Nobody Reads This Page – ‘Kerouac Crazy’

c. 2023 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-23)

 

 

For this writer, creative projects often seem to draw inspiration from those who have ascended to a greater level of notoriety and fame. Yet what comes to mind at my desk is typically rendered with a differing inflection. One of Midwestern life, filtered through a lens of popular culture, witnessed by a kid born during the administration of John F. Kennedy.

 

Jack Kerouac became a hero of the Beat Generation in part due to his 1957 novel ‘On the Road.’ This provocative volume of work received mixed reviews at first, but eventually became a talisman of the era. Many fledgling wordsmiths drew energy from the tome. Even today, long after the death of its author, the work continues to ignite passionate debate about the storyline and how it portrayed postwar America. Yet for a small-town newspaper columnist such as myself, a more appropriate title might reflect habits of disability and rural living, while trying to ink my way out of a social climate founded on hardship and minimalist living.

 

I would call my own book ‘On the Porch.’

 

My daily schedule at the Icehouse has become set in stone. Retirement and disability reordered this personal paradigm in ways that were unpredictable. Yet in the balance, I was able to adapt and thrive by pursuing a lifelong goal of pounding my typewriter keyboard with purpose. By becoming limited physically, I also became liberated, mentally. It was a tradeoff worth taking. One that I continue to explore, every day.

 

I rarely rise at an early hour, with aches and pains dictating that I get up during the night on multiple occasions. This intermittent sleeping plan sometimes finds me having coffee and toast at an hour close to noon. Afterward, I move to my chair in the home office, and begin to labor on the household computer. A race of sorts ensues, particularly during winter months, when I try to balance my desire to get things done, with a need to soak up natural light outdoors. If I linger for too long in front of my virtual screen, darkness robs me of the opportunity to exit my cage. But If I go outside having skipped such productive time in favor of self-indulgence, guilt makes me humble. I like to know that each day has yielded some measure of creative output. Winning this daily battle makes me feel competent, and truly alive.

 

I have an inset porch in the middle of my mobile home, which is a square of about six feet on each side. Three walls keep me shielded from rain and snow. The fourth is an open space, and faces west. So, in the afternoon any available sunshine projects directly into my refuge. During the summer, this means that I keep sunglasses and cool refreshments close at hand. Yet in colder months, the porch functions more like a restaurant hot box. It stores the beaming, solar rays in a welcome reserve that makes drinking possible, even with seasonal frost having taken hold.

 

 My neighbor to the east will sometimes open her window briefly, while gaming, and protest about the weather. “It’s soooo cold out there! What are you doing?”

 

My generous girth and handicapped stride have meant that over the years, I flattened many folding chairs and furnishings that were designed for temporary use. Eventually, this prompted one of my fellow residents to construct a wooden throne she dubbed the ‘Fire Chair,’ which served me well at gatherings next door. It was fashioned from scrap lumber, parts of a dining room set, and a broken table. With much forethought, she and another citizen of our park took measurements of my inseam and waist. The intent was not only to create a sturdy platform for my visits, but also one that would provide ample room for comfort. She and her helper could both fit into the seat together, if needed. For myself, the chair offered a safe spot where I could relax and socialize.

 

Eventually, this moment of awkward brilliance sired another, newer build. After I gifted the same neighbor with leftover timbers from a demolished deck at my sister’s home, the idea of improving on her original design appeared. She enlisted a tutor who lived across the street, to provide advice. Someone with considerable experience in home construction. Their new project fit perfectly into one side of my boxy porch, facing the driveway. This gave me a perch from which to observe those who were motoring past, or walking out of necessity, or for exercise.

 

My most persistent woe after being discharged from the role of a supermarket manager was social detachment. I had been used to interacting with people, at a rapid pace, during every business day. Dispensing information in a helpful, bright-eyed manner was my bread-and-butter. Yet during off hours at home, I became withdrawn and reluctant to engage with others. My skills as a representative and mediator began to diminish like muscle mass, from their lack of use.

 

Thankfully, the outside bench provided a cure better than any medical potion.

 

Regardless of prevailing weather conditions, having the opportunity to slip outside for a brew instantly restored my connection to others in the isolated community. Whether waving to friends with a nonverbal greeting, or shouting cheerfully, or receiving guests who were out running errands, I felt a sense of kinship return.

 

To be sure, fellow members of the trailer oasis still considered me to be something of an oddball. A creaky, crotchety old fellow with contrarian views and habits. One who was more likely to be found doing research in an online library, or plucking away at a guitar, than preparing hunting gear for a jaunt through the woods.

 

My own hillbilly heritage made it possible to blend in with the surroundings, to a degree. Particularly without the necessary discipline of someone working in a public setting. Yet in the balance, I was still a curiosity for those who were aware of my presence. Contacts from the neighborhood liked to talk about mudding with their four-wheelers, shooting deer, or going fishing. These were activities familiar with some in the Ice family. But my own path was one less traveled. That of a perpetual student, a newspaper scribe, and a composer of song lyrics.

 

Still, from my improvised seat on the porch it does not matter. All of us like to drink beer, and converse. Anything else is metaphorically beside the point. Not so artistically wild or entertaining as a Jack Kerouac adventure, but in the context of blue-collar, Ohio culture, just as valid.