Nobody Reads This Page – “Smokies Segue”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-24)

 

 

As a kid in the 1960’s and 70’s, I grew up with the emotional woes of my mother providing a component of mystery to everyday life. I did not fully understand the bouts of anxiety and depression that she experienced. Nor was I given much information about these random periods. Yet for me, and my siblings, the effects of her affliction were obvious. She developed a duality which confused us, slightly. Staying busy with household chores, and our care. She was loving and nurturing, and somehow, darkly affected by invisible demons.

 

Only in my teenage years would I realize that these nagging ghosts had transferred themselves into my own personal makeup.

 

In yonder days, my father described this condition as a touch of nerves making itself present. I knew that some in the bloodline, like my mater and her sisters, had experienced what was informally called a nervous breakdown. Any analysis or treatment was kept from me and my younger equals as a protective strategy. But this cautious regimen only made us wonder more.

 

When I began to stumble, particularly in junior high school, it seemed as if a curse had been passed forward. Mom confessed that after her initial collapse, it had taken 10 years before she could feel fully human again. That honest recollection filled me with dread. Yet I had a simple strategy in my own quiver of arrows, to fight off such challenges.

 

Art was shield I carried. When gloomy days approached, I would draw and write, and sing.

 

In elementary years, I became the target of scorn for a scholastic matron who was at the end of her teaching career. She would single me out for criticism as someone who was too loud and impulsive for her liking. Not the sort of quiet-unless-spoken-to child of earlier times. But having been trained to respect elders and keep quiet when chastened by older people, I decided to channel my angst into a civilized, creative burst of expression. The result was a cartoon series kept in a notebook. Soon, friends in my class wanted to read and share these rowdy illustrations.

 

A template was set after that year at the desk. I learned that rendering my innermost thoughts in the form of scribbling or doodles was more humane than acting out with negativity and physical violence.

 

 

I had inherited the craft of wordsmithing from my father, who was a published author and a regular contributor to theological magazines. His calling became my own, in lifting the quill to sling ink and unburden my aching heart. I found that upon filling pages with the texts crawling through my head, I felt better as a yield. Revived and rescued from the frailty into which I had been born. Much as I did when climbing a tree in the yard of my grandparents, and jotting down notes on a piece of parchment. Making art for art’s sake brightened the world around me, immeasurably. It uplifted my spirits. It gave me hope for tomorrow.

 

Staying busy made all the difference.

 

Which strangely, connects directly to my habits in modernity, as a disabled, senior citizen. I never let myself sit still for long. Accomplishing tasks, however small and insignificant, keeps me connected to the continuum. At some point, these chores beget a creative product that warms my innards with a feeling of vitality. Every step forward, be it slight and stumbling, matters.

 

Most recently, I faced the day ahead with no inspiration providing sunlight. But a basic need for foodstuffs, like bread and meat, and brew, had me centered on making a quick excursion around the rural corner. I knew that a food depot just across the county line had what I needed. It wouldn’t take too long to fill my cupboards and refrigerator.

 

And perhaps more importantly, to clear away mental cobwebs by interacting with other mortal travelers, at least for a moment.

 

This I needed, to remain alive and awake.

 

At Trumbull Locker Plant on Route 534, I found that two women from the store team were busy working a wheeled flat of products, while waiting on customers. I took a small shopping cart from their equipment stash by the front wall, and began to select what I needed. But while doing so, my belly started to grumble with need.

 

The pair had just waited on a young girl who seemed very charming and polite. Stylistically attired in a checkered dress, with long pigtails swinging from the sides of her scalp. The workers chattered about her grandmother, who had been snippy and combative as a patron. Someone who insisted on refusing the good cheer of her retail benefactors.

 

While roaming, I decided to check on their case of cured meat products, which was a calling card for the business. And discovered a new variety that I had never tried.

 

“BEEF BACON CHEDDAR SMOKIES - $13.99 lb.”

 

The clerk who served me at the counter was tall, curvy, and very personable. She offered to let me try a sample which of course dazzled my taste buds. I ordered two pounds without hesitating. Then, using my most earnest brogue as a hillbilly oldster, I offered a story about having managed supermarket locations, in the past. Places where I also had encountered difficult customers.

 

“At a shop in Geneva, I had someone inquire about an item in our Dairy Department. This came late in the evening, and I was the closing manager on duty. I checked our walk-in cooler, and found nothing. After receiving my apology, the cranky shopper huffed away to another person on the sales floor. She requested to see the head of that section, which of course, meant that our service counter called me directly, via a cordless phone on my belt. I graciously explained that the one overseeing milk and eggs had worked early, so he was no longer available. Again, I rummaged through our refrigerated backstock, and found that the desired product wasn’t available. I offered sincere regrets for her inconvenience. But as before, this act of contrition fell short. Finally, the gloomy goose went squawking to our office clerk, who paged me to the service counter. When the irritated bird saw my face for a third and final time, her reaction was harsh. She blurted out, ‘You again?’ Then, left the store, with a long face.”

 

I described how I stood still for a moment, while shrugging. There was nothing more I could offer, except my sorrow over losing a sale. I did not follow her toward the lobby.

 

The clerk bounced in her spot and laughed, when my tale was finished. With amazement, I realized that my mood of anxious detachment had completely dissipated. Both of us felt lighter for having let go of our frustrations. It felt good to have shared the experience.

 

I went home with a large bag of smoked goodies, and a case of beer. And a sense that once again, God had delivered me from myself.