“Pickle Jar”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Lost my wife and kids to a new-age rodeo

One I never saw ahead

I was too busy with my shoulder to the wheel

Earning our daily bread

Seven days a week on that bronco, busting out

And I felt like a man in charge

But when I found her note on the kitchen table

I was no longer living large

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

Now I’ve never been anti-social, so to speak

Not against friends and fun

I like to sit ‘round the campfires in summertime

And shoot the bull like a shotgun

But now that everything I had has gone away

It’s not the same exchange

Giving up all my free time for a paycheck

Just don’t feel the same

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

That jar came here filled with tart, cucumber treats

I used to spear ‘em with a fork

While the kids were outside, playing hide-and-seek

And my wife was thanking the Lord

But something changed on a day when I worked overtime

There came a visitor, unknown

And the one who repeated marriage vows at our church

Said she’d had enough of cowboys and cornpone

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

I gave up my job and that house by the riverbank

They didn’t rate anymore

I went to live in a singlewide rail car, sitting on wheels

A mattress laid out on the floor

Friends thought I must have had a broken heart

But it’s not quite that kind of a hurt

You see, I’m sadder, but wiser as an old mutt, off-the-chain

With my doghouse in the dirt

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

Done with the empty nest

And my favorite stool at the local bar

Just three fingers of Tennessee whiskey

Waiting in my pickle jar

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here: “Writing Woes, Witnessed”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

“The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true.” – John Steinbeck

 

Writing professionally is a career fraught with private joy, and public disappointment. In all of my years sitting in front of a notepad, typewriter, or keyboard, this dichotomy has remained in effect. I sometimes feel a tingle of inspiration awakening in my gut, while creating a useful manuscript of any length or kind. Yet when attempting to describe that experience to someone else, or to show evidence of what I have done to others who are not given to such pursuits, the effect typically falls flat.

 

A recent encounter with someone at my residence park, located in a rural district near Lake Erie, reinforced that perception as one founded on factual evidence.

 

I was in the process of depositing my monthly check for lot rent, at our community office. A hub of activity that is generally unstaffed and empty in the evening and on weekend days. Making that short trek is a chore I take seriously, because of past evictions that affected some of my neighbors who were less disciplined in their habits. A certain sense of accomplishment always follows the slip of my envelope into our drop-box slot. Yet as I turned on my heel to walk clumsily back up the side driveway, a loud harrumph of someone clearing his throat resounded.

 

Fargo, the portly, balding maintenance man had been sitting in his Japanese truck, fiddling with knobs for the radio. I suspected that something must have been wrong with his reception, but did not inquire for clues. This brush-off seemed to cause an insult that I did not intend. So, he made an effort to engage me in conversation before I could escape.

 

“Hey Rodney, how’ve you been there, buddy? Ya keepin’ busy during this heat wave? It’s a scorcher out here! Too hot for ridin’ around in the golf cart and fillin’ potholes with gravel like I normally do!”

 

I smiled politely, and nodded.

 

“It’s not so bad really. I’m at my desk in the morning and then come out to my porch with a fan going to keep things cool...”

 

He was puzzled by this brief description of my habits. With the result that our interaction stalled as he shook his head.

 

“Sittin’ at your desk? Okay, what is that all about? Are ya watchin’ baseball or Netflix or somethin’ else?”

 

I sighed before making the poor decision to answer in literal terms.

 

“No, no, I’m a writer you see...”

 

Fargo stared blankly at me, while chewing his bottom lip until it turned red.

 

“You’re a rider? What, you ride a bicycle in this heat?”

 

I cringed visibly, and corrected him in a civil manner.

 

“A writer. You know, someone who writes poems and stories...”

 

Our repair chief was even more confused after hearing this brief explanation.

 

“WRITE? YOU LIKE TO WRITE? UMM, OKAY, SO WHAT KINDS OF THINGS DO YOU WRITE? LIKE STEPHEN KING OR THOSE GUYS, YOU WRITE?”

 

That particular query has never been pleasant to hear. Because providing a competent response means listing subjects and interests that usually cause eyes to glaze over, and feet to shuffle from side to side with disinterest.

 

“I wrote a newspaper column for sixteen years, locally. So, my first book was a collection of those documents. They touched on all kinds of things, history, music, pop culture, theology, government, and the like...”

 

He reacted with a groan and a grin. Then uttered a phrase so familiar that it hit like the point of an arrow.

 

“Ha, ha, ha, alright! But are ya makin’ any money offa that work?”

 

For someone with an artistic bent, those words were a poison pill. But I did my best not to appear offended by having my labor of love trivialized to the point of a commercial exchange.

 

“Well, I get royalties every month. But that isn’t the reason I started...”

 

Fargo sputtered sweat and phlegm, while widening his eyes.

 

“Sure that’s great, do whatever gets ya jazzed, right? It’s a free country!”

 

I really wanted to get in my own car, and leave quickly. But he had blocked the drive with his own vehicle. So our chance encounter continued.

 

“It’s a tradition in my family. We’ve got many authors and teachers, and professors in my bloodline...”

 

Now, the maintenance fellow arched his back and swayed on his work boots.

 

“WELL HOW ABOUT THAT CRAP? I COME FROM A BUNCH OF BRICKLAYERS AND STEELWORKERS, AND PLUMBERS! SO, THERE YA GO! I FIGURE THOSE ARE GOOD CAREERS TA HAVE!”

 

I shrugged and gestured to show affirmation.

 

“I agree completely. My brother is a retired trucker and an amateur mechanic...”

 

The chunky taskmaster brightened a bit upon hearing this revelation.

 

“So at least that boy worked for a living! Ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right? Not everybody gets ta take it easy!”

 

My face sagged a bit, with a mood of impatience taking hold.

 

“I think every pursuit has value. That makes for a vibrant society, where interdependence betters all of us...”

 

Fargo chortled at my exhortation, as if it lacked the gravity of a sports report.

 

“Sure, sure, ya musta been the apple of yer mama’s eye I suppose. All fixed up with a newspaper job and a fancy office and all that shit!”

 

I could hear my stomach beginning to gurgle. Thirst had me craving a vessel of Irish whiskey.

 

“I only had an office once, out of three different newspaper companies. And that was in a space at the back of a cinder-block building, on a side street. Not exactly plush, or cozy. Otherwise, I worked from home or out of my car...”

 

My persistent contact was amused by this confession of minimal rewards.

 

“THAT’S IT? YA SIT AT A DAMN DESK ALL DAY AND DON’T GET NO PERKS FOR YER TROUBLE? WELL, I’D RATHER BE RUNNIN’ AROUND ON MY GOLF CART! EVEN ON A HOT DAY LIKE THIS!”

 

Mercifully, his cell phone rang before our unexpected interlude could continue. I hobbled to my SUV with both disability canes skipping over the gravel.

 

“Have a good one, friend! Stay hydrated, the sun is on full-blast today!”

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Amanda Breen had grown up with a mother who took to air travel naturally. As a family trio with her older brother, they flew all around the continental United States, and across the ocean to Europe. So, the thought of hopping on a mechanized bird, with Ohio as her intended destination, was not something that caused any anxiety. Though she had never visited the heartland in person, it presented an opportunity to broaden her horizons, and perhaps, to discover the true origin of a genetic bloodline that had heretofore been shrouded in mystery.

 

But after arriving in Cleveland, and renting a vehicle to transport her to the nearby realm of Geauga County, this mood of confidence began to wane just a bit. With each mile traversed, she found herself moving away not only in terms of geographical distance, but also, from the metropolitan confines of an urban environment. To the more primitive and underdeveloped land of an isolated community populated with crude, manufactured homes. The paradigm shift in terms of social order was considerable. Soon, she saw nothing but untended fields, loafing tractors and pickup trucks, along with four-wheelers piloted by reckless inhabitants who seemed to be visibly inebriated, or stoned.

 

Evergreen Estates reminded her of a foreign village located in some distant, third-world country. It boasted a random variety of structures that had obviously been built by hand, with pallet boards and construction debris. Everything reeked of wood rot, mold, tobacco smoke, and stale alcohol. Few of the homes had actual curtains in their windows. Instead, blankets and bedsheets served to guarantee a measure of modesty for those inside. Everything looked to have been in place for decades before the present day. The access road and streets were crumbling, literally full of potholes deep enough to flatten tires and break suspension components. Yards here and there were weedy and overgrown. Trees had invaded spaces not already occupied by storage barns or concrete walkways.

 

She circled the neighborhood in her hired, economy car, attempting to sort out the system of lot numbers in use. This chore took longer than expected, because of the undisciplined order in which prefab houses had been arranged.

 

Finally, the California native parked in front of a narrow driveway that looked familiar from views she had curated via Google maps. There was a ratty, older SUV in the yard. And a long ramp up the side of a plain, singlewide dwelling. A window facing the planked slope was cracked, and broken. There were muddy stains all up and down this amateurish boardwalk. With rails on each side that had weathered in the hot sun, and warped accordingly.

 

There at the pinnacle, on his familiar bench, sat a graying, shaggy recluse cradling a whiskey jug in his callused hands. He did not react when she skipped lightly up the incline. Only when she stood before him did he look up from his oversized bottle, and cough. Then, he scratched his rowdy thatch of facial hair, and smiled. The woman he beheld had the look of her mother, blonde and tall and beautiful in a sense. Yet stricken with deep, indigenous eyes, and a prominent nose that projected inner strength. Two characteristics that matched his own physical profile.

 

“Well I’ll be damned... you’re actually here!”

 

Amanda could barely pull any air into her lungs. She had turned pale, and was trembling visibly.

 

“I’m at a loss for words right now, so I’ll just say hello. Hello, Dad! Hellooooo!”

 

She fell into his arms and began to sob loudly. A dozen minutes or more passed before either of them could speak again.

 

After this wordless exchange of emotion, Lincoln gestured toward a Walmart, shower chair that sat in a corner by his trash bin.

 

“That’s where guests make themselves at home. Pull it over here by me, and sit if you want...”

 

The young woman was still breathless, and woozy.

 

“I wanted to bring my son along, but it wasn’t workable right now. Mom is watching him back on the coast. You’d be proud of that kid, I am very sure!”

 

The aging hermit sipped liquor while thinking to himself.

 

“How is your momma? I haven’t seen her since I we had that apartment on West Spencer Street, in Ithaca. We ended up abandoning it when she left with your brother. The landlord must have been pissed off, but that kind of thing happened everywhere, especially in college towns...”

 

The wandering female brushed strands of hair out of her eyes, before answering.

 

“She’s not who you remember. A grandma now, all leathery and gaunt, but still energetic. She’s a throwback to the hippie scene. We’re alike in some characteristics, but much different in others! She even calls me a prude, sometimes!”

 

Lincoln chortled and continued to imbibe his refreshment.

 

“I can’t hate on any of that. You can see where I’ve ended up, not exactly what I was aiming to be in life. No glory, that’s for damn sure! Not many friends, or fringe benefits from living on the down-low...”

 

Amanda shook her head in disagreement.

 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself! I can tell that you never quite surrendered that artistic vibe. Mom didn’t either. That’s what keeps you old souls going. It’s a different way of looking at the world, a viewpoint that we need more of, I think!”

 

Her prospective progenitor looked across the lot at other homes along his rustic boulevard.

 

“Out here in the hinterland, things like art don’t matter too much. These folks make do with what they can build, fix up, or cobble together. They work with their hands and survive by their wits. I won’t say that we necessarily see eye-to-eye, but it has definitely taught me some things about how to survive. Maybe it’s a connection to my Appalachian forebears as well, I don’t know. I never wanted to be like them, or live like them, but here I am. Hunkered down in the dirt, and crawling along...”

 

His guest reached out with both hands, and offered a loving embrace of affection.

 

“I can feel your aura right here, in my own heart. It’s a glow that resonates with meaning. All the things that my mother said, about your summer together in New York are still there. All of the love, all of the passion, all of the creativity. I know it would never be said out loud, to me or anyone, but she’s missed you all these years. Despite doing her best to forget. And despite trying to shield me from the true story of my birth! I am glad to have finally figured out that riddle!”

 

Lincoln felt oddly fatigued, and weary. As if he had completed a challenging trek through an emotional wilderness. One that left him totally spent, yet satisfied.

 

“I reckon this is a new beginning. And right now, anything new seems out of place to me. But you’re here to prod me off my spot, like a frog ready to jump into creek water. So here I go, let’s do this thing, Miss Breen! Let’s do it!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln had only been drinking outside for long enough to have consumed one shot of Kentucky bourbon, and a tall container of cold brew. But when his cellular device chirped for attention, he immediately felt fatigued. This hour of the afternoon was one which he cherished for its restful anonymity. So, being interrupted for any reason, while willfully dulling his senses, presented an unwelcome turn of events. Yet when he tapped on the Messenger icon, and began to read, sobriety returned with immediate force. The image of an unfamiliar, blonde woman popped up on his screen.

 

“Hello, Mr. T. C. Lincoln. I am out here on the Pacific coast, my mom is Jess Decosta, and well, I think that I may be your daughter!”

 

Bogus accounts were always prolific on social media sites, even for someone who was reluctant to participate like himself. So, he did not pay much attention before deleting the random text. But then, with the whiskey jug raised to his lips, the name that had been included began to reverberate from his memories.

 

Decosta... Jess Decosta... Ithaca, New York... Santa Barbara, California... Quakertown, Pennsylvania...

 

Surging forward on his wooden bench, the shaggy hermit spit a mouthful of liquor over himself.

 

“GAWDAMN! JESSICA LYNN DECOSTA! WHO THE HELL PLUCKED THAT NAME OUT OF MY HEAD? IT CAN’T BE A DAMN COINCIDENCE!”

 

He tried to retrieve the minimalist message, but those words were gone.

 

Curses echoed as he stomped on the floorboards of his porch. The reference was one long lost to antiquity, to the time when he had first returned to his native soil in Ohio. After a leap he had termed to be ‘an exodus in rags’ at the time, his crash into the retrograde scene of Lake Erie brought relief and torment in equal measures. Having a traditional home-setting restored sanity and brought focus back to his existence. But the emotional cost was considerable. He could not shed the remnants of artistry and creative zeal that lingered, from his summer of abandon. Like ghosts speaking from afar, they taunted him during nights spent sleeping restlessly on the sofa in his family living room. He would scatter the pillows and blankets, cry out for escape, and drift through visions of what had gone before. Ultimately, his parents were perplexed and confused. They mourned his moodiness and detachment, while attempting to rebuild the connection of kinship that had once existed.

 

In the post-modern portion of his life, Lincoln had no interest in revisiting such forgotten events.

 

Yet now, with the deleted communique stuck in his head, he was back at the beginning. Back to the point of being a teenaged refugee, in tattered clothes, freezing and hungry on the streets in New York. Lost in every way, alienated from himself and the one he loved so desperately. A wreck of human indignities, staggering, stammering, stooped under the weight of consequences. Unable to handle his guilt, and the corresponding weakness that doubled him over at night. He had talent, and energy, along with the ability to translate these gifts into a patchwork document of written materials. But they fell far short of being valued enough to sustain him as a scribe and performer. He was, by both friends and foes, looked upon as an oddity in their realm. Someone born in the heartland, and destined to be a factory laborer or professional rig-driver, not a vocal advocate for sound and vision, being channeled into useful prose and imagery.

 

This messy conflict stirred inside of him, even after returning home as a vagabond loser.

 

Being drunk and oblivious throughout the day brought some needed comfort to his soul. He cherished the coming of oblivion that preceded every evening spent dozing on his seat, outside. It was an elixir that eased years of regret and emptiness swollen up in his belly. A medicinal concoction that allowed him to thrive on nothingness.

 

He stared blankly at the glass panes of his storm door, directly across from the bench. The reflected visage was of a scruffy, aging beast, who had been whittled down to his essence by judgment and exile. A prisoner on the run, perpetually chased by demons and darkness. A phantom, much like Barnabas Collins of Dark Shadows lore, who was condemned to never behold the glory of daylight and love, again.

 

Lincoln cradled his phone in one hand, and swore angrily at its vacant display.

 

“WHY DID I GET RID OF THAT MESSAGE SO DAMN QUICK? WHY? WHY? WHY?”

 

The glass reserve of brown juice emptied rapidly, as he pondered his plight. Then, as he had reached the point of surrendering consciousness, a notification chirp sounded once again.

 

“Mr. Lincoln, my name is Amanda. We don’t know each other, of course, but I can feel something between us. My mother was a gypsy in her younger days, a protégé of Janis Joplin and Stevie Nicks, at least in artistic terms. She’s still a wild grandma, a hippie relic with beads and bracelets and dresses made of hemp. A crazy chica, to use words I hear from her friends here in Cali! I can tell how much you must have loved her, from mom’s stories about New York. I could feel the vibe of that affection in a letter you wrote, which she found here in a book about Edie Sedgewick. But the reason I’m being a pest... and forgive me for that... is because I had a son earlier this year. And his appearance doesn’t match anything in our bloodline. Just like part of how I look also seems out of place. There’s a missing chapter to the story somewhere, and I want to read it, and understand how all of this began. You’re the missing link in all of this... Townie Link, as my mother calls you. I need to know whether you really did spark me into life with her, over 40 years ago. I want to know. I have to know!”

 

Lincoln shuddered while imbibing the last of his Kentucky bourbon. The righteous swig caused his throat to burn, and both eyes to water. Then, he sat back with sweat and drool dribbling into his beard.

 

“DAMMIT, I’M NOT READY FOR THIS! BUT HERE WE GO, I’LL NEED A BARREL OF WHISKEY TO SURVIVE!”

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Amanda Breen had always been a strongheaded and independent woman. A characteristic that manifested itself early in her childhood, while moving from one home to another in a search for stability. Once she had made up her mind about a particular subject, it was impossible to alter that perception of right and wrong. She stayed active as an advocate for causes of social justice, homeless individuals, and those marginalized by the greater society. Yet while this predisposition to buck trends and pursue visionary ideals matched the inclinations of her progenitor, it also sparked conflict between the pair.

 

Jessica had advised her daughter to proceed carefully, when searching for the lost soul that might have been her genetic sire. But that slow pace of action did not fit the raging emotions that swelled in her young bosom. The perky entrepreneur did not seek to delay her quest for information, under any circumstances. What she wanted was an opposite reality. To hunt down this mysterious figure, make contact, and establish some sort of relationship that would uplift both of them as participants in a grand story of rekindled, family ties.

 

Unsurprisingly, her investigation opened a veritable Pandora’s box of personal details that did not always align neatly with each other.

 

She discovered various documents that provided little useful insight, while still intensifying her curiosity. First, an accident report from the middle 1980s, with a head-on collision between his Chevrolet Chevette, and a pickup truck, at an intersection outside of town. That factoid at least confirmed that his current residence had been on a street in Chardon. Then, a record of being interrogated at gunpoint by police, while he was working overnight. With no charges filed as a result. A license application for marriage, several loan arrangements, a home purchase in nearby Painesville, and a divorce. Followed by another set of wedding vows, more bank financing, and a second split with his spouse. The addresses he had used were numerous. But nothing in this paper trail indicated where he had landed, in the end.

 

In a fit of desperation, she searched a telephone database with thousands of meaningless entries. Unpaid bills, disconnected services, upgrades and realignment of providers that took place, and other forms of miscellany. In the midst of that morass, there were entries for a recurring issue with bogus 911 calls being generated by a system malfunction. Apparently as a result of junction boxes being stationed in the swampy soil behind a trailer and its oversized propane tank.

 

Amanda felt her eyes grow wide as the name she had been chasing appeared in the first entry.

 

“Townshend Lincoln, Lot 13, Evergreen Estates. The subject reports that he has no landline phone connected at his rural residence. The outdated connection is used only for internet access at this moment. Yet sheriff’s deputies confirm multiple incidents of the emergency number being contacted. On each occasion, there was no voice response, just a hang-up when the call was answered, initially. These unintended incidents have been reported to Windmere Technologies. A conversion to fiber optics is expected to correct the problem...”

 

She was stunned by the casual nature of this log entry. When she Googled the park of manufactured dwellings, it came up as a small development situated on Pine Trail Road. Located a short distance south of Lake Erie. A place with some history in Ohio folklore, frequently mentioned in newspaper headlines and other media reports. The development had changed owners on so many occasions that it was difficult to track fiscal transactions regarding those in charge. There were outstanding violations still in effect, with the EPA, county commissioners, and township trustees. Lawsuits had multiplied over the course of decades. But no summary judgments ever seemed to have been issued.

 

And there was no evidence that her target ever left this isolated homestead in the pines.

 

With patience, she discovered a website for the holding company that controlled day-to-day operations. And brought up a photograph of the park entrance, on her computer monitor. There, in a ragged script spelled out in painted letters, was the motto for their tiny neighborhood.

 

“Evergreen Estates – A good place to get started, or retire!”

 

Now, the logjam had been broken.

 

Frantically, she tapped at her keyboard. A credit notice appeared, with a certification that the original purchase of one, singlewide abode had been satisfied. With the state title duly stamped by a registrar. An unemployment claim, followed by disability forms being submitted. Then, a Medicare enrollment. Everything led back to that same spot in the Buckeye hinterland. He must have surrendered to the fatigue of arthritic joints and a broken heart. With the comfort of beverage alcohol taking over.

 

Her mother remembered a rebellious, teenaged reprobate in New York. One gifted with too much creativity, and too little self-control. Yet now, she had stumbled upon a different sort of personality. One hardened by failure, alienation, and stalled mobility. A man of many years, stooped by a debilitated physique and a spent capacity to see good in the sunrise of a new day.

 

Amanda trembled slightly, when considering that this anonymous figure might well be someone unlike the summer boyfriend of her elder kin, and also, far removed from the bright, ebullient artist that he had been, before. Someone who might not desire a reconnection with his former self, or the budding romance that did not last beyond a coming of winter months. A ghostly form shaped by hardship and depravation. A human husk, emptied by fate and circumstance.

 

On a listing of registered voters, she found that he had declared himself to be Libertarian. Which seemed to match her mother’s memories of someone who refused to think or act, along traditional lines. A trolling of social connections revealed that he had created a plain, nearly friendless account on one of the popular sites. With patience, she scrolled through entries that identified active profiles connected to the Messenger application. That revelation offered a method for reaching out, that could be used directly from her home office.

 

Taking a deep breath, the California native sent a query to her supposed, genetic link. One expressed with the gentle tone of a lonely life in search of her own origin.

 

“Hello, Mr. T. C. Lincoln. I am out here on the Pacific coast, my mom is Jess Decosta, and well, I think that I may be your daughter!”

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