c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(10-25)
Politics is the one subject which I never settled upon with any great certainty of faith and philosophy, as a budding human intellect. Having grown up in a two-party environment split evenly between belief-chasms, I became, perhaps by necessity, agnostic. Not a member of one tribe, or the other, in totality. I found it easy to see good, or failings, on both sides. This middle ground left me stable in terms of outlook, yet alone generally, as a functioning member of the voting populace. To observe candidly and with sobriety about such things often seemed akin to being a small fellow who observes, metaphorically, “The emperor is naked!” Few if any rewarded this kind of even balance with cheerful expressions of kinship. More likely were raised eyebrows and shrugs, offered with suspicious snorts of indifference. But it was the path that I took, by choice.
This narrow strip of real estate is where I still live today, in heart and mind.
On a recent afternoon, while basking on my inset porch in the autumn glow of a Wednesday, I was approached in succession by two different neighbors. Both were outside, and also enjoying the unseasonably mild temperatures. The first was someone I knew well, but rarely saw in my rural development. A lanky, grizzled Army veteran and professional carpenter, walking his cantankerous, young pooch for pleasure and relaxation. His own longbox dwelling was situated at the back of our shared property. So, we typically encountered each other only by chance, and in brief moments of passing on the street. Or pausing for a look at the community mailboxes.
I noted without comment that he was wearing a camouflage cap adorned with a bold, promotional logo for our current presidential administration. And it did not take long for our conversation about respective families, old chums, and workplaces, to veer into a minefield of ballot-box opposition. He quickly began to beat his chest about watching the Newsmax television channel, and spouted all sorts of conspiracy theories relating to the economy, Covid vaccines, healthcare insurance, and a myriad of other concerns.
In a different setting, I might have expressed some strong opinions about these issues. But I was enjoying a cold brew, and a gentle breeze of changing meteorology. Thus, I simply listened and nodded at appropriate intervals. His stream-of-consciousness chatter came at me like the hard retort of an assault rifle. Offered without hesitation, shyness, or inhibition. When he had finished with this citizen rant, a smile of satisfaction spread across his gritty complexion. He bowed slightly, tugged at the leash of his black canine until it literally danced upon white paws, and bid me adieu.
Somewhere in this hurried confessional, details about contacts that we held in common were inserted. It made me glad to have endured the odd encounter, to learn these things and as a result, be better informed.
A second session of lively banter resounded soon afterward, as a closer neighbor appeared from around the front corner of his own prefab shack. A resident of the park known to be willfully anonymous and standoffish, in a pleasant and inoffensive way. He had the generous girth and stature of someone in my own family. I often considered that he looked much like my younger brother, who had been a trucker and shade-tree mechanic. He too had similar skills, mixed with the blue-collar ethos of a working stiff. This made him loyal to a more liberal slant on domestic politics, one steeped in distrust of religious institutions, financial networks, and corporate employers. Central to his perspective was a virulent disdain for the one who had been praised, only a moment before.
After finding an open chair by my trash bin, and bumming a few free rounds of drink, he launched into a boisterous sermon about the evils of capitalism, and the exploitative nature of government hierarchy. As with my previous guest, I could find cause to applaud and agree, or alternately, an inspiration to voice dissent, depending on the grounds he covered. But with an abundance of self-control in effect, I simply swigged my suds, and played the role of a spectator.
All the while, what I really wanted to do was start my Weber charcoal grill. Thick-cut pork chops and whole chicken wings were waiting in the refrigerator. A bounty I had scored at Giant Eagle, earlier in the day.
By the time our informal meeting concluded, the sky overhead had begun to fade from bright blue into tones of gray and black. I rushed to start a tin chimney filled with briquettes, while checking the hour on my cell phone. As was customary, the ignition of grilling fuel did not take long at all. I reclined on my wooden bench with a dull ache reverberating through both legs, an indication that hours had elapsed since this static session had begun. Yet having maintained a measure of decorum, and spanned the divide between opposite poles of ideology, I felt relieved. No brawling was necessary.
I had earned the right to barbecue my meal, and feast when that joyful preparation was complete.
While breathing the smoky aroma of soot that wafted upward from my kettle appliance, a third inhabitant of the oasis approached. A spiky-haired, young kid who often paused at my access ramp to recount tales of his workplace in the county seat. He was on the crew at a megacenter outlet with hard goods and foodstuffs. One gifted with plenty of customer traffic, but also, a goodly amount of headaches and sales-floor conflicts. Thankfully, I had never known of him to take a political stance of any kind. And he provided lawn care when needed, throughout the summer months. He did not enjoy the taste of alcohol, so I knew that what remained of my beer stash would be safe. His only protest came when drawing near to the active grill. It made him sputter and cough, and eventually, retreat slowly to find relief.
My young helper did not linger long, after clearing his throat and seeking the comfort of a T-shirt tail, over his face. I was grateful for this mood of brevity. Finally alone, I pondered the evening with a last sip of pilsner. Then, I raised my cool refreshment in an appeal to the heavens. And gave thanks for the good fortune to be alive and well in an environment where civil discourse diversity was the norm. Even if it came in the guise of downtrodden folk who were living in the hinterland of northeastern Ohio, on concrete slabs rented by the month.
This was the soil from which I sprang, as a seedling. One made of clay, stone, and dirt. Of hard labor, excellence attained, and perhaps, a final endorsement for the power of debate, dissent, and democracy.
Amen to that, amen forever.
