"This Land, Our Land”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

We live in a land, fighting itself

With questions raised about mental health

Of a chief executive, 80 years and more

Out for revenge, and settling scores

We live in a land, dedicated to God

Yet put asunder by a carnival fraud

The huckster tricks are slick and sly

They leave us all with debts to decry

This land, our land

 

We live in a land, once great and grand

Now taken over by a cult of man

Words of worship flow free and loud

An endorsement of the rabble crowd

We live in a land turned into waste

With truths and tempests, yet to be faced

A continent sprawling, coast to coast

Red meat prepared, for a meal to boast

This land, our land

 

We live in a land that lost its way

On track for a date with Judgment Day

A callous, craven crib of bones

A place where thieves man the telephones

We live in a land gone hard like clay

Sat out in the sun for too many days

A refuge for the teeming masses

Still seen through a lens of rose-colored glasses

This land, our land

 

We live in a land that from afar

Seems inviting to those who wish upon a star

But on arrival, shots ring out

Government agents surveil and scout

We live in a land that stubbed its toe

And chose to tell a tale of woe

With a conclusion kept close to the vest

A mass of rodents in the nest

This land, our land

 

We live in a land where sin is bold

The stuff of legends, adorned with gold

Arches high and ballrooms bust

Symbols of the national trust

We live in a land where mistakes are made

But correction comes like sour lemonade

A taste the people cannot endure

A medicine mocked as madly impure

This land, our land

 

We live in a land where history halts

At the precipice of a sea of salt

A curl of crass inflections, surrendered

To what the masses cannot remember

We live in a land where pundits preen

While on the cover of a magazine

And poets speak about the change

The code of colors, rearranged

This land, our land

 

We live in a land both praised and sure

But now without that fine allure

The shine is dull, the appeal has faded

For a political class, duped and jaded

We live in a land where the sky is grim

With a cloudy cast upon its brim

And gray for blue, as the tint in effect

Splinters left from an old shipwreck

This land, our land

 

We live in a land where coins are stacked

As a tribute to the grace we lack

While still recounting psalms in church

Leaving their prophets in the lurch

We live in a land where the chill of death

Is thought to be a victor’s breath

A keepsake for the holy few

Who sup on the broth of a Mulligan stew

This land, our land

 

This land is a lair for believers to rule

Over those who gladly suffer fools

Their pace is set from behind a veil

With communion wine, in a galvanized pail

This land needs more than a promise kept

By those who tabulate the steps

From one wall of a cell, to the other

A call to queue sisters and brothers

This land, our land

 

This land is more than a patriot earned

By sacrifices to lead and learn

Our duty as inheritors of the realm

Is to place a champion, at the helm

This land is not a prize to collect

A bauble dangling in a fisherman’s net

It is instead, a cause to be free

A shelter in place for liberty

This land, our land

 

This land birthed heroes, from yesterday

But now those seekers have gone away

And in their place are a shady lot

Given to ruin, rust, and rot

This land needs revival, raw and right

A tide of citizens, courting the daylight

With the hope of hearts, intertwined

A fulfillment of the original design

This land, our land

“Broken”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

Bob Dylan once sang, “Everything is broken”

And I can relate

Being a slow-moving target

Up too early, and in bed too late

Chilled like a water jug

Crouching low, with the stance of a stink bug

Creeping along the porch rail

I remember well coming to this clapboard singlewide

With a determination to shuck my hide

And remake myself

I stacked up the boxes from my storage space

Put trinkets and tchotchkes in their place

Around the living room

Swept away memories of madness and error

Humbled and quiet

With my emotional broom

Those towers of cardboard squares taunt me now

Because I can no longer boast

Of being able to wrestle them from one spot to another

Without the help of a neighbor or brother

So they stay where they sit

This mass of wreckage is a depiction

Of my compromised position

On the eastern edge of a county full of prosperous folk

And here I am, with a slice of toast and an egg yolk

Grateful for the flavor of jam

When it dribbles from my spoon

I arrived at the party, chronologically too soon

Spent before my turn was called

Shaggy and sorry to no longer be strong

Though I shun the mood, when it comes along

I wipe away the tears, as they flow

Before being seen in the daylight aura

Broken is the word

A term twisted by the tuneful poet into magic

It tingles my ear with an inflection, sharp and quick

And I nod in response

Knowing that the mainspring will eventually lose its coil

And I will find a place of rest, low in the soil

A return to the origin point

Cold and stiff with debilitated joints

In pieces arranged with ceremonial flair

To indicate a being that was once fully aware

Jagged shards

Scattered across the courtyard

A sign that this place was not always as it is today

A tribute to capabilities, gone astray

Mighty, but fleeting

Grasping for longevity

But attenuated by brevity

A cough in the wind, unheard and unseen

It clears away what nature brought

An obstruction in the throat

A prickly burr that sticks to my overcoat

And pierces the skin

When I have grown older, pale and thin

Watching both feet as I step

To be sure of my path

Too clever perhaps, by half

Yet failing in the fullness of time

Destined to stumble

As so many did even before I was birthed

Long before the world judged my prevalent lack of worth

Imperfect and yet glorious in that moment

Naked in the glare of a winter sun

Chastened but smiling

Ruddy cheeks glowing with the gift

Of a tract run from a mimeograph stencil

Still wet with ink

Carrying a verse, lightly spoken

“Everything, yes everything, is broken”

Trailer Park Vignettes: “Election Day Hangover”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

 

Linn Speck had been a notable figure at Evergreen Estates, since moving to the park after his house was repossessed by Key Bank. And despite this financial calamity, along with a bankruptcy and marital strife that followed, he had been immediately boosted to a position of community leadership at the rural oasis. Only the failure of his residential association, an idea rooted in logic but damned by the independent nature of their blue-collar environment, had been a setback on his path to glory. So, he felt confident in living at the junkyard village. His background was more sophisticated than most of the other inhabitants, and this disparity meant that he could dominate arguments and conflicts with a keen sense of scriptural authority and political knowledge. He had met every challenge bravely, as a warrior for goodness. With a clean-cut approach to living that made him stand above most other people on their streets, as someone who knew right from wrong, and followed those guidelines every day. Nothing during his stay at the isolated development had knocked him off course, for long. He was skilled at maintaining his balance, and moving forward with gusto. But events in his state and around the country on Election Day knocked down the metaphorical temple he had erected, like a house of cards.

 

He howled with disbelief as results came in, hour by hour, via major television networks, radio outlets, and through online media sites.

 

“From the Associated Press – In the run-up to Election Day, President Donald Trump used many of the levers of presidential power to interfere in how states run elections, only to be stopped repeatedly by the courts. On Tuesday, the voters made sure there was no ambiguity in their verdict. Trump’s party lost control of both houses of Congress and got clobbered in races up and down the ballot, even in places like Texas and Iowa. As the rout became clear, the president told The New York Times he was ‘absolutely willing to accept those results.’ In a series of phone interviews with media organizations and in a social media post, he acknowledged the loss for his party and said he was willing to work with Democrats...”

 

Linn took this note of surrender as a complete betrayal. It caused him to trash the kitchen where he sat, with a laptop PC signed into the One America News Network website. Small appliances bounced off the walls, as he flailed both arms and kicked at the dinner table. Saliva dripped from his mouth. His flabby jowls turned bright red.

 

“NO, NO, NO! THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE! WORK WITH THE COMMUNIST DUMOCRATS? NO MR. PRESIDENT, HELL NOOOOOO! THIS IS THE TIME TO FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!”

 

He had portraits of the commander-in-chief in nearly every room of his trailer. With a full-size, campaign banner hanging in his bay window, at the front. And a gold statue on his coffee table, along with a copy of the Trump Bible. But now, all of those artifacts only deepened his anger over the calamitous election returns. He felt victimized and used. As if everything he had done on behalf of the man from Mar-a-Lago had been wasted in one, single day of citizen unrest.

 

“I KNOW YOU DON’T MEAN IT, TALKING ABOUT WORKING WITH THOSE TRAITORS ACROSS THE AISLE! YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY MEAN IT! THIS IS A TRICK TO FOOL THE PRESS! I GET IT, JUST A TRICK AND NOTHING MORE! YOU’LL BE SAYING SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT, TOMORROW!”

 

The park was oddly quiet as he stood outside, on his redwood deck. All of the usual sounds seemed to be absent. There were no barking dogs, echoes of Country melodies, arguing husbands and wives, or the typical clatter of rusted exhaust systems dragging on the tarmac. It was as if the entire neighborhood had gone into hibernation. Perhaps as a defensive strategy to avoid being seen out in public, when their collective mood had turned so dark and depressing.

 

Finally, Aimes Hefti, the self-appointed successor to deceased militia queen Esmeralda Jonovic, appeared in his driveway. The extremist advocate had dressed in tactical garb, as if girding himself for battle. A pistol was holstered at his side, and a KA-BAR combat knife. He scowled with a facial expression of defeat and disgust.

 

“Y’all are just standin’ there like a gawdamned statue, man! I figure ya would be out here raisin’ a ruckus about the bullshit that just went down. Where’s yer balls, dude? Screw lettin’ this thing pass like it don’t mean nothin’ to nobody! Let’s make some noise! Make some effin’ noise about it! Show the world we’re pissed off and fired up!”

 

He took out his sidearm and began to send rounds into the air. This caused Linn to flinch, reactively. He hopped from one foot to the other, as bullets flew wildly toward the heavens.

 

“I like your style, commander! I like it a lot!”

 

The militant trooper emptied his handgun, then took out the knife and swung it from side to side, in a show of mock defiance.

 

“Let me hear one of them idiots braggin’ about their ‘Blue Wave’ around this place, and I’ll slash their throat! It’s high time we ran all of ‘em outta here, anyway! This ain’t no time to play nice, understand? We need to break some bones and bust some asses! Let’s do it up! Let’s do it right now!”

 

Their noisy demonstration soon attracted attention from other trailers along the narrow avenue. Rifles and shotguns were brandished without hesitation. Gunfire ripped the quiet evening with violent intensity. Then, cold beverages appeared as coolers were brought to the corner lot. Drinks were lifted as a toast to their contrarian rebellion, and its originator in Washington.

 

Finally, Linn took a seat on his front steps. Now that the impromptu gathering had blossomed in his yard, he felt comfortable relaxing with a tall, chilled can of Milwaukee’s Best Premium. The lonely sting of alienation that had taunted him before was gone. He was surrounded by like-minded neighbors who shared his love of God, and country. That embrace made him feel safe again, and warm, inside.

 

He whispered to himself, while sipping the macro brew.

 

“I know you’ll be on your Truth Social account tomorrow, Mr. President. Yes, I do! I trust in your judgment. You’ll be slamming the doubters, and scattering your enemies, like a flock of frightened hens. You’ll be back in the White House, bigger and better than ever! And you’ll be reminding all of the naysayers that you’ve still got two years left in office! Two more years of ruling this great country like no one has ever ruled it before! Two more years, sir! Two more grand and glorious years of the Trump Train chugging down the tracks!!”

Nothing To See Here: “Pennywise Politics”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

 

When facing my deadline with our county’s newspaper of record, I found myself struggling to be relevant in the moment. Because while perusing other articles, features, and opinion pieces in various publications around the region of Lake Erie and our state, I saw that literally everything had already been said. Pundits were prolific in examining the ‘blue tsunami’ we had just experienced. Either as an event rarely seen before, or as a simple repetition of usual happenings in the realm of election cycles. Those on the left trumpeted gains that put their crowd in a better position to face the future. Those on the right pointed in every direction, except Washington and Mar-a-Lago, to explain what had just occurred. Both could boast that they had kernels of truth on their respective sides.

 

So for myself, a more unique perspective was needed.

 

I once again took down a vintage, Western Electric 500 rotary phone, from the top shelf over my desk. It had always served me dependably as a hotline to the Grande Dame of Geauga herself, Carrie Hamglaze. I guessed that my longtime associate and mentor might have a useful take to offer on this vigorous contest, along with a hopeful outlook for what could follow in the new year.

 

When I dialed her number, she was busy sipping Irish tea and working at her own apartment, in the boisterous community of Chardon. I noted a hint of stress in her voice, when answering the telephone. She must have stayed up all night, watching vote totals being calculated around the country.

 

“Rodney? I’ve been expecting you to ring my number! This has been an episode of history in the making! Not the kind I would have chosen myself, but still memorable, nevertheless!”

 

I took a deep breath before making my plea for ideas, because I knew that as a Republican loyalist of long standing, her nerves must have been rattled despite this expression of calm.

 

“I’m here at the keyboard trying to write something for the afternoon edition of my paper. The Geauga Independent has to stay active, you know? But I don’t want to say what has already been said. I need a different angle on things. Most of all, I need some inspiration...”

 

My cohort from the world of local government, tennis, education, and journalism sighed a bit while finishing her beverage.

 

“What are you thinking, Rodney? Of a column about the races at home, or how things panned out in Columbus?”

 

I cleared my throat and sorted through scribbled pages that were by the computer.

 

“I figured on doing an installment titled ‘Pennywise Politics.’ One that looks at the gubernatorial competition we just endured...”

 

Carrie was puzzled by this confession.

 

“PENNYWISE? WHAT IS THAT, PENNY WISE AND POUND FOOLISH?”

 

I chortled a bit at her remark. But then, offered an explanation.

 

“No, no, Pennywise as in the Dancing Clown, from Steven King’s horror novel, called ‘It.’ If you remember, he appears in a sewer drain to lure in unsuspecting children. Memes about the character have been numerous, all over the internet...”

 

She mumbled to herself, as if I had spoken a nonsensical phrase in jest.

 

“I don’t get it, sir! How is that connected to Democrats taking control of the House and Senate, along with governorships all across America? Which leaves me greatly disappointed, I must say!”

 

I trembled while thinking that my imagination had gone off the rails.

 

“See, my proposition was that in the battle between Dr. Amy Acton, and Vivek Ramaswamy, things got really out of hand. Specifically, when the latter of those two decided to run a commercial which used an estranged mother with a sordid past, to demean her biological offspring. Namely, his opponent...”

 

Carrie must have been stiff in her chair. I could hear creaking as she adjusted her seating for better comfort.

 

“Yes, yes, I heard all of that over and over. Donna Arthur married a man accused of harming his stepdaughter, and they both fled Ohio to avoid the prosecution that resulted. It turned my stomach, of course. But how does that relate to an evil clown?”

 

I rubbed my eyes while attempting to sound clear in a description of the project waiting to be finished.

 

“Some observed that it was an example of gutter politics. But I thought to myself that it dug deeper than that, right into the sewer actually. I can’t think of anything in recent memory that is so disgusting. It reflected what I saw of Ramaswamy in the 2024 GOP primary season. His attacks were unhinged, and reckless. The fellow not only went after other candidates on their dais, but even those who had organized the debates, and his own party chair. At one point, even using the daughter of South Carolina Governor and former United Nations Ambassador Nikki Haley, to prove a point. His bad temperament and lack of self-awareness was shocking. So, I felt no surprise when seeing him use such dreadful tactics in hope of winning an election...”

 

My contact with the Emerald pedigree huffed lightly, yet voiced her agreement.

 

“Hmm, that is an interesting reference, Rodney. But where do you go after making your point?”

 

I reclined in my roller chair, and thought carefully before responding.

 

“The story of Acton’s distant mater is complicated, and I think, tragic. She is obviously unwell in mental and physical terms. I have read about her living in a car, with many cats. She is now a homeless widow and in her 80s. I have to wonder about what kind of financial arrangement Vivek made to get her in front of a camera. Does that represent a different kind of abuse? I sounds as if she participated in a scam arrangement, which ultimately helped to scuttle the candidacy of her ruthless benefactor. Will there be any post-election consequences for that nefarious deed? By that I mean to ask, will the former businessman face any sort of judgment for stooping so low? Or will that dive into the sewer, like Pennywise, pay dividends with his allies? Am I an outlier here, to feel so offended that some actually supported his ad?”

 

I could hear Carrie drumming her fingers on the desktop. My concept seemed to have connected, at last.

 

“Pennywise Politics. Okay, I get it now! You’ve got an angle on this that isn’t just left or right. I’ll say that it’s something worth pursuing. Maybe a teachable moment for others who seek public office? You’re the wordsmith, Rodney. Now, get busy and finish your work!”

Nothing To See Here: “Fox News Eruption”

  

 

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

Note: I offer what follows here in the spirit of my 'Thoughts At Large' columns from yesteryear.

 

The Setting: Studios occupied by the Fox News Channel, in New York City.

 

The Participants: Sean Hannity, program host; House of Representatives Speaker Mike Johnson; Vice President JD Vance; Grande Dame of the Republican Party in Geauga County, Ohio, Carrie Hamglaze.

 

SEAN HANNITY: “Welcome to a full hour of my show, which the Democrats will probably try to cancel next year, when their ‘blue wave’ winners take charge in Washington! But believe me, I’ve gotten through worse situations here, like the lawsuit filed by Dominion Voting Systems! So, bring it on!”

 

MIKE JOHNSON: “I am out on my a** so it doesn’t really matter to me at this point...”

 

JD VANCE: “What about the next election cycle? I want a chance to live in the White House!”

 

CARRIE HAMGLAZE: “Do none of you think about anything besides you career goals?”

 

S. HANNITY: (Grimacing) “This is going to be a tough go for America over the next two years. Trans kids playing in girls sports, our borders wide open, fentanyl flooding our neighborhoods, Sharia Law enforced everywhere, taxes skyrocketing, electric vehicles being mandated, Christmas and Easter gone, and pineapple being put on pizza from coast to coast!”

 

M. JOHNSON: (Looking dejected) “I knew the tariffs and war with Iran were a hard sell. But our president didn’t want to hear my arguments. What else could I do but fall in line? This is embarrassing...”

 

JD VANCE: (With frustration) “I even defended Vivek Ramaswamy in Ohio! I mean, that was really going out on a limb. The guy has a potty mouth and a bad attitude. I can only imagine how he ran his pharmaceutical company! He made Dr. Amy Action look like a heroine! Anyway, that basically scuttled my chances of being the top dog in 2028. I am screwed!”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: “Listen to yourselves! This moaning and groaning is shameful! Do you think it is the first time a party got drubbed in an election? Where is your courage of conviction?”

 

S. HANNITY: “Rachel Madcow will be doing live broadcasts with every illegal immigrant, Palestinian refugee, disaffected college student, and homeless bum. That’s a lot of material on the cheap. My ratings are bound to plummet!”

 

M. JOHNSON: (Turning pale) “Trump hasn’t looked healthy since he got elected to a second term. The guy rambles incoherently, walks funny, and has swollen ankles. He’s like a grandpa who got lost in the woods after taking too much medication...”

 

JD VANCE: (Shaking his head) “I won’t be able to give away copies of ‘Hillbilly Elegy’ for free! That used to be a great sideline, it helped me afford campaign expenses when our money was going to prop up candidates in trouble. Now, I might as well find a big dumpster and load them up with the trash!”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: (Growing irritated) “Do you remember when Richard Nixon lost in 1960? People had him relegated to the ash heap of history. But by 1968, he was back and better than ever. Even with Vietnam and the Watergate scandal, one of our greatest leaders of all time! That didn’t happen by accident, gentlemen. It came from having grit and determination. From having a backbone made of steel. From having what they call in the political world, gravitas!”

 

S. HANNITY: (Flushing red) “Do people use that word anymore, Mrs. Hamglaze? I haven’t heard it in years!”

 

M. JOHNSON: “The word I would use to describe this mess is apocalyptic. This was like Armageddon in the Bible. We didn’t stand a chance at the ballot box! All we had to offer was foreign beef, Russian diesel fuel, a cold shoulder to Canada and Ukraine, and data centers everywhere! Who would vote for a platform like that?”

 

JD VANCE: “Kamala Harris must be giggling to herself. This defeat will make people forget how she flamed out in the primaries, and in a general election...”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: (Stiffening in her seat) “You fellows are weak as water! Listen to your complaining! When the voters speak so loudly as they did in this election, there is only one way to overcome such a loss. Roll up your sleeves, get organized, and work harder! Think smart and look toward the future! Crying about circumstances won’t do anything to get you over the finish line, when the next cycle comes around!”

 

S. HANNITY: (Hanging his head) “She’s right you know. I hate to admit it, but this old woman from Ohio is absolutely right.”

 

M. JOHNSON: “What’s right for me is retirement. I need to get out of this line of work...”

 

JD VANCE: (Growing angry) “I have kissed our president’s backside for two years now! He even joked about it in the past! And what has it gotten me? Plenty of ridicule in the national media, and probably a back seat when Marco Rubio gets nominated in 2028. Nobody takes me seriously. This isn’t why I joined the ticket!”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: “Do you remember when John F. Kennedy said, ‘Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and the success of liberty?’ That didn’t come from a speechwriter with a diploma on the wall. It came from the heart! It came from a man that was proud to serve his country, in the name of God!”

 

JD VANCE: “He was a Democrat!”

 

M. JOHNSON: “The last thing I need to hear right now is anything from a Democrat...”

 

S. HANNITY: “I have to agree, Carrie! What’s the point of quoting a dead president at a sad time like this?”

 

C. HAMGLAZE: (With righteous indignation) “That was a different era, gentlemen. His party was not the party of today. And I must say, he was a son of Irish blood. God bless him for that! And God bless his love of America. That’s the kind of loyalty we ought to have today, not for any one person, or even one political stripe, but for the nation where we live! For the citizens who honor our leaders with their votes. For the volunteers and faithful believers that keep us moving forward, no matter what obstacles might stand in our path!”

M. JOHNSON: “I needed someone like you at my side, in the House of Representatives...”

 

JD VANCE: (Looking stunned) “I don’t know what to say, Mrs. Hamglaze. If you had been on the ballot, we wouldn’t be in this kind of trouble after an election disaster!”

 

S. HANNITY: (Looking at his wristwatch) “And... that’s all the time we have for tonight. Thanks for staying tuned to the Fox News Channel, and let not your heart be troubled! Greg Gutfeld is up next! Have a great evening, and God bless America!”

 

 

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here – “Wartime Politics”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-26)

 

 

“I never submitted the whole system of my opinions to the creed of any party of men whatever, in religion, in philosophy, in politics, or in anything else, where I was capable of thinking for myself. Such an addiction is the last degradation of a free and moral agent. If I could not go to heaven but with a party, I would not go there at all.”  – Thomas Jefferson

 

The midterm elections for 2026 are literally occurring as we are in the midst of an unresolved military conflict with Iran and its proxies. Yet here at home in the western hemisphere, a mood of extreme conflict is in effect for reasons not directly related to that unrest in the Middle East. We have finally reached a point feared by our founders, one of such acrimony and philosophical contrast, that our dominant tribes are in a perpetual state of combat. One that inflames every argument with bellicose rhetoric, and pits these opposite factions against each other with the effervescent vitriol of ancient armies.

 

Peacemaking is not a concept to be discussed among the elected horde, on Capitol Hill.

 

I pondered this national affliction recently, while suffering through repeated ads on my television, during every broadcast of the day. Including football games, news reports, and even when perusing video clips on YouTube.

 

“Liberal Senator Sherrod Brown spent 32 long years in Washington. Brown gave us a border in chaos, sky-high cost of living, and boys in girls’ sports. That’s why Ohio said (in a Trump voice) ‘You’re fired!’ to liberal Senator Sherrod Brown...”

 

With the vocal skills of professional announcers, I was assured that should I foolishly cast my ballot for a Democratic candidate, socialism would run rampant. Our national borders, healthcare, police, liberty to worship, and freedom in general were certain to vanish. With puffs of counterculture incense metaphorically lingering on the air, as a reminder of my mistake in the aftermath.

 

On social media sites, this flagrant infection of ire was just as raw. There were jaw-dropping posts that depicted Trump as Hitler, Republican voters as Klan members attired in white sheets, and as a visual counterpoint, those on the left as raging Drag Queens or anarchist protesters, bent on partnering with Muslim immigrants to impose Sharia Law. A cooperative arrangement that seemed not only unlikely, but also, theologically unworkable.

 

To restore a measure of sanity, I called upon my erstwhile cohort from the Geauga County newspaper industry, Carrie Hamglaze. As a faithful Catholic and a descendant of Irish immigrants, she was perhaps my best option for seeking out some thoughtful discourse amid all of the noise. But when I called via one of my vintage, Western Electric 500 rotary phones, her initial response was one of disinterest.

 

“Rodney, I’ve been busy all morning with a plumbing issue in the kitchen! There is a fellow from our maintenance company here right now! Did you know that drain pipes under the sink are vented for a proper flow of wastewater when emptying dishwashing residue?

 

Her remark was puzzling, and unexpected. I had guessed she would be actively assessing the status of local races, for her weekly column with the Chardon Claxon & Chronicle.

 

“Plumbing? Really? I thought you’d be reading through political materials, for clues about the current contests...”

 

My mentor and cohort was miffed by the distraction in her kitchen. I could tell that she did not want to be bothered with the repair of a malfunctioning sink, when more important events were happening.

 

“This has come at a bad time for me! But I could only get someone to help, today. So here I sit, watching this burly man take my cabinets apart. He has to get under the countertop for proper access to the pipes. Do you know how expensive this will be?”

 

I shrugged and coughed while thinking.

 

“I don’t have a clue, actually. The sink here has been erupting water onto the floor in my little dining room. So I use a dishpan and then dump whatever is left, outside off my porch...”

 

Carrie snorted as if I had provided a revelation, but too late for her liking.

 

“Why didn’t I think of that? You’re brilliant, Rodney!”

 

I needed her to offer words of wisdom about the electoral strife. But realized that my query might be sidelined in favor of her present need for a kitchen fix.

 

“Friend, my head has been aching from all these raucous campaign advertisements. They seem to get louder, and more prolific, every day! I can’t escape them, no matter where I go. And I can’t find my usual videos online, like dogs playing piano while howling along, or cats cracking jokes and hissing at their owners. I need to stop this insanity! Can’t you offer some advice? Otherwise, I might become completely desperate, and take a sledgehammer to my TV set...”

 

While conversing with my esteemed colleague, another attack sounded from the vacuum-tube, Zenith radio on my desk.

 

“Of all 535 members of Congress, who’s taken the most money from associates of Jeffrey Epstein? John Husted, that’s who. In fact, Husted’s taken over $116,000 from one of Epstein’s closest friends and co-conspirators. And last year took a maximum donation from him just weeks before voting to block the release of the Epstein files. John Husted: Who’s he really working for?”

 

I covered my eyes, with both hands trembling. Then, there was a whistling sound from the telephone receiver.

 

“Rodney, when I can’t take anymore of something, be it stress or stupidity, or careless mistakes with grammar or punctuation, I turn to an age-old remedy from my ancestors. It has gotten me through many trials and tribulations, and I depend on it whenever the weight of living is heavy on my shoulders. A good, stiff drink of Jameson Whiskey, neat in my emerald glass!”

 

Her candid advice rattled my nerves. But I could not debate her unconventional approach without first, giving it a try.

 

“Jameson Whiskey? You’re kidding! At your age? My goodness, Carrie! That’s a hoot!”

 

She huffed slightly at my rude retort. But maintained her composure while a metallic clanging persisted, in the background.

 

“I’m about to have a snort right now, as a matter of fact. Once this big bruiser finishes his work, that is! I recommend it highly, if you’re really in a tizzy about all the campaign caterwauling! Have a good drink, sit in your office chair, and let it all go! Turn off the lights and take a nap! You deserve it, and so do I!”

 

I did not have any liquor in my household, but decided to settle on a cold brew, instead. Her prescription for relief sounded better than enduring more punishment from the partisan pundits who were determined to vanquish foes, and spin their victories.

 

I fell asleep while dreaming of my childhood days. A different era, with John F. Kennedy in the White House, which I reckoned would never come around again.

 

In wartime, any comfort, however slight, was a welcome diversion.

“Formaldehyde Focus”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-26)

 

What am I doing here?

In a state most perplexing, and riddled with fear

Hair turned a powdery shade of gray

My ability to thrive, now gone astray

The end looms large

I might have seen the change, if looking ahead

But I chose to speed toward tomorrow, instead

And ended up on the roadside

Rocked and rolled by a whiff of formaldehyde

Which saturated my lungs

Now I see the limits, clearly indicated

The edge of reality, boldly demonstrated

And there, I step carefully

Tracing the line of demarcation with my toes

Tilting backward with an acid tingle in my nose

Of what I cannot deny

A darkening of hues, reflected in the sky

It causes me to soberly contemplate

While I hesitate

Waiting for the pendulum to swing

As a younger self, I was not shy about the morning dew

Scattering those droplets, born anew

I figured their number would only increase

I couldn’t imagine that such a blessing would cease

But the clock hands have spun

Calendar pages ripped away, one by one

While I stand, rolling my eyes

Exposed as a raconteur, in a threadbare disguise

The progression of this session

Too rapid for my liking

From the crest of a hill, I might be able to conceive

That this time shared with others, has been a welcome reprieve

Yet I do not feel fortunate

With so little sand left in the hourglass

And a first frost of the season

Lingering on blades of grass

That cycle will settle

Like steam from a kettle

Once the boil has been stilled

And my teacup is filled

I ask again, what, where, when, and why?

But there is no audible reply

Only the vacant silence of an unfurnished room

A space at the inn, swept out with a straw broom

I feel uncomfortable to complain

But it is a better fate than to linger, soaked and soggy in the rain

At least I am dry for the moment

Should I see my reflection in a mirror’s plate of glass

I might flinch and fumble, before the revelation that has come to pass

It is better to be blind

Better to keep a presence of mind

Sharpened by ignorance

Willfully wandering through memories, disarranged

Skillfully seeking to be better for the change

From a cold night under the moon

To a morning, liberated from my spiritual cocoon

Pale and prancing along

Whistling a radio song

That crackled lightly into my ear

Through a transistor device from yesteryear

I tune the thumbwheel to a random frequency

And let the superheterodyne signal resonate, ever so sweetly

It reminds me of a gilded age

Or the dog-eared corners of a library page

That carried such energy, before I knew what their verses actually meant

Before my life force was spent

And the stoic stature of a brave on the run

Became the profile of a black-powder gun

Hanging on a museum wall

A relic, how held in thrall

To amuse the young