Mermaid & Walrus Revisited – "Environmental or Simply Born that Way?"

  

c. 2026 Cheryl Keller, Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

Mermaid Says:

 

There is a famous poem written by Dorothy Law Nolte titled “Children Learn What They Live” that I so love.  I have come across it several times throughout my life and it rings true to me in so many ways.  It drives home the belief that children are a product of their environment; people are a product of their environment; that environment in general, impacts our lives as humans to such an enormous degree that it shapes our very being.  It begins with such lines as “If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.  If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.”  It continues with similar verses but gradually morphs into more positive correlations showing that contradictorily, if the environment in which children are brought up embraces qualities such as praise, honesty, and kindness that they learn more positive behaviors such as appreciation, truthfulness and respect.  Not to mention the one thing that above all else rises to the top - love; love for oneself and love for others.

 

There is also an opinion among some that a person can just be born bad, or to be more dramatic, evil.  As a lover of true crime books, documentaries and the like, I have come across many stories where a criminal’s childhood was shown to be, for lack of a better phrase, perfectly normal.  He/she had a loving, solid core family with values, good schooling and support, ample resources where needs and wants were regularly met, leaving people in their fold clueless without something upon which to lay the blame.  Of course, a strong majority of criminal back stories are quite the opposite; riddled with abuse, neglect, and broken families that people quickly attribute to the root cause.  There are also those who grow up in less fortunate environments, with a lack of positive influences, who go on to do incredible things and are able to elevate themselves into better circumstances.  There are always those exceptions to the rules.  And so opens the question…how much does the environment in which you grow up play a role into who you become as an adult?

 

An infant is such a vulnerable being - an empty vessel just waiting to be filled.  He/she did not ask to be here and whether or not a couple plans for a child or not is irrelevant.  Once that little person arrives, he/she, being so dependent on others and the world around them, absorbs whatever is funneled in their direction; love or hate, compassion or indifference, respectfulness or contempt.  Bringing a child into this world is such a massive responsibility that oftentimes is taken too lightly.  And unfortunately, as that child grows it becomes more and more difficult to redirect negative behaviors which of course then starts that generational recurrence of certain unfavorable mannerisms.  How often you see similar conduct amongst family members - negative, or positive for that matter.  Hence familiar sayings “like father, like son”, or “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”.

 

I don’t want to limit my focus on just criminal or negative behavior, and I do acknowledge that mental illness can, of course, be a factor, but there are also other basic personality traits that can be affected by a child’s environment that can present obstacles or on the flip side, help lead to success and fulfillment later in life.  For example, something I have seen over my many years in the position that I hold at work is a generational difference in work ethic.  There is a temperament at times that I have come across in some of my younger direct reports consisting of a lack of motivation or sense of urgency, as well as a sense of entitlement which leads to difficulty dealing with constructive criticism.  This is something I have not come across when managing my more senior employees.  It presents a challenge for me when coaching or training and I wonder at times what type of household these youngsters grew up in that led to this behavior, or maybe their individual environment wasn’t the factor, maybe it's more societal, or just inherently who they are…?

 

Now, what I can speak to is my own childhood environment.  It included two hardworking parents; and although we did not have a lot of money, I never felt as though I went without, and I felt most times were filled with lots of love, family and friends, at least in the early years.  It was of course a different time then when a lack of technology kept children outside away from the television, playing freeze or TV tag, or red-light green-light in the front yard until the streetlights came on.  I do feel that as technology has advanced and cell phones and the internet have invaded our lives, children have had increasing access to information and images that in my opinion, have robbed them of their youth in a way.  And, here I go again delving into an area that itself can be its own article.  So to redirect, as an adult, I can say that I do feel that I, myself, have a pretty good work ethic.  I worked from a young age, always tried to put forth my best effort, and challenged myself to be better, through schooling and the jobs I have held; and last I checked, I haven’t killed anyone or robbed any banks, so that’s a positive!  Now, how much of that is credit to my parents or my young life in Chardon, Ohio, and how much of that is just mermaid me?  How much did the environment in which you were brought up play a role in making you the person you are today?  Or were you just born to be who you are?

 

Walrus Says:

 

My friend makes valuable points here, and her referencing of the Dorothy Law Nolte poem is insightful. In a sense, she has answered her own question by addressing the importance of environmental factors, while also providing contrast with differing viewpoints on the subject. Without attempting to ride the fence, intellectually, one might rightly observe that both are important.  Family environment and also, personal characteristics and attributes.

 

Our lead supervisor at my last retail store in Geneva used to observe that he did not judge an individual on what happened to them, but instead, by how they reacted. This basic viewpoint fit neatly with my own experiences as a salaried manager in the business. I noted with much interest that some employees who had come from decidedly difficult backgrounds manifested coping skills that were useful in their work for our companies. While others who had been raised with educational and situational benefits in effect, were lazy and lacked motivation. A line of demarcation could not easily be drawn between the two, because age, social status, and income did not prove to be reliable as evidence for one outcome, or the other.

 

My friend speaks effectively for a strong work ethic, and I believe that this single quality is worth possessing, more than any other. While corporate philosophies generally teach that anyone can be trained to accomplish tasks, given enough time and a proper setting in which to learn, I often found that it was more like creating a piece of pottery. When at the wheel, one must begin with a workable mound of clay. Our human resource departments sometimes erred by believing that posting a list of names on a schedule sheet was proof that they had fulfilled their duties. But a lack of detail involved with putting ‘the right people in the right roles’ could be counterproductive. At one location, where price changes were done overnight, we were given a young teenager who had literally just joined the crew. He knew absolutely nothing about the operation, or our procedures. And little at all about shoppers and their habits. On another occasion at the same store, a fellow who was legally blind, for driving purposes, found himself hanging these tags. He could barely read labels on the boxes, jars, and cans. So, the results were disastrous.

 

When I politely observed that these decisions on scheduling were not a result of careful consideration, beforehand, the reaction I received was chilly at best. It took some time to resolve all the customer issues with items marked incorrectly. Though no fault was assessed to those who had been responsible, at the top level.

 

In both instances, the employees had a reasonable amount of desire to earn their paychecks honestly. But lacked the tools. The former had not been given a reasonable opportunity to grow and develop. The latter had an obvious handicap which should have been noted. He was truly someone ‘born that way.’

 

Sometimes, however, facing hardships and challenges may hone the abilities of someone to a fine edge, rather than providing a hindrance. One of my most trusted tutors, while I was rising through the ranks from a union clerk to a front-line manager, had served in Vietnam, and been through dozens of local closures, as our company evolved under a variety of owners. Despite the woes of carrying such experiences on his personal resume, he had an undeniable knack for coaching workers, and developing raw talent. When I asked him how it was possible to survive so many harsh episodes, without losing faith, he replied that staying on an even keel was the secret.

 

“When I got busted down, I would come home and tell my wife, ‘Hey, guess what, I got busted today!’ When I got promoted, I would come home and tell her, ‘Hey, guess what, I got promoted today!’ Nothing had me feeling too high, or low, abut the job. I stayed on course and took care of my family.”

 

Years ago, I offered advice to one of my nephews who was studying for what would become a career in electrical engineering. I referenced ‘The Comeback’ which was a 1993 NFL playoff game, between the Houston Oilers franchise, and the Buffalo Bills, at their home stadium. Despite being down 35-3, the New York club was able to gather fortitude, go forward in the second half, and win in overtime, 41-38.

 

“Life is easier if you make good decisions. That does not mean success is impossible in the aftermath, as perseverance may still win the day. But you can save yourself a lot of grief by engaging in a moment of careful consideration, before taking that first step.”

 

Too often, I had not followed that wise admonition while on my own journey. Yet when viewed with hindsight, it was all part of the learning process. One which my cohort the Mermaid has accomplished, brilliantly.

Return Mission, Third Stage – Chapter 1

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Monday morning at the New Cleveland Safety Center on Mars was frantic with activity. There were government representatives, legal experts, law agents, media observers, and host of spectators present under the sealed dome. A judgment from newly-elected members of the ruling council had been swiftly delivered. With concerns about the population becoming restless over details about their off-world history as a civilization, one step seemed clearly desirable above all the others. Dr. Judson Baines, university professor and historical researcher, needed to be expelled from their closed society.

 

But as this chore was being scheduled, with aid from the sleek, Morningstar III vessel, Admiral Corel Nauga received word that Lieutenant Kelly Strafe, one of his most promising officers, intended to join the away party as a volunteer. An act that would likely have her resigning once again from the military, and exiting as a citizen of the Red Planet.

 

The high-level official frowned and groaned audibly, when being told about his underling’s wishes.

 

“Kelly, let me speak candidly, and off the record. This is madness, young woman! You want to trash an entire career for a ride-share with that blasted geek from the schoolyard? He’s got no allies left here, all his bridges have been burned. Don’t think that your value is worth squandering so easily. You matter to us, and you matter to me!”

 

The junior soldier had her hair pulled straight back in a force-spec ponytail. Her expression was taut and severe.

 

“Sir, we’ve been connected for years. My reputation wouldn’t last, anyway. Admit it, I am just as stained by negative opinions...”

 

Nauga cursed and pounded the table in their conference room.

 

“A falsehood! I’ve done everything possible to rehabilitate you, Lieutenant! You and your damned reputation! Don’t dump this second chance! You’ve been a promising candidate for so long, and I’ve always had you in mind for better things. A promotion is inevitable!”

 

Kelly tightened her lips, and stood at attention.

 

“With respect sir, that’s just a load of horseshit!”

 

The Admiral gasped and slammed his fist until blood oozed freely.

 

“BAINES IS A CRACKPOT! THERE’S ONLY ONE SOLUTION TO HIS PLIGHT, AND IT IS BEING KICKED OUT OF THE MARS COLONY! WE CAN’T TOLERATE DISSENSION HERE, OUR SURVIVAL IS A MATTER OF COOPERATION AND HARMONY. CONFLICT IS INTOLERABLE! THESE WALLS AROUND US ARE DECIDEDLY FRAGILE! THE ARTIFICIAL ATMOSPHERE IS THIN! ONE DIVISION, ONE NOTE OF DISSENT, COULD KILL US ALL. I WON’T ALLOW THAT TO HAPPEN. NO ONE IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE SURVIVAL OF THIS CIVILIZATION!”

 

Strafe folded her arms and nodded with acknowledgement.

 

“Understood, sir. Count me as part of that equation. I am done with the Space Force...”

 

A cry of agony filled the room. Then, her superior bowed his head. He had been defeated without a proper battle. That sensation left him feeling empty.

 

“So be it, Lieutenant. The Morningstar III will depart at 0600 CMT, hours, tomorrow. In a gesture of benevolence, I am gifting the professor with a Digger shuttle, and enough provisions to last three months. That should get him started in his new environment. He has chosen to revisit what used to be called North America, the former State of Ohio, and the abandoned trailer community which was his origin point for study and scholarship. If you join him in isolation, it will be a sentence of death. I don’t believe he will last long among the ruins of that empire. The Great Uprising is still a matter of historical record, we have taught it in our schools for generations. It is not a fact to be disputed or amended. That calamity changed the course of Terran inhabitants, forever. It caused the migration to our current home. And it wrote a new chapter in the adventures of mankind. We are the children of that cataclysmic event. None of us have a right to question it as gospel truth. It is our identity as Martian colonists. Our heritage. Our foundation for being who we are!”

 

Kelly reached for her com-badge, and military insignia. Then, placed both on the conference table.

 

“My resignation is effective immediately. Thank you, sir, for the privilege of serving our planet...”

Admiral Nauga sat stiffly as she departed the conference room. Then, surrendered to a fit of rage. His face dripped sweat and reddened with intensity.

 

“BLAST THIS INFERNAL NONSENSE! BLAST THAT GIRL FOR SACRIFICING HER COMISSION! AND BLAST THE PROFESSOR FOR HIS ARROGANT PROCLOMATIONS ABOUT OUR HISTORY! LET THEM BOTH ROT IN THE HINTERLAND OF OLD AMERICA! GOOD RIDDANCE TO THAT PAIR OF FOOLS! GOOD RIDDANCE, INDEED!”

 

When the erstwhile soldier arrived at their New Cleveland spaceport, a day later, her adopted companion was already present. The scholar had assembled a duffel bag of materials, including scanned books on i-discs, and souvenirs from his school. At a docking port, crew members were powering up the ship. The distinctive whine of its C-drive propulsion could be heard throughout the complex. Then, they were ready for an official launch.

 

Baines was unusually scruffy, yet dressed in a suit made of synthetic fibers that were fashioned out of elements culled from the ruddy, Martian soil. His modernist appearance was appealing, if quirky.

 

“Kells, I want you to think about this... we’ll be off-worlders from here to the last day of forever. It’s something I want to do, but not your fate, necessarily. You can stay here, and thrive. I’m the one being shunned. I am the one being sentenced to a life beyond the scope of Mars...”

 

His willing cohort wrinkled her pointy nose, and scowled.

 

“No dice, Juddy! I am just as dirty in their eyes, believe me. We’re in this mess together. I don’t have the same passion for research, maybe, but my place is at your side. If you fail, this dream of revealing the truth fails. And I don’t want to live in that kind of delusion anymore. I’d rather be stuck on that ball of mud, with you!”

 

Her partner sighed heavily. He suspected that they might both perish in the wilderness of a forgotten globe. Yet the opportunity to finish what he had begun at Evergreen Estates was intriguing.

 

“That’s it then, for better or worse, here we go!”

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Office Upgrade”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln had arrived at Evergreen Estates almost a quarter-century ago. Such a long period in terms of the rural, trailer community, that few residents could remember a time when he had not been at Lot 13. His brusque manner and solitary habits meant that social interaction with the reclusive hermit was limited in scope. Neighbors on his crooked street logically assumed that at some point, his body would succumb to a diet of pickled eggs, fried bologna, and whiskey. With the result that he could finally be buried and forgotten. Therefore, little attention was paid to his existence. And yet he did not make a speedy exit from their cluster of manufactured homes. Instead, he seemed to thrive on the exile afforded by their geographical location. A spot far to the east of any population center in their county.

 

Due to the onset of chronic fatigue and disability, the silent figure did not often leave his space for any reason. But on a weekend evening, with monthly rent coming due, he decided to tackle the short distance between his boxcar dwelling, and the manager’s office. Though generally able to walk only with the use of mismatched canes for support, he decided to seek out his neglected, Craftsman mower for transportation. A dirty and dented hunk of machinery that had been in his storage barn since coming to the rustic development, initially. Its battery was low on juice after sitting idle for the winter season. But with a brief stint on his charger, and a bit of fiddling with the carburetor, it defiantly chuffed clouds of oily smoke. And then, rattled noisily to life.

 

Getting seated was not an easy task. He had to leverage himself into place carefully, to avoid toppling to the ground. Then, he discovered that the steering linkage was stiff and uncooperative, because of long periods left sitting outside.

 

On the way to their park office, he thought of the Country performer George Jones. A heroic crooner who had sometimes ridden his own mobile beast to a liquor store in the area, when driving privileges were restricted for the purpose of keeping him safe. The yard boss sputtered and spat a foul-smelling stream of exhaust from its muffler. And made all sorts of ominous sounds along the way. Those on the route were amused to see a shaggy fellow in faded overalls, chugging beer while navigating the course. But no one wanted to engage him in conversation.

 

Every spectator agreed that it would be less risky to simply let him go on his way.

 

Lincoln arrived at the property hub in around five minutes. He had expected the terminal to be abandoned, as it was late on a Saturday. But upon coming to rest by the maintenance garage, and dismounting with both canes at the ready, he found himself facing a flat-screen display on the entrance door.

 

A woman’s face generated by an AI program appeared. She smiled with synthetic charm, and offered a greeting which had captions at the bottom.

 

“WELCOME TO THE WESTERN FINANCIAL HOLDINGS VIRTUAL ASSISTANT! PLEASE SCROLL THROUGH THE KEYPAD MENU, FOR AN OPTION THAT BEST SUITS YOUR CURRENT NEEDS. WE ARE DEDICATED TO SERVING ALL OF OUR CLIENTS WITH EQUITY AND PROFESSIONALISM. YOU MATTER TO US!”

 

He had to squint for a clearer view of the high-tech display, because his reading glasses had been left at home. With some difficulty, he punched at the screen and read the list of choices while grumbling.

 

“Item 1: Make a payment on your rent balance. Item 2: Leave a question for the supervisor. Note: Office hours have been curtailed in the interest of controlling costs. This will be our only form of communication. Item 3: Leave a compliment for someone on the park staff. Item 4: Ask about employment opportunities with WFH at this site, or other properties owned by the company. Item 5: Arrange to leave your keys in the drop box, as a result of an eviction order. Item 6: Repeat all these options...”

 

Dust settled as he pounded on the door with his fists.

 

“What the hell? Screw this bullshit, we don’t even get to see a gawdamn representative anymore? What the frig? When did they give notice about that? The only guy I can catch is that poor sap who shovels gravel in the potholes. Pretty soon, this ol’ dump is gonna sink in the mud and disappear. What a kick in the ass!”

 

After physically and vocally expressing his frustration, the senior contrarian relented and made a second attempt at navigating the electronic menu. He tapped at the monitor until new options appeared.

 

“Item 1: Make a payment. Choice A: Please enter the amount of your deposit. Pay the full balance on your account, or submit an installment amount. Note: You must have bank information on file with the owners. When you are done, please leave your check in the drop box. If you pay your rent online, these steps are not necessary. Have a good day!”

 

Lincoln belched loudly, and hit the door again, out of spite.

 

“A good day’ll be when I can get out of this rathole! But I’m stuck here, like all the other schlubs on my street. We’re all screwed. Nobody gives a damn about us!”

 

He deposited his check begrudgingly, with a snort of irritation. Then mounted the saddle of his mower once again. His bones were creaky and every joint felt sore. But with the wheel in his hands, he snapped at the throttle, and reversed course, for home.

 

On his porch, the bearded sage sat with a jug of Kentucky bourbon, and a tattered copy of their lease. Deep in the fine print, he realized that the shift to virtual moderation had indeed been spelled out in legal terms. A fact he must have overlooked before. Western Financial Holdings was listed as the official ownership group, but details about the coastal concern were few.

 

As Lincoln drank himself into a pleasant fog of inebriation, the rotund maintenance steward rolled by on his golf cart. A bucket of gravel was strapped to the back, with a shovel. He had finished his pointless roster of chores for the day. Now, there was little time for anything else, except watching the sunset bring a merciful shroud of darkness to their distant hideout.

 

A wash of alcoholic oblivion brought peace at last. For both of them, another chapter at Evergreen Estates had been written.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “A Bullet, Dodged”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Fartham Sprig had never been inside of a mobile home until his sister passed away in the summer of 1994. That loss to his family was tragic enough on its own, but precipitated a chain-reaction of financial failures that resulted in being homeless and eventually, in a shelter run by the City of Cleveland. He had rented a garage on his beloved sibling’s property for years, and written off that cost as a business expense. The legal maneuver allowed him to survive after a contested divorce, and an enforced surrender of his residence in Cuyahooga County. Along with half his retirement plan, and most assets that were put aside for later years. A measure of comfort returned as he and his brother both adopted a similar strategy for coping with marital woes. The younger member of their bloodline took an apartment in the basement. With grandkids in other buildings, also on the urban property. Together, their meager contributions amounted to a considerable sum.

 

A maintenance man in their lakeside neighborhood, who worked as an independent contractor, counseled them to stay grounded with this truism always intact.

 

“There’s guaranteed safety in numbers like they say! Never forget it! Believe me, I never will!”

 

But when matron Rhubie passed, after a brief and unexpected battle with cancer, their woven tapestry came apart. Bills went unpaid. Needed repairs were neglected. Disputes that would normally have been settled through a gentle form of cooperative arbitration, grew more intense. Members of the brood began to abandon their family compound. And finally, the Sprig name lost all its value. They were forced to sell off chunks of property until everything was gone.

 

That is when the self-employed artist and performer first encountered Evergreen Estates.

 

He had been participating in a poetry slam, at a coffeehouse on a distant town square. Something that still resonated as a counterculture oddity for local inhabitants who were more accustomed to band concerts by students, bake sales, and church events. With a forceful, pleading vibe, he held a wireless microphone in one hand, and a ruled sheet of notebook paper in the other. Then read words that he himself had penned in the wee hours of a weekend binge with cigarettes and Irish whiskey, before arriving.

 

“Home-less-ness

That is my claim to success

I peer deeply into the void

A listless, lazy pursuit I can’t seem to avoid

And tap my foot to a silent count

A metronome swing that measures each tick in minute amounts

Hear me now, hear me now

Let me say whatever the rulebooks allow

But in a code of defiance

A board-game of chance

Striking the wall with pennies, tossed

And a silver-dollar, stamped and embossed

With the crown of a jesting fool

He who made up the Golden Rule

For a song sung while the sunrise crests

And bird beaks break up the nest

They fly free

Just like me...”

 

A staccato rhythm of minimalist hand claps was his reward. He had been last in a line of more than two-dozen participants. Many seemed glad that the night was over.

 

Afterward, he had ended up on the sidewalk, with his leather jacket zipped up tightly, against the cold. He planned on sleeping under a bridge, by their municipal town center. But a friendly, feminine voice spoke softly from the shadows. He could barely see anything in the dark. Least of all, whoever had approached him while still veiled in anonymity. But he heard an offer that would change his life for years to come.

 

“You really don’t have a place to live? That’s indefensible in a rich country like America. Damn this place! But I’ve got a solution... maybe. My grandma went to a nursing home last week. She’s in her 90s, not really a surprise. But her trailer is sitting empty. Maybe you’d like to play the role of a squatter for the night? I bet they would let you take over the lot rent. It’s not much to look at, but better than being out here on the concrete!”

 

Fartham had an empty wallet. Not even enough money for another pack of shorty, Camel smokes. So, while the offer sounded somewhat suspicious, he did not have anything to lose by gambling. He gestured with gratitude, and felt a set of keys being pressed into his right hand.

 

“I got no car, sorry. Maybe you can hitch-hike out to the park? I’d guess you are a resourceful kind of dude. Good luck when you get there, if you get there...”

 

His first couple of weeks were spent with no electricity or running water. It took a string of one-man shows with an acoustic guitar, and his notebook of lyrics, to raise enough funds for utility services. But then, he began to adapt to this new environment.

 

The isolated community was populated by many who were also socially inept, and shunned by regular folk. Though he was at first viewed with a measure of suspicion, in time, his presence became less worrisome. The continuum of woe absorbed him as an individual. He melded with the ground-level stream-of-consciousness.

 

This low-buck exile, vexing as it was, suited him intellectually.

 

He learned quickly about living in a singlewide longbox, despite being naïve and inexperienced. How pipes froze up in the winter, for example. How vinyl skirting could be displaced by gusts of wind and piles of snow. How noisy it was to live on a street where unmuffled vehicles and ratty motorcycles were plentiful. How hot it was in the summer with no air conditioning. How disinterested elected officials and judges were about protecting the rights of people such as himself.

 

For months, he thumbed rides to and from the trailer oasis, to stay active with his creative pursuits. But eventually, was able to afford a high-mileage, Honda Civic. A buzzing beater that barely passed emission tests. But gave him a sense of being liberated.

 

Eventually, his rustic existence was reflected in poems written for his public performances. Instead of hiding the identity of his downtrodden neighborhood, he proclaimed it for everyone to hear. With jeers and cheers resulting, alternately.

 

“I’m a pig in a poke

In a house-trailer, bespoke

Built by a company concern in another state

In an age when school kids still wrote lessons

With sticks of chalk on a slate

That’s my home on the range

I hope you won’t think it’s strange

That I’m a bum for hire

A flickering flame of fire

A leftover lunchpail

A bargain hunter’s delight, at a yard sale

An ashtray made of glass

A rubber tire repurposed into a liquor flask

That’s the fate I know

Going down, going slow

While a bald eagle screeches

‘Look out below!’

Hey, ho, let’s go!”

 

He had dodged a bullet, and learned to survive. 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here: “Dream Detour” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Living after the onset of disability, and an unplanned retirement, has been challenging in many ways. But also, quite fascinating to ponder in real time. I have found myself with new habits and altered realities. Guidelines being put in place that were never extant before, with regard to mobility, socialization, and budget discipline. Almost every facet of my existence has been reshaped in some way. Yet most curious of all has been a change in the nature of dream episodes that occur while seeking a restful night in bed. I find that the long, dramatic adventures of yonder days have disappeared. With a new paradigm in effect, one steeped in brevity. My slumbering brain now seems to prefer quick clips on the order of a TikTok post, instead of any traditional trek through sensations and imagery.

 

Subjects and themes change rapidly in these artful visions. I am sometimes more confused upon waking, than rested or relaxed. A fact which negates the worth of having closed my eyes.

 

Part of this shift must indeed be a result of prostate issues that have arrived with age. Because I must regularly rise for the bathroom breaks throughout the night, it is no longer possible to become lost in imaginary adventures. Though the tempo I experience while being disconnected from sentient thoughts, is somewhat frantic. Participants, locations, and settings may change frequently, and at random intervals. The yield can be more puzzling than revelatory. I often find myself struggling to piece together a coherent storyline, where none exists.

 

There are conversational interactions with those who have graduated to the realm of eternity. Many work shifts spent at venues that were closed or remodeled by new owners. Sometimes, frustrating rants over a cell phone with vexing technical issues. And many reencounters with motor vehicles long ago traded for another beast-of-burden, or surrendered to get extra cash. Examples that are both numerous and memorable may appear. My blue, 1979 F-150 pickup truck, still blessed with winter capabilities that exceeded anything else in our driveway. My white, 1973 VW Beetle, a clattering mechanical insect, with lots of mojo. My beige, 1981 Chevette, never celebrated but always on duty. A luxurious, 1987 Crown Victoria that belonged to my first wife. And a cantankerous, red, 1977 Harley Sportster. Which had a nagging affection for shedding parts due to excessive vibration. All of them appear as they did in yonder days. Pristine, polished, and running strong. Or, dented, dirty, rusty, and rattling.

 

But all of them, still cherished in memory.

 

Another oddity of these wild, brain-capers is that they mostly occur when it is dark outside. I have no rational idea why that would be the case, except for the one most obvious – I am at the end of my day, and snoozing.

 

A constant component of my bedroom hallucinations is water in some form. Either a lake, river, creek, or flooding manifested over a road or in a field. One recent dream escape had me climbing along shelves in a large retail store, full of electronic goods. I interacted with some of the crew, and patrons, before using a back exit to leave this vast emporium. Behind the facility were apartments and empty shops, with bare windows. Then as I turned toward a concrete walk nearby, I saw a huge pool of aqua blue, which lapped at the shoreline, almost to a point of reaching the ground on which I stood. There was a frothy mist in the air, stirred by a persistent breeze. I lingered for a moment, while gazing out over the water. Then, as always, woke to find myself alone with a crumpled pillow, and swathed in a patterned sheet.

 

Perhaps a non-verbal cue to wake and seek relief.

 

A recent stunner placed me in the midst of a windstorm, at my rural park. Tree trunks, logs, PVC pipes, and stray bits of debris were scattered around the yard. I could hear some of these vagrant items banging and clanging off the sides of my manufactured home. Eventually, when the howling had ceased, I went outside to witness the destruction that had resulted. A portion of my singlewide longbox had been torn asunder by the chaos, and in the middle, both floor and roof were pitched at severe angles I could not navigate on foot. My heart suffered from palpitations, as I considered the damage, which was too considerable to ignore. Neighbors at the next lot were gathering wood blocks and pallet boards that were strewn around their yard. But as I wondered about the cost of effecting repairs, this scene of destruction eased with an eye-blink. The wheeled-house had straightened as if affected by a magic spell. I stumbled up a flight of steps that led from a landing behind the residence, and realized that it terminated against an upstairs wall. The purpose of having it included in the original build was a riddle I could not solve.

 

Sheets of plywood had been loosened by the meteorological melee, so here and there, I encountered gaping, rectangular portals that had been covered before. Doorway-sized gaps that I had not known existed when purchasing the pre-fab dwelling. A tease of Mother Nature’s wrath continued to shake everything, and press upon window seals and gaps in the vinyl skirting, below.

 

As always, this stark parade of sounds and images concluded with the sunrise. Waking gently on my threadbare mattress, I became once again centered in time and space. Though still put off mentally by what had transpired in my cranium.

 

Coffee righted my consciousness, as the new day began. Our morning newscast, from Cleveland, spoke of mayhem in neighborhoods along the shoreline. Acts of mischief and rescue that had occurred in the wee hours. But from a personal perspective, an inspection of my living space seemed more important as a priority for the morning. I wanted to be certain that what I had seen, while dozing under my blankets, was not real in any way.

 

A chirping of avian companions sounded as I looked out the back door. They had nested in an unruly tree that wound itself through a metal railing by the steps. Their festive song offered a cheerful note to the early hour at hand.

 

I was glad to be awake. And, not unwittingly homeless, due to a rowdy event of Ohio weather.

Nothing To See Here: “Dream Detour”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Note: I haven’t actually spoken to my friend Janis in well over a year. Her life has moved in a new direction after landing at a skilled-care facility in Ashtabula. But sometimes, old memories return, with a new twist on past realities.

 

After a restless weekend night, tossing and turning in bed, I had reached a puzzling start-of-day, while sorting through postal mail at the Icehouse home office. Having been at my desk for long enough to drink two cups of coffee, and consume a bowl of cheesy grits, I was distracted by a dream sequence from previous hours. One that depicted an interaction with a person I had never found to be attractive, or desirable, in any way. She was the roommate of an erstwhile friend who once occupied a place of importance and affection in my life. Particularly while I worked as a business manager for a private business owner in Geneva.

 

While pondering this unconscious flight of imagination, my landline phone rang with a dated, synthetic chirp of 1990s technology. Despite being disconnected many years ago, it called out for attention, defiantly.

 

Janis, my platonic pal of some fifteen years, was on the other end. I could hear her full-bodied tone resonating in my ear.

 

“Hey Rodbert! You left a weird message on my machine, yesterday. But I never saw it until this morning. What’s up with that? Are you okay? I figured you must have been drunk...”

 

I was slightly embarrassed by her line of thinking. Yet defensive about any act that might have been committed while in a condition of inebriation.

 

“Message? No, I never called your number. Are you sure about that?”

 

She snorted with indifference at my plea of doubt.

 

“Of course I’m sure, dummy! You’ve got a voice like Fred Flintstone! There’s no mistaking it when you ring!”

 

I could not remember attempting to make a call. Though a marathon of Jerry Springer episodes via the Roku TV had kept me up later than usual. After enjoying a few chilled beverages, along with a plate of nachos including shredded cheese, taco meat, salsa, and Doritos, I had passed out on my couch. Crawling to the bedroom must have followed, while I remained unconscious. What transpired as I slept was a memory still clear in mind, and troubling. But I hesitated to confess this odd happening in real time.

 

“I had a Mexican feast here, and nodded off watching television. That was it. Nothing special really, it’s a fairly regular occurrence.”

 

Janis whistled at this denial of culpability. Then offered more details.

 

“You were slurring your words, dude! Something about my Quennielane hiding in a closet. And then catching you in the bedroom, around midnight! I thought you hated that crabby bitch!”

 

Her accusation hit the target. I had been uneasy about a fictional rendezvous, apparently inspired by spicy foods, alcohol, and a face-down collapse on the sofa.

 

“Umm, okay, here’s the scoop. I had a ridiculous dream overnight, it left me feeling violated and guilty to be honest. I haven’t been able to shake the sense that some kind of mental fault has crept into my brain. Quennie was in a foul mood as always, you were showing off tattoos from a parlor in Ashtabula, and we were all sitting in your living room. Then, that skinny wench leaned forward, dabbed her lips with a glossy glaze of red, and we started making out. I was so revolted that it woke me up immediately. I sat on the edge of my mattress for several minutes, before finding the strength to stand...”

 

My hippie companion began to gasp until her breath returned. Then, a loud guffaw echoed over the line. She was uninhibited in boldly expressing her amusement.

 

“HAHAHAHAHAHA RODBERT! I NEVER KNEW THAT OLD HAG TURNED YOU ON! WOOOOO! YOU CAN MOVE IN WITH US, AND SAVE BIG BUCKS ON YOUR LOT RENT!”

 

I was rattled by being exposed. But tried to defend myself effectively.

 

“No, no, you had it right the first time. I can’t stand her attitude! She doesn’t have a single friend, at work or in your neighborhood by the lake. I swear, she’s a soulless demon. And way too petite and boney for my tastes anyway, I prefer women with curves. And a bit more charming to date, you know? Some personality on tap. She’s cold and hard. I can’t image what her childhood must have been like...”

 

Janis giggled and snorted again.

 

“So, was this the first time you dreamed about Quennie? It had to be one hell of a shock, right?”

 

My face turned pale. I had a personal penchant for honesty. But wanted to tell a lie in response.

 

“Well, no not exactly. There have been a few times when something similar flickered in my head. It always happens after snacking on salty treats, and washing down the grub with a pitcher of cold brew...”

 

My unconventional cohort howled derisively.

 

“MORE TIMES? IT HAS HAPPENED BEFORE, YOU MEAN?”

 

I was drowning in shame. But managed to admit what had preceded the recent event.

 

“Yes, a few times maybe. Once we went down a hallway in your house, to get some privacy. Then started making out, with lots of non-verbal interaction. On another occasion, she called to me from a different part of your residence, and when I chose to seek her out, she was naked, in her own room. Upon throwing back the covers, I realized that she had brushed out her long, white hair to the point of looking like a Heavy Metal star. And her feminine assets were bountiful and perky...”

 

My soulmate cackled with abandon.

 

“OH GAWD, THAT IS COMPLETELY NUTS! RODBERT, YOU SOUND LIKE A PERV! HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN IN LOVE WITH QUENNIE? I THINK I’M GOING TO HURL!”

 

I wanted to disappear forever. The dream hung around my neck like an albatross.

 

“I can’t stand the sight of her! This just makes no sense. Don’t judge me on it, because I have no rational explanation. Maybe I should do some searching on the internet. There must be a reason that I would have such screwy thoughts floating around in my skull...”

 

Janis huffed and cradled the receiver in her hands. I could tell that she was unconvinced.

 

“You are a dumbass, Rodbert! All this time, I thought you had a crush on me, secretly. But no, it’s my roomie you wanted. Yuck! Yuck, yuck, yuck!”

 

She slammed her phone down on its cradle. Following that, I heard a dial tone in my ear. Apparently, the conversation we had shared was too weird to fathom. Though because our connection had been made over an inactive device, the yield was more unsettling than truly indicative of any real opinion. Like my dream in bed, the episode smacked of fantasy and fiction, more than a real happening.

 

Later in the evening, I searched online for further information. One website dedicated to such curious imaginations speculated that having physical intercourse with a disliked individual represented taking charge on a practical level. A domination of sorts. Conquering a foe in real terms.

 

I just wanted to clear my head. And never revisit that realm of troubling imagery, again.

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Another Day”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had only been awake for a few hours, when his typical jones for an alcoholic beverage kicked in, with righteous fervor. He had been in a favorite recliner, scrolling through entries on a store app, via his cellular device. Patiently searching for pickled bologna, or red-hot frankfurters. This pursuit was one that revealed the high cost of such prepared delights, when being bought through third-party vendors. Late in the previous year, he had noted certain varieties of these treats, along with pickled eggs, available at a grocery depot nearer to Lake Erie. But the winter season had made him a hermit.

 

After years of struggling, he finally surrendered the desire to go anywhere beyond the comfort of his small, secluded front porch.

 

With a jug of Kentucky bourbon in hand, he hobbled through the kitchen, living room, and out to the wooden bench by his access ramp. Temperatures were already near 70 degrees, despite a possibility of snow in the forecast, on Easter. His first swig of strong liquor cleared away residual flavors of coffee, fried SPAM, and eggs. Then, as numbness spread across his shaggy face, he began to sink into a mood of pleasant detachment.

 

He was always best able to cope with living at Evergreen Estates, a community of mobile homes built on swampland filled in with construction waste, by staying perpetually drunk.

 

In about a half-hour, furious barking sounded on both sides of his singlewide trailer. To the west, from a tiny, yet aggressive ankle-biter, with a violent personality and a poor disposition. To the east, this growling was magnified with the addition of a Lab mix, and her adopted, Cattle Dog sibling. A visiting German Shepherd, out in the street, kept all of these participants eager to vocalize their canine sentiments.

 

Lincoln had a box fan in his side window. While undersized for the task of moving air around, it rattled and buzzed loudly enough to help eliminate the din of being outside, and exposed.

 

In another 30 minutes, neighbors who were a few lots away began to debate their marital status, in the driveway. A location not suited to private discourse. There was much wailing and screeching from the wife, and a silent scowl from her spouse. With persistent hoots of protest from others who were near enough to be offended, without actually becoming involved. Soon, garden implements, pet toys, and lawn furniture were flying around the lot. The husband eventually stomped to safety in his pickup truck, cranked its ignition, and sped away.

 

By then, it was long past the hour of noon. A clatter of digging machines could be heard from up their street, by the woods. Leaks in the park system for delivering water were maddeningly common. With frequent outages in service interrupting showers, doing loads of laundry, and other household chores. Each low-budget repair represented a desperate attempt to save money while operating the rural property. But if tallied on a balance sheet, they likely cost more than simply modernizing the structural components, which had first been put in place during the 1950s.

 

Around one o’clock, Lincoln noted that a warm glow of inebriation had shrouded him in blissful anonymity. He could not hear, see, or think with any measure of clarity. This condition also liberated his joints from a prevailing stiffness brought on by arthritis and long-term abuse during his professional career.

 

He had reached the peak of his life force for the day. A glorious moment when cares and woes disappeared into a suffocating haze of brown booze.

 

Up the hillside from their crude development, harsh blasts of gunfire echoed repeatedly. One-two-three-four-five, and so forth. While continuing to drink, the reclusive loner counted off more than a dozen rounds being discharged. Far too many for a hunting excursion. Shouts of redneck glee were audible. Then, a siren wail. Either from an emergency vehicle, or perhaps, sheriff’s deputies pursuing miscreants in action.

 

Finally, the senior bum had reached a point of chemical oblivion. He swooned on the bench. Dizzy from drunkenness, and groggy enough to see sparkles of light where none existed in literal terms. Then, a click-clack of high heels filled his ears. From the landing by his flower bed, at the edge of their rustic boulevard, a young woman approached. Attired in the style of a dance-hall reveler. Someone he did not recognize as a resident from the same part of their neighborhood.

 

An interlude of wonder and confusion passed between them, before the colorful lass threw back her curled, blonde head of hair, and began to laugh out loud.

 

“What the heck? Y’all ain’t my grandpaw! Well horse poop, I done picked the wrong damn trailer. Sorry feller, I apologize fer interruptin’ yer nap!”

 

Lincoln shook his head and belched rudely.

 

“Grandpa? No, I think you’re definitely off-track there, miss. None of my family members live out here. Which is best in the long run, I figure. It’s better to stay aloof and undetectable. Off-the-radar, so to speak...”

 

The youthful female cocked her head to one side. She needed to regain a proper sense of direction. Chewing her lip, she expressed obvious doubts over her visit.

 

“Ain’t this Lot 113? He said it would be easy to find, but that was a doggone lie! I can’t figure out this park fer shit! This is a screwed-up little hole-in-the-wall!”

 

The gray-bearded contrarian smiled and gestured toward the rear of their property.

 

“This is Lot 13, ma’am. Lot 113 will be way in the back, that’s a whole different section of the community. Like another world, really. You’ve got to roll past my street, curve around by the dump, and head west again...”

 

An expression of amazement glowed from the woman’s eyes. She pivoted on her spiked boots, while waving with painted nails.

 

“I get it now, gawdamn! He’s been beggin’ me ta come out fer more ‘n a year! Somethin’ about bein’ diagnosed with a heart condition. Ya know, people get old and tired, and cranky. Nobody else can stand him anymore. My sisters think he’s pain in the ass! But, I always sort of liked his bawdy sense of humor. He would embarrass my mom in public. She tried to make him go ta church, but his mouth was too wild. As a kid, I thought it was cool that he knew how ta cuss!”

 

Lincoln pointed once again, before savoring a generous swallow of refreshment.

 

“To repeat myself, it’s in the back. You’ll find it now, a white trailer with a plywood barn and a skinny sidewalk in between. I used to know someone who lived next door. A friend from the days when I could still tolerate other human beings...”

 

There was a cackle of disinterest as the flashy femme disappeared.

 

A quarter-hour elapsed, with more drinking and belching, as the solitary figure pondered this perfumed princess in her absence. A gentle trace of her essence remained in his nostrils. He had nearly fallen asleep when she returned, unexpectedly. This time however, her approach came at a pace stalled by apprehension and regret. She had begun to cry.

 

“Lot 113, that’s what the old fool said! His Jeep Cherokee was still parked out in front. Someone a few spaces away told me that a freakin’ ambulance came fer him, last week. They had a team of medics wheel him out on a gurney! But the old dude didn’t make it ta the hospital. I messed around too damn long. It’s all my fault! Ain’t that a bite in the ass? Now I feel like a total bitch!”

 

Lincoln could not summon proper words of condolence for his uninvited guest. So instead, he uncorked another jug of southern whiskey. The pop of that seal was sharp and intimidating.

 

“Why don’t you sit here for a minute or two? Just to collect your thoughts, if nothing else...”

 

The booted dancer crouched on her heels. She lit a cigarette, and replied with a whisper.

 

“New Grandpaw, I’d appreciate hearin’ some stories if ya might wanna share with me. And while yer at it, how about a drink of that hooch?”