c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(3-24)
Ridell McKay had begun life as a golden child of sorts. Born to a preacher and his devoted wife, in a small community located deep in the rural hinterland of southern counties around Zanesville. From a young age, he manifested skills that seemed to indicate a likelihood of following in his notable father’s footsteps. He was cheerful and bright, with a love for reading books. He had a personal glow whenever interacting with adults or other children. And he took to biblical tenets of Christian faith eagerly. It was as if his sire had been reborn, through some miracle of divine intervention.
But this heavenly disposition faded, as his homestead was moved repeatedly. Something that occurred because of the wandering nature associated with a clergyman’s life, serving the master. By chance, he ended up in places that were not so welcoming or comfortable. Distant towns that had been scarred with unemployment, crime, and hardship. He became aloof and misunderstood by others in his regular classes. In Kentucky, the district where he received formal instruction was so impoverished, that his daily routine mirrored the style of a one-room school from yonder days. He had to sit in a trailer behind the crumbling, brick building where kids learned math, history, and language. Because there was no more room for students, inside.
Finally, as a teenager, he decided to leave the congregation where his family worshiped. This choice rattled the entire bloodline like a bomb blast. His mother wept openly, fearing that he had just earned a sentence of eternal punishment, in Lucifer’s woeful lake of fire. His father proclaimed that he had started to question how someone so contrarian and undisciplined could possibly be his spawn. Around the household, gossip was whispered between brothers and sisters who looked sideways before speaking.
“He has wasted his talent! What a shame to lose him from God’s Army! He could have been a mighty warrior for the faith! He is dead to us, now! We grieve for him! And we pray!”
Eventually, he married and divorced before leaving the Ohio Valley region altogether. With his few possessions crammed into an Econoline van from the 1970’s, he drove north until running out of gasoline, near Cleveland. There, on a two-lane road down the hillside from a township square that he did not recognize, was a cluster of manufactured dwellings. A peeling sign at the entrance read like a quaint newspaper ad from long ago.
“Evergreen Estates – A great place to get started, or retire!”
He was financially broke, and fractured at his core. But when the property manager for this prefab oasis appeared, she mentioned that they had units available, on a rent-to-own basis. A grandmother affiliated with the Methodist church he had seen at their town center offered to loan him enough money to start living on the property. A show of charity he did not expect. This pledge of support made him wish for a full tank of fuel, instead. Something that would have been less of a burden to bear for the gray-headed, neighborhood matron. Yet somehow, he sensed that being stranded at a time and place so fortuitous was not an accident. He took it as a sign that despite years of alienation, the embrace of an omnipotent creator still protected him in body and spirit.
That was how he joined the realm of living in a singlewide boxcar. Just in time to celebrate the anniversary his birth, and formal entry into the world.
Some 40 years later, the park had endured a string of ownerships and foreclosures. Residents had come and gone with frightening rapidity. Though a few remained long-term, like himself. The general atmosphere had degraded a bit, with premium services and professional practices disappearing in favor of budget austerity. The population was now younger and more severe in outlook. A transitory bunch that viewed the community as a temporary fix for those struggling to make ends meet. Yet by happenstance, he had discovered a safe space to inhabit. A family based on shared experiences, rather than any genetic link. Where he gained membership through being present, alone. He was not judged or questioned or called upon to prove his worth by any standard chiseled in the stone of a religious dogma. Though in truth, the honest practice of fellowship and care for others was something he saw manifested every day, around campfires and at porch gatherings in the park.
In an odd way, he had found gospel truths offered not in the sacred words of ancient texts, but instead, in the common brogue of blue-collar folk, living one day at a time.
This was the foundation upon which Ridell built a new life, south of Lake Erie.
On a rainy night in May, friends huddled under the enclosure at his storage barn. They had gathered to celebrate his 70th birthday. A benchmark that someone had gotten from his voter registration at the church on their township square.
Katey Bland sat on a wooden crate once used to hold quarts of Cotton Club soft drinks. She was the daughter of a poll worker who volunteered for every local election cycle. A yellow crop top and tight, denim leggings made her look the part of a trailer queen. But she had gone to college in Cuyahoga County. She earned a bachelor’s degree before coming home to the country.
“Ridey, you’re officially an old man! Seven decades, dude! The truth is, I can’t remember a time when you didn’t live here. My mom says you were a stray dog, that got taken in by the neighborhood. She remembered you living out of a Ford van painted olive drab. People around here called it Godzilla...”
The withered hermit scratched his long, white beard and chortled quietly.
“I think it’s still in a junkyard in Ashtabula. It sold for $75.00. Which is amazing, because I only paid $200.00 for it, originally. I dream about buying it back and going on the road again. Car freaks restore vehicles like that nowadays. Though after sitting for so long, I can’t imagine what might be left of that old hauler...”
Rottie from the corner stroked his bald head and sipped Ancient Age whiskey.
“Happy Birthday, Mr. McKay! I’m with Kay Bee, it seems like you’ve been here forever. I get a kick out of Granny Maylene talking about how gangly you were in those days, when that van broke down on the road out front. She said you were a lost puppy. Just a kid with no money. I think everyone felt sorry for you. Shit, nobody would give a damn now! This place has turned hard. The whole state, the whole country, has turned hard!”
Ridell shook his head in disagreement.
“Nah, you might be surprised. There are still people who look out for others in need. I don’t have much, but I’d gladly share my stash with somebody who has fallen on hard times. I remember sitting there with an empty wallet, and no gas in the tank. It seems like yesterday. That feeling never goes away, it’s tattooed on your heart. I think it’s the same for everybody...”
The skinhead laborer laughed and sloshed his low-buck bourbon.
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t want to count on it. I came here from Painesville, that city is tough! You get no sympathy from anyone there, no mercy. At least I’ve been able to survive at this dump. It’s better than being homeless!”
The senior sage nodded and scratched his beard.
“See? You just made my point. You needed a home and you found one. So did I, forty years ago. It was a gift that has endured...”
Katey brightened and flipped her hair with one hand, while sipping from a bottle of Bud Light.
“Yes it has, Ridey! Happy Birthday! This is your day to celebrate! And... ours!”
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