Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 6: Hard

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-25)

 

 

Working on song lyrics evoked the sort of individualistic vibe that comprised a response to years of struggle during the 1990’s. At that distant point in time, I had been married, raising a son with my first wife, and working long hours in a retail shop. Eventually, after a change of ownership, I had ended up on third shift, permanently. The toll it took on my personal life was considerable. But most vexing of all was the constant fatigue of going without regular sleep. Days off vanished into collapse.  I became alienated from friends and family members. When on duty with my employer, there was a constant badgering from management at all levels. So, when I did find a moment to put a pen to paper, what flowed onto the page was often stark and strikingly authentic. Tough prose, offered as if being dispensed from a knife’s edge.

 

Revisiting such memories from a modern perspective, I reflected on surviving that period, and finding relief in the grace of a loving creator. What came from the ether was more of a poetry-slam product, than purely musical. Yet the yield was still worthwhile.

 

Hard Times

 

Hard times, a bitter pill

Like weary Sisyphus, rolling his rock up a hill

I find myself bored with kicks and thrills

The last gasp of a waning day

Comes as I watch the sun fade to gray

I know that the poet has no reason to stay

At the edge of darkness, I find

The words of Dusty Rhodes come to mind

“Remember hard times!”

 

At the dawn of tomorrow anew

I stand there with mud on my shoes

Confident over cashing in gold doubloons

The reward of this faithful exchange

Is little better than a handful of grain

But preferable by far, to doubt and disdain

Here’s a detective’s uncovered clue

Words from Bob Dylan still ring true

“When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose!”

 

Now this observation might seem suspect

It would be easy to debate what I project

To behold this gold nugget like a flittering flyspeck

But past the limit of a roadblock gate

There’s a better path to another twist of fate

A crooked creek dug into sandstone and slate

When I read words on a cereal box

I remember that Hunter said he knew the school of hard knocks

“Trust in God, but row away from the rocks!”

 

Hard times, never far from the possible

They linger long enough to turn silver dull

And make dents in the Titanic’s hull

I want to run away but that choice was spent

Fretting over the worth of a lonely, red cent

Now I’m homed in a big box, sat on the cement

It’s time to fold the cards, you must see

In the words of a bard from antiquity

“Speak hands, speak hands for me!”

 

I take no pleasure in retelling the tale

Of being born in the belly of a whale

Yet that origin gave me strength to prevail

I swam across a metaphorical divide

Left in place by a creator on the downside

Pure and postured like an amusement park ride

I remember that a Rolling Stone proclaimed

Mick Jagger was his name

“I was ‘round when Jesus knew his doubt and pain!”

 

Hard times, enough of a default

Making ends meet at the corner-store vault

For a pack of smokes and a 40 of malt

It’s no walk through a garden of grace

When the cold winds whip at an uncovered face

Winter lasts forever, summer for a day

I recall James Brown keeping it free

Dispensing truth, rhythmic and funky

“We’d rather die on our feet than live on our knees!”

 

I don’t have much more to offer but that

A children’s rhyme like your Cat in the Hat

A strong aftertaste left, from Ramen and sprat

Turn back your clocks to comprehend the perks

Of celestial bodies, spinning far beyond the earth

A loose speck of dust, the key to rebirth

I heard it with my good ear, pressed to a tin cup

Churchill shook his fist at naysayers mistrust

“Never, never, never give up!”

 

This peering into the past seemed particularly timely, as water woes struck the development of mobile homes where I lived in Ohio. Inexplicably, our system had experienced a total shutdown, three times in two days. For myself, living alone, the inconvenience was slight. I had managed to do a minimal load of laundry, and a round of dishes, in between these unexpected interruptions. But for neighbors with families and typical job responsibilities, the hardship was much more pronounced. When I looked at a Facebook group dedicated to park residents, the attitudes and language displayed burned my eyes like a salty brine.

 

Threats of legal action, seeking to get local media outlets involved, or outright violence, were many. The general mood was explosive. I had to put my phone aside, after scrolling through the plethora of posts and comments.

 

On my porch outside, I found a respite from this verbal conflagration. With a cold brew in hand, I started my Weber charcoal grill. In the refrigerator were three flavors of homemade bratwurst, and some whole chicken wings. I felt confident in readying myself to cook a worthy feast that would take my mind off of our current troubles, and feed any visitors, if necessary.

 

While drinking, one of the feline strays on my street decided to visit in hope of receiving a treat. A small, shy tabby with distinctive, white paws. I had nicknamed the cat Boots Kitty, and kept appropriate vittles on hand for when he chose to skip up my access ramp. Then, after the wandering runt was done filling his belly, another click-clack of animal nails sounded from the driveway edge. This time, a neighbor’s Black Lab appeared, also in search of edible handouts. While seeking more refreshments from the kitchen, I rummaged through my cupboards for some canine delectables. Then, returned to the wooden bench.

 

The brats were an assortment of marked-down items from the meat case of my favorite grocer in Geneva. Tickled with Italian seasonings, hoagie spice, and chorizo. The last of this trio produced a particularly tempting aroma, while grilling.

 

From across the street, a fellow member of the community paused by his Dodge minivan, and gestured with a hungry expression. His appetite seemed to match those of my animal companions.

 

“You got that kettle going, eh? Good for you, man! I’ll be right over!”