c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(12-25)
At Evergreen Estates, I had always been an outcast. Which, in a community populated by those who were unable or unwilling to live according to the mores of regular society, was a noteworthy achievement. I had no place to exist in comfort, even among those shunned and banished from everywhere else. It meant that I regularly went days or weeks without directly encountering another human being. Though in truth, granting that charitable designation to anyone in my rural neighborhood was something that most outsiders would never do as a matter of course.
We were not considered to be human by any mainstream mode of thinking.
Reading daily issues of the Cleveland Plain Dealer kept me connected, in a sense. But as I perused this journal for reports about crime and construction projects, and sports scores, a bold headline caught my attention. One that was obviously intended to attract interest from those still attached to the vintage habit of digesting print material from a newspaper. It made me sit up straight, at the kitchen table. And adjust my reading glasses for a more perfect view.
“NEW YORK ENTREPRENEURS SAY THAT THE TAG OF SOCIALISM HAS HURT THEIR CAUSE – THEY HAVE NOT BEEN WELCOMED BY THE GENTLE POPULATION OF GEAUGA COUNTY.”
My coffee had begun to cool while thumbing through pages of material. Yet now, my head had cleared. I crouched over the article, and frowned slightly. Its author was someone I did not recognize. But immediately, quotes included in her piece resonated with authenticity.
“Thompson Township – Pastor Cabriel Forester of a respected, local institution called ‘Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven’ says that he and his flock have long prayed for help, on behalf of underprivileged residents at a trailer park down the hill from his parish. Yet now, when assistance has arrived, he finds that many among his followers refuse to accept the terms involved. They fear being corrupted by outsiders who do not share their Christian faith, or conservative values. This has meant that a chance to join in an alternative credit union, and have their properties protected, seems not so much like a blessing, but instead, a temptation to embrace the ruinous rot of a 1960s revolution, still in existence...”
The byline was for a staff member named Kelli Ann Psenka. I could not recall seeing any of her work in the paper, before. But knew that the entire industry was in flux. Corporate supervision for such publications was changing rapidly, just as in the realm of mobile-home villages. I reckoned that the woman might actually be at a desk in Chicago, or Indianapolis, Buffalo, or Pittsburgh. Still, her slant on the story held my interest. So, I continued to scan the feature for enlightenment.
“The Proletariat Property Co-op is a firm founded in 1969 by students at Cornell University. Their stated mission is to empower owners of manufactured homes, on rented lots, to achieve goals that were once thought to be virtually impossible for people at a lower income level. They are a cooperative with unique guidelines, not the sort found anywhere else among bankers or other lending institutions...”
I had to rub my eyes. The caffeine intake had failed to erase leftover fatigue that still dogged my consciousness. I yawned slightly while tracing down through the column of text with my index finger. The tone used to depict our new owners seemed oddly charitable. Yet I guessed that at least some of those in charge at the paper must have sympathized with the PPC founders.
“Pastor Forester says that when the origin of those instigating this takeover was discussed with his congregation, many were outraged that the group originally responsible had been active in pursuing social reforms during the era of our involvement in Vietnam. Praise for Karl Marx and Friederich Engels was common among those enrolled at universities across America, at the time. This populist outlook was translated into a plan where all shareholders in the student co-op were and are considered equal. Those who lack financial wealth or other assets are able to contribute their labor hours to the collaboration. This gives everyone a stake in their success. It also means that instead of legal actions and evictions, those facing hardship are offered solutions that preserve their homes and their rights. It is a novel idea that has never caught on with a majority in the industry. But now that Mayor Zohran Mamdani has been elected in New York City, and other progressive officeholders are coming to the fore, one can rightly observe that there may be more interest in looking at this resident-friendly business plan, going forward...”
I knew that there had to be some sort of a contrarian viewpoint, included for perspective and a sense of balance. In the last paragraph, I found that note of dissent.
“Local citizens are not happy about the new owners, however. A rent strike at the trailer development in Thompson has stalled the implementation of new procedures, while things are sorted out on-site. Manager Dana Alvarez indicated that only three people, out of over 170 individuals and families, have paid their monthly bill. This has raised eyebrows at Wells Fargo, where much joy had been expressed over getting Evergreen Estates off their books. There is some concern that Governor Mark Moerlein may have to take action, to prevent chaos at the park. But for at least one, long-term inhabitant, there is no cause for alarm. Widow Maylene Jefka, who has lived in the area for over 70 years, says it does not affect her outlook on being in the community. ‘All of my friends are here! My children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren! Why would I go anywhere else?”
I could hear some sort of a disturbance outside, after finishing the article. Upon going to the front porch, with some difficulty, I saw that Aimes Hefti and a small mob of militia members had gathered around the longbox dwelling of my esteemed neighbor. One of the rowdy bunch had painted graffiti on her empty driveway. A crude rendition of the hammer & sickle logo used by sympathizers for neo-communist organizations, worldwide.
My stance was wobbly even with both canes on the ground. But I raised one of my implements in a show of force. The occasions when I was vocal on my street were rare. I never liked to attract attention to myself. Yet now, I had to stand and be heard.
“HEY COMMANDO! GRANNY MAY IS OFF LIMITS, YOU DUMB SON-OF-A-BITCH! NOBODY MESSES WITH HER! YOU WANT SHERIFF RATH OUT HERE, CHEWING ON YOUR ASS? THAT’LL DO IT! TAKE YOUR GANG OF HILLBILLY THUGS AND GO HOME! DON’T MAKE ME DIALL 911, I’M NOT IN A MOOD FOR YOUR BULLSHIT! GET THE EFF OUT OF HERE, PRONTO!”
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