c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
After my surreal conversation with
T. Randall Squire about joining his stable of rural artists, I needed to seek
comfort in the form of a cool beverage. Temperatures in my neighborhood had
soared to nearly 100 degrees. So, I sat in my living room with a box fan
blowing air around the crowded space. I still had moving crates stacked here
and there, in addition to various pieces of castaway furniture. Relics from
different periods of my past life, before disability and isolation took hold.
Viewed as a whole, the household collection appeared chaotic and even
obsessive. As if I might have been a hoarder of some kind, driven by a form of
mental instability. Yet the truth was more complex in nature. I had
persistently chased career goals until my body began to surrender. Then, with
my finances ruined and allies scattering, I simply learned to exist on a level
dictated by necessity.
I had seen my elderly father do
much the same, as he survived into his 80s, while caring for my mother who was
affected by senile dementia.
In my own terms, this battle
proved to be less of a burden. Because I was the only member of my household,
someone without high standards of need or want in effect. I had grown up with
moving as a constant, always losing old friends and gaining new horizons. Never
sitting on a spot for long enough to sink roots into the soil. This tumbleweed
upbringing served to insulate me against the prejudices and hard perspectives
of others. But when I finally ceased this endless rush to nowhere, it took a
period of adjustment to become acclimated.
As companions became fewer in
number, I turned toward my work. As with my pater, the desk was a refuge, and
sanctuary where I could always go to find absolution.
While pondering the notion of
penning material under the tagline of Rodney Dean, I once again felt a nudge
toward rural ruminations. And what followed was a fictional story told in
lyrical form. One that I suspected Mr. Squire would appreciate.
Aldous Crane
“Aldous Crane lived outside of
town
In a singlewide shack
They said he became a widower
When his wife had a heart
attack
But the true tale is
complicated
The heart spell was his
She ran off with a neighbor
When he had no more to give
That boy did his best
But he just couldn’t pass the
test
That split broke him in pieces
He was nevermore alive
Like an empty jar sitting out
With nothing on the inside
It left him cold and lonely
Though he smiled through each
day
With his Tennessee whiskey
In pitchers of Lynchburg
Lemonade
That boy couldn’t get it right
He drank a full bottle, every
night
Aldous Crane got to be an old
fool
Sitting out on his front porch
It was uncomplicated fun
Stuck right there by the storm
door
Nobody came calling to check
Which he rightly did prefer
Nobody really gave a damn
And he was grateful to endure
That boy was running solo
In a backwoods part of Ohio
Daisy Dee saw him on a Sunday
morn
And invited him along to church
She said, “Come and hear the
Holy Word!”
As he dribbled down his T-shirt
“A shaggy man of your kind
Needs to be reclaimed!”
The very thought put rocks in
his belly
He had no interest in being
saved
That boy had forgotten how to
love
He didn’t care for heaven,
above
But she came around, near every
day
And kept teaching him with
verse
From her tattered copy of the
Bible
And candy mints in her purse
She was too wise for a taste of
liquor
And by goodness, he was not
But every visit served a
purpose
They became partners in thought
That boy had a feeling that
some day
They might wed, no matter what
folks would say
Aldous Crane finally made a
proposal
One that met between the halves
He said, “Give me one more
drink of bourbon
And I’ll go up to Sunday
class!”
That bargain changed the moment
She saw him with a different
face
The moment brought a revelation
And his sorrow was erased
That boy finally figured out
That there’s a way to shed
shame and doubt
Now that bearded bum is content
To share his happy stoop
No longer hungry in the evening
Fed on cornbread and bean soup
Daisy Dee is queen of their
roost
A godly woman, satisfied
The pair cleaves unto each
other
As the good book says is right
That boy finally found a
special friend
Staked a claim on being born
again
That boy finally found a
special friend
Staked a claim on being born
again...”
Unselfconsciously, I posted the
song on my newspaper blog. And before an hour had passed, my cell phone chirped
and squawked with notifications. Then, I heard the ringtone of a classic,
Western Electric 500 begin to resound.
A voicemail message had been left
at my number.
“Rodney, it’s yer pal, Country
Squire again! I just read the words of that new ditty y’all wrote, and I gotta
say it’s another damn winner! Boy, ya really have a knack fer gettin’ right
down ta the heart of a good ol’ ballad! Plus, this time, yer inflection is more
on the positive side. I’d say we need more of that, as there’s been plenty of
stuff written about drinkin’ and divorce, or barroom fights and goin’ ta jail!
I like a happy ending now and then. Not that we want ta get sappy about life of
course. I mean, it is what it is! Workin’ folks get their hands dirty fer a
reason. It’s because life in the heartland, or the south, or west, still means
sacrifice and heartache! That’s the target we’re aimin’ at every day. That’s
how tickets are sold and records fly off the shelves! It’s a formula that has
worked for many, many years!”
I had to hold my stomach for a
moment, after listening to his message. Though his interest came as a pleasant
diversion, I had no real interest in joining his roster of talent. Anonymity
gave me cover to continue my craft, unaffected by outside interference. To jump
on a bandwagon of public personalities would be to surrender that protective
isolation.
I was content in my own skin.
Adopting the affectations of a manufactured persona, for monetary gain, did not
seem like a bargain worthy of making on any level.
