Nobody Reads This Page – “Expert”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

One of the advantages to writing a regular column nobody reads is that observations and opinions may be offered freely, without any fear of squawking or consternation from family members, neighbors, or friends. Thus, after years of dodging some sort of official acclaim as a creative scribe, the sinkhole into which I have descended has become a safe spot worth defending. Being notable or lavished with praise does not have much appeal at this point in my personal journey. Instead, I relish the privilege to speak in print without preconditions, or the guardrails of an editor’s mindset.

 

For a wordsmith, slinging prose is like breathing. An act that must persist all day, every day.

 

But recently, while checking my neglected social media accounts, I found a solicitation of sorts. One sent by a person somehow affiliated with the popular business site Linkedin. The breezy, upbeat tone they employed made me pause and tilt my head while pondering. Was this an authentic appeal for potential advice? The sender stayed politely anonymous, yet seemed respectable. Had they read any of my work which was posted for public review? I couldn’t be certain. Carefully, I read through their message several times, before attempting to pass judgment:

 

“You’re part of an exclusive group of new experts (!)

Hi Rod, we’re bringing together top experts to share their knowledge in an exciting new way: collaborative articles. Because of your expertise, we’ve selected you to be one of the early contributors. Join in by adding an example from your experience, sharing a different opinion or expanding on an idea, contributing directly into the body of one of these articles:

What's your strategy for navigating unclear academic writing?

How do you use newsletters and blogs to stay up-to-date with copywriting trends?

K.C. - Head of Community at Linkedin”

 

This unexpected note made me realize that despite the declaration of my own shy and reclusive masthead, some in the vastness of cyberspace must actually be following along. That revelation snapped my eyes open and made me sit up straight.

 

“Damn! The truth is out there!”

 

The cloak of anonymity that I had worn for intellectual cover suddenly seemed to rip away like a bedsheet off the clothesline, in a windstorm. I felt naked, sitting in front of my computer. This odd sensation might have caused me to lose me to lose my nerve while riding a wave crest of inspiration. But then, from the top of my desk, an old landline telephone began to ring. One covered with dust that marked it as a device rarely used in modern times.

 

When answering, the voice in my ear sounded unduly gruff and direct.

 

“Rodney? Is this still your number, young man?”

 

I huffed and hacked while clearing my throat. The caller’s tone sounded very much like that of Ezekiel Byler-Gregg, Editor Emeritus of the Burton Daily Bugle. A friend from past days when members of the Geauga newspaper community used to meet at McDonald’s on Water Street in Chardon, for coffee and trade discussions.

 

“Young man? Hey, I’m in my 60’s, friend! Do I know you?”

 

This retort made him guffaw with a voluminous burst of amusement. I could imagine him stretching out in his denim overalls, and scratching his long, gray beard.

 

“You sound like a farm hand with more spunk than common sense! I figure your chances of lasting in an Amish clan would be just about nil. It’s a darn good thing you know how to doodle on a notepad! Anyway... how have you been, kleine bruder?”

 

I was slightly embarrassed.

 

“Zeke, I don’t think you’ve called since I was with the Maple Leaf newspaper. We parted company in 2014. But the split was amiable. I have stayed active ever since. Writing books, creating more blogs and column series along the way...”

 

My senior cohort muttered softly while listening. I could hear him rustling paperwork in his rural office. Once, a tool shed next to a milk barn.

 

“Books? Well now, that’s quite a step up from having your work appear in newsprint. Folks use our medium to line bird cages or clean windows, after they’re done checking out the headlines. That’s a humbling reality, you know? It keeps me down to earth. I don’t get too full of myself.”

 

I nodded in agreement, while holding the telephone receiver.

 

“Today though, something hit my inbox that scrambled the paradigm. A lady said she was gathering a team of experts for an online panel. This was through a career site, a place where professionals interact and advise each other. The term she used raised my eyebrows. Expert? Am I an expert of any kind? That just made me go numb. Am I an expert at anything?”

 

Ezekiel growled like a slumbering bear.

 

“Hmm. I’d have to wonder about that for a spell. Expert? Yes, I reckon some might hang that tag on me, after all these years at the helm of a local weekly. Or maybe because I used to herd cattle and plow the fields. I don’t know. It’d make me feel uncomfortable! But then, if being looked at like a stallion made a difference to someone coming of age, well that’d be okay. Color me happy to oblige!”

 

I nodded again, knowing that my friend could not see this silent gesture.

 

“I’ve always considered myself to be a typewriter hack. Maybe a hacktivist of a primitive kind, a prose pirate. I do my thing, tell my stories. Yet have never tried to climb the ladder. That goes against the grain, I think. I figure things out by doing and watching others...”

 

My tutor from Burton paused to let this confession seep into his brain.

 

“Rodney, I’d concur with that spread of manure. Though you shouldn’t take my remark as an insult. I know you’ve got pride in your labor, we all do, really. But staying close to the ground makes sense. I like humility. The Bible teaches that, if you are a believer. The older I get, the more I question things. I’m not so sure what I believe nowadays. But believe me, I do believe. Understand?”

 

I had gotten lost in his reasoning. He sounded wise, but still able to go forward on his walk of faith.

 

“I can’t put it into words, but yes. That makes sense to me...”

 

The newspaper veteran lowered his voice to a whisper.

 

“So, what kind of ink slinging have you done lately? What keeps you in the saddle? What keeps you at your desk? What makes you remain a seeker of truth?”

 

I had to gulp down a feeling of inadequacy.

 

“Well, it’s in my family DNA, I think. One of my cousins recently spoke about her young daughter writing stories after school. Lots of crazy plotlines and characters, and experiments. I was beaming with validation. It sounded like so many of us in my brood. That’s how it began for me...”

 

Ezekiel grunted and laughed out loud.

 

“So there you go, boy! You are an expert after all! Be proud of it and don’t hold your cards so close. Share your knowledge! Help the next generation get along. That’s what old folks like myself did for you!”

 

I was nearly speechless. He had hit the bullseye.

 

“Well, there you have it...”

 

The dial tone filled my ear before it was possible to give a complete answer. I sat there for several minutes, with my head down and eyes closed. The screen of my iMac glowed with a blank, white slate of emptiness. It seemed to beg for useful input as I struggled to comprehend what had just transpired.

 

Then, I began to write.

Nobody Reads This Page – “Water Woes”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

Purchasing a mobile home for the first time, at the age of 40, was an experience that filled me with dread on many levels. I worried about the community in which it was situated, and about maintaining such a prefabricated structure. I reckoned that the life expectancy would not be equal to a fixed dwelling, with a proper foundation. And I wondered how it would affect my image, socially. In the midst of a management career, I had decided to create a start-up business of my own. Specifically, an independent firm for consulting and promotions, operated on a tiny footprint. I had cards printed, and recorded a telephone message that could screen calls while I was away.

 

But being stuck in a row of boxcar homes made me think that I would be judged harshly, by virtue of this seedy relocation. The reality caused me to shiver as I searched for ideas. I knew that it would not mesh well with my new plan for success. At that difficult moment however, I was desperate. So, I closed my eyes tightly and signed the required paperwork for a trailer, in Thompson Township, Ohio.

 

What I did not know at that distant point in my journey, was that sourcing potable water would actually be more of a challenge to this new lifestyle, than anything else. Signing up for the delivery of electric power, finding fuel for heating and cooking, and accessing basic services like trash pickup or internet connectivity were all straightforward. Yet I soon learned that our water well and distribution system were both flawed and out-of-date. The on-site sewer facilities had signs of obvious neglect, and could be identified easily in summer months by a pungent aroma that wafted across the park. It made the end of every day an experience tainted with regret.

 

I hated the choice made in haste, and its aftermath.

 

Most of my neighbors had already surrendered to this deficiency, as a practical matter. They purchased bottled water off the premises, for everyday use. Additionally, power outages were common due to being in such a rural spot. Every interruption meant that our pumps ceased to function, and my household faucets went dry. So it was prudent to keep extra stock on hand. Afterward, a boil alert would be issued. Normally, a restriction that lasted about 72 hours. Winter months complicated these situations with freezing pipes and in-ground hydrants. The unreliable nature of our sourcing for such a vital necessity kept everyone on edge. I never knew what to expect, except for more inconveniences, and excuses from property managers.

 

The quality of what streamed through my tap was subject to wild fluctuations. One day, my wife collected a sample at our kitchen sink, and the plastic bottle showed a layer settling to its bottom of dark sediment that almost looked like aquarium gravel. This gritty muck quickly affected fixtures around our manufactured hovel, causing damage and plugging lines. The front bathroom became unusable. The dishwasher was ruined. Rust stains streaked the shower and tub. Our washing machine for clothes and bedding sputtered and suffered through every cycle. I got used to filling jugs with water, on the way home after each work shift. Complaining to our supervision did no good. Therefore, I simply lowered my head and kept moving.

 

On a regular basis, I received EPA reports in the mail that indicated our local hydration was safe to drink. When the visible contamination became so outrageous, my spouse declared that she was about to contact local news departments with the evidence she had obtained. But, this strategy of tweaking the dial did not yield any positive results. No one seemed to care. Our location was far off the radar. No special concerns boosted our standing with county officials, or with media outlets in Cleveland. In a sense, we were invisible.

 

Because both of us were constantly at work, it did not matter too much.

 

Two decades later, my inhabited shipping container was not so solid as before. Its floors had sagged due to leaks and temperature variations. The vinyl siding had peeled a bit. Some windows were cracked. The yard and driveway were marked with sunken patches of muddy soil. Someone who had lived in the park for a long period recalled that the spot had once been a marsh. Owners with an eye on using it to generate profit brought in truckloads of construction waste, and landfill. But while this plan was thought to be sufficient for creating a solid base, it instead provided only temporary relief. Eventually the porous, natural surroundings reclaimed their supremacy. Everything seeped into the dirt. Stones, pavers, and concrete all disappeared over time.

 

By then, I had replaced most of the faucets in my wheeled hut. Some, more than once. Fatigue made me surrender when the cost and effort were too great. I simply went without things that were too expensive to fix. Then, new owners from out of state instituted submetering for our water supply. My bill went from about $15.00 per month, to over $60.00. Other residents were forced to pay $100.00 with each billing, or more, depending on their usage.

 

This extreme burden only deepened our gloom as a private community. The aqua flow was still subpar, and sometimes reeked of chemicals. And as always, its sporadic availability could inspire fits of rage. Attempts to address this malady through legal and political means were unsuccessful.

 

Citations must have been piling up in the manager’s office. Yet little concrete action resulted. Everything was handled on an emergency basis. With a nod to minimalism, and frugality.

 

After such an extended stay at the rented lot, olden concerns about my public image and personal standing had long since evaporated. Divorce made me somewhat reclusive. I gave up on the notion of business consulting, with too many other projects already in the works. My finances dwindled until early retirement and disability took over. Instead of fretting about cosmetic improvements or structural worries, I counted pennies to keep cases of beer in my refrigerator.

 

My mindset had been changed forever by this contest for a resource no one could live without. Our battle was over. I had lost, and yet lived to tell the story.

Nobody Reads This Page – “New Year’s Eve”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

As a youngster, memories of New Year’s Eve celebrations were colored by the discipline of my religious family. As a Christian pastor, Dad tended to his flock with much reverence and care throughout the year. Mom played a special role as a sort of ‘first lady’ for the congregation, with social skills that had been handed down through generations of her own brood. She loved to sing and converse and uplift children and the needy. Her presence was vital, and made my father’s theological work much more successful than it would have been, otherwise.

 

The yield of this fundamentalist family paradigm was that I always remembered hanging a new calendar as something that came without the usual accouterments of alcohol, boisterous celebrations, loud music, and a hangover that followed. I heard stories of how others rang in the birth of a New Year, but never encountered such happenings as a participant. In my world of cultural isolation, only elements of a safe and innocuous sort were permissible. We drank fruit punch and ate gelatin desserts dotted with miniature marshmallows. Two things that were never appealing to my palate. People from our church played board games and chattered with each other, while keeping watch on those of us that had not yet reached the threshold of chronological maturity. Discipline persisted, even up to the stroke of midnight. By then, I had usually surrendered to fatigue and boredom.

 

Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians always provided the soundtrack.

 

As a teenager, in New York State, I finally managed to escape such stale traditions by sneaking away with friends. Counterculture heroes who I encountered during my video apprenticeship at Channel 13, on West State Street in Ithaca. We rode in a cramped, creaky Ford Pinto station wagon. With them, I headed to the Rongovian Embassy in Trumansburg, a watering hole of local renown which was known for featuring live music, and keeping a variety of imported beverages available. My handlers for the night were older and more seasoned veterans of scene-making in the area. Their patience let me enjoy this foray into independence. Something which I accepted with a typical amount of carelessness. I was young, artistic, and too full of myself. Soon after our arrival, I was also too full of Dos Equis Mexican cerveza.

 

My behavior must have been comic, though somewhat irritating. But the circle of friends with which I had traveled showed no impatience. They were tolerant and watchful, so I was on a long leash. When an Australian student at Cornell University paused by our table, I claimed to be British. She smiled with delicate, pale features, and shook her head in a bout of polite indifference. I was not yet able to accurately tell one region, or nation, from another on the basis of accent alone. I must have appeared to be very stupid.

 

“Sorry mate, I don’t believe you! Cheers!”

 

A modernist Rock combo played popular music and Reggae throughout the night. As the terminal moment of that trip around the sun approached, I went on the dance floor, and stationed myself in between rows of drunken revelers who were even more inebriated. I started to sing along with the lead vocalist, a fellow with permed dreadlocks and hippie attire. This act seemed to amuse him somewhat. Though he appeared to take it as a compliment.

 

When I sought relief in the bathroom, a Sharpie pen appeared on top of a sink. Feeling tipsy and rebellious, I scrawled my signature on the spackled wall. The moniker I wrote was one used on-air at my television depot.

 

“Remember the name! Rod Swindle!”

 

Even as someone who had hosted local programming of a contrarian nature, I was far from being notable. Yet in a state of willful intoxication, I had the notion that somehow this inscription rendered in fast-drying ink would become legendary. At least one or more of those in my troupe from the city must have noticed this anti-social testament. But no one said anything. I wasn’t chastised or corrected. Possibly because my mental capacity to process anything had already been obliterated.

 

My last memory of being at the proletarian venue that night was of stomping around, boots akimbo, in a skittish attempt to look nimble while inhabiting the wild crowd of beautiful people. I wanted very much to jettison my naïve self, and morph into the kind of Punk icon that I revered. Someone like Dee Dee Ramone or Sid Vicious or perhaps an older, more venerable figure from the era that came before. Like Iggy Pop, or Lou Reed. Or perhaps, Johnny Thunders. Viewed with sober eyes, I must have instead looked like a hopeless ass, floundering through a first swim into the sea of sweaty humanity. Yet shame did not register in my consciousness.

 

Somehow, I made it back to the wood-sided Pinto. I might have been dragged or carried. My brain cells did not record the manner of this exit. In the back seat, I toked on a clandestine smoke offered to settle my ebullience. I fell asleep on the way back to Ithaca. It seemed very dark on the road. My companions buzzed with lively debate over the musicianship we had encountered. Suggesting different interpretations of tunes that had been included, or alternate material. Each passenger had their own unique opinion. Through the haze of cigarettes and weed, I was grateful that my friend at the steering wheel appeared to be respectably competent for her role as our driver. She did not veer off course, or lose her way.

 

I arrived home on North Cayuga Street, long after the dark hours had claimed their victory. While hobbling up the front steps in my Converse Chuck Taylor All Stars, I reflected that Mom had once observed the sound of my footsteps always gave her comfort after being absent for so long. My noisy stumbling must have fit the bill, that night. I hoped that she could rest. I also hoped to reach my bedroom at the top of our interior staircase, without an accident. I couldn’t see anything clearly, but feeling my way along the banister worked well enough.

 

I fell into bed still wearing my leather motorcycle jacket. The year of our Lord 1980, had arrived with a baby’s cry. Or perhaps with my own yelping of penned-up emotions, finally set free. I had howled at the moon like a wolf pup, and managed to run through the snow. Now, it was time to greet the oblivion of slumber, and give thanks for my moment of libertine abandon.

 

In the morning, I would be sick at my stomach. But very satisfied.

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Hamglaze Holiday”

 

c.2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

Note to Readers: What follows here is a product of my wandering imagination. Yet in such a flight of fantasy, there is more truth than fiction...

 

I stopped at the Get Go in Chardon on impulse, after a day of running errands around town. Primary on my to-do list was checking the postal mailbox where I still maintain a space leftover from days with the Geauga County Maple Leaf. I have often thought about discontinuing the service, as having this extra address isn’t really necessary, in modern times. But the information has been included in all of my published books, around 34 to date. I also have it listed on three internet blogs, and on social media sites such as Facebook, and Twitter which Elon Musk demands that we now call ‘X.’ So deleting the postal link would require some effort.

 

Handling chores used to be a task accomplished by investing time and endurance, alone. Something I did out of need, but not with much forethought. In retirement however, getting around physically requires more attention to details. I can’t walk without the aid of two canes for support, and every in-and-out of my motor vehicle demands that I struggle a bit. Arthritis and disability have taken their toll since the days when I used to run around retail establishments as a salaried manager, or to far-flung locations as a journalist, chasing stories.

 

For the holiday season, I suspended my apprehension over these hindrances, and plowed ahead with determination. But by the time I had finished checking off a dozen items that needed attention, my legs were shot. I decided that a cup of coffee at the Giant Eagle convenience depot would allow me to rest and revive my stamina.

 

Get Go got my attention.

 

Because it had been so long since I visited, the arrangement of food and beverage stations inside was completely unfamiliar. The new-age java dispensers made my eyes go crossed. They were festooned with all sorts of buttons, and a display screen that offered a considerable menu of options. As an oldster-in-waiting, I just wanted to pour a cup of grounds, and be done. But a prevalence of dazzling technology made this simple desire nearly impossible to accomplish. I fumed and fretted and finally figured out the access routine.

 

The cup was hot enough to curl my fingers. I paid at the registers, then headed for a table by the front windows. As I was maneuvering a chair into its proper position for a safe landing, my ears buzzed with the intensity of a familiar voice. This made me flinch and spill the brown liquid everywhere.

 

“RODNEY! IT IS SO GOOD TO SEE YOU HERE TODAY! WHAT A HAPPY COINCIDENCE! MAY WE SIT TOGETHER?”

 

I mopped up my mess with a wad of napkins. At a nearby station was my erstwhile cohort from days with the local the newspaper, Carrie Hamglaze. She had dressed in a red overcoat and festive headgear meant to emulate the style of Santa Claus. A cup of Irish tea sat by her purse, wafting steam.

 

I plopped in place, and squinted to be sure my vision hadn’t played some sort of trick.

 

“My goodness, it’s been a long time. I never come into the city much anymore. Did you realize I’ve been out in the hinterland for over 21 years?”

 

She nodded and stirred her toasty drink.

 

“I’ve been reading your new work on the computer. Congratulations for your persistence with the blog at Blogspot.com, my friend! It reminds me a lot of your older writing, when we were pen-pals of a sort, both churning out missives for the good people of this county! I often hear how much our presence is missed by readers everywhere. They flag me down at pancake breakfasts and spaghetti dinners and clambakes all around the area!”

 

Her comment made me turn red with slight embarrassment.

 

“Really? People remember us like that? I had figured we were a forgotten tribe, a part of yesterday long lost with the old media. People get everything on their smartphones now. Flipping through pages of newsprint is an anachronism for Luddites and oddballs...”

 

Carrie huffed at my assessment. She nearly spat out her tea.

 

“A FALSEHOOD REPEATED BY FOOLS! YOU SHOULD TAKE HEART IN THE SPIRIT OF OUR CRAFT, RODNEY! WE ARE KEEPERS OF THE FLAME. LIKE SCHOLARS INTERPRETING THE ANCIENT SCROLLS! OUR SCRIBBLING STILL HAS WORTH! DON’T LET YOURSELF BE JUDGED SO HARSHLY! THERE IS MERIT IN WHAT WE DO!”

 

My eyes were burning. The taste of coffee revitalized my body, however. I had needed a spurt of caffeine.

 

“I won’t argue. Though it often seems we are handling the advancements of society on a horse-and-buggy level. I feel Amish sometimes...”

 

My compadre folded her hands as if petitioning the Lord in prayer.

 

“A wonderfully devout group of people, do not mock their faith! I would like to be so strong in my beliefs. You and I are cut from the same cloth. Our diligence is reflected in everything we compose! We care and thrive through keeping old traditions alive!”

 

I smiled and bowed my head after she finished.

 

“Once again, I won’t argue. What you say makes plenty of sense from where I sit. But what about the kids growing to maturity with video games and wireless devices everywhere? They want speed, they want instant gratification. Their attention span is a short-lived quantity. Blink twice, and you’ve missed the audience. They’ve already moved on, by scrolling and web surfing...”

 

Carrie chewed her lip and frowned. Her Christmas cap wilted in the heat of a large vent, above our table.

 

“I will quote a Bible scripture to ease your mood. ‘And he saith unto them, Why are ye fearful, O ye of little faith? Then he arose, and rebuked the winds and the sea; and there was a great calm.’ Do you remember that verse, Rodney? It says more than anything I could offer. Hear the truth and believe!”

 

I had been living alone in Thompson for too long. My cheeks were bright with crimson.

 

“You sound like my maternal grandmother. Her bloodline stretched back to the Emerald Isle, I was told. An incredible woman, who got me started on writing poetry...”

 

My Platonic companion bubbled with enthusiasm. She stood up suddenly and buttoned her coat.

 

“GOD BLESS THE MEMORY OF YOUR GRANDMA! AND GOD BLESS YOU, MY FRIEND! MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR! I HOPE WE SEE EACH OTHER AGAIN, VERY SOON!”

 

A playful burst of snow teased through the front doorway, as she exited. I was left sitting by myself, with a half-cup of cold brew. Confusion made me shiver and rub my face. Had I truly encountered the Grande Dame of Geauga just now, or merely imagined it happening as I stared into space? I could not be certain.

 

Next to my cup, a green sprig of holly fluttered and fell. The sight made me jump backward, and nearly topple from the metal chair. An aroma of Irish tea lingered in my nostrils.

 

“God bless you also, Carrie! Have a cool Yule, wherever you are!”

 

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Lockout”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

Note to Readers: This is a true tale from Thompson, Ohio, in 2002.

 

When I first moved to my rural home at the northeastern corner of Geauga County, it was an event that came out of desperation. I had reached a rocky point in my first marriage, and was determined to avoid any collateral damage to my career as a retail business manager. After spending several weeks on my sister’s couch, any spot where I could land had an irresistible appeal. So despite having a typically negative opinion of living in a manufactured home, I accepted the thought out of necessity.

 

A friend from my store in Chardon spoke about living at an address far from the bustle and congestion of more populated neighborhoods in our area. Her description made it sound like a pastoral community where one could exist peacefully, without too many rules or regulations. I chafed at the thought of being in a trailer, yet wished fervently for anywhere to lay my head. With the shame of being in exile weighing heavily, I plunked down a deposit during the summer, and signed paperwork in July.

 

Other than my friend on a back street in the park, who I rarely saw, I did not know anyone on the property. Long hours at work meant that I spent very little time at my new residence. Therefore, it didn’t seem to matter too much. I came and went anonymously, to the point where those next door, on one side and the other, would later confess that they thought the prefabricated dwelling was unoccupied in literal terms.

 

They guessed that it must have been a sham used by some nefarious character. A front for activities of a scandalous nature. I stayed at home only long enough to drink myself to sleep at night, and then to shower and shave before reporting for duty, once again. It was not uncommon to arrive in my distant township around the hour of two o’clock in the morning, after work. I would be exhausted, and ready to relax. Thirsty, sweaty, and in no mood for human companionship.

 

On a particularly mellow night late in the season, I rolled into the narrow driveway with a 12-pack of beer and a bag of edible goodies on the seat of my pickup truck. The moon was bright overhead, and welcoming sounds of nature beckoned as I exited the vehicle. I unloaded my snacks and beverages with anticipation making me eager to sit outside on the fiberglass steps, and soak up the slumbering vibes. But carelessness caused a detour from this plan. The door went shut with my keys still in the ignition. I stood in the yard for a moment, pondering the situation with disbelief. It seemed likely that I was mistaken about being locked out of my home. That reality made my temples ache. I yawned and rummaged through my pockets, walked around the 4x4 beast, and found myself once again at a point of complete befuddlement.

 

Four-letter words echoed off of the vinyl siding. I needed a drink to calm my nerves.

 

After four or five brews, I my blood pressure had deflated enough to permit more rational thinking. I sat on the edge of my inset porch and griped softly to myself. Anger over being marooned had no benefit, especially as the hour was ridiculously late, and I knew none of my neighbors. I tried to mentally work my way through a series of options, which included breaking a window, attacking the front door with a crowbar, or calling AAA for help with opening my truck.

 

None of these choices were appealing. The yield of this exercise was to convince myself that I had become stuck in a conundrum that had the complexity of a spider’s web. One from which I would not be able to escape, gracefully.

 

While finishing the dozen bottles of alcohol, I happened to spy my trash barrel in its place by an Amish storage barn I had purchased. The crude shed was made of Canadian lumber, pre-cut to specification. It had been assembled skillfully by a team of workers driven to the site in an oversized, Dodge van.

 

I realized that the rubbish bin was roughly equal in height to a small, kitchen window situated at the back of my square porch. A test with numb fingers confirmed that it wasn’t locked. I popped out the screen, and managed to slide this glass portal upward, while grunting and swearing. Perspiration stung my eyes. I was huffing for breath by the time I had accomplished this task. But the idea worked.

 

A sober individual might have failed to rectify this moment of embarrassment successfully. Yet in my haze of fatigue and inebriation, pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I mounted the garbage receptacle like straddling a horse, bareback. Then, worked my way through the confined space over a sink inside of the trailer. Only the vertical faucet impeded my entry. I managed to slip and slide over this plumbing fixture without adding extra damages to the total. Upon reaching the countertop inside, I fell forward onto the linoleum. My plop shook the whole house. But with no witnesses present, this detail went unnoticed.

 

A spare key was hanging by the front entrance. I went back to the driveway, unlocked my truck, and spat on the ground in a rude celebration of victory.

 

“HOW ABOUT THAT, DAMMIT? A COUNTRY BOY CAN SURVIVE!”

 

I fell into bed once this chore was accomplished, still wearing my dress clothes from work. My shoes were kicked into a corner. A patterned necktie had been abandoned on the mirror of my roadgoing mule. Moonlight streamed through the front window, which had no curtains. Only a thin blanket on the supporting rod kept me from being exposed to the entire community. But I was too spent to care. Necessity had driven me to break into my own home. As a thief in the night, I had battled the forces of futility, and won.

 

Now, it was time to sleep.

“Trailer Park Santa”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

Santa Claus got drunk tonight

It wasn’t what the old elf intended

He made a stop at a doublewide

With Christmas lights inside

And found himself befriended

By a girl in blue jeans

A working class queen

With her high heeled boots dripping snow

A yellow Jeep on big tires

Hank III on fire

And a Gadsden flag across the front window

 

Santa Claus got tipsy tonight

Rudolph’s nose was red

The gang blew into town

That sled of toys came down

As all the kids were in their beds

The country girl kicked high

She had a gleam in her eye

“Hey fat man, how ‘bout a good time?”

She made him skip and jig

Like an over-the-road rig

Dancing in a line

 

Santa Claus broke into the Jack

Opening that bottle was foolish

Once he took a pull

He snorted like a bull

“I’ll do whatever I wish!”

He kissed her on the mouth

That bearded Son of the South

Who pretended to be from the North Pole

They both fell on the floor

St. Nick and his paramour

Then rolled like cookie dough

 

Santa Claus stopped at the park

A trailer cluster in the pines

Empty cases of beer

Satellite dishes and fishing gear

And a row of four-wheel drives

Mrs. Claus would have been incensed

If she knew of this damned diversion

Instead of circling the world

He met up with a naughty girl

And spent the eve having fun

Shooting off his six-gun

 

Santa Claus got in the doghouse

In a very familiar way

He took a page from the book

Of getting emotionally hooked

By an Annie Oakley at play

She was interested in nothing

Just a tempting good time

And It tripped him up on his rounds

He should have stayed with the plan

Been a better man

But he let go of his crown

 

Santa Claus went MIA

Nobody could find the goof

He dumped that ride

With the packages, tied

And forgot about making his route

Kids were saddened in the morn

With no gifts underneath the tree

But that chubby saint

Was busy smearing face paint

On the belly of his curvy squeeze

Singing ‘They call me the breeze!’

 

Santa Claus had a lot to explain

When the hangover started to hit

His fling ended soon

Like the tap of a spoon

A quake made his gut feel sick

Somewhere in the cosmos

The stars were fully aligned

He sat outside with his shame

By a candle in flame

His head throbbed in three-quarter time

Just a T-shirt on the clothesline

 

Santa Cee got drunk tonight

Now he’s crawling on his paws

Out in the street

Begging and meek

To get forgiveness from Mrs. Claus

In the end sin is no prize

It only breaks the heart

Now that cat is lonely and fat

He should have done his part

But the choo choo went way off its tracks

The arrow missed its mark

Nobody Reads This Page – “Writer Reflections”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

I have reminisced here before about growing up in a household where creative wordsmithing was a craft woven into the fabric of our genetic tapestry. With the holiday season again holding sway, I am moved to ponder this lineage in personal terms. For some, embarking on a journey-in-print comes from an inspirational moment, a chance occurrence, or a trip through the halls of a college or university. But for myself, it is simply a work of logic. I learned how to hammer the keyboard by osmosis. Lessons were gained through observation and practice, not a formal classroom.

 

My father was the tutor and mentor.

 

I mimicked his routine by setting up my own office in our Virginia basement, around the age of nine. Or perhaps a year later. This involved a plastic typewriter made in England, and a plywood square on top of a trash barrel. But most of my early work was done with a pen and notebook. I jotted down ideas and story fragments in real time. Some became full-length manuscripts or poems, while others simply provided exercise to keep my quill in motion.

 

When I stopped looking upon writing in terms of the yield alone, and instead as an activity to be constantly pursued, my mind was opened. This altered view was one I adopted from Ralph Waldo Emerson, as filtered through the pages of motorcycle journals such as Cycle World, Easyriders, or Back Street Heroes from the United Kingdom.

 

“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

 

In the early 1980’s, my bent toward typing out creative prose took on more immediacy as I was stalled between a brief encounter with TV production at Channel 13 in New York State, and music endeavors. I felt adrift and alone. But my habit of putting thoughts onto paper returned to offer direction. This kept me grounded when I needed it most.

 

To help with my text-borne labor, a friend of the family offered to sell an office machine from his barn collection. A relic that could still be used professionally by someone like myself, who had lots of ideas but a threadbare budget. It was a bulky, non-electric Royal KMM typewriter, meant to sit with authority atop an oversized desk in a traditional environment. This workhorse had lots of vintage mojo, but caused friends to roll their eyes and shrug. It had long been surpassed by a generation of newer, more sophisticated tools.

 

Of course, I did not care. The archaic mule fit my minimalist personality with perfection.

 

The sharp metal of its stamped keys often cut through sheets of parchment that I used as my base for letters and documents. This amused those on the other end of my linguistic pipeline. Some complained that they were showered with bits of confetti, after opening letters and stories. I tried to use a lighter touch when working, a deft approach that regularly failed. My emotions often swelled when composing lines of description. This had me pounding away like a mad organist making cathedral walls resonate with wild tonalities.

 

It also chewed up the ink ribbon, eventually. I found a suitable replacement from a different model, and wound it onto the original spools. This left me with blackened fingertips, but a sense of having developed coping skills that were worthy of celebration.

 

Having returned home to Ohio, my obsession seemed to get lost in between career advancement and family priorities. But then, in the twilight of maturity and retirement, I found that it was once again a tool for my survival. Though explaining this methodology proved to be more difficult than I expected.

 

Living in a neighborhood where alcohol, horseplay, and social activities took precedence, my confession of such secretive pursuits seemed to evoke confusion and disbelief. Every time I would speak about being an avid scribe, the response made me chill with embarrassment.

 

“YOU DO WHAT? WRITE? UMM... LIKE J. K. ROWLING OR STEVEN KING? HA HA HA!”

 

Nothing that flowed from my pen or keyboard had the literary punch of such notable authors. Yet attaining that kind of market success was not my aim. I looked on it as being a routine guided by family traditions. Like working out physically, for good health. Mentally clearing the cobwebs and refreshing my brain mass by staying busy.

 

Having been confronted with this sort of critical indifference on so many occasions, I eventually learned to answer any query in more basic terms. Instead of mentioning long hours spent in front of my computer screen, I would smile when delivering simple explanations that fit the groove. Perhaps something about drinking beer and eating salty snacks, while watching sports competition. That change helped to keep me from becoming a target.

 

A recent encounter made me stumble off the path, however.

 

I saw friends in front of a local supermarket, who were manning a red kettle for the Salvation Army. Their cheer in receiving donations sounded authentic and inviting. But when I paused to make conversation, this unplanned encounter loosened my lips. The fellow and his wife were both good-natured and curious, as we had not seen each other in a long time. So when they inquired about my retirement hobbies, I gushed with details over having 34 books for sale, online. Spitting on the sidewalk would have been less puzzling for them to consider. I got blank stares and gasps, before grins and muttering took hold.

 

 

“BOOKS? WELL, WHAT DO YOU WRITE ABOUT? SITTING IN YOUR TRAILER?”

 

I should have claimed to be spending my days hunting woodland animals, or building festive holiday displays out of discarded, wood pallets. That kind of report would have put me in better stead with these volunteering acquaintances from Ashtabula County. Unfortunately, I only thought of this after my mouth had opened.

 

“Well, all kinds of things really, music, song lyrics, history, popular culture, and satire...”

 

Both of my benefactors sighed loudly and folded their hands. The vacant glare of their expressions had an intensity of laser beams focused on my reddened face. I sensed that it was time to graciously disappear with my cart of groceries.

 

“SURE, SURE, MAYBE YOU’LL MAKE IT BIG SOMEDAY, RIGHT! YOU NEVER KNOW, RODNEY! YOU NEVER KNOW!”

 

I nodded and walked away in silence. Seeking accolades was something not coded in my DNA. Gaining rewards of any kind seemed wholly beside the point. My benefit was in the action itself. Motion as an evidence of life continuity. A spark in the cosmic continuum, offered to praise the creator. Whoever and whatever that entity might be, in unseen terms.

 

As I turned a key in the ignition, one enduring thought gave me comfort. I knew that those in my bloodline would understand. My journey was their journey. And indeed, a common star by which to navigate.

 

Nobody Reads This Page – "Christmas Contrast"

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

“It is all well and good for children and acid freaks to still believe in Santa Claus – but it is still a profoundly morbid day for us working professionals. It is unsettling to know that one out of every twenty people you meet on Xmas will be dead by this time next year... Some people can accept this, and some can’t. That is why God made whiskey, and also why Wild Turkey comes in $300 shaped canisters during most of the Christmas season...” – Hunter S. Thompson

 

The holidays are a time of remembrance and unity. A block of days on the calendar when joy and goodwill and bountiful blessings are foremost in our thoughts. Silver and gold ornaments adorn trees and doorsteps, with boughs of holly. Festive lights illuminate the early darkness. Sweet treats and refreshments flow freely. Yet for this writer, the best Yuletide memories have always come as my life was a chaotic mess. Something about a Christmas steeped in contrast brings out the true worth of this worldwide celebration.

 

An example of this personal phenomenon came in 1983, while I lived in New York State.

 

I had careened through the summer, bouncing from home to home without a real plan to survive. Drunkenness was my prevailing condition. I stayed numb, and loyal to the ridiculous notion that somehow, despite lacking any musical education or reliable bandmates, a kiss of success would help me rise. I lived and breathed that delusion, willingly. Anyone with a bottle or a full pack of cigarettes was my friend. When those in my orbit grew weary of this capriciousness, I ended up staying under a bridge in our city. It was dirty and cold. I had only a leather motorcycle jacket for comfort. My feet hurt from walking. I did not bathe regularly. My glasses had broken, so I couldn’t see clearly. That handicap didn’t matter too much because I was inebriated during all of my waking hours. Being nearly blind kept me comfortably in a cocoon of fantasy.

 

I managed to spend some time with my girlfriend and fiancé, who had apartments at various locations. She was older but also artistic. A painter and designer of clothing and jewelry. We meshed perfectly but dragged each other down because neither of us had a practical bent. She liked red wine, which suited my tastes. I ended up with lots of headaches and eventually, lost days that could never be recovered. As a practical matter, job interviews were comic in nature during this reckless time. I met with a manager at a local Byrne Dairy store, a convenience depot, and flubbed my way through their application process. If I had been sober, the expressions of shock and revulsion I received might have had a greater effect. But I slagged it off as meaningless.

 

I couldn’t even sign my name legibly.

 

My bride-to-be must have known that our starry-eyed relationship was doomed. She exited early on a weekend morning, taking a flight to California. This left me alone and shattered. When I confessed my abandonment, a friend in Corning was more concerned with recording tracks for a future vinyl release, than anything else. We worked at a frantic pace, booking studio time, arranging songs, and scheduling with other musicians who would join our project. The rapid-fire escapade lasted for nine days in a row. I slept in my clothes, chain-smoked Camel Filters, and bombed my brain with Jack Daniel’s. The yield was a completed 45 rpm single, and abject homelessness that followed.

 

Snow stung my face as I walked the streets. I had two pennies in a pocket of my denim trousers. My stomach groaned and growled throughout the day. I wished for a friend to buy pizza. But my welcome had been worn out, completely. No one could suffer my presence any longer, and I could not bear to gaze into a mirror. It was over. I couldn’t drink away my failure.

 

I weighed 148 pounds, less than when I had been a student in junior high school.

 

A gracious compadre from our circle offered to take me home to Ohio, as an act of pity. I think that he must have wondered if I might die on the concrete, otherwise. Because my joints were stiff and sore from the frosty temperatures, I took his offer gratefully. It made me think of Bob Dylan’s lyric about being destitute, but liberated.

 

“When you ain’t got nothing, you got nothing to lose. You’re invisible now, you’ve got no secrets to conceal...”

 

On my way out of the Empire State, I felt very much invisible, indeed.

 

Ohio was the last place I wanted to see. I had relished my escape from the Midwest. From the confines of religious convention and dogma. From the straitjacket of manual labor and punching a time clock. From responsibilities and rules. None of these things were appealing in any sense. Yet I was hungry. I wanted to sleep somewhere that did not teem with insects and rodents. So, I felt conflicted. Something, somehow, had to change. Which option was more palatable, I wondered? To crash and burn on my raucous race toward the judgment of fate, or to steer away from calamity? Away from the high wall of consequences? In the moment, I was unsure.

 

Seeing my family again, after a long period apart, answered this nagging question.

 

The artificial evergreen I remembered from childhood days had been pulled out of its cardboard sheath, and set up in a corner of the household living room. It glowed with purpose, brightening the entire space. I felt truly warm for the first time in many months. Not only in the flesh, but also in spirit.

 

My parents and siblings did not criticize, or prod me for details about what had transpired. It did not matter at that juncture. I had made it home in time to share the season, that was enough. The present I received from them on that day was greater than anything wrapped up and tied with ribbons and bows.

 

It was the gift of life.

“One String”

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

One string of lights on the tree

A High Life in hand, cold and friendly

Heart full of hope and head full of memories

I think about what used to be

When I had a family

 

One string of lights on the tree

Enough holiday spirit so I don’t go blind

Sit here by myself, but I don’t mind

It gives me comfort of a mellow kind

Swigging beer and munching pork rinds

 

One string of lights on the tree

This box-on-wheels ain’t worth too much

I get around with a cane for my crutch

Hobbled and hopping like a dirty such and such

A mouse in an eagle’s clutch

 

One string of lights on the tree

It’s Christmas they say, on the evening news

And I ought to be sitting in a church pew

But the recliner is the place where I renew

My spiritual overview

 

One string of lights on the tree

Red and green hung in a festive drape

An ornamental arrangement I got on eBay

In between listings of caps and capes

When making a mental escape

 

One string of lights on the tree

A virtual fireplace on the television slider

Holiday sports jams from the network insiders

Paradise of a sort, dropping deftly like a glider

Shooting straight like ol’ Red Ryder

 

One string of lights on the tree

My boyhood smile has weathered just a bit

And my boots are stuck in a mound of bullshit

But that inconvenience hasn’t caused a fit

Here at home, safely I sit

 

One string of lights on the tree

Snow is falling and I don’t care

Got a cooler full of drink by my easy chair

My neighbors say “C’mon boy, cut your hair!”

But I give ‘em a snort and a glare

 

One string of lights on the tree

Maybe I should be concerned about opinions

But I’ve never cared for masters and minions

It’s a game where winners chew on onions

The Champagne of Beers gets my fun

 

One string of lights on the tree

The birth of a savior, remembered by all

A Jack Daniel’s banner on my living room wall

A Tennessee concoction at my beck and call

Tipping glasses until I fall

 

One string of lights on the tree

If I’m buried by the windy, winter white

I’ve got enough on hand to go all night

Streaming compilations of Jerry Springer fights

A video delight

 

One string of lights on the tree

I’ve heard it said that some are more refined

They don’t sit around their trailers, wasting time

But I’ve got a poetic jones, on my mind

Bottle caps and clever rhymes

 

One string of lights on the tree

If I take my last breath, sitting here

It won’t matter too much, won’t inspire fear

I’ll slip away like a big rig in high gear

A dancing, prancing reindeer

 

One string of lights on the tree

Bucks down and wearing a Johnny Paycheck T-shirt

And camouflage pants from a blue light alert

That happened at Kmart during a shopping spurt

When divorce got my feelings hurt

 

One string of lights on the tree

A goodwill wish from grandma across the street

She’s by the front door, with slippers on her feet

I saw her from the porch and waved to greet

That gray old head, nodding and sweet

 

One string of lights on the tree

Gonna pass out soon, it’s guaranteed

Belly full of alcohol, chin on my knees

Loose skirting rustles from a frosty breeze

Mother Nature likes to tease

 

One string of lights on the tree

I’m safe in the glow of festive sights

Like a pudgy snowman and a Noel, bright

Santa and his team taking flight

Glad tidings, and good night!

Nobody Reads This Page – "Christmas Charmed"

 

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

Note to Readers: This is a story that I have told before, but one that bears repeating during such a festive part of the year.

 

The holiday season is a time when people traditionally gather to celebrate family bonds that relate to shared genetics or a lineage of common history. It represents a point on the calendar which is both convenient and useful. One that allows memories and emotions to glow with purpose, after being pushed aside by cares and responsibilities throughout the greater year. Emotionally, the reward can be significant in terms of celebration and renewal. Faith of all kinds, whether authentically spiritual or reflected as a secular belief in comity and cooperation, fit the mood. Coming together fulfills the promise of this season.

 

We uplift each other, like twinkling stars that populate the cosmos.

 

During this joyful period, miracles may abound. Yet sometimes, they originate in places not deemed to be holy. Such blessings appear in the form of everyday folk, acting as angels. They need not be righteous or exalted to serve. Their presence in the moment makes them anointed by chance. Grace is the yield of these selfless actors. Through them, we are able to touch the face of deities that the mind itself cannot fully comprehend. Our hearts perceive what the eyes cannot capture by sight.

 

Love is their gift. The ultimate cause to bow in reflection, and contemplate our humanity.

 

For this writer, one of these encounters came in December of 1981, as my humble household was beset with challenges of all sorts. I lived as one of five in our brood, at a spot in the Finger Lakes Region of New York State. My father was a minister in the Church of Christ, a non-denominational fellowship. Our own financial condition had slipped into the red, as America was battling inflationary forces and economic recession. In Washington, D.C., much political debate ensued over how to handle this vexing situation. But for us, the horizon was a flat line that separated the earth and sky. Said plainly, we were very broke. My father drove a Ford station wagon from the 1960’s, a castoff relic that ran strong but was thirsty for fuel. We survived only with a severe amount of self-discipline and denial, often eating potatoes three times a day. Or dining on boxed macaroni-and-cheese kits, which were available for a pittance at our local grocery depot. My mother had a wizard’s ability to make meals appear out of empty cupboards. We never went hungry, even when teetering on the precipice.

 

Through Cornell University, I had served an apprenticeship at Channel 13, our local public-access television hub. The experience provided opportunities that I had never seen before. But afterward, I retreated to the anonymity and befuddlement of teenage years. Without a clear plan in effect, I wandered between impulses. This mistake made me begin to question everything. I quit attending church services and turned invisible, socially. Though I tried writing songs and working with friends who wanted to pursue music as a career. My creative output was spotty and inconsistent. I lived on fantasies with no solid foundation.

 

I had good advisers, but was not yet ready to listen.

 

Both parents were overwhelmed with the basic task of keeping our family together. So, their focus remained on big-picture necessities, not the tedious details of an errant child like myself. Days and weeks morphed into months spent pondering the futility of our existence in the house on North Cayuga Street. I began to think that we were pioneers huddled in a fort on the prairie. Wholly isolated from others by geography, and in philosophical terms. The bloodline to which we were connected came from Appalachia, and the Ohio Valley. Not the cold region where we had landed. This disparity had me searching for an identity.

 

Who spoke for me, I wondered? Vinyl platters from my father’s collection, and books from his library, had many nuggets of wisdom to offer. This riddle kept me searching for clues when the answers I needed were already close at hand.

 

As the Yuletide season approached, I had difficulty in finding my place. Lights and tinsel and baubles fashioned in silver and gold had all lost their appeal. I did not feel festive. I had no urge to be merry. Soon, this glum disposition found itself echoed in every member of our tribe. We were all sagging under the weight of happenstance. The evergreen tree that we received from a parishioner in the congregation withered quickly, like our spirits. Black coffee boiled on the stove with plain biscuits would be our breakfast for Christmas morning. It was enough to at least have a roof over our heads. And belief in the Lord Jesus Christ warming our hearts.

 

Quietly, my sister took it upon herself to combat this depression with a singular gesture of hope. Saving pennies throughout the year, she managed to afford one present for each of us, individually. For me, she chose an LP by the oddball, New Wave group DEVO. It was their most current release, called ‘New Traditionalists.’ An artistic statement that matched how I felt inside. Conflicted, confused, and disconnected.

 

To see packages under the wobbly tree made everyone in our biological circle gasp. Surprise filled the room like a mystical kind of incense. We breathed it in, gratefully. It rejuvenated us and changed the moment. Not because we had received things to hold, but because of the graciousness with which they were offered. Only later would I realize that my sibling was the one who had nothing on that special day. Her portion of the sparkling blanket around our tree trunk was bare. It did not matter, of course. Her heart was topped to the brim with glorious fulfillment.

 

Our joy was the reward she had sought.

 

When considering Christmas tales and traditions, many stories come to mind. But no memory is sweeter than the most humble of them all, when we had so little and yet indeed, so much. That was and is, my favorite to remember.

 

Thank you, sister. I will forever be in your debt.