Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Four)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

In yonder days, it was much easier for a person to simply disappear into the void. But the information age had upset that paradigm, completely. With satellites circling the globe, internet connectivity, and wi-fi access becoming commonplace even in war zones and remote areas of the world, it was no longer so easy to vanish. Even for someone who eschewed friendships and social media participation, some kind of evidence trail could be found to exist. Only with a persistent rejection of modernity in all its forms could someone appear to have exited civilization, altogether.

 

But with no photographs, or personal contacts for reference, and only a handful of her mother’s memories, Amanda Breen struggled to discover what had happened to her target in northeastern Ohio. For weeks and months, she searched until futility eclipsed her efforts. Looking here and there on databases that existed in state registries of all kinds. Voter records, driver’s licenses, property transactions, and such. Nothing provided the information she was seeking. Finally, her patience had been exhausted.

 

She decided to walk a private trail along the coastline, where friends and associates used to enjoy leisure hours after working at her bakery. With the breeze whipping her blonde mane, she sat on the ground, pulled both knees up to her chin, and began to weep.

 

“I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE, DAD! DAMMIT, WHY WON’T YOU POP YOUR HEAD UP AND LET ME SEE? I NEED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED AFTER MOM GOT ON THAT PLANE, COMING BACK HERE TO CALI!”

 

The essence of ocean air filled her nostrils. She had ruined her makeup, and looked messy in the moment. But it did not matter, as she sat alone, on the crest of a long ridge. Then, a whisper of familiar tones caused her to jump, and turn around suddenly.

 

Mater Jessica stood over her, with a yellowed envelope folded in one hand.

 

“This was pressed in the middle of a book I bought many years ago, in New York State. I had thought all of his letters were gone. I threw them away just before my wedding to your... to my husband. Whatever you want to call him! I had forgotten about saving this note, it was his last, I think. You’ll understand if you read it!”

 

Amanda opened the letter carefully, and sniffled at its aroma of must and decay.

 

“Hey Jess, I got fired from the warehouse in Cleveland. Then my car broke down at the post office here. My dad helped me put in a new set of points. It only has one, studded snow tire in back. No heat so I have to scrape the windshield from inside, while driving. It’s kinda crazy. Anyway, I got picked up on a remodel crew in town, they are refurbishing the department store here. It’s close to where my parents live, and really interesting, because I work with old men and women who can barely read and write. They are different from people we knew in the Finger Lakes. Earthy and very unpretentious. They like to drink and smoke and play pool. I feel like this place is going to swallow me whole, you know? The art scene I took for granted doesn’t exist here. Maybe in Cleveland, but my Beetle is too clapped-out to drive that far, anymore. I’m really busted at the moment. At least I can walk to this store. Anyway, I managed to sneak a six-pack of beer while out with friends the other day. Nobody in my family is into alcohol, so I have to behave at home. I’m still on the couch here, but if I save enough, perhaps I can get an apartment somewhere. I just wanted to say it one last time, I still love you and miss you. You’re my yardstick, every woman I see gets judged by what you gave me. I’ll never forget our summer together. That’s a promise. Take care of yourself, and your son...”

 

After reading the last line of text, she drooped like a wilted flower.

 

“He sounds defeated! I think going home to Ohio must have broken him, inside.”

 

Her progenitor nodded in agreement.

 

“I concur. But there was nothing I could do at the time. We were so far away from each other, in every sense. He needed to grow up, and I didn’t have time to wait for that. I was too busy preparing myself for you to be born. And your older brother had become a handful! Everything I did meant facing challenges. But I’ve always been a tough ol’ gal, honey! That’s the spirit you inherited.”

 

Amanda clutched the letter gently. Then, noted a postmark near the upper right corner.

 

“This says it came from a town with a funny name. How do you say that? Shar – dun? Where the hell is that, I’ve never heard of it before! I thought he landed in Cleveland.”

 

Jessica nodded again, this time to certify her remembrance.

 

“It’s in that area somewhere. Chardon is the seat of Geauga County, he said. Named for Peter Chardon Brooks, from Massachusetts. That kid was something of a history nerd. He said the name of that district came from an indigenous word that meant raccoon.”

 

Her daughter brightened a bit, and began to laugh and rock where she sat.

 

“Raccoon? That’s hilarious! I look like one of those animals, with my makeup all smeared!”

 

The elder Breen stroked her daughter’s scalp, lovingly, while pondering.

 

“His return address is there, written by hand. That would be long out of date by now, over four decades ago. But it could give you a clue about where he must have gone. Maybe he moved away, or died, or ended up in jail? I have no idea. His parents must be deceased. You can figure it out. Just remember that if you actually find him now, he’ll be much different than the teenager I knew and loved. He might not be so appealing to you. Maybe not even friendly, or likeable, or cooperative. He might react differently to being found than you expect. He might not want to have a daughter and a grandson pop up out of nowhere!”

 

Amanda had initiated a chance game of Roulette with her curiosity. Yet she could not quit before knowing the results precipitated by that lively spin of the wheel.

 

 

“Useful Noise”

  

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

A banging on cinder blocks

A round-faced, grandfather clock

A drumstick solo echo

Going out the window

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

Barre chord progressions

Repeated with transgressions

A sewer-pipe, plucking son

A dizzy dope, ducking the gun

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

I heard it in a heartbeat

A wrinkled, rice-paper sheet

Artfully replete

With Ska and Bluebeat

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

A visual aid

A train wreck replayed

Rudely betrayed

By a coat-check escapade

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

Old men with nothing to hear

That is what I’ve met with fear

But a teenager stays clear

Tasting what the tongue can hear

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

Give it a flip

Give it a slip

A bold, brawny high-kick

A run in a rain slick

A strike of the match stick

A cure for the homesick

A candle with a spent wick

A needling with a pin-prick

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

Get up!

Get up!

Grab the golden cup!

The testimony resonates

For those who dare to confiscate

A prize left for the meek

A stone’s throw, across the creek

A lover’s peck upon the cheek

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

A foot stomping on cement

A heel-popping malcontent

A twist of fate, heaven-sent

A lonely leap to the firmament

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

 

A spit into the ocean, blue

A hobo dance in worn-out shoes

A dash across the avenue

In a rainstorm, long overdue

Useful noise

Beautiful noise

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Three)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Amanda Breen never had lazy days, as a mother with a young son, a small business selling bakery goods, and an appetite for the lively social scene in her native, California district. But upon hearing her mother confess that a man once shared their apartment in central New York State, while stirring a summer romance that had been doomed from its inception, her pace slowed reactively. She found herself dogging through the days. Distracted and obsessed about the true cause of her conception. For a lifetime, her identity had seemed certain. A fact never questioned or disputed. Yet now, she researched online sites for clues about this mysterious figure from her mater’s past. Someone she had never seen in old photographs, or read about in diary entries. A veritable specter, lingering in the shadows.

 

Finally, her emotions erupted with the bubbling fury of a teakettle on the boil.

 

“Mom, what the hell happened to Townie Link after you came back to Cali? You left out that part of the story!”

 

Jessica sat with a glass of wine, in her library nook. She had been reading about Edie Sedgewick, and her association with the pop icon, Andy Warhol.

 

“C’mon honey, does it really matter? That’s all ancient history now, a bad memory better left in the lore of yesterday. I should never have mentioned it...”

 

Her offspring huffed with irritation at this dodge maneuver.

 

“You just left and never saw him again? Did he know you were pregnant?”

 

The former hippie disciple shook her head and whispered.

 

“I didn’t know until after returning to Santa Barbara. Your grandparents were shocked and wanted me to go back. I got letters almost every day from that kid, he was homeless for a few weeks, freezing on the streets of Ithaca, living in his VW Beetle, and then went to stay with relatives in Ohio. That broke his spirit, I think. Things were very different from the chaos of our wild fling at the hillside flophouse...”

 

Amanda bristled at this bout of honesty.

 

“Letters? Did you save them? How many were there before he disappeared?”

 

Jessica shielded her eyes as if being interrogated under a bright light.

 

“Dozens and dozens. He was really in love, though I doubt the poor guy could literally understand what that entailed. He was still a teenager, after all! Not someone with any idea of what it meant to take responsibility for being alive. He was careless and crazy, and casual about everything...”

 

The young femme pressed her progenitor in the issue, without mercy.

 

“AND YOU WERE HAPPY TO BE A COUGAR ON THE PROWL, FOR SOME DRINKS AND FUN IN THE BEDROOM?”

 

Her mother reacted with a predictable measure of embarrassment.

 

“We didn’t use that word in those days. I can’t quantify it, but he had something that clicked with me. We were both artistic. I liked to paint and design, while he was a musician and songwriter. Our fling was satisfying, at least for a brief interlude. But I had my own child to raise, and he didn’t seem to get the parenting thing. We were living on whatever money could be scraped together, from welfare or food stamps, and odd jobs. That kind of lifestyle couldn’t last. I would have lost everything!”

 

Amanda crossed her arms and stood tall on a pair of stiletto heels.

 

“So, you didn’t answer his letters? You didn’t talk to him on the phone?”

 

The senior female sighed heavily, while reflecting on her memories.

 

“We did speak on a couple of occasions. He had gotten a warehouse position, in Cleveland. His intention was to save enough for a drive out here in his ratty Volkswagen, which I thought sounded risky. I guessed that it would barely get to the border with Indiana. But he was determined to reconnect. I admitted to being knocked-up, but claimed to have had an abortion. That turned him cold, I think. I could tell that his zest for living had faded. His parents were very conservative people, and had him sleeping on the couch in their living room. I can imagine that they were horrified by the whole situation...”

 

Her daughter turned pale at this candid confession. It added another dimension to the story.

 

“Admit it, you knew in your heart that he was my dad. You knew it all along, but let both of us live with a lie! How does that make you feel now, Grandma Breen?”

 

Jessica stroked her long, gray curls while trembling. She had reached the edge of an emotional cascade into silence and despair.

 

“I thought it was the right thing to do, we were too far apart in age and experience. Not to mention, in our locations on the continent! I mean, Ohio is a whole world away from California! It’s like he was puttering along on a back road, and I’m here riding in the fast lane of a super highway! How could anyone make that work?”

 

Amanda did not relent in her quest for information. She wanted to know every detail about the man that might have sired her own existence.

 

“But it did work, for that summer at least. Am I correct? You must have loved him on some level. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have read his letters or answered his calls!”

 

Her mater stammered vocally, almost to the point of sobbing.

 

“Yes, yes, yes, yes! I did feel something for that kid. He was capricious and impractical, but made me feel free. I could see the light in his eyes when I showed him a painting. Or a set of jewelry I had made. He got the importance of shapes and colors. Something most people miss completely. I appreciated that, we were on the same psychic wavelength...”

 

There was a pause as both women caught their breath. Then the younger of this pair sat on a chair in the corner, with her head down, and eyes closed.

 

“You dumped my real father, like taking out the trash. Just say it out loud! He was good enough to be a lover, but not good enough to be a husband or a life partner. Not good enough to ever see that face of his own genetic spawn, in person!”

 

Jessica surrendered to the teeming wave of memories, at last. Her tears spilled and splashed uncontrollably. She sniffled noisily, while holding a tissue to her nose.

 

“YES, YES, YES I DID! I DID IT TO SURVIVE! I DID IT BECAUSE THERE WAS NO OTHER CHOICE! AT THE TIME, I HAD NO OTHER CHOICE! I COULDN’T JUST GIVE UP ON EVERYTHING!”

 

Amanda stiffened, and stared straight ahead. A plan was taking shape inside her skull.

 

“Mom, tell me, what was his legal name? Townie Link doesn’t sound right, that’s more like a made-up moniker for the clubs. What did it say on his birth certificate? What was he called as a newborn infant? What was his actual name???”

 

The answer dribbled out like a final burst of precipitation after a storm had passed.

 

“TOWNSHEND CARR LINCOLN! SUPPOSEDLY, A DESCENDANT OF OUR 16^TH PRESIDENT!”

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Jessica Decosta Breen had lived her early life on the precipice of sanity. More as an episode of performance art than a journey to fulfillment and adulthood. She traveled frequently, had many romantic partners, and friends from every corner of the world. Yet upon having her first child at the age of 27, a son who was energetic and curious about everything, her focus shifted out of necessity. She was no longer simply a gypsy adventurer and vagabond. Now, she had become something more demanding and consequential, by far.

 

She was, due to an accident of happenstance, a mother.

 

Her move to accept that role did not come immediately. While changing diapers and feeding baby formula, she continued to drink copious amounts of vodka or vinted concoctions. And smoke marijuana or hashish whenever it became available. She painted portraits for extra money, and designed jewelry for friends. Waiting on tables at local restaurants when this stream of income proved to be unreliable. Underneath the rebellious flair of a creative femme, however, was something more sturdy. She had learned to be self-reliant at an early age. Therefore, she always kept mentally attuned to every situation, thinking ahead of the game like a chess-master at the board.

 

But her encounter with Townie Link, a teenaged drunk and music addict, happened idiopathically. They met through a mutual friend with whom she stayed, while on a vacation trip back to her former home in New York State.

 

Lincoln was wide-eyed, skinny, reckless, and full of confidence that outstripped his abilities. Yet authentically talented in a sense. His Appalachian background did not mesh well with an existence among performers, poets, and malcontents in the shadow of Cornell University. So, despite prancing around on stages in the area, with a motorcycle jacket and boots, he never felt completely comfortable. That tension kept him teetering like someone affected by vertigo. But it also gave him a personality that could at times be charming to behold.

 

Jessica took him into a side bedroom, during a party where she was celebrating. Perhaps as much out of curiosity as anything else. She wondered how he would respond to an older, experienced woman who had already seen both coasts of the continent, and the old world of Europe.

 

The spark between them was genuine. Each one complimented the other. Almost instantly, they became a couple, living in conditions of squalor and profligate behavior. Clubbing, sitting in at recording sessions, and keeping late hours that defied normalcy and parenting.

 

Link reckoned they were minor stars in the Rock & Roll constellation, mirror images of Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen. It was a role he eagerly adopted, while manufacturing a timeline for himself out of whole cloth. He claimed to have grown up on the hard streets of Pittsburgh. Before coming to his new home, for an apprenticeship in television broadcasting. An escapade that irritated police officers, judges, and elected officials in their city. But yielded very little actual notoriety, along with dropping out before earning a formal degree.

 

His adoptive girlfriend was entertained for a moment, while the lure of loud guitar riffs, wine, whiskey, and cocaine held sway. But then, they were stuck in a hillside house with four apartments. A structure poorly maintained and sparsely furnished. They were broke and ruled by a chaotic ethos. Neither of them could settle on a stable routine of any kind. Meanwhile, the needy howl of a developing infant continued to resonate. He was perpetually hungry and cranky, and craving attention.

 

Finally, Jessica realized that the partnership she had initiated was out of step with her altered responsibilities as a parent. She had to prioritize her young seedling above all else. Or surrender to the reality that her authority as a custodial mater would be stripped away in legal terms. Yet in her former home, among the creative outcasts and visionaries, that would never occur.

 

She told a series of convincing lies, while stashing funds in her dresser drawer. Then, as she and her male companion were drinking and smoking away an evening in the fall, she announced her true intentions with a confession of inconvenient truth.

 

“Townie, I have a plane ticket to fly back to California, with my son. We leave next Monday morning, my soul-sister Sage is coming to pick us up at six o’clock...”

 

Lincoln reacted by excusing himself to the bathroom. He had imbibed over half a gallon of potent, red juice. Sorrowfully, he stared into the mirror over their sink, frowned and grimaced, then turned to the wall and lashed out with his right fist. This righteous blow scattered plaster and wooden trim around the small space. When he exited with a bleeding paw, to explain this noisy interlude, his voice had risen to the sound of a wounded lion’s roar for relief.

 

“YOU’RE GOING BACK TO CALIFORNIA? WELL, I’LL TELL YOU WHERE I’M GOING, HONEY! DO YOU WANNA KNOW? I AM GOING STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

 

Their relationship continued in silence, until the airport rendezvous had transpired. After that wordless farewell, he was once again a vagrant bum, on the sidewalk. With no job, place to stay, or advocates left to offer comfort. He had alienated every friend in the city. And emptied every bottle in his possession. A chain wallet hung meekly at his hip, bare and useless, except for carrying an expired license and coupons for pizza.

 

Now, the senior mom relived this bygone adventure while considering the queries of her daughter. Who was her real father? The question burned her ears with a toxic resonance. She had been stoned, dizzy, and intellectually compromised until that moment of clarity, some four decades earlier. She could not be sure of anything before+ her escape to the gold coast. Lovers? Partners? Chance encounters? They had been many and numerous. Her only interest had been to seek pleasure and gratify herself. Anything else turned her stomach as being decidedly square and out-of-touch.

 

Only the call of motherhood planted her feet solidly on the ground.

 

In Cali, she realized that her belly was growing again. With the gift of another child, soon to follow. And new alliances forming, as she skillfully navigated through circumstances, to rebuild her life in view of the Pacific Ocean.

 

Townie Link no longer existed in her mind, or heart. But as she looked into the face of her daughter, lovingly, an odd vibe made her lips tremble. There in the eyes of her offspring was the look of someone else, someone very far away. Not only in terms of chronology, but also, geography.

 

A forgotten man that she never intended to remember.

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

At Evergreen Estates, stories of failed relationships, lost careers, and shattered dreams were so common that their abundance had created a pervasive mood of disinterest among residents of the park. Few cared to hear such tales of woe expressed in public. And fewer still embraced flowing tears and groans of sorrow in private sessions around a seasonal campfire. To be suffering in silence, so far removed from the flow of a more metropolitan population along Lake Erie, was considered to be unremarkable. So familiar and ubiquitous, that it literally turned people numb.

 

For that reason, men like T. C. Lincoln simply kept to themselves, in a reclusive fog of inebriation.

 

Any memory of having been part of a mainstream, social order had long ago been surrendered. The shaggy hermit could barely recall standing in front of his bathroom mirror with an electric razor. Or wearing starched, white shirts, and crisp, patterned neckties. When speaking, his hillbilly brogue hid a measure of sophistication that had been plunged deep into a morass of darkness. He made no effort to be pleasant, or approachable. Instead of the fine soaps and colognes of his youth, he now reeked of stale beer and bottom-shelf whiskey. Along with budget cigars that were sold in cardboard boxes with the imprint of makers without any intention of providing a quality product.

 

His life no longer mattered to anyone, least of all, to himself.

 

Yet in his wake, artifacts of a different age had been strewn around the landscape. Bits and pieces of himself with the surreal expression of a Dada art pioneer. Each of these remnants carried some meaning that had not been apparent at the time. But when viewed with hindsight, left impressions that somehow affected others to alter their own paths for the better.

 

None of these connections were revisited, after the fact. Expect for a chance revelation that occurred on the California coast, many miles away from the rural loam of Geauga County, Ohio. In Santa Barbara, Amanda Breen was successful, pretty, and sociable to a fault. She was the daughter of a 1960s relic, who had been wild and creative, and the product of a university professor and his literary spouse. Her brother lived in various cities along the western edge of the North American continent. A vagabond in the spirit of their shared bloodline. Ever curious and full of wanderlust.

 

Upon becoming a late mother, at the age of 40, she gained an interest in DNA research. And with this new cause in mind, began to hunt through her own genetic markers, for clues about their notable brood. She discovered Quaker relatives in Pennsylvania, German immigrants who had arrived from Europe during the 1800s, and many historical tangents to pursue. But while pondering the strong eyes and distinctive build of her young son, she realized something that was unsettling and inescapable.

 

Her own profile did not match that of her brother, or the dashing pater that had always claimed to be her sire. So, some factor in the research had gone amiss, she initially believed. Yet when repeated several times over, the results did not differ. Her true progenitor was some anonymous male from the past. An individual that even her mother could not identify, for certain.

 

Finally, Amanda cornered the hippie queen at her home in Tehachapi. With the result that quickly, both women were wailing like barnyard cats in the glowing moonlight of a summer evening.

 

“Mom, the clinic says that Dad isn’t my real father! And neither are any of your old boyfriends who participated in their tests. Do you understand how that makes me feel? I’m an orphan now! I need to know where I came from, once and for all!”

 

Jessica Decosta Breen grimaced slightly, and shook her lengthy, white curls in protest at being confronted so directly. Her eyes lowered in a gesture of sincere regret.

 

“Honey, I think there must have been some kind of mistake. You know those mix-ups happen all the time! Of course your dad is who and what you’ve always believed! Why would he lie to you? Why would I lie to you? I can’t be any more honest than that!”

 

The blonde entrepreneur was not satisfied by this claim of ignorance.

 

“Dammit, the genealogy doesn’t match! The report I got says that my father must have been partly Caucasian Euro, but also of indigenous ancestry. Likely Cherokee and Shawnee! There are databases all over the country now, artificial intelligence has made it easier to sift through digitized documents and registries...”

 

Jessica huffed at this measure of trust in scientific analysis, without more corroboration.

“Dear, you need to calm down and think this through. It doesn’t matter who contributed to your DNA profile, really. You are a grown adult now! Not a little kid! And definitely not an orphan. You can see by our similarities that I am your real mother!”

 

Amanda threw back her head defiantly, and then pinched her generous nostrils.

 

“But, where did this nose come from? It looks a lot like something you’d see on a native chieftain! Not the kind of perky, little schnozzle for a chick like you!”

 

Her mater shuddered and scowled.

 

“STOP TALKING LIKE THAT! YOU’RE MAKING ME FEEL ILL!”

 

The slender female stood with hands on her hips, and an expression of discontent twisting her mouth.

 

“Mom, who did you ever know with a beak like this? There must have been somebody along the way. Here in Cali, or maybe when you still lived in New York!”

 

Jessica clutched at her stomach, while engaging in a moment of silent nostalgia. Then, her eyes closed and a new confession ebbed from the ether.

 

“There was a boy in the Finger Lakes Region, in Ithaca... I think he was 19 at the time. He dressed in a Biker style, as if he wanted to be a Rock star. I was older by a decade, already a single parent, a veteran of the art scene, a designer, a waitress, and a groupie with bands around the area. Not so practical and settled down as I am now! He had a charming disposition, as a poet and a writer, but still acted oddly naïve for someone living on the street. We shared two different apartments, so I got him wine and cigarettes when there was money in my handbag. You could say he was good company on long, hot nights in rooms with no furniture, and a mattress on the floor!”

 

Amanda smirked while swinging her bottom in a circle.

 

“Good company? That’s all he was, not a partner or a legitimate boyfriend?”

 

Her mother flushed with embarrassment. It was not a memory that she cherished over time.

 

“I dumped him to move back here. Both of your grandparents wanted us to get married. But that wasn’t in the cards for me. I couldn’t hack his impulsiveness. He didn’t seem to care about anything but his antique typewriter, and a small collection of vinyl records. And, one pawn-shop, Japanese guitar that was missing strings and other parts. I honestly thought that he needed to grow up! He was too much of a child for someone like me! But we did have fun for a while, at least...”

 

Her daughter chilled at this vivid description. Then, folded her arms and hardened her approach.

 

“So, what ever happened to that guy? You left him alone on the streets, with nothing but his flannel shirt and a leather jacket?”

 

Jessica yowled with a feline inflection in her voice.

 

“I HOPE HE TOUGHENED UP A LITTLE BIT! I LIKED HIS SWEET TALK BUT NOT ALL THE BULLSHIT THAT CAME ALONG WITH THOSE CUDDLES AND KISSES! HELL, I MANAGED TO SURVIVE THE HARD TIMES! IF THIS CHICA COULD DO IT, THEN SO COULD HE!”

 

 

 

 

 

“Desk Chair”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

A nap in my desk chair

Teetering backward on a bevel, unbalanced

Tempting fate and the random result of chance being challenged

I might have fallen, except

The groggy gyroscope kept me in check

On the edge of a dreamscape void

Lightly able to confess being annoyed

With the blandness of my own existence

I sputter and yawn

Breathing in the noxious air of an unseen self

One which I usually keep on the bookshelf

So as not to offend

This far side of the sphere, better left unexposed

Cratered by the imprints

Of rumors and casual hints

Dropped in my wake

This condition has persisted for long enough to learn

That the ashes of antiquity perpetually return

When eyes close

And the night is nigh

And though I might imagine myself

Restored to a measure of emotional health

The yield is never such

I always seem to run aground at the shoreline

Hull on the rocks, and casualties in mind

This is the way I have gone

Like reading chapters from Hollywood Babylon

Each segment a sorrowful song

Sung by voices that now constitute only silence and whispers

Lives large and fantastic

But burned out in a rush

Their saga makes me glad for anonymity

My name evoking no joy or remorse

Simply a guidepost along the course

Of a journey into the realm of nothingness

The mirror is blank

Strangely crisp and cold is this reflective plank

When I peer forward for clues

Squinting at myself, with an ironic smile

To find some trace of what will come, afterwhile

I can hear the footsteps

The rattle of a keyed lock and hasp

Which arthritic fingers soon will clasp

With a turn and twist

When the door opens, in a sudden release

I will be here, on the edge of my seat

Reclining, headfirst, into a mental sweep

A clearing of clutter from the timeline, complete

A screen saver on the monitor

Flying, compact cars from a yonder age

Bars bending from a zoo animal’s cage

Clowns riding on oversized, rubber balls

And the essence of an internet meme dispersed

A sweet taste of chewing gum

Stuck in my throat

A confection, powdery and pathetic

The last thing I could remember before succumbing to anesthetic

Nearly toppling my throne from its wheels

A blister of red on my cheeks

The experience, an exercise in mortal defeat

Whether from failed pride or the force of gravity

Snapping to a vertical stance

Testing the elasticity of my athletic pants

With a tug at the seams

A curse and a groan

At my workspace, still half-awake, and alone

Yet now on the other side

Of that carousel ride

Content to be unaware

Of how it was that I zipped through the wormhole

Into a crevice of my soul

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.