“Here I Stand”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

Here I stand

Amid the wreckage and chaos of a life well lived

A dip into the conduct that saints must forgive

With regrets and remembrances, spat through a sieve

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

At the precipice of a graduation from this globe

Spinning incessantly over an axis, below

With a discharge dispensed in the consistency of snow

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Unable or unwilling to get out of the way

When gatekeeprs approach, to control yesterday

Guardrails intact guide whatever I say

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Embarrassed yet enabled by my fall from grace

A twist of the plot, with new deeds to embrace

A careless infraction to be noted in disgrace

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

How great is the burden I bear by myself

To be lonely and lost, but undeniably well

Fretting with purpose, like a quill at the inkwell

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Inglorious ingrate, that term is employed

To describe how I look to those deep in the void

A jostle of jesters, who jump wildly for joy

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Chilled to the core by indifference at work

Unrewarded by advantages, or princely, prime perks

More likely to end up on my knees in the dirt

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

A generation removed from traditions of yore

Unable to forget, what I once strived to ignore

A slap on the back and a vow to implore

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

A chill in the air from combatants who fight

At the whims of great thinkers who take heart and delight

In the spilling of blood and the cover of night

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Feckless and fearful, but too hard to halt

A gasp of surprise after opening the vault

Where no treasures remain but trace crystals of salt

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Nonsense and riddles, spun to evoke a smile

And the revealing of a plan to play all the while

A spectacle measured in meters and miles

Here I stand

 

Here I stand

Fingers go fumbling, in search of an end

A word to the wise, whispered by a friend

A bow and a wish that they’ll come back again

Here I stand

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Fire”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Rolf Heigel had been at Evergreen Estates since losing his wife, a job at an engineering firm in Cleveland, and his best friend from Germany, all in the span of a single year. Like many young immigrants after World War II, he came to America full of hope and ambition. His goal was to build a better life for himself, far from the rubble of war and economic hardship in Europe. And at first, he had found a level of success never available in his native land. But as the years progressed, he became bitter about having the fruits of his labor confiscated by company owners and investors. Who only came to buy up troubled assets, before squeezing out quick profits, and then dumping what remained. Eventually, he grew to regret the decision he had made as a child. His adopted land remained foreign and confusing. Full of too many lazy, ignorant people who lacked focus, clarity, and motivation in their lives.

 

His last possession with any measurable value was the 1980, Schult trailer where he existed as a hermit and neighborhood outcast. There, he survived on a diet of tinned sardines, tea, and crackers. With an occasional addition of fresh vegetables from open-air markets, in the summer. His minimalist routine was a marvel to others along their street. Yet it let him avoid starvation, while leaving enough to pay bills, and occasionally, contribute to his meager savings account.

 

He might have been revived by the advent of spring, after a hard winter, if conditions had remained as they were for the mobile-home community. But a note in the door, delivered early on a on Monday morning, caused him to lose control. He threw a tantrum that could be heard several lots away, in both directions.

 

“ATTENTION RESIDENTS – Effective on the first of next month, regular rent will be increased by another $75.00. We realize this may create difficulties for some leaseholders and rent-to-own participants, but it is a necessary step to preserve our good standing as a financial entity. We have been forced to carry the burden of rising costs, for everything from fuel to utilities, to maintenance and insurance. Therefore, it is imperative that we secure this operation if it is to endure. We thank you for your patience...”

 

Herr Heigel cursed out loud in his native tongue.

 

“Ach du Lieber! Was ist das? Du kannst zum Teufel gehen! I am tired of being stuck in this horrible pit!”

 

His anger was shared by many in the park. But within the walls of his own, singlewide abode, it resonated more forcefully. He grabbed a polished walking stick, machined out of steel, and started to thrash furnishings and collected trinkets in his home. The result soon looked like a bombing site from when he had been a young boy, across the Atlantic Ocean.

 

“GEH ZUM TEUFEL! GEH ZUM TEFUEL! ICH WILL MEIN HAUS ZERSTÖREN! I WILL DESTROY MY OWN HOUSE, AND LEAVE THIS TORMENT FOREVER!!”

 

Once he had finished breaking up his chairs, microwave cabinet, and antique toys on the entertainment center, he took aim at a window behind his sofa. Glass scattered around his living room. Then, he had to catch his breath. His pulse had quickened to the point of a cardiac event.

 

“Mein hertz... ach, mein hertz...”

 

He slumped in a recliner that was threadbare and stained from years of use. A spot his grandchildren once preferred, when visiting. In an age now lost along with his place in the family. He felt powerless and frustrated. But then, remembered a can of gasoline in his storage shed. Something left from days when he was still able to mow his own lawn as an outside chore that offered relaxation along with a feeling of accomplishment.

 

“Wunderbar! Ich für das verbrennen habe, benzin! I have gasoline for the fire!”

 

With slight hesitation, he trudged down the front steps, across a walkway to his small outbuilding, and fiddled with the broken lock. Inside, he spied the red, plastic vessel next to a Sears shop vac that had not served any real purpose for several years. He lifted the fuel in one hand, while keeping balanced with the walking implement in his other. Then retreated to his doorway. He could feel that his face had reddened. His skin burned, hot and sweaty.

 

There was a surprising amount of petrol in the squarish jug. Enough to trace a path from his back closet, through the master bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen. He finished with a loop around the living area, and up to the narrow hallway by his furnace and water heater. The chemical stink soon filled his nostrils. But it gave him a sense of relief.

 

“VERDAMNT DIESER ORT! DAMN THIS PLACE! ICH HABE GENUG! ENOUGH! ENOUGH! ENOUGH!”

 

A terminal curl of the flammable liquid ended at his porch. He lit a crumpled, brown shopping bag. Then threw it back inside, through the open entrance. The reaction was immediate, and loud. A whoosh of combustion ignited everything with a rapid burst of finality.

 

The senior immigrant cheered in his original language, by offering a command used by the Deutsche military in olden days.

 

“FEUER FREI! FEUER FREI! FEUER FREI!”

 

Reaction from other residents was swift. Sirens sounded as emergency vehicles arrived. Township police and sheriff’s deputies took positions by the office and maintenance garage, to keep order. A woman who had moved to Ohio from Alabama prayed in her driveway. Many spectators took selfies and short videos with their cell phones. One enterprising kid streamed the event via Tik Tok, to gain attention for his own account.

 

Fireman Randle Tait stationed his crew all around the burning, pre-fab hut. He was tall and confident, and well-trained for such operations.

 

“Don’t worry old man, we’ll do our best to save your residence. Though I can’t promise much, as these longboxes catch fire so quickly! Once they start to burn, it’s anyone’s guess what will extinguish the flames!”

 

Herr Heigel smiled unexpectedly, and pulled his knit sweater tightly around both shoulders.

 

“Nein, do not worry about that shack! Let it turn to ashes, mein freund. Once that thing is gone I am free at last! I am finally, forever, freeeeeee!”

 

Nothing To See Here – “Bloodline Confession”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery – isolation. Isolation is the gift. All others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.” – Charles Bukowski

 

My father passed away in April of 2018.

 

Which, oddly, I remember because of the specific date, which was 4-27. I thought it to be quite appropriate at the time because we had always been a family with great interest in motor vehicles of all sorts. And 427 was the displacement of a beefy, V-8 powerplant, built by Ford Motor Company and used in some versions of the legendary Shelby AC Cobra. A fact that fit family inclinations which prevailed in our bloodline, though he had actually owned a plethora of cars. Including some built by Chevrolet, Dodge, Renault, Peugeot, Simca, Saab, and Volkswagen, among other manufacturers.

 

In the months and years since his passing, I have often dreamed about postmortem conversations between us, and the yield of speaking with him from a more mature perspective. But in recent days, this occasional phenomenon produced a lingering memory that I will continue to ponder, for some time.

 

He was at his desk in the home shared with my mother, a two-story relic situated on a rural road that ran up the hillside, from Philippi, West Virginia. A Mountaineer outpost on the Tygart River. As was often the case, he had filled a Pyrex measuring cup with coffee, to avoid making trips from his study to the kitchen. I caught him after chatting in the living room, with other members of our brood. He typically liked to busy himself with books and magazines, or a shortwave radio which could receive broadcasts from around the world. While working on a church bulletin, or a project of some kind for one of his various blogs on the internet. This reluctance to be directly connected to the stream-of-consciousness mirrored the template set by my grandfather. Who also enjoyed having all of us in his orbit, while not necessarily interacting in real time.

 

My sleepy adventure smacked of fantasy, with mixed timelines in effect and a surreal amount of self-awareness, without disturbing this void of recollection. I stood in an open doorway to his home office, and puzzled over the healthy appearance and vitality that he projected. Even in a cloak of the slumbering netherworld I inhabited, some details seemed skewed beyond belief, however.

 

“Doesn’t the old fellow know that he is dead?”

 

As my father puttered away at his keyboard, I gestured for attention with a humble wave of my right hand.

 

“Dad, I want to confess something. This will sound ridiculous, perhaps, but I get your vibe. It was always something of a mystery to me, as a young kid, and teenager. Even when I left our household, and married. You were, by my own estimation, stooped and slow, and reluctant to do things that I knew were appealing. I heard stories about your adventures, growing up in Columbus, and marveled at the energy you must have had. It confused me greatly. I wondered how such a metamorphosis could transpire. But now, I don’t wonder any longer. As said before, I get it. I get you. I get your vibe...”

 

My sire was dressed in the typical garb of a retired citizen from the Midwest. A short-sleeve shirt, certainly acquired from the Sears & Roebuck catalog, with a striped pattern long out of style. And pens in the pocket. Worn with polyester trousers, patterned socks, and casual shoes. No element of his outfit matched any other in the ensemble. He was not visually coordinated.

 

“You get me? How is that, Rodney? What changed your mind after all these years?”

 

I coughed lightly and cleared my throat, before answering in a subdued and honest tone.

 

“Because, Dad, I am tired.”

 

My remark caused him to look up from his monitor, with a measure of amusement. An expression of surprise passed as he noted that I was using two disability canes to stay upright, like his own.

 

“Tired you are? How do you mean?”

 

I had to clear my throat for a second time. Crafting an explanation off-the-cuff was more challenging than I expected.

 

“I don’t intend to suggest being tired of life, or creative pursuits, or the magic of existing. All those components continue to amaze me. They are gifts. I cherish them equally. But my body, my physical form. My mortal coil. My tortoise shell. It is fatigued and spent. I struggle to get out of bed in the morning. I struggle to make coffee. Often, I eat a plain breakfast, to avoid standing at the counter for too long. One piece of white bread, used to make what I call a ‘foldover sandwich.’ With ham or bologna inside, and some sliced cheese. Maybe a dollop of horseradish sauce, to provide extra flavor. I never describe this to anyone else of course, because they would probably burst into a fit of laughter. It hurts to get back to my chair.”

 

He smiled with understanding. My description was quite familiar.

 

“Yes, that is very likely, son. But your habits seem reasonable.”

 

I sighed heavily, with the realization that he had been gone for an extended period. I wanted to ask questions, and seek his advice. I often missed hearing his voice. But instead of wisely using my opportunity, I simply slouched against the door frame, and shook my head.

 

“This is what it’s like, right? To get older, and watch family members and friends pass away. That parade seems to continue unabated. No matter what kind of grief and introspection it brings. One after another, after another. And all I can do in response is to feel tired. I am tired, Dad. Not depressed, or sorrowful, or even lonely as I work at my own desk. But thoroughly and completely tired. Nothing comes easily anymore...”

 

My progenitor nodded and took off his reading glasses. He looked directly into my eyes.

 

“I’m glad to hear that you are staying busy. That is the goal, Rodney. To stay busy, like I did, right until the end. When you are tired, it means you’ve done something worthwhile. Keep going. Go until you can’t go anymore.”

 

I awakened just after six o’clock in the morning. My joints were aching. My bladder called out for relief. And I felt somewhat dizzy, sitting on the edge of my mattress. A momentary pause allowed me to realign my thoughts.

 

I was nearing the age of 65. He had been 88 on his deathbed. Yet both of us lived similar lives, though at differing points in the continuum. If nothing else, I reckoned that synchronicity would keep us together. On opposite sides of the eternal veil, yet still undeniably connected.

 

I was pleased that we had been able to chat, in my dream. And to confess finally understanding what it meant to be tired.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Fifteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

After Pyotr Sache had posted his updated content on the Southern Charms website, there was a lull in activity at the rural, trailer enclave. Then, a Facebook group set up for residents of the community exploded with comments about the outlandish video production. One in particular set the tone for an ongoing discussion about the anonymous instigator, and his possible identity, within the ranks of residents at Evergreen Estates.

 

“Is that dude the cocky, bald guy who lives on my street? WTF, he’s always picking on the poor lady from Russia. It looks like she got her revenge, in that clip, anyway. You go girl! When he’s done kissing your boots, he can kiss my ass!”

 

Oren Kronk had fit in well with the park population, in terms of his cultural preferences and political opinions, at least. But a quick fall from grace occurred, when many began to speculate that he must have initiated the scandal himself, through a work of AI mischief. Those who passed his boxcar home tooted their horns and chanted improvised jeers that sent him fleeing to a back room where he could shut the door and cover his ears. The cadence was like a Jerry Springer episode.

 

“KISS HER BOOT, DOG! KISS HER BOOT! KISS HER BOOT!”

 

For Townshend Lincoln, who had no involvement in the controversy, or online speculation about its creation, the shaming of his redneck neighbor was somewhat amusing. But he stayed in place on the front porch. Drinking and watching as other inhabitants paraded up and down their broken boulevard.

 

Finally, the brash bully appeared at their office by the maintenance garage. He pounded on the windowless door for attention, with a baseball bat, until Dana Alvarez called for him to enter.

 

“What, you can’t turn the knob like everybody else? Ayyyyyy! Don’t come here in a bad mood, I need to get things done. Not listen to bull mierda! Okay? What is your problem, caballero?”

 

Oren dragged his weapon on the floor. He had started to sweat, profusely.

 

“What’re y’all gonna do about this made-up foolishness on the damn computer? Somebody screwed with my picture, and put it on the internet! I’ll beat then senseless when I figure it out!”

 

Dana scratched her head, and lit a menthol cigarette.

 

“It ain’t you in the video, right? The thing is fake?”

 

Her tenant nodded angrily.

 

“THAT’S WHAT I SAID! SOMEBODY HERE IS MESSIN’ WITH ME! I’LL BUST ‘EM RIGHT IN THE FRIGGIN’ CHOPS!”

 

The ownership representative shrugged, and blew a stream of tobacco smoke in the air.

 

“Like, the woman is also not real, correcto? You don’t know nothing about her...”

 

The loudmouth troublemaker sputtered to give a coherent reply.

 

“Well no, dammit! I mean, some of the whores and dicks around here are blamin’ me, but they can’t prove a freakin’ thing! Screw ‘em! Screw ‘em all!”

 

Dana adjusted the red bandana tied around her hair.

 

“Right, okay, so what you want for me to do? You don’t know, I don’t know, that lady, she probably don’t know either. Somebody have their fun and you stand here complaining. I tell you this, pay your lot rent on time, and make no problem for me! Comprende? Let it go.”

 

Oren was unsatisfied with her admonition to deescalate the situation. On the way back to his own singlewide abode, he changed direction, and marched to the space where his Russian adversary was tending to her garden.

 

“HEY, FAT BITCH! ARE Y’ALL HAVIN’ A GOOD LAUGH ABOUT PEEOPLE SHITTIN’ ON ME? I HOPE YER DIGGIN’ IT! ‘CAUSE I’M ABOUT TO WRECK THIS EFFING SHACK. UNLESS YA GET OUTTA HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

 

Mockbina stripped off her earphones and frowned intently. She was covered in potting soil from the flower bed.

 

“You are cowboy, perhaps? I see you must talk beeg and put hands on hips. In my country we call this by word you cannot pronounce. It mean a weakling, with no backbone. I am not afraid, I think. Only do I laugh. Go home now, I must plant new seeds for my garden...”

 

Her unadmitted adversary narrowed his eyes, and lifted the baseball bat to his shoulder.

 

“HAVE A GOOD LAUGH, PRINCESS! WHEN I SWING THIS STICK, YER TEETH WILL BE FLYIN’ EVERYWHERE!”

 

From behind, the sound of a shotgun being readied to fire sounded, ominously. With a single, fluid motion, Oren spun on his heel. Then, dropped the bat and cowered, submissively. His reserve of righteous indignation had evaporated.

 

Lincoln carried the Ithaca Model 37 from his bedroom closet, in hand. He did not appear to be in an argumentative mood.

 

“Do ya remember our confrontation from a few weeks ago? I don’t waste any breath repeating myself, so here’s the one warning ya get. Step back from the brink, gambler! Leave this woman to tidy up her yard. And don’t come to this lot again. I’ve been in this junkyard fer damn near a quarter-century. Those are years I’ll never get back, it’s been like a prison sentence most of the time. But I’ve survived on my own. Just like this lady immigrant has survived. Just like Granny Maylene, Trina Trelane, Darby on the other side, and Garter Haines down the street have survived. Every one of us has found a way to make it work. Mine is staying on that bench over there, with a bottle of whiskey nearby. I can’t live in this dump and be sober! Just like I can’t listen to a jackass joker threaten this dame with bodily harm, when she’s done nothing to make his boxer shorts ride up! Yer a gawdamn fool, neighbor. A fool with lessons to learn about how ya ought to treat other people. Most importantly, a fool who has a lot to lose right now, when I pull this trigger! So spin the Roulette wheel, friend! I’m good one way or the other!”

 

Oren felt his knees go weak. There was a trickle of dampness in his blue jeans.

 

“You got balls, old man. I’ll give ya that. And they must be big tomatas!”

 

The drunken loner smiled with satisfaction. He was glad not to waste his ammunition on the rowdy provocateur.

 

“And you got none at all, brother. How about that?”

 

Mockbina returned to her chore without engaging in any conversation. Instead, she sang along with another track by Dolly Parton, via her cellphone app, while staying busy.

 

“Here come you, again

Just when I get together

You waltz in door

Like you do, before

My heart you wrap ‘round finger

Here come you, again

I make it work without you

You look at eyes that are mine

And tell lies so pretty

Then I wonder how I doubt

All you got to do is smile

And I have no defense

Leave it for a while

You mess up my mind

And here I go...”

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Fourteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

Being back at Evergreen Estates evoked a mood of conflict for Mockbina Petrovich. She was glad to have her personal space in the park restored. And, to be across the street from her cranky and cantankerous neighbor with the shaggy appearance. But uncertainty over having been exploited online, with the Southern Charms website as an unwitting accomplice, kept her feeling off-balance. She wanted to know who had been responsible for such an invasive and embarrassing act.

 

Townshend Lincoln was characteristically blase about the nefarious deed. He was more interested in seeing the flower bed brought back to life, in front pf her singlewide abode. A pleasant sight to ponder, while he was drinking.

 

“Ma’am, I reckon this whole community is full of rascals and malcontents. Ya never know who might have a score to settle. Though I’d guess not too many residents here have a lot of smarts about using a computer. Folks in this rathole are more likely to work with their hands, ya know? They build shit outta pallet wood, and remodel storage sheds for extra room by their boxcar houses. It’s all about survival here. Why anyone would screw with yer pictures is beyond me. Why anyone would believe it was yer fault in the first place is a damn mystery!”

 

The Russian immigrant signified her understanding. But could not shake the trepidation over being in an environment where so many questions lingered.

 

“I get you, Link. This is not a nice place, maybe. But it is cheap as you say. For now, I can live and keep my job...”

 

The old hermit raised his whiskey glass.

 

“I’d like to hammer on of whoever did ya dirty, ma’am. But to tell it true, there’s a lot of stuff that pisses me off in this dump. I couldn’t even count all the things that chap my ass, I would run out of fingers and toes! Sometimes, I want to burn my hovel to the ground...”

 

Mockbina giggled to herself. His misuse of language was oddly appealing.

 

“America I will not understand. You are unhappy, but you live here still? This has me shaking head. You are stuck, maybe? Now I also am stuck. But at least, I have company.”

 

The foreign femme excused herself to get settled in once again at her own lot. But before she could unlock the tan-and-brown residence, a chirping ring sounded from her cellular device. Pyotr Sache, her young cousin, was calling to suggest an unconventional remedy for the episode of harassment. One that might raise eyebrows around the rural property, but was certain to elicit some kind of immediate response.

 

“Mocky, I’ve tried everything to locate the source for that online content. Creators and their submissions are protected by the website, which must be because of their adult nature. I suppose it goes with the territory. All I can detect is that some kind of VPN was activated to conceal the user. But you know, this is a different country from where we both were born. They call it the ‘wild west’ here. America has a cowboy mentality. They like to get rowdy sometimes. And get their justice outside of a courtroom, when it is necessary!”

 

His relation did not understand. She stood in the barred doorway, and confessed her doubt.

 

“I do not get you, as they say here. You mean what? I must hear to explain...”

 

The youthful prodigy whistled over their wireless connection. He felt reluctant to suggest what was on his mind. Yet eager to resolve the situation.

 

“I got the website to allow me access. So, I can just delete the stolen content. But listen, I think there’s a better way to solve your riddle. You talked about a redneck guy who always stirs up trouble? One who constantly gives you grief? I’d say he must be suspect number one. Now, I can’t prove anything, but if you agree, then I can use the same Artificial Intelligence programs to rattle his cage. Or, the one of whoever else is out there with bad intentions. Let me snoop around a little bit, and you might be surprised what we discover!”

 

Pyotr had top-level skills despite being a gangly, innocent geek. He wanted desperately to help.

 

Again, the Southern Charms platform resounded with salacious content. Before long, new gossip had begun to percolate all around their isolated property.

 

“I am back, I am back! Alexandra Ulre, your Communist mistress! Come to me now for much pleasure and fun! See as I romp with soldiers who fight in the patriotic war! See as I ride on their tanks with the beeg guns, wery beeg and hard! Long, beeg, and wery hard! I promise you good time!”

 

A new video, generated by this technology of deception, appeared on the faux performer’s page. It depicted the dominant female, whipping a captured trooper who wore apparel patterned in colors of the old, Confederate battle flag.

 

“American dog! Kneel before me, now! I give you bone to chew, if you behave! Your truck I will drive around, with you tied up, in back! This is how prisoner get treated in war! In Russia we know how to keep dog in place! Kiss my boot now, like good boy! This you do not to get whipping. Or maybe, you like the whip to get?”

 

 A bald, muscular redneck struggled on his knees, as the camera zoomed in, dramatically.

 

“Please Ms. Comrade, give me mercy! Mercy for me! Mercy!”

 

The foreign commander stomped her foe with a stiletto heel. Then, raised the whip before passing her judgment.

 

“Mercy you say? What is this word, dog? I do not know what it mean. Mercy? In Russia, we have no mercy. We have prisoner, and must punish when bad. This is what we have for dog! Kiss my boot and behave! You will wear collar and be put on chain!”

 

When Lincoln viewed the fake segment on his phone, it made him spit a mouthful of beer in the air. Foam dribbled from his beard. Residue dripped down the glass panes of his storm door, across from the bench.

 

“GAWDAMN, LADY! GAWDAMN! WHAT THE HOLY HELL IS THAT? ARE YA JUST PLUMB CRAZY, OR WHAT?”

 

 

 

 

Mermaid & Walrus Revisited: “Growing Old”

  

C. 2026 Cheryl Keller, Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

Note to Readers: Cheryl Keller is a local writer who sometimes offers content for this site. We have known each other since the middle 1980s.

 

She Said…

 

There is a certain amount of fear that surrounds the inevitable reality of growing old. A fear of reaching the end, a fear of the unknown…of dying. I think for some, too much time is spent in that fear - to a point where it clouds their present or redirects the way they live. For others, the view is much more positive, hopeful. The possibility of seeing loved ones again, of living pain and worry free is joyous and full of faith.

 

For this mermaid, it is a bit of both. There is absolute hope in the thought that loved ones will be there to greet me - those I have missed so dearly, and the thought of my aches, pain and stress being lifted is of course, wonderful. But I will say that there is sadness as well for the ones I will leave behind and not be able to see, talk to, or take in my arms. As I grow older these discussions in my head tend to get louder like the pink elephant in the room that demands my attention.

 

Now, I hope that I am able to live for many more years, but I do, on occasion, when I let my mind go there, harbor some anxiety as each year passes. For me, the fear of the mind being clear and active while being forced to quietly watch the physical body decline over time like a weed that has been sprayed with Round-Up, can be a bit frightening. I have this conversation with myself, telling myself that I’d rather just go quick - bring on the widow maker heart attack or dementia so bad that I don’t have a clue what is going on with my body and spare me the frustration of being trapped in a body that cannot do as I demand.

 

On the flip side, or as my husband likes to say “cup half full” side, as we age, sometimes our situations are better in life; hence the term the “Golden Years”. A lot of people are in a better financial position. They are well established in their careers having moved up the ladder and look back at earlier struggles with a sense of pride that they grew and were able to trade penny pinching for security. And for some, retirement age brings less stress, and the freedom of time returning to allow for more meaningful relationship building with friends and family, and of course finding time for fun, however you define that.

 

Being over 50 myself, no I will not say how much over 50 so don’t ask! I find myself stuck between a few of these schools of thought. As for health, it’s not exactly where I’d like it to be, but it is a battle in progress with mind and determination on one side and a tired, overworked body on the other. As for finances, those are much better, however it only leads into a different anxiety driven conversation - do I have enough to retire? How to leave a career 30 years in the making, walk away from the growth I have worked so hard on into another unknown, am I ready for the next adventure? But, that is a topic in and of its own for another time.

 

So, what fears do you have when thinking about the inevitability of aging? Is there more fear than hope and excitement? Or perhaps, like me, there is a little of both? Either way, it happens to the best of us, well, really all of us, so maybe that’s the answer…why waste precious time on worry and fear when there is nothing stopping this train? Maybe the answer is as simple as enjoying the time you are given and whatever happens, is meant to be.

-----------------------

 

He Said...

 

My friend met in yonder days seems to have a particular skill for hitting the target with her own writing projects. They often resonate with me personally, as if we had discussed the subject material beforehand, which is generally not the case. Her most recent idea to revive this past series meets that standard with surprising effectiveness. Because I have also been pondering the march of time in my own terms. And making an attempt to center myself on its eventual conclusion in silent repose.

 

A few days ago, while enjoying adult refreshments on my front porch in Thompson Township, I posted a somewhat cryptic and introspective message on the Facebook site. Though offered without too much prior analysis or consideration, it soon produced several reactions that ranged from befuddlement, to worry, to expressions of friendship and human empathy. I probably should have taken more care in committing this public act. Yet in such moments, fortified with a cold brew, that is rarely ever the case.

 

“I am at the end. Body is failing, opportunities are few, allies have disappeared. But my craft continues. This is the best of times, and the worst. So be it, a blessing in disguise is no less worthy.”

 

To be sure, my health is not out-of-line for someone of a similar age and with a genetic profile sired by Appalachian heritage. I have seen many of the same afflictions which currently dog me throughout every day, in others of my brood. Arthritis, a tilt toward diabetes, poor vision, fatigue, and a general, low-grade depression that I believe must affect most creative souls generally. Unlike my talented and able friend, I have been off the grid, in employment terms, for almost a decade. Though in retirement, I have stayed busy as a content creator. Indeed, the separation from a regular work routine has made it possible to engage my labor of love more directly than ever before. It is a gift that I cherish.

 

Another post made on social media in the last week or so centered on my fandom for Hunter S. Thompson. As a wordsmith, he was rebellious, provocative, and for me at least, highly inspirational. But his exit from the mortal realm left me perplexed. I have never been comfortable with the idea that he perished by his own hand. It seems oddly improper for someone who faced so many challenging situations without any fear of harm or reprisal.

 

“HST has always been a personal hero. And also, a great disappointment. Because when his body became frail, he decided to end the journey. That is not a choice I would ever make. Let me keep writing until the very end.”

 

As my counterpart expresses in her own manuscript, thinking about the passage of years is an inevitable component of life itself. One must be fashioned from iron or steel to remain unaffected by the length and scope of this earthly adventure. Viewed with hindsight, which is said to always be 20/20, the road left in our wake is still, quite often, both memorable and educational. While I would have no particular interest in visiting chapters of my journey that have already been scribbled out and submitted for review, I do revere their value, from my present position.

 

To have better mobility, stamina, and mental skills might be wonderful in a certain sense. But all of these elements comprise the self which now sits on sunny days, outside at my wooden bench. Where neighbors pass, pets arrive for treats, and nature takes its course. While I am free to imagine subconsciously, flights of fancy that will eventually yield some sort of useful, literary output.

 

The Mermaid asks in her poignant query, “What fears do you have?” I can think of only one.

 

To be breathing and buoyed by a pulse, without having my keyboard, or cellular device, nearby. That would be a kind of terminal fate I could not envision, or embrace, by continuing to open my eyes.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Immigrant” (Part Thirteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-26)

 

 

At the St. Theodosius cathedral in Cleveland, Mockbina Petrovich lit a candle, crossed herself, and then knelt to pray. She was alone by the sanctuary, which needed to be restored after a tragic fire. This allowed the Russian immigrant to focus her mind on a pressing need that now occupied all of her waking thoughts, and the netherworld of slumber that awaited, when in her bed.

 

“God, I am to pray here. America is a land that is free, I was told. But for me, not so free at all. I must be free of this gossip. Whoever stole pictures and made me bad. I pray to be free of them. My heart is in pain. I must hide until you fix. Please fix this now. Make my family believe that I am not that ugly person, on computer and phone. Hear my prayer, God. Hear me and bless...”

 

In any setting, rumors and wild speculation may travel rapidly, from mouth to ear. But at Evergreen Estates, an environment isolated from the mainstream and limited in scope, that sort of gossip found it easy to travel. At a velocity enhanced by doubt and ignorance.

 

As the young foreigner was offering this sacred petition, a member of her brood appeared in the doorway. Pyotr Sache was barely 19, and looked gangly with oversized spectacles, and spiky hair. Yet his intellect had grown out of proportion to any chronological age. He had been able to intensely study modern technologies, by virtue of coming to the new world as an infant. Now, friends and relatives called him a nerd and an egghead. But his knowledge benefitted everyone.

 

After gently embracing his older kin, he whispered a positive message of hope.

 

“Cuz, I know you’re upset about the internet site. But listen to what I discovered. Whoever uploaded that material was sloppy and careless. It isn’t hard to tell how fake those images are. A few individuals might believe they came from your IP address, but it’s a ruse. They used a free VPN to hide their location. But there is context in the posts. The hacker would have to be someone you know personally. Maybe a member of the park Facebook group, for example. It’s not difficult to pilfer photos and manipulate them. The safety protocols are outdated. Things are evolving so quickly, that the network providers can’t keep up!”

 

Mockbina hugged her skinny relation lovingly. Then, quizzed him about taking her grievance to the authorities.

 

“What about the court, they help me maybe? A judge give help? I must make my name clean again...”

 

Pyotr frowned and sighed heavily.

 

“Our law here in America is slow in dealing with these crimes. They don’t understand everything yet. Artificial Intelligence is very new, for most people. I am not sure you could change this, beyond getting the website to delete the submissions they received. That’d be a start, of course. But it wouldn’t stop people from talking!”

 

His female cousin had tears in her eyes. Her rotund face sagged with despair.

 

“Yes, it is talk I am afraid for. They all talk and talk and talk! That is why I leave the trailer. I can live there in the country, no more. If I stay, I must be shamed. I think that this land will show me opportunity. Not make me afraid. This I do not like!”

 

Her familial connection was strong. But not durable enough to survive the scorn of being branded a sinner.

 

With a smile, the young geek whispered again.

 

“It’s all trash, Mocky! They must know it. You shouldn’t worry so much! But I think whoever is guilty here still lives at that community in the pines. They are out in plain sight. I can keep hunting with my cyber tools, and I will, believe me! But the best way to figure things out is to be present in that group. Don’t run away from the challenge. Show them your fighting spirit. Prove to them that you’ve got a backbone! Make them respect our heritage. We work hard to better ourselves. You have worked hard! Don’t run to the shadows like a scared mouse.”

 

Mockbina stiffened upon hearing the admonition to stay vigilant. Her heart ached to see the old drunk in Geauga County, again. And, the bed of flowers she had been cultivating in anticipation of a bountiful spring season.

 

“My friend the shaggy fellow, he did not get told goodbye. I must move wery fast on that day. I do not tell him why I go. But he must know, I think. I miss to see him drink on his bench. He make me laugh, I do not laugh now, much. I need to laugh again...”

 

Pyotr owned a Fiat 500 that was incredibly fuel-efficient. But not roomy enough to hold many possessions.

 

“I’ll drive you back to the park, Mocky! Go meet with the manager at her office. I’ll bet they’d be glad to have you return as a resident. Housing is too expensive here in the metropolitan area. And you already had a job. I think you can put your life back together. You’ve been through things that were much worse, in the old country!”

 

His cousin nodded in agreement. She knew that he was making good sense.

 

“Yes I have done. A lot of heartache. I don’t need heartache, no more. I want to see my friend across the street. I want to tend my garden, yes? I want to sing like the birds do. And like heel-billy Dolly Parton...”

 

The trek from Lake Erie to eastern Geauga elapsed quickly enough. But by the time they arrived, cloudy skies overhead had darkened the region. The muddy soil was soaked, and messy. Residents of the mobile village were absent from their yards. But at Lot 13, a familiar clattering of whiskey bottles, beer cans, and belching, was audible.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln had zipped up his camouflage hoodie, in an attempt to stay dry. He was very inebriated, and tipsy. His vision had degraded with each round of liquor, until the point of functional blindness.

 

Mockbina rolled down the passenger window, and shouted as they passed the narrow space across from her own.

 

“Old man! You are red like ripe tomato! I think you have much drink already. This is what I expect. Will you now have a glass with me? I am home, my cousin bring me here. How you say, I miss the dump. This place is a dump! But also, it is home...”

 

The alcoholic loner pumped his fist in the air. A dribble of brew foam dripped from his gray beard. His pulse began to thump, forcefully.

 

“YA GOT THAT RIGHT, MA’AM! YES IT FREAKING IS! YES IT FREAKING IS!”