c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-25)
Evergreen Estates was obsessed with new ownership for our park, as the Thanksgiving holiday was drawing near. This progression from a vibrant display of fall colors, to the impending arrival of winter, was moving at a pace too rapid for my liking. Yet the seasonal change was something known well to park residents. The transition of our distant caretakers, an event that happened rather anonymously and in a world of which we were barely a part, seemed less important. So, I did not dwell on it for any length of time. Having our property held by a co-op of benevolent, socially-conscious investors resonated with charity. I reckoned that their stewardship would be kinder in nature than the hard, fiscal attitude of previous owners. But this opinion was not shared by anyone else on my street.
As always, I was an outcast. Even among those already ostracized from regular society.
This role of being a loner and contrarian was very familiar. One that I embraced with great relish. Because I stayed drunk and oblivious, throughout most of my waking hours, the verdict of others meant very little. I did not care about their opinions. More specifically, because of my prevailing inebriation, I tended not to notice insults and verbal jabs lodged in my direction. When they did register, I always responded with a raised, middle finger. And perhaps, a rejoinder offered in loud, four-letter bursts.
Yet with the winding-down of cyclical meteorology, and a chilling in the atmosphere, I found myself waylaid by the passing of a younger sister, Rhubie. It was a dreadful happening that seemed to come out of nowhere. Blazingly hot and hard, and relentless in force. She received a diagnosis early in the year, of health issues that were undetected by regular examinations. A surprise to her, the doctors involved, and our family. As each condition was treated, some new wrinkle appeared. Then, pancreatic cancer was added to this ugly cyclone of circumstances.
Fearing her demise, I sat with her at a local skilled-care facility for three hours, and reminisced about our shared childhood. We had tackled many family woes together. Being the oldest, I found that she always turned to me in times of need. Though she herself was the hub of our brood. The axis upon which everything else turned. Our chat was emotional, but pleasant. Much like many that we had enjoyed over the years. I did not remark on the fact that she had become pale and sluggish. Her eyes and cheeks were sunken. Yet for that brief instant, she sparkled with energy and life. I was able to compartmentalize my unspoken concerns, and simply enjoy the experience. Without surrendering too much of a visceral reaction.
On the way back to Evergreen Estates, I passed a memorial field, not far from my trailer community. The sight of this sprawling, local cemetery did not resonate as I steered toward home. Though subconsciously, I must have been mindful of those friends who had already been laid to rest at the site. Only a few days elapsed before I received news that my beloved sibling had been transferred to a hospital in downtown Cleveland.
She died just after three o’clock on a Saturday morning.
I might have observed that this exit from our bloodline was one that left me in a state of numb indifference to maintaining my daily routine. But the truth was more complex. I had made a quantum leap beyond the guardrails of a polite, human existence, many years before. So, perhaps in individual terms, I found it easier to cope. Others in my lineage were wrecked mentally and physically. They struggled to maintain proper contact with each other. They lost focus, and their zest for going forward, toward future plans and goals. Everything had been scattered, like pieces on a gameboard. There was no certainty that tomorrow could or would bring a sense of relief.
But for me, little changed. I stayed sloshed, disconnected, and safe in my pit of darkness.
Eventually though, the noise of bickering residents invaded my metaphorical bubble. Reports about the land transaction between Wells Fargo, and the Proletariat Property Co-op, had been shared by media sources along Lake Erie. WCPN 90.3 FM provided a thorough analysis of the transfer, that I streamed through my cell phone. Though I doubted that anyone else in the park was also listening, those details soon became woven into a mantra of conservative rebellion and outrage. One that propelled members of my isolated community into action.
“Reports from our correspondents with National Public Radio indicate that a new form of financial innovation has been planted right here, in the northeastern region of Ohio... in a place that one might suspect would never willingly accept such a progressive and grassroots effort to grow. After many company changes over the past several years, a Geauga County enclave known for crumbling conditions, chaotic management, and surging militia memberships, has now become the largest holding of a group dedicated to citizen empowerment, social justice, and equity. The co-op is one started originally in 1969, by students at Cornell University. Their initiative at first roiled the world of high finance. With a period of uncertainty and gloom marking their early history. But today, the PPC offers working-class participants a chance to acquire homes and living spaces through a unique platform of shared responsibilities... every member of the group is technically equal to all of the others. Though in practice, there is some specialization with regard to duties in the collective. The laborite ethic of ‘from each according to his ability, to each according to his needs’ is central to their outlook. With inflationary pressures, credit tightening, and wage stagnation, more interest is being given to novel ideas of this kind. In a nation where the bottom 50% of inhabitants hold only 2.6 percent of the wealth, it is easy to see causative factors for this shift to more populist methods for gaining a foothold in the marketplace...”
Down the street, I could hear that Linn Speck, an active parishioner at our local Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven, was in his driveway with a bullhorn. The grating sound of his voice turned my stomach. Despite its digestive tissues already being scalded with copious amounts of whiskey and beer. His call to action was for a meeting to be held at the maintenance garage, on Sunday after services on our township square.
“TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! TRUMP! MAKE THIS PARK EVERGREEN, AGAIN! MAKE IT GREAT! MAKE IT GREAT!”
I pumped my right fist in the air, as a mock salute to his zeal. Then, opened my glass jug, and took a blissful dive into Tennessee oblivion.
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