Geneva Go-Round: “Pharmacy Pause”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

Being disabled has meant that my daily routine consists of fewer chores as a matter of course. This streamlining of tasks is something rooted in necessity, but also spurred by a realignment of life priorities that inevitably comes with racking up more years in service. In the manner of an old vehicle, my body has become balky at times. Uncooperative, and resistant to being in motion. When needed, I am still able to get around and accomplish goals that are of a top-line priority. Yet otherwise, I am content with my role as a single component in the stream-of-consciousness. I do not need praise or accolades from others. To be sentient and alive is enough. Sometimes however, I need to make short trips around my rural area. Generally, these are for the purpose of gathering groceries, visiting doctors, or procuring medicines. I rarely travel simply for pleasure, in modern times. Additionally, I try to stay close to my home base, always. I live in a neighborhood which is west of Route 534, and south of Geneva.

 

Recently, I had to visit the pharmacy at Giant Eagle, located on South Broadway Avenue. I have stayed with this small depot for many years, because of the caring approach to waiting on customers that they provide. And, their expert command of medicinal information. With seasonal concerns in mind, and a list from my family physician on one of her appointment cards, I showed up at the counter, despite having no prescriptions waiting. Something rare enough that it made me feel slightly embarrassed for adding to the rush of consumer traffic.

 

I had no difficulty in explaining my desire to get vaccinations that were needed. My only challenge was with filling out paperwork on a clipboard, which required that I sneak down an aisle, to a kiosk of reading glasses. There, I was able to temporarily employ a stylish set of frames and lenses that brought the printed matter into focus. I took comfort from the fact that no one seemed to pay attention to my clandestine act of borrowing. After a brief interlude, I reckoned that my scribbled entries were legible enough to be readable. So, I returned the document to a side window in the department, and got back in line.

 

I was riding in an Amigo shopper cart, an electric workhorse that made getting around the supermarket possible, despite normally walking with two canes. While lingering next to a display of hanging apparel, with local sports themes displayed proudly, I listened to the music service that provided soothing, background noise. Familiar songs from the 70s, 80s, and 90s played on an endless loop. This wi-fi stream of entertainment put me at ease. I was not anxious about being poked in both arms, for a good cause. I trusted in the staff to help protect the measure of good health with which I had been blessed.

 

But as I waited patiently, a tune written by Robert Smith of English band, ‘The Cure’ began to echo from speakers in the ceiling. I had heard this track many times over the years, and held no particular connection to its lyrics or intended meaning. But suddenly, my thoughts drifted to the fact that my sister had passed away from pancreatic cancer, late in the month of October. Literally, only a short span before my visit. My lips began to tremble, and I felt tears pooling in both eyes. This reaction seemed completely idiopathic, not caused willfully, or by a specific link between the song and my lost sibling.

 

I had to grip the handles of my battery-powered mule, in an attempt to steady myself. I did not want this odd moment of grief to be exposed publicly. In particular, in front of the pharmacy manager, who I counted as a friend.

 

“Whenever I’m alone with you

You make me feel like I am home again

Whenever I’m alone with you

You make me feel like I am whole again

 

Whenever I’m alone with you

You make me feel like I am young again

Whenever I’m alone with you

You make me feel like I am fun again

 

However far away

I will always love you

However long I stay

I will always love you

Whatever words I say

I will always love you

I will always love you...”

 

I was completely unprepared for this emotional outburst. It came swiftly and without any warning. I had not even been thinking of that sad event when navigating the store, and interacting with familiar members of the crew. But there it was, a connection between memories of old, and an unspoken hint of tragedy.

 

My sister had been relatively healthy for over 60 years, or so it seemed to the rest of our brood. She was simple and elegant in her own philosophy. Someone who endured challenges without complaints or dramatic protestations. She was steadfast in practicing a Christian faith, and took her marriage vows as a serious promise made before God. She did not drink alcohol, smoke tobacco or marijuana, and kept her language resoundingly clean. Her stewardship of the family, two brothers, three children, and a loving grandson, provided an underpinning for everything we enjoyed. She was notable for cooking and baking treats for neighbors, friends, and fellow worshipers at her church. In all, someone who aced the fine art of living with skill, and love for all. I could not match that level of kindness or conviction.

 

Her demise put me in a funk because, admittedly, I could not claim to follow such a noble path. My own journey had been plagued with failed marriages, career shifts, homelessness, bankruptcy, and bad decisions. I did not keep quiet when things went wrong. This unpredictable manner made some people in my orbit observe that I could be like the literary team of ‘Jekyll and Hyde.’ Only in retirement and solitude had I reached a point of maturity that better served my personal goals.

 

My genetic counterpart had the courage and wisdom of our father, who was a member of the clergy. Something she used frequently to herd all of us along as her benefactors. It caused me to celebrate having her as a hub for our group. And, to mourn when she was taken too soon, by her devastating affliction.

 

Somehow, I managed to dry my eyes, and compartmentalize what I felt in my gut, while getting processed by the Giant Eagle pharmacy. I hid any evidence of being rattled. Yet afterward, as I sat in my car outside, the unique phrasing and melody of that Cure composition remained in the air. I heard it all the way back home, as if it still played on the dashboard radio.

 

For a creative writer, only one release exists for such taxing moments. The act of translating them into print, for future review. To that end, I offer this confession with humility, and gratitude.

 

Yes, my sister, I will always love you.

 

 

 

 

 

“Blackboard Sky”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

A crescent ghost on a blackboard sky

Peering through the window, lighting my bed

Streaming an idea into closed eyes, and a covered head

As I am unplugged and unaware

What a surprise to be roused

In this room where I am safely housed

Among the pines

Narrow lots arranged at an earlier time

Now remain in a testament to the design

Of fortune seekers who oddly established this rural outpost

Far from the crowded walks, east of Cleveland

In a spot unloved and unknown

Their concept thrived on a basic need

To acquire a home, affordably

Thus, the blue-collar masses from Lake Erie arrived

In wrinkled work clothes

Booted and belted, in denim and reeking of Wild Irish Rose

Their preferences were notably meek

Having existed on meager sums

Pennies in their pockets, these artful alums

Of a hard-knocks institution

A concrete curriculum of working-class absolution

In their stead, I tossed and turned

Groaning in the dim glow of this familiar satellite

This orb, hued in gray and white

Slim and slight, overhead

This was the beginning, at an unreasonable hour

It made me sit up and shake my head

This epiphany in my bed

If I had been more bold

I might have scribbled down the verse that hung in sight

At that fruitful moment of the overnight

Yet I cursed being awake

And sat in a chair at the end of our couch

Rubbing my eyes

At half past one o’clock

Still groggy, and unconcerned with the tease

Of creative energies

That were surging through the unconscious haze

I might have begun my day

Early, and impulsively quick

But the irony was heavy and thick

So much that after a cool sip of water, I returned to my first cause

To be knocked out, loaded

Slumbering, like a summertime Santa Claus

Surfing waves of oblivion

With my purpose, no more

I began to sniffle and snore

Blindly counting hours with no timepiece for an aid

On my mattress, I lay

Stretched out and twisting at my joints, until fatigue took hold

Bare feet, and barely covered

Strangely comfortable in the cold

This routine rattled my circadian rhythm

Leaving me lost in the vacuum of naught

Without even the tempered ticking of a clock

For a metronome

To keep my heartbeat steady and measured

I drifted and dozed throughout the span

Of this adventure, a silent, solitary man

Until mercy came with the sunrise

Which stiffened a resolve to again open my eyes

And there, waiting at the nightstand, so close at hand

Was the nugget of nicety

Given from an anonymous muse

As I had wandered on a cosmic cruise

Mentally, metaphorically

Headed to the point of discovery

The crossroads of a pen and tablet

Sitting at my desk

And ready

Trailer Park Takeover, Chapter 1: Notification

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

Living alone in an environment such as Evergreen Estates can be challenging. A condition that works against staying on balance, mentally. But I have found that being busy, at my desk, refrigerator, or liquor cabinet, keeps me centered and on course. I do not have to justify this strategy to anyone. Least of all, to myself.

 

It works, and that is all that matters.

 

But sometimes, an intervention from outside forces can divert me from this trusted path toward inner peace. A recent example of the phenomenon came as a notice from the park manager was left in my storm door. It had been drafted in haste, I suspected, and spoke cryptically about a new owner taking over at our development. While the number of corporate entities and bankers who technically possessed the property had been many, most residents simply learned to live with our plight. Having a tangible center of operations did not matter much. Especially when those distant, anonymous masters were located at a business nexus on the west coast. So long as checks for lot rent were processed, little else changed over time. Every company seemed to have a similar outlook on providing maintenance and supervision. In other words, each of these financial supervisors ignored conditions on the ground, in favor of collecting income and avoiding lawsuits. Only the most basic remedies to our woes were ever offered. Happily, we learned to endure and thrive, in spite of this obvious neglect.

 

There was little else we could do, as individuals caught in a loop of despair and gloom.

 

The bulletin placed in between sections of my front entryway did not explain a great deal about who had assumed the mantle of stewardship for our trailer oasis. Yet it sparked a lively debate among neighbors and friends on the street. Some immediately called for hiring a legal representative. Though none of us had the funds to secure that kind of advocacy. In personal terms, I poured a round of Jack Daniel’s in my favorite drinking glass, and sat outside to read and ponder what had been announced.

 

“Attention residents – this community has been formally acquired by a new group of shareholders in New York City, the Proletariat Property Co-op, LLC. In the coming days, you will receive more information about this investor group, and their novel practices in the mobile-home industry. But be assured that the high standards to which you have become accustomed at Evergreen Estates will be fully maintained. For the moment, your on-site contact will continue to be Dana Alvarez, and questions regarding this change may be directed to her at the office. We thank you for your patience in this matter...”

 

My cell phone began to vibrate in a hoodie pocket, almost immediately. First to reach out in protest was Darby Stronelli, a spiky-haired busybody who lived on my eastern flank. Predictably, she had strong opinions on the notice, despite knowing nothing about the new group taking charge.

 

“HEY LINK, DID YOU READ THIS SHIT IN THE PAPER? HERE WE GO AGAIN! I BEEN TRYING TO TELL PEOPLE, OHIO LAW AIN’T CALIFORNIA LAW! AND I HAVE! BUT NOBODY LISTENS. SCREW ‘EM IF THEY DON’T CARE! THEY GOT ME EFFED UP! THEY CAN’T GET AWAY WITH THIS! AM I RIGHT OR WHAT, BUDDY?”

 

I wanted to ignore her virtual tantrum. But knew that if I remained silent for too long, she would simply walk across the empty space between my longbox and hers, to repeat every word, face-to-face.

 

“Umm, did you read the flier completely? This mysterious co-op is in New York City...”

 

My cohort across the side yard must have been squawking like an irritated hen. The tone of her messaging rattled my nerves, even without being conveyed in an audio blast.

 

“TO HELL WITH THAT, I DON’T GIVE A DAMN WHERE THEY COME FROM! AND I DON’T! THEY CAN’T JUST PULL A BUYOUT ON OUR PARK WITHOUT GIVING NOTICE! IT’S NINETY DAYS, NINETY DAYS IN OHIO! THIS IS OHIO, DAMMIT! O-HI-O! NOT CAL-I-FOR-NIA!”

 

I savored the burn of my Tennessee whiskey before sending a reply.

 

“Where did you get that info? I never heard of such a law...”

 

Darby sent a string of angry emojis, and a clenched fist.

 

“YOU OUGHTA BE SMART LIKE ME, DUDE! I PAY ATTENTION TO THIS SHIT! WE’RE IN OHIO NOT CALIFORNIA. NOT NEW YORK. NOT ANYWHERE BUT RIGHT HERE! THIS IS WHERE WE ARE, MAN!”

 

I nodded quietly, and wiped my mouth which was still tingling with high-proof residue.

 

“I figure they’ve already worked out the details. Those legal eggheads get paid for pushing their paperwork through the courts. It’s what they do for a career...”

 

She was livid at reading my simplistic explanation.

 

“COURTS? WHAT THE HELL, WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT THE COURTS, WE DON’T EVEN GOT A LAWYER, BUDDY!”

 

I sighed heavily, and took another swig of the potent, brown distillation.

 

“Darb, it isn’t like passing out Bud Light to hustle up some free wood for your projects. There’s got to be a blessing from a judge somewhere. The last institution was bankrupt, or so they claimed to Wells Fargo. Who was that, Western Golden Financial Partners? I can’t even recall actually, there have been so many. Maybe I have them out of order...”

 

My fellow resident was in an ugly mood. I feared that she might toss one of her empty bottles toward my living room window.

 

“QUIT BEING AN ASSHOLE, OLD FART! YOU ALWAYS GOTTA BE A DICK ABOUT EVERYTHING! I HATE IT WHEN YOU SIT OVER THERE AND GET DRUNK BY YOURSELF!”

 

I wanted to relate that being inebriated regularly kept me from burning down my trailer, and leaving the park in a fit of righteous indignation. And that it generally kept other inhabitants at a safe distance. But I restrained this rowdy impulse. Instead, I stroked her ego with a bit of diplomatic flair.

 

“You know plenty of people around this place. Let them bend your ears. See what they think about this revelation. You’ve got a good sense of what goes on in this dump. Meanwhile, I’ll contact my friend Yarl the computer nerd. He has a talent for looking up details in cyberspace. I’ll bet he can figure out what this new gang of money-grubbers is likely to do...”

 

Darby was silent for a moment. Then she posted a middle finger, and a laughing face.

 

“DUMBASS! I HARDLY KNOW ANYBODY HERE, MAYBE TWO OR THREE THAT COME OVER TO MY PARTY BARN FOR FREE BEER AND DORITOS. THAT’S IT, BRUH! THAT’S IT!”

 

I should have allowed our interaction to terminate in silence. Yet something made me respond with a final line of text.

 

“C’mon woman, you know at least a dozen residents just on this street, alone. You ought to be running this property, yourself. I see your profile on social media, every day. You are always in somebody else’s business...”

 

My unhinged counterpart was outraged at this candid assessment. I should have held my tongue.

 

“WHAT THE HECK, MANNNN? YOU’RE A BUTTHEAD, LINK! A GAWDAMM FREAKING BUTTHEAD! KISS MY ASSSSSS! KISS IT TWO TIMES! KISS IT!”

 

The device screen turned blank after her final outburst. I was embarrassed, but grateful.

 

Now, I could drink in peace.

Trailer Park Takeover: Introduction

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

I am Townshend Carr Lincoln, and this is my story.

 

I am a descendant of our 16^th American president, and a member of the community at Evergreen Estates. A rural village of mobile homes, located just south of Lake Erie in the northeast quadrant of Ohio. Despite the fact that many residents of my county are affluent, educated, and successful, people on the streets of this park are generally out-of-the-loop. Not socially connected or visible to the general population. They function on a level of subsistence and hardship, as staples of daily living. Conflicts are settled here in a direct manner, with fists and firearms. Alcohol, CBD products, and cigarettes keep everyone content with their alienation. Mobility comes from the use of vehicles long cast aside by more fortunate citizens. They are typically 15, 20, or even 30 years old, ratty and rusted, and in a constant state of disrepair. Beds, hatches, and body panels may be replaced with pallet wood, or sheets of tin. Duct tape and vinyl siding are also useful in covering these automotive deformities. Whatever works is pressed into service. There is no hesitation to hone survival skills amid the collapsing ecosystem. Inhabitants are not shy or easily offended. They do not care how the outside world views their existence. They do not attempt to justify being dirty and uncultured. But their rough and rude behavior is simply a veneer which hides a simple ethos contained within. One based on honesty of a blunt and brash sort. There are no politicians on the streets of my neighborhood. Only bruised and beaten refugees who have found an oasis in the mud. A junkyard paradise where regular folk may flourish, and raise their children.

 

Authors of greater renown might provide stories of rich and famous individuals, or adventurers, heroes, and science-fiction voyagers, for their readers. But I have no gifts of that kind to bestow. For your inspection, I have only pages filled with raw, ragged, unadulterated truth. Tales of anguish, poverty, and sacrifice. Of God as conceived by those who live constantly in his shadow. Fed on hopes of betterment and an upward evolution, which of course, never arrives. There is no glory at Evergreen Estates. No celebration of grand things. No one with a PhD, or polished trophies, or blue ribbons, or notoriety on a global scale. There is instead, a teeming horde of trailer-dwellers who are divorced, bankrupt, unschooled, scarred, and slumping on debilitated joints. With broken teeth, bones, and hearts. Coughing and limping along with little more than the promise of a new sunrise to propel them forward. They are righteous in their zeal for being alive. Perhaps even courageous, in that none of them will ever aspire to do anything memorable. They drink light brews, curse and spit and drool, in a succession of biological functions set in motion by need more than endurance. They are here not by choice, but by chance. Each breath taken comes with a struggle against pain and misfortune. Yet their joy in beholding the gray sky overhead is genuine. Their ability to feast on Ramen, bologna, chicken nuggets, and corn chips, while imagining a banquet of prime roast and caviar is laudable. They dance in the rain, and shout to the heavens, no matter the cause or season.

 

They prove the strength of human spirits, when challenged by an environment which is both unfriendly and inconvenient. Patience may pay a dividend of value for those able to sit and wait. But in this graveyard of souls, victory comes by completing a simple task. Namely, getting through the day.

 

A popular and relevant quotation on this subject is attributed to the writer Robert Louis Stevenson, first referenced and paraphrased from his essay ‘Old Mortality’ in 1884. Whether historically accurate in full, it speaks directly to the ultimate result of being a sentient creature on this planet. Especially one stripped of the gilded habitat afforded in more civilized districts.

 

“Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences.”

 

At Evergreen Estates, that meal is always on the table.

 

During more than two decades on my crumbling avenue, I have seen events that might shock and horrify those in other environs. Death and chaos and mischief, dealt out in generous proportions. Fellow residents pulled from their homes, in handcuffs. Clapboard structures going up in flames. Vehicles spewing smoke, oil, and gasoline, while being used to get from one place to another. With cracked windshields, broken panes of glass, bald tires, and dragging exhausts. There have been fights and confrontations and abandonment. Roaming urchins with no parents offering supervision. Armed invaders seeking opportunity. Tired constables on duty. Repairmen twisting wires and bolts, and digging up buried pipes to fix leaks in the system. Even foolhardy members of the maintenance crew filling potholes with gravel, only to have their labor spoiled by an inevitable worsening of the road surface.

 

In a sense, participating in the daily routine at my park is akin to the woe of Sisyphus, who in Greek mythology, is forced to roll a boulder up a hill, only to have it come tumbling down again. In that example, his agony lasts for all eternity, as punishment. But at least for us, a final exit from the flesh may still bring release from that torment.

 

Apparently, the property on which my longbox hovel sits was first developed in the 1950s. I cannot imagine why any landowner would have endeavored to build a blue-collar cluster of manufactured huts in a swampy area, not situated conveniently near any municipality. Those of a senior stature here, declare that construction waste and landfill rubbish was employed to stabilize the local geography. If true, this plan was only partially successful, in the long term. There is still a natural ritual of swelling and sinking by the landscape, throughout every year. Timbers sag, roofs go off-kilter, and concrete foundations crack into jagged pieces. Nothing lasts for very long. Therefore, repair projects of an amateur nature are constantly in vogue.

 

Residents come and go, persistently. Prefab units do the same, towed by diesel rigs. Owners change, managers disappear. Policies are drafted, but then enforced randomly. Only one constant seems able to remain in place. Rent checks are due on the first of every month.

 

Of that alone, those of us in the community may be certain. Anything else is a mystery to ponder, over a cool beverage and a smoke.

“Fragments Fall”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

Fragments fall lazily, like spring snowflakes

Carried on the restless wind

Elements for a potpourri to begin

From this mashup of meanings

Scattered, but joined in purpose

A collected anthology of verses

Ready to be read

I hear those words hovering overhead

With the vibrations of an insect swarm

Slight in force, yet persistent

Tingling the firmament

With a sparkle of lesser lights

That dot the dark canvas, overnight

These distant points of unrelated art

Though widely spread apart

Connect in the nexus of my cerebrum

Causing synapses to hum

And waking me from my slumber

I reach out for a spot to record

This groggy, gainful reward

Given as a gift from the dreamland cosmos

Eyes narrowed in the glare

Of a cell phone screen

Fingers tapping out

A description of what I have just seen

Half awake

Wielding a literary dish, half-baked

Jotted notes

A clearing of my throat

So real was the vision that I shouted at myself

Alone in the bedroom

Loud enough to shock

I nearly tumbled off the edge of my mattress

Sat there shaking before the curtain’s gap

At one side of my window

Rhythmic breaths taken with the cadence of a sacred chant

Until I am steady again

Only ten

Am I able to rise

Streaked with shades of moonlight

Standing on a threadbare rug

Should I shun my sleep, and go forward to the desk?

At the risk of trading needed rest

For an impulsive manuscript

A short step toward the conclusion

Of my work?

This bargain awaits to be pondered

Neither encouraged, or deterred

By the early hour

My feet find their path

Weaving between a chest of drawers

And the open door

Down a hallway too abbreviated to offer much separation

From my living room

Voices have spoken, it seems

In the stellar gleam

Of unconsciousness

I can only guess

What precipitated this coming of age

Gambling, far too late

Offering a chance to fill the page

Scribbling with my stylus

Clumsy and stiff

Before a leap into anonymous repose

Dozing in my office chair

As the memory lingers for this brief instant

Propelled by a thought

Silver and gold, shattered

Into glimmering fragments

An epiphany, a revelation

Heaven sent

“Low Pressure Blues"

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

Busy on a Monday, chores on the list

Appointments in order, not to be missed

My low-buck ride, nearly 20 years old

Decent enough to keep me out on the road

I’ve never been used to modernist frills

Have been more inclined to keep tight with my bills

But now and then I note, a feature unknown

Like a plug for music, from my cellular phone

Now I will admit, my hauler is adored

A wagon with many miles, rolled up on the board

But never did I suspect that it would rattle

In the midst of a race to win my schedule battle

A doctor in town was the first stop of many

And afterward, duties for the family, aplenty

I knew that this drive would last long past noon

And had already accepted my moment of gloom

But as I went westward, toward the county seat

An icon lit up, for a fix to complete

I peered for a moment, and wondered with doubt

What the flash on my dash was glowing about

‘Low tire pressure’ it warned in a script

I feared that my vehicle might falter and flip

Yet gripping the wheel, and an assortment of levers

I assessed that the handling was no different than ever

Though, at my first pause, I inspected each rubber hoop with care

And concluded that no flaw could be seen, anywhere

Not that it mattered, I had to be gone

The hour was too late, for tarrying long

I went here and there, till my needs were fulfilled

And then sat at home, with a brew, lightly chilled

Pondering hard, over what had nearly stalled

My run through the township, risking it all

My sleep came after sunset, both restless and wanting

I dreamed of a repair shop, with costs that were daunting

But with morning coffee spilled into my lap

I groggily checked for a fuel-station map

In town I remembered, a machine in between

A convenience outlet, and its carwash, pristine

There I could reinflate the tires on my 4x4

I had done it in the past, I had done it before

My old, green pickup had once ridden on rot

Not the most attractive choice on a dealership lot

But thrifty and trusty, and able to last

I owned it for years, until saving enough cash

To buy something better, for snowfall and rain

I had to be practical, when gambling again

So, with this new challenge confronting my lair

I chose to pay a visit when no one was there

The meter was clear, no trouble with selecting

I parked at the curb and got to poking and pumping

Fully automatic, and calibrated for all

I hobbled around the corners until firming up the sidewalls

My guess was that something had gone amiss with the set

But instead, I realized that the warning light was correct

I needed to pay more attention to this act

My neglect had caused delay, as a matter of fact

I could only celebrate, not going too far

Without seeking aid for my decades-old car

Now better and boasting, I left the business with a grin

Confident that my pause had paid dividends for the win
I tugged at the steering, and knew it was tight

All the way ‘round our Chardon Square, and back to the stoplight

Headed toward my home, far out in the pines

No longer carrying this curse on my mind

Only at home did the circumstances reveal

That my arthritic joints would make a woeful appeal

On my bench, outside, I ached and complained

Though my sacrifice was sufficient, for what had been gained

Now I could behold the prize I had scored

An evening of rest, was my simple reward

Nothing To See Here: “Hamglaze & Company”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-25)

 

 

In yonder days, one of my most trusted advisers on the subject of political machinations was a fellow writer and familiar figure to those of us living in Geauga County, Ohio. Namely, our local grande dame of governance and elections, Carrie Hamglaze. A woman known for her education, real-world experience, and steadfast faith in God and the sanctity of our republic. Her notoriety had endured for decades in this pastoral region, south of Lake Erie. But in recent years, as I languished in retirement and puttered at the home-office desk with projects of various sorts, I became disconnected from her stream-of-consciousness wisdom. I did not feel the need to discuss issues in real time, as when both of us were active at the local Maple Leaf newspaper, penning articles and columns for public consumption.

 

But with a recent, off-year election cycle producing headlines in the mainstream press, I felt motivated to seek out my friend for comments and insight. My eyes burned a bit with the hyperbolic text used to describe what some identified as a groundswell of blue fervor, that was destined to engulf our nation, from coast to coast. As a dedicated independent with no major-party affiliation, this proclamation meant little to me in personal terms. Yet I wanted some clarity on the subject, from a dependable source.

 

It took a couple of days to track down Ms. Hamglaze, as she had remained energetic and busy, even in her own condition of senior isolation. But then, as I was finishing a morning round of Maxwell House coffee, from my BUNN brewer, a telephone ring signified that she had become available.

 

I was glad to have steadied my stomach, and bloodstream, before answering the call.

 

“Rodney! You haven’t dialed my number in ages! Is anything wrong out there in your rural neighborhood?”

 

I rubbed my eyes and coughed lightly. She sounded perky, and fortified with Irish tea.

 

“No, no, nothing out of the ordinary... well, except for family concerns. My sister passed away last week. I am numb at the moment. Not coherent enough to process what happened.”

 

Carrie was stunned by this report. I could hear her fiddling with a pair of reading glasses, suspended on a length of silver chain.

 

“WHAT? NOTHING OUT OF THE ORDINARY, YOU SAY? OH, I AM SO SORRY FOR YOU AND YOUR FAMILY!”

 

I nodded while cradling my device in one hand. In the other, I had a half sandwich made with one slice of bread and a dollop of chunky peanut butter.

 

“As I said, it does not seem real enough to accept at this moment. I can’t latch onto the gravity of her exit. She became the center of our brood. Every holiday was celebrated at her home in Hambden Township. Every event of importance. Every discussion of happenings that involved our bunch. But that isn’t why I called...”

 

My contact in Chardon sighed loudly and huffed at her device. Her puzzlement was palpable, even over a wireless connection.

 

“Well then, if that didn’t cause you to pick up the phone, what did, Rodney?”

 

I coughed again to clear my throat. We had not spoken directly in so long that I had to reach for distant recollections to sharpen my focus.

 

“I’ve been reading stories online. Nerdy, wonky stuff written by professional pundits. Like at the Drudge report, or Huffington Post. Or on my Yahoo! news page. Chatter about the votes taken in New Jersey, Virginia, California, and specifically, New York City, and their socialist mayor-elect...”

 

There was a long pause before she answered. I could sense that her blood pressure was rising.

 

“Listen, friend, things did not go well for those on my side of the aisle. That much is true. But, the other face of that coin is just as valid. Election cycles occurred in blue states and a blue city. Or perhaps, in the case of Virginia, a purple state. But the results were what most observers expected. In the Big Apple, registered Democrats outnumber Republicans by a huge margin. Curtis Sliwa was a fossil. Andrew Cuomo was damaged goods. So, what did that leave for citizens at the ballot box? A young activist with radical ideas. Not practical ideas, not plausible ideas, but at least ideas that differ from the tired, half-baked solutions that have let a great metropolis slide into apathy. I don’t see that as a referendum of any kind. More like a predictable protest by residents who feel they have been ignored.”

 

Hamglaze had cleared the cobwebs out of my brain. Her words made sense like nothing I had read on my computer.

 

“That’s it, I knew you would hit the bullseye. All morning, I scrolled through partisan boasts about a comeback for the opposition. The pendulum swinging, you know? It’s a natural progression, I get it. But the same perplexing issues remain. I don’t see that one side or the other has much in the way of real solutions...”

 

Carrie snorted, audibly. I had touched a nerve, it seemed.

 

“I would beg to disagree of course, as I think my tribe has proposed many things that are sound and logical. But I understand you’ve got your own perspective, Rodney. At the end of the day however, I don’t figure this reveals too much about our political future. As I said, it’s a matter of tendencies which have long been established. What happened isn’t necessarily relevant on a national scale.”

 

I reflected on watching television moderator John McLaughlin as a younger man.

 

“You ought to have your own show in syndication. I’ve said that for years. We need someone in the public eye who can distill these kinds of events into a simple, digestible message. I’d much rather have spent my morning with that kind of sober analysis...”

 

My journalistic cohort must have been red-faced with embarrassment. But she maintained her composure.

 

“I appreciate the kind words. But don’t hold your breath, Rodney! That sort of production doesn’t get the ratings that are necessary to survive. The market is fractured now, with streaming networks, podcasts, weblogs, and such. Remember the old adage that ‘content is king?’ Now there is so much content that it makes my head spin. People in the know have to wade through an ocean of material, just to get a few, relevant facts. I think that is why the aggregation sites do so well. We all find our own lane.”

 

Her candid assessment shocked me into silence, for a moment.

 

“Well, yes... I think you nailed it there, Ms. Hamglaze! Bravo! As always, you are right on target!”

 

I could hear the chime of her doorbell, in the background. Suddenly, our polite discussion was over. I gasped out a cadence of short breaths before accepting this abrupt termination. She pretended not to notice.

 

“Anyway, my steak entree is here, Rodney! I am famished, do you realize it’s after the hour of noon already? Be well, old chum. Stay warm! Stay safe! And... don’t drink too much and fall off your porch. I’ll bet your bones are brittle!”

 

There was a sharp, electronic click in my ear. Our conversation had ended.