Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 1: Coffeemaker

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

My name is Rodman Stockton Swindle. This is my story.

 

After traveling to southern California in the big rig of my trucker neighbor, for a rendezvous with Kookshow Baby from Cult Radio A-Go-Go, I lapsed into a funk at home in Ohio. The thrill of that trans-continental adventure had been an uplifting experience. Yet with this episode now in my rearview mirror, and daily life having returned to the drudgery of old, I began to sag emotionally. Work time in the home office became unproductive and tiring. I found myself turning for comfort to the household beer stash, and solace on the front porch. Weeks passed without any communication from my distant contact at the abandoned drive-in of Terry & Tiffany DuFoe. Something that I had expected with her many responsibilities. Eventually, I started to withdraw into habits of my Appalachian heritage. I survived on one meal a day, from my Weber kettle grill. Usually, chicken or some form of pig meat. Always cheap cuts to meet my meager budget. I drank late, and awakened early. A schedule that meant my brain cells lingered in a fog of depravation throughout each week.

 

This downward spiral of fatigue met its end one morning, as I attempted to make coffee just after daybreak. My BUNN system hadn’t had proper maintenance in a year at least. So, when set up as usual, it rebelled in protest.  Still sleepy and dazed, I stumbled toward my kitchen to discover that only a slight residue of black distillation was present in the bottom of its carafe. A sputtering drip of liquid ebbed from the filter basket. I tried bumping the appliance to cause a surge of water in its tank, but got little benefit in return.

 

My eyes were narrow, and heavy. I cursed and thumped my disability canes on the floor.

 

Following this brief visitation of woe, I searched online for brewing alternatives. As a youngster, I remembered that my father used a plain, redline boiler to make java on the stovetop. The enameled vessel was both primitive and durable. He would bring water up to temperature, add spoons of ground coffee, and then pour the yield through a small strainer, into his mug. The flavor was honest and full-bodied. Akin to what might be served at a roadside café, somewhere far removed from the bustle of metropolitan areas. Or, around a campfire, outdoors.

 

With some hunting across a variety of websites, I found that such a throwback creation was still available, from purveyors of camping equipment and accessories. I could not quite match the item remembered from childhood days, but came close enough. What I ordered was a 12-cup, Graniteware pot. A basic, metal reservoir. I guessed that it would do well as a backup, when such moments of beverage chaos arrived.

 

Meanwhile, I needed to clean out my BUNN. In the household pantry, I found a jug of vinegar bought sometime during the previous year, but left on the floor under accumulated shopping bags and cleaning aids. Once I filled the coffeemaker with a full measure of this natural cleanser, it returned to dribbling and popping bubbles of air. I had to allow this slow process to continue for over two hours. Finally, there was a belch of dirty water from its internal tank, and a geyser on the other side. The plugged pipes had been cleared at last.

 

A raw aroma of heavy, hot cider filled my kitchen. I made a mental note not to wait so long before performing this necessary ritual, again.

 

While letting the flushed effluent cool in place, I checked my Facebook account for recent posts from friends. At the top of my phone screen, there was a video from a group called ‘Old Drunken Buzzards.’ A band apparently from Seattle, Washington, with whom I was completely unfamiliar. Their presentation came across as decidedly basic. Just guitar, bass, and drums. All of the group members seemed chronologically older, like myself. When I played the track, it delivered a punchy, captivating sound of straight-ahead, instrumental Rock & Roll. I was intrigued by the tones they created. A big boom from so few in the lineup.

 

They asked for suggestions about naming the tune, with a promise of contest winners receiving gifts, if chosen. Suddenly, words began to echo inside my skull. I sat down at the desk in my home office, took a sheet of paper from the computer printer, and started to write out lyrics, by hand. The result was two verses and a chorus, scribbled in about five minutes.

 

I had to ponder this result briefly, before deciding what to do, next.

 

Back in the Game (Old Drunken Buzzards No. 1)

 

“I know that you

Have traveled through time and space

Here we meet, by accident

In this lonely place

I’m not ready to be human

Not ready to be seen

But there’s a taste of tomorrow calling

From the pages of a CREEM magazine

 

I never forgot you, girl

Though I couldn’t remember your name

It made me more than ready

To get back in the game

 

Don’t be shy now

There’s no reason to abstain

I might have passed you by

By chance

But there’s a jester’s heart in pain

That ember burns in my chest

It cannot go cold and gray

So take my hand, Rosita

Let us dance and pray

 

I never forgot you, girl

Though I couldn’t remember your name

It made me more than ready

To get back in the game...”

 

I decided to play their post on my computer, and then use the cellular device to capture added vocals which would be rendered in demo form. I managed to record this burst of inspiration in one take. I captured my vibe as a distant, impulsive contributor. Someone who had been out of the music scene for many, many years. This exercise evoked memories of working with my friend Paul Race and his cohorts, chiefly from Corning, New York. I had learned a great deal about pacing and rhythm while improvising words to his gritty, guitar doodlings.

 

When the west-coast fellows watched my submission, they were both amused and impressed. Kind compliments followed in my timeline, and an offer of band merch. I shared the post office box used for Swindle Shack communication. And thanked them for having the opportunity to participate. Yet afterward, my angst and ennui returned.

 

I had only one thought in mind. How would any of this help me get back into good standing with Kookshow Baby?

“Time”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

It is time, to leave this earth

Time to face judgment for my final worth

Time to see sunset swallow the day

Time for this season to pass away

Time for a journey, a heaven quest

Time for surrender to the fisherman’s net

No more tears will fall like rain

No more torment, no more pain

 

It is time...

 

It is time to draw a breath

Time to inhale with a rattle of death

Not a sad song to sing, I say

It is good to find that they have opened the gate

A time foretold in scriptures of old

A time when the warm embrace turns cold

A time appointed, to meet the sky

A time appointed, for all men to die

 

It is time...

 

It is time, to hear the tolling of a bell

Time to face the road to paradise, or hell

Whatever befalls this sinner, stained

My footsteps won’t return to this plain

The final leap I take is beyond time itself

Into a realm composed of everything else

My eyes are blind, my voice a silent cry

This is the moment when I will fly

 

It is time...

 

It is time, to greet the great beyond

It is time, to swim across the pond

Time to bathe in a wash of ever moonlight

The inkwell is empty, my soul runs dry

Time is the essence of self, replayed

A succession of sonnets, given to the brave

Once that candle has consumed its wick

Then I will rest in the bottomless pit

 

It is time...

 

It is time to hear the roll read out

It is time to erase my doubt

Not a duty that I perform at will

Time is the master, lord of the hill

I have lingered here for longer than most

Now I kneel before the Father, and Holy Ghost

In their shadow, my branches fall short

The yield of sorrows, in a magistrate’s court

 

It is time...

 

It is time, to give up my protest claim

It is time, to be bold with my aim

Time is the target, at which I send my arrow

As it was written, ‘The way is narrow’

Time ticks loudly, while I choose my path

To the Grim Reaper, with his scythe and staff

There is some romance to this dance of the damned

All that I give, is all that I am

 

It is time...

 

Let them bargain for my clothes

Where this sojourn leads, nobody knows

 

It is time...

“Trailer Tales”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

Dee has a fascination

With everybody else

She can’t stand to be alone

Entertainment is her upsell

She doesn’t like men

But one gladly pays her bills

That makes an odd arrangement

She has to give him some thrills

 

Jay is a follower

She does what works

Finds friends on the streets

Outside of town, by the waterworks

She loves to play bestie

It’s her favorite role

She stands tall in the yard

Like a twisted-up beanpole

 

Ess is a black dog

Comes looking for treats

Acts like there’s no food at home

Always wants more to eat

That hound is a hustler

Like its human mom

When those paws hit the boards

There’ll be something going on

 

Bee is a good man

He’s used to carrying the load

Always helping a neighbor

Always burning up the roads

He never gets discouraged

From being played for a trick

It makes me wonder about

Living long on that bullshit

 

Gomer is a goober

Free rooms go for a mind trip

Gets used and abused

Doesn’t seem to get pissed

Personally, I would bust out

On an arrangement of that kind

But he just stays away

He doesn’t seem to mind

 

Big Mouth likes to chatter

He’s a sweaty, bald prick

Thinks he knows more of Jesus

Than any trailer park hick

Been a loser since birth

I can tell just by looking

But he gets by on budget beer

And mama’s home cooking

 

Skinny Brit is funny

She speaks well by comparison

To the regular folk

To the guards of this garrison

She must feel displaced

To have landed so far from Oz

In a horde of the hungry

A cat with no claws

 

Stoner the recluse

Barely sees the sun

He’d rather cruise on vaping

And play the welfare bum

Job skills aplenty

But he avoids work, righteously

I always wonder

How he gets by with daily needs

 

Grandpa White Hair

Rides up and down all day

Doing favors for grandkids

While they game and play

They say he’s a veteran

And I believe in that truth

A throwback to Superman

In the telephone booth

 

Granny on the porch

Is beloved by all

She works her way ‘round the roof rail

Makes me worry about a fall

She was in this township

Long before we were born

Everybody knows her name

It’s a break from the norm

 

Stray cats roam

I watch them from my front bench

Living under the empty homes

Like a gaggle of malcontents

They howl and hiss

About feline conflicts

But come around sometimes

If there’s chow in the dish

 

How I got here

Can’t be explained in a few words

From the Finger Lakes Region

To a life stuck in the dirt

After more than 20 years

I no longer keep it hid

My snake-skin has turned cold

My heart is hard like a skid-lid

Nobody Reads This Page – “Final Call”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

“I can think of no more stirring symbol of man’s humanity to man than a fire engine.” 

 

– Kurt Vonnegut

 

I have often written in this space about a number of personal encounters that left lasting impressions on my own life. Generally, these involved meeting people of distinction who were gifted, insightful, or creative in some special way. Each of them enriched my journey by being present. A consequence of chance which I will celebrate, forever. With the benefit of hindsight, I remember them now for their contributions, and unique qualities. I have been fortunate to learn from their examples. And I am stronger in spirit, because of the lessons they bestowed. Those that linger in retirement continue to be a blessing. While those that have graduated to the celestial realm of eternity, are beloved, and missed.

 

An example of this phenomenon resonated recently, with much emotion. I read about the passing of Geneva-on-the-Lake Fire Department Chief Chris Craft. An event which shocked me greatly, and caused a moment of quiet introspection at my office desk. Such stories are sadly familiar to those who stay plugged-in to news events. But in this case, a personal connection had me reeling. I needed to pray and ponder while trying to steady myself. Because the one mentioned in online stories and reports meant so much, to so many, for reasons that cannot be numbered by any simple equation.

 

I called him a customer, a father to team members at the business where I labored, and most importantly of all, a friend.

 

Through the grace of owner David Archinal, I came to Geneva Giant Eagle in the fall of 2009, at a point in my career of salaried retail management. When the fatigue of company sales, reorganizations, and my home life had begun to grow heavy. I was mentally past the point of accepting a such new challenge with the eagerness it deserved. Yet from the very beginning, this new venue offered a fresh perspective on the traditions of shopkeeping and vending food products to loyal patrons. I became fascinated with the close-knit burgh, which reminded me of my adopted hometown, Chardon, in bygone days. I marveled at the pace of summer traffic, drawn to the area by Lake Erie and the fabulous attractions spread along its shoreline. Soon, my circle of friends was populated by an entirely new brood of contacts. Amazingly, included in this colorful group were a mother and son that I suspected might be distant relatives, as we shared a common family moniker, one not heard frequently in this part of America.

 

As I worked to make myself useful in this environment of resurrection, I became close to our Health & Beauty associate, someone I saw on a regular basis. Her upbeat attitude and cheerful manner with customers made me smile. Eventually, she moved to a position in charge of the receiving area, which is one of the most important tasks in any for-profit enterprise. From that vantage point, she provided help to me, when needed, that made my success as a supervisor possible. Even when her on-the-clock hours had finished, and some might have deflected requests for information and guidance.

 

I recognized this attitude of care and competence immediately, when waiting on her parents. A fireman and a fellow veteran of commerce, respectively. During visits to our market, their gregarious nature and faith in fellowship rang true during every encounter. I could see why she, and her brother, had both grown to adulthood as able members of the next generation.

 

But beyond this timely revelation, I also inherited a greater respect for Chris while battling the anonymous wreckage left in my private life. Something not shared with anyone on the sales floor. I had run into financial difficulties along the way, and also separated from my second wife. These hard realities had no bearing on my service to the owner, and I compartmentalized things, in a metaphorical sense. Yet now and then, maintaining my humble homestead, and a vintage pickup truck that was my sole source of transportation, proved to be daunting tasks.

 

My generous, grocery patron offered to help with procuring auto parts, as he had some familiarity with selecting those items, while employed at a local depot. His offer came as a complete surprise, and provided a boost that I needed. In truth, I had gone bankrupt right before landing in the Ashtabula County emporium on South Broadway Avenue. Though legal action was something I managed to avoid, using bold and honest strategies suggested by my family. So, the connection was one both appreciated and remembered, for years that followed. When a particular set of spares for my vehicle could only be obtained from a branch of the supplier in Mentor, Chris made the trip at his own expense, to help ease my plight.

 

I felt truly humbled by this random act of kindness.

 

When he became Chief Craft for GOTL, long after I had retired from my role as a store caretaker. I cheered for him, and that fire department. I knew well that his position as a leader had been earned through the sort of devotion only a very few individuals could muster. The respect he commanded, from citizens of all sorts, was immense. I felt proud to know him, personally. And buoyed by his belief in serving others. Something that, in a meager capacity, I had been doing myself, since days on the team at Fisher’s Big Wheel.

 

Hearing the sad notice of his passing stilled my heart, for a moment. I was, along with so many residents of the area, stunned into silence. To conceive of such a development happening, taxed the limits of good reason. Nothing I could compose at the keyboard seemed sufficient. Though I remained certain that many stories of his journey would be shared. As a father, grandfather, local icon, and public servant, he excelled regardless of the title.

 

I mourn for those he left behind. Yet also know that the legacy trailing in his wake is one both durable and enduring. He will not be forgotten. Not by his family, his peers, or his friends. A hundred years from now, there will still be tales told along the waterline of what he meant to all of us, in the northeastern quadrant of Ohio.

 

Chief Craft has had his final call of duty. But as a member of the squad said candidly, ‘We’ll take it from here.’ Because of the example he provided, I rest assured that all of us will be in good hands, going forward. 

 

He is now in God’s hands. Of that, I am certain.

 

 

 

 

 

“Fragments, Revisited”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Fragments falling from a building ledge

Or a crumbling facade

Bits of self, dispersed

Scattered and slung around without care

As if no one was there

To catch this surrender

Gravity has put asunder

A lifetime of placements, purposeful and prudent

Each thing in its spot

As my grandmother advised

I might have shrugged off this turn of events

Accepted the failing

In deference to common sense

But there was a tingle of regret

On my skin

An uneasiness, watching this process begin

Pitter, patter, does it matter?

I could not escape my reluctance

Narrow-eyed and terse

Searching for a poet’s verse

To ease the hurt

My palms pressed hard against the breakfast table

Cursing softly

As I rise after a bowl of corn flakes

The day brings a mockery

Which doubters decree

Laughing and loathsome, they wait

Just outside my field of vision

Yet close enough to be heard

Rude and restless, with taunting words

A trail of embarrassment

In their wake

Fragments of a broken mirror from over the bathroom sink

Fragments of a window pane, long past repair

Fragments of a bicycle innertube, worn and rotted out

Fragments of a keepsake wrapped in cloth

Fragments of a story never finished from first grade

A love sonnet that did not mature

Fragments of pencil lead in a desk drawer

Fragments, fragments, of nevermore

A leftover bounty of waste

Indicating an impulsive episode of haste

That precipitated this collapse

Rock showers

Debris flying free

I hold a book over my head like an umbrella span

Hoping to avoid, this gaping, gasping void

Which yawns like the maw of a sea creature, waiting to be fed

Sharp teeth poised

To chew at my daily bread

Despite their appetite

Oddly, I feel no fear

When beholding this shift

This hard rain of displaced stones

I dodge and dance

Letting these jagged trinkets

Find their level

A dusty, dirty, cascade of pebbles

Jutting up from the sidewalk squares

Once the noise has abated

And I am safe in the street

Then, I land on my bare feet

With a rabbit jump and frog leap

The horseplay is finished

Sweat trickles from my nose and cheeks

At the end of a long week

This duty is complete

Sing the siren song

Bang the gong

And be gone

 

“Fragments”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

Fragments fall nicely into place

This is the split between night and day

Broken bits of inspiration

Filtered through uncertainty and indecision

A shower of copper coins

A bountiful basket, purloined

Pennies pilfered from the ether

To be ignored or spent, but I will do neither

It would be a cinch to take credit for this inherited gift

But I know better than to make that slip-trip

It’s a stumble down the stairs

A loser’s leap into nowhere

I have often guessed that there are cosmic radio waves

Crackling through the heavenly haze

And that those who have a receiver at the ready

May hear that drumbeat, slow and steady

Their privilege is to feel and know

What the chatter of angels will bestow

So, for whatever reason

In every season

From a childhood age

Wide-eyed and scribbling on my page

I kept my fingers wrapped tightly around that vernier dial

Twisting like a turnstile

Ears tickled with enticements

A youthful gent

Spinning across the frequencies

Until a spark illuminated things yet to be

Blue-white and ghastly globs

Dancing, dopey cotton swabs

Plasma from beyond the veil

Appearing to tell their sleepy tales

A leftover essence of generations, gone before

Whispering their folklore

And if I inclined my head, properly

I could catch a hint of yonder glee

Which, when put into the inkwell of a poet’s pen

Became the impetus to begin again

This revolution of a psychic platter

Is all that matters

Spin, spin, spin

Let those invisible waves wash away my sin

And leave a better self in their place

A mirror image of eyes and face

Rearranged and repurposed with a magic touch

Of voices that carry the imprint of nonesuch

When the cycle is stilled

And my cup, is fully filled

That is the moment of awareness I seek

Tuned-in and listening

On the cusp of an awakening

Not a keeper of talent or clever repose

But instead, a fortunate fool, escaping his woes

Gathering the shards

Of a broken canard

Remade into a revelation, miraculously revealed

A squeak of air, shaped by a soul

Lingering long from times of old

The watcher sees what awaits discovery

Because time shifts toward those who toil endlessly

Over imaginary works

The lure of fulfillment from meaningless perks

Given out as titles to be carried alone

As I sat there, on a carved block of stone

Fist resting against my chin

Jowls tight and taut, and thin

Pondering the task

The queries, unasked

Fragments falling free

With their edges arranged neatly

As if by design

“Electric Chair”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

A breath of edgy, arctic air

A buzz of voltage in the electric chair

A spritz of gasoline sent by the fuel pump

A wafting essence, ebbing from the garbage dump

These things are signs, oft ignored

By thinkers talking of being intensely bored

 

A mandrake oddly of no use

A detective lost on a hunt for clues

The snout of an anteater, plunged in dirt

A physician asking, ‘Where does it hurt?”

The cavalcade of purpose does not cease

While I make a meal of chicken fried in bacon grease

 

A major-league pitch, sent high and hard

A shower of stones tossed across the side yard

A fist raised along with challenging words

A seagull’s cry is easily heard

But I can guarantee that some will declare

That there was no sound from under the stairs

 

Quirky quarks defy description

A police constable says, “Assume the position!”

Hands crossed, back against the wall

A moment of pause in between summer and fall

I thought that, it must be a dream state

Dusty fingers from chalking the slate

 

Dipped in oil, to cleanse old sins

Knocked about, like static bowling pins

There was a crash at the corner traffic light

Someone missed out on a turn to the right

Now there’s a trail of scattered debris

From the intersection at Route 83

 

Hail! Hail! The gang’s in charge

Steering this ship of sods like a tugboat and barge

A floating mass of castaway cares

Soon to find its way to a graveyard, somewhere

What isn’t seen can be conveniently ignored

A patch of mud, clinging to the running board

 

Spit on and laughed at, just for fun

That is the fate, inherited by one

A kind of herding for cattle and sheep

Whenever such acts are lawfully meek

At first it seemed to be an identity, mistaken

But then I realized that my photo had been taken

 

Looking both ways at the hotel curb

Under a sign that read, ‘Do Not Disturb!’

I didn’t bother to ask about getting a room

I knew better than to perch on a mushroom

That spot was taken, quite long ago

By people of a better breed than I’ll ever know

 

A crow calling from a cloudy sky

A crack of thunder when the ground is dry

A professorial prod to think on my own

A bogus solicitation, texted to my cell phone

I yawn while wishing to see my bed

The flickering bulb turns smoky, and dead

 

Throw the switch, let the watts take hold

Flesh on fire, exit the soul

I tried to avert my eyes, but saw the event

A passion play, under a circus tent

It made me tremble, stumble, and shake

Like the sound of a rescued bird, pulled from the clay

 

Going away... far, far away...