c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-24)
Wednesday at the Ice household was typical for summer in Ohio. As the day began, I watched local news reports about storms that would be crossing the area. Then, busied myself with household chores and eventually, landed at my desk in the home office. I finished the last of a five-part series which combined science-fiction and my own streak of tales centered on trailer park living, in a rural setting. A combination of genres that I had never imagined before. Once these things were accomplished, my thirst for cool refreshment took hold. Something that has often seemed to overwhelm other, more studious impulses. But before that could happen, I fell asleep in my roller chair.
The afternoon grew uncharacteristically dark as I napped.
Raging meteorological conditions woke me, some time later. My porch and wooden bench were soaked, and sopping wet. So, I sat with the front door ajar, waiting for this wild moment to pass. A notification popped up on my cellular device, warning of possible tornado activity. And I stiffened a bit, while pondering that an explosion of shattered glass from the storm door might invade my safe space. Yet I had drifted into an alcoholic funk. Instead of taking action to save myself, I sat thinking of how to best describe such a calamity with creative prose. Had a twister of some sort ripped through my longbox oasis, this delay would have precipitated a woeful turn of events. Yet the anguish born of Mother Nature’s fury began to subside, before I could boost my arthritic body out of the side chair.
While remnants of the storm drizzled and dripped, I finally took a seat outside.
Social networking on a mass scale might be better accomplished through marvels of technology. But in personal terms, I use the convenient vantage point of my inset cubicle outdoors, to connect with fellow residents of our blue-collar community. Many citizens wave from their vehicles while passing. Others call out a greeting, or honk their automobile horns. Some who are on foot pause for a brief interlude of lively conversation. The method employed doesn’t matter much. More important is being present in the continuum.
If neighbors see me in this familiar spot, then they know I am well and safe. For a reclusive poet and writer, that alone is enough.
I had been willfully exposed to the atmospheric rawness for long enough that my senses were turning numb. Several empty beverage cans were lined up on top of my stove, in the kitchen. Then, a clatter of paws came rumbling up the access ramp. A construction meant to facilitate easy travel between my front entrance, and the ground level, despite being physically impaired.
Normally, I get visits from a female, Black Lab mix who lives next door. A canine pal who once played with my own mutt, before he passed away a couple of years ago. But some chance opportunity had also allowed her adopted sister to join in making an escape. This yellowish, Australian Cattle-Hound hybrid was considerably larger and more boisterous. Yet still very friendly. The pair yipped and yapped and danced around at my feet. I was overwhelmed by their horseplay. And very content to receive their doggie kisses and nudges.
Dagan Stroud, a colorful character who lives on my eastern flank, appeared as I was doling out treats to these puppy visitors, inside. She watched with curiosity as both pooches lined up for their snacks. Once the joyous ritual of jumping and nipping and gulping had been completed, she steered them back toward home. I sat by myself for a moment, with another drink, and smiled over the unexpected interaction. Then, I heard the familiar sound of a diesel rig rumbling up the rustic boulevard. An indication that another fellow who had once lived on the street must have stopped by for a chat, with his slant-back wrecker. A useful truck that brought him a steady stream of retirement income.
Garter Haines had been out of the neighborhood for several years. Yet still stayed bonded to our humble patch of Buckeye dirt, both emotionally and spiritually.
Being handicapped, and able to walk for long distances only with the aid of two canes for support, I rarely venture far from my trailer. But as the weather lost its threatening edge, I began to feel mellow inside. And strangely willing to shuck my reputation as a hermit, temporarily.
Inexplicably, I felt limber and ambitious!
Eyebrows raised as I stumbled and staggered around the corner of my mobile home, and across the empty lot, next door. Dagan and Garter were both relaxing with bottles of Bud Light. A virtual communion wine in our working-class community. I had pocketed a can of Yuengling Premium, for my own refreshment. But when I fell comfortably onto what looked to be a redneck throne fashioned out of pallet timbers, the improvised seat creaked and cracked. Outrigger rails on each side pulled apart. Had I been more sober, this might have aroused a sense of embarrassment. But I didn’t flinch.
Dagan teased me with mock outrage.
“Damn, you come over here for the first time in years, and break my shit?”
She found a cordless drill and tinkered with the loose pieces, until the seat had been professionally reassembled. I should have been more cautious with the power tool groaning and grinding near my fingers, yet barely comprehended her intent. My beer vanished in what tasted like a single gulp.
Garter had cut his hair and shaved off his gray goatee. So, he looked markedly different than when we had last met, in the parking lot of a village store in Rock Creek. But his humor and good nature continued to shine.
“Get this man another round! He needs more Ying! Go get it!”
Dagan shrugged and agreed to shuttle containers from my refrigerator, despite the distance. Her spunk and mobility were impressive, far superior to my own.
“I better get two cans at least. Right?”
Of course, her assessment was correct. My thirst showed no signs of diminishing.
We sat reliving old memories, and catching up on park gossip, late into the evening. Eventually, my spiky-haired neighbor started a fire in her barrel. What smoldered as a heap of cardboard quickly turned to waste boards and scraps blazing brightly. Yet the flames yielded a pall of smoke that fouled the air. I could barely see across the concrete slab. My eyes watered and stung, from the acrid display.
When I arrived home, long after dark, my longish hair and clothes were reeking. I carried the pungent aroma of a firefighter, or someone occupied with running a smokehouse. Yet my status as a solo inhabitant in the park meant that no one was offended. I ate a bowl of macaroni & cheese to soothe my empty stomach. Both legs were wobbly and uncooperative after hiking through the grass. Yet I had reconnected as a member of our herd. That sacrifice made everything else go pale by comparison.
A news story on WJW-8 described how more than 300,000 customers had lost power due to the tantrum of our natural mater. Even my sister and brother had been affected, in nearby Hambden Township. This resonated as an incredible fact when considering that quite often, our spot in the woods had been struck with outages and difficulties. Somehow, this time, we had spun the celestial Roulette Wheel, and come up a winner. Our supply of voltage had surged and flickered, but stayed active in the balance.
I went to sleep in my clothes, something that had become the norm in retirement years. My belly was full, at last. And my thirst had been satisfied.
In my bedtime prayers, I gave thanks to D.G. Yuengling and Son.
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