Swindle Shack Singalong, Chapter 13: “Pizza”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

I had been at my desk throughout the morning, sorting through unread postal mail, and tackling neglected chores. Odd jobs that were tedious and tiresome. Yet important to address. A yawn of indifference sounded, as I remembered leaving the coffeemaker on, in my kitchen. Something that, by now, would have boiled the caffeinated beverage down to a rude residue of black mud. But as I was about to struggle out of the roller chair, a ringtone chirped from my cellular device. One associated with the Messenger app. An indication that I was about to speak with someone outside of my usual group of contacts.

 

A facial profile of Kookshow Baby appeared on the screen as I answered.

 

“RAWD! HEY, Y’ALL KNOW I BEEN BUSY AS HECK LATELY! BUT I GOT A SPARE MINUTE TO TALK RIGHT NOW. PICK UP YER DAMN PHONE!”

 

I wheezed a bit while leaning back in the chair. Her insistent demand, after weeks of no contact at all, rattled my composure. Still, I was curious about any details that she might have to offer.

 

“Yeah, what’s up? I’m here in the home office. You caught me early enough that I haven’t started drinking yet. Maybe that’s a good thing...”

 

The radio queen seemed shaken. Her voice hushed to the level of a whisper.

 

“It’s Terry, I got to tell ya some awful news. Y’all know he’s been in the hospital, in Los Angeles, right? Well, I know that feller is one tough son-of-a-gun. But there’s only so much a body can stand. He’s ridden his last rodeo, I’m afraid. That dude is off to the great beyond now, with Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger!”

 

I was stunned to the point of a brain freeze. I could not see, hear, or think.

 

“WHAT???”

 

Kookshow had started to sob, openly.

 

“It’s over, Rawd. It’s all over. The movie credits are rolling. El fin, cowboy! It’s the end!”

 

I could barely breathe. A stray yield of coffee dribbled from my shaggy beard. I slammed both fists on my desktop. This forceful act toppled an Elvira figure that was next to the iMac computer.

 

“What’s it been, three years, battling? He’s a strong guy, a genuine ox of a man. I figured this was just another setback, like what happened before...”

 

My west-coast cohort sniffled and sneezed into a checkered handkerchief.

 

“I could sure use a friend right about now. Why the hell did y’all go home to Ohio, Rawd? I’ve been mindin’ the ranch all by myself. Cats and streaming platforms, and stacks of old videodiscs and tapes, everywhere! It’s more’n a woman can handle by herself. Even a crazy filly like me!            Gawdamm!”

 

I had no coherent reply to provide.

 

“So, you’re at the abandoned drive-in by yourself?”

 

She had begun to croak like a feminine frog.

 

“Yes, dammit! I’m just tryin’ to be a help, not a hindrance, Ya know?”

 

Suddenly, I had become very thirsty. Sobriety did not fit the moment.

 

“My neighbor with the 18-wheeler hasn’t had any runs out west in a few months. That was my ticket to ride. Otherwise, I can’t cover a coast-to-coast run right now...”

 

Kookshow blubbered sorrowfully, before clearing her throat.

 

“I know, I know. Y’all are stuck back there in flyover country! It’s a shame though, ‘cause I’d be happy to see yer ugly mug in my trailer window. I need a companion. Things ain’t never been this lonely at the CRAGG compound! My heart is a-breakin’ fer Tiffany!”

 

I needed a deep breath to settle my nerves.

 

“Let me go see the trucker again. Who knows, maybe he’s picked up some new assignment. I’ll be in touch, you can count on it...”

 

The headstrong femme was silent for a brief interlude. Then, she ended our conversation with an unexpected interjection, and a click of the call icon.

 

“I LOVE Y’ALL, RAWD! YA BIG, DUMB, HILLBILLY ASSHOLE!”

 

I had been in my chair for so long that getting up presented a daunting, physical challenge. So, before meeting that task, head-on, I finished the lyric verses that were still on my monitor. An extra measure of emotion flowed from this poetic exercise, as I finished.

 

Drink and Pizza

 

Drink and pizza, fortified for days

A restless rascal, alone for an extended stay

Not much on my plate, but a banquet of consequence

Tired and testy, overworked in a sense

Though I haven’t strayed much

Haven’t felt a woman’s touch

For so long

 

I’ve become accustomed to this routine

A cryptic cry of phantasmic dreams

When the tremors wake me from my rest

Then I know, I have passed the final test

Sitting on the edge of my bed

Hands clasped over both sides of my head

I hear a song

 

There is a tone of difference on the breeze

An opportunity that God himself has seized

Setting off vibrations in the heavens

As the cuckoo clock above strikes eleven

The hour is late, I know

Banished as I am, to linger here, below

I soldier on

 

If, by being present in this play

My role is justified by what I pause to say

Then the author has shown a kinder tilt

Respecting how this old bag of bones was built

A tackled tickle of the mechanical wheel

A jumped tooth for the gears to appeal

I hear the gong

 

I might have done my best if there was time

I had that goal, firmly in mind

But with the sunset coming in haste

I realized that protesting was a waste

Better to bow before the oddsmaker’s curse

I can do no better or worse

I’ll get along

 

I read it once, at school, long ago

That the scourge of sin is a short-distance stone’s throw

And I believed what the text had proclaimed

But in the end, it’s all the same

Starting gates swing and slip

But the race, is decided by a coin flip

From the grasp of King Kong

 

My cage is unlocked, easy to nab

A longbox hovel, sat upon a concrete slab

Out in a distant spot, away from the crowd

A safe space for thinking out loud

A taste of alcohol is my friend

A cool companion, on which I may depend

Without a magic wand

 

Time and distance, mean no more

The calculations only cause me to be bored

I have become one with the dirt and stone

Living in this junkyard oasis, alone

I don’t take it as a judgment, passed

More like a back-row seat, in a college class

A quiet push for a pawn

 

Helter Skelter, here comes the glow

Of another cycle with wisdom to bestow

Learning to live within my means

A meal of fate cooked up, like rice and beans

Eyes narrowed, peering at the sun

My education has only begun

And the day is gone

 

Geneva Go-Round: “Winter Woes, Ahead”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

With the year quickly moving toward its final quarter, and leaves falling on my porch every day, I have felt a change in mood while enjoying cool beverages outside. One with reflections upon the approach of winter weather coming to mind, as I play the role of a budget-bound chef at my charcoal grill. As ever, the summer season seems to have moved along at a frantic pace, with weeks dropping from the calendar in defiance of the joyful moments that they represent. Now, there is an eerie crispness in the air. One not always so evident at first, yet present enough to linger in the back of my mind with consequence. Waiting, watching, and preparing itself for meteorological dominance to come.

 

This is the way of our world.

 

In yonder days, before my career slid into a bricklike obstruction of early retirement, I trembled at this point in the earth’s journey around Old Sol. I would wonder about making it to work at various points on the map, and experience an even greater level of trepidation when considering that my return home, long after dark, would entail navigating snowbound routes that were unlit, sporadically maintained, and far off the beaten path of civilized communities.

 

Living in a rural enclave by the county line has advantages, when the sun shines, and greenery is able to flourish. But when a deluge of frozen muck arrives, with its frosty, flaky companions, I often used to wish for a closer spot to more metropolitan areas. My own inclination toward small-town life, and the fellowship of such gentle neighborhoods, always kept me searching for a suitable midpoint between these two opposites. It is why, on more than one occasion, I looked at homes located within the City of Geneva, itself. Once, at a residence directly across from Giant Eagle, which I reckoned would be undeniably convenient, year-round.

 

Because my last stop on the retailing expressway meant managing on a second-shift schedule, which would sometimes last until midnight or later, I found that owning a 4x4 pickup truck was indispensable for getting where I needed to go without worry. Generally, this meant that I could point the nose of my sturdy mule into the headwinds, facing south on Route 534, and go forward with confidence. Though on some occasions, with white precipitation falling rapidly, and the roadway difficult to locate, I would think that sleeping on a pallet in our stockroom might have been a better choice.

 

One of these persistent memories still reverberates, when I see the change from green to brown begin. I recall a particular night when the store where I was employed had suffered through a lonely, empty cycle of futility. Customers were few. A couple actually arrived on snowmobiles for beer and minimal grocery fare. After locking up for the evening, I dug out my gas-powered beast, let it warm to a civilized temperature, and clicked the gearbox into action. My trek wasn’t too challenging along South Broadway, past a row of closed fast-food depots, Dale’s Truck Stop, Spire, and GetGo. But as I rolled over the crest of this busy boulevard, now nearly silent and appearing forlorn, I reached the point where darkness enveloped the landscape. My headlights were the only source of brightness. Traveling at a slow and deliberate velocity, I crossed the bridge, and began to ascend once more, past the Sonny Lanes bowling alley. With care, I had managed to build up some speed before attempting to navigate this uphill curve. Yet suddenly, I saw a tiny, economy sedan, and a Chevrolet rig that must have been running sans any 4WD motorvation.

 

Both were crawling along like twin snails. Barely able to maintain their progress.

 

I was having a hard time seeing anything, and had my face nearly pressed against the windshield. Both hands gripped the steering wheel, tightly. I was sweating profusely, in defiance of the bitter cold, outside. I knew that tucking in behind this duo would mean risking my own position, as a safe voyager through the wild bout of lake-effect bluster. So, with a sideways glance and a quick turn of my wrist, I pulled out into the other lane. Then, let my workhorse sloppily propel itself past the slower traffic. I was almost sideways before catching traction again. The tires on my truck dug deeply. Windows on both sides of the cab were frozen. But the impulsive strategy worked.

 

I salivated for a brew, upon reaching the top of my route. There was a twelve-pack of Yuengling back in the open bed, chilling as I drove home. It would be at a perfect drinking temperature, when I finally completed my trip.

 

Blessings appeared as I passed the Cork Elementary School, and journeyed toward an eventual rendezvous with Route 166. There was a plow vehicle ahead, with lights flashing in alternating colors. I felt grateful to be following its lead. Now, the two of us were in sync. I crept along in the wake of this behemoth for a few miles, with my face burning hot. I had to strip off my knit cap and gloves. When turning right at Smolic’s Tire, I realized that there were no tracks in the snow, so far as my weary eyes could see. The horizon had turned invisible. Only an occasional glow of holiday lights, at farms along this meandering course, offered any sign of being inhabited by hardy folk.

 

At my humble abode, everything was buried. I had to park in the street and shovel, just to enter the driveway. Snow on the front steps was almost up to my knees. I opened the front door, and allowed both dogs to run free. Then, crossed myself as a sign of good faith and gratitude. And, took a bottle from my chilled stash, in the truck bed.

 

In modern days, I no longer have to summon the strength for such crazed, winter adventures. When it is awful outside, I simply stay at home. There is no need to risk ditching my rig, to earn a living. I stock up ahead of time, and sit with a fireplace streaming via YouTube, on my television. Often, passing out in the living room as winds continue to howl, outside. My existence is a simple one now. Limited in scope by disability, and a meager stipend from Social Security. Yet with the reflection of memories that remain, it is a vast reserve of tales, that may be brought to mind, as desired.

 

In the end, this my reward for endurance. A fitting exchange of yesterdays, for today.

Nobody Reads This Page: “Opinion Overload”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Charles James Kirk; October 14, 1993 – September 10, 2025

 

In an effort to offer full disclosure here, I will say this out loud, with no malice intended. Or, any forethought of making a political statement.

 

I never paid much attention to Charlie Kirk.

 

To be completely candid, that surname evokes a wholly different image when tingling my ears. One born of fiction, in the 1960’s. James Tiberius Kirk, Captain of the Starship Enterprise. A traveler throughout the cosmos. Who despite dwelling only in the realm of imagination, was inspirational and important, for those of us who were then coming of age.

 

But like many Americans, I was aware of this other Young Turk of sorts, as a talking head who sometimes appeared in news presentations. I knew that he was an influencer with great appeal for conservative students, having founded Turning Point USA. And that he relished debating intellectual positions in open forums. In personal terms, I reckoned that any free discussion of ideas, pro or con, was a good thing. Part of our tradition as a constitutional republic. Those who can speak to each other in a civilized fashion, I learned from my childhood forward, are less likely to choose violence as an alternative to accomplish their goals. So it was, that upon learning of his assassination at an event in Utah, I recoiled from the explosion of content that appeared on social media in the aftermath of that tragedy.

 

I hoped that cooler heads might prevail. Yet that did not seem likely, with emotions boiling over at every juncture.

 

One friend posted an illustration of a Klan rally, captioned with text that indicated they were mourning the death of their fallen hero. Others revived photos of old Germany and the Third Reich, to poke and jab angrily at the current administration, and their affinity for this deceased fellow. There were quotes of rhetoric skillfully used and twisted, for the purpose of making a partisan score. When Jimmy Kimmel had his late-night television show were pulled by ABC, in a knee-jerk reaction, this caustic level of expression only intensified.

 

Those on the opposite side of our cultural divisions reacted in horror, of course. Lots of chest-beating and fist thumping resounded across the heartland. The Christian cross, along with our national emblems, became even more commonplace than before.

 

What I did not hear or read was gentler in nature. A quiet prayer of sympathy for a husband and father, who would no longer be a direct participant in the life of his family. And a moment to weep for our greater society. One so often affected by the scourge of violence, that familiarity has made us numb to the loss of human life. In a way that transcends any platitudes or talking points parroted by the masses.

 

Indeed, from reports of the commemoration held in Arizona, to honor Kirk’s passing, there was little interest in shunning the hand-to-hand combat of daily social interactions. Instead, the flames were stoked with bold talk, oaths of fealty, promises of conquest, and a general ignorance of what the Holy Scriptures actually offer to those who believe. Only his widow seemed genuinely attuned to the faith. Her heartfelt offer of forgiveness, following the example of Christ on the cross, hit a theological bullseye with this writer.

 

It was the most sane, and authentically spiritual statement I had heard, since that bullet flew across the concourse at Utah Valley University.

 

“Father, forgive them. For they know not what they do...”

 

Seeking some measure of comfort from this dreadful occurrence, and its aftermath, I turned to an old, blue Bible on the bookshelf in my home office. A gift given long ago, rendered in large print, as the sharp focus of my eyesight was beginning to fade. With such prolific prose being written about the legacy of this young man, in a context of moral values and traditions, I thought it would be useful to delve into those pages.

 

The first result was striking, and appropriate.

 

Romans 15:1-7 “We who are strong ought to bear with the failings of the weak and not to please ourselves. Each of us should please our neighbors for their good, to build them up. For even Christ did not please himself but, as it is written: ‘The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me.’ For everything that was written in the past was written to teach us, so that through the endurance taught in the Scriptures and the encouragement they provide we might have hope. May the God who gives endurance and encouragement give you the same attitude of mind toward each other that Christ Jesus had, so that with one mind and one voice you may glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. Accept one another, then, just as Christ accepted you, in order to bring praise to God.”

 

Those of us who long for kinship and cooperation are used to being tagged as naïve and unprincipled. Yet our founders knew well that the predisposition of human animals to kill each other, through war or singular acts of aggression, is deeply rooted. Thus, their masterful system of checks and balances has given us an uncommon age of relative peace, at least on this continent. Our struggles and conflicts have always been best solved through debate and discourse. The use of force, by a group or a lone assailant, does not offer a lasting premise for discipline. Such woes are fleeting in effect, and generally, powerful only in their ability to stunt the growth of a community or nation.

 

With Charlie Kirk now in his grave, thinkers on both sides of the chasm will witness this conundrum in effect.

 

Left and right, rich and poor, progressive and retrograde, all will eventually come to realize that the cycle of living and dying continues beyond their own, proscribed orbit. The only eternal energy available to mankind is love. That essence alone, when cherished and nurtured, may carry generations forward. It shines outward when embraced, multiplying itself. Offering illumination, guidance, and perhaps, a measure of hope. If there is a fitting legacy for this perished figure, or for any of the others who have met a similar fate through circumstance, or the randomness of daily interactions, this is it in a pure distillation. To soften hard hearts, and erase the artificial chalk-lines of division.

 

Let us reason, one with another, and break bread together. Instead of breaking bones, hearts and promises, in a fool’s race toward the bottom. This should be the yield of our sorrows. To make right what our past has put asunder. To do better, while we still have time to make a change.

 

 

Geneva Go-Round: “Grilling & Gambling”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Living in an eastern township by the county line affords this writer a perfect vantage point for seeking opportunities in all directions. When needs arise, more metropolitan areas of Geauga and Lake are easily accessible. Yet when yearning for preferred trips deeper into the pastoral comforts of Ashtabula, such alternatives lie close at hand. I find myself regularly visiting Cantini’s Village Market, in Rock Creek. Or, Trumbull Locker Plant, on Route 534, north of Hartsgrove. Both of these local businesses offer tasty, home-produced products, and friendly service. I am a particular fan of pepperoni rolls and scratch-baked treats, at the former. And smoked meats of many kinds, at the latter.

 

But my favorite destination for summer fare and creative meal items, year-round, remains Geneva Giant Eagle. A place where edible bargains are readily available. My Weber grill stays active every week. And I never go hungry from lacking inspiration.

 

But while this habit of acting as a front-porch, hillbilly chef is one founded on years of minimal household budgets and a need for outdoor relaxation, I sometimes forget that the bedrock of such deeds is always laid upon practicality. The necessity of producing gastronomic sustenance. In a healthy and timely manner. Cooking vittles over glowing briquettes of charcoal does not need to be sophisticated, by any means. And I avoid pretentiousness in any form. But while working over my smoking, kettle appliance, one habit lingers that is central only in a tangential way.

 

I have to be drinking. Preferably, a cool brew of some sort.

 

After a hiatus of six years, due to personal concerns, I resumed this favorite pursuit with gusto. An impulsive purchase via eBay sired this resurrection. I happened to see a Kingsford Charcoal Chimney listed for sale, and remembered that many years ago, a friend at my workplace during the era opined loudly that having one in his garage made an enormous difference on grilling days. He had been someone on our crew known for enthusiastic declarations that did not always stand up to careful scrutiny. So, I simply blew off his recommendation. Yet with the passage of years, and an appetite for new ideas taking hold, I remembered what he had advised. The new gadget was fairly cheap, and appeared to be sturdy, and simple. I only had to use it one time, for the shining light of an epiphany to glow over my head.

 

It worked better than anything I had ever tried, before!

 

The result of this change in my culinary routine was swift and consequential. I soon found myself at the cooker every other day. Always with a chilled refreshment in hand, of course. This shift in my household regimen attracted neighbors and pets, immediately. And, guaranteed that I was spending much more time outdoors. But a side-effect of keeping this home fire burning was that my consumption of beverage alcohol spiked precipitously. Instead of keeping a case of suds on hand, in the fridge, it became routine to stack extras in my living room. Or to jam loose rations in the door pockets and anywhere else that a can or bottle would fit.

 

I enjoyed products branded with many familiar names. Yuengling, Genesee, Iron City, Naragansett, Great Lakes Brewing varieties, Molson, Labatt, and even the pedestrian libation, Miller High Life. With my confidence in old habits restored, I did not hesitate to celebrate life and liberty with ebullience. Every swallow of refreshment came in between bites of seared steak, chicken, and pork. My belly was full, and I did not feel guilty.

 

This dietary rampage might have continued unabated, except for an annual checkup put into place by my regular physician, at the Geneva Clinic. In a yearly exercise, she asked that I visit the laboratory on-site, for blood work. The scores that resulted would tell a tale of good health, or bad. I always felt as if the Sword of Damocles was hanging above my skull, when complying with this request. I would sometimes turn pale, or tremble. Yet more often than not, my levels had been within acceptable limits.

 

Until, that is, just before my 64^th birthday.

 

With the benefit of modernist technologies in effect, and quick communication through a cellphone app, I learned of my standing condition even before having an official conference with the doctor. Figures for every part of my body tested were in line with standards set by the medical community. I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Yet one glaring defect spoiled this report card. My blood sugar and A1C were both elevated. I did not need a scientific degree to assess the cause of this malady. I had been guzzling hops and grains in a high-carb cocktail, all throughout the summer.

 

Even before the lab encounter, I had been feeling the fatigue and other telltale signs of something being amiss. I knew instinctively that my liquid, caloric intake had grown excessive. But chafed at the notion of switching out these satisfying beverages for a lesser alternative. I felt good enough, yes indeed healthy enough, to go forward without cheating my palate. I had little desire to accept the fact that, as so many before me had done, a change to lighter fare was in order. I had been gambling with my well-being, unaware.

 

Still, when on my way to discuss the test results, I knew what had to be done.

 

Instead of taking medications for a pre-diabetic condition, in the interim, I opted for penitent self-denial, with purpose. The last of genuine brews disappeared from my kitchen reserve, as I commemorated this woeful event with a moment of silence. Then, I purchased a 24-count case of Lite. A weaker, less burdensome concoction that in truth, did not appear to be out of place for some one of my age and general girth.

 

I could not help remembering my cockiness, during yonder days, when seeing a friend who was more seasoned and wise, sliding a package of Milwaukee’s Best Light through one of the register lanes at our store. I had teased him about being too old and withered, and crusty to handle ‘real’ beer in all of its glory.

 

Wayne knew that I was young and ignorant at the time. So, he simply nodded and smiled.

 

“You have the personality of an armadillo, Rod! You know, when I lived in Texas, we saw those damned things all the time!”

 

 

Geneva Go-Round: “Janis”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

My friend Michelle grew up in Saybrook Township, about one block south of Lake Erie. Her personal life was a confusing, twisted tale perhaps better left untold for gentle ears. One that saw her being raised by a grandmother who lived down the road from both parents. For a reason that I have never been able to deduce, and probably have no need to know. Her personality was odd, off-the-wall, and sometimes combative. She did not look pretty. Her dyed, reddish mane was often unbrushed and messy. She never wore makeup or flattering clothes. Her habit of donning a plastic spider like a necklace produced eerie vibes. Yet it seemed quite appropriate. If Morticia Addams had discovered a lost sibling, living in an abandoned shack, that might have been my unlikely companion. She wasn’t particularly kind, funny, or compelling. Not even generally interested in friendship, except with a very small number of individuals who like myself, could not explain the attraction. Her rationale was one given with a smirk and narrowed eyes.

 

“Don’t question it! I am awesome!”

 

But in 2009, she had the best quality of all as a healer. She was there...

 

I separated from my second wife, shortly after being hired at a business in Geneva. My financial situation was decidedly chaotic, and I worked long hours to remedy this challenging problem. My personal life turned dark and empty. Even members of my own family took a negative position on what had transpired. I ended up wearing my late father-in-law’s coat for the winter. A garment hued in colors of the Dallas Cowboys football team, a franchise I had never liked. Its zipper was broken. The synthetic fabric was stained. Yet it kept me warm.

 

When I met this new member of my depleted social circle, she had already been on the team for a few years. I could not remember her name, right away, but was struck by the fact that though much younger than myself, she somehow had a fan crush on Janis Joplin. So, that impulsive nickname stuck. It also seemed to fit her carefree, breezy style of behavior. She did not shy away from taking a hard line with coworkers or other managers at our business. Something that I thought to be reckless. Still, this direct approach always worked out, in the end. She did not mince words or attempt to be diplomatic. But soon enough, I found that she would contact me almost every day, if for no other purpose but to wish me a good morning, or good night.

 

At that juncture in my life, knowing there was someone on the other end of a phone connection meant a great deal.

 

I had always enjoyed Chinese food, and particularly the sort of cuisine available at self-service restaurants in New York State, an idea that was only beginning to thrive back home in Ohio. When I happened upon the Hong Kong King Buffet in town, an epiphany of sorts occurred. I mentioned my desire to score some Oriental grub, with a partner for conversation, and she reacted with a positive spark of interest. I was caught off guard initially, having expected some kind of epithet to be hurled. Then however, I realized that we had formed a useful alliance.

 

General Tso’s Chicken, Egg Rolls, Fried Rice, and Wonton Soup brought us together in earnest.

 

In years that followed, we would visit the eatery many times over. Once, for dining and fellowship, three days in a row. Yet Michelle had a curious habit after we would finish our meals. She would want to take a walk down the street, to stretch our legs, and aid in digestion. It was something I remembered a gray-headed matron in my own brood recommending. A festive march through the old apple orchard, once our kitchen had been cleaned up after dinner time.

 

Junior Janis would ask questions that were unexpectedly probing and thoughtful, as we crossed the successive squares of narrow concrete. She wondered about religion and the afterlife. And also, about how women were treated in many foreign lands. She expressed sympathy for those on the social fringe, which I thought was completely in-character. Even offering her opinion that rights given to mainstream folk should extend to all. But she tired easily when talking too much. Her attention span was limited, like that of a child. If I became too zealous in presenting an intellectual or philosophical argument, her face would go pale.

 

“Did I tell you that Granny used to raise chickens? The henhouse is still in my back yard. I liked them as pets! Lots of clucking and squawking and strutting around.”

 

The zig-zag course of these discussions kept me distracted from my own woes, at home. Which was something I needed desperately.

 

We began to branch out a bit after that, in terms of restaurant choices. Eventually meeting at Waffle House in Austinburg, Taco Bell, Mr. Hero, and Wendy’s locations around the area. Or sourcing goodies from Toro Carryout, along West Prospect Road in Ashtabula. A tiny food outpost east of her humble home, which boasted a diverse menu and courteous service. We would sometimes order a pan of 50 hot wings, and devour them while sitting on her front porch.

 

She still had an antique glider, left from the previous inhabitants of her household. It was rusted slightly, and sagged on one side. But reminded me of yonder days and the continuity of life, from one generation to the next.

 

The Covid Pandemic interrupted our partnership with rude consequences, as her own health began to decline. Her appetite for cigarettes had continued, unabated, despite warnings about the eventual results that were likely. Her blood pressure spiked, and an ER visit became necessary. She had suffered a stroke while working, but did not get diagnosed until much later. A second event struck eventually, and then a heart attack. Followed by a third interruption in blood flow to her brain.

 

I took her to medical appointments, sat with her at the hospital, and eventually, filed her disability claim twice, after we spoke to a lawyer. She was in Cleveland for about a full calendar year. But finally made the trek back to Ashtabula City, and a friendly facility that had the skilled personnel she needed for constant care. In the interim, I had to retire from my own dual career in business management, and journalism. By that point, I had adjusted to my solitary status, however. It did not matter so much that we were distant. I knew that she was protected.

 

We no longer speak on a daily basis. Though I can say with honesty that her presence lingers still. She is part of every day, in hindsight. I am gladdened to know that she has adapted to her current environment and routine, with courage. Out of necessity perhaps, yet with a good dose of her grandmother’s old-time wisdom.

 

I thank you, friend, for being there when I needed someone. Literally anyone, to brighten the shadows. That gift is one I will never forget.

Geneva Go-Round: “Hospital Hindrance”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Road access is something that those of us who have grown up in modernity often take for granted. Even when these paved, ponderous stretches of asphalt or concrete need maintenance due to weather fluctuations and traffic wear, there is generally some sort of workaround available. For a society that is constantly in motion, this convenience is one not to be denied without an excuse of natural disasters or safety concerns. Even then, we expect such interruptions to be brief, and well-managed.

 

But when navigating the distance between my rural neighborhood, and Geneva Hospital, this paradigm has literally been exploded, for more than a calendar year. I first encountered the difficult project underway in 2024, while heading north for a blood draw at the lab on-site. Still feeling somewhat sleepy due to fasting, I drove up Route 534, turned at the intersection in mid-town, with Main Street, and soon discovered a bevy of construction signs and barriers that had been erected. The appearance of stern, official warnings made my pulse quicken, and my hands turn clammy on the steering wheel.

 

HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KEEP MY APPOINTMENT FOR A MEDICAL RENDEZVOUS, WITHOUT GETTING LOST?

 

On that first occasion, I managed to deduce that one lane, on the wrong side of that roadway, was open for cars going in a westward direction. So, after bumping and bouncing over irregularities in what remained of the hard surface, I arrived at my intended destination. Then, upon leaving, continued out of my way, toward Madison. Only with a sideways glance while in transit did I look down West Street, a mysterious boulevard in personal terms. One crowded by more signage and equipment.

 

A conversation with one of my close friends from a street on the other side of this population center ensued soon afterward. She confirmed that turning left at that juncture would have been a better decision. But, on impulse, I had taken a lazy drive toward Lake County, instead. With a smile, she scolded me for not thinking through the situation more carefully.

 

“It would’ve taken you right to Route 84, Rodney! From there, you could have gone east or west, whatever was your best option!”

 

Sometime in that part of the year, my regular physician also relocated to the medical campus. A move that might have seemed logical and convenient, if not for the hindrance of bulldozers and earth-moving rigs that were busy tearing up the avenue. When it came time to have a check-up visit, I remembered the caveat about choosing a different course toward my healthcare provider. But upon reaching a back entrance, I saw arrows and admonitions about access being closed. This again bred confusion and befuddlement.

 

WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW? I NEEDED TO SEE MY DOCTOR!

 

With a tenacious hold on the steering wheel, I crept up to the edge of Main Street, saw that the access lane was temporarily empty, and backtracked to one of the front points of entry. Then spun my vehicle around, and hunted for a handicap parking space. All while attempting to catch my breath.

 

I could not help replaying scenes from the 1974 thriller ‘Killdozer’ in my head. A B-movie film, made-for-television, that starred Clint Walker. I feared being broadsided by one of these brutish tractors, while attempting to sneak into the hospital parking lot. Thankfully though, with enough courage summoned, I made the maneuver and got to honor my appointment, on time.

 

At some point, with more than a full year having passed in the rearview mirror, it seemed likely that this expensive project would have finally been completed. But as I headed toward Geneva, for another annual blood tapping, I realized that the dusty, dirty digging and reconstruction was still in progress. However, with an added impediment to complicate my arrival.

 

Detour signs for Route 84 were everywhere. And a partial barricade indicating blockage ahead, was situated by the Mapco station and plaza. This made me decide, without any plausible foundation of evidence, that Main Street must now be open, uptown. Yet predictably, when I paused at the traffic light by Rees Corner Store, and made my left-angle turn, more obstructions were waiting to halt my advance.

 

NOW WHAT? NOW WHAT? IF BOTH WAYS TO THE HOSPITAL ARE CLOSED, HOW CAN ANYBODY GET THERE AT ALL?

 

I veered left again, by the Circle K, then took a succession of side streets with the hope that one of them might offer a clue to this conundrum. But nothing looked familiar. Finally, in desperation, I happened to land across from the old Sohio fuel depot, which was now a repair garage. Arrows along the path indicated that I could roll in one direction only. Happily, this meant I could complete my trip, in just enough time to check-in at the laboratory.

 

I was huffing for breath when punching in vital statistics on a kiosk, inside. A woman with blue hair cheerfully invited me to sit in her exam chair, and the draw was accomplished without any further delay. My head was still spinning, while hobbling back to the SUV, with both disability canes. But this time, despite weaving around parked cars, security officers, and other equipment, I made a speedy exit from the facility.

 

A newspaper article about this long-term renovation had quoted an official who was involved as saying, “We realize it has been 17 months. We understand the interruption is a hardship for residents of this area...” Perhaps an understatement worthy of being noted with a gold star or a blue ribbon. Or even a recycled bowling trophy. Still, I recognized two side benefits to my dismay and confusion over getting where I needed to go, in a timely manner.

 

First, I was able to see parts of the city that lay hidden before. Acres of home turf that I normally passed without giving notice. And the other, perhaps even more important benefit, was in using my cerebral synapses in an exercise to stimulate brain health. An activity that my own doctor might have recommended, if called upon to provide a regimen of good habits.

 

I do hope to eventually visit the familiar outpost, on some future occasion, without being herded left and right, and backwards, for my trouble. Yet in the interim, I will keep both hands on the wheel. And my eyes scanning dutifully for warnings and advisories, wherever they may appear.

Geneva Go-Round: “Deals & Steals”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Experts in studying human evolution think that the pace of life has accelerated for those of us in the first quarter of this 21^st Century. And while I cannot boast any particular qualifications in debating the accuracy of that conclusion, it does seem reasonable. At least when viewed through a lens of retirement and willful obscurity. Though in personal terms, I have more trouble keeping track of my days than anything else.

 

The modern convenience of a cell phone guarantees that I am on-schedule, no matter what.

 

After a career dealing with the public in a management capacity, I now find myself languishing in irrelevance. My days are all very similar, except when trips outside of the rural neighborhood are necessary because of doctor visits, or procuring foodstuffs. It is curious to realize that I have reached a point in my journey where going to the store to buy chicken wings, brats, salad, and beer, is now a social exercise. Much like having a picnic lunch, taking in a concert, or seeing a feature film might have been, in days of yore.

 

Because I live in a small township, south of its official center, shopping visits are most easily accomplished by driving north, along Route 534, until I reach the City of Geneva. This point on the map is, for all purposes, my home community. It is where friends and good neighbors reside. Where memories of all sorts still linger a potent ether of recollection. And where I feel most comfortable in getting around to load my cart.

 

An Amigo, electric shopper makes it all possible.

 

At the Giant Eagle on South Broadway, I used to park my pickup truck in a convenient spot out of the traffic pattern, and walk to the building casually. Yet now, in a condition of limited mobility and endurance, that paradigm has flipped. Instead of creeping toward the outer boundaries of their commercial lot, I find myself right at the heart of everything. In a parking space close at hand, marked for handicapped patrons. From there, I am able to make the short trek from my small SUV to the front doors. A jaunt undertaken with two canes for support, and a measure of confidence.

 

Though the business itself is always friendly, inviting, and well-stocked, each visit seems to take on a unique character, depending on the weather, time of day, and such. I often encounter familiar faces, which tempt me to spend more time conversing than expending portions of my fixed income. But just as often, new voices resound as I am rolling through the aisles. One woman happened to have a sweatshirt that carried the pattern of a Harley-Davidson ring I had worn for several years. Another made a segue from commenting on marked-down meat products, to confessing that she had lost her beloved husband in recent times. A revelation that touched my heart. A fellow with a baseball cap and thick glasses noted Genesee beer in my wheeled basket, and offered details of his home collection, related to the New York brand. One with signs, brochures, and tchotchkes of all sorts in evidence. Once, I was even accosted at the registers by a Vietnam veteran who wanted to help with getting my consumables to the parking area. He pondered that I was dressed in camo duds, with long, shaggy hair and a gray beard. “Did you serve, sir?” he asked. I had to answer in the negative, as a matter of course. But told him about how I had once been inspired by enlisted soldiers like himself. Their sacrifice, amid the cultural turmoil of America in that era, literally shaped my consciousness forever.

 

During yonder days, I had to discipline myself when engaging in such polite banter. Yet as an older, sidelined citizen, I have found a level of freedom never before attained. I am privileged to simply look, listen, and then comment as I choose. Sometimes this carefree strategy produces grins or gasps of amusement. And otherwise, my breathy observations do occasionally fall flat. Not everyone wishes to entertain such candor. Still, I keep in motion, physically and emotionally. I believe it matters to be present in the moment.

 

I am no longer shy about being seen and heard.

 

My purpose in trolling the shelves and cases at our little big bird is obvious, when considered from the standpoint of keeping properly fed and hydrated. But it also yields a game-time mindset, one that is competitive from week to week. I always look for one-off bargains, and specifically, for those yellow stickers that indicate extra savings on an instant basis. Though the Marc’s discount chain might be known for its claim of ‘fun for your money,’ I find more satisfaction in perusing the goods at this local food emporium.

 

When I hit upon a score of consequence, there is a quickening in my pulse. A desire to spike the football in a metaphorical end zone. Or to flip the bat at home plate, and point toward the stands with glee.

 

None of this could be accomplished without my downsized, AWD rig, a Ford Escape now older than some of the employees. At first, upon acquiring this vehicle, I felt somewhat ashamed to no longer be at the wheel of a tall, husky pickup with V-8 power. Yet having learned to pilot the Amigo carts with skill, inside this familiar environment, I then realized that it could also facilitate getting my purchased items outside, and into the back space of my little hauler. With maneuvers to get turned around being easy to make, even in crowded conditions.

 

My only failing is occasionally forgetting which direction to tug at the control lever, when behind the rear bumper. So, there is a telltale, white scratch in the black finish, on one corner.

Most recently, a Latino customer saw me perform this unintended maneuver and exclaimed “Ayyyy!” before nodding his head with understanding, and asking if I might now surrender the cart for his wife. Something I did cheerfully, though red-faced by my own glaring goof-up in full view of him, God, and everyone.

 

One seasoned associate from the past used to pat me upon the shoulder, during work shifts, and wisely opine, “Tomorrow is another day, Rod! Don’t get too full of yourself, or too down about things. It’ll all start over again in the morning!”

 

His advice had come years before the Bill Murray film, ‘Groundhog Day.’ But it was a pearl of knowledge I always kept in mind. Particularly when looking for unexpected treasures at my favorite supermarket, in Geneva.

Nothing To See Here: “Massachusetts After Midnight”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

Many of us here in the mortal realm like to celebrate birth anniversaries with festive parties, or counting up cheerful greetings and good wishes, like candles aflame on a cake. But for this writer, in recent times, that special day of my calendar year has been less notable and more fraught with the cares and woes of simply continuing to be alive. A condition eminently preferable to having expired too soon, yet burdensome when considered from the end.

 

In the current hour, I had been pondering that a virtual mentor and broadcasting hero, Terry DuFoe, left us after a long battle with numerous health conditions. He passed on the third day of this month, and would have reached his own mile marker one week later. Thus, on that occasion, his daughter offered a celebration of life over the internet airwaves. With the opening of his gifts via YouTube, afterward.

 

On September 11^th, no more than 24 hours later, a somber mood took hold when remembering the tragic and shocking events that occurred in 2001. That alone would have been enough to still my heartbeat in reflection, and give me a reason to seek the comfort of an alcoholic beverage. But as I sat on my front porch, a place of refuge from demons and depression, a message appeared on my cell phone. One that indicated my friend David, who once shared hosting duties with me while on-the-air at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York, had passed away in the afternoon.

 

I was of course, not surprised, as he had been institutionalized for a long while, somewhere around New York City. Yet the moment still struck with stunning force. Because I knew that from now until eternity, my own journey had been upended.

 

It would never, ever, be the same again.

 

I met my collector friend late in the year of 1978. Because the brood of which I was a member had relocated from Pittsburgh and the Three Rivers, to the Finger Lakes Region, my internal compass was off kilter. I sought some sort of purpose in being awake and aware of myself. This yearning to be useful led me to accept an apprenticeship at the local cable outlet, where I could learn about television production. An opportunity provided through Cornell University.

 

It is a story often repeated here, because of what it meant in personal terms.

 

 

David was given my phone number by the fellow in charge of Channel 13, someone in that position because of a Pell Grant from the government. When he first dialed that exchange, we did not know each other. And it took a minute or two before I realized that we had little, if anything, in common. He had grown up in a setting of higher education, and library skills inherited from his mother. He had a natural ability to organize and archive resources. His views and opinions had been colored by that fast-paced, progressive environment. He was not shy about expressing himself, especially to someone younger and unfamiliar, like myself.

 

As a native of Columbus, Ohio, I was barely 17 years old and had grown up in a traditional, Midwestern family. My outlook did not have the hard edge of someone more educated and experienced. Though artistically, I was eager to learn and develop. My perceptions were tender and raw. But I had a strong affinity for music, which had come from both sides of the family.

 

And that was the connection. We chattered away for two hours at least.

 

When I began to host a local show, dedicated to Punk and New Wave sounds, David was there as my wingman. While I offered noise and energy, he had a genuine understanding of how popular music was evolving. His knowledge kept me from stumbling into a vacuum of irrelevance. Together, we made a memorable duo. One that seemed to work in front of the cameras, and also, behind the scenes.

 

When I was privileged to visit his home residence, the true scope of what he had amassed came into focus. There were shelves of vinyl records everywhere. Along with posters procured from stores around the city, related magazines and books, and closets full of concert T-shirts. He reminisced about having seen Jimi Hendrix twice, as a young fan. His trove of keepsakes included rarities of all sorts, autographed items, and even bootlegged material.

 

In those olden days, I did not own a car. But this new contact had a Japanese wagon, a Datsun model which already carried many clicks on its dashboard indicator. He did not hesitate to drive hundreds of miles to see shows. Or even to escape the ennui of working at a regular job, when not playing his role at the TV studio. I spent many evenings eating pizza at Napoli’s, our favorite hangout in the city. One favored by students and drifters, and their countercultural conspirators.

 

My creative chum liked to spend long hours at the wheel of his Oriental rig, overnight, with an onboard cassette deck blaring tunes in rapid succession. He edited tapes so that there were no gaps in between tracks. I never had a chance to catch my breath while listening. This meant I would return home as the sun was about to rise, feeling groggy and fatigued. I could never understand how he was able to shake off the effects of such travel, before going to the county library for regular duties, during his workday.

 

One of these impulsive adventures began with a ration of fast food and refreshments, before setting out to witness the stars twinkling overhead, and hearing a new offering by the Gang Of Four, an English group that was breaking new ground in the tonal realm left from Punk experimentation. As I watched our surroundings blur into a haze of electric lights and fleeting shadows, my ears were teased with a kind of poetic imagery that was vital and new.

 

“Woke up this morning, desperation AM

What I’ve been saying, won’t say them again

My head’s not empty, it’s full with my brain

The thoughts I’m thinking, like piss down a drain...

 

And I feel like a beetle on its back

And there’s no way for me to get up

Love’ll get you like a case of anthrax

And that’s something I don’t want to catch”

 

I had gotten lost in screeching waves of feedback, and jangling bursts of guitar. Then, the sight of a Massachusetts road sign appeared from a stream of headlight brilliance. I gasped slightly, and burped hops and grains from earlier in the evening.

 

David was enchanted by the accomplishment he had just logged.

 

“We did it, Rod! We did it! All the way to the land of those dirty Red Sox, and Jonathan Richman!”

 

We were still many miles from Boston, of course. Yet I guessed that we had somehow driven for about three-and-a-half hours from our point of origin. I had been only semi-conscious in my seat, so this revelation filled me with disbelief. I wanted to be at home, in my bed. Still, I guessed that the trip would be entertaining to share, once we returned home.

 

This memory was the first of many to reappear, upon hearing that my counterpart from Tompkins County had slipped into eternity, and a restful slumber, free of pain. I had to wipe tears from my eyes, as they stung with sweat and charcoal smoke.

 

Those distinctive GOF bass lines continued to echo, reconstituted in my gray matter, even after I had stopped drinking. I would need a lengthy pause to recover from what had transpired, in the modern era. But until then, on the cusp of 64, the glow of that yonder night would suffice.

 

Godspeed, David. Say hello to all the stars in Rock & Roll heaven.

 

 

 

Nothing To See Here: “Goodbye Gamut”

 

c. 2025 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-25)

 

 

For this writer, the subject of death is one typically avoided in polite conversation, yet never far away in terms of art and pondering. For some unexplained reason, this dark wrinkle in the human experience has always resonated with a measure of realism that most people would find distasteful. To linger on the finality of an extinguished flame might be said to rob the joy of living, at a point too soon to be palatable. But in my own world, it has offered a measure of balance. A rationale for appreciating the gift of being, as a cherished quantity not to be taken for granted or abused.

 

I cannot remember a time, even during my childhood, when this was not the case.

 

I grew up with stories of those who had gone before, even as an intellectual babe. My paternal grandmother passed when he who sired me was only five years old. His first wife perished in a car accident, on their honeymoon. My own mother almost met a similar fate, at the wheel of a 1950 Chevrolet. Thankfully, she was spared by grace and good fortune. My maternal grandmother, a poet and anchor of the brood, left our mortal realm when I was at a tender age. Only 11 years and a few months. That event was decidedly emotional and gut-wrenching to witness, so much that it has tinted my consciousness with hues of sadness, ever since. In July of 1980, a cohort from days working at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York chose to end his journey by leaping into a geographical gorge in the city. His exit was jarring and unexpected. Another mile-marker of sorts, along the way.

 

None of these events could be said to have caused shadows of eternal night to follow me on my own jaunt through the chronology of recorded history. Yet each instance reinforced my awareness. Deepening a crevasse of stale, silent awe that seemed to always be close at hand.

 

Jim Carroll, the late songwriter and performer, attained fame for speaking to this uncomfortable truth with candid boldness. His cultural anthem immediately shook me to the core, upon being heard for the first time. Strangely, in the same year when my friend and inspiration from Cornell, left the earth.

 

“Teddy sniffing glue, he was twelve years old

Fell from the roof on East Two-Nine

Cathy was eleven when she pulled the plug

Twenty-Six reds and a bottle of wine

Bobby got leukemia, fourteen years old

He looked like sixty-five when he died

He was a friend of mine

Those are people who died...”

 

A short while later, I recorded with a group known officially as Absolute Zero, and when we were in an Elmira studio, recording tracks for a vinyl single, improvised a closing to one of those songs. As guitar, bass, and drums throttled up to an intense, musical climax, I shouted about wanting to die. A rowdy bit of audio theater, inspired by the fade of a classic, Rolling Stones record called ‘The Last Time.’ I was still in my early 20s, and obviously naïve. But the effect of this outburst on my bandmates was chilling.

 

Thankfully, like most residents of the planet, I banished these graveyard echoes while using my mental energy to handle other, more timely issues as I grew older. Education, family concerns, career advancement, and writing endeavors all took precedence. I channeled my self-awareness into more positive pursuits. Still, I did not completely escape the knowledge that at some point, with the anonymity of a random selection, my voyage would end. As a young man, this sense of finality did not carry the weight it might have done, if closer to the bullseye. Yet decades later, by happenstance and the woes of aging physically, I suddenly found that this unseen force had not disappeared from view.

 

A neighbor in her 40s fell prey to a heart attack. A co-worker in Geneva was diagnosed with stage-four cancer, and passed in a matter of weeks. Then, I reached a point where my own mobility had become so limited that I had no choice but to retire early. Something for which I was completely unprepared.

 

As I struggled through months and years without a regular routine, a new reality took hold. Both parents concluded their life span, in the space of approximately 18 months. I learned a great deal about handling the responsibilities involved, with help from my sister. A platonic friend met in Ashtabula County filled the resulting void with needs of her own, after a heart attack and three strokes. I took her to see doctors and a lawyer, and finally, handled her paperwork on my own. Never at any point in this process did I dwell for too long on the concept of death or dying. Yet somehow, with the creeping crawl of a slow-moving apparition in effect, I realized that my personal space had been invaded. Overtaken, in a sense, by fate.

 

My brother had to be hospitalized, and landed in a nursing home. My sister developed diabetes, and then cancer, in a rapid and inexplicable succession. A best friend from days in the Empire State had a health crisis in New York City, and was stuck, hours away from his home in the Finger Lakes Region. And my brother-in-law succumbed to senile dementia.

 

These bursts of virtual machine-gun fire left me riddled with doubt, when considering what lay ahead. For the first instance that I could remember, so many members of my own tribe, and those in my circle of friends, were incapacitated that it made my head spin. I could not comprehend having reached such a benchmark, seemingly in good condition, when my own lifestyle had been so full of sin and bad behavior.

 

I could not justify still being on the outside, with my liberties intact.

 

Most recently, the quick collapse of Terry DuFoe, my radio and broadcasting hero, sent me into a creative funk. Especially with California guitarist Davie Allan already having retreated into seclusion, due to his own maladies. But as a metaphorical sunset was about to blot out the daylight, I got a telephone call from Ms. T, someone at the center of my social perimeter. An adviser, expert witness, sounding-board, and occasional co-conspirator. Someone who could balance a lively conversation with the gastronomic bliss of a meal shared in the Cleveland area.

 

She had received her own diagnosis of the proverbial end-times being close at hand, and chose to use this occasion with wisdom and sobriety. She had decided to call each and every figure that dotted her path with importance. For the purpose of communicating love and appreciation. Against that backdrop, the process of handling legal chores had begun. I was struck by her courage and discipline. Not to mention being humbled by my inclusion on her roster of true friends.

 

As before, I have been busy with the labor of helping others who are on their way to traversing the horizon of eternity. Too much to wallow in heavy thoughts of my own graduation from the flesh. But when that tick-tock of God’s celestial clockworks resounds, I hope to meet it with the same intensity and fortitude. And perhaps with a final testament offered here, in print.