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

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

After my surreal conversation with T. Randall Squire about joining his stable of rural artists, I needed to seek comfort in the form of a cool beverage. Temperatures in my neighborhood had soared to nearly 100 degrees. So, I sat in my living room with a box fan blowing air around the crowded space. I still had moving crates stacked here and there, in addition to various pieces of castaway furniture. Relics from different periods of my past life, before disability and isolation took hold. Viewed as a whole, the household collection appeared chaotic and even obsessive. As if I might have been a hoarder of some kind, driven by a form of mental instability. Yet the truth was more complex in nature. I had persistently chased career goals until my body began to surrender. Then, with my finances ruined and allies scattering, I simply learned to exist on a level dictated by necessity.

 

I had seen my elderly father do much the same, as he survived into his 80s, while caring for my mother who was affected by senile dementia.

 

In my own terms, this battle proved to be less of a burden. Because I was the only member of my household, someone without high standards of need or want in effect. I had grown up with moving as a constant, always losing old friends and gaining new horizons. Never sitting on a spot for long enough to sink roots into the soil. This tumbleweed upbringing served to insulate me against the prejudices and hard perspectives of others. But when I finally ceased this endless rush to nowhere, it took a period of adjustment to become acclimated.

 

As companions became fewer in number, I turned toward my work. As with my pater, the desk was a refuge, and sanctuary where I could always go to find absolution.

 

While pondering the notion of penning material under the tagline of Rodney Dean, I once again felt a nudge toward rural ruminations. And what followed was a fictional story told in lyrical form. One that I suspected Mr. Squire would appreciate.

 

Aldous Crane

 

“Aldous Crane lived outside of town

In a singlewide shack

They said he became a widower

When his wife had a heart attack

But the true tale is complicated

The heart spell was his

She ran off with a neighbor

When he had no more to give

That boy did his best

But he just couldn’t pass the test

 

That split broke him in pieces

He was nevermore alive

Like an empty jar sitting out

With nothing on the inside

It left him cold and lonely

Though he smiled through each day

With his Tennessee whiskey

In pitchers of Lynchburg Lemonade

That boy couldn’t get it right

He drank a full bottle, every night

 

Aldous Crane got to be an old fool

Sitting out on his front porch

It was uncomplicated fun

Stuck right there by the storm door

Nobody came calling to check

Which he rightly did prefer

Nobody really gave a damn

And he was grateful to endure

That boy was running solo

In a backwoods part of Ohio

 

Daisy Dee saw him on a Sunday morn

And invited him along to church

She said, “Come and hear the Holy Word!”

As he dribbled down his T-shirt

“A shaggy man of your kind

Needs to be reclaimed!”

The very thought put rocks in his belly

He had no interest in being saved

That boy had forgotten how to love

He didn’t care for heaven, above

 

But she came around, near every day

And kept teaching him with verse

From her tattered copy of the Bible

And candy mints in her purse

She was too wise for a taste of liquor

And by goodness, he was not

But every visit served a purpose

They became partners in thought

That boy had a feeling that some day

They might wed, no matter what folks would say

 

Aldous Crane finally made a proposal

One that met between the halves

He said, “Give me one more drink of bourbon

And I’ll go up to Sunday class!”

That bargain changed the moment

She saw him with a different face

The moment brought a revelation

And his sorrow was erased

That boy finally figured out

That there’s a way to shed shame and doubt

 

Now that bearded bum is content

To share his happy stoop

No longer hungry in the evening

Fed on cornbread and bean soup

Daisy Dee is queen of their roost

A godly woman, satisfied

The pair cleaves unto each other

As the good book says is right

That boy finally found a special friend

Staked a claim on being born again

 

That boy finally found a special friend

Staked a claim on being born again...”

 

Unselfconsciously, I posted the song on my newspaper blog. And before an hour had passed, my cell phone chirped and squawked with notifications. Then, I heard the ringtone of a classic, Western Electric 500 begin to resound.

 

A voicemail message had been left at my number.

 

“Rodney, it’s yer pal, Country Squire again! I just read the words of that new ditty y’all wrote, and I gotta say it’s another damn winner! Boy, ya really have a knack fer gettin’ right down ta the heart of a good ol’ ballad! Plus, this time, yer inflection is more on the positive side. I’d say we need more of that, as there’s been plenty of stuff written about drinkin’ and divorce, or barroom fights and goin’ ta jail! I like a happy ending now and then. Not that we want ta get sappy about life of course. I mean, it is what it is! Workin’ folks get their hands dirty fer a reason. It’s because life in the heartland, or the south, or west, still means sacrifice and heartache! That’s the target we’re aimin’ at every day. That’s how tickets are sold and records fly off the shelves! It’s a formula that has worked for many, many years!”

 

I had to hold my stomach for a moment, after listening to his message. Though his interest came as a pleasant diversion, I had no real interest in joining his roster of talent. Anonymity gave me cover to continue my craft, unaffected by outside interference. To jump on a bandwagon of public personalities would be to surrender that protective isolation.

 

I was content in my own skin. Adopting the affectations of a manufactured persona, for monetary gain, did not seem like a bargain worthy of making on any level.

“Aldous Crane”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Aldous Crane lived outside of town

In a singlewide shack

They said he became a widower

When his wife had a heart attack

But the true tale is complicated

The heart spell was his

She ran off with a neighbor

When he had no more to give

That boy did his best

But he just couldn’t pass the test

 

That split broke him in pieces

He was nevermore alive

Like an empty jar sitting out

With nothing on the inside

It left him cold and lonely

Though he smiled through each day

With his Tennessee whiskey

In pitchers of Lynchburg Lemonade

That boy couldn’t get it right

He drank a full bottle, every night

 

Aldous Crane got to be an old fool

Sitting out on his front porch

It was uncomplicated fun

Stuck right there by the storm door

Nobody came calling to check

Which he rightly did prefer

Nobody really gave a damn

And he was grateful to endure

That boy was running solo

In a backwoods part of Ohio

 

Daisy Dee saw him on a Sunday morn

And invited him along to church

She said, “Come and hear the Holy Word!”

As he dribbled down his T-shirt

“A shaggy man of your kind

Needs to be reclaimed!”

The very thought put rocks in his belly

He had no interest in being saved

That boy had forgotten how to love

He didn’t care for heaven, above

 

But she came around, near every day

And kept teaching him with verse

From her tattered copy of the Bible

And candy mints in her purse

She was too wise for a taste of liquor

And by goodness, he was not

But every visit served a purpose

They became partners in thought

That boy had a feeling that some day

They might wed, no matter what folks would say

 

Aldous Crane finally made a proposal

One that met between the halves

He said, “Give me one more drink of bourbon

And I’ll go up to Sunday class!”

That bargain changed the moment

She saw him with a different face

The moment brought a revelation

And his sorrow was erased

That boy finally figured out

That there’s a way to shed shame and doubt

 

Now that bearded bum is content

To share his happy stoop

No longer hungry in the evening

Fed on cornbread and bean soup

Daisy Dee is queen of their roost

A godly woman, satisfied

The pair cleaves unto each other

As the good book says is right

That boy finally found a special friend

Staked a claim on being born again

 

That boy finally found a special friend

Staked a claim on being born again

 

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

“I accept chaos, I’m not sure whether it accepts me.” – Bob Dylan

 

Friends and associates have sometimes likened my personality to that of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. And while that might be taken as an insult by many people, in my case it is decidedly accurate. Because of the split nature of my birthright and heritage.

 

A son of Appalachia, but also, a child of higher education.

 

My paternal grandfather was someone who earned two PhD certifications, and taught engineering at a university here in the heartland. Yet he maintained a garden at home, an apple orchard, and raised chickens. The rural nature of his upbringing was never erased by more sophisticated achievements. He enjoyed staying close to the soil. My father also engaged in a routine of formal education, and chose preaching the Gospel of Christ as his calling.  But his curiosity about popular culture and the human experience never waned. He could read from the Holy Bible, play his banjo in the style of old masters, and then switch to recordings made by the Brides of Funkenstein, produced under the tutelage of George Clinton. With a sideways glance at volumes of Edgar Cayce’s clairvoyant wisdom, for good measure.

 

The result for me, was a natural tendency to embrace contrasting viewpoints, without prejudice. I developed an affinity for balance and understanding in all things, over a narrow outlook of willful ignorance.

 

But that approach could sometimes confuse allies and supporters, who were used to a black-and-white separation between respective philosophical groups. I saw enlightenment in many places, even dark crevices where daylight rarely appeared. Truth, I thought, is nearly always inconvenient and unruly. Like water, the universal solvent, it eventually finds a way to break down the harsh, stoic stuff of intransigence. It wins out where no victory is possible. It glows even in a lightless void. It persists until recognized. It endures when all else succumbs to fatigue and despair. If it raises my blood pressure, and reddens my face, then generally, it must be true.

 

Some call this perspective chaotic. Even self-destructive. I call it normalcy. The paradigm I have come to accept as familiar and useful.

 

Such thoughts were foremost in my mind, as I received another call from T. Randall Squire. This time, he was forceful but pleasant, on the order of a dealership salesman attempting to move automotive product off of his showroom floor.

 

“Rodney, I’ve gotta say that yer silly ol’ pickle song struck a nerve with me. I’m well known fer bein’ able ta spot a hit when I hear it! And that’s got ‘number one’ written all over it! Now I ain’t makin’ promises, ya understand, but if y’all are willin’ ta trust me fer a spell, we might be able ta do business together. How’s that sound, boy?”

 

I sighed lightly, before offering a response.

 

“Well, I’m flattered of course, sir. The whole point of being a creative wordsmith is to attract readers, and apparently that mission has been accomplished here. But I must confess that otherwise, your interest is somewhat confusing...”

 

Squire huffed at my hesitation. I could tell that he had already made plans to promote my work.

 

“Y’ALL ARE CONFUSED? WELL DAMMIT, CLEAR THAT MESS RIGHT OUTTA YER NOGGIN! I’M A PRO IN THIS GAME, BOY! I KNOW WHAT’LL SELL AND WHAT WON’T. AND I CAN GUESS THAT YER CUT FROM THE RIGHT CLOTH! ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT, UP IN THE HOLLER, HILLBILLY BORN AND BRED!”

 

I was shy in answering this judgment of authenticity with my own opinion.

 

“Honestly, I’ve never cared much for Country Music. I’d greatly prefer Blues or Jazz, myself. Still, the roots of that upbringing are deep in my bloodline. Therefore, it is easy to go with that vibe, on occasion...”

 

The label executive snorted and laughed out loud.

 

“Y’ALL DON’T LIKE COUNTRY? WHAT THE HELL, BOY? WHAT YA WROTE IN YER SONG IS PURE, WORKIN’ MAN, BLUE-COLLAR MAGIC! NO DOUBT-ABOUT-IT! NO BULLSHIT! NO GAMES!”

 

I felt embarrassed by his words of praise. Yet attempted to sound gracious when continuing.

 

“I thank you, certainly. But really had no intention of garnering a music audience with my composition. It was simply a writing exercise at my home-office desk...”

 

Squire coughed into his fist, and then shuffled paperwork in a noisy show of discontent.

 

“I figured y’all must be a singer-songwriter. One of them dudes sittin’ in his trailer with a flat-top guitar and a notebook. There’s a damn truckload of people like that callin’ me every day! They all wanna make big money sellin’ records and doin’ shows. But the difference is, most of ‘em don’t got a thimble full of talent. They couldn’t get a crowd of grannies excited with what they project. But that ain’t the case with yer pickle song, boy. If yer willin’ ta work with me, great things can happen fer both of us!”

 

I did not know how to answer his proposition without coming off as ungrateful.

 

“Sir, I appreciate your generous assessment. But let’s be real about this, who would pay for a ticket to see someone from an anonymous township in Ohio? My three-letter moniker would make them laugh. And my tuneful output might sound clownish and fake...”

 

The professional promoter choked up as if he had a cigar in the corner of his mouth.

 

“Boy, tell me yer full name, okay? What’s it say on yer birth certificate?”

 

I paused to reflect on the legal terms of my own existence.

 

“Umm... that document is from a hospital in Columbus, our state capital. It reads, ‘Rodney Dean Ice, parents are residents of Franklin County, delivered by Dr. D.W. Coon...’”

 

T. Randall Squire began to hoot and howl as if he had discovered a gold nugget while panning in a stream.

 

“RODNEY DEAN, THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! I’VE NEVER HEARD A BETTER NAME FER A COUNTRY MUSIC STAR! GAWDAMN, THAT’S PRECIOUS! THAT’S A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH, WAITIN’ TA BE POLISHED UP BY A SVENGALI LIKE MYSELF! WE’RE GONNA BE RICH! LAID OUT IN HIGH COTTON!”

 

My stomach had begun to ache. For a moment, I wanted to hang up and end the call abruptly.

 

“Well, I appreciate your confidence. But I must say that you are overestimating my abilities. I haven’t played my guitar very often in recent years. I am disabled, retired, and earning a meager amount from book royalties. Honestly, I don’t do a lot except get out of bed in the morning, write at my desk, and then count the hours until it’s time for a drink!”

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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Living alone in a rural neighborhood might seem like being exiled from polite society, as a form of punishment. Yet for this writer, I have discovered that quite often, the opposite is true. Being willfully separated from the mainstream order has meant gaining the free will to labor at my home-office desk on a schedule unhindered by the demands of a traditional existence. Family needs, strong friendships, and expectations of loyalty do not have any bearing on my daily routine.

 

I simply do as I please, and reap the benefits.

 

Yet the connectivity of modern times can often make this exercise a pointless venture. Because while I am indeed on an island of sorts, alone and unburdened by the cares and woes of interacting with other people, my ability to stay aloof is compromised through technology. As I have embraced networking platforms in the interest of basic communication and a measure of personal safety, my emotional firewalls have been compromised.

 

I am distant from everyone in a physical sense. But too easily accessible via my cell phone, or computer.

 

An example of this conflicted phenomenon occurred recently, after I posted song lyrics on my newspaper account. A blog site that I have maintained for several years, after retiring from the Geauga County Maple Leaf weekly, in 2014. I sometimes receive comments from readers who have opinions to offer about my work. And regardless of their character, these posts validate the fact that at least a few subscribers are out there in cyberspace, paying attention.

 

But one of these anonymous comments caught my attention because it stood out as being materially different from all the rest. Instead of grousing about my creative approach to literary forms, or echoing what I had already opined in print, a scanned business card filled the space below my prose. With an offer of contact and negotiations, should I choose to respond.

 

The specific post I had made was of lyrics penned for a Country Music ballad. One I imagined might be delivered in the folksy, twangy style of Johnny Paycheck or George Jones.

 

Pickle Jar

 

“Lost my wife and kids to a new-age rodeo

One I never saw ahead

I was too busy with my shoulder to the wheel

Earning our daily bread

Seven days a week on that bronco, busting out

And I felt like a man in charge

But when I found her note on the kitchen table

I was no longer living large

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

Now I’ve never been anti-social, so to speak

Not against friends and fun

I like to sit ‘round the campfires in summertime

And shoot the bull like a shotgun

But now that everything I had has gone away

It’s not the same exchange

Giving up all my free time for a paycheck

Just don’t feel the same

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

That jar came here filled with tart, cucumber treats

I used to spear ‘em with a fork

While the kids were outside, playing hide-and-seek

And my wife was thanking the Lord

But something changed on a day when I worked overtime

There came a visitor, unknown

And the one who repeated marriage vows at our church

Said she’d had enough of cowboys and cornpone

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

I gave up my job and that house by the riverbank

They didn’t rate anymore

I went to live in a singlewide rail car, sitting on wheels

A mattress laid out on the floor

Friends thought I must have had a broken heart

But it’s not quite that kind of a hurt

You see, I’m sadder, but wiser as an old mutt, off-the-chain

With my doghouse in the dirt

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

Done with the empty nest

And my favorite stool at the local bar

Just three fingers of Tennessee whiskey

Waiting in my pickle jar...”

 

Upon rereading my composition, I was puzzled that anyone would take it as a serious statement with artistic merit. Could it be possible that my writing abilities had struck a promoter directly between the eyes? That seemed doubtful, to be sure. I had no illusions about my skills as a small-town wordsmith. Other than providing ruminations to entertain a local audience, nothing in my portfolio had ever aroused much interest. So, I did not feel puffed up by this unexpected contact from the ether.

 

Yet the notion of someone seeing value in these verses nagged at my subconscious mind.

 

I dreamed frequently of encountering managers and record-label representatives, and performing live at the Grand Ole Opry. My sleep became restless and fraught with torment. Finally, I could not restrain myself any longer. Temptation made me weak and humble. I revisited the information that had been provided, before reaching for my wireless device.

 

The number I had was for a company located in Hendersonville, Tennessee. Supposedly a concern that officially did business with a slew of modern stars. My ears tingled when listening to their telephone menu. As I navigated through choices in the electronic roster, my pulse quickened with anticipation. Then, a booming voice filled my handset.

 

“Y’all have reached the office of T. Randall Squire Promotions! My friends call me ‘Country Squire’ like the station wagon! If ya got this exchange from me, or someone here, please reference that in yer message. Leave a call-back number and we’ll get to ya shortly. Make yer plea at the tone. And have a good day, hear?”

 

I was out of breath, and wheezed my way through a brief introduction.

 

“Mr. Squire, my name is umm... well, it sounds fake to be honest. It’s Ice, that’s spelled with three simple letters. Anyway, you made a comment on my newspaper blog. And honestly, at first, I thought it might be a ruse of some kind. But if not, then here I am front and center. Just a hack contributor to the publishing continuum. I don’t have a band or anything of that sort, and rarely pick up my guitars these days. But the muse still moves me on occasion to compose hillbilly ditties. So there you have it, I appreciate your interest, and would like to discuss whatever you’ve got in mind. Take it easy!”

 

Upon hanging up, I sat at my workspace feeling numb. A mood of uncertainty had taken hold. Was I chasing a scam invitation with my response? Or, had I perhaps stumbled onto an opportunity like no other? It would be interesting to determine which of these possibilities turned out to be valid.

 

In the meantime, I needed a drink.

“Pickle Jar”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Lost my wife and kids to a new-age rodeo

One I never saw ahead

I was too busy with my shoulder to the wheel

Earning our daily bread

Seven days a week on that bronco, busting out

And I felt like a man in charge

But when I found her note on the kitchen table

I was no longer living large

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

Now I’ve never been anti-social, so to speak

Not against friends and fun

I like to sit ‘round the campfires in summertime

And shoot the bull like a shotgun

But now that everything I had has gone away

It’s not the same exchange

Giving up all my free time for a paycheck

Just don’t feel the same

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

That jar came here filled with tart, cucumber treats

I used to spear ‘em with a fork

While the kids were outside, playing hide-and-seek

And my wife was thanking the Lord

But something changed on a day when I worked overtime

There came a visitor, unknown

And the one who repeated marriage vows at our church

Said she’d had enough of cowboys and cornpone

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

I gave up my job and that house by the riverbank

They didn’t rate anymore

I went to live in a singlewide rail car, sitting on wheels

A mattress laid out on the floor

Friends thought I must have had a broken heart

But it’s not quite that kind of a hurt

You see, I’m sadder, but wiser as an old mutt, off-the-chain

With my doghouse in the dirt

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

Done with the empty nest

And my favorite stool at the local bar

Just three fingers of Tennessee whiskey

Waiting in my pickle jar

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here: “Writing Woes, Witnessed”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

“The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true.” – John Steinbeck

 

Writing professionally is a career fraught with private joy, and public disappointment. In all of my years sitting in front of a notepad, typewriter, or keyboard, this dichotomy has remained in effect. I sometimes feel a tingle of inspiration awakening in my gut, while creating a useful manuscript of any length or kind. Yet when attempting to describe that experience to someone else, or to show evidence of what I have done to others who are not given to such pursuits, the effect typically falls flat.

 

A recent encounter with someone at my residence park, located in a rural district near Lake Erie, reinforced that perception as one founded on factual evidence.

 

I was in the process of depositing my monthly check for lot rent, at our community office. A hub of activity that is generally unstaffed and empty in the evening and on weekend days. Making that short trek is a chore I take seriously, because of past evictions that affected some of my neighbors who were less disciplined in their habits. A certain sense of accomplishment always follows the slip of my envelope into our drop-box slot. Yet as I turned on my heel to walk clumsily back up the side driveway, a loud harrumph of someone clearing his throat resounded.

 

Fargo, the portly, balding maintenance man had been sitting in his Japanese truck, fiddling with knobs for the radio. I suspected that something must have been wrong with his reception, but did not inquire for clues. This brush-off seemed to cause an insult that I did not intend. So, he made an effort to engage me in conversation before I could escape.

 

“Hey Rodney, how’ve you been there, buddy? Ya keepin’ busy during this heat wave? It’s a scorcher out here! Too hot for ridin’ around in the golf cart and fillin’ potholes with gravel like I normally do!”

 

I smiled politely, and nodded.

 

“It’s not so bad really. I’m at my desk in the morning and then come out to my porch with a fan going to keep things cool...”

 

He was puzzled by this brief description of my habits. With the result that our interaction stalled as he shook his head.

 

“Sittin’ at your desk? Okay, what is that all about? Are ya watchin’ baseball or Netflix or somethin’ else?”

 

I sighed before making the poor decision to answer in literal terms.

 

“No, no, I’m a writer you see...”

 

Fargo stared blankly at me, while chewing his bottom lip until it turned red.

 

“You’re a rider? What, you ride a bicycle in this heat?”

 

I cringed visibly, and corrected him in a civil manner.

 

“A writer. You know, someone who writes poems and stories...”

 

Our repair chief was even more confused after hearing this brief explanation.

 

“WRITE? YOU LIKE TO WRITE? UMM, OKAY, SO WHAT KINDS OF THINGS DO YOU WRITE? LIKE STEPHEN KING OR THOSE GUYS, YOU WRITE?”

 

That particular query has never been pleasant to hear. Because providing a competent response means listing subjects and interests that usually cause eyes to glaze over, and feet to shuffle from side to side with disinterest.

 

“I wrote a newspaper column for sixteen years, locally. So, my first book was a collection of those documents. They touched on all kinds of things, history, music, pop culture, theology, government, and the like...”

 

He reacted with a groan and a grin. Then uttered a phrase so familiar that it hit like the point of an arrow.

 

“Ha, ha, ha, alright! But are ya makin’ any money offa that work?”

 

For someone with an artistic bent, those words were a poison pill. But I did my best not to appear offended by having my labor of love trivialized to the point of a commercial exchange.

 

“Well, I get royalties every month. But that isn’t the reason I started...”

 

Fargo sputtered sweat and phlegm, while widening his eyes.

 

“Sure that’s great, do whatever gets ya jazzed, right? It’s a free country!”

 

I really wanted to get in my own car, and leave quickly. But he had blocked the drive with his own vehicle. So our chance encounter continued.

 

“It’s a tradition in my family. We’ve got many authors and teachers, and professors in my bloodline...”

 

Now, the maintenance fellow arched his back and swayed on his work boots.

 

“WELL HOW ABOUT THAT CRAP? I COME FROM A BUNCH OF BRICKLAYERS AND STEELWORKERS, AND PLUMBERS! SO, THERE YA GO! I FIGURE THOSE ARE GOOD CAREERS TA HAVE!”

 

I shrugged and gestured to show affirmation.

 

“I agree completely. My brother is a retired trucker and an amateur mechanic...”

 

The chunky taskmaster brightened a bit upon hearing this revelation.

 

“So at least that boy worked for a living! Ya gotta do what ya gotta do, right? Not everybody gets ta take it easy!”

 

My face sagged a bit, with a mood of impatience taking hold.

 

“I think every pursuit has value. That makes for a vibrant society, where interdependence betters all of us...”

 

Fargo chortled at my exhortation, as if it lacked the gravity of a sports report.

 

“Sure, sure, ya musta been the apple of yer mama’s eye I suppose. All fixed up with a newspaper job and a fancy office and all that shit!”

 

I could hear my stomach beginning to gurgle. Thirst had me craving a vessel of Irish whiskey.

 

“I only had an office once, out of three different newspaper companies. And that was in a space at the back of a cinder-block building, on a side street. Not exactly plush, or cozy. Otherwise, I worked from home or out of my car...”

 

My persistent contact was amused by this confession of minimal rewards.

 

“THAT’S IT? YA SIT AT A DAMN DESK ALL DAY AND DON’T GET NO PERKS FOR YER TROUBLE? WELL, I’D RATHER BE RUNNIN’ AROUND ON MY GOLF CART! EVEN ON A HOT DAY LIKE THIS!”

 

Mercifully, his cell phone rang before our unexpected interlude could continue. I hobbled to my SUV with both disability canes skipping over the gravel.

 

“Have a good one, friend! Stay hydrated, the sun is on full-blast today!”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Coastal Connection” (Part Seven)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-26)

 

 

Amanda Breen had grown up with a mother who took to air travel naturally. As a family trio with her older brother, they flew all around the continental United States, and across the ocean to Europe. So, the thought of hopping on a mechanized bird, with Ohio as her intended destination, was not something that caused any anxiety. Though she had never visited the heartland in person, it presented an opportunity to broaden her horizons, and perhaps, to discover the true origin of a genetic bloodline that had heretofore been shrouded in mystery.

 

But after arriving in Cleveland, and renting a vehicle to transport her to the nearby realm of Geauga County, this mood of confidence began to wane just a bit. With each mile traversed, she found herself moving away not only in terms of geographical distance, but also, from the metropolitan confines of an urban environment. To the more primitive and underdeveloped land of an isolated community populated with crude, manufactured homes. The paradigm shift in terms of social order was considerable. Soon, she saw nothing but untended fields, loafing tractors and pickup trucks, along with four-wheelers piloted by reckless inhabitants who seemed to be visibly inebriated, or stoned.

 

Evergreen Estates reminded her of a foreign village located in some distant, third-world country. It boasted a random variety of structures that had obviously been built by hand, with pallet boards and construction debris. Everything reeked of wood rot, mold, tobacco smoke, and stale alcohol. Few of the homes had actual curtains in their windows. Instead, blankets and bedsheets served to guarantee a measure of modesty for those inside. Everything looked to have been in place for decades before the present day. The access road and streets were crumbling, literally full of potholes deep enough to flatten tires and break suspension components. Yards here and there were weedy and overgrown. Trees had invaded spaces not already occupied by storage barns or concrete walkways.

 

She circled the neighborhood in her hired, economy car, attempting to sort out the system of lot numbers in use. This chore took longer than expected, because of the undisciplined order in which prefab houses had been arranged.

 

Finally, the California native parked in front of a narrow driveway that looked familiar from views she had curated via Google maps. There was a ratty, older SUV in the yard. And a long ramp up the side of a plain, singlewide dwelling. A window facing the planked slope was cracked, and broken. There were muddy stains all up and down this amateurish boardwalk. With rails on each side that had weathered in the hot sun, and warped accordingly.

 

There at the pinnacle, on his familiar bench, sat a graying, shaggy recluse cradling a whiskey jug in his callused hands. He did not react when she skipped lightly up the incline. Only when she stood before him did he look up from his oversized bottle, and cough. Then, he scratched his rowdy thatch of facial hair, and smiled. The woman he beheld had the look of her mother, blonde and tall and beautiful in a sense. Yet stricken with deep, indigenous eyes, and a prominent nose that projected inner strength. Two characteristics that matched his own physical profile.

 

“Well I’ll be damned... you’re actually here!”

 

Amanda could barely pull any air into her lungs. She had turned pale, and was trembling visibly.

 

“I’m at a loss for words right now, so I’ll just say hello. Hello, Dad! Hellooooo!”

 

She fell into his arms and began to sob loudly. A dozen minutes or more passed before either of them could speak again.

 

After this wordless exchange of emotion, Lincoln gestured toward a Walmart, shower chair that sat in a corner by his trash bin.

 

“That’s where guests make themselves at home. Pull it over here by me, and sit if you want...”

 

The young woman was still breathless, and woozy.

 

“I wanted to bring my son along, but it wasn’t workable right now. Mom is watching him back on the coast. You’d be proud of that kid, I am very sure!”

 

The aging hermit sipped liquor while thinking to himself.

 

“How is your momma? I haven’t seen her since I we had that apartment on West Spencer Street, in Ithaca. We ended up abandoning it when she left with your brother. The landlord must have been pissed off, but that kind of thing happened everywhere, especially in college towns...”

 

The wandering female brushed strands of hair out of her eyes, before answering.

 

“She’s not who you remember. A grandma now, all leathery and gaunt, but still energetic. She’s a throwback to the hippie scene. We’re alike in some characteristics, but much different in others! She even calls me a prude, sometimes!”

 

Lincoln chortled and continued to imbibe his refreshment.

 

“I can’t hate on any of that. You can see where I’ve ended up, not exactly what I was aiming to be in life. No glory, that’s for damn sure! Not many friends, or fringe benefits from living on the down-low...”

 

Amanda shook her head in disagreement.

 

“Don’t be so hard on yourself! I can tell that you never quite surrendered that artistic vibe. Mom didn’t either. That’s what keeps you old souls going. It’s a different way of looking at the world, a viewpoint that we need more of, I think!”

 

Her prospective progenitor looked across the lot at other homes along his rustic boulevard.

 

“Out here in the hinterland, things like art don’t matter too much. These folks make do with what they can build, fix up, or cobble together. They work with their hands and survive by their wits. I won’t say that we necessarily see eye-to-eye, but it has definitely taught me some things about how to survive. Maybe it’s a connection to my Appalachian forebears as well, I don’t know. I never wanted to be like them, or live like them, but here I am. Hunkered down in the dirt, and crawling along...”

 

His guest reached out with both hands, and offered a loving embrace of affection.

 

“I can feel your aura right here, in my own heart. It’s a glow that resonates with meaning. All the things that my mother said, about your summer together in New York are still there. All of the love, all of the passion, all of the creativity. I know it would never be said out loud, to me or anyone, but she’s missed you all these years. Despite doing her best to forget. And despite trying to shield me from the true story of my birth! I am glad to have finally figured out that riddle!”

 

Lincoln felt oddly fatigued, and weary. As if he had completed a challenging trek through an emotional wilderness. One that left him totally spent, yet satisfied.

 

“I reckon this is a new beginning. And right now, anything new seems out of place to me. But you’re here to prod me off my spot, like a frog ready to jump into creek water. So here I go, let’s do this thing, Miss Breen! Let’s do it!”