talents and resources were not so impressive. But I took their stories as examples of how I should proceed, in reverse. I needed to do better. Though in the moment, I felt arguably weak and overwhelmed.

 

Salvation came in the form of an opportunity to send out more books from the household stash. With late-night TV rattling corporate cages from coast-to-coast, and in Washington, I was inspired to offer some of my fictional, trailer-park volumes as a sign of comedic valor. I reckoned that satire remained a valuable tool. One not yet taken away by any government edict or societal norm.

 

I visited a favorite postal depot in Rock Creek, a few miles from my rural home. One with ground-level access that comported well with my failed hip and knees. The clerk there was familiar, and cheerful upon seeing my shaggy, slumped-over profile in her doorway. I reckoned she must have been assigned to the small outpost from Cleveland, or another more metropolitan area. Though it did not matter. I always enjoyed seeing her on duty.

 

“Y’all sendin’ out more books, boy? Good fo’ you! Dang, all these packages goin’ here, there, and everywhere! Ya must be busy in that office of yers! But that’s a good thing, right? Keep them fingers movin’ and yo’ eyes on the prize!”

 

 

 

 

Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 13: “Pizza”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

I had been at my desk throughout the morning, sorting through unread postal mail, and tackling neglected chores. Odd jobs that were tedious and tiresome. Yet important to address. A yawn of indifference sounded, as I remembered leaving the coffeemaker on, in my kitchen. Something that, by now, would have boiled the caffeinated beverage down to a rude residue of black mud. But as I was about to struggle out of the roller chair, a ringtone chirped from my cellular device. One associated with the Messenger app. An indication that I was about to speak with someone outside of my usual group of contacts.

 

A facial profile of Kookshow Baby appeared on the screen as I answered.

 

“RAWD! HEY, Y’ALL KNOW I BEEN BUSY AS HECK LATELY! BUT I GOT A SPARE MINUTE TO TALK RIGHT NOW. PICK UP YER DAMN PHONE!”

 

I wheezed a bit while leaning back in the chair. Her insistent demand, after weeks of no contact at all, rattled my composure. Still, I was curious about any details that she might have to offer.

 

“Yeah, what’s up? I’m here in the home office. You caught me early enough that I haven’t started drinking yet. Maybe that’s a good thing...”

 

The radio queen seemed shaken. Her voice hushed to the level of a whisper.

 

“It’s Terry, I got to tell ya some awful news. Y’all know he’s been in the hospital, in Los Angeles, right? Well, I know that feller is one tough son-of-a-gun. But there’s only so much a body can stand. He’s ridden his last rodeo, I’m afraid. That dude is off to the great beyond now, with Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger!”

 

I was stunned to the point of a brain freeze. I could not see, hear, or think.

 

“WHAT???”

 

Kookshow had started to sob, openly.

 

“It’s over, Rawd. It’s all over. The movie credits are rolling. El fin, cowboy! It’s the end!”

 

I could barely breathe. A stray yield of coffee dribbled from my shaggy beard. I slammed both fists on my desktop. This forceful act toppled an Elvira figure that was next to the iMac computer.

 

“What’s it been, three years, battling? He’s a strong guy, a genuine ox of a man. I figured this was just another setback, like what happened before...”

 

My west-coast cohort sniffled and sneezed into a checkered handkerchief.

 

“I could sure use a friend right about now. Why the hell did y’all go home to Ohio, Rawd? I’ve been mindin’ the ranch all by myself. Cats and streaming platforms, and stacks of old videodiscs and tapes, everywhere! It’s more’n a woman can handle by herself. Even a crazy filly like me!            Gawdamm!”

 

I had no coherent reply to provide.

 

“So, you’re at the abandoned drive-in by yourself?”

 

She had begun to croak like a feminine frog.

 

“Yes, dammit! I’m just tryin’ to be a help, not a hindrance, Ya know?”

 

Suddenly, I had become very thirsty. Sobriety did not fit the moment.

 

“My neighbor with the 18-wheeler hasn’t had any runs out west in a few months. That was my ticket to ride. Otherwise, I can’t cover a coast-to-coast run right now...”

 

Kookshow blubbered sorrowfully, before clearing her throat.

 

“I know, I know. Y’all are stuck back there in flyover country! It’s a shame though, ‘cause I’d be happy to see yer ugly mug in my trailer window. I need a companion. Things ain’t never been this lonely at the CRAGG compound! My heart is a-breakin’ fer Tiffany!”

 

I needed a deep breath to settle my nerves.

 

“Let me go see the trucker again. Who knows, maybe he’s picked up some new assignment. I’ll be in touch, you can count on it...”

 

The headstrong femme was silent for a brief interlude. Then, she ended our conversation with an unexpected interjection, and a click of the call icon.

 

“I LOVE Y’ALL, RAWD! YA BIG, DUMB, HILLBILLY ASSHOLE!”

 

I had been in my chair for so long that getting up presented a daunting, physical challenge. So, before meeting that task, head-on, I finished the lyric verses that were still on my monitor. An extra measure of emotion flowed from this poetic exercise, as I finished.

 

Drink and Pizza

 

Drink and pizza, fortified for days

A restless rascal, alone for an extended stay

Not much on my plate, but a banquet of consequence

Tired and testy, overworked in a sense

Though I haven’t strayed much

Haven’t felt a woman’s touch

For so long

 

I’ve become accustomed to this routine

A cryptic cry of phantasmic dreams

When the tremors wake me from my rest

Then I know, I have passed the final test

Sitting on the edge of my bed

Hands clasped over both sides of my head

I hear a song

 

There is a tone of difference on the breeze

An opportunity that God himself has seized

Setting off vibrations in the heavens

As the cuckoo clock above strikes eleven

The hour is late, I know

Banished as I am, to linger here, below

I soldier on

 

If, by being present in this play

My role is justified by what I pause to say

Then the author has shown a kinder tilt

Respecting how this old bag of bones was built

A tackled tickle of the mechanical wheel

A jumped tooth for the gears to appeal

I hear the gong

 

I might have done my best if there was time

I had that goal, firmly in mind

But with the sunset coming in haste

I realized that protesting was a waste

Better to bow before the oddsmaker’s curse

I can do no better or worse

I’ll get along

 

I read it once, at school, long ago

That the scourge of sin is a short-distance stone’s throw

And I believed what the text had proclaimed

But in the end, it’s all the same

Starting gates swing and slip

But the race, is decided by a coin flip

From the grasp of King Kong

 

My cage is unlocked, easy to nab

A longbox hovel, sat upon a concrete slab

Out in a distant spot, away from the crowd

A safe space for thinking out loud

A taste of alcohol is my friend

A cool companion, on which I may depend

Without a magic wand

 

Time and distance, mean no more

The calculations only cause me to be bored

I have become one with the dirt and stone

Living in this junkyard oasis, alone

I don’t take it as a judgment, passed

More like a back-row seat, in a college class

A quiet push for a pawn

 

Helter Skelter, here comes the glow

Of another cycle with wisdom to bestow

Learning to live within my means

A meal of fate cooked up, like rice and beans

Eyes narrowed, peering at the sun

My education has only begun

And the day is gone

 

Geneva Go-Round: “Winter Woes, Ahead”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

With the year quickly moving toward its final quarter, and leaves falling on my porch every day, I have felt a change in mood while enjoying cool beverages outside. One with reflections upon the approach of winter weather coming to mind, as I play the role of a budget-bound chef at my charcoal grill. As ever, the summer season seems to have moved along at a frantic pace, with weeks dropping from the calendar in defiance of the joyful moments that they represent. Now, there is an eerie crispness in the air. One not always so evident at first, yet present enough to linger in the back of my mind with consequence. Waiting, watching, and preparing itself for meteorological dominance to come.

 

This is the way of our world.

 

In yonder days, before my career slid into a bricklike obstruction of early retirement, I trembled at this point in the earth’s journey around Old Sol. I would wonder about making it to work at various points on the map, and experience an even greater level of trepidation when considering that my return home, long after dark, would entail navigating snowbound routes that were unlit, sporadically maintained, and far off the beaten path of civilized communities.

 

Living in a rural enclave by the county line has advantages, when the sun shines, and greenery is able to flourish. But when a deluge of frozen muck arrives, with its frosty, flaky companions, I often used to wish for a closer spot to more metropolitan areas. My own inclination toward small-town life, and the fellowship of such gentle neighborhoods, always kept me searching for a suitable midpoint between these two opposites. It is why, on more than one occasion, I looked at homes located within the City of Geneva, itself. Once, at a residence directly across from Giant Eagle, which I reckoned would be undeniably convenient, year-round.

 

Because my last stop on the retailing expressway meant managing on a second-shift schedule, which would sometimes last until midnight or later, I found that owning a 4x4 pickup truck was indispensable for getting where I needed to go without worry. Generally, this meant that I could point the nose of my sturdy mule into the headwinds, facing south on Route 534, and go forward with confidence. Though on some occasions, with white precipitation falling rapidly, and the roadway difficult to locate, I would think that sleeping on a pallet in our stockroom might have been a better choice.

 

One of these persistent memories still reverberates, when I see the change from green to brown begin. I recall a particular night when the store where I was employed had suffered through a lonely, empty cycle of futility. Customers were few. A couple actually arrived on snowmobiles for beer and minimal grocery fare. After locking up for the evening, I dug out my gas-powered beast, let it warm to a civilized temperature, and clicked the gearbox into action. My trek wasn’t too challenging along South Broadway, past a row of closed fast-food depots, Dale’s Truck Stop, Spire, and GetGo. But as I rolled over the crest of this busy boulevard, now nearly silent and appearing forlorn, I reached the point where darkness enveloped the landscape. My headlights were the only source of brightness. Traveling at a slow and deliberate velocity, I crossed the bridge, and began to ascend once more, past the Sonny Lanes bowling alley. With care, I had managed to build up some speed before attempting to navigate this uphill curve. Yet suddenly, I saw a tiny, economy sedan, and a Chevrolet rig that must have been running sans any 4WD motorvation.

 

Both were crawling along like twin snails. Barely able to maintain their progress.

 

I was having a hard time seeing anything, and had my face nearly pressed against the windshield. Both hands gripped the steering wheel, tightly. I was sweating profusely, in defiance of the bitter cold, outside. I knew that tucking in behind this duo would mean risking my own position, as a safe voyager through the wild bout of lake-effect bluster. So, with a sideways glance and a quick turn of my wrist, I pulled out into the other lane. Then, let my workhorse sloppily propel itself past the slower traffic. I was almost sideways before catching traction again. The tires on my truck dug deeply. Windows on both sides of the cab were frozen. But the impulsive strategy worked.

 

I salivated for a brew, upon reaching the top of my route. There was a twelve-pack of Yuengling back in the open bed, chilling as I drove home. It would be at a perfect drinking temperature, when I finally completed my trip.

 

Blessings appeared as I passed the Cork Elementary School, and journeyed toward an eventual rendezvous with Route 166. There was a plow vehicle ahead, with lights flashing in alternating colors. I felt grateful to be following its lead. Now, the two of us were in sync. I crept along in the wake of this behemoth for a few miles, with my face burning hot. I had to strip off my knit cap and gloves. When turning right at Smolic’s Tire, I realized that there were no tracks in the snow, so far as my weary eyes could see. The horizon had turned invisible. Only an occasional glow of holiday lights, at farms along this meandering course, offered any sign of being inhabited by hardy folk.

 

At my humble abode, everything was buried. I had to park in the street and shovel, just to enter the driveway. Snow on the front steps was almost up to my knees. I opened the front door, and allowed both dogs to run free. Then, crossed myself as a sign of good faith and gratitude. And, took a bottle from my chilled stash, in the truck bed.

 

In modern days, I no longer have to summon the strength for such crazed, winter adventures. When it is awful outside, I simply stay at home. There is no need to risk ditching my rig, to earn a living. I stock up ahead of time, and sit with a fireplace streaming via YouTube, on my television. Often, passing out in the living room as winds continue to howl, outside. My existence is a simple one now. Limited in scope by disability, and a meager stipend from Social Security. Yet with the reflection of memories that remain, it is a vast reserve of tales, that may be brought to mind, as desired.

 

In the end, this my reward for endurance. A fitting exchange of yesterdays, for today.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Opinion Overload”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Charles James Kirk; October 14, 1993 – September 10, 2025

 

In an effort to offer full disclosure here, I will say this out loud, with no malice intended. Or, any forethought of making a political statement.

 

I never paid much attention to Charlie Kirk.

 

To be completely candid, that surname evokes a wholly different image when tingling my ears. One born of fiction, in the 1960’s. James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the Starship Enterprise. A traveler throughout the cosmos. Who despite dwelling only in the realm of imagination, was inspirational and important, for those of us who were then coming of age.

 

But like many Americans, I was aware of this other Young Turk of sorts, as a talking head who sometimes appeared in news presentations. I knew that he was an influencer with great appeal for conservative students, having founded Turning Point USA. And that he relished debating intellectual positions in open forums. In personal terms, I reckoned that any free discussion of ideas, pro or con, was a good thing. Part of our tradition as a constitutional republic. Those who can speak to each other in a civilized fashion, I learned from my childhood forward, are less likely to choose violence as an alternative to accomplish their goals. So it was, that upon learning of his assassination at an event in Utah, I recoiled from the explosion of content that appeared on social media in the aftermath of that tragedy.

 

I hoped that cooler heads might prevail. Yet that did not seem likely, with emotions boiling over at every juncture.

 

One friend posted an illustration of a Klan rally, captioned with text that indicated they were mourning the death of their fallen hero. Others revived photos of old Germany and the Third Reich, to poke and jab angrily at the current administration, and their affinity for this deceased fellow. There were quotes of rhetoric skillfully used and twisted, for the purpose of making a partisan score. When Jimmy Kimmel had his late-night television show were pulled by ABC, in a knee-jerk reaction, this caustic level of expression only intensified.

 

Those on the opposite side of our cultural divisions reacted in horror, of course. Lots of chest-beating and fist thumping resounded across the heartland. The Christian cross, along with our national emblems, became even more commonplace than before.

 

What I did not hear or read was gentler in nature. A quiet prayer of sympathy for a husband and father, who would no longer be a direct participant in the life of his family. And a moment to weep for our greater society. One so often affected by the scourge of violence, that familiarity has made us numb to the loss of human life. In a way that transcends any platitudes or talking points parroted by the masses.

 

Indeed, from reports of the commemoration held in Arizona, to honor Kirk’s passing, there was little interest in shunning the hand-to-hand combat of daily social interactions. Instead, the flames were stoked with bold talk, oaths of fealty, promises of conquest, and a general ignorance of what the Holy Scriptures actually offer to those who believe. Only his widow seemed genuinely attuned to the faith. Her heartfelt offer of forgiveness, following the example of Christ on the cross, hit a theological bullseye with this writer.

 

It was the most sane, and authentically spiritual statement I had heard, since that bullet flew across the concourse at Utah Valley University.

 

“Father, forgive them. For they know not what they do...”

 

Seeking some measure of comfort from this dreadful occurrence, and its aftermath, I turned to an old, blue Bible on the bookshelf in my home office. A gift given long ago, rendered in large print, as the sharp focus of my eyesight was beginning to fade. With such prolific prose being written about the legacy of this young man, in a context of moral values and traditions, I thought it would be useful to delve into those pages.

 

The first result was striking, and appropriate.

 

Romans 15:1-7 “We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves. Each of us should please our neighbors for their good, to build them up. For even Christ did not please himself but, as it is written: ‘The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.’ For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide we might have hope. May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you the same attitude of mind toward each other that Christ Jesus had, so that with one mind and one voice you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.”

 

Those of us who long for kinship and cooperation are used to being tagged as naïve and unprincipled. Yet our founders knew well that the predisposition of human animals to kill each other, through war or singular acts of aggression, is deeply rooted. Thus, their masterful system of checks and balances has given us an uncommon age of relative peace, at least on this continent. Our struggles and conflicts have always been best solved through debate and discourse. The use of force, by a group or a lone assailant, does not offer a lasting premise for discipline. Such woes are fleeting in effect, and generally, powerful only in their ability to stunt the growth of a community or nation.

 

With Charlie Kirk now in his grave, thinkers on both sides of the chasm will witness this conundrum in effect.

 

Left and right, rich and poor, progressive and retrograde, all will eventually come to realize that the cycle of living and dying continues beyond their own, proscribed orbit. The only eternal energy available to mankind is love. That essence alone, when cherished and nurtured, may carry generations forward. It shines outward when embraced, multiplying itself. Offering illumination, guidance, and perhaps, a measure of hope. If there is a fitting legacy for this perished figure, or for any of the others who have met a similar fate through circumstance, or the randomness of daily interactions, this is it in a pure distillation. To soften hard hearts, and erase the artificial chalk-lines of division.

 

Let us reason, one with another, and break bread together. Instead of breaking bones, hearts and promises, in a fool’s race toward the bottom. This should be the yield of our sorrows. To make right what our past has put asunder. To do better, while we still have time to make a change.

 

 

Geneva Go-Round: “Grilling & Gambling”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Living in an eastern township by the county line affords this writer a perfect vantage point for seeking opportunities in all directions. When needs arise, more metropolitan areas of Geauga and Lake are easily accessible. Yet when yearning for preferred trips deeper into the pastoral comforts of Ashtabula, such alternatives lie close at hand. I find myself regularly visiting Cantini’s Village Market, in Rock Creek. Or, Trumbull Locker Plant, on Route 534, north of Hartsgrove. Both of these local businesses offer tasty, home-produced products, and friendly service. I am a particular fan of pepperoni rolls and scratch-baked treats, at the former. And smoked meats of many kinds, at the latter.

 

But my favorite destination for summer fare and creative meal items, year-round, remains Geneva Giant Eagle. A place where edible bargains are readily available. My Weber grill stays active every week. And I never go hungry from lacking inspiration.

 

But while this habit of acting as a front-porch, hillbilly chef is one founded on years of minimal household budgets and a need for outdoor relaxation, I sometimes forget that the bedrock of such deeds is always laid upon practicality. The necessity of producing gastronomic sustenance. In a healthy and timely manner. Cooking vittles over glowing briquettes of charcoal does not need to be sophisticated, by any means. And I avoid pretentiousness in any form. But while working over my smoking, kettle appliance, one habit lingers that is central only in a tangential way.

 

I have to be drinking. Preferably, a cool brew of some sort.

 

After a hiatus of six years, due to personal concerns, I resumed this favorite pursuit with gusto. An impulsive purchase via eBay sired this resurrection. I happened to see a Kingsford Charcoal Chimney listed for sale, and remembered that many years ago, a friend at my workplace during the era opined loudly that having one in his garage made an enormous difference on grilling days. He had been someone on our crew known for enthusiastic declarations that did not always stand up to careful scrutiny. So, I simply blew off his recommendation. Yet with the passage of years, and an appetite for new ideas taking hold, I remembered what he had advised. The new gadget was fairly cheap, and appeared to be sturdy, and simple. I only had to use it one time, for the shining light of an epiphany to glow over my head.

 

It worked better than anything I had ever tried, before!

 

The result of this change in my culinary routine was swift and consequential. I soon found myself at the cooker every other day. Always with a chilled refreshment in hand, of course. This shift in my household regimen attracted neighbors and pets, immediately. And, guaranteed that I was spending much more time outdoors. But a side-effect of keeping this home fire burning was that my consumption of beverage alcohol spiked precipitously. Instead of keeping a case of suds on hand, in the fridge, it became routine to stack extras in my living room. Or to jam loose rations in the door pockets and anywhere else that a can or bottle would fit.

 

I enjoyed products branded with many familiar names. Yuengling, Genesee, Iron City, Naragansett, Great Lakes Brewing varieties, Molson, Labatt, and even the pedestrian libation, Miller High Life. With my confidence in old habits restored, I did not hesitate to celebrate life and liberty with ebullience. Every swallow of refreshment came in between bites of seared steak, chicken, and pork. My belly was full, and I did not feel guilty.

 

This dietary rampage might have continued unabated, except for an annual checkup put into place by my regular physician, at the Geneva Clinic. In a yearly exercise, she asked that I visit the laboratory on-site, for blood work. The scores that resulted would tell a tale of good health, or bad. I always felt as if the Sword of Damocles was hanging above my skull, when complying with this request. I would sometimes turn pale, or tremble. Yet more often than not, my levels had been within acceptable limits.

 

Until, that is, just before my 64^th birthday.

 

With the benefit of modernist technologies in effect, and quick communication through a cellphone app, I learned of my standing condition even before having an official conference with the doctor. Figures for every part of my body tested were in line with standards set by the medical community. I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Yet one glaring defect spoiled this report card. My blood sugar and A1C were both elevated. I did not need a scientific degree to assess the cause of this malady. I had been guzzling hops and grains in a high-carb cocktail, all throughout the summer.

 

Even before the lab encounter, I had been feeling the fatigue and other telltale signs of something being amiss. I knew instinctively that my liquid, caloric intake had grown excessive. But chafed at the notion of switching out these satisfying beverages for a lesser alternative. I felt good enough, yes indeed healthy enough, to go forward without cheating my palate. I had little desire to accept the fact that, as so many before me had done, a change to lighter fare was in order. I had been gambling with my well-being, unaware.

 

Still, when on my way to discuss the test results, I knew what had to be done.

 

Instead of taking medications for a pre-diabetic condition, in the interim, I opted for penitent self-denial, with purpose. The last of genuine brews disappeared from my kitchen reserve, as I commemorated this woeful event with a moment of silence. Then, I purchased a 24-count case of Lite. A weaker, less burdensome concoction that in truth, did not appear to be out of place for some one of my age and general girth.

 

I could not help remembering my cockiness, during yonder days, when seeing a friend who was more seasoned and wise, sliding a package of Milwaukee’s Best Light through one of the register lanes at our store. I had teased him about being too old and withered, and crusty to handle ‘real’ beer in all of its glory.

 

Wayne knew that I was young and ignorant at the time. So, he simply nodded and smiled.

 

“You have the personality of an armadillo, Rod! You know, when I lived in Texas, we saw those damned things all the time!”

 

 

Geneva Go-Round: “Janis”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

My friend Michelle grew up in Saybrook Township, about one block south of Lake Erie. Her personal life was a confusing, twisted tale perhaps better left untold for gentle ears. One that saw her being raised by a grandmother who lived down the road from both parents. For a reason that I have never been able to deduce, and probably have no need to know. Her personality was odd, off-the-wall, and sometimes combative. She did not look pretty. Her dyed, reddish mane was often unbrushed and messy. She never wore makeup or flattering clothes. Her habit of donning a plastic spider like a necklace produced eerie vibes. Yet it seemed quite appropriate. If Morticia Addams had discovered a lost sibling, living in an abandoned shack, that might have been my unlikely companion. She wasn’t particularly kind, funny, or compelling. Not even generally interested in friendship, except with a very small number of individuals who like myself, could not explain the attraction. Her rationale was one given with a smirk and narrowed eyes.

 

“Don’t question it! I am awesome!”

 

But in 2009, she had the best quality of all as a healer. She was there...

 

I separated from my second wife, shortly after being hired at a business in Geneva. My financial situation was decidedly chaotic, and I worked long hours to remedy this challenging problem. My personal life turned dark and empty. Even members of my own family took a negative position on what had transpired. I ended up wearing my late father-in-law’s coat for the winter. A garment hued in colors of the Dallas Cowboys football team, a franchise I had never liked. Its zipper was broken. The synthetic fabric was stained. Yet it kept me warm.

 

When I met this new member of my depleted social circle, she had already been on the team for a few years. I could not remember her name, right away, but was struck by the fact that though much younger than myself, she somehow had a fan crush on Janis Joplin. So, that impulsive nickname stuck. It also seemed to fit her carefree, breezy style of behavior. She did not shy away from taking a hard line with coworkers or other managers at our business. Something that I thought to be reckless. Still, this direct approach always worked out, in the end. She did not mince words or attempt to be diplomatic. But soon enough, I found that she would contact me almost every day, if for no other purpose but to wish me a good morning, or good night.

 

At that juncture in my life, knowing there was someone on the other end of a phone connection meant a great deal.

 

I had always enjoyed Chinese food, and particularly the sort of cuisine available at self-service restaurants in New York State, an idea that was only beginning to thrive back home in Ohio. When I happened upon the Hong Kong King Buffet in town, an epiphany of sorts occurred. I mentioned my desire to score some Oriental grub, with a partner for conversation, and she reacted with a positive spark of interest. I was caught off guard initially, having expected some kind of epithet to be hurled. Then however, I realized that we had formed a useful alliance.

 

General Tso’s Chicken, Egg Rolls, Fried Rice, and Wonton Soup brought us together in earnest.

 

In years that followed, we would visit the eatery many times over. Once, for dining and fellowship, three days in a row. Yet Michelle had a curious habit after we would finish our meals. She would want to take a walk down the street, to stretch our legs, and aid in digestion. It was something I remembered a gray-headed matron in my own brood recommending. A festive march through the old apple orchard, once our kitchen had been cleaned up after dinner time.

 

Junior Janis would ask questions that were unexpectedly probing and thoughtful, as we crossed the successive squares of narrow concrete. She wondered about religion and the afterlife. And also, about how women were treated in many foreign lands. She expressed sympathy for those on the social fringe, which I thought was completely in-character. Even offering her opinion that rights given to mainstream folk should extend to all. But she tired easily when talking too much. Her attention span was limited, like that of a child. If I became too zealous in presenting an intellectual or philosophical argument, her face would go pale.

 

“Did I tell you that Granny used to raise chickens? The henhouse is still in my back yard. I liked them as pets! Lots of clucking and squawking and strutting around.”

 

The zig-zag course of these discussions kept me distracted from my own woes, at home. Which was something I needed desperately.

 

We began to branch out a bit after that, in terms of restaurant choices. Eventually meeting at Waffle House in Austinburg, Taco Bell, Mr. Hero, and Wendy’s locations around the area. Or sourcing goodies from Toro Carryout, along West Prospect Road in Ashtabula. A tiny food outpost east of her humble home, which boasted a diverse menu and courteous service. We would sometimes order a pan of 50 hot wings, and devour them while sitting on her front porch.

 

She still had an antique glider, left from the previous inhabitants of her household. It was rusted slightly, and sagged on one side. But reminded me of yonder days and the continuity of life, from one generation to the next.

 

The Covid Pandemic interrupted our partnership with rude consequences, as her own health began to decline. Her appetite for cigarettes had continued, unabated, despite warnings about the eventual results that were likely. Her blood pressure spiked, and an ER visit became necessary. She had suffered a stroke while working, but did not get diagnosed until much later. A second event struck eventually, and then a heart attack. Followed by a third interruption in blood flow to her brain.

 

I took her to medical appointments, sat with her at the hospital, and eventually, filed her disability claim twice, after we spoke to a lawyer. She was in Cleveland for about a full calendar year. But finally made the trek back to Ashtabula City, and a friendly facility that had the skilled personnel she needed for constant care. In the interim, I had to retire from my own dual career in business management, and journalism. By that point, I had adjusted to my solitary status, however. It did not matter so much that we were distant. I knew that she was protected.

 

We no longer speak on a daily basis. Though I can say with honesty that her presence lingers still. She is part of every day, in hindsight. I am gladdened to know that she has adapted to her current environment and routine, with courage. Out of necessity perhaps, yet with a good dose of her grandmother’s old-time wisdom.

 

I thank you, friend, for being there when I needed someone. Literally anyone, to brighten the shadows. That gift is one I will never forget.