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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Interaction with T. Randall Squire had proved to be a catalyst for plenty of creative work at the desk in my home office. I was glad for that persistent spark of inspiration to be ignited. Yet after weeks of writing song lyrics, my inner muse went silent. I sat and started at the computer monitor, while feeling empty. Despite scrolling through news stories of current events, reading e-mail messages, and doodling with programs stored on the hard drive, no rescue from this static period could be found. I sat outside in the summer heat, with cold beverages in hand, and a box fan from Lasko circulating air on my porch.

 

Neighbors passed, waving and honking their horns. As I slipped into an alcoholic funk, my senses were blurred. I suspected that perhaps, my brief, metaphorical ride on the mechanical bull had ended. Like all such wordsmithing adventures, it must have run its course. I felt content with the yield in print, if somewhat saddened by its sudden passing.

 

Then, while pondering the lazy, afternoon hours of a midweek day, with bookkeeping duties brought up to date and my counter cleared of junk mail, a new tingle of imagination registered in my head. The somber theme of saying goodbye to this streak of Appalachian echoes produced one last turn of phrase that quickly lit up my cerebral synapses.

 

Saying Goodbye

 

Saying goodbye comes easy

To a heart you intended to break

And from the beginning of this roadhouse affair

I knew your love was never a keepsake

It was a matter of whiskey, poured in the glass

And a dancefloor turn on your heel

I kept you entertained for a moment

But after that, the clock made its appeal

Saying goodbye comes quickly

When your plan has been to skate

A ruby-red curve of confidence

From lips with so little to say

I took my cue from that flutter

The wide wings of a butterfly

You knew every move and made it stick

Right until last call arrived

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes naturally

With your eyes upon the door

I didn’t pay enough real attention to know

What you had been there, looking for

I won’t curse your skill as a deceiver

Because I was too damn naïve

I never should have let myself get tricked

And taken out for a tease

Saying goodbye becomes a habit

When you’ve had the cowboys on parade

We all figured wrong and paid the fee

A hard lesson in being played

Saying goodbye is a chore to chase

A profession for cold-blooded dames

Who delight themselves with fancy fools

Getting beaten at their own game

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes swiftly

When the night runs hot and fast

The gentlest touch and a kiss on the cheek

Meant nothing with an empty glass

You were off that stool and hustling

You disappeared like yesterday’s news

When I looked around to figure it out

I didn’t have a gawdamn clue

Saying goodbye can be a sin

But not if you don’t ever believe

There’s no breaking of rules when your guide

Is nothing more than a motel passkey

But get a good laugh before you leave

‘Cause I won’t be drinking alone

There are plenty of losers at quitting time

And one of them might follow me home

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye feels like freedom

When you have no sense of pride

The only cause you keep is to prowl the streets

Bedhopping and hitching a ride

That lifestyle has its shiny side

It might seem to be a laugh

But when you’re skipping down the sidewalk

Don’t forget what you could have had

Saying goodbye leaves a mark

It’s a jolt that the mind can’t forget

With a bow raised to the target

And an arrow right through the chest

I’m ready for a bottle on the bar

Got to drink this mood away

But the morning will make things much clearer

Tomorrow is another day

 

Saying goodbye...”

 

I was giddy at my keyboard. Literally jonesing for each verse to appear on the screen. I tapped and typed, and breathlessly worked my way through the composition in a matter of minutes. Following this heated exercise, I pulled out my acoustic pluckster, and began to croon a version of what had just been written.

 

Before an hour had elapsed, Country Squire was on his phone, and calling intently.

 

“BOY, YER IN A GROOVE, I RECKON! THAT’S QUITE A HEAP O’ HITS Y’ALL HAVE WRITTEN! NOW, I LIKE THE BASIC SOUND OF THOSE TRACKS, BUT I FIGURE IT’S HIGH TIME WE GOT A REAL BAND TOGETHER! YA UNDERSTAND? I KNOW PLENTY OF PROFESSIONAL MUSICIANS THAT ARE LOOKIN’ FER A JOB. IT WOULDN’T BE HARD TO GET YA HOOKED UP! ALL I NEED IS YER APPROVAL TO GO FORWARD!”

My belly gurgled noisily at his proposal. Over a decade of disability and retirement, I had grown accustomed to the solitude of living alone and being free from keeping a regular schedule.

 

“Sir, I do appreciate your confidence in my art. But that’s a step I’m not ready to take. I’ve been out of commission for years. I hobble around this singlewide shack with two canes. I can’t imagine trying to project a public persona for the purpose of entertaining an audience. Maybe 30 years ago that might have been a gamble I would have taken. But my body is spent. I am living as my late father did, on Mountaineer soil. He worked in the mornings, drank coffee throughout the day, and took care of my ailing mother as an act of love. In addition to preaching the gospel in church on Sundays and at special meetings. That was enough for him, and what I am doing now is enough for me...”

 

The entertainment tycoon growled under his breath. I knew that he must have stubbed out his cigar while seething with irritation.

 

“Boy, yer gonna miss one hell of an opportunity here! This is gold waitin’ to be mined! One-hundred percent real gold! I know what sells in the marketplace, trust me! I’ve made a damn good career out of gettin’ it right! I can promise y’all will be a top star in the business. This is the chance of a lifetime, Rodney! There are millions of people out there who’d be tickled pink to get a shot at being famous like this! Are ya really gonna pass it by?”

 

My contact at the record label was wasting his breath. But I wanted to be polite and diplomatic in rejecting his kind offer.

 

“Sir, this isn’t a choice I can make for myself. My family genetics have already intervened. I am a shaggy, old hermit now. If you enjoy what I’ve been creating here at this rural park in Ohio, then I thank you. But there’s nothing more I can do...”

 

The line went quiet after a loud, electronic click which I guessed was the result of Squire hanging up, abruptly. My face burned a bit, as if it had reddened from embarrassment. Yet I felt no regret over declining to be a paid performer on his roster.

 

I remained content to be an anonymous storyteller, with guitar.

 

“Saying Goodbye”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

Saying goodbye comes easy

To a heart you intended to break

And from the beginning of this roadhouse affair

I knew your love was never a keepsake

It was a matter of whiskey, poured in the glass

And a dancefloor turn on your heel

I kept you entertained for a moment

But after that, the clock made its appeal

Saying goodbye comes quickly

When your plan has been to skate

A ruby-red curve of confidence

From lips with so little to say

I took my cue from that flutter

The wide wings of a butterfly

You knew every move and made it stick

Right until last call arrived

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes naturally

With your eyes upon the door

I didn’t pay enough real attention to know

What you had been there, looking for

I won’t curse your skill as a deceiver

Because I was too damn naïve

I never should have let myself get tricked

And taken out for a tease

Saying goodbye becomes a habit

When you’ve had the cowboys on parade

We all figured wrong and paid the fee

A hard lesson in being played

Saying goodbye is a chore to chase

A profession for cold-blooded dames

Who delight themselves with fancy fools

Getting beaten at their own game

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye comes swiftly

When the night runs hot and fast

The gentlest touch and a kiss on the cheek

Meant nothing with an empty glass

You were off that stool and hustling

You disappeared like yesterday’s news

When I looked around to figure it out

I didn’t have a gawdamn clue

Saying goodbye can be a sin

But not if you don’t ever believe

There’s no breaking of rules when your guide

Is nothing more than a motel passkey

But get a good laugh before you leave

‘Cause I won’t be drinking alone

There are plenty of losers at quitting time

And one of them might follow me home

 

Saying goodbye...

 

Saying goodbye feels like freedom

When you have no sense of pride

The only cause you keep is to prowl the streets

Bedhopping and hitching a ride

That lifestyle has its shiny side

It might seem to be a laugh

But when you’re skipping down the sidewalk

Don’t forget what you could have had

Saying goodbye leaves a mark

It’s a jolt that the mind can’t forget

With a bow raised to the target

And an arrow right through the chest

I’m ready for a bottle on the bar

Got to drink this mood away

But the morning will make things much clearer

Tomorrow is another day

 

Saying goodbye...

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

I hadn’t been completely honest with T. Randall Squire, which he probably knew without having to put it into words. As a son of Appalachia, I had a natural connection with Country & Western music, and the art of storytelling via musical compositions. It was indeed, part of my heritage. A pursuit long practiced by mountain folk, from the dawn of their immigration to this continent as refugees leaving foreign lands. So, while I did not hold much affinity for the modern evolution of that earthy genre, its roots were my own. That is why, after every impulsive detour into dark caverns of free expression, I always returned to the fertile soil from which I was born.

 

At my desk, this habit once again produced an expressive, sorrowful ballad of a fall from grace.

 

Wages of Sin

 

“A clock on the wall says you’re leaving again

I should have known it was a matter of time

But I have enjoyed the feeling

Of keeping you around, to ease my mind

Comfort had me chasing after shadows

When the truth, could plainly be seen

So when you walk out that door on Monday

It won’t come as a surprise to me

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

I had a wedding ring on my finger, once

And a vow taken to the heart

I never intended to cheat on that deal

But circumstances drove us apart

She got a burr right under her saddle

A prickly bit of bad advice

That told her to take, control of the odds

And drive a wedge between man and wife

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

That strategy worked well enough to ruin

Everything we had as a pair

Pretty soon when I looked at her picture

No magic was lingering there

We split on an evening when she locked me out

It wasn’t something that I had expected

But with my clothes in a trash bag, waiting

I realized our romance had been neglected

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

That’s why I’ll take this free ride for fun

‘Cause it’s all I’ve got left at the end

I could use a kiss and a warm embrace

Now that I’ve got a room at the Days Inn

My wife is somewhere feeling happy but hurt

A combination I don’t suggest

She got a court-ordered code of justice

And I’m the one stuck with this mess

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

You’re mighty young and pretty, girl

Perhaps a better friend than I deserve

But since you don’t know where I started out

Maybe we can work our way ‘round the curve

Come to me when you’re ready for a cowboy

And I’ll be your ticket to ride

Take your money from the night stand

Give me a wink as you say goodbye

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through...”

 

I took out my flat-top acoustic, and fumbled through a demo of this tune, with my voice sounding somewhat hoarse, and strained by emotion. The result was another short video, posted on my YouTube channel. I knew what would follow, and anticipated hearing from my entertainment contact before too many hours had passed.

 

Country Squire left a voicemail message on the phone that mocked me openly. I could hear a ring of satisfaction in his voice. Raucous laughter echoed in my ear.

 

“I TOLD Y’ALL, DAMMIT! IT’S IN YER BONES, BOY! YA CAN’T JUST SHED THAT HERITAGE LIKE A SNAKE SQUEEZIN’ OUTTA IT’S SKIN! YER A GAWDAMN HILLBILLY AT HEART!”

 

I bristled slightly at being given such a restrictive label. But of course, his admonition met the test of literal truth. That upbringing had been a strong component of my life, as a child, and beyond.

 

On WKKY in Geneva, I heard an entire block of songs supposedly authored and performed by Rodney Dean, the rising star. Real information about his identity was conspicuously absent. As were any details of upcoming shows in the area. I suspected that my cohort at the record label would soon want to negotiate about future appearances in public. Yet my actual skills had diminished greatly over time. Disability and retirement redefined who I was as a person, with a reclusive lifestyle being the yield. I could never hope to sustain a career on stage.

 

Fortunately, this eventuality did not present itself right away.

 

I took some comfort in remaining anonymous, among neighbors and friends in my rural area. Despite hearing my work on radios around the community, and streaming on cellular devices, no one suspected that I had any connection with this mysterious persona. I was safe and invisible on my porch. Able to drink peacefully, during the afternoon hours, once I had completed working in my home office.

 

The newspaper blog drew an increasing amount of web traffic, as did my video site. Both of these things elevated my standing in search results on platforms like Google, Bing, Dogpile, and Duck Duck Go. But the cloak I wore stayed intact. It gave me the ability to engage in making art without the pressing consequences of too much public exposure.

 

My only regret from this unspoken bargain was with the realization that most of my material held no value for those interested in popular culture. My books, magazine articles, and internet posts continued to languish in obscurity. I was a non-entity, lost in the vastness of cyberspace.

 

Still, that tradeoff kept me busy at the desk. And, drinking outside when my creative labor for the day was finished.

“Wages of Sin”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

A clock on the wall says you’re leaving again

I should have known it was a matter of time

But I have enjoyed the feeling

Of keeping you around, to ease my mind

Comfort had me chasing after shadows

When the truth, could plainly be seen

So when you walk out that door on Monday

It won’t come as a surprise to me

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

I had a wedding ring on my finger, once

And a vow taken to the heart

I never intended to cheat on that deal

But circumstances drove us apart

She got a burr right under her saddle

A prickly bit of bad advice

That told her to take, control of the odds

And drive a wedge between man and wife

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

That strategy worked well enough to ruin

Everything we had as a pair

Pretty soon when I looked at her picture

No magic was lingering there

We split on an evening when she locked me out

It wasn’t something that I had expected

But with my clothes in a trash bag, waiting

I realized our romance had been neglected

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

That’s why I’ll take this free ride for fun

‘Cause it’s all I’ve got left at the end

I could use a kiss and a warm embrace

Now that I’ve got a room at the Days Inn

My wife is somewhere feeling happy but hurt

A combination I don’t suggest

She got a court-ordered code of justice

And I’m the one stuck with this mess

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

You’re mighty young and pretty, girl

Perhaps a better friend than I deserve

But since you don’t know where I started out

Maybe we can work our way ‘round the curve

Come to me when you’re ready for a cowboy

And I’ll be your ticket to ride

Take your money from the night stand

Give me a wink as you say goodbye

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

Just a weekend walk in the park

And holding hands, long after dark

Those are the things you do

When the wages of sin come through

 

 

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

After weeks of writing material and posting it online, with demo recordings occasionally adding to this creative experience, I had grown accustomed to having my work critiqued by T. Randall Squire, the notable record executive. I recognized that he had a keen sense of what would sell to listeners and fans around the nation. Yet as a wordsmith in a rural township of Ohio, I had little interest in playing the role of a jester in his court of public opinion. I simply worked at my desk throughout morning hours in my singlewide abode, and then adjourned to the front porch for chilled refreshments and salty snacks. But when my thoughts took a dark turn, after reading news reports of the day, I met with a forceful rebuke that was hot in my ears.

 

What I delivered on my personal blog was cryptic and deep.

 

Reaper

 

“A fortunate fade to black

The sorrow of a heart attack

Rendered on the morning news

Dispersal of chaotic views

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

War in the eastern lands

Soaring over burning sands

Oaths taken for revenge

Of the time, we know not when

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

Opponents take respective sides

Bolstered by strong allies

Conflicts registered in words

God and country, undeterred

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

Magic forces contemplate

Destruction in the Hormuz Strait

Ships at sea sing of when

Quiet will return again

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

Poverty is now maintained

Inner cities, outer lanes

Crumbling in the heat of day

Morticians feast in this melee

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

Jealous jokers do debates

Saviors on the scene too late

Blood and treasure, all for naught

No one dies if none are caught

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

An open window sucking air

If by chance you linger there

Caution is a holy word

Take care not to be disturbed

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

A thousand feet above the ground

Birds of prey still abound

Pointed at the looming sky

All face judgment, all will cry

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

A poem taught unto a child

Echoes in the afterwhile

Truths unspoken congregate

No route provided for escape

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

Helter skelter, knees will bend

When the games have reached their end

The darkening of a clouded morn

Listen closely, be forewarned

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

If I tell of my own sin

Will you love me once again?

I dare not take that step alone

Otherwise, that fault I own

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

A graying of the azure blue

A promise made, a promise true

I must turn my head and cough

Or face up to this horrid loss

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

Names are spoken, in the night

An incantation of delight

Witches brew, the cauldron hot

Until their potion spills the pot

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

None are fooled by this fine dance

All is left to a game of chance

Sitting at the theater’s edge

A dangle on the narrow ledge

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

If I fail to mention clear

The likelihood of finding fear

Gift me with forgiveness, please

Here I am, a humbled breed

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

Envision what cannot be seen

A shadow across the projection screen

In that whisper, much revealed

The sting of justice, wounds unhealed

The reaper comes

The reaper comes...”

 

Country Squire demanded a real-time conversation. Unfortunately, his plea to be heard came after I had already begun drinking, outside. The fresh air, golden sunshine, and alcohol had affected my senses, and self-discipline, with obvious inebriation. So, I was less than civilized in listening to his complaint.

 

“Boy, y’all have talent, I can say that without any reservations. That means ya need to use it rightly though, it’s not somethin’ that oughta be thrown around like popcorn! Now, maybe ya get a kick from writin’ these weird little poems about hard times, I don’t know. But if yer gonna do it, shape that mess into somethin’ workin’ folks can relate to! Don’t go off on a damn tangent and start soundin’ like some Goth or Emo freak of nature!”

 

I was impressed that he apparently had some familiarity with alternative forms of popular music. Yet bristled slightly at being chastised for exercising my artistic liberty.

 

“Sir, as I’ve said before in our conversations, I don’t follow a given path when at the keyboard. Or when strumming my acoustic guitar. I veer off course left and right, or up and down, as it suits the moment. My intent is never to adhere faithfully to guidelines of any sort...”

 

Squire snorted with a bullish and noisy flaring of his nostrils.

 

“DAMMIT RODNEY, YER A FINE MAKER OF COUNTRY MUSIC! DON’T SCREW THAT UP, OKAY?”

 

I laughed out loud, until my lungs were sore.

 

“Honestly, I’ve never been a particular fan of the genre. Though there are enough amateur performers in my family lineage that evoking that vibe isn’t difficult...”

 

My professional contact was enraged by this candid admission.

 

“NOT A FAN? THAT’S AMERICA, BOY! COUNTRY MUSIC IS AMERICAN MUSIC! COUNTRY MUSIC IS THE MUSIC OF REGULAR, DOWN-TO-EARTH, EVERYDAY PEOPLE! COUNTRY MUSIC IS PATRIOTIC, GOD-FEARING SWEETNESS FOR THE SOUL!”

 

I had to differ with his assessment.

 

“Perhaps it was at its origin point? I can’t say for sure. But certainly, that has changed. It’s big business now, slickly produced and overhyped, a synthetic mash of cornpone fed to the masses...”

 

My distant cohort began to grunt and groan as if he had reached the climax of a cardiac event.

 

“SYNTHETIC CORNPONE? GOD HELP ME, I’VE NEVER HEARD SUCH CRAZY TALK IN MY LIFE! Y’ALL TAKE THAT CRAP BACK! I WON’T SIT HERE AND ACCEPT THIS NONSENSE! WHATEVER YA WANNA CALL IT, THAT MUSIC SELLS! FOLKS STILL APPRECIATE A GOOD LOOKIN’ COWBOY IN A BIG HAT! OR A COWGIRL WITH BIG HAIR AND SHINY BOOTS! IT’S LIKE NASCAR OR PRO FOOTBALL, OR HUNTIN’ IN THE WOODS! PEOPLE RELATE TO THAT SOUND! THEY RELATE TO THAT PURE WAY OF LIVIN’ IN OUR GLORY LAND!”

 

I had to agree with his statement, even if sometimes my own oeuvre had moved in a contrarian direction. More than anything, I wanted to get back to my stash of cold beer.

 

“You’re right Mr. Squire, I get it. Forgive me for not always playing along...”

 

He relented at last, upon hearing my tone soften.

 

“Okay then, here’s the deal. You keep on scribblin’ out those blue-collar ditties, and when ya do, I’ll be right here, waitin’ to promote ‘em through my network! Do y’all get it, pardner? Settle down with the weird stuff, and play nice!”

 

I nodded while reaching for a drink.

 

“Yes, yes, I get it. Have a great day, friend!”

“Reaper”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

A fortunate fade to black

The sorrow of a heart attack

Rendered on the morning news

Dispersal of chaotic views

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

War in the eastern lands

Soaring over burning sands

Oaths taken for revenge

Of the time, we know not when

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

Opponents take respective sides

Bolstered by strong allies

Conflicts registered in words

God and country, undeterred

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

Magic forces contemplate

Destruction in the Hormuz Strait

Ships at sea sing of when

Quiet will return again

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

Poverty is now maintained

Inner cities, outer lanes

Crumbling in the heat of day

Morticians feast in this melee

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

Jealous jokers do debates

Saviors on the scene too late

Blood and treasure, all for naught

No one dies if none are caught

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

An open window sucking air

If by chance you linger there

Caution is a holy word

Take care not to be disturbed

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

A thousand feet above the ground

Birds of prey still abound

Pointed at the looming sky

All face judgment, all will cry

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

A poem taught unto a child

Echoes in the afterwhile

Truths unspoken congregate

No route provided for escape

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

Helter skelter, knees will bend

When the games have reached their end

The darkening of a clouded morn

Listen closely, be forewarned

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

If I tell of my own sin

Will you love me once again?

I dare not take that step alone

Otherwise, that fault I own

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

A graying of the azure blue

A promise made, a promise true

I must turn my head and cough

Or face up to this horrid loss

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

Names are spoken, in the night

An incantation of delight

Witches brew, the cauldron hot

Until their potion spills the pot

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

None are fooled by this fine dance

All is left to a game of chance

Sitting at the theater’s edge

A dangle on the narrow ledge

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

If I fail to mention clear

The likelihood of finding fear

Gift me with forgiveness, please

Here I am, a humbled breed

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

Envision what cannot be seen

A shadow across the projection screen

In that whisper, much revealed

The sting of justice, wounds unhealed

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

The reaper comes

The reaper comes

 

Nobody Reads This Page: “Econoline Van”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

One of the pleasures associated with retirement is not having to keep a regular schedule. I take advantage of this liberty whenever possible, and use it to propel myself into creative projects that take shape at any and all hours of the day. After a morning routine of coffee and some light breakfast, I sometimes sit at my desk in the home office, and find myself relapsing into a lazy mood of slumber. These brief interludes are particularly restful, and often arouse bursts of inspiration that are productive and useful.

 

A recent example of this phenomenon came as I dozed in my chair with its adjustable frame set to recline. I snored and nodded off while dreaming about being at the wheel of a vehicle from yonder days, one bought in the year of 1987. A beastly relic that still lingers in memory as one of the more unique conveyances ever to inhabit my driveway.

 

Friends called it Godzilla. Big, ugly, and green!

 

During that distant era, I was working for a supermarket in town, on their grocery crew. This came after a stint of 24 months at a local department store, and was, for a time, split with a side job at the Kent State University branch in a nearby village. I earned a meager, hourly wage for my labor, but made up for that deficiency by staying perpetually active throughout the work week. My schedule normally encompassed seven days on duty, between employers. When that yielded the chance to work all of those hours in one place, I took it eagerly. My goal was to help support the family, and save funds for a better mule-on-wheels.

 

I had been driving a Chevrolet Chevette, which originally seemed thrifty and dependable enough to carry me forward for an extended period of time. Yet upon reaching the age of only six years, it had all but disintegrated. The floorboards rusted out, suspension components shattered, and eventually, one of the pistons cracked. I actually drove it on three of four cylinders, briefly, but knew that this act was tempting fate.

 

A brother-in-law suggested attending an auction site in western Pennsylvania with which he was familiar. This experience turned out to be quite entertaining, as it was conducted at a rural property where cars were driven, in rapid succession, through a barn where the auctioneer and participants had been situated. The variety of vehicles literally caused my eyes to bulge. Some were vintage artifacts, with an obvious value for collectors. Others seemed suited for everyday use, without much concern over damaging their common engines or bodywork. But unfortunately, I had little money to spend. The aforementioned econobox I had owned took most of my income to afford, through a bank loan. There was little left in my wallet to start over.

 

I had no choice, however. Some kind of solution had to be found.

 

As the regular event was winding down, a 1972 Ford Econoline E-300 appeared, wearing a sturdy shade of military paint. The auctioneer boasted that it had served as a delivery hauler for a newspaper company in Erie. I could tell that it had been outfitted with spartan amenities. There were only two seats in the front. It carried the 302 V-8, a three-speed manual transmission, and an AM radio. A doghouse sat between the driver and passenger, to cover its powerplant. The van was huge, plain, and seemed to run well, if nothing else.

 

Bidding on the Econoline did not take off at an energetic pace. Attendees were lethargic in showing interest. A purchase price of $50.00 started the proceedings. Then $100.00, $150.00, and $200.00. Everyone held their breath as the fellow in charge looked around his lair, narrowed his gaze, and prepared to declare the olive-drab Ford a sold item in his queue. But some pinprick of courage caused my right arm to flinch, and reach for the roof.

 

“I’ll bid $250.00 on that thing! Let me buy it right now, I’ve got that much in cash!”

 

The other buyers looked at me as if I had lost my mental faculties. But the auctioneer banged his gavel on the rostrum.

 

“SOLD FOR THE PRICE OF $250.00! GET IT OUT OF HERE, KIDDO! GOOD LUCK!”

 

My wife was very quiet on the way back to Ohio. There were no interior lights functioning, so we made the journey in near-darkness. All I could see was a glow of headlights, peering into the void of night. Despite having no plates attached, I drove all the way home with no attention paid by the police.

 

The Econoline represented an enormous change from my little Chevrolet. I soon discovered that steering the wheeled barge, with no power assist onboard, was a chore. I likened it to driving a school bus. The mechanical range was low enough that it could pull away even if mistakenly placed into third gear. Yet would only run about 80 mph with its accelerator pedal to the floor. The van was a workhorse designed for carrying heavy loads.

 

It did not return great numbers for fuel economy. And when the temperatures began to plummet, I realized that its heater core was shot. This meant scraping the windshield as I navigated. I would sometimes drive home from work on winter days with my head out the window, for a clearer view of the road ahead.

 

Since the interior was bare, I installed a matting of indoor-outdoor carpet as a comfort measure. I found an oscillating fan which fit on the dashboard, and it helped during the summer. And a toggle switch worked to fix the backup lights which did not function for some reason. I installed a budget stereo system, and put speaker enclosures in the back. My father-in-law contributed a wooden toolbox, which fit behind the seats.

 

The van had lots of cargo space, much like a pickup truck with a fiberglass cap installed. Only as an afterthought did I realize there was no spare tire. But I figured that the risk of running around without that needed accessory was less of a worry than pushing my Chevette on three cylinders, with smoke billowing from its tailpipe.

 

I drove the Econoline for an entire year. Then sold it to my younger brother for $300.00.

 

In the interim, I had saved enough to purchase a blue, 1979 F-150 pickup, at our local dealership. That choice was one that bettered my situation greatly. It had four-wheel drive, a bench seat, and plenty of hauling capability. And it did not cause my wife to have stomach cramps when I was out on the road.

 

Still, Godzilla the van remains in my thoughts. When sleeping restfully at night, or even when lounging in the chair at my desk.