c. 2026 Rod Ice
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(1-26)
Pastor Podmore Redman had many joys in life. His marriage to wife Charlene, his children, and a simple home in eastern Kentucky where he had grown up, but rarely lived for any length of time afterward. He kept the slab-sided, hilltop cabin as a point of reference. A marker that indicated where his journey in service to the Lord, as a gospel preacher, had begun. He was known within the Church of Christ community as a leader worthy of respect and renown. Only one failing dogged him, as this life of many blessings unfolded. Specifically, the wayward tilt and wandering of his eldest son, Parker.
As a child, this budding entity took root in the hillbilly soil, while manifesting talents that assured others he would follow in his sire’s footsteps. He was smart and studious. A good helper in Sunday School, and always interested in learning the doctrine of his forebears. He rarely interacted with other students at school, preferring the company of parishioners. His appearance was clean-cut and carefully groomed. Almost to the point of military specifications. He was careful to make his bed, every morning. He doted on his mother, and maternal grandma. He was polite and courteous. No one ever had a negative opinion to offer of this aspiring figure. It seemed certain that he would also inherit an existence of esteem and holiness.
But the mystery of faith became more muddled when their brood was whisked off to a small, suburban congregation in Pennsylvania. Still young and developing, he attended a public school where knowledge of his non-denominational fellowship was lacking. Bullying from others in his classes, and even from teachers on the staff, was soon a component of every day. He found himself isolated and withdrawn from the neighborhood where they lived. His temper flared occasionally, which brought on pangs of guilt and remorse. He argued with his parents, something that had never happened before. Then, at the age of 17, he disappeared completely. Many prayers were raised, over this unexpected development. Posters were put up around town. Police officers were enlisted to assist in the hunt for clues. Yet the yield was a zero sum. A vacant chair at the dinner table. An empty mattress in his bedroom. Books and bibles, abandoned. With broken hearts throbbing from despair, in his wake.
Parker shucked his skin at that moment, for a new beginning. He hitchhiked around the region, remembering ads in the back of Cycle World Magazine for those interested in mechanical trades. He was taken by the sounds and smells of garage laborers, who worked magic with primitive tools and their wits. He soon had grease and oil under his fingernails. His hair grew long and shaggy. His beard flourished from neglect. At a parlor in western New York, he purchased a first tattoo, a design based on the classic, company logo of Harley-Davidson, out of Milwaukee. It was paid for through a bargain with a benevolent stranger who rode with a club dressed in leather and denim. A man with no children, who had become a widower while employed at a local dealership. Through the embrace of this adoptive malcontent, a blue-collar boozer with calluses and scars, a redemption of sorts was bestowed. The underaged, greenhorn rebel earned his stripes as a prospect, while doing odd jobs around the shop. And, the ownership of a 55 cubic-inch, Ironhead XLCH. A 1959 Sportster motorcycle.
A custom exhaust system, fabricated by hand, gave this two-wheeled hoss a unique appearance. A style intended to echo fashionable trends of long ago. Twin pipes stuck out behind, with flared tips on each side. A garish statement of excess noted by everyone else in the gang. Before long, a nickname was given to endorse and commemorate this happening. One that would stick like a gooey piece of duct tape, for many years to come.
Friends and foes alike called him Fishtail. Before long, the memory of who he had been faded into insignificance. He had been reborn.
While growing older, stronger, and wiser, he gained a reputation in counties west of the Finger Lakes region. He had absorbed skills with a wrench and screwdriver that made him an object of desire for brothers in the wind. He was oddly handsome, in spite of a flowing, tangled mane that sometimes made him appear to be a lion prowling for prey. Women who were already connected with other riders sought out his company, and companionship. Fights ensued when these interactions were too friendly in nature. He received a busted jaw, flattened nose, and even a broken leg after an accident, leaving town in a hurry. But all of these challenges served to harden his resolve. And sharpen his focus on survival.
He was in and out of jail, frequently. Fingerprinted and documented, by members of law enforcement. He had morphed from a kindhearted kid, into a raucous rogue with blood-red eyes and his fists always clenched. Anger over this metamorphosis still burned in his gut. He was short on patience. It did not take much to make him lash out with violence. Though the core of his philosophical outlook retained its foundation on a preference for solitude. Eventually, he once again withdrew from any social interaction. He refused to participate in sanctioned events. He dumped his apartment, and girlfriend, choosing instead a vagabond sojourn. He did not bathe or eat, or do anything to maintain his health. Bourbon whiskey was his lifeblood. It soon curdled his insides like a crockery cask of clotted cheese.
Then, there was a notice in the newspaper, discovered by a member of his erstwhile club. An obituary for the one man who had literally given him everything. His genetic profile, his gait and girth, his original identity. That contribution was one he had willfully denied for decades. And now, it came rushing back in a wave of sorrow and reflection.
“Church witnesses have reported that Rev. Podmore Redman, 93 years old, a native of Whitehouse Kentucky, was found dead in his study at the Mt. Carbon sanctuary in Johnson County, on Monday evening...”
Suddenly, all of the rage, rebellion, and consternation in his heart fell away. He was a seedling once more. A pale, scrawny, naïve understudy to the single person who had ever truly held his interest as an example to emulate.
His chest heaved with spasms of judgment, and the agony of consequences. His face burned with traces of salt and grit in every pore. He doubled over, eventually falling to his knees. And then, there was a gentle whisper in his ears. A voice so familiar as to be close in character to his own.
“Listen to the Great Commission, Parker. Do you recall what Jesus said to his disciples? From the Gospel of Mark, ‘Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost; Teaching them, to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.’ Believe in that, my beloved son. Trust in it. I am with you, always...”
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