Nobody Reads This Page: “Creative Conundrum”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“Publishers are notoriously slothful about numbers, unless they’re attached to dollar signs – unlike journalists, quarterbacks, and felony criminal defendants who tend to be keenly aware of numbers at all times.” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

As a teenager, I used to ponder the growing lethargy of my father with a measure of befuddlement and dissatisfaction. While in his 50s, I noted that he would sometimes choose to simply ‘tune out’ from family activities. With his oversized, Pyrex measuring cup of coffee, he would sit by a radio tuned to a public station, which offered forms of Classical, Jazz, or Folk music no longer top of mind for fans of popular culture. While listening, he would read a book from his extensive library, or perhaps enjoy a new acquisition found at a thrift store or yard sale. His tastes varied greatly, from theology, to history, to science fiction, so I never knew what to expect. But regardless of the subject matter at hand, this quiet ritual seemed to ease the fatigue which was visible on his face. I reckoned that somehow, the journey of being a son, husband, brother, uncle, parent, grandfather, pastor, and mentor, had sapped him of the inner glow associated with being alive.

 

Only later would I understand that his fatigue was born of action, not weakness. Being busy had given him insight and inner strength. Yet also caused his bones to ache and his body to sometimes seek the comfort of a few moments spent in restful repose.

 

Such thoughts came to mind recently when an esteemed friend spoke about having published a series of books written for children. He confessed taking pride about this status as someone who had their work delivered by a traditional firm, with the skillful assistance of others providing illustrations to accompany the stories, and editing services. Distribution, marketing, and a yield of royalty payments were all handled as part of this contractual agreement. Almost as an afterthought, he included a caveat that this belief in being validated by good fortune was in no way intended as a knock against others who had vended their work through some alternate means. Such as a print-for-hire service, which gives creative producers a range of choices available at an affordable cost.

 

I celebrated this joyful memory with my friend in real time, of course. But later, remembered being singled out for criticism by some in my circle, for using a self-publisher such as Amazon, to create physical copies from my own catalog. These individual naysayers reckoned that because I had not signed a conventional agreement to have my manuscripts placed before the public eye, that it was an admission of illegitimacy. That view seemed to mesh with others who asked a familiar question, if I ever became bold enough to confess being an author of books in general conversations.

 

“ARE YA MAKIN’ ANY MONEY AT THAT, KIDDO?”

 

My one match with a regular printing company had aroused frustration when I saw my items being marketed worldwide, even inexplicably in far-flung venues like the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. While I could not chase them down for figures on what had been earned. I became stymied by this limited success, under contract and bound to accept my predicament.

 

While living in New York State, I learned the French expression, ‘L’art pour l’art.’ Which roughly translates to the idea that art should exist for its own sake. Or as friends around Cornell University used to say, the dedication to ‘Make art for art’s sake.’ Therefore, the belief that somehow any sort of pursuit associated with the craft, be it painting, drawing, designing, acting, writing, or playing music, is simply a commercial exercise diminishes the overall experience. It is a concept rooted in faith, one might observe. A view of humanity founded on our worth as demonstrated by what we may contribute to the greater continuum.

 

Simply getting a regular stipend for hours worked feels too much like punching a time clock, to this writer. But it is of course, no more than a single opinion among many others.

 

When one of my nephews, who is highly educated and bright, made this common observation about ‘real’ volumes being made by a recognized publishing institution, I directed him to consider the book section at our local Dollar Tree. Every title on their shelves had been originally produced by one of those notable firms. And were now being sold for a mere pittance, in the aftermath. I asked if those products, now being dumped for a sum far below their market value, could still be considered valid? He had no answer for this riddle, but refused to budge from the assumption that having a formal contract in place gave validity to an author.

 

While puzzling over this pervasive viewpoint, I thought about other areas of artistry and their unique standards of worth. Were independent filmmakers somehow bastard visionaries? Or bands without their signatures on paperwork with a major label, crippled and insignificant? Perhaps poets and urban performers were also without merit, despite their creative zeal? This argument was easy to make, but more difficult to defend, in hindsight. What standards truly define legitimacy? And in the case of artistic endeavors, what right does anyone have to judge the impact of a specific individual, or their output? If indeed, it is a matter of numbers, then has everyone who missed on being popular with the teeming masses failed in their personal pursuit of glory?

 

The elder member of my bloodline had been able to publish his Biblical work via College Press in Joplin, Missouri. So for him, such wonder over the value of written manuscripts did not exist. But for me, as a veteran of newspapers and magazines, with much enthusiasm over doing my own covers, layout, and editing, the situation was more complex. I liked being in charge, directly. And, the benefits were increased, as a yield of that hands-on approach. Not only in financial terms, but also, as a chance to hone and develop my managerial skills.

 

As a younger man, I could work myself into a tizzy over such perplexing queries. Often, with a headache and sour stomach occurring as my reward. Yet with this current incident of uncertainty arising, I realized that my sire, in yonder days, had found the right solution to having his perceptions challenged.

 

He simply immersed himself in the pleasures of being present and aware.

 

Papa R. D. would pour a mug of coffee, turn on his AM/FM receiver, and find some reading material. From that point in the day, forward, everything else would cease to be a bother. In my own manner, I have adapted that methodology to serve well, at my own household by Lake Erie.

 

Being busy at the desk is all that I crave.

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Campaign Season”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had been enjoying a seasonal fluctuation of summer temperatures on his front porch, as the afternoon arrived. A cooling trend that made being on his bench more of a joy than when the thermometer had reached the marker of 90 degrees, and beyond. He sat with a jug of Kentucky bourbon in hand, to celebrate being at a part of the calendar month where he had no doctor visits scheduled, and no need to be anywhere except outside and drinking. This disconnection from the prevailing timeline made him feel liberated. He did not need to keep a schedule of any sort, or to discipline himself with artificial limits on his activities. He took every pleasure as it came, with no forethought involved. This willful isolation validated him as a loner, and a misanthrope.

 

Unfortunately, other residents in the neighborhood were not willing to allow this quiet time to continue, undisturbed. Evergreen Estates had begun to manifest signs of political activism, and voter recruitment.

 

As the shaggy hermit alternated between swallows of cold brew and brown liquor, Linn Speck approached from his trailer abode on the corner of their street. He was overdressed for the occasion, in a business suit and necktie. A gold, cross pendant was pinned to his lapel. Under one arm, he carried leaflets printed by the local Republican Party. For his own personal safety, he paused at the foot of an access ramp that bordered the gravel driveway. But shouted loudly enough that he could be heard even at a great distance.

 

“LINK! I NEED TO GIVE YOU SOME LITERATURE IF THAT’S ALRIGHT! I’M OUT GOING DOOR-TO-DOOR FOR THE NEXT GOVERNOR OF OHIO!”

 

The disabled contrarian sputtered a wet spew of alcohol, and wiped his mouth. Owing to a deepening state of inebriation, an Appalachian brogue began to color his speech. He pondered reaching for one of his walking implements, to use as a weapon. But decided to remain calm, for the moment.

 

“Keep yer shit, dude. I get wagon loads of junk mail in my slot up at the postal barn. More is definitely not necessary...”

 

Linn flushed red to the point of feeling his pulse beat like a drum.

 

“Look neighbor, I know we don’t usually see eye-to-eye, but this election coming up is really important. Really, really, really important. I want people to think about the issues at hand, and vote smart! It’ll make a big difference in what happens for all of us, next year! I am telling people, ‘Use your head, vote red!’ That’s the ticket to a better life, right here at home! A godly life, and a patriotic one, too! We have to continue the fight against illegal immigrants, drug cartels, and Iran!”

 

Lincoln belched with a raw stench of half-digested nachos. Then scratched his gray beard.

 

“Thanks for the advice, Mr. Speck. Now drag your flabby ass outta here!”

 

The former association leader and church affiliate was stunned by being dismissed so quickly.

 

“Now wait a minute Link, you haven’t even read any of my material!”

 

The retired iconoclast narrowed his gaze and leaned forward on the bench.

 

“Unless ya want one of these canes across yer teeth, I’d suggest steppin’ lively there, bruh! Get that portly butt movin’ before I start swingin’ my sticks!”

 

Linn was disgusted by this threat of force. But chose to be on his way, without escalating the confrontation.

 

“JUST REMEMBER WHAT I SAID! VOTE RED! VOTE RED!”

 

The tipsy boozer had almost returned to his solitary mindset, when Darcy Trelane appeared from next door, in a Star Wars T-shirt, and pajama pants. Her buzzed-off hair was a bright shade of purple.

 

“HI NEIGHBORRRRR! I DON’T MEAN TO INTERRUPT YOU DURING YOUR BOTTLE TIME, BUT I’M PASSING OUT SOME PAPERS FOR THE FALL ELECTION SEASON! WOULD YOU BE INTERESTED IN VOLUNTEERING FOR A FUNDRAISER ON THE TOWNSHIP SQUARE? WE’RE GETTING MONEY TOGETHER FOR REFUGEES IN GAZA, CUBA, AND VENEZUELA!”

 

Lincoln clutched at his gut, which was gurgling in protest. Then addressed the earnest woman by her common nickname.

 

“Naw, thank ya Miss Poindexter! I don’t get out too much. This is my home base right here. I’m content to stay on my spot...”

 

The stocky, young female nodded with a smile. Then made an appeal for donations.

 

“I get it, old man! But you can contribute to the LGBTQ+ Free Palestine Progressive Climate Change Alliance, by clicking on a link included in my flier. We’re always looking for help! I’m going around the whole park, to tell people, ‘Whatever you do, vote blue!’ I hope you’ll think about what we represent at the ballot box! We need a Democrat leading our state government in Columbus!”

 

The habitual drunkard swooned on his wooden bench. His eyes had lost their ability to focus.

 

“I can’t read a damn thing right now, Miss P! Don’t bother givin’ me any printed material. I’d just toss it in my trash bin with that shit from the dickhead on our corner. Maybe you’ll catch up with each other while canvassing the community. That might be interesting, he’s in the opposite camp from yer tribe...”

 

Darcy shuddered while thinking of the balding agitator with his own stilted pamphlets.

 

“Ugggggh! I can’t stand that guy! He’s a perfect example of why we need a populist, social democracy to protect people who don’t subscribe to that way of backwards thinking!”

 

Lincoln chortled out loud.

 

“I reckon he feels the same damn way about y’all as well! But it is what it is, right? Both of ya can think whatever sounds good. Just do it somewhere else, okay? I’m fed up with all of the shell-game bullshit! Neither side will remember me after the campaign is over. And they won’t lift a finger to help anybody in a place like this rathole of a trailer park! So, let me drink in peace! Screw ‘em all!”

 

The unconventional femme appeared to be flustered and confused. But departed without continuing her impromptu speech.

 

After opening the whiskey bottle once again, the quiet recluse slouched on his seat. Across the street, he could see both of his visitors knocking on doors and passionately sharing their partisan beliefs. In general, the reactions that were displayed matched his own level of disinterest. Though when November arrived, perhaps, that mood of apathy might be subject to change.

 

For the moment, he only wanted to focus on one goal. To be obliterated before sunset. Anything else could wait until a cool, crisp day in the fall.

“Gone”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Gone and invisible

No longer to exist

I’ve been on the edge

But not quite ready for this

It’s a short hop from where I stand

At the back of a crowd

Shaded and shadow-banned

Turned inside, out

Gone and invisible

Right off the cliff

Like the doctor of many faces

Skating in a time slip

Dust from the ashes

Of a self, past-dated

If someone had listened

Perhaps they could have related

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

Cloaked in a shroud

Words come to mind

Not spoken aloud

I tried my best to do

What needed to be done

But that task tripped my toes

And left me flat on my bum

Gone and invisible

A see-through affair

No nice notice paid

To an empty chair

It seems a stretch to think

I’ll lose my identity

But that twist of the poker

Comes with impunity

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

A page from the spine

This piece reads more easily

In braille for the blind

With the double-check dare

Of a dupe sold on confidence

A kick to the slats

And a joyful jump of the fence

Gone and invisible

Like I was never here

They’ll debate with good reason

In the passing of a year

My still, silent lips

Won’t argue that point of truth

It’s almost the same

As a needle in a thatched roof

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

Given up as a ghost

A figure from antiquity

A notch in the fencepost

No cause can be just

When the yield is a blank stare

A reach ‘round the cornerstone

An inscription, unaware

Gone and invisible

A disproven belief

One long held as foundational

A revelation, indiscrete

Treading on the ground

Thought sacred and just

That’s the wind of a clock spring

Behind inner workings of rust

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

Echoes in a hollow head

A crack in the window pane

An abandoned homestead

Drapes torn and frayed

As they hang without purpose, now

Serving here only

To frame the sights they allow

Gone and invisible

I might have expected

My place in the corridor

To be boldly rejected

Not even the kindness

Of a tribute sung in eulogy

That is the happenstance

For a Johnny-come-lately

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

You can see right through me

I have inherited

The name of yours truly

Caked with a muddy glaze

Left over from the march

Of a booted clan on the move

Under the marble arch

Gone and invisible

A flicker of fantastic fare

Imagination lingers

In a crawlspace, under the stairs

There I hid for years

Knowing what would come of it

The wealth of a long life

Marked down as a bad fit

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

 

Gone and invisible

Not another second given up

That is the ritual

For a seeker who passed the Judas cup

Once the daylight returned

I knew well that night was nigh

And darkness overtook

That glimmer in the sky

Gone and invisible

Back pages that have faded white

No words left to read

A manuscript, gone out of sight

At the zero hour

When the ticker tocks away

I will be granted peace

On this carousel of grace

I’m gone

Yes, I’m gone

Nothing To See Here: “Country Crooner” (Part Thirteen)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

After days of being inactive at my desk in the home office, I had slipped into a reflective mood. Pondering events throughout my childhood, and beyond. This look back across the years brought memories that were buried in antiquity to the fore. Finally, I reflected on being the eldest son of a Christian pastor. This heritage had always provided a note of contrast, as one who wandered from the chosen path. I carried a measure of guilt in every wanton act of self-satisfaction. This legacy was one I could not shed, no matter how far from the teachings of my youth I strayed.

 

Lyrics for an Appalachian hymn of sorts began to form in my head. And I sat at the keyboard as they traveled mystically, through my fingers, to the screen.

 

Grace

 

“Hellfire is hot, I heard the preacher say

A hard reckoning, on display

I held the Bible, while praying along

I knew that God’s grand glory was strong

Hell is real, that lesson hit home

I saw Beelzebub upon his throne

A deep, dark dungeon where I may enter in

But not before salvation cleanses my sin

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

I’ve done my share of things to regret

A measure of misdeeds that I’d like to forget

Sleepless nights spent on bawdy affairs

Drinking whiskey till I fell down the stairs

I’ve had plenty of reasons to ride

Far away from the incoming tide

The only refuge is one with the Lord

Away from conquests my soul can’t afford

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Every failing brings me close to the cliff

On the edge of a damnation guilt-trip

In the saddle, headed toward my demise

The reaper comes in a friendly disguise

I’ve been tricked before, and put off the path

Wandering and lost, without my treasure map

But the word gives a clue to direction

I turn back to holy protection

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

I don’t deserve this chance to repent

I know the end will come with judgement

But in the scriptures, there is a plan

To overcome, the weakness of man

I’ve been proud, and also bold

Not afraid to chase silver and gold

Yet the yield of that race is no prize

I’ve come to see with opened eyes

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

As a child, I heard those tales from afar

About apostles and the healing of scars

The Son of God in Mary’s womb

Manna from heaven and a rising from the tomb

I used to blink at those stories and lament

Until realizing that my brittle bones were bent

The breath of life had become too slight

When reaching the cool edge of night

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Now I know that the truth is revealed

For all who struggle, there is an appeal

An open door through which to escape

From the wages of sin and decay

That beggar’s bonus is one given without cost

Only the love of that man on the cross

I cannot earn the right to be made pure

But in believing, my hope is assured

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

The flesh is weak, this has been defined

A coil of cares that burden the mind

With a desire that does not suffice

An empty vessel of fleeting delights

I seek the mansion prepared on high

When Armageddon is drawing nigh

Not a single act done here has remained

I am free from the crimson stain

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Cowboys sit tall, and curse the heat

That was my choice until becoming complete

I turned quickly from the ways of a fool

On bended knees, instead of a barstool

The church was once a spot that caused me to grin

Until the preacher said, ‘Boy, come on in!’

By entering that place of worship and love

I found a better path to the father, above

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

If you accept this rhyme of my own

I hope you’ll not seek eternity, alone

Read the gospel and receive its worth

Find your way to resurrection and rebirth

Don’t think of me as anything else

Than a true seeker, of heavenly wealth

I am a backslider, still striving to flee

Into the arms of eternity

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive...”

 

T. Randall Squire was struck by this introspective confession of sin and sadness. He called my phone on a midweek morning, as I was still having coffee.

 

“Boy, I gotta say yer a damn riddle to me! One minute I get a feelin’ y’all are a down-home hillbilly, and the next, ya sound like some sort of artistic freak. And then this churchy vibe comes up, I just don’t know what to expect! What kind of thing are ya tryin’ to do here? Is this feelin’ sorry fer yerself, or maybe havin’ a crisis of faith? What gives, pardner?”

 

I clutched my stomach, which was empty as I had not yet made anything for breakfast.

 

“Sir, as the kids like to say, it’s complicated. I’ve got all of that and more rambling around in my subconscious mind. You might say, a taste for thrills, and a touch of shame for perpetually going off the rails...”

 

My contact at the record label huffed while taking a break from his cigar.

 

“Rodney, we’ve all messed up now and then, it ain’t a thing to worry yerself with. Everybody has a good side and a bad side. Some just tilt those scales more in one direction or another!”

 

I had to agree. But felt differently about the complexities of a human personality.

 

“See, I’ve got that ingrained into my DNA so deeply that it affects everything I do. Sometimes when looking into a mirror, I can catch a glimpse of all those generations that went before. It’s all in the eyes. Issac, Andrew Jackson, Kromer Columbus, McGarvey, Rhoderick, all of them are looking back at me from the other side of that reflective glass. Except I didn’t stay with the program. My turn came, and I burned the candle at both ends. I sold my birthright. I squandered my soul, so to speak...”

 

Country Squire wheezed and coughed while listening.

 

“Dang it boy, settle down! Yer way too twisted up on this story. Though I do appreciate ya writin’ a little something fer the religious types out there, they buy our recordings too! Y’all know that kinda stuff sells just like the drinkin’ songs. It’s all part of the mix!”

 

My entertainment cohort seemed to be missing the emotions attached to what I had composed. But instead of attempting to broaden my explanation, I let the subject drop.

 

“Thanks for your support, sir. You keep listening, and I’ll stay vigilant with my quill!”

 

“Grace”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

Hellfire is hot, I heard the preacher say

A hard reckoning, on display

I held the Bible, while praying along

I knew that God’s grand glory was strong

Hell is real, that lesson hit home

I saw Beelzebub upon his throne

A deep, dark dungeon where I may enter in

But not before salvation cleanses my sin

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

I’ve done my share of things to regret

A measure of misdeeds that I’d like to forget

Sleepless nights spent on bawdy affairs

Drinking whiskey till I fell down the stairs

I’ve had plenty of reasons to ride

Far away from the incoming tide

The only refuge is one with the Lord

Away from conquests my soul can’t afford

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Every failing brings me close to the cliff

On the edge of a damnation guilt-trip

In the saddle, headed toward my demise

The reaper comes in a friendly disguise

I’ve been tricked before, and put off the path

Wandering and lost, without my treasure map

But the word gives a clue to direction

I turn back to holy protection

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

I don’t deserve this chance to repent

I know the end will come with judgement

But in the scriptures, there is a plan

To overcome, the weakness of man

I’ve been proud, and also bold

Not afraid to chase silver and gold

Yet the yield of that race is no prize

I’ve come to see with opened eyes

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

As a child, I heard those tales from afar

About apostles and the healing of scars

The Son of God in Mary’s womb

Manna from heaven and a rising from the tomb

I used to blink at those stories and lament

Until realizing that my brittle bones were bent

The breath of life had become too slight

When reaching the cool edge of night

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Now I know that the truth is revealed

For all who struggle, there is an appeal

An open door through which to escape

From the wages of sin and decay

That beggar’s bonus is one given without cost

Only the love of that man on the cross

I cannot earn the right to be made pure

But in believing, my hope is assured

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

The flesh is weak, this has been defined

A coil of cares that burden the mind

With a desire that does not suffice

An empty vessel of fleeting delights

I seek the mansion prepared on high

When Armageddon is drawing nigh

Not a single act done here has remained

I am free from the crimson stain

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

Cowboys sit tall, and curse the heat

That was my choice until becoming complete

I turned quickly from the ways of a fool

On bended knees, instead of a barstool

The church was once a spot that caused me to grin

Until the preacher said, ‘Boy, come on in!’

By entering that place of worship and love

I found a better path to the father, above

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

If you accept this rhyme of my own

I hope you’ll not seek eternity, alone

Read the gospel and receive its worth

Find your way to resurrection and rebirth

Don’t think of me as anything else

Than a true seeker, of heavenly wealth

I am a backslider, still striving to flee

Into the arms of eternity

By grace, revived

By grace, still alive

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “January Jolt”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

New Year’s Day, 2010. A benchmark that would define my existence for years to come.

 

The inaugural hours of January brought a somber and silent mood to the Icehouse, in that distant era. After months of financial and relationship struggles, I found myself living alone, working in a community where I knew no one, and facing ruin with banks and creditors. This condition did not appear out of the ether of course, but was an unexpected result precipitated by good intentions and bad choices. My second marriage, a costly error in judgement, exploded as the old calendar was about to expire. I had exhausted my savings, borrowing capabilities, and the patience of family members. What remained was a basic level of subsistence. I held a management position at a business in Ashtabula County, and threw myself into this gainful occupation not only with the knowledge that it paid the bills, but also because everything else I possessed had been jettisoned to survive.

 

To break the chill of winter, I wore a hand-me-down jacket from my late father-in-law, with stains and holes, and a broken zipper. It had been stitched with colors of the Dallas Cowboys incorporated into its design, an NFL team that turned my stomach. I ate Valu Time macaroni & cheese, or sandwiches of bologna, because those options matched my budgetary needs. Otherwise, I surrendered any personal frivolities. The routine I adopted was decidedly simple, to spend every possible moment on duty for my employer, before coming home to collapse.

 

There was no sympathy offered during this period of reckoning. Members of my bloodline rightly figured that I had failed to properly handle the details of being an adult, and therefore, met with a passage of judgment. I could not escape a feeling that their scorn was somewhat justified. Yet when driving north along Route 534, with the bluster of inclement weather impeding my progress, I shuddered and shivered at the wheel.

 

A sense of responsibility kept me focused. Otherwise, I had nothing else to guide my journey.

 

My home was at a residence park in a rural township, south of Lake Erie. Far enough removed from others in my brood that it offered a useful amount of separation. I did not interact with neighbors or friends while attempting to gain some sort of absolution, and rebirth. Midnight hours that followed my shifts in Geneva were occupied with recycled, VHS tapes from a collection in the entertainment center. A particular favorite was Jerry Springer’s ‘Too Hot for TV’ which I watched over and over again. The mayhem and conflict matched what had transpired in my own life, with ironic perfection. I would drink while viewing these chaotic clips, until fatigue finally overwhelmed my consciousness. Then, give thanks for surrender.

 

The weeks and months that passed were dark by every measure. I felt as if fate had swallowed me whole, like a proverbial whale in the Biblical story of Jonah.

 

Mounds of snow marked the entrance to my driveway. I used four-wheel drive every day, to get out of my small community. Often the trek home after sunset was a lonely jaunt driving along behind a plow truck, with its flashing lights leading the way. I would beg our creator for protection while dodging drifts and navigating squalls of blinding white. Night-time radio offered companionship as I steered through the mess. I became conditioned to listening, regardless of the subject matter. Sometimes, about the woes of Cleveland and its sports franchises. And at other times, reflections on political conflicts, or historical factoids. Most appropriate however, were shows dedicated to UFO sightings and government conspiracies.

 

I was something of an alien myself, in that moment. Present in body and mind, but disconnected in spirit.

 

When spring arrived, it revealed the true nature of my isolation. A toy basket appeared in the yard, something that had been buried under layers of precipitation since late in the previous year. Christmas lights were still hanging along one side of my home. They had gone slack over the frosty, post-holiday season, and were a noisy reminder of my own neglect. Inside, I realized that a pecan pie still sat on the kitchen table, under wrapping paper and dishes, and other household debris.

 

I had been completely focused on staying employed, and restoring my good name. Everything else had become invisible and insignificant.

 

While rebuilding the reputation that had been put asunder, I paid cash for everything. Eventually, I took out a secured card with my own bank, which used a deposit of $300.00 to create an artificial line of credit. That exercise allowed me to return to better standing with the institution. Eventually, I remembered that Citi Financial had been helpful to my father, when he was mired in debt and insolvency. I applied for an account and amazingly, was accepted despite the poor rating inherited during my marital decline.

 

The ordeal of having lived under a bridge overpass in New York State helped me to endure during this extended crisis. As did a childhood spent moving constantly, with collection agencies perpetually seeking to contact my sire.

 

Just as winter transitioned to spring, and summer, this chasm of depression eventually brightened into better days of hope and fulfillment. I made new friends in the city where I had landed as a salaried supervisor. I began to interact regularly with some of the curious inhabitants of my blue-collar neighborhood. And I gained confidence in myself, as someone who possessed the ability to cope with unfortunate events, no matter when they arrived.

 

Yet the lesson of that comeuppance has lingered ever sense. It was for me, what English guitarist Keith Richards once called a period of ‘heavy education.’

 

I was conservative before, in habits and choices. But now, even more resistant to gamble with so much to lose on the table. My schooling reinforced the value of stern instruction, from progenitors who had survived World Wars and economic calamities. A sort of minimalism had always been in effect, in my psychology. Now, that inclination became paramount in philosophical terms.

 

I had often fretted over circumstances that were unkind, and inconvenient. Yet the yield of this hard-knocks training was more than simply a higher tally of points on my FICO score, or a greater sum in my bank stash. It was the knowledge that God’s grace remained available, even to one who had fallen short of his glory, when no excuse for that failing existed.

 

I had met the challenge, and won. My prize was the most valuable of all, life itself.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Maple Avenue”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“When ya ain’t got nothin’, you got nothing to lose. You’re invisible now, ya got no secrets to conceal...” – Bob Dylan

 

Possibly more times than is warranted by its intrinsic, artistic value, I have told the story of coming home from Ithaca, New York in 1983. As a young man of 22 years, literally with the clothes on my back, a single Japanese guitar, and a box of mismatched, vinyl records. I was broken emotionally and exhausted within. I weighed around 140 pounds, had a waist measurement of 29.5 inches, and had been home-hopping between friends when not staying under a bridge overpass. My summer in the Finger Lakes Region had been an adventure worthy of being remembered in prose, or song lyrics. Yet the denouement came as a crisis of judgment and circumstance. I was literally at the point of ceasing to exist. Something which strangely, seemed attractive at the time. I thought subconsciously that a final exit on the order of Sid Vicious might be worthy. Still, I had not been programmed for such a demise. Instilled in my mental DNA was a lust for living. One that I could not escape, even when on the Empire State concrete, with winter snow whipping through my tangled, unruly hair.

 

My parents lived on a street in northeastern Ohio named Maple Avenue. From the very beginning, it caused my stomach to ache, with such a bland nomenclature attached. I bristled at having to see the heartland again. It was in cultural terms, a spot on the map that held nothing for me as a traveler and poet. Only my genetic origin had happened on Buckeye soil. Otherwise, I looked upon it as a foreign land, one I had been able to escape by chance.

 

That mindset, along with a lingering dependency on cigarettes and alcohol, colored my view as I returned with the help of a friendly driver who must have pitied my incompetence at becoming a functional adult.

 

My father might have taken a hard-nosed attitude to this prodigal period spent wandering, alone and hungry. And indeed, I sometimes ponder that he offered no scorn or criticism when I appeared at the family homestead, on a late afternoon. I suspect that my look must have shocked his middle-of-the-road sensibilities. I reeked of tobacco and Tennessee whiskey. My clothes had not been laundered in weeks. I was gaunt and pale, and visibly lost. Worst of all, I carried a chain-wallet in my rear pocket. It held little except for a library card and coupons for pizza. Never any significant amount of money.

 

Their home was not large enough to offer a spare bedroom, or even a proper place to lay my head. So, I slept on the couch in their living room. This setting would continue for about three years. It proved to be cramped, uncomfortable, and awkward. But still preferable to stretching out between cinder blocks, on gravel and mud. Or, sleeping on a floor with only a sheet underneath, and my leather jacket folded as a pillow.

 

My siblings had spots already assigned, upstairs. Neither were particularly spacious. My sire and mater occupied a room off of the dining area, which had no door. Their bed nearly filled the entire space. A narrow lane led to the closet. Because the structure had been one of the first in their neighborhood, it had no modernist design elements incorporated. There was one bathroom, with a clawfoot tub. The kitchen boasted enough square footage to turn around from the stove to a single sink, and not any more.

 

A cement porch had been constructed, facing the back yard. It was my perch when smoking Camel products, to relieve stress throughout the day.

 

After a brief stint as a warehouse selector in Cleveland, I was hired for a remodel crew at a local department store in this adopted village. The job transitioned to a regular position, and gave me a needed measure of stability. I did janitorial and maintenance chores, with occasional assignments to move freight and build displays. It dampened my spirits after having been in the shadow of Cornell University as an artistic adventurer. But put cash in my biker billfold.

 

Eventually, I bought a 1973 Volkswagen Beetle for $750.00 from a Ford dealership situated nearby. The German vehicle was ratty, had no heat, and only one, studded tire for driving in icy conditions. Yet it boosted my confidence. I had finally begun to build a foundation for myself that could not be erased by bad decisions or misfortune.

 

When my sister married in 1985, her husband moved in with us at the tiny, yellow abode. This choice seemed to stretch the limits of good reason, because we were already cohabitating in a confined environment that kept our group on edge. My mother joked that with everyone working different shifts, her pots and pans never got cold. I did my best to stay at work, or among friends at a tavern south of town on Route 322. My brother typically spent most of his time wrenching on a fleet of used cars parked in the lot next door. Often, with only one roadworthy enough to be operated, at a time.

 

In the moment, this episode felt restrictive and maddening. I could not wait to leave.

 

Currently however, when viewed with hindsight, I find my thoughts drifting back to that period with fondness and affection. I dote on memories of those who have since passed away in our bloodline. And of places and traditions that were sacrificed as I developed survival skills that had been lacking before. I learned valuable lessons from being stuck in that shack, with five other residents and a household budget barely generous enough to support even one.

 

Our ability to cope continues to reverberate with importance, even today.

 

This reflection reinforces my personal belief that quite often, life is a matter of perspective. When I was in my darkest hour as a human being, with few allies and little faith in the future, the glimmer of hope was never extinguished. Oddly, with no resources and plenty of guilt weighing heavily upon my shoulders, I had an unlimited amount of wonder with which to greet the sunrise, every morning. The opportunities to do better were many. Even if an embrace by Lady Luck seemed all but impossible to imagine.

 

I kept writing and chasing new vistas, despite every inconvenient turn of events. Until at last, the love of my family offered a chance to be rescued.

 

That uneasy, crash-landing at Maple Avenue made everything that followed a possibility.