Return Mission, Third Stage – Chapter 3

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Throughout the trip back to Planet Earth, Commander Hornell Block was somber about leaving his passengers on the surface of their ancestral homeworld. But while seeing the arrogant university professor depart would not present much of a challenge, he felt a sense of loss over the exit of Kelly Strafe. Her service as an officer in the Space Force had been admirable, and worthy of praise. To accept her resignation willingly, caused his cerebral synapses to short-circuit. She was far too talented for a civilian life. Particularly one spent as the companion of an agitator who persisted in challenging norms of the Martian society. At the moment of finality, he expected to be overwhelmed with nausea, and regret. But his orders from the high command had been specific. Ferry the two notable individuals to their remote destination, make certain they were safe and secure at the rural outpost, and leave quietly.

 

He had asked for permission to speak freely on the controversy. And been denied, out of hand.

 

During a previous visit by Judson Baines to the trailer oasis, in old Ohio, a homing beacon had been left behind. Crudely fashioned from remnants of his first Digger shuttle. So, the task of locating Evergreen Estates from their place in orbit was not difficult. Once the Morningstar III slipped into a comfortable rotation around that vast and familiar ball of mud, their scanner array was directed toward its surface.

 

Once a lock had been achieved on the proper coordinates, those numbers were transferred to the control nexus used to program outgoing craft for their abbreviated flights. The shuttle could reach its intended destination solely on the basis of an auto-pilot algorithm. Though he suspected that at some point, manual controls might be implemented, in the interest of taking charge. He thought it likely that training routines still in the mind of his former pupil from the military academy on Mars, would take over.

 

When the time came for his human cargo to be surrendered, however, only one thought held sway. He made a final appeal for sanity, before watching the Digger begin its journey to Terran soil.

 

“Lieutenant, I have to admit that this goodbye is one I will rue for the rest of eternity. Your rightful place is here with us, as a volunteer in the ranks. That egghead provocateur doesn’t need a woman at his side. He is perfectly capable of coming to the wrong conclusions on his own. I dare say that Admiral Nauga himself will feel sick at heart over this folly! It’s a grave error on your part. One I believe you will regret, long after we have journeyed back to Mars...”

 

Kelly made a ruse noise with her tightened lips. She was unimpressed by the show of emotion.

 

“What have I ever been to you, or anyone else in the chain-of-command, Hornell? I’ll spell it out – a servant! I am a tool in your kit. A farm animal, or a beast of burden. An asset to be used when necessary. That gives me little satisfaction as a human being. But to participate in a direct analysis of our origin point as a species, on the other hand, is thrilling to consider. There lies a real challenge worth taking! I won’t claim to understand every detail of how we migrated to the Red Planet, or became who we are today, but once this adventure is complete, I’ll know more and have seen more about that historic event! It gives me a greater sense of purpose than anything I got from being your junior officer!”

 

Block clenched his fists. He could feel a surge of blood pressure in his tissues.

 

“BLAST THAT GAWDAMN UNIVERSITY GOON! HE’S A MENACE TO US, AND TO YOU! I PITY YOUR WEAK-MINDED ACCEPTANCE OF HIS STILTED THINKING. YOU ARE WASTING YOUR OWN BRILLIANCE ON A SELF-IMPORTANT FOOL! AND YOUR WORDS SOUND JUST LIKE HIS! THAT METAMORPHOSIS IS ONE THAT CHILLS ME TO THE BONE!”

 

Baines was already at the controls of their donated shuttle. He could not hear the verbal confrontation as it occurred. But would have been indifferent to the cry of protest. His concern was about their safety onboard the short-range vessel. And effecting a clear path to the abandoned cluster of manufactured homes, below.

 

When preparations had been made, he thumbed the com-button on his dashboard display.

 

“Digger S-7 here, we show ready for a smooth departure. Crew members, take your places. Flight plan laid in, we are ready to commence engagement of the drive...”

 

Strafe narrowed her eyes and scowled at the ship commander.

 

“That’s it, sir. I’ve got to end this little chat. Thank you for the vote of confidence. Godspeed on your return to the colonies! Give my gratitude to the brass back on Mars!”

 

The Space Force officer winced in pain, upon watching a glow of Cloitanium generators stir in their propulsion tubes. He had failed in a last-minute effort to halt the exodus of Lieutenant Strafe, before it could proceed. Now, her fate had been sealed. And he was forever stained as a master of tactics and technology, with not enough backbone for retaining his most promising protégé.

 

The Digger flew away in a blue-white cloud of plasma. They were gone in only a matter of seconds.

 

Once the Morningstar III had broken out of orbit, a silent mood took hold of the ship’s crew. They were bound for the Red Planet yet again, but this time, lighter by two members of their official roster. A palpable lack of joy seethed from the bridge, throughout every compartment of their silver vessel.

 

As the sleek carrier turned away from its temporary host, there was a look of surprise from an ensign on duty. He was young, skinny, and inexperienced, having never before traveled into deep space on behalf of their benefactors.

 

An audible gasp echoed, as the junior pilot gestured wildly over his navigation console.

 

“Commander, I have an electronic signature emanating from the lunar surface. Our instruments show it being in the Mare Frigoris basin. It is on a frequency used by explorers during previous centuries, according to our data archives. I have no rational explanation for this phenomenon, other than settlers being stranded, and calling out for rescue. What is your opinion, sir?”

 

Block was astonished to the point of nearly having a seizure. He sat up in his swivel chair, and pounded at its angular sides.

 

“Mare Frigoris? You said, Mare Frigoris? That name is the stuff of legend, mister! It was the site of a base when the native population began to leave their home world, for a rebirth of our civilization on Mars. It is part of our history, part of how we came to inherit and populate the Red Planet. But for so many years, our scholars have thought that all of those research facilities were abandoned. There can’t be anyone left in those artificial environments. That moment in time has expired. The Moon is dead! Dead, dead, dead!”

 

 

Return Mission, Third Stage – Chapter 2

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

For Commander Hornell Block, being on assignment with the Morningstar III represented a point of pride, regardless of what service he was performing for the Space Force. As the sleek, silver vessel moved toward its rendezvous with the Terran homeworld, he felt strong and useful. Carefully attired in a uniform designed to be comfortable for long periods, and official enough in appearance to signify his military rank. He felt buoyed by a sense of duty and purpose. Yet for the two passengers who were aboard, this mood of confidence was lacking. Instead, they felt somber about the journey. A sense of finality dampened their emotions.

 

This was, for good or bad, and endgame from which neither would return.

 

Judson Baines and Kelly Strafe stayed in their quarters during the voyage. Though because of being linked by an access corridor, each room was easily accessible from the other. While the ship’s crew went about their daily routine, the pair pondered what was about to transpire with vigorous conversation and reflective analysis.

 

The former lieutenant was first to confess uncertainty about the intended scope of their trip.

 

“Juddy, I know this is necessary. We had no standing left at the Mars Colonies. But what do you have in mind once we reach Planet Earth? What will we do with the rest of our lives? Just conduct historical research maybe, cataloging the decay of that old order, or what? Plant a garden? Grow vegetables and flowers? Write poems? Sit around and stare at each other? Or... start a family to revive the population?”

 

Her candor made the university professor blush with a rosy shade of embarrassment.

 

“Restart the birth cycle? Heavens, no! I’ve got no bold intentions like that in mind. Not at all. What is left of that big rock isn’t always hospitable. There are still cyclical storms which linger, an effect of the Great Uprising and global war. What they did to the league of nations, and their own environment, was a tragedy. Though I think that nature has righteously begun to heal from the cataclysmic event. The Digger shuttle carries a limited life span, and only a meager amount of provisions, so we’ll have to figure out how to feed and house ourselves. The civilized districts that I encountered were located far from each other. Calimex, on the west coast of what used to be called North America. Atlantia, on the east. And Torontara, to the north, a part of the former Canadian confederation. Each seemed to know little about the other. They were somewhat paranoid when dealing with outsiders. And suspicious of overtures for peace. But my curiosity is about what else has remained, after the fragile organization of society collapsed. There must be more to learn. We will have an opportunity to document clues that might prove to be useful, for future generations. Sort of like conducting an archaeological dig. Except that descendants of the dead empires may still be alive...”

 

Kelly tugged at her ponytail, and sat cross-legged on the floor.

 

“Okay, so we start at the trailer park where your ancestor lived? And then, go from there?”

 

Her bearded associate nodded and smiled. As a scholar and perpetual student, he had already begun to plan their next project, in earnest.

 

“I found some interesting data in records we brought back from the last visit. T. C. Lincoln never jumped on a Larman transport, bound for Mars. Apparently, he died at the rural community and was buried in a makeshift grave, along with other residents who chose to stay behind. There is a small cemetery somewhere on the property. It was referenced in notes kept by one of the first groups to arrive, when construction of a primary base at the Percival Lowell Institute had begun. I wandered around the front field on that abandoned property, but saw nothing. It had become overgrown with weeds and brush, and wild, indigenous foliage. But I think we could scan the acreage with our shuttle. That might give us a visual map to locate his place of final rest...”

 

Strafe snorted and smacked her hands together.

 

“You’re obsessed, Juddy! I think this is more about a desire to tie up loose ends of your own family tale, than to help mankind!”

 

Judson Baines shrugged and signified agreement with this observation.

 

“You are probably right. I can’t argue the point...”

 

His volunteer companion stretched like a cat, breathed deeply, and stood up to loosen her joints.

 

“So, we start at the point where you landed, near the shore of Lake Erie? We’re going to live in that ruined village of manufactured homes, like refugees from the 21^st Century?”

 

Her egghead counterpart was excited to consider the adventure that would follow their arrival.

 

“On our world, I was really a prisoner. Hidebound to stay silent about the social and political factors that brought everything to a halt. They are terrified of dissent. But said more honestly, what they fear is truth. They fear debate. They fear knowledge and open discussion. The path they have chosen is not much different than the one that eventually destroyed the Terran civilization. I am sorrowful for them. And yet excited for us, as witnesses to the endurance of nature. The cosmos isn’t eternal, perhaps, but it has survived for billions of years. We don’t really know the full story. But as spectators, we can look and listen, and learn. That is a privilege I won’t ever surrender...”

 

Kelly stood over her male equal, who was still seated at a table by his bed.

 

“You almost make me believe in a resurrection story. At least it sounds good, when you describe what can happen in literal terms. But we’ve got to build a new homestead in that wreckage. A hole-in-the-wall where we can hide. A safe space for a second beginning. Are you strong enough, and smart enough, for that task?”

 

 The professional thinker bowed his head, and paused for a moment.

 

“If not, it’s a respectable way to die. I’d rather meet my end with a virtual notebook and stylus, or even a pen and sheet of paper, than a weapon made for combat. The empire couldn’t save itself by killing enemies. And Mars can’t do the same, by killing its history. The story must be told. What comes next is up to travelers like ourselves...”

Mermaid & Walrus Revisited – "Environmental or Simply Born that Way?"

  

c. 2026 Cheryl Keller, Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

Mermaid Says:

 

There is a famous poem written by Dorothy Law Nolte titled “Children Learn What They Live” that I so love.  I have come across it several times throughout my life and it rings true to me in so many ways.  It drives home the belief that children are a product of their environment; people are a product of their environment; that environment in general, impacts our lives as humans to such an enormous degree that it shapes our very being.  It begins with such lines as “If children live with criticism, they learn to condemn.  If children live with hostility, they learn to fight.”  It continues with similar verses but gradually morphs into more positive correlations showing that contradictorily, if the environment in which children are brought up embraces qualities such as praise, honesty, and kindness that they learn more positive behaviors such as appreciation, truthfulness and respect.  Not to mention the one thing that above all else rises to the top - love; love for oneself and love for others.

 

There is also an opinion among some that a person can just be born bad, or to be more dramatic, evil.  As a lover of true crime books, documentaries and the like, I have come across many stories where a criminal’s childhood was shown to be, for lack of a better phrase, perfectly normal.  He/she had a loving, solid core family with values, good schooling and support, ample resources where needs and wants were regularly met, leaving people in their fold clueless without something upon which to lay the blame.  Of course, a strong majority of criminal back stories are quite the opposite; riddled with abuse, neglect, and broken families that people quickly attribute to the root cause.  There are also those who grow up in less fortunate environments, with a lack of positive influences, who go on to do incredible things and are able to elevate themselves into better circumstances.  There are always those exceptions to the rules.  And so opens the question…how much does the environment in which you grow up play a role into who you become as an adult?

 

An infant is such a vulnerable being - an empty vessel just waiting to be filled.  He/she did not ask to be here and whether or not a couple plans for a child or not is irrelevant.  Once that little person arrives, he/she, being so dependent on others and the world around them, absorbs whatever is funneled in their direction; love or hate, compassion or indifference, respectfulness or contempt.  Bringing a child into this world is such a massive responsibility that oftentimes is taken too lightly.  And unfortunately, as that child grows it becomes more and more difficult to redirect negative behaviors which of course then starts that generational recurrence of certain unfavorable mannerisms.  How often you see similar conduct amongst family members - negative, or positive for that matter.  Hence familiar sayings “like father, like son”, or “the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree”.

 

I don’t want to limit my focus on just criminal or negative behavior, and I do acknowledge that mental illness can, of course, be a factor, but there are also other basic personality traits that can be affected by a child’s environment that can present obstacles or on the flip side, help lead to success and fulfillment later in life.  For example, something I have seen over my many years in the position that I hold at work is a generational difference in work ethic.  There is a temperament at times that I have come across in some of my younger direct reports consisting of a lack of motivation or sense of urgency, as well as a sense of entitlement which leads to difficulty dealing with constructive criticism.  This is something I have not come across when managing my more senior employees.  It presents a challenge for me when coaching or training and I wonder at times what type of household these youngsters grew up in that led to this behavior, or maybe their individual environment wasn’t the factor, maybe it's more societal, or just inherently who they are…?

 

Now, what I can speak to is my own childhood environment.  It included two hardworking parents; and although we did not have a lot of money, I never felt as though I went without, and I felt most times were filled with lots of love, family and friends, at least in the early years.  It was of course a different time then when a lack of technology kept children outside away from the television, playing freeze or TV tag, or red-light green-light in the front yard until the streetlights came on.  I do feel that as technology has advanced and cell phones and the internet have invaded our lives, children have had increasing access to information and images that in my opinion, have robbed them of their youth in a way.  And, here I go again delving into an area that itself can be its own article.  So to redirect, as an adult, I can say that I do feel that I, myself, have a pretty good work ethic.  I worked from a young age, always tried to put forth my best effort, and challenged myself to be better, through schooling and the jobs I have held; and last I checked, I haven’t killed anyone or robbed any banks, so that’s a positive!  Now, how much of that is credit to my parents or my young life in Chardon, Ohio, and how much of that is just mermaid me?  How much did the environment in which you were brought up play a role in making you the person you are today?  Or were you just born to be who you are?

 

Walrus Says:

 

My friend makes valuable points here, and her referencing of the Dorothy Law Nolte poem is insightful. In a sense, she has answered her own question by addressing the importance of environmental factors, while also providing contrast with differing viewpoints on the subject. Without attempting to ride the fence, intellectually, one might rightly observe that both are important.  Family environment and also, personal characteristics and attributes.

 

Our lead supervisor at my last retail store in Geneva used to observe that he did not judge an individual on what happened to them, but instead, by how they reacted. This basic viewpoint fit neatly with my own experiences as a salaried manager in the business. I noted with much interest that some employees who had come from decidedly difficult backgrounds manifested coping skills that were useful in their work for our companies. While others who had been raised with educational and situational benefits in effect, were lazy and lacked motivation. A line of demarcation could not easily be drawn between the two, because age, social status, and income did not prove to be reliable as evidence for one outcome, or the other.

 

My friend speaks effectively for a strong work ethic, and I believe that this single quality is worth possessing, more than any other. While corporate philosophies generally teach that anyone can be trained to accomplish tasks, given enough time and a proper setting in which to learn, I often found that it was more like creating a piece of pottery. When at the wheel, one must begin with a workable mound of clay. Our human resource departments sometimes erred by believing that posting a list of names on a schedule sheet was proof that they had fulfilled their duties. But a lack of detail involved with putting ‘the right people in the right roles’ could be counterproductive. At one location, where price changes were done overnight, we were given a young teenager who had literally just joined the crew. He knew absolutely nothing about the operation, or our procedures. And little at all about shoppers and their habits. On another occasion at the same store, a fellow who was legally blind, for driving purposes, found himself hanging these tags. He could barely read labels on the boxes, jars, and cans. So, the results were disastrous.

 

When I politely observed that these decisions on scheduling were not a result of careful consideration, beforehand, the reaction I received was chilly at best. It took some time to resolve all the customer issues with items marked incorrectly. Though no fault was assessed to those who had been responsible, at the top level.

 

In both instances, the employees had a reasonable amount of desire to earn their paychecks honestly. But lacked the tools. The former had not been given a reasonable opportunity to grow and develop. The latter had an obvious handicap which should have been noted. He was truly someone ‘born that way.’

 

Sometimes, however, facing hardships and challenges may hone the abilities of someone to a fine edge, rather than providing a hindrance. One of my most trusted tutors, while I was rising through the ranks from a union clerk to a front-line manager, had served in Vietnam, and been through dozens of local closures, as our company evolved under a variety of owners. Despite the woes of carrying such experiences on his personal resume, he had an undeniable knack for coaching workers, and developing raw talent. When I asked him how it was possible to survive so many harsh episodes, without losing faith, he replied that staying on an even keel was the secret.

 

“When I got busted down, I would come home and tell my wife, ‘Hey, guess what, I got busted today!’ When I got promoted, I would come home and tell her, ‘Hey, guess what, I got promoted today!’ Nothing had me feeling too high, or low, abut the job. I stayed on course and took care of my family.”

 

Years ago, I offered advice to one of my nephews who was studying for what would become a career in electrical engineering. I referenced ‘The Comeback’ which was a 1993 NFL playoff game, between the Houston Oilers franchise, and the Buffalo Bills, at their home stadium. Despite being down 35-3, the New York club was able to gather fortitude, go forward in the second half, and win in overtime, 41-38.

 

“Life is easier if you make good decisions. That does not mean success is impossible in the aftermath, as perseverance may still win the day. But you can save yourself a lot of grief by engaging in a moment of careful consideration, before taking that first step.”

 

Too often, I had not followed that wise admonition while on my own journey. Yet when viewed with hindsight, it was all part of the learning process. One which my cohort the Mermaid has accomplished, brilliantly.

Return Mission, Third Stage – Chapter 1

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Monday morning at the New Cleveland Safety Center on Mars was frantic with activity. There were government representatives, legal experts, law agents, media observers, and host of spectators present under the sealed dome. A judgment from newly-elected members of the ruling council had been swiftly delivered. With concerns about the population becoming restless over details about their off-world history as a civilization, one step seemed clearly desirable above all the others. Dr. Judson Baines, university professor and historical researcher, needed to be expelled from their closed society.

 

But as this chore was being scheduled, with aid from the sleek, Morningstar III vessel, Admiral Corel Nauga received word that Lieutenant Kelly Strafe, one of his most promising officers, intended to join the away party as a volunteer. An act that would likely have her resigning once again from the military, and exiting as a citizen of the Red Planet.

 

The high-level official frowned and groaned audibly, when being told about his underling’s wishes.

 

“Kelly, let me speak candidly, and off the record. This is madness, young woman! You want to trash an entire career for a ride-share with that blasted geek from the schoolyard? He’s got no allies left here, all his bridges have been burned. Don’t think that your value is worth squandering so easily. You matter to us, and you matter to me!”

 

The junior soldier had her hair pulled straight back in a force-spec ponytail. Her expression was taut and severe.

 

“Sir, we’ve been connected for years. My reputation wouldn’t last, anyway. Admit it, I am just as stained by negative opinions...”

 

Nauga cursed and pounded the table in their conference room.

 

“A falsehood! I’ve done everything possible to rehabilitate you, Lieutenant! You and your damned reputation! Don’t dump this second chance! You’ve been a promising candidate for so long, and I’ve always had you in mind for better things. A promotion is inevitable!”

 

Kelly tightened her lips, and stood at attention.

 

“With respect sir, that’s just a load of horseshit!”

 

The Admiral gasped and slammed his fist until blood oozed freely.

 

“BAINES IS A CRACKPOT! THERE’S ONLY ONE SOLUTION TO HIS PLIGHT, AND IT IS BEING KICKED OUT OF THE MARS COLONY! WE CAN’T TOLERATE DISSENSION HERE, OUR SURVIVAL IS A MATTER OF COOPERATION AND HARMONY. CONFLICT IS INTOLERABLE! THESE WALLS AROUND US ARE DECIDEDLY FRAGILE! THE ARTIFICIAL ATMOSPHERE IS THIN! ONE DIVISION, ONE NOTE OF DISSENT, COULD KILL US ALL. I WON’T ALLOW THAT TO HAPPEN. NO ONE IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THE SURVIVAL OF THIS CIVILIZATION!”

 

Strafe folded her arms and nodded with acknowledgement.

 

“Understood, sir. Count me as part of that equation. I am done with the Space Force...”

 

A cry of agony filled the room. Then, her superior bowed his head. He had been defeated without a proper battle. That sensation left him feeling empty.

 

“So be it, Lieutenant. The Morningstar III will depart at 0600 CMT, hours, tomorrow. In a gesture of benevolence, I am gifting the professor with a Digger shuttle, and enough provisions to last three months. That should get him started in his new environment. He has chosen to revisit what used to be called North America, the former State of Ohio, and the abandoned trailer community which was his origin point for study and scholarship. If you join him in isolation, it will be a sentence of death. I don’t believe he will last long among the ruins of that empire. The Great Uprising is still a matter of historical record, we have taught it in our schools for generations. It is not a fact to be disputed or amended. That calamity changed the course of Terran inhabitants, forever. It caused the migration to our current home. And it wrote a new chapter in the adventures of mankind. We are the children of that cataclysmic event. None of us have a right to question it as gospel truth. It is our identity as Martian colonists. Our heritage. Our foundation for being who we are!”

 

Kelly reached for her com-badge, and military insignia. Then, placed both on the conference table.

 

“My resignation is effective immediately. Thank you, sir, for the privilege of serving our planet...”

Admiral Nauga sat stiffly as she departed the conference room. Then, surrendered to a fit of rage. His face dripped sweat and reddened with intensity.

 

“BLAST THIS INFERNAL NONSENSE! BLAST THAT GIRL FOR SACRIFICING HER COMISSION! AND BLAST THE PROFESSOR FOR HIS ARROGANT PROCLOMATIONS ABOUT OUR HISTORY! LET THEM BOTH ROT IN THE HINTERLAND OF OLD AMERICA! GOOD RIDDANCE TO THAT PAIR OF FOOLS! GOOD RIDDANCE, INDEED!”

 

When the erstwhile soldier arrived at their New Cleveland spaceport, a day later, her adopted companion was already present. The scholar had assembled a duffel bag of materials, including scanned books on i-discs, and souvenirs from his school. At a docking port, crew members were powering up the ship. The distinctive whine of its C-drive propulsion could be heard throughout the complex. Then, they were ready for an official launch.

 

Baines was unusually scruffy, yet dressed in a suit made of synthetic fibers that were fashioned out of elements culled from the ruddy, Martian soil. His modernist appearance was appealing, if quirky.

 

“Kells, I want you to think about this... we’ll be off-worlders from here to the last day of forever. It’s something I want to do, but not your fate, necessarily. You can stay here, and thrive. I’m the one being shunned. I am the one being sentenced to a life beyond the scope of Mars...”

 

His willing cohort wrinkled her pointy nose, and scowled.

 

“No dice, Juddy! I am just as dirty in their eyes, believe me. We’re in this mess together. I don’t have the same passion for research, maybe, but my place is at your side. If you fail, this dream of revealing the truth fails. And I don’t want to live in that kind of delusion anymore. I’d rather be stuck on that ball of mud, with you!”

 

Her partner sighed heavily. He suspected that they might both perish in the wilderness of a forgotten globe. Yet the opportunity to finish what he had begun at Evergreen Estates was intriguing.

 

“That’s it then, for better or worse, here we go!”

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Office Upgrade”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Townshend Lincoln had arrived at Evergreen Estates almost a quarter-century ago. Such a long period in terms of the rural, trailer community, that few residents could remember a time when he had not been at Lot 13. His brusque manner and solitary habits meant that social interaction with the reclusive hermit was limited in scope. Neighbors on his crooked street logically assumed that at some point, his body would succumb to a diet of pickled eggs, fried bologna, and whiskey. With the result that he could finally be buried and forgotten. Therefore, little attention was paid to his existence. And yet he did not make a speedy exit from their cluster of manufactured homes. Instead, he seemed to thrive on the exile afforded by their geographical location. A spot far to the east of any population center in their county.

 

Due to the onset of chronic fatigue and disability, the silent figure did not often leave his space for any reason. But on a weekend evening, with monthly rent coming due, he decided to tackle the short distance between his boxcar dwelling, and the manager’s office. Though generally able to walk only with the use of mismatched canes for support, he decided to seek out his neglected, Craftsman mower for transportation. A dirty and dented hunk of machinery that had been in his storage barn since coming to the rustic development, initially. Its battery was low on juice after sitting idle for the winter season. But with a brief stint on his charger, and a bit of fiddling with the carburetor, it defiantly chuffed clouds of oily smoke. And then, rattled noisily to life.

 

Getting seated was not an easy task. He had to leverage himself into place carefully, to avoid toppling to the ground. Then, he discovered that the steering linkage was stiff and uncooperative, because of long periods left sitting outside.

 

On the way to their park office, he thought of the Country performer George Jones. A heroic crooner who had sometimes ridden his own mobile beast to a liquor store in the area, when driving privileges were restricted for the purpose of keeping him safe. The yard boss sputtered and spat a foul-smelling stream of exhaust from its muffler. And made all sorts of ominous sounds along the way. Those on the route were amused to see a shaggy fellow in faded overalls, chugging beer while navigating the course. But no one wanted to engage him in conversation.

 

Every spectator agreed that it would be less risky to simply let him go on his way.

 

Lincoln arrived at the property hub in around five minutes. He had expected the terminal to be abandoned, as it was late on a Saturday. But upon coming to rest by the maintenance garage, and dismounting with both canes at the ready, he found himself facing a flat-screen display on the entrance door.

 

A woman’s face generated by an AI program appeared. She smiled with synthetic charm, and offered a greeting which had captions at the bottom.

 

“WELCOME TO THE WESTERN FINANCIAL HOLDINGS VIRTUAL ASSISTANT! PLEASE SCROLL THROUGH THE KEYPAD MENU, FOR AN OPTION THAT BEST SUITS YOUR CURRENT NEEDS. WE ARE DEDICATED TO SERVING ALL OF OUR CLIENTS WITH EQUITY AND PROFESSIONALISM. YOU MATTER TO US!”

 

He had to squint for a clearer view of the high-tech display, because his reading glasses had been left at home. With some difficulty, he punched at the screen and read the list of choices while grumbling.

 

“Item 1: Make a payment on your rent balance. Item 2: Leave a question for the supervisor. Note: Office hours have been curtailed in the interest of controlling costs. This will be our only form of communication. Item 3: Leave a compliment for someone on the park staff. Item 4: Ask about employment opportunities with WFH at this site, or other properties owned by the company. Item 5: Arrange to leave your keys in the drop box, as a result of an eviction order. Item 6: Repeat all these options...”

 

Dust settled as he pounded on the door with his fists.

 

“What the hell? Screw this bullshit, we don’t even get to see a gawdamn representative anymore? What the frig? When did they give notice about that? The only guy I can catch is that poor sap who shovels gravel in the potholes. Pretty soon, this ol’ dump is gonna sink in the mud and disappear. What a kick in the ass!”

 

After physically and vocally expressing his frustration, the senior contrarian relented and made a second attempt at navigating the electronic menu. He tapped at the monitor until new options appeared.

 

“Item 1: Make a payment. Choice A: Please enter the amount of your deposit. Pay the full balance on your account, or submit an installment amount. Note: You must have bank information on file with the owners. When you are done, please leave your check in the drop box. If you pay your rent online, these steps are not necessary. Have a good day!”

 

Lincoln belched loudly, and hit the door again, out of spite.

 

“A good day’ll be when I can get out of this rathole! But I’m stuck here, like all the other schlubs on my street. We’re all screwed. Nobody gives a damn about us!”

 

He deposited his check begrudgingly, with a snort of irritation. Then mounted the saddle of his mower once again. His bones were creaky and every joint felt sore. But with the wheel in his hands, he snapped at the throttle, and reversed course, for home.

 

On his porch, the bearded sage sat with a jug of Kentucky bourbon, and a tattered copy of their lease. Deep in the fine print, he realized that the shift to virtual moderation had indeed been spelled out in legal terms. A fact he must have overlooked before. Western Financial Holdings was listed as the official ownership group, but details about the coastal concern were few.

 

As Lincoln drank himself into a pleasant fog of inebriation, the rotund maintenance steward rolled by on his golf cart. A bucket of gravel was strapped to the back, with a shovel. He had finished his pointless roster of chores for the day. Now, there was little time for anything else, except watching the sunset bring a merciful shroud of darkness to their distant hideout.

 

A wash of alcoholic oblivion brought peace at last. For both of them, another chapter at Evergreen Estates had been written.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “A Bullet, Dodged”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Fartham Sprig had never been inside of a mobile home until his sister passed away in the summer of 1994. That loss to his family was tragic enough on its own, but precipitated a chain-reaction of financial failures that resulted in being homeless and eventually, in a shelter run by the City of Cleveland. He had rented a garage on his beloved sibling’s property for years, and written off that cost as a business expense. The legal maneuver allowed him to survive after a contested divorce, and an enforced surrender of his residence in Cuyahooga County. Along with half his retirement plan, and most assets that were put aside for later years. A measure of comfort returned as he and his brother both adopted a similar strategy for coping with marital woes. The younger member of their bloodline took an apartment in the basement. With grandkids in other buildings, also on the urban property. Together, their meager contributions amounted to a considerable sum.

 

A maintenance man in their lakeside neighborhood, who worked as an independent contractor, counseled them to stay grounded with this truism always intact.

 

“There’s guaranteed safety in numbers like they say! Never forget it! Believe me, I never will!”

 

But when matron Rhubie passed, after a brief and unexpected battle with cancer, their woven tapestry came apart. Bills went unpaid. Needed repairs were neglected. Disputes that would normally have been settled through a gentle form of cooperative arbitration, grew more intense. Members of the brood began to abandon their family compound. And finally, the Sprig name lost all its value. They were forced to sell off chunks of property until everything was gone.

 

That is when the self-employed artist and performer first encountered Evergreen Estates.

 

He had been participating in a poetry slam, at a coffeehouse on a distant town square. Something that still resonated as a counterculture oddity for local inhabitants who were more accustomed to band concerts by students, bake sales, and church events. With a forceful, pleading vibe, he held a wireless microphone in one hand, and a ruled sheet of notebook paper in the other. Then read words that he himself had penned in the wee hours of a weekend binge with cigarettes and Irish whiskey, before arriving.

 

“Home-less-ness

That is my claim to success

I peer deeply into the void

A listless, lazy pursuit I can’t seem to avoid

And tap my foot to a silent count

A metronome swing that measures each tick in minute amounts

Hear me now, hear me now

Let me say whatever the rulebooks allow

But in a code of defiance

A board-game of chance

Striking the wall with pennies, tossed

And a silver-dollar, stamped and embossed

With the crown of a jesting fool

He who made up the Golden Rule

For a song sung while the sunrise crests

And bird beaks break up the nest

They fly free

Just like me...”

 

A staccato rhythm of minimalist hand claps was his reward. He had been last in a line of more than two-dozen participants. Many seemed glad that the night was over.

 

Afterward, he had ended up on the sidewalk, with his leather jacket zipped up tightly, against the cold. He planned on sleeping under a bridge, by their municipal town center. But a friendly, feminine voice spoke softly from the shadows. He could barely see anything in the dark. Least of all, whoever had approached him while still veiled in anonymity. But he heard an offer that would change his life for years to come.

 

“You really don’t have a place to live? That’s indefensible in a rich country like America. Damn this place! But I’ve got a solution... maybe. My grandma went to a nursing home last week. She’s in her 90s, not really a surprise. But her trailer is sitting empty. Maybe you’d like to play the role of a squatter for the night? I bet they would let you take over the lot rent. It’s not much to look at, but better than being out here on the concrete!”

 

Fartham had an empty wallet. Not even enough money for another pack of shorty, Camel smokes. So, while the offer sounded somewhat suspicious, he did not have anything to lose by gambling. He gestured with gratitude, and felt a set of keys being pressed into his right hand.

 

“I got no car, sorry. Maybe you can hitch-hike out to the park? I’d guess you are a resourceful kind of dude. Good luck when you get there, if you get there...”

 

His first couple of weeks were spent with no electricity or running water. It took a string of one-man shows with an acoustic guitar, and his notebook of lyrics, to raise enough funds for utility services. But then, he began to adapt to this new environment.

 

The isolated community was populated by many who were also socially inept, and shunned by regular folk. Though he was at first viewed with a measure of suspicion, in time, his presence became less worrisome. The continuum of woe absorbed him as an individual. He melded with the ground-level stream-of-consciousness.

 

This low-buck exile, vexing as it was, suited him intellectually.

 

He learned quickly about living in a singlewide longbox, despite being naïve and inexperienced. How pipes froze up in the winter, for example. How vinyl skirting could be displaced by gusts of wind and piles of snow. How noisy it was to live on a street where unmuffled vehicles and ratty motorcycles were plentiful. How hot it was in the summer with no air conditioning. How disinterested elected officials and judges were about protecting the rights of people such as himself.

 

For months, he thumbed rides to and from the trailer oasis, to stay active with his creative pursuits. But eventually, was able to afford a high-mileage, Honda Civic. A buzzing beater that barely passed emission tests. But gave him a sense of being liberated.

 

Eventually, his rustic existence was reflected in poems written for his public performances. Instead of hiding the identity of his downtrodden neighborhood, he proclaimed it for everyone to hear. With jeers and cheers resulting, alternately.

 

“I’m a pig in a poke

In a house-trailer, bespoke

Built by a company concern in another state

In an age when school kids still wrote lessons

With sticks of chalk on a slate

That’s my home on the range

I hope you won’t think it’s strange

That I’m a bum for hire

A flickering flame of fire

A leftover lunchpail

A bargain hunter’s delight, at a yard sale

An ashtray made of glass

A rubber tire repurposed into a liquor flask

That’s the fate I know

Going down, going slow

While a bald eagle screeches

‘Look out below!’

Hey, ho, let’s go!”

 

He had dodged a bullet, and learned to survive. 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here: “Dream Detour” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-26)

 

 

Living after the onset of disability, and an unplanned retirement, has been challenging in many ways. But also, quite fascinating to ponder in real time. I have found myself with new habits and altered realities. Guidelines being put in place that were never extant before, with regard to mobility, socialization, and budget discipline. Almost every facet of my existence has been reshaped in some way. Yet most curious of all has been a change in the nature of dream episodes that occur while seeking a restful night in bed. I find that the long, dramatic adventures of yonder days have disappeared. With a new paradigm in effect, one steeped in brevity. My slumbering brain now seems to prefer quick clips on the order of a TikTok post, instead of any traditional trek through sensations and imagery.

 

Subjects and themes change rapidly in these artful visions. I am sometimes more confused upon waking, than rested or relaxed. A fact which negates the worth of having closed my eyes.

 

Part of this shift must indeed be a result of prostate issues that have arrived with age. Because I must regularly rise for the bathroom breaks throughout the night, it is no longer possible to become lost in imaginary adventures. Though the tempo I experience while being disconnected from sentient thoughts, is somewhat frantic. Participants, locations, and settings may change frequently, and at random intervals. The yield can be more puzzling than revelatory. I often find myself struggling to piece together a coherent storyline, where none exists.

 

There are conversational interactions with those who have graduated to the realm of eternity. Many work shifts spent at venues that were closed or remodeled by new owners. Sometimes, frustrating rants over a cell phone with vexing technical issues. And many reencounters with motor vehicles long ago traded for another beast-of-burden, or surrendered to get extra cash. Examples that are both numerous and memorable may appear. My blue, 1979 F-150 pickup truck, still blessed with winter capabilities that exceeded anything else in our driveway. My white, 1973 VW Beetle, a clattering mechanical insect, with lots of mojo. My beige, 1981 Chevette, never celebrated but always on duty. A luxurious, 1987 Crown Victoria that belonged to my first wife. And a cantankerous, red, 1977 Harley Sportster. Which had a nagging affection for shedding parts due to excessive vibration. All of them appear as they did in yonder days. Pristine, polished, and running strong. Or, dented, dirty, rusty, and rattling.

 

But all of them, still cherished in memory.

 

Another oddity of these wild, brain-capers is that they mostly occur when it is dark outside. I have no rational idea why that would be the case, except for the one most obvious – I am at the end of my day, and snoozing.

 

A constant component of my bedroom hallucinations is water in some form. Either a lake, river, creek, or flooding manifested over a road or in a field. One recent dream escape had me climbing along shelves in a large retail store, full of electronic goods. I interacted with some of the crew, and patrons, before using a back exit to leave this vast emporium. Behind the facility were apartments and empty shops, with bare windows. Then as I turned toward a concrete walk nearby, I saw a huge pool of aqua blue, which lapped at the shoreline, almost to a point of reaching the ground on which I stood. There was a frothy mist in the air, stirred by a persistent breeze. I lingered for a moment, while gazing out over the water. Then, as always, woke to find myself alone with a crumpled pillow, and swathed in a patterned sheet.

 

Perhaps a non-verbal cue to wake and seek relief.

 

A recent stunner placed me in the midst of a windstorm, at my rural park. Tree trunks, logs, PVC pipes, and stray bits of debris were scattered around the yard. I could hear some of these vagrant items banging and clanging off the sides of my manufactured home. Eventually, when the howling had ceased, I went outside to witness the destruction that had resulted. A portion of my singlewide longbox had been torn asunder by the chaos, and in the middle, both floor and roof were pitched at severe angles I could not navigate on foot. My heart suffered from palpitations, as I considered the damage, which was too considerable to ignore. Neighbors at the next lot were gathering wood blocks and pallet boards that were strewn around their yard. But as I wondered about the cost of effecting repairs, this scene of destruction eased with an eye-blink. The wheeled-house had straightened as if affected by a magic spell. I stumbled up a flight of steps that led from a landing behind the residence, and realized that it terminated against an upstairs wall. The purpose of having it included in the original build was a riddle I could not solve.

 

Sheets of plywood had been loosened by the meteorological melee, so here and there, I encountered gaping, rectangular portals that had been covered before. Doorway-sized gaps that I had not known existed when purchasing the pre-fab dwelling. A tease of Mother Nature’s wrath continued to shake everything, and press upon window seals and gaps in the vinyl skirting, below.

 

As always, this stark parade of sounds and images concluded with the sunrise. Waking gently on my threadbare mattress, I became once again centered in time and space. Though still put off mentally by what had transpired in my cranium.

 

Coffee righted my consciousness, as the new day began. Our morning newscast, from Cleveland, spoke of mayhem in neighborhoods along the shoreline. Acts of mischief and rescue that had occurred in the wee hours. But from a personal perspective, an inspection of my living space seemed more important as a priority for the morning. I wanted to be certain that what I had seen, while dozing under my blankets, was not real in any way.

 

A chirping of avian companions sounded as I looked out the back door. They had nested in an unruly tree that wound itself through a metal railing by the steps. Their festive song offered a cheerful note to the early hour at hand.

 

I was glad to be awake. And, not unwittingly homeless, due to a rowdy event of Ohio weather.