c. 2026 Rod Ice
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(1-26)
“No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out on the other side. Or you don’t.” – Stephen King
In all the years I have lived at Evergreen Estates, little has ever changed about my trailer community. It is a place oddly situated in the rural hinterland. Evenly distant from population centers in the eastern Ohio counties of Geauga, Lake, and Ashtabula. I cannot guess what originally prompted a landowner to construct such an inhospitable cluster of mobile homes on muddy soil that has never seemed to stabilize. Structures shift with the seasons, streets pit and crack, while poles tilt and sway. All in a seemingly physical rejection by nature, of its very existence. The neighborhood is not pretty or pleasant, to behold. It is not convenient as a living space. No one has ever cheered about having membership within this herd. And yet, for many of us, it was the last stop on a journey. If not for being on one of these rented, concrete slabs, I myself might be back under a bridge overpass, in central New York. Shivering in the cold, and cursing an empty stomach and sore bones.
Our boxcar oasis can be described with many adjectives that are rude and unflattering. But the most important of these tells the tale. It is, for better or worse, a home base from which to operate. As we do our best to get through the day. With hope that tomorrow might shine more favorably, as a new sunrise glistens from the east.
Most of my fellow residents continue to do battle with their fates. But for me, that challenge has long since passed. I no longer aspire to be clean, respectable, or beloved. I do not crave attention or accolades. I desire no rewards for my meager accomplishments. Instead, every afternoon spent drinking away cares and concerns is a joy that I cherish. To be drunk and left alone is more than enough. I relish my solitude. As I do each breath of life, taken as a gift.
When I first arrived on this site, my skills as a creative writer were languishing. I had no edge to my abilities. No cause to excel. While laboring as a business steward, for money, I sought the energy of heroes such as John McCahill, Hunter S. Thompson, Lou Reed, John Cooper Clarke, Mike Royko, and Charles Bukowski. I envied their passion and naked honesty. Their lack of inhibitions. Their fiery wit. Yet after almost a quarter-century here on the hallowed ground of this township, I have inherited a soul reshaped by circumstance. The hard lessons learned at this spot have electrified my consciousness. Even perhaps, elevated it, and intensified the need to be heard. I never thought of myself as someone who could speak forcefully and with meaning, to others. But now, stumbling along with my disability canes, back arched with the weight of sorrows, and head down as I face prevailing wind gusts, I am whole. A new image, rendered in charcoal and whiskey, blood, and dirt. This is my golden age. I have never been better, in terms of the mind, if not in the condition of my body.
When I speak of such things out loud, those who share this pre-fab grid often stare blankly as if I had just blurted out some phrase in Arabic. Or maybe, in an alien dialect as yet unheard by human ears. Their eyes grow wide. Their lungs are stilled, holding breath tightly inside, until I might confess having played some kind of joke, for fun. But my observations are not given for amusement. They are a zealous offering of praise, for receiving an epiphany. This damnation, to exile in the pines, has provided a new beginning. One I could never have expected, when entering the park as someone headed for divorce and career chaos.
It has been so long that I can barely remember my origin point. Yesterday is now faded in memory. What remains is the essence from which I sprang, as a sentient, biological seed. Heart and mind, thumping away with the cadence of being. That spark of existence is still mine to hold. Therefore, I will not surrender it willingly. Though at times, I massage it gently, with liquor and brew for medication.
I have watched singlewide trailers here burn to the ground. I have seen homicides and evictions, and extractions of offenders by the sheriff and his deputies. I have witnessed symbols of extremist groups, and firearms, being brandished with impunity. I have been pelted with stones, and marked as an outlier and misanthrope. I have fallen down, and fallen again. Broken bones and furniture, electronic devices, and felt broken inside. I have perched so close to raging bonfires, in a stupor of alcohol, that holes burned in my clothes. I have stayed up all night baring my sins to unsuspecting witnesses, and then gone back to work without sleeping. I have mourned the loss of cousins and parents, siblings, and dear friends. I have punched holes in the drywall. Broken windows. Lobbed empty bottles like projectiles, at moldy, unoccupied huts along the avenue. I have sobbed in the dark of night, with dreams of lost associations returning to mock me as I slept. All these things, failing to kill my spirit, have strengthened it instead. They put steel in my spine. They hardened the tortoise shell on my back. They gave me clear vision and fine concentration.
Though some might feel injured after surviving such experiences, I have a different reaction. One of penance, and gratitude. I have been blessed. In Biblical terms, born again.
I am Townshend Carr Lincoln. A descendant of our 16th American president. Fallen from grace, yet rescued and revived, by the same. This is my testimony. Hear it, and believe. Do with it what you will.
So help me, God.
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