c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-26)
Mockbina Petrovich had been widowed in her native land, as a result of their invasion of Ukraine. A costly, military escapade that left many in her bloodline without husbands, fathers, uncles, and brothers, as they were pressed into service by the Kremlin. But her greatest challenge did not come from trying to exist on a small pension, amid the poverty of her rural village. It appeared after she was able to flee with the aid of relatives who lived many thousands of miles away, in the United States. She landed outside of Cleveland, Ohio, along the shore of Lake Erie. And was summarily hustled to a residential community east of that metropolitan center. A place removed from more densely populated areas, and the social order that prevailed.
Evergreen Estates, a run-down cluster of mobile homes in Geauga County, became her new home. Compared to the minimal standard of living she had known before, it was lavish with benefits and liberties. Yet despite attempts to assimilate into the fabric of this trailer oasis, she remained distinctively foreign. An outsider. One who did not belong, on any level. Her poor command of the English language made it difficult to communicate, though she had acquired slang terms from her neighbors that proved to be useful. But she was determined, with help from her adoptive family, who shared this inglorious patch of dirt, to fit in eventually.
Her first contact came as she saw an old fellow slouched on his front porch, next door. He looked something like Ded Moroz, Grandfather Frost, the Santa Claus of her own traditions. But with shaggy overtones, tattered clothes, and a strong odor of sweat and liquor ebbing from his pores.
Summoning a bit of courage, and crossing herself as she remembered her grandmother doing for holy protection and safety, she called out across the greenspace in between their singlewide dwellings.
“You live here with me? In this place, you live, I mean? I am hoping to be your friend...”
Townshend Carr Lincoln shook his head and spilled bourbon down the front of his Harley-Davidson T-shirt. He felt dizzy and confused, as if the voice ringing in his ears might actually be a drunken illusion. A chaser of cold brew helped to clear his head.
“What the hell? Live with me? Damn lady, nobody lives with me. I damn near can’t live with myself! It’s hard to look in the gawdamn mirror! But, I reckon this is as good as it gets. After a few chugs of whiskey, I don’t mind myself too much!”
The Russian immigrant giggled slightly, before shrugging as a sign of apology.
“I don’t speak so good, okay? You live here with me, in this park, I mean. We are both renting lots, I think. I got mine because cousins help, yes? They go to church with people who knew how to help...”
The alcoholic loner grinned sympathetically. He decided that the person across his side yard must indeed be very real.
“Church? What, around here? Not that one up on the hill, I’d suppose?’
Mockbina nodded at this declaration. Her ruddy complexion deepened with shades of red.
“St. Theodosius, it is, how do you say, ‘on the west side.’ I think it is like a different country from here. You agree? I ride a long time with my cousins to come here. They talk and talk and talk...”
Lincoln took another swig of Evan Williams Bottled-in-Bond. He strained to understand the choppy conversation they were sharing.
“Cousins? What, ya had cousins in America? Damn, that must mean yer family gets around!”
His new contact reacted with a smile and gesture of friendship.
“Yes, yes, we get around. I have many cousins here, many aunts and uncles. They help me to get a job, maybe. Okay? I work at the cheese house in Middlefield now...”
The boozing hermit had to rub his eyes. They were having difficulty maintaining focus.
“So, yer gonna make cheese? Damn, I’d have figured on ya making vodka, instead! I hate that potato swill though, so it’s just as well. Can’t take that moose piss!”
Mockbina narrowed her eyes, and blinked. She exhaled loudly before continuing.
“How you say, ‘moose piss?’ This is what they call wodka in America? Yes?”
Her neighbor on the porch spat beer foam and coughed.
“Naw, it’s just a joke, ma’am. Just a little wordplay on my part. I do shit like that when I drink. Don’t let it ruffle yer feathers.”
The stocky, stout lass was puzzled by this confession. Yet she maintained a cheerful attitude.
“Feathers? I have not feathers. I have nothing left in Russia, you know? There are so much killing. I dig graves for my husband, for my uncles, for my brother. War comes and it won’t go away...”
Lincoln folded his hands, as if saying a prayer.
“I get it, that was Vietnam fer us, or Iraq and Afghanistan. Too damn much war, not enough peace. I’m with ya on that, lady! With ya one-hundred percent!”
Mockbina brightened while thinking of the future.
“So, now I start here. I start again. I make a home here. You like neighbors? Yes? I be a good one, I think. I be a good neighbor. I make cheese, I save money, maybe I get an American car. In my country, cars fall apart. They cost many rubles. But they are junk...”
Her inebriated associate grinned again.
“Yeah, we get that too, it seems like nowadays, everything is made in Korea or China, or wherever. But screw it, I hardly go anywhere, anyway. I sit here and get loaded. That’s my entertainment fer the day, getting sloshed!”
The Russian femme tilted her head to one side.
“How you say, ‘sloshed?’ What is this?”
Lincoln held out a shot glass. He spilled a dribble of bourbon into the clear vessel.
“This is what the eff I mean! Take a snort of this mash, honey! It’ll tickle yer innards!”
When Mockbina approached, to accept this proffered libation, she could detect a pungent aroma of distilled spirits. The drink burned in her throat. She was cross-eyed for a moment. Then, with a squawk of surprise in her native tongue, she shouted approval.
“HOW YOU SAY, ‘THIS IS HILLBILLY HOOCH!’ I HEAR THAT FROM MY COUSINS! GOOD WORK, GRANDPA FROST! DA, IT IS GOOD! I LIKE! I LIKE!”
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