Trailer Park Vignettes: “Distance, Maintained” (Part Two)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

After being emasculated by the old drunk on his street at Evergreen Estates, Linn Speck took a predictable course of action. He ran immediately to their park office for the purpose of lodging a complaint with the property manager. But upon arriving at the office, he received a reaction that did not correspond to what was expected. Dana Alvarez was away dealing with a family matter, and in her place, a part-time employee of the owners who normally worked at a different site was on hand. He had been hired for routine maintenance chores, and had little interest in handling resident disputes or other social disruptions.

 

Bender Morcheski weighed around 300 pounds, packed into a burly, undersized frame of about five-and-a-half feet. He had huge limbs, and walked with a thud of heavy footsteps. Yet was gentle in his manner. Nearly quiet enough to be caught whispering in the midst of conversation. He preferred to stay busy with repair duties, digging trenches, mending leaky pipes, twisting frayed wires back together, and filling potholes in their streets with buckets of gravel. So, when the red-faced, former association leader began to pound on his door, there was no greeting of good cheer offered. He simply grunted from behind the used desk that had been bought at a neighborhood auction.

 

“Quit makin’ so much gawdamn racket, will ya? What the eff? Get in here and state yer case!”

 

Linn had sweaty jowls and a look of complete frustration.

 

“I WAS JUST ASSAULTED BY THAT DIRTY DRUNK AT LOT 13! ARE YOU GOING TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT OR WILL I HAVE TO CALL THE SHERIFF?”

 

Ben sat his smoldering cigar on the edge of a glass ashtray which had once belonged to a restaurant on the township square.

 

“Assaulted? How did that happen? Did that boozer crawl down ta yer trailer or somethin’? He can’t take a dozen steps without fallin’ over!”

 

The persistent agitator flushed with guilt, while reflecting on his ill-advised deed.

 

“Well no, I went to see him about trash blowing around in his yard. He’s a menace sitting there getting inebriated every day. Throwing cans and bottles around, belching, passing wind, listening to sports broadcasts on his cell phone...”

 

The maintenance man laughed until he was out of breath. Then, narrowed his eyes.

 

“You actually confronted that dude about his porch habits? Son-of-a-bitch! I didn’t think anybody ever went over there ta see him. Dana stays away, and I do too. We never see his family come ta visit. When I hear shit about his lot getting’ messy I’ll drive by in the golf cart we own, but I never see nothin’ there. Somebody is cleanin’ up that trash fer him. Or maybe it ends up at yer lot, on windy days? I don’t know and don’t give a damn, either!”

 

Linn began to seethe with rage.

 

“LOOK AT MY MOUTH! IT’S REALLY SORE! HE WHACKED ME HARD WITH ONE OF HIS CANES! I NEED HIM TO BE EVICTED IMMEDIATELY! OR ELSE THE SHERIFF CAN DO IT! EITHER WAY, IT’S UP TO YOU! SHOW SOME BACKBONE FOR A CHANGE!”

 

There was a pause that indicated disinterest in this plea. Then, the fix-it fellow stood up from his broken, roller chair.

 

“Mister, I ain’t in the mood ta be bullied. Dana handles shit like this, you’ll have ta take it up with her. I’m just here ta answer the phone and collect rent checks. Or should I say, collect my own check, I gotta do somethin’ useful around here ta get paid!”

 

The erstwhile community organizer slammed both of his flabby hands on the desktop.

 

“Thanks for nothing then! Thanks for absolutely nothing! I’ll call the sheriff on my own!”

 

Even before walking back to his home on the corner, Linn had dialed the number for their county’s top lawman. But once he had identified the alleged perpetrator, a wheezing sound of discontent filled his ear.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath took the call himself. He was not impressed with a vague description of what had transpired in the cluster of mobile homes, and barked a stern rebuke in response. e He  

 

“Sir, you need to calm down for a minute. I can’t make sense of what you are saying. Was there some kind of home invasion where you live? Did someone break in? Was there a confrontation with other members of your family?”

 

The park instigator groaned and hesitated before attempting to explain his plight.

 

“Sheriff, I went to lodge a complaint about creating a public nuisance in our neighborhood. You see, there’s a hermit on my street who won’t socialize with others in our community. His name is Townshend Lincoln, and he looks like a refugee from the hills...”

 

Rath sputtered while stifling amusement. He wanted to maintain decorum during the call.

 

“T. C. Lincoln? That’s who you confronted? Well I must say that it explains a lot about what must have happened. He isn’t fond of receiving guests on his front porch.”

 

Linn was flustered and furious.

 

“YOU KNOW HIM, SHERIFF?”

 

The law-enforcement executive smiled while reflecting on memories of yonder days in their county.

 

“His parents used to live down by the high school, in our capital city. They were kind and respectful people. He’s a bit ornery by comparison, but never hurt anybody. Much less difficult to handle than his younger brother, who was a truck driver for several years. I’d suggest that you just leave him alone...”

 

This advice did not sit well with the frequent complainer. He huffed and stomped his feet while arguing for a different resolution.

 

“LEAVE HIM ALONE? ARE YOU KIDDING, SHERIFF? HE STRUCK ME ACROSS THE TEETH WITH ONE OF HIS DISABILITY CANES! I STILL CAN’T EAT SOLID FOOD! MY MOUTH WILL TAKE WEEKS TO HEAL!”

 

The department steward had to restrain an overwhelming urge to chortle out loud.

 

“You went to his lot for the purpose of stirring up trouble, correct? That puts you at fault. It is his castle, his home. His strip of land, at least for the lease term. Nothing would have happened otherwise. I know Link, he’s not one to become involved in a conflict on his own. That guy likes to get loaded on liquor, pass out on his bench, and call it a day. There are worse people to handle in this county, believe me. We’ve got methheads with mullets, militia types, amateur crime bosses coming out from Cleveland, and scammers using artificial intelligence. An old booze hound like Link doesn’t even register on my radar. Give him a wide berth, and stay at home where you belong!”

 

Linn could feel his pulse beating hard in both temples. He slammed the cellular device on his kitchen table. Then began to howl at his wife, who was in the living room with a glass of white wine, and a soap opera episode on the television.

 

“HAKI! PACK YOUR BAGS, HONEY! WE’RE DONE WITH THIS PARK! IT’S TIME TO MOVE OUT OF HERE, FOR GOOD!”

 

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Distance, Maintained”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had one goal in mind at the start of every day. To be outside on his porch by the afternoon, drunk soon afterward, and left alone. He did not crave companionship or social interaction of any kind. This reclusive nature made him the subject of gossiping and rumors around Evergreen Estates, a rural community of mobile homes near Lake Erie. Yet it had no effect on his habits or emotional disposition. He was content to have fallen out of favor with those who also lived on his street in the blue-collar development. Only one mantra ruled the day for this contrarian hermit. It had been printed on a piece of posterboard with a black marker, and hung in the front window, backed by a camouflage blanket used for a curtain.

 

“KEEP YOUR DISTANCE, EVERYBODY! I DON’T FIRE WARNING SHOTS, AND I DON’T DIAL 911!”

 

Generally, other residents ignored him as a curiosity in their midst. A seedy, shaggy curmudgeon muttering to himself while becoming inebriated on strong drink. But for Linn Speck, a rotund, balding fellow who had once aspired to become head of a neighborhood association in control of the park, this sort of willful anonymity could not stand. He had a grudge to bear that would never be surrendered. An overwhelming desire to seek revenge for past offenses, and a judgment in front of his peers that the dirty boozer should be expelled from their prefab oasis.

 

On a weekend in the summer, those living at the isolated development were lazily enjoying outdoor activities. Propane and charcoal grills belched aromatic smoke into the atmosphere. A sizzling of prepared meats could be heard at every lot. Music echoed from portable radios, open windows, and passing trucks. The laughter of children added to this festive mix of ebullience. But on the corner, there was only a scowl of disgust, and a groan about not having organized a picnic that would raise funds for the new group of leaseholders.

 

Linn sputtered with his flabby jowls turning red.

 

“That old bastard is still screwing people over! I just know it! He should’ve been evicted from here a long time ago, dragged away on his butt by the sheriff himself!”

 

Haki, his statuesque spouse, rolled her eyes at this familiar protest. She was somewhat fatigued from listening to the same complaints, over and over again.

 

“Honey, you haven’t even seen him walk down his ramp in months! He never goes anywhere, they bring groceries to his home, kids get the trash bin when it is full, and his SUV never leaves the driveway. I bet its battery is dead!”

 

Her husband groaned while pondering a visit to chastise the oldster, face-to-face.

 

“Nonsense! I bet he’s on the phone, calling people. Probably the township police, or trustees, or county commissioners. You know, anybody who’ll listen! He’s a troublemaker with an axe to grind! An outsider who never should have been allowed to move here in the first place!”

 

Haki brushed the long, glistening hair out of her eyes. A gentle breeze toyed with her billowing skirt. She was pretty despite being a veteran of many years, lived.

 

“Oh, come on now! I’d guess that he can’t even read the display on his phone, after a few drinks! There are always empty bottles in his yard, and beer cans. He must throw them off the porch in a drunken stupor, maybe. I really don’t know!”

 

Linn snorted defiantly. Then, got up from his lawn chair, and turned to leave without a proper explanation.

 

“THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! I COULD KISS YOU RIGHT NOW, MRS. SPECK!”

 

The mature woman shook her head with befuddlement. Both hands slid upward, to her curvaceous hips.

 

“Kiss me? What the heck? Don’t walk away after a remark like that! What do you mean? Come back here and explain yourself, mister!”

 

Lincoln had been outside for at least two hours. Long enough that the side yard by his singlewide abode was littered with rubbish. The trash receptacle had tipped over apparently, and yielded a wealth of plastic tubs, food containers, and empty jars. He was oblivious to this fault, being tipsy and content with his routine. But the sight of such a mess on public display provided a perfect excuse for someone to intervene.

 

The former association president shouted from a safe spot out in their street.

 

“LINK! I KNOW YOU’RE BLITZED, BUT THAT’S STILL NO EXCUSE FOR ALL THIS TRASH BLOWING AROUND! IT’LL BE AT THE NEXT LOT PRETTY SOON, AND THE NEXT, AND THE NEXT! THEN, IT’LL BE DOWN AT MY LOT! AND THAT’S WHEN I’M GOING TO DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT!”

 

The cranky alcoholic was amused by this show of force. Yet unimpressed with the threat.

 

“Sure, do whatever you want. Remember though, I’ve got two disability canes up here. Keep your distance unless an ass-whipping is on the agenda for today! I’ll swing like a major-league batter, and that’s no bullshit, brother!”

 

Linn frowned to the point that he was squinting. He drew closer with every word.

 

“YOU’RE GONNA HIT ME WITH YOUR WALKING STICK? NOW THAT’S DAMNED HILARIOUS! I BET YOU CAN’T EVEN LIFT THOSE ARMS OVER YOUR HEAD! FACE IT, LINK, YOU’RE A WORN-OUT HUSK OF A MAN! A LOSER AND A LONER! NO FRIENDS, NO FAMILY, AND NOT ENOUGH SENSE TO CLEAN UP THE GARBAGE DUMPED ON YOUR SIDEWALK!”

 

Lincoln tensed upon seeing his adversary approaching. But also reacted with a sense of disbelief. The persistent agitator kept stepping forward while yowling. One, two, three, four, five steps, and more. Until at last he stood at the feet of his target.

 

“CLEAN UP THIS DANG MESS! IT’S BAD ENOUGH THAT YOU SIT OUT HERE ALL DAY, BUT SEEING YOUR TRASH SCATTER MAKES IT EVEN WORSE! I’M GOING TO CALL THE PARK MANAGER! SHE’LL FINE YOU FOR NOT TAKING CARE OF THINGS! IT’S YOUR FAULT, NOT MINE! THIS IS THE WAY THINGS HAVE TO BE!”

 

A bourbon haze lingered around the contrarian’s face and beard. He had difficulty trying to focus his eyes. Every image he could see was blurry, and fluttering. But then, his left hand found one of the metal canes. He turned the prop stick at an angle, and recoiled to strike.

 

WHAPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

 

Linn went running, while cradling loose teeth in his hands. His words were barely intelligible.

 

“YOUUU BASTARD! YOUUU OLD, SMELLLLLY BASSSTARD! I CAN’T BELIEVE YOUUU GOT THAT MUCH STRENGTH LEFT IN YOURRR ARMS! WHAT THE HELLL, LINK? WHAT THE HELLLL?”

 

His opponent grinned while opening a cold round of brew. The disability implement slid to a spot on low on his floorboards.

 

“What did I say, dumbass? Keep your distance! Do that, and we won’t have any more trouble!”

“Rebuttal Rhyme”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Seeking to be prominent

That’s a charge I can’t accept

With infirmities and handicaps

I am quiet on my deck

Did you take a detour

From the truth to other things?

And imagine me a boxer

A mighty king of the ring?

I’ll guess that you have erred

It’s amusing on its own

To judge a busted fellow

As if he sat upon a throne

I can’t claim to be averse

When told to take a hike

But I’ve got a poet’s knack

For writing lyrics, in the night

So, I’ll offer you this verse

Given as a point of fact

It’s not worth the effort needed

For a verbal, vain attack

I’m anonymous enough

To make one wonder if I exist

A work of speculation

A plotted plunder ‘round the twist

If you think upon this

With the care that it deserves

You’ll find yourself in a maze

A roundabout of endless curves

Looking at a mirror self

With evidence intact

A rebuke from the top of mind

A stated point of fact

I hope you’ll listen closely

At what the whispers say

There’s a reason to be silent

When you have no cards to play

It’s better to be thought a fool

Than to testify in court

Better to sail away from harm

Than languish in the port

You’ve brought this stain upon yourself

Now it is yours to face

No boast of brawn, however loud

Can bring a touch of grace

Turn aside from stepping stones

Too quick to slip and slide

A gambler knows to fold his hand

When a wager is unwise

Chastened by the odds

And shy from shedding gain

I’d rather skip a try at luck

Than surrender my good name

When you come with a claim to make

In the gleam of glorious gold

Remember that false witness borne

Is soon to be retold

What you speak to power

Will echo back, a hundred times

Until your ears grow weary

From the ring of restless rhymes

The painter’s brush is careful

To color every claim

And if you also dabble there

Be certain of your aim

An invocation to the sky

Or a cause of sticks and swords

Choose the yield of a patient smile

Over pride and war

Perhaps this chant is not enough

I know you may dissent

But the final word is on my tongue

This tome is at its end

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Rifle Reaction”

 

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

T. C. Lincoln had never been one to keep silent when expressing his opinions. But the fact that he was socially isolated, somewhat withdrawn, and reluctant to spend much time in the company of others, meant that he did not often encounter situations where delivering his take on current events was possible. He preferred to stay at his home on Lot 13 at Evergreen Estates, while imbibing beverage alcohol, and numbing himself to the outside world.

 

But occasionally, when feeling drunk and agitated, he would make posts on social media accounts that tied residents of the trailer community together. These verbose bursts of lucidity were always entertaining to read, and provided evidence for neighbors who were shy about approaching his singlewide hovel, that he had not yet died while getting loaded. Yet with each of these contrarian contributions, he rattled nerves around the park of manufactured homes. The rural development was nearly unanimous in affection for a particularly conservative outlook on living, loving, and the worship of a Christian deity. So, anything outside of that limited sphere was considered to be a heresy.

 

The shaggy hermit had a Libertarian bent that rubbed salt in their eyes and tingled their ears, on a regular basis.

 

Unlike other figures with a similar history of causing tempers to flare and pulses to quicken, he was not anonymous by any means. The gray-bearded iconoclast could be found easily, sitting on his front porch, during afternoon and evening hours. He made no attempt to hide himself from public view, or to soften his persona in the interest of co-existing quietly. He would guzzle whiskey and cold beer, belch, grunt, growl, and engage in flatulence, loudly enough that those who were on each side of his longbox dwelling were well aware of his presence. Though with a constant drumbeat of Country melodies echoing from vehicles and garages in the park, and loud mufflers yielding a mechanical cacophony of combustion, this did not offend too greatly.

 

But for Aimes Beauregard Hefti, the self-appointed militia commander at their site, simply knowing that the cranky boozer had not yet been evicted was sufficient cause to plan some course of direct action. He would plot and scheme about ways that the senior menace might be eliminated from their ranks. Though with each of these ideas ruminating in his head, the same sort of unhappy conclusion stalled his dark desires. If he killed the stinky lout where he sat, at the top of a long, wooden ramp built for handicap access, it would immediately alert others along the street that some woeful event had transpired. He needed a better method to rub out this persistent stain. With some cover for himself as the perpetrator.

 

On a weekend morning as warmer temperatures had arrived, he drove around the property in his Chevy Silverado, scouting the environment. Each concrete slab had been placed at a standard distance from the others, to meet codes set by the state. So, there were no safe spaces where he could hide and shoot off rounds of ammunition. His desperate act would be visible to everyone. But after making laps around the grid, he realized that there were enough empty homes interspersed with the others, that he could lie on a rooftop, flattened to the shingles, and set up a vantage point for his AR-15 rifle. No more than a single crack of live fire would be needed. Right after sunset, this clandestine cleansing of their isolated village could commence.

 

Few if any residents ever approached the disintegrating shack, on foot. It might take days or weeks for the body to decompose enough to be noticed. By then, he intended to be out of Ohio, and back in a southern district where his accent and mannerisms were more familiar. A place where he would arouse no suspicion, and find plenty of allies.

 

Gunfire was often heard at the trailer oasis, due to hunting in the area and vigorous 2A supporters who lived at the small development. So, a sharp retort from his weapon would fail to attract much attention. It was rarely quiet at any hour. Moreover, many of the renters and leaseholders fully supported his own inclination to remove undesirables from their midst. Only their official manager, an employee of the distant owners, had any good words to offer, about the disgusting drunk and his habit of going against the grain, in intellectual terms.

 

“That dude always pays his rent on time, okay? And he don’t make no trouble for us at all. Whatta ya want me to do? I need more people like him, not less. Give me your monthly checks and shut up about it, already!”

 

Lincoln always preferred to leave his payment via the drop box. He did not like engaging in conversation, or being seen in his T-shirt and sweatpants.

 

With a deep blue of finality taking hold, one week later, the militia goon crossed himself before beginning his task. He scaled a stolen ladder, up the back of an abandoned Schult trailer with a convenient line-of-sight to the west side of Lot 13. He wriggled across the tar squares, until finding a spot on the sloped roof that allowed him to take aim with a measure of anonymity still intact. As expected, the inebriated bum was on his bench, across from the front door. He had already dribbled liquor over his camouflage hoodie, and exposed belly. There were wrappers from a party pack of Taco Bell eats strewn around the inset square, where he sat. Crushed cans had fallen by his feet. A half-empty jug of bourbon waited on the porch railing. He yawned and scratched his long beard, before loosing a thunderous brap of wind from the pit of his stomach.

 

This was the final moment of decision Hefti had been anticipating. His target was about to taste a judgment of hot lead and cold justice. A gift given to every other citizen in their neighborhood.

 

The rifle felt steely and sleek in his hands. He could see the victim clearly in its crosshairs. A silent countdown buzzed in his skull. Then, he squeezed the trigger with a calculated amount of effort, taking care to maintain his steady position.

 

Lincoln spat out a mouthful of brown fire, and coughed reflexively just before the bullet arrived. He had gotten some of the potent juice down his windpipe. This error caused him to lurch forward, and crouch over his arthritic knees. The vinyl siding shattered where his head would have been, if not for this odd coincidence.

 

The weary drunk cursed and gagged, and dropped his jug on the floorboards.

 

“GAWDAMN IT! WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH ME? I CAN’T EVEN GET BLITZED WITHOUT MESSIN’ UP! THIS SHIT IS CRAZY! I GUESS EVERYBODY IS RIGHT, I’M A FREAKIN’ LOSER!”

 

There was a telltale hole in the wall, which was frighteningly obvious Yet in his sloppy condition, that bit of evidence went unnoticed. Once he had managed to cease convulsing and contorting himself, he soothed away the throat affliction with a satisfying round of Miller High Life.

 

Across the street, his opponent had lost the fortitude to continue. His hands trembled around the stock and barrel of the long gun. With a snake-like slithering, he retreated to the back yard behind the empty abode, and then crawled away to his own doublewide construction. A veritable palace by comparison, on the back road past their on-site sewer facility.

 

He sat in his pickup truck outside, still shaking from the failed attempt to commit a homicide. He whispered with guilt while clinging to the steering wheel.

 

“Holy shit, I almost killed that dumb son-of-a-bitch! I almost did it! I almost did it!”

 

T. C. Lincoln passed out with his jug of swill emptied, and his life spared. He had been unaware of the merciful interruption that saved him from a painful demise. Yet in the morning, a hangover would rekindle his regret over falling asleep without first going inside to his bed. Pangs of arthritis were aroused by the chill of night, on his wooden seat. But a first taste of alcohol stilled this throbbing in his bones.

 

Aware or oblivious of his encounter with grace, it was good to be alive at Lot 13.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Crock Potted”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Famously, my second wife once exclaimed with exasperation about a personal habit that seemed to irritate her with persistence. During a frank discussion of scheduling in the household, as I was working at the home-office desk, she threw back her head, and yowled a petition for more attention and less typing at my keyboard.

 

“Can’t you ever just do something, without getting a story out of it?”

 

My response was brief, and direct. I did not attempt to explain or excuse this learned behavior, especially after years of writing for newspapers and magazines.

 

“Umm, no... of course not!”

 

During those days of marital companionship, finding some sort of cooperative coexistence within the household confines was important. It kept me busy thinking ahead, and channeling personal energy into diplomatic efforts. When what I really desired was a quiet moment to peck away at my computer interface. And sneak savory treats from the cupboards, in between these sessions. Finding inspiration for a yield of publishable manuscripts was always paramount. Every deadline mattered, and my file cabinets were stuffed with research materials, manuals, and unfinished ideas. The challenge of keeping everything in line never abated. Meanwhile, this pursuit always made me hungry.

 

This race to finish writing projects never ended. Until it did, long before I had prepared myself to be stalled by fate.

 

By then, I had managed to lose many components of a stable and successful life that one might brag about. My marriage, career, and mobility all disappeared within a short span of time. Even the gentle companionship of having pets at my side was surrendered. Instead of leaving my home every day, to seek interactions and opportunities, I became more of a hermit. Days and weeks passed where I simply sat at the monitor in my back bedroom, and worked online. Eventually, even the regular ritual of shopping for groceries was negated. Each step along this path intensified my natural disposition to be a loner. Yet unleashed extra hours for wordsmithing. It was a trade-off fit for someone approaching senior years, and permanent retirement.

 

One byproduct of this paradigm shift came as a complete surprise, for myself and also members of the family. I began to embrace the hillbilly roots of our bloodline, a theme interwoven with more modernist traditions born of necessity. Because it was no longer necessary to maintain a well-groomed, corporate appearance, I let the shagginess of a mountain man take over. I quit bothering to primp and preen for public outings. My homestead reflected this relaxed approach, with moving boxes stacked here and there, amid the chaos of disability. I quit preparing regular meals, preferring to exist on more primitive, rural delights such as fried bologna sandwiches. Or sausage gravy, over biscuits. Even a pan of improvised goulash, made with whatever waited in the cabinets.

 

I found myself rejecting the artifice of fancy establishments, with their gilded accents and dazzling designs. Eventually, when the Covid lockdowns hit Ohio, I jettisoned the activity of going out, altogether. By then, my non-conformist cohort Janis, a substitute for relationship purposes, had experienced her own slide into poor health, and landed in a nursing home. It seemed best to stay rooted to my spot. Where everything I needed was accessible, and safe. Walking required the use of dual canes for support, and a fair amount of concentration accompanying each step that I took.

 

With this unexpected metamorphosis now complete, I reverted to a simple discipline of Old Appalachia. Both in spirit, and also, in the kitchen. A recent procurement of rations via my cell phone revealed that packages of smoked hog jowl were available, apparently from a southern producer. I had already included pinto beans in a previous order, and wanted some kind of salty protein to season that dish. Both went into my slow cooker with a top layer of fresh, green onions. I added enough water to cover this mix, and let it simmer on a low setting.

 

My estranged spouse would have scolded me for embracing such an unhealthy choice. Her tilt was always toward options that were free of sodium, fat, carbohydrates, gluten, and by extension, the sensation of eating something genuinely satisfying. I reckoned sometimes that she wanted us to gnaw on pieces of cardboard, while drinking filtered water, as a family. Remarks of that kind never elicited a civil response, of course.

 

“DO YOU WANT TO HAVE A HEART ATTACK, RODNEY? IT’S YOUR CHOICE, LIVE THAT WAY IF YOU DESIRE, BUT I’LL NEVER PUT THAT KIND OF TRASH ON MY DINNER PLATE! YOU’RE BETTER THAN THAT! DON’T ACT LIKE AN OLD FOOL FROM THE HILLS!”

 

I was, of course, raised by one of those refugees from mountain terrain. So her complaints never hit the target in personal terms. Though I stayed silent while contemplating cast-iron cornbread with a slather of creamy butter, or country ham with redeye gravy.

 

Now living alone, and staying perpetually busy in the office, I have become quite fond of my crockery appliance. And also, of basic recipes that allow me to assemble items quickly, before returning to my business. Standing at the stove or countertop is no longer something I take for granted. Instead, it is a matter of endurance, while battling arthritis and bad joints. Having a pungent aroma of tasty vittles cooking throughout the afternoon and evening is pleasant, and preferable to any sort of incense or air freshener.

 

It warms my heart, and comforts my nerves.

 

Snacking until this feast is ready involves raiding the household stash for dill pickles, brined eggs and sausages, candied jalapeños, sweet onions, banana peppers, or chunks of horseradish cheese. I keep a variety of goods on hand that would never have been permitted before. One that is similar to staple items found during my childhood, in our Sears & Roebuck refrigerator.

 

My journey has become a full-circle revelation. Literally, an episode of time travel, back to where things began, in southeastern Ohio. I lived in unincorporated towns that would puzzle mapmakers with their distant and isolated locations. Yet were blessed with the sort of fellowship known by pioneer folk, carving out a new civilization in the heartland.

 

As Popeye the Sailor Man used to exclaim, ‘I yam what I yam!’ No other identity would be proper for a product of blue skies and country roads.

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Trustee”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Fronden Able had lived across from Evergreen Estates ever since his family bought a piece of property along Pine Trail Road, in the 1960s. A move from the urban congestion of Cleveland that at first, seemed liberating. He made new friends in the rural township, enjoyed riding bicycles along trails in the wooded area behind their adopted home, and tended to a garden with his parents. The change from city living to this slower, friendlier pace gave him a renewed sense of joy over being alive. But after graduating from high school, he stalled intellectually. The lazy routine he had inherited was too forgiving in real terms. He had no reason to push himself toward educational goals, and career advancement. His needs were met by simply being where he was, in the same bedroom since his teenage years, with a stereo system and color television for entertainment. Knowing neighbors who were patient and familiar, going to church on the community square, and earning subsistence wages as a laborer-for-hire at vineyards near Lake Erie. Everything came easily, from sunrise to sunset. Only the bluster of winter weather caused him any distress, and even that represented little more a temporary nuisance.

 

Nothing bothered him in this safe cocoon of emotional tranquility, except for the cluster of manufactured trailers that stood on the other side of their isolated route. It was, by any description, a primitive and ugly development. A park apparently built to house low-income families who were shunned by more affluent towns in their prosperous county. It was dirty and noisy, full of pickup trucks with bad mufflers and roaring motors. Its inhabitants often attracted attention from the sheriff’s department, or township police. There were campfires burning on summer nights, and music that blared from dashboard radios, and out of open windows in the singlewide homes. He could smell the stench of tobacco and marijuana smoke perpetually. And hear the combative cheering of drunken revelers, long into the night.

 

It was a spectacle that often made him wonder why his parents had chosen such a spot when hunting for an escape from their metropolitan neighborhood. Though he knew well why that choice had been made, initially. It came down to a matter of the purchase price, which was unusually cheap because of the land’s proximity to that eyesore across from their front yard.

 

When his father and mother both departed for a skilled-care facility, and then died in succession, he was left with a sort of albatross which no buyer would take, willingly. Offers for the acreage and buildings were never generous. Realtors did not want to market the property for anything but extra farmland. When complaining about this disparity, he was reminded of a platitude in the business that sounded irritatingly familiar, yet undeniably true.

 

“The three most important things in real estate are, location, location, and location!”

 

Finally, having reached the age where he was ready for his own retirement, the transplanted Cuyahogan decided that something had to be done. He could not bear to spend his days listening to the cacophony of redneck music and alcohol-inspired martial disputes. So, he ran for a position of township trustee and once elected, began to study the rules and regulations that governed having such a residential preserve within their district.

 

The yield was a stormy precipitation of code violations, and procedural offenses.

 

The owners of Evergreen Estates were anonymous and distant. But upon being called into court, in Ohio, they suddenly became vocal and visible. There were lawsuits and counter-suits. Park inhabitants threw tantrums at association meetings in the maintenance garage. The on-site managers kept quitting, fearing bodily harm when visiting their own office. Services were neglected, the streets crumbled, lights were left burned out, and the fields became overgrown with weeds and brush. Rocks sailed across the pavement, and soon filled the grass of their cranky assailant. He would swear oaths of vengeance, when mowing the lawn.

 

Eventually, Fronden sat on the sidewalk in front of his dwelling, and yowled with displeasure at each of these attacks. He wanted the impoverished, pre-fab village to simply go away. Perhaps under the massive blades of a bulldozer team. Or when succumbing to the blaze of an arsonist’s mischief. He thought it would be just and fair to see the stubborn stain rubbed out, forever.

 

But oddly, this episode of harassment and hardship had the opposite effect.

 

Leaseholders and renters organized a pig roast for the Independence Day weekend. It was sponsored by the local racetrack, and a Dollar General store on the hilltop. Then, the neighborhood association did something that was unthinkable. They invited their tormentor to attend, and immerse himself in the unique culture of their humble hamlet.

 

The senior malcontent was astounded upon receiving this note in his mailbox. He shouted angrily while dragging his feet all the way back to the front door.

 

“ARE THEY FREAKING CRAZY? I’D LIKE TO GO OVER THERE WITH A GAWDAMN SLEDGEHAMMER AND TEAR SHIT UP! WHAT KIND OF INSANE NONSENSE IS THIS? I WISH THEY WOULD ALL GO STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

 

He had been determined to refuse the invitation, and continue finding reasons to cite the development over deficiencies in their upkeep. But other trustees on the township board had become fatigued with this strategy of antagonism. A resolution was voted on, and passed in a monthly meeting. One that called for an olive branch to be extended, with some kind of rapprochement between the warring sides.

 

The reluctant oldster felt incredibly out-of-place when walking across their road, and entering the notorious community. Yet when approaching the garages, he saw a long line of tables that had been set up for serving a sort of banquet meal. There were large bowls of potato salad, ears of sweet corn piled high on serving plates, steaming crocks of pulled pork with barbecue sauce, seasoned green beans, and chunks of roasted hog. Along with homemade rolls and biscuits, chocolate cake, and Jell-O desserts.

 

A blessing was offered, before anyone took a bite. Granny Maylene, matron of the park, folded her hands reverently, and prayed aloud.

 

“Dear Lord, we thank you for this opportunity to come together as one. We accept this bounty in your stead, and give thanks for your grace!  We honor you with our fellowship, in a spirit of peace! In the name of Holy Jesus, Amen!”

 

Coolers of cold brew were waiting under the tables. He had not taken a drink in years, but somehow, the flavor of a blue-collar beer tickled his taste buds. He enjoyed a second round, and a third, while engaging in conversation. This odd pairing of sworn enemies took on a more gentle tone, as everyone filled their bellies and quenched their thirst.

 

A young kid dressed in stripes, shorts, and Converse sneakers approached the elected official, at last. He was freckled and pudgy, but spoke with a naïve tone of innocence and honesty.

 

“Mr. Able, I heard that ya came here from Cleveland when bein’ about my age. I never lived in a big city before, but have always heard that those people are mean and nasty. But yer alright, sir. Kinda like my papaw, he died in Kentucky, smokin’ and cussin’ and wishin’ we’d never left. My dad needed work and he found it up here, this is the best place we’ve ever lived so far. I like havin’ my own bedroom! And I hope maybe ya kin come see us again, cause I miss that old guy... he knew how ta fish and hunt and fix things with rope, duct tape, and deck screws!”

 

Fronden hung his head. He could feel a flush of blood flowing in his cheeks. Something he attributed more to the beverage alcohol than embarrassment. He had no words of wisdom to offer, so instead, just kept drinking.

 

There would be many things to ponder when he went to bed, later in the evening. But for now, he was content to eat and drink, and cease his hostility.

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Silent Goodbye”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Darnell Spate had been retired longer than many of his neighbors could remember. Though in a community of mobile homes such as Evergreen Estates, that was not remarkable by any definition. Generally, residents moved in and out at a rapid pace, due to financial woes, neighbor disputes, and frequent visits from the sheriff’s department. So, the population was always in flux. Only a handful of those inhabiting trailers in the park bothered to network socially with their peers. For the rest, ignorance of their environment brought a measure of comfort. They were content not to pay much attention, to anyone and anything.

 

But the shaggy veteran at Lot 71 had survived long enough to outlive everyone in his immediate family. Both children, his wife, parents, and brothers, had all passed away. Along with workplace friends, and fellow members of the armed forces, with whom he had served. He was alone in every sense, yet resilient in the face of his isolation. The only comfort he retained was sitting outside in his driveway, on a strappy, plaid, lawn chair manufactured in the 1970s. The folding seat creaked and groaned when he used it to rest, but somehow kept its structural integrity. Those who went walking up and down the street, with pets or siblings, or friends, tended to look straight ahead, for fear of making eye contact. Most simply wanted to get past the old fellow and his concrete perch, without any interaction. Though if they had known about his multiple tours-of-duty in Vietnam, some might have saluted, out of respect.

 

Spate was arthritic, missing fingers on his left hand, barely able to walk, half-blind from untreated diabetes, and partially deaf from the effects of munitions blasts. But every day, regardless of the season, he would struggle out the front door to sample a breath of fresh air, and a short tumbler of bourbon whiskey. In the winter, that meant bundling up in a snowmobile suit left from his younger days. But at more hospitable times of the year, he simply wore camouflage duds that duplicated those issued during his career as a volunteer soldier.

 

On a warm day in June, the cranky contrarian felt his chest tighten, while drinking from a souvenir glass. It soon became difficult to breathe, and then, a glow of afterlife energy filled his eyes. He could hear voices speaking in a whisper, calling him forward, through the veil. Then, everything went black. His heart seized with the force of a failed, truck transmission grinding to a halt. The rush of stalled blood caused him to jerk and shake, and yowl in pain.

 

He died at noon, with the yellow sun directly overhead.

 

At least a few others along the rustic boulevard might have come to his aid, if they had noticed anything out of place at the narrow, overgrown lot. But his profile in the chair, sitting in the driveway, was too familiar for concern. They trudged by staring straight ahead, smiling and laughing, engaging in friendly horseplay, smoking low-price cigarettes, or drinking Budweiser beer. Not a single tenant paid attention. As a final gurgle of sentient existence trickled through his lips, the senior loner gasped and coughed.

 

“God help me, I’ve had a good run, like Dean Martin, the pride of Steubenville!”

 

Spate’s body stayed in the lawn furnishing for several days, turning pale in the summer heat. A thunderstorm nourished his corpse with cool precipitation. Finally, birds and wild animals began to peck and claw at the lifeless figure, out of curiosity. Yet not a single neighbor came close, to see what had happened. The withered hermit was known for drunken outbursts, inspired by bouts of PTSD and past marital breakups. He would yell and toss empty cans and bottles around the ragged yard, as if battling with ghosts. Fireworks seemed to trigger these episodes more than any other phenomenon. Though he sometimes sobbed quietly, when remembering soldiers from his outfit that had perished before ever experiencing the joy of returning home to America.

 

A month had passed when the new property manager realized that his rent check was absent from her count. He had dependably dropped it in an office slot by the entrance door for decades, according to her predecessor. So, seeing that his account was overdue aroused both a sense of irritation, and worry. Riding on a golf cart owned by the proprietors, she rolled up the broken pavement, found his space, and squawked while still at a distance.

 

“Hey old man, ain’t ya got a gawdamn calendar in yer shack? The rent was due three weeks ago! What the hell, buddy? Don’t tell me yer broke, y’all never go anywhere!”

 

She could see that her leaseholder was in his seat, on top of the gravel drive. But the reclusive bum offered no reaction to her complaint. This evoked a sense of being given the brush-off. Something she had experienced from other, younger renters, but never from the white-haired grump in his green apparel. This made her speak more loudly as she approached.

 

“DID Y’ALL HEAR ME? YER FLIPPIN’ RENT IS DUE! WHATTA YA WANT, TO GET AN EVICTION NOTICE? TRUST ME, SHIT WILL GET REAL HERE, VERY, VERY FAST! I’VE ALREADY HAD THE POPO HAND OUT SIX NOTICES THIS MONTH! THE OWNERS DON’T PLAY THAT CRAP! LET’S SETTLE UP SO I CAN GO BACK TO THE OFFICE AND DO SOMETHIN’ PRODUCTIVE FER A CHANGE! LIKE FINISH MY COFFEE!”

 

Spate had been dead for long enough that his body had started to reek with a graveyard aroma. But being out in the elements had helped to disguise this ugly fact. Still, the stench was frighteningly apparent, as their park manager drew closer. She stood on her toes, balanced at the end of his sidewalk. And snorted upon catching a whiff of this decay-in-progress.

 

“Oh my gawd, what happened to ya, Mister Darnell? Say somethin’ already, yer freakin’ me out! Yer damn well freakin’ me out!”

 

There was no reaction from the deceased resident. Only a wobble of his leg as a squirrel went running for cover.

 

The property supervisor covered her mouth with both hands, and then went running clumsily, down the street. Her flip-flops scattered in opposite directions.

 

“HE’S DEAD! HE’S DEAD! HE’S DEAD!!! WHY DIDN’T ANYBODY TELL ME WHAT HAPPENED? I NEEDED TO KNOW!”

 

At the township cemetery, on a hilltop nearby, the solitary veteran was finally laid to rest in a ceremony performed by a clergyman from their church on the square. A delegation from the local VFW played reverently, to signify the value of his service. But other than a few stragglers from the mobile village, no one else attended. All those who had shared his mortal journey were already waiting, across the great divide.

 

The pastor opened his Bible, and read aloud from the Book of John, Chapter 14.

 

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid...”