Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Workplace’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-23)

 

 

For many years while I wrestled with the bonds of gainful employment - a career often described as my ‘real job’ - there was a gloomy sense that an escape might never come. Because I had been a creative writer since childhood, raised in a household full of authors and poets and public speakers, my ultimate goal was always to spend life slinging ink professionally. I never thought of anything else with the same amount of ambition. Tinkering with cars and motorcycles, plucking away at musical instruments, or even the work opportunities I discovered as a retail store manager were all less attractive by comparison.

 

I had my father’s template deeply imprinted in my personal DNA. Sitting at a typewriter keyboard, surrounded by the home library, was my idea of paradise.

 

So, when a position opened at one of our local newspapers, I literally jumped at the chance to schedule an interview. I reckoned that my resume and job spiel would impress any potential employer. Particularly because I had already been a regular contributor for a weekly journal in Chardon, since 1998. The General Manager on-site seemed gracious, and friendly. I liked him immediately. Soon afterward, I was hired. The experience happened quickly, and left me breathless in its wake. But my family and friends were thrilled.

 

At first, laboring as a full-time department head proved to be invigorating. I maintained my connection with the previous paper, because it was in a different market area and therefore, not considered a competitor. My new responsibility was to handle sports content for five of the individual weeklies that were produced by our company, in Ashtabula County. This meant that I coordinated contributions from stringers who attended local games. And wrote other original stories, when needed. I handled payroll for that group, by tabulating what they had penned, and then submitted the figures to our central office in Jefferson. I added regular columns on relevant subject matter, which included my own thoughts and those of two other content providers that I considered to be dependable and dedicated. The effect on our readership was dramatic. Compliments were plentiful. I felt a sense of accomplishment at having revived my section from the doldrums of neglect and associate migration. The turnover associated with our industry meant that team members would typically labor and learn long enough to hone their skills, and then disappear.

 

I expected that my studious management of the section would yield greater things, as time progressed. And indeed, those in charge did appear to be supportive. I began to wear more hats, by taking over two extra publications which were both sold in Lake County. I learned pagination, and started organizing my part of the paper, instead of submitting it to another editor for assembly. Eventually, I handled special sections which made it possible to write about music and entertainment. This gave me confidence and also, a greater sense of fulfillment.

 

But as weeks and months passed, I realized with chagrin that the publisher and chairman had a somewhat calloused attitude toward those who were on his staff. Owing undoubtedly, to the revolving door that affected our acquisition and loss of human resources. Talent was everywhere. Places to seek employment in the field were not so numerous, however. As he once said in a meeting, “I have a drawer full of resumes here!” I knew that he must have been speaking the truth. Yet the declaration made my stomach hurt.

 

“There are computer programs that can compose sports reports, Rodney! I don’t actually need anyone to run your department!”

 

That moment left me feeling crestfallen, and somber. Because after yearning for a spot to pursue my chosen profession with zeal, I realized in a bout of red-faced sobriety that it was simply another workplace. Another ‘real job’ to be listed on my roster.

 

The upshot was that family needs overwhelmed my own preference for wrangling with the printed word. I made more money, and had better benefits, as a business supervisor. Therefore, with my head down and my cap in hand, I returned to the occupation of a salaried supermarket steward. It left me frosted, inside. But wiser for having experienced my dream, first hand.

 

Happily, in later years long after my management adventure had been completed, I found that the joy of wordsmithing still retained its appeal. With no guardrails imposed from above by bean counters and subscription hawks, I had graduated to a peak of journalistic liberty. Things that I knew would attract attention, and motivate readers, were available without arguing. I could offer unique content in real-time, without having to explain that feedback from those in the marketplace was gold in our pockets.

 

This drive-by encounter with sports reporting also highlighted something revolutionary about the genre itself. As a ‘casual fan’ of athletic competition, I had always included other angles on each story, to broaden and brighten our editorial creations. To provide stale scores and statistics in a verbal monotone was something that might have excited those concerned more with financial reports than the quality of our contributors. But it gave me the chills. I wanted to be entertained by the spectacle of trained competition, and also by those who documented such events for posterity. When I remade the sports pages of my paper with that proletarian disposition, the reaction was emotional, and positive.

 

While reflecting on this personal episode, and working at a food emporium in Geneva, I discovered a Cleveland station dedicated to that sort of content. A fellow at night identified himself as Ken Carman, someone in his 30’s. He and his on-air cohorts delivered a wealth of pertinent information about football, baseball, basketball, and hockey or NASCAR races. Yet the vibe that truly snagged me as a listener was their ability to connect that data-stream with tales from their own lives. And memories offered by the audience. They were not shy about passing out asides and offhand remarks, like nuggets of candy. These treats greatly enhanced the core message being broadcasted. I would tune in when driving home at night, once our sales day had ended. Their inventive banter always dispelled my own regrets over having exited the field of journalism. I was validated as a hearer of truth and good cheer. It mattered to be connected, through my dashboard radio.

 

Karma won out, at last. For this writer, the revolving door had finally stopped spinning.

Nobody Reads This Page – 'Beer Signs'

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-23)

 

 

A particular fascination for this writer during childhood years was the ubiquity of illuminated signs used for advertising purposes. They seemed to be everywhere when we traveled. But these crafty, creative displays were most striking in my home setting. We lived in small communities across Ohio and Kentucky. Places that were proudly unsophisticated and rural in character. So quite often, these glowing beacons served as the only points of light I would see, when riding home on my Schwinn bicycle just before sunset. Especially when residing at a distant spot on the map outside of Zanesville, the beckoning brightness of a soft drink logo or notice of farm implements being vended was my only guidepost. I appreciated each of them as a navigational tool. But also, as I developed intellectually, for their artistic flair.

 

By the time we moved to Virginia in 1970, I attempted to create a sign of my own. A cardboard box formed its outer shell, and I cut out a window in the front. A piece of notebook paper, illustrated with magic markers, carried an improvised design in that space. I secured it with masking tape around the perimeter. Finally, I used a low-wattage bulb in the back, to make my crude creation functional. The faux promotion hung over my bed, like a trophy. It must have looked oddly patched together, to my parents. Yet they did not criticize, or complain.

 

During teenage years spent in New York, I met a hippie fellow named Paul who was a graduate of Cornell University. His counterculture hovel, outside of Corning, boasted fascinating things that were already in my orbit. Like books, vinyl records, musical instruments, and anachronistic collectibles. But also prevalent in his home museum were many signs that related to a beverage I never saw firsthand in my own household – beer.

 

Being the son of a Christian pastor, I was raised to believe that alcohol represented devilish temptation in liquid form. Consuming any such drink was forbidden as a sin with woeful consequences. When in the company of those from our conservative brood, it remained easy to obey. I followed their admonitions with diligence. Yet something called out from those electric banners, hanging here and there in thrift stores and at yard sales where I perused vintage recordings. Perhaps my German and Scots-Irish ancestry, filtered through Appalachia, was asserting its genetic dominance? For whatever reason, relishing the taste of a good brew with friends liberated a different sort of passion for the culture, even when I was not lifting a glass.

 

Following my cohort from the Finger Lakes, I began to collect signs in earnest.

 

This strange habit blossomed greatly in the 1980’s, when I rented a two-story abode with my brother and sister. I brought home an unpredictable assortment of items that shouted names like ‘Cinci Lager’ from Canada. Or ‘Heilemans Old Style’ and ‘Pabst Blue Ribbon.’ At that point in history, the Midwest was ripe with castoff relics of brewerania. Promotional merchandise could be had for a pittance. I rarely spent more than a 10-spot on anything. Many of these treasures were acquired for five dollars, or less. I emptied my wallet freely. Though in deference to familial traditions, everything stayed in my room. Or, under wraps for a bigger space when it became available.

 

During my first marriage, this zeal for collecting grew more intense. There seemed to be signs available almost everywhere. Incredibly, some were even given away for free. A friend at the supermarket where I worked had a direct connection to company reps who serviced our business. So he doled out beer and cigarette tchotchkes as rewards for faithful employees. I tried hard to stay in his good graces. The benefit swelled my take.

 

When we bought a brick house in Painesville, a decade later, my wife urged some sense of restraint. She hoped to make our dwelling a showplace to behold. One that would glisten and gleam for everyone in our shared lineage to appreciate. There simply would not be enough room for everything I had bought, on the ground floor. Her decree was that my man-cave menagerie would remain in the basement, along with records, guitars, and other trinkets that I had amassed. So with regret, I agreed to thin the herd as a nod to practicality. By then, there were so many signs hanging everywhere that it barely mattered, numerically. I offloaded a hundred, at least. And still kept a substantial roster of goodies, for myself.

 

I reckoned that if nothing else, I could search for a better crop in future days. 

 

The advancement of internet technology upended my happy routine, however. As online marketplaces like eBay or Etsy attracted consumer interest, I saw local sellers slim their wares, and raise prices precipitously. Posting items for sale on the worldwide web could bring much greater rewards. Listings also provided a benchmark of sorts for owners of local shops. Or even, retirees sitting at folding tables in their driveway.

A Genesee display that might have tempted me out of a few dollars could suddenly fetch many times more, when zapped into cyberspace. The potential reach for new customers was staggering. Though sadly, anonymous compared to the hands-on approach of using newspaper print to follow weekend sales in neighborhoods around the region. Or scanning telephone poles for handmade blurbs.

 

I gave up collecting as my income settled into the doldrums of disability and retirement. Yet I started to scan auction websites to locate beer ads from my past, for entertainment purposes. Too soon, I felt my stomach twisting into knots. The listed bids could sometimes be astounding to read. One Hudepohl advert that I snagged in yonder times for about $20.00, sold for a modern price over ten times that amount. Many familiar artifacts were valued at breathtaking sums. I realized with regret that it would have been better to keep my stash intact, until now. Choosing to jettison so many of those prizes before computers became common was a blunder I couldn’t see coming. An act I committed for the sake of domestic peace, and convenience.

 

Still, it does not matter too much now. I have the memory of each conquest, intact. And stories to tell about those adventures, over a cold mug shared with my neighbors.

Icehouse Books - Complete Catalog

 

Icehouse Books Titles (Through 2023)

 

Trailer Park Militia Series

 

Vol. 1 – January Jonovic, Queen of the Trailer Park Militia

Vol. 2 – Trailer Park Tribulations, The Return of Judee and Janee

Vol. 3 – Trailer Park Winter, The Rise of Rhonda Ronk

Vol. 4 – Trailer Park Document, The Testimony of T.C. Lincoln

Vol. 5 – Trailer Park Messiah, The Arrival of Z.D. Lincoln

Vol. 6 – Trailer Park Territory, The Secession of Evergreen Estates

Vol. 7 – Trailer Park Purchase, The Acquisition of Evergreen Estates

Vol. 8 – Trailer Park Protest, The Rise of Z. Nordic Klopp

Vol. 9 – Trailer Park Injunction, The Arrival of Everleigh Jonovic

Vol. 10 – Trailer Park Verdict, Judgment for Evergreen Estates

Vol. 11 – Jesus & Jack Daniel’s, A Trailer Park Militia Series Extra

Vol. 12 – Trailer Park Monarch, Rise of the Greenies Association

 

For Children

 

The Cat and the Strat (Publish America)

The Cat Who Played Guitar

Adventures with Audrey, Stories from Geauga County, Ohio

 

Lyrics & Poetry

 

Vol. 1 – Lost in America, Poems from the Heartland

Vol. 2 – Poet of the Shadows

Vol. 3 – Stratotone in the Window

Vol. 4 – Farewell to Laughter

Vol. 5 – Lake Effect

Vol. 6 – Midwestern American

Vol. 7 – Camouflage Country

 

Collections

 

Words on the Loose

Biker Lifestyle Memories

 

Other Titles

 

Evergreen Estates, Vignettes from the Trailer Park

Channel 13, Live Television from Ithaca, New York

Home to Ohio, Humbled in the Midwest

Who is Carrie Hamglaze? (Expanded Edition)

The Wise Gospel of Business

Digging Davie Allan

 

From Lulu

 

Thoughts At Large

Popcorn Season

Who is Carrie Hamglaze? (2016 Election Special)

Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond

Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Necessity’

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2023)

 

 

In this space, or others allotted for the same purpose of self-expression, I have often written about a particular bias hardwired into my brain. One pitted against the talent by which I am most frequently identified. Specifically, the ability to engage freely in creative writing.

 

My upbringing came in a family of professionals. Doctors, teachers, administrators, librarians, and university professors. Each of these relatives offered a sense that education and aspirational excellence would lift me toward new heights, which were otherwise out of reach. I was inspired by their abilities. Reading mattered. Study mattered. Artistry in various forms mattered. Music provided a useful soundtrack, but was always coupled with composing lyrics, historical research, cultural appreciation, or an understanding of how the mathematics of cadence and tonalities affected human behaviors.

 

I became very much used to being around talented people. And in a sense, lost a certain appreciation for these gifts, because in my own world they were so plentiful. What was less common could be summed up in a phrase sometimes used to marginalize uneducated folk, who were said to be good at ‘working with their hands.’

 

My father was a church pastor and holder of two higher degrees. Yet he had grown up on an Ohio farm, and therefore developed a direct familiarity with building things, and fixing the same when they failed in a structural, electrical, or mechanical sense. As a child, I manifested a similar vibe to his own at the typewriter, or when perusing our home library. But the sort of physical work often associated with Midwestern manhood was something I did not take to in affectionate terms. I could perform certain tasks, or even explain how they might be accomplished. But skinning my knuckles or chafing my knees did not bring an authentic sense of joy. I simply wanted to have things done.

 

The youngest in our brood, my little brother, had taken opposite characteristics from our pater’s toolkit. He never spent much time tapping away at a keyboard. Books were rarely of interest, unless they were shop manuals. His focus was on automotive repair, and custom modifications. He had an ease in the garage that made me jealous. Suffering for hours to diagnose a technical malady did not make him turn away from the cause. He would wrench on junk cars and trucks and vans with zeal. Soon, this predisposition attracted others who wanted to support him in becoming more proficient. And a group of newbie followers who were eager to watch and learn.

 

Once, he had inherited a Ford Galaxie sedan from the family stable. We were living in a house with no outbuilding for storage or tinkering. Only a gravel lot used as a parking area, next door. His wheeled mule had already received a replacement motor, one with greater reserves of horsepower and torque to make driving a more entertaining experience. But then, he needed to replace the entire rear axle after many tire-burning launches put a strain on the drive system. Despite lacking a proper venue for the task, he jacked up the metal carriage on stands, and stretched out on the ground. After cursing, twisting and hammering his way through rusted bolts and mounting points on the frame, he managed to make the swap like a pro. I bowed my head with respect at his accomplishment. There were no broken bones incurred, or muscular digits lost in the process. Just the resulting howl of an FE series, interceptor V-8 confiscated from a police cruiser. He rolled around our village proudly, after that feat. Though the car was not photogenic in any sense, it filled him with pride to be in the driver’s seat.

 

My sibling later found employment as a full-time truck driver. Yet he never lost interest in manual labor with a nuts-and-bolts inclination. His hands stayed greasy, and calloused. While his soul remained satisfied.

 

When I graduated to a career in managing retail businesses, such individuals became very valuable to me, as human resources to be cherished. Anyone who could handle the logistics of delivering merchandise, or on-site maintenance of HVAC systems and our brick-and-mortar facilities, was golden in nature. Each encounter with a person of that type reminded me of the warm respect I had for my father, when he manifested such skills. I was not so amazed at his prowess with language, or building lines of communication in a local faith partnership. I knew how to do those things thanks to his expert tutelage. But his aptitude when navigating roads at the helm of our family bus, a Chevy Corvair Greenbrier, or the ability to put right what had gone wrong with contraptions in the household, filled me with awe.

 

My pal ‘BA’ who was a maintenance technician employed by company owners where I worked, said that an open mind was his best asset. He did not claim to know how to do everything, from the start. But always understood how to learn. And where to look for clues. His competence gave me comfort. I held fast to believing that in the end, problems would be addressed and the flow of customer traffic would continue. That lifeblood kept all of my stores up and running.

 

Kids with college degrees on our team were numerous. I enjoyed their curiosity and forward outlook. We had a kinship that gave us a familial connection, whether on the sales floor, or outside of our workplace. Though time would usually take them away, as their own career paths meandered toward greater achievement. My enduring habit of wordsmithing could sometimes produce fantastic results, when given a chance in the paradigm of an employment venue. Yet in the end, I felt indebted to those who kept the clockwork machinery in motion. I had the greatest admiration for those in the circle who were my opposites. Gritty, hard-nosed, blunt problem-solvers, who were able to cope with calamities, and thrive. Those were my heroes. And quite often, my saviors when chaos came calling.

 

Like father, like brother. Both men of character and undeniable value.

 

Nobody Reads This Page - ‘Alone'

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-23)

 

 

Recently, a trio of friends and neighbors observed that the condition of being alone is one that makes them feel sad and disconnected. A mood that causes days to drag and the body to languish in a torpor of futility. For many people, even most of the human population, living as a solo act is challenging to both mind and spirit. Indeed, the human animal is programmed by nature to seek bonding with others. Interaction on some level seems to bolster vital signs and warm the heart from inside out, like a kettle on the stove. 

 

So when I confessed to each of these individuals that my own preference was for the blessed solitude of being by myself, the reactions I received were predictably contrary. Jaws dropped and eyebrows raised. Heads shook and tilted. Gasps sounded, along with a flailing of hands.

 

“ARE YOU CRAZY? NOBODY WANTS TO LIVE LIKE THAT, NO ONE AT ALL!”

 

My only defense was to reintroduce myself, on a personal basis.

 

“Hello! I am nobody!”

 

For this writer, spending time without the interference of face-to-face contact is rewarding. Even exhilarating as an experience not shared with anyone else. I get things done on every level. Out of necessity, household chores and self-care. But more to the point, through creative projects which are always on my desk in the home office. Though my work career ended about seven years ago, I have maintained a schedule artificially imposed out of personal interest. I like to get things done. The thought of wasted moments being spent from a finite reserve of mortal life is shameful to behold. Perhaps this is a product of my religious upbringing, with scriptural admonitions to serve and uplift others? Or, simply a continuation of the practical routines that carried me throughout life? Viewed from either perspective, the yield has been that when I am seated at my keyboard, or scrolling down a screen full of search results and stories, I feel productive. This perception makes me feel justified in existing. I look upon it was a tribute to my progenitors, both those of the flesh, and the ‘Great Spirit’ of my indigenous ancestors.

 

Being active and worthy matters.

 

In my rural neighborhood, this kind of conduct is looked upon as mysterious and somewhat confusing. Those on my street live for moments of abandon, with gaming, horseplay, and imbibing low-cost beverages like Kool-Aid, cheap vodka, or Bud Light varieties. Listening to popular music on the radio, laughing at inane jokes too often repeated, and taking cell phone pics to be used on social media platforms. Anyone not interested in these pursuits is deemed to be an oddball. An outcast, ostracized justly from the crowd. 

 

The label of being a duck flying out-of-formation is not one I bear with a sense of wounded pride. If anything, I simply shrug and smile, before moving on with creative ideas that are waiting to be developed. I always have some nugget of inspiration in reserve. Perhaps from my time working in the newspaper business. In those terms, one is only so good as their last submission would indicate. Deadlines must be met. And met again, and again. The process never ends. Like a drumbeat hammered out to propel marching musicians during a public performance, this rhythm of prose production keeps the whole paradigm in motion.

 

It is no exaggeration to observe that I hold to a simple philosophy. ‘If I stop moving from story to story, then, I die.’

 

Living alone in the same community for over 20 years has brought a certain realization of being interconnected, however. As a physical fixture on the ranch, my presence does have some meaning to others, even if I am rarely a participant in their festive activities. My own disability, something that has grown more burdensome over time, makes this outlook logical in a way than it might not have been in yonder days. There is a certain importance to accepting my position. A spot bestowed in part by fate, or chance, but also as a consequence of mistakes made and challenges met.

 

As the pastor at our local township church once observed, “I admonish you to find your place here, and be well as a result.” His advice was minimalist in character, yet very much on target. I reckoned it came from many years of herding his flock with love and purpose.

 

Thus, I devote part of each day to sitting outside on my wooden bench. This construction was fabricated out of refuse material, by members of our group who had seen my own girth and handicapped motions break lesser furnishings on a regular basis. My inset porch is a three-sided box, open on one side, facing west. This has me seated in direct view of the roadway. As those in the residence park pass, waves of good cheer are exchanged. It is my nod to being socially aware and observant. I often feel invigorated not only by the afternoon rays of sunshine, but also, the expressions of comity that I receive.

 

Before or after, there is usually a bounty of new thoughts to be tapped, when I return to my desk. And the stamina to bring them to a useful fruition. The work continues. I thrive as a sentient being, and an expressive soul. And my neighborhood is satisfied in knowing that I am still alive, and plugged into the continuum.

 

‘Nobody’ is still on board.

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page - 'Lee Rogers'

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-23)

 

 

When I started writing for Don Buchanan’s Geauga County Maple Leaf, in February of 1998, a popular columnist already on board offered advice and mentoring skills. He was Lee Rogers, a veteran of newspaper journalism in the area. This intrepid fellow penned two regular columns for the publication, one called ‘Nobody Asked Me’ and the other known as ‘I Get Around.’ His ease with the craft of wordsmithing was obvious, and inspirational. After so many years of creative output, he had a keen insight into the professional habit of putting thoughts onto paper. We bonded immediately. His love of what we did gave me confidence at a time when such things were very important. Yet only with hindsight am I able to reflect on his intellectual gifts, and offer praise and gratitude in return.

 

Lee was unassuming and unselfish, in the bygone tradition of typewriter junkies. He did not seem to have an ego of any kind. When reporting on actual events, his prose was crisp and tidy. It painted a word picture that was useful and informative for readers. But when reminiscing in personal projects, he had a relaxed manner akin to a grandfather regaling young children with stories of olden times. In the moment, I pondered this free-spirited approach from a much younger perspective. It became a goal of sorts, to someday find such confidence in my own work. His encouragement was gentle, and unflagging.

 

I would soon create a new series for the Leaf, dubbed ‘Thoughts At Large’ by my editor. These ruminations ran weekly, or sometimes, even twice in that period. The subject matter always seemed to choose itself. I never received any sort of unwelcome direction from above. No guardrails kept me from experimenting usefully. This libertarian methodology let me roam freely as a scribe. I could not imagine being corralled in a cubicle where lines of text were hammered out for a paycheck, and nothing more. Money meant little in terms of the satisfaction I received. I aspired to celebrate the nobility of everyday people in their natural environment, and to honor their contributions.

 

In modern times, I look back upon that era with an enduring measure of fondness. It was a point on the journey where my joy over being able to express ideas in print provided energy for all sorts of projects. Learning by doing was my plan. Just as an athlete must train constantly, to attain a level of physical competence and endurance, so also must a writer hit the keys. There is no better way to train the mind and heart than to be active. To mentally engage in marathon competitions. To write and write and write!

 

As a favorite aunt used to say, “Keep that pen moving!”

 

After more than four decades of constant engagement, the habit has become one that I approach with the sort of familiarity my erstwhile teacher, Lee Rogers possessed. Now, with hindsight, I see how he was able to transfer the curiosity of journaling into real time product. I know when and where opportunities may exist for acquiring material. And, how to avoid the pitfalls of gloomy, self-indulgence. Navel gazing has become a competitive sport with many participants in our current age. A lazy mood has steered some into wallowing through pity and parsing the language into slivers of stilted comprehension. But I strive to stay on course, as my yesteryear friend did so well.

 

Which is where this column begins.

 

When pushing aside cobwebs and mental miscellany, in my brain, I tried to find some sort of title for this new endeavor that would reflect Lee’s casual method of scribbling-for-hire. The banner of ‘Nobody Reads This Page’ resonated as something he might have said, in jest. Perhaps with a wink of his eye. Or with a sober realization that the dignity of those who spool out lines of text as a means to find gainful employment are often looked upon much like dairy cattle, mules, or other farm animals. As his career unfolded, there were fewer outlets providing printed matter for profit. A kind of winnowing effect took place by natural selection. But with the explosion of internet content, and worldwide connectivity, being seen as a linguistic artisan is much more difficult. Great masses of material are easily available to anyone with a low-buck, Walmart computer. Quantity is no substitute for quality, to be sure. But the easy availability of everything tempts readers to forget that much was invested before the final yield came into being.

 

A measure of respect for the craft helps to keep both the writer, and reader grounded in reality.

 

Going forward, I hope to display that sort of care in what I offer here, just as Lee did in bygone years. I submit this page as a tribute to what he achieved. And maybe, a continuation which he helped sire by providing guidance and an authentic sense of hope.

 

At my desk today, I salute you, good sir!