c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(10-25)
“The next time you encounter a difficult obstacle or problem, you should smile and say, ‘Here’s my chance to grow.’” – Zig Ziglar
When I exited the world of retail management in 2016, this paradigm shift came as an unexpected flash of disability and changing needs at my workplace. I was unprepared for the moment, though subconsciously I had pondered the eventual decline of my physical skills for months and years. Upon being challenged to face this reality, I reacted with a sense of realism and an optimistic viewpoint on future goals. Yet after a full year of searching for another venue in which to practice the art of shepherding others to get work accomplished, I surrendered. Having met with many prospective employers to interview for open positions, and making solicitations of all kinds with my personal resume, the raw truth became clear.
I would not be active in that realm, again.
A friend with much experience in music, the military, and banking institutions, offered a stark and sober review of my predicament. One that came like a bolt of lightning as I was seeking inspiration. He said what I needed to hear.
“Rod, you keep doing the same thing, over and over, with similar results. Why not try something different, instead? At the very least, it will broaden your horizons and offer an opportunity to develop skills you might have neglected, otherwise...”
That declaration was the key I needed. His wisdom pushed aside all of my doubts and fears.
One year before leaving my safe-haven in Geneva, I had published a collection of stories written for Biker Lifestyle Magazine in the 1980s. I had reckoned on it being a swan song of sorts. A farewell to my byline trade, writing professionally for newspapers and other publications. That alternate path had never produced the level of income needed to raise a family and support a household. So, I decided to bid it farewell, with some affection lingering in the aftermath. The practical values instilled in me since childhood spoke sternly about taking charge of my own future. I reckoned that it would be sensible to focus more on earning a regular salary, and less on satisfying creative impulses. The industry of print journalism was already in flux, and I knew from first-hand experience that keeping my bills paid while sitting at a computer keyboard was a daunting task, indeed. More fraught with pitfalls and peculiarities as a consequence of every technological change that was being introduced to prospective readers. One vendor representative for a maker of soft drinks, who called upon my local grocery emporium, had been a guild writer with the Cleveland Plain Dealer. His experience made my stomach ache, in reflection. I did not want to be caught in a wilderness of futility. Cellular devices were now the mainstream marketplace of ideas and information. I had to adapt, or be ignored.
I needed a plan to put myself in a competitive position.
Meanwhile, members of my brood had their own slant on being unemployed. My sister, always a counselor and keeper of our cherished, homespun traditions, opined that my separation from regular service was a godsend. Literally, an answer to prayers sent skyward.
“You’ve been given a blessing, isn’t it obvious? This is a call to action. Don’t waste your talent! Use this moment of decision to do what you’ve always wanted! Tell your stories. Let God guide your footsteps. Don’t sit idle, and wallow in sadness!”
Her words echoed with meaning. They were repeated faithfully by my father, a favorite aunt, and other active writers in our bloodline. Eventually, I realized that no avenue remained open, other than the one that lay ahead. Out of necessity, I jettisoned life perks in favor of a minimal existence. I stopped traveling, attending social events, or eating out with friends. Strangely, this sacrifice brought a sense of peace and clarity to my daily routine. I felt renewed and invigorated. Reborn, as an individual. No longer limited by the tick-tock of timepieces running forward.
Amid the isolation of Covid guidelines, I sat in my living room, and began to chart a new course by virtual means. Using my cell phone, with a Word app loaded from Microsoft, I wrote chapters for a new book about the rural neighborhood where I lived. There were stories aplenty in my head. Some amusing to retell, and others quite dark and damning in character. It seemed likely that if published and made available for a general audience, I might incur the wrath of fellow residents by free association. But this possibility did not make me shy about relating tales of the blue-collar ethos that ruled my rustic community.
At first, I had a document of 10 chapters in reserve. Then 15, 20, and finally, a groundswell of 30, as memories appeared in bouts of nostalgic recollection. I used a cover image rendered in black-and-white, a snapshot taken in my side yard, during winter months. I thought that this severe depiction might convey a prevailing mood of hardship and resolute endurance. Yet later, after initial copies had been run through the presses, a close contact in my residence park impulsively decided to capture a portrait, as we were lifting an abandoned recliner onto the bed of my truck. Before accomplishing this simple task, I posed on the furnishing, which was clean and oddly in like-new condition. With one cane held aloft, like a king’s scepter.
That artful bit of imagination proved to be a perfect front for my book. I revised it, immediately.
Initially, the shock and shame of having to abandon my post as a retail steward made me avoid visiting stores where I had previously been a participant. And I stayed clear of public engagement, in general. I rarely admitted to having been a scholar and scribbler, on the side, with regular folk. But now, I was reenergized. Truly liberated and lively, as in olden days. With no guardrails in effect, I related my success to anyone who would listen. Not to brag or boast, but as an attempt to justify my own existence. A rationale for being awake and alive.
My testament to the rural pathos of life in the pines eventually yielded a small measure of notoriety among neighbors around the development where I lived. It caused faces to smile and voices to cheer, or laugh. That was enough of a benefit by itself. Yet what followed was a burst of confidence, and more manuscripts, in the offing.
My status as a humbled recluse vanished quickly. I would not hide my talents, again.
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