Mermaid & Walrus Revisited: “Old Dogs”

  

c. 2026 Cheryl Keller, Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

Mermaid Opinion:

 

They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks - or something like that.  Boy, “they” always seem to have quite a lot of insight into, well, just about everything.  I’m not sure “they” have all the infinite wisdom “they” claim to have, but those sayings at times can hit pretty close to home.  As I get older and work my way towards the end of my career, I can see some truth in those words “they” say about age, but I think it has more to do with the “new tricks” than the “old dog”.

 

I am a firm believer in, and staunch advocate for, experience over book smarts.  You can have multiple degrees neatly hanging on the walls of your office in those distinguished black document frames, and still be lost in the building.  It’s good to have the outline to the paper with those accolades, but the body paragraphs can’t be filled in and developed without putting time in and getting your hands dirty.  I know I sound as if I am not a fan of higher education, and that couldn’t be further from the truth.  If someone is fortunate enough to be able to have that as a life option, knowledge is never wasted and college can give people that jumpstart needed, as well as some tools that will definitely help once they enter the workforce.

 

But, when it comes to being successful at work, time is what you need.  Time to learn, time to grow and ultimately, time to thrive.  Developing competency with on-the-job training is essential to success.  Learning how to adapt overall skill sets to the task at hand; the industry at hand does not always come easy for everyone.  Book learning and lecture hall learning does not always prepare people, nor help them when they land their dream job.  Being able to utilize that knowledge and make it work for you in a working environment is key, and it is critical knowing that walking into that new workplace, diploma in hand, is only half the battle.  That other half, if not more, is what you learn boots on the ground.  And that is where your veteran employees come into play - aka, the “old dogs”.

 

Smart new employees know who to cozy up to during their training or probationary period.  Even if their HR department is exceptional and their training is scheduled and mapped out in detail for them, learning which coworkers have the experience and the historical insights should be number one on their to-do list.  Those “old dogs” are going to have that organizational knowledge that isn’t captured in any company policy, process or procedure.  Companies tend to do a poor job at documenting that information floating around in the heads of their long-term employees that can be so beneficial to have once they are long gone.  Unfortunately, they figure out what they are missing when they need it the most.

 

As an “old dog” myself, having my career surpass 30 years at the same company (I still can’t believe that), I have quite a bit of knowledge filed away between my ears that isn’t documented anywhere and it has its own system of retrieval.  Sometimes retrieval is quick and easy and other times not so much; and sometimes that ease and speed depends on who’s asking; insert growl here.  As the years have passed, and my experience has grown, I have often been challenged with learning new tasks or adding to my perpetual plate.  Sometimes it was undertaken with excitement and other times it came frustratingly without choice.  Or as a co-worker once called it, I was “voluntold” for the new assignment or responsibility.  Never once though did I feel as if I was incapable of learning the “new trick”, but there were absolutely times where I felt that I didn’t want it.  So, to speak to “they” who say “you can’t teach an old dog new tricks...” I think it’s important to recognize the assumption in that statement, because it may just be that Fido doesn’t need nor want to learn the new trick.  He could simply just be content with where he is. 

 

Woof, Woof!

 

Walrus Response:

 

My aquatic cohort has a particular knack for hitting every target dead-center. And she has done so here, once again, as someone with a wealth of business experience. I must confess to being slightly envious of her run with a single employer for such an extended period, as someone who labored for five different commercial chains, in addition to three newspapers and one national magazine. I cannot imagine the clarity and sense of purpose generated by serving in an institution to the point of literally becoming a fixture, and a valued point of reference. It causes me to cheer over her intellectual prowess, and endurance.

 

But to the issue at hand, I do agree with her two-part proposition.

 

First, as an unenrolled seeker, wandering around Cornell University and interacting with those were better attuned to the process of receiving a formal education, I witnessed the disparity between those earning a veritable wall hanger, and those who actually grew from spending time in a classroom environment. Some simply seemed to desire having a badge of honor to pin on their chests. And the result was little more than a smarmy amount of arrogance. While others blossomed from the fertile loam of higher learning. In the end, I reckoned that it all came down to the sort of person they had been before any induction into the student body. A human head can be dutifully crammed with facts and figures, but the heart is harder to influence. Therefore, some remain stuck in a doom-loop of irrelevance, even after being granted an opportunity to soar beyond the horizon.

 

I would take someone with a strong work ethic over any pretender with a sheaf of newly-minted degrees.

 

Second, as Mermaid rightly points out, it is quite often an old dog who accepts extra tasks and responsibilities within any organization. I have heard some observe, ‘Give a busy person something to do, and it will get done!’ This mantra might seem counterintuitive at first, but bears up well under careful consideration.

 

Those who are unwilling to push limits are in the end, often unwilling to better themselves, and their company.

 

As an example, I recall meeting a fellow during my television apprenticeship, who had earned a degree in communications from a crosstown school in my part of New York State, Ithaca College. Yet instead of finding employment in his field, and earning an income from those acquired skills, he instead was an applicant for welfare assistance. That conflict puzzled me as a young teenager. I pondered what he lacked to have fallen into destitution, and despair.

 

In another instance, during my career as a salaried retail manager, I visited the Painesville location of our parent chain. There, during a lunch break with other participants in training, I met a woman in charge of their Health & Beauty department. She spoke about receiving graduates from a notable business program in Pittsburgh, who were immediately promoted to supervisory positions, and sent to various locations like her own. But the rub was in their complete lack of real-world experience. Union clerks with a meager amount of educational accolades had to guide these naïve candidates with care and understanding.

 

These old dogs proved their worth, despite being overlooked from the beginning.

 

My worry, in those yonder days, and now as I reflect on what my friend has written here, is over the inevitable cycle of hiring and retirement. As those veterans exit with their gold watches and wishes of good cheer, who will take over? Who will carry the torch for future generations? Who will continue the quest for excellence and achievement?

 

That is a query I could not answer, when still in the workforce. And I have no better insight, as a retired fellow tapping away at my keyboard.

 

Nothing To See Here: “Mirror Man”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

“I wasn’t a misanthrope and I wasn’t a misogynist but I liked being alone. It felt good to sit in a small space and smoke and drink. I had always been good company for myself.” – Charles Bukowski

 

Sitting on my front porch with a cool, alcoholic beverage always seems to be a mixed experience. One that highlights characteristics of myself that might be more tolerable, if hidden by the anonymity of a crowd environment. I sometimes liken it to standing in front of a bathroom mirror, because being situated directly across from the storm door at my home entrance means beholding a familiar reflection in the glass. One of a fellow bent and stumbling along, with physical infirmities and persistent mental lapses into creative fantasy.

 

Regardless of the situation, this reflective pane tells all.

 

While on my wooden bench, sipping brew and squinting at a cellular screen, I often ponder that others at surrounding lots in our neighborhood must not possess a similar reflective frame in which to observe themselves. Because their words and deeds predictably fail to match with a chronological record on file, at the back nexus of my brain. Such disparities can be puzzling at first to encounter, but only grow more confounding and perplexing over time.

 

Finally, when in a pleasant cocoon of inebriation, those truths speak loudly. And I nod at their relevance.

 

Was I told that an agitator down the street had been pilfering monies supposedly saved for a charitable organization? The charge reddened my face when made, because it was vocalized from someone close enough to be aware of literal facts. Yet soon afterward, I saw the same individual sharing refreshments and music with the one who had been charged as a sinner. Later, favors were bestowed. Yard work and light construction on their rented property. Did this indicate a lack of concern over character or integrity? Or had the initial accusation been carelessly tossed out, with no corroboration?

 

I could not be sure. But after enough rounds of hops and grains, it did not matter.

 

On another occasion, I was told about a stimulus benefit that brought surplus funds into the household. Used for the purpose of expanding the occupied dwelling with an outdoor annex. I reckoned it was a chance opportunity to be enriched and benefit accordingly. A literal roll of the dice, with wonderous results. Not something that anyone could criticize, for its nature alone. Yet once again, in later months and years, the story morphed into a plea for an updated recollection. Instead of a lottery win via government action, the tale became one of hard work, savings, and sacrifice. Both accounts were not able to coexist, easily.

 

Had my memory failed me, I wondered? It was impossible not to doubt myself, just a little.

 

But when I looked into the mirror, my own image remained constant. A mile-marker that indicated how long and far I had traveled from my origin point. It did not shade the visual clues with any rosy perception of generous fiction. Instead, the harsh light of introspection stayed true to form. So I had to think that my memory did not tell lies.

 

That shock of authenticity put me off, while drinking. Moreover, it meant that despite struggling to see what awaited on my phone display, I began to send queries into the vastness of cyberspace. Messages that were perhaps ill-advised in view of my compromised consciousness, but still worthwhile and just.

 

“I remember that you once said this... and now you are out in public, doing the opposite. Doesn’t that reveal a conflict, either in your supposed timeline, or your veracity? Meanwhile, remember how we argued over a new contact here for residents, and you now stand as an advocate for the one you used to despise? What does that mean to me as a bystander? And to them, as a giver of trust?”

 

The reaction was not hard to gauge.

 

“No, no, no, no! You got it wrong, mister! You got it all wrong! Very, very wrong!”

 

Some of this verbal chatter was lost in translation via electronic means, I admit. And the balance became diminished through a progression of beverage cans, emptied and crushed.

 

“Two-four-six-eight. Now I am in a sorry state! Nine, ten, eleven, they say that there is no beer in heaven!”

 

Some sort of sober analysis might have straightened out my befuddlement over shifting tales and conflicted claims. Yet I did not have the capacity, at that moment to fret about details, or pass judgement. Still, upon returning to the mirror, my own aura of truth continued to resonate. I was shaggy and gray, ungroomed, unwashed, and pockmarked by aging. This sharper image made me turn again to questioning those in my immediate environment.

 

Didn’t they receive the same sort of epiphany when peering deeply into the looking glass, at their own persona? With a chime of cathedral bells in the distance, calling out to be heard and believed?

 

Having stuffed my orange, safety vest with cold cans of refreshment, I returned to the porch. Then, streamed a familiar dance tune from yonder days. It had been playing in my head throughout this dubious experience. An artifact written by Ian Burden, Jo Callis, and Philip Oakley. The Human League had included it on one of their releases in the early 1980s.

 

“The water shines

A pebble skips across the face

A dozen times

Then disappears, not a trace

Left behind

The thrower turns and walks away

A change of mind

Another start, a brand-new day

 

You know I’ll change

If change is what you require

Your every wish

Your every dream, hope, desire

 

Here comes the mirror man

Says he’s a people fan

Here comes the mirror man...”

 

By that hour, I had enough alcohol flowing through my bloodstream that it was easier to accept this lyrical admonition. As the messaging flow abated, and I fell into silent repose, this lone tangent struck the target. For myself, the mirror had a chilling effect of sorts, putting my own faults and failings on display as they existed. But possibly, for those mainstream inhabitants to the east and west along my street, that portal had a different power. One that allowed them to change their beliefs and preferences freely, as the mood demanded.

 

A fog of brewer’s magic brought me understanding. Ultimately, what I had been seeking under the cover of a self-imposed distraction.

 

Alternative facts, the bane of many, were now in effect at my rural outpost in the pines. Up was down, down was up, while left and right exchanged their usual orientation. And there was no longer a distinction between obfuscation and studious research.

 

Therefore, I had only one mission left on my agenda. To continue getting drunk.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Going Down Slow”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26

 

 

A recent hospital visit to check for signs of intestinal cancer put me in a sober state that seemed to linger for several days afterward. Not because I feared that the Grim Reaper was about to claim another mortal life from my bloodline, but simply as a matter of perspective. I had come upon the precipice of 65 with a measure of disability in effect, yet still felt very able to create material such as the text included on this page. A genuine offering of ruminations written with the knowledge that my product might well become invisible to the naked eye, upon being posted in cyberspace. As ever, I remained aware that the true worth of creativity is measured in doing, not in any recognition or praise bestowed after the fact.

 

“L’art pour l’art as said by the French– making art for art’s sake.”

 

But certain queries that met my ears during this medical experience offered a sharpened focus on the value of being alive, and mindful of that gift’s fragility as it tarnishes over time.

 

Before being put under anesthesia, I was poked and prodded by nursing professionals who handled their chores with care and concern. I expected to feel a probative pricking of needles, while being monitored and assessed. And to be questioned about my identity, purpose for visiting, and other relevant details in an effort to confirm full awareness of the situation. But when asked about my own mental disposition, this general calm was stirred by moments of sheer introspection and irony.

 

A young aide with a clipboard approached my bed and smiled through her checklist with a dutiful sense of detachment.

 

“Are you in pain on a regular basis, Mr. Rodney? Do you ingest OTC or prescription medications to handle that problem?”

I had to grin as my debilitated status was quite obvious.

 

“Yeah, my old bones ache, though it’s nothing out of the ordinary for someone at the point of retirement. And I almost never pop pills for a purpose of numbing the hurt...”

 

Her quiz proceeded with a deeper investigation into personal details.

 

“Are you a consumer of alcohol? Like wine, whiskey, or something else?”

 

I answered in the affirmative, so as not to be struck by lightning for having lied boldly in the presence of my doctors and Almighty God.

 

“Yes, I like to drink beer on my porch in the afternoon...”

 

The clerical steward continued checking off entries with her pen, while listening.

 

“Are you a consumer of recreational drugs?”

 

I reacted more quickly to this particular inquisition. My response was in the negative.

 

“No, not at all. As a matter of fact, on a recent day at home, one of my neighbors offered to share his stash of CBD gummies while I was sipping a round of Miller Lite. His proposition surprised me to the point of exhaling loudly, shaking my head, and declining in a polite manner. I could not be certain of his substances, or their origin, at any rate. And wondered a bit over his ability to procure such concoctions, despite struggling to pay monthly rent in our rural community. But it did not matter. As a general rule, I preferred to stay with a gentle regimen of hops and grains, instead...”

 

She was amused by this brief recollection. But persisted in finishing her paperwork.

 

“Are you plagued by thoughts of self-harm, or harming others, Mr. Rodney?”

 

I had to gasp just a little, before regaining my composure. Some might observe that a lifestyle centered on eating fried okra, potatoes, sausage, and bologna, paired with cornbread, or biscuits and gravy, might indicate a certain lack of attention to longevity. Yet I never viewed such habits as being harmful, at least in the short term. With regard to lashing out at others, I had been moved on occasion to ponder swinging one of my stability canes at neighbors who were not sufficiently respectful enough to avoid piercing the bubble of my personal space, on a quest to vent their unwelcome opinions. But a natural amount of self-restraint always kept me from engaging in physical aggression, and having to be taken away to jail.

 

“No to both of those. I am content to be quiet and alone, with my work or relaxation.”

 

The perky assistant made a broad swipe with her writing instrument, and then concluded the bedside interview.

 

“So, how do you feel about having this procedure today?”

 

I did not hesitate to answer honestly. Though my face must have reddened while thinking.

 

“Prepping for this exam is not a happy experience, of course. But I would choose it easily over what I saw my late father endure. He ended up with recurring issues, a colostomy, and a limited quality of life. None of that was pleasant to witness. I’ll stay with cold brews on my wooden bench, and an occasional handful of pork rinds...”

 

The facial expression of my taskmaster was mixed, after I had finished. She might have been wondering about my Appalachian habits, or shaggy appearance, as clues to unspoken truths. Or maybe, was just entertained to see a graybeard fellow like myself, lounging in an ill-fitting, hospital gown, while reflecting on living out a simple routine in the country. Whatever motivation was at work kept her in a cheerful mood.

 

“Very good, Mr. Rodney. The care team will be with you, shortly!”

 

I tend to have music running through my head on a regular basis. A trait closely associated with the brood into which I was born. So, while stretched out under the bedsheet, I wandered into a reflective spin of St. Louis Jimmy Oden, and his classic, Blues composition from 1941.

 

“I have had my fun

If I don’t get well, no more

I have had my fun

If I don’t get well no more

My health is failin’ me

And I’m goin’ down slow

 

Please write my mother

Tell her the shape I’m in

Please write my mother

Tell her the shape I’m in

Tell her to pray for me

Forgiveness of my sin

 

Tell her, ‘Don’t send no doctor’

Doctor can’t do no good

Tell her, ‘Don’t send no doctor’

Doctor can’t do no good

It’s all my fault

Didn’t do the things that I should

 

On the next train south

Look for my close home

On the next train south

Look for my close home

If you don’t see my body

All you can do is moan

 

Mother, please don’t worry

This is all in my prayer

Mother, please don’t worry

This is all in my prayer

Just say your son is gone

Out of this world somewhere.”

 

My own downward spiral was very much in effect, though made more comfortable by a discipline of creative minimalism. Like my departed sire, I only wanted to be well enough for laboring at the household desk, and occasional interaction with those in my isolated community. Anything else was a bonus I did not seek or expect.

 

A slow ride to oblivion, unhurried and gradual, was the prize I sought every day. Literally, ‘Going down slow.’

Geneva Go Round – “Guilty Gut Check”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Five years, gone...

 

My second colonoscopy happened at Geauga Hospital, a familiar venue in a convenient location. A health depot situated in Geauga County, which is not far from the Cleveland metropolitan area. Yet removed by a sufficient distance that its characteristics were different in many ways deemed to be attractive for residents moving out in search of an escape from urban congestion. My sister and brother-in-law both provided support. Meanwhile, I reckoned that those in our brood who had already passed on were watching prayerfully, from their vantage point in eternity. Doctors and nurses worked their magic with great skill. The actual experience, as expected, was mostly in preparation for this scope of the hindquarters. All prep, and very little needful work done on the laboratory bed.

 

At that spot in my personal timeline, I was able to receive a positive diagnosis, despite a family history of intestinal cancer. And, won the right to go 60 months until my next gut check. A reward for which I was very grateful. The respite was for so long a period that I figured it would span the ages, chronologically. But as with my life routine in retirement, everything seemed to progress at a rapid pace not yoked to the march of literal time.

 

My sister passed away in October of the previous year. My brother-in-law battled with senile dementia, and finally landed in a local nursing home. As these events transpired, I slid deeper into disability, while still maintaining a fighting spirit and upbeat attitude. Eventually, only my niece was available to handle family needs, face-to-face. I did my best to avoid adding to her burden as the new hub of our group.

 

When my general physician spoke about the anniversary of this important procedure arriving, it did not come as a surprise. I had felt the date creeping up from behind, ominously. Chilling me with a sense of dread and anxious anticipation. Meekly, I listened to her appeal that the exam be scheduled immediately. And I agreed to have the procedure occur at a different facility, believing that an Uber or Lyft vehicle would be needed to get me there and back home again. My doctor had relocated her office to the city of Geneva, a place where my own career as a retail business manager concluded in 2016. So, I was not unfamiliar with their care center.

 

I got a confirmation notice via the MyChart app on my cell phone.

 

One roadblock to this test developed however, when I read their guidelines for visiting the team. A demand that some person who was related, or friendly enough to be dependable, was present on the day things happened. This scuttled my plan of action, and caused some concern. Briefly, I thought about driving myself to the hospital, and surrendering the keys to my car. With a caveat that I would wait patiently until given a sign of ‘all clear’ by one of the representatives that were on duty.

 

That impulse proved to be unworkable, of course.

 

In the interim, my niece volunteered to play the role of chauffeur. A task that made me feel guilty, and yet comforted in the balance. It was the proper arrangement for what needed to be done. Therefore, I did not argue too much. Because the colon-check had already been scheduled, I let the details stand as they were with no alterations. Still, an additional measure of shame arrived when I realized that it was her 40^th birthday.

 

I had reached the zero hour. There was no time to linger in regrets.

 

When the countdown period arrived, and dietary options became restricted, I found myself unconsciously perusing food reviews online. Each one caused me to sigh and salivate. A cheerful, curious woman who custom-ordered a bucket of Chicken McNuggets with 100 pieces. Another female critic who compared burgers available from competing chains. Recipe queens, amateur cookers, and shaggy, backwoods chefs in denim overalls. All of these creative views kept me on the edge of my bench, at the front porch.

 

When the final 24 hours arrived, only clear liquids were proscribed. I chafed at ingesting water and sports drinks before the SuTab prep pills. And finally surrendered to temptation. Against the advice included with my messages on the University Hospitals app, I hammered several rounds of Miller Lite in a blissful moment of sin and disobedience.

 

Once I began the final steps to prepare my innards, things settled down a bit. Somehow, I was able to sleep approximately four hours, in between doses.

 

Limited mobility has kept me close to home in recent years. So, the trip to Geneva was accomplished with a bit of difficulty getting in and out of my niece’s Subaru crossover. Then, similar woes manifested themselves as I struggled inside, rode an elevator to the second floor, and got to a bed that was waiting. Every move, every transition, every roll and turn, and twist had me slightly off balance. I noted with irony and amusement that a wristband bearing the imprint of ‘falls risk’ had been put on my left arm.

 

Those who took care of my needs were predictably kind and professional. The setting at Geneva UH was friendly and conducive to healing. I liked the intimacy of their setup. Having a more limited footprint seemed to evoke a sense of familial charm.

 

While in the room where my procedure was about to take place, I asked if the doctor or her staff had ever seen a ‘King of the Hill’ episode which referenced father Hank having a gut check of his own. My query must have confused them at first, because a moment of silence elapsed, before laughter resounded over the beeping and buzzing of analytical machinery.

 

A mindful member of the care team responded eventually, by saying that a ‘Full House’ installment had once featured actor Bob Saget undergoing such an exam, on camera.

 

That was the last thing I remembered. The anesthetic took hold as I wandered into oblivion.

 

Upon returning home, I felt groggy but grateful. Navigating my access ramp proved to be a chore. I had exhausted the muscular ability of my legs to remain useful. A plop in my desk chair followed, with a lazy interlude of snoring soon in effect.

 

Internet service had been interrupted by a bluster of Mother Nature’s wrath, while I prepped for the colon scope. Now, my computer monitor remained blank. Yet it did not matter too much, as I continued to teeter on the precipice of slumber.

 

Hank Hill beckoned from the other side of a cartoon veil.

 

“Y’all shut them eyes, son! It’s time ta get some sleep!”

 

 

Nothing To See Here: “Red Wine Ouija” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

The appearance of Jordan Psenka was real enough to be shocking. Yet didn’t quite add up, chronologically. If he had been dead for a century, and employed at a store on our township square before the closed IGA that a few older neighbors remembered from the 1940s, then his connection to me and the lot where my prefab home sits could not be confirmed. The residence park wouldn’t have existed in his time. Therefore, this ghostly claim of being pushed off his spot, at home and at work, seemed illogical.

 

But Mercy Goodrich-Tait only intensified her spiritual search for knowledge. She put aside the Ouija board, and returned to her readings in red wine.

 

“You see neighbor, on the other side, there are no concepts of time. A day might well become a year, or longer. Perhaps a thousand years! Those who have crossed over perceive everything as being part of a unified whole. Calendars and measurements of distance are irrelevant. What matters is that their memories from the mortal plane are respected...”

 

I could not help thinking that this explanation bordered on a nonsensical rant of hucksterism. Still, I did not want to offend my host. Her passion for peering into the realm of otherworldly spirits was genuine enough. So, I simply shrugged and nodded.

 

“Okay then, your take is that this butcher from antiquity thinks I stole his acre of mud?”

 

The wise crone smiled while refilling her goldfish bowl with fermented, red juices.

 

“If you like to view it in that context, then yes. I prefer an opposite point of reference. He has chosen you as his contact in the timeline. Your manufactured hut is where he must have had a cabin hewn from logs. And the business that succeeded his trading outpost was also part of the story. We view only a chapter of this tale, as people of the flesh. But once our souls pass beyond the veil, then we become part of the eternal saga. Everything, as I said, is connected to everything else, ultimately. And all of that is tied to our origin as a species, sired by a cosmic creator.”

 

I rubbed my eyes while attempting to understand.

 

“You’re referencing the idea of... God? Isn’t that out of character for a mystic seer?”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait cackled so loudly that her fishbowl began to ring like a chime.

 

“EVERYTHING IS PART OF THE GRAND SUM, RODNEY! DON’T YOU SEE?”

 

I had expected some sort of palm reading, or display of Tarot cards, with a prediction of future events. But she had given me a challenging perspective on life, death, and what might come afterward.

 

“Okay, let me put two and two together here. A settler from the early days of this state practiced his trade to feed pioneer families. Then, those of the postwar era continued to develop their civilization, locally. And now, I am sitting in the midst of their graves? Apparently not showing the proper respect for what transpired, beforehand?”

 

My benefactor rattled her bracelets, and huffed at this note of skepticism.

 

“You must learn to live beyond the ‘now’ Rodney! Your eyes see what lies on the land, and hangs over us in the sky. But for those like myself, I have learned to perceive much, much more. Listen to me, and learn. Listen to the visitor who gifted us with his presence, and learn!”

 

She dropped more pieces of uncooked pasta into her reserve of wine. Then, began to narrow her gaze, with a frown of concentration. She put both hands on the glass vessel, and repeated a chant I did not recognize.

 

“Darksome night and shining moon, East then South, then West, then North; Hearken to the witches’ rune – Here I come to call thee forth!”

 

I could hear my stomach gurgling in protest. A quick glance at my wristwatch indicated that I had passed the normal hour for drinking cool beverages on my front porch. My patience was wearing thin.

 

“You really want to hear from that phantasm again?”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait hummed a melody of droning, ancient characteristics. She brought her face close to the bowl, and began to breathe rhythmically.

 

“Grace us with your knowledge. Forgive us if we are careless. Our intentions are pure, our hearts are just. We pledge to you our devotion as children of the Grand Goddess...”

 

Again, an inexplicable rush of wind blew across the crowded room. Cats scattered for cover. Artifacts toppled from their perches. A painting actually fell off its wall hanger. And my belly ached from the pervasive uneasiness.

 

“Look, ma’am, I think this has been an interesting experience to say the least. But my time on the clock must have run out. Or sand in the hourglass, however you measure such things!”

 

A guttural voice barked from the shadows. Jordan Psenka was offended by my impatience.

 

“SIT AND BE QUIET, MORTAL MAN! THIS WOMAN HAS SUMMONED ME AGAIN, AND I WILL HONOR HER TROUBLED PLEA WITH ANOTHER PART OF THE STORY!”

 

My head drooped. I could not stop trembling in my seat.

 

“Alrighty then, say your piece! I’m not going anywhere...”

 

The veteran cutter of meats whispered in my ear.

 

“My smokehouse was ruined in a fire. It left me a pauper, with no way to feed my wife and children. They departed for relatives who lived across the lake. I was left alone, with no means of support. I could never afford to follow them to those new lands in the north. My cabin collapsed during a storm in the summer that followed. I was hungry and cold at the end. Eventually, they buried my bones up on the hill, without a proper funeral. I have been forgotten now, but not by this sorceress! And as it happens, not by you! In your dreams, I have been able to live again! For that, I give thanks!”

 

The cryptic confession caused me to chill. Had I lost control of my own mind?

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait released her grasp, and sat back in the crude, handmade chair.

 

“Do you understand, Rodney? You have been chosen. I am only a conduit for comprehension. A pathway from the old to the new. Your cause is clear now, to embrace this voyager, and remember his sacrifice. You must go to the township cemetery. And stand before his burial plot, with reverence!”

 

Before I could respond, she got to her feet, spun around the small chamber, and tore away every curtain from its tall windows. Sunlight flooded into the confined space. I realized that the séance session had finally concluded. Yet I was grateful for any excuse to leave the musty trailer, and its furry, feline inhabitants.

 

“I’ll do whatever you ask, if that brings a conclusion to this weird episode! Let me out of here!”

 

I did not really expect to find Psenka’s grave on the hilltop. But with enough searching among the older plots, a weathered stone appeared with an inscription faded over time. Two knives were crossed under the name, tools of a trade from yesteryear that is still extant, today. A cross had been carved for the top, but was crumbling around its edges.

 

“Here lies a man who did but his best. We commend him this day to an eternity in rest. Let his kin proclaim what he believed throughout life – that the blessings of God were his children and wife. Amen.”

 

The epitaph felt odd for someone who had been abandoned as a byproduct of fate. But with my hands clasped and head bowed, I realized that at least, his memory would no longer be a footnote of history.

 

Nothing To See Here: “Red Wine Ouija” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Note to Readers: This account is skewed a bit from literal facts. Do not be alarmed.

 

Mercy Goodrich-Tait fiddled with incense holders that were smoldering around the perimeter of her octagon table, before turning to the Ouija board. But I was still lost in a fog of detachment. She had not explained the goldfish bowl full of wine, or macaroni floaters that swam inside. So, I was not quite ready to proceed with a new ritual.

 

“Ma’am, you never gave me a reading from the first part of this experiment. What was the point of dipping dried pasta into the juice of squeezed-out grapes?”

 

My host widened her eyes with a sense of having been insulted.

 

“Did you not hear my words, neighbor? When you believe then all will be revealed. This was not an experiment. It was a revelation, if you will accept it!”

 

I took a deep breath while looking sideways, to clear my lungs from traces of the pungent smoke.

 

“Believe? What, like in the Wizard of Oz or some other fairy tale? That’s what I have to accept?”

 

My benefactor slammed her gnarled hands on the table.

 

“I DID NOT INVITE YOU HERE TO BE INSULTED! UNDERSTAND THAT THESE GIFTS ARE GIVEN IN A SPIRIT OF KINDNESS! IF YOU ARE WILLING TO LEARN, I AM WILLING TO TEACH! OTHERWISE, YOU HAVE BANISHED YOURSELF TO IGNORANCE AND DARKNESS!”

 

My face turned numb, and pale. Nothing she said made any sense.

 

“The goldfish bowl... was that like a crystal ball? Were you peering into the void with that trick?”

 

Again, Ms. Goodrich-Tait raised her voice to a shriek of frustration.

 

“CRYSTAL BALL? DO YOU THINK THIS IS LIKE A DISNEY MOVIE, NEIGHBOR? I WON’T SIT HERE AND BE MOCKED! I HAVE OFFERED YOU ENLIGHTENMENT. DO NOT MISTAKE MY CHARITY FOR FOOLISHNESS!”

 

My skin crackled with a jolt of static electricity. I needed to find another way to express being out-of-sync.

 

“Okay, okay, I apologize. My intention was to gain knowledge here, nothing else.”

 

The mystic seer smiled and softened her tone.

 

“You have been having strange dreams as of late, am I correct? Detailed and vivid, but not founded on any real experiences? That is what the wine and pasta told me...”

 

I was somewhat surprised by her insight, But, nodded with acknowledgement.

 

“Yeah, that’s on target. I can’t explain these visions, but last night was a perfect example. I visited a store of some kind, went in the back room and spoke with vendors who were bringing in product. There was a little break area off the main section, with four chairs, all of the kind you would expect to find in somebody’s living room. I kept exploring and discovered a hallway, and then a prep cubicle, long and rectangular. It appeared to be a butcher shop. There were cuts of waste fat everywhere, in the sinks and on metal countertops. A few chops and steaks left out in the open. Everything was refrigerated, I felt cold while looking around. But it rattled my nerves. Eventually, I went back to the main receiving terminal, and three older fellows were seated in the comfy chairs. I guessed that the fourth was left open for me, possibly. But instead of sitting, I interacted with more of the visiting suppliers. One saw a stack of trade magazines that I wanted, but intervened to grab them first. I let him take that prize because he seemed to be so intent on winning.”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait was pleased with my honesty.

 

“And none of this was familiar to you?”

 

I signified my befuddlement.

 

“None of it. I woke up in the night and sat on the edge of my mattress, pondering.”

 

The wise crone sighed loudly before giving her assessment of what had transpired.

 

“You were experiencing a visitation, Rodney. The dream images were not yours, but belonged to someone else who long ago passed across the divide between here and eternity. They are on the other side of that veil. But reached out as you were slumbering. Does that make any sense?”

 

I chilled a bit while thinking.

 

“No, it doesn’t quite honestly...”

 

She turned back to the Ouija board, and then reached for my hands.

 

“We must join our minds when using this spiritual appliance. Concentrate with me on our work. We want to contact the deceased individual who was in touch with you, overnight. Let your consciousness be open to connect. And follow me as I offer my petition.”

 

I felt woozy while looking upon the board. But focused all my energy on its cryptic lettering.

 

“Okay, I’ll do it for you...”

 

The gray-headed woman lifted her hands while still clasping my own. Then began to chant rhythmically, with a melodic timbre to her voice.

 

“You who have come before us, make yourself known! What purpose do you hold in this quest? We ask that you communicate in a form we can recognize. Are you with us at this moment?”

 

She guided our hands to the planchette, which moved accordingly. It stopped in place over the word ‘yes.’

 

My stomach gurgled loudly. I was afraid of losing gastronomic control.

 

“I can feel something... it is like having butterflies in my gut.”

 

Ms. Goodrich-Tait rattled her jewelry while continuing the chant.

 

“By what name are you called? We ask you to come before us now. Let us see your form and witness your cry to be heard!”

 

The room crackled with energy, and a glow of blue-white surrounded the table.

 

“I am a cutter of meats, by profession. I lived at the lot where your subject now resides, and labored on the hill, at an IGA store that closed. He has taken my place. I do not want to surrender that spot so easily. But the flesh has failed me, and I was forced to leave before my time! I still have so much work to do!”

 

My hands were trembling. I could barely see anything expect for the flickering of a candle next to the Ouija board.

 

“Replace you? Hell no, I haven’t replaced anybody!”

 

The wise, old woman cackled to herself before moving the planchette again.

 

“What name is yours, dear friend? Would anyone remember you in this park? Or in this township? Even in this county?”

 

The marker spelled out a series of letters that were disjointed and incomprehensible, at first.

 

“J-o-r-d-a-n... P-s-e-n-k-a. J-o-r-d-a-n, J-o-r-d-a-n...”

 

The senior seeker threw back her head and shrieked with abandon.

 

“YOU HAVE BEEN DEAD A HUNDRED YEARS! THIS PROPERTY WAS UNINHABITED IN THAT TIME! HOW DO YOU CLAIM ANY BOND TO THE MAN SITTING HERE WITH ME? YOU ARE SPEAKING IN RIDDLES WHEN WE WANT ONLY THE TRUTH!”

 

A rush of wind felled the burning candle. It upset decorative flowers that were in vases around the room. And rustled curtains in the windows. Finally, it morphed into a howl of male intensity.

 

“I AM THE ORIGINATOR! THIS LAND REMAINS MY BIRTHRIGHT! THE STORE I RECALL WAS BUILT WHERE MY OWN ONCE STOOD! IT WAS STOLEN BY CLEVER VANDALS WHO SETTLED HERE! AND LATER, OCCUPIED BY TRANSGRESSORS WHO MOVED TO THIS PARCEL OF GROUND AS INVADERS! IN THEIR MINDS, I HAVE PLANTED SEEDS OF TORMENT! THEY WILL NOT REST UNTIL I HAVE BEEN SATISFIED! MY JUSTICE WILL BE THEIR SENTENCE OF DESPAIR!”

 

Nothing To See Here: “Red Wine Ouija” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

Note to Readers: This account is skewed a bit from literal facts. Do not be alarmed.

 

When writing my ‘Thoughts At Large’ column for the Geauga County Maple Leaf, a newspaper published in Chardon, Ohio, I used to observe that quite often, the best manuscripts in that series seemed to write themselves. Whether as a byproduct of incidental happenings, chance encounters along the way, or random memories that appeared from the ether. But most recently, this phenomenon was aroused from a conversation heard on WJW-8, a television outlet of great renown, in Cleveland. A regular segment on their morning broadcast is called ‘Plugged In’ – sponsored by Liberty Ford. During one of these freeform, verbal interactions, the subject of reading sliced cheeses was mentioned. And while I let it pass from one ear to the other while waking myself with several rounds of coffee from the BUNN brewer in this household, eventually, the recollection caused me to post something on social media. I offered a simple opinion that as William Shakespeare is said to have observed, “Our fate lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.” I reckoned that this tidbit of wisdom also applied to reading palms, tea leaves, or falling silverware. None of that was particularly relevant, I thought, in an age of scientific analysis and documentation.

 

Like most of the content I share in public, this offhand remark got no likes. Despite writing for various publications over the years, I have generally managed to remain anonymous in my personal life. But later in the afternoon, as I moved to the front porch for a cold brew and fresh air, a notification chirp sounded from my cell phone.

 

An estranged partner who had reinvented herself as a modern-day Wiccan and seeker of ancient traditions, hit me up via the Messenger app. Her impulsive comment was blunt and very direct, as I might have expected. Yet it made me somewhat uncomfortable.

 

“Rodney, don’t be so sure that you’ve got it all figured out! There’s a woman right in your neighborhood who does sessions with the Ouija board. She might surprise you with her ability to see and hear things that are invisible to most people. Why don’t you give her a call?”

 

I was familiar with this mystic appliance, of course, but had never actually seen one first-hand. Moreover, I had never heard anyone in my rural community speak about having such interests, even after some 24 years of residency. But the admonition from my departed love-interest stuck like a dart in the wall. I could not forget her plea, wash it away with beer, or commit it to mental storage in some remote and neglected corner of my mind.

 

Eventually, her report caused me to chatter about this odd subject with other residents in my isolated park. At first, the query seemed to inspire concern over my emotional state, as a retired fellow, living alone with few friends on our street. But then, my appeal produced a token gesture of acknowledgement from our property manager, Dana Alvarez. A steward for the development, employed directly by distant owners located in southern California.

 

“You want to know about some lady who tells fortunes and contacts dead spirits? Ayyyyy, that sounds like Mercy Goodrich-Tait, she’s all the way on our back parcel. The very last road on this big piece of land. Her trailer house is a doublewide, full of cats and plants, crystal hangers, brass gongs, and burning incense. I never go there for any reason, she’s kinda spooky, you know? But I get her rent check on the first of every month, so that keeps me happy. It’s all good, bruh, I don’t judge! You do you and I’ll do me!”

 

My stomach began to ache just a bit. I knew that my second wife would be popping up again, on the phone, with questions about what had occurred when visiting this unusual neighbor. So, thoughts of avoiding a face-to-face encounter were hard to sustain. But I stalled on making contact for several weeks. Only an intervention by a casual friend next door put us together as a client and benefactor. Somehow, she passed along my name and number.

 

Eventually, a crude business card was left in my door, actually a folded piece of notebook paper, with a handwritten note clumsily scribbled in between the lines.

 

“To receive the gift of knowledge you must be pure. Are you a child of the wise crone? Come here, and be sure!”

 

I rarely ever drove to the far corner of our little village. It was a portion of the whole situated past township woods, an abandoned dump, and a busted sewer facility. I did not know anyone who lived at that point on our map. But when rolling to my destination, there was an aura of otherworldly vibrations palpable. I could smell ginseng and other aromatic elements lingering on the breeze. The lot inhabited by Ms. Goodrich-Tait was messy and overgrown. Her extended hut was surrounded by tall trees of various kinds. I guessed that sunlight was a precious commodity in such a restrictive environment. And indeed, the stoop by her front door was dark and dreary.

 

I knocked gently, for fear of being too forceful with my petition to be heard.

 

When the portal opened, I beheld a tall, slender woman with curls of gray, wearing a homespun frock dyed in hues of purple and maroon. She carried a walking stick carved from a natural branch. Though it seemed to serve no purpose other than perhaps, representing a ceremonial scepter of some sort. The interior of her dwelling was crowded and musty. An octagonal table sat in the midst of this cramped space. She invited me to sit, and then took out a glass fishbowl. Into that vessel, she poured wine vinted along the shore of Lake Erie, in Geneva. Then allowed elbows of homemade macaroni to float around in that liquid reserve.

 

I could not discern how this ritual would unravel riddles or reveal hidden truths. Yet she cooed and murmured over the bowl, with her eyes closed. Massaging the air with her fingers extended, and jewelry clattering.

 

“I see many things for you, neighbor. But they will not come to pass until you believe. Am I a serpent to be feared? Am I a demon to be shunned? Am I a jester to be mocked and jeered? Only you can open the puzzle box. When the latch is set loose, your answers will prevail!”

 

I recalled that my erstwhile spouse had altered her personality, preferences, and appearance, in a progression that no one understood. So, the cryptic chant I heard resonated as perhaps another peek into a void of unresolved mystery. I did not comprehend her vibe, and was possibly not intended to be given that kind of access. Just as the flight of fancy that ensnared my former companion seemed artful and fascinating, yet beyond my ability to process.

 

As I watched, Ms. Goodrich-Tait set the fishbowl aside, and took out her vintage Ouija board. An audible growl sputtered from my belly.

 

“Umm, excuse me, ma’am. I’ve got to admit being a novice in this regard. Are you going to summon a ghost or gobblin now, or what?”