c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(10-24)
“The way of sinners is made plain with stones, but at the end thereof is the pit of hell.” – Ecclesiasticus 21:10 (KJV)
While writing for the Geauga County Maple Leaf newspaper, I used to observe that the best columns often created themselves. Situations that occurred in real-time were almost always certain to inspire prose projects that entertained readers and satisfied my editor. Quite often I would approach my weekly deadline with no material at the ready, only to find that a happenstance fluke of random occurences filled the page and kept my creative streak alive.
Recently, this paradigm once again made itself apparent, as I posted in a local Thompson Township Facebook group. With the plight of patrons at our local post office in mind, I commented about difficulties encountered when mailing out copies of books that I had authored. A pursuit that has kept me busy in retirement. Through the publishing superpower of KDP/Amazon, I have been able to sell numerous volumes in America and beyond. Even in the foreign stronghold of Japan, for example. This activity makes me feel invigorated as a wordsmith. But I stay focused on local needs, and responsibilities. Therefore, whenever possible, I like to fling these items into the continuum, from a launchpad right here at home.
Our USPS depot is located in a building which apparently dates back to 1914. The front steps are made from wide and flat slabs of concrete, stacked one upon the other. Single, tubular railings are attached to this crumbling structure. It is the sort of entryway that might amuse tourists and visitors with old-timey charm. But presents a real hardship for those in the disabled community. In personal terms, I have hobbled up and down this archaic holdover many times. Every occasion has meant concentrating carefully on my plodding progress, and vertical stance. Yet inside, the reception has always been warm and friendly. So, I feel that the sacrifice is worthy.
While having a brew on the front porch, after a session at my home-office desk, I pondered this dilemma in more detail. As a handicapped individual, I knew that there was a measure of importance paid to my specific needs, by our federal partners in Washington. So, with a reserve of courage building up, I commented about the situation via our portal on social media.
Like many decisions made while relaxing with an adult beverage, it was one I would later regret.
At first, the responses I received were civil and sane. Owners of the structure offered thanks for my participation, and assured community residents that solutions were being considered in the context of dealing with a restricted footprint. The location is situated literally on a corner of our township square. With little room or leeway for any kind of improvement. I felt confident in the wisdom of free-market ideas being able to resolve the issue in a way that would benefit everyone involved. Yet what followed dimmed my faith just a bit, in the goodness of human psychology.
Personal jabs began to prosper that were both puzzling and inappropriate.
“Why don’t you just go to the Madison Post Office? It isn’t that far away! There are plenty of other choices!”
This recommendation was true to be sure, but would have short-circuited my own desire to support our local point-of-access. I knew that officials with the USPS were keenly aware of traffic figures for each of their service areas. Because they had been suffering from a budget crisis for years, watching these numbers fall due to a lack of free entry would be devastating. When I commented this obvious truism, the negative flood became more intense.
“Go to Chardon, or Geneva! Have someone pick up your mail! They’ll just close the thing if you keep complaining!”
The final offering was candid, and decidedly surreal. I could not help but smile over getting such a sharp-tongued hit on the page.
“Oh my God! Oh my God! If they build a ramp for you, then there’ll have to be a plaque with your name and picture, inside!”
When I confessed to seeking legal counsel, to gain insight into the level of government responsibility that might be involved, the tide turned into a storm swath. I thought that perhaps some kind of funding might be available, to defray costs here at home. Yet this action was taken as a sort of self-interested move to gain a political advantage.
“Geez dude, get a life! Get a life!”
Around two o’clock in the morning, I crawled out of bed, after restlessly tossing from one side to the other. With bleary eyes, I found my cell phone, brought up the timeline of this extended conversation, and deleted my original posts. A sense of relief cooled my reddened cheeks. I fell back in the chair, perched in a dark corner of my living room, and went back to sleep.
The friend and lawyer who I had tapped for informational purposes provided a contact person in the Post Office hierarchy. Someone in Greensboro, North Carolina. I learned that comments regarding on-site conditions could be sent to this individual. As a friendly gesture, I thought that passing along my own concerns was prudent and proper.
But having survived a virtual flogging for speaking out, I wondered if the benefit would outweigh more public scorn? In yonder days, as a newsprint scribe, I had gotten used to such criticisms. And even taken a few judgments, face-to-face, from irritated subscribers. Yet now, with the clock ticking away, and my bones aching arthritically, a different approach seemed right. So, I clicked on the YouTube channel, and hunted for a video clip that referenced childhood memories from the venerable, Hee Haw television show. In short order, I had forgotten about being shamed and instead, basked in a glow of cornpone humor.
“Gloom despair, and agony on me
Deep, dark depression, excessive misery
If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all
Gloom, despair and agony on me...”
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