Trailer Park Vignettes: “Trustee”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-26)

 

 

Fronden Able had lived across from Evergreen Estates ever since his family bought a piece of property along Pine Trail Road, in the 1960s. A move from the urban congestion of Cleveland that at first, seemed liberating. He made new friends in the rural township, enjoyed riding bicycles along trails in the wooded area behind their adopted home, and tended to a garden with his parents. The change from city living to this slower, friendlier pace gave him a renewed sense of joy over being alive. But after graduating from high school, he stalled intellectually. The lazy routine he had inherited was too forgiving in real terms. He had no reason to push himself toward educational goals, and career advancement. His needs were met by simply being where he was, in the same bedroom since his teenage years, with a stereo system and color television for entertainment. Knowing neighbors who were patient and familiar, going to church on the community square, and earning subsistence wages as a laborer-for-hire at vineyards near Lake Erie. Everything came easily, from sunrise to sunset. Only the bluster of winter weather caused him any distress, and even that represented little more a temporary nuisance.

 

Nothing bothered him in this safe cocoon of emotional tranquility, except for the cluster of manufactured trailers that stood on the other side of their isolated route. It was, by any description, a primitive and ugly development. A park apparently built to house low-income families who were shunned by more affluent towns in their prosperous county. It was dirty and noisy, full of pickup trucks with bad mufflers and roaring motors. Its inhabitants often attracted attention from the sheriff’s department, or township police. There were campfires burning on summer nights, and music that blared from dashboard radios, and out of open windows in the singlewide homes. He could smell the stench of tobacco and marijuana smoke perpetually. And hear the combative cheering of drunken revelers, long into the night.

 

It was a spectacle that often made him wonder why his parents had chosen such a spot when hunting for an escape from their metropolitan neighborhood. Though he knew well why that choice had been made, initially. It came down to a matter of the purchase price, which was unusually cheap because of the land’s proximity to that eyesore across from their front yard.

 

When his father and mother both departed for a skilled-care facility, and then died in succession, he was left with a sort of albatross which no buyer would take, willingly. Offers for the acreage and buildings were never generous. Realtors did not want to market the property for anything but extra farmland. When complaining about this disparity, he was reminded of a platitude in the business that sounded irritatingly familiar, yet undeniably true.

 

“The three most important things in real estate are, location, location, and location!”

 

Finally, having reached the age where he was ready for his own retirement, the transplanted Cuyahogan decided that something had to be done. He could not bear to spend his days listening to the cacophony of redneck music and alcohol-inspired martial disputes. So, he ran for a position of township trustee and once elected, began to study the rules and regulations that governed having such a residential preserve within their district.

 

The yield was a stormy precipitation of code violations, and procedural offenses.

 

The owners of Evergreen Estates were anonymous and distant. But upon being called into court, in Ohio, they suddenly became vocal and visible. There were lawsuits and counter-suits. Park inhabitants threw tantrums at association meetings in the maintenance garage. The on-site managers kept quitting, fearing bodily harm when visiting their own office. Services were neglected, the streets crumbled, lights were left burned out, and the fields became overgrown with weeds and brush. Rocks sailed across the pavement, and soon filled the grass of their cranky assailant. He would swear oaths of vengeance, when mowing the lawn.

 

Eventually, Fronden sat on the sidewalk in front of his dwelling, and yowled with displeasure at each of these attacks. He wanted the impoverished, pre-fab village to simply go away. Perhaps under the massive blades of a bulldozer team. Or when succumbing to the blaze of an arsonist’s mischief. He thought it would be just and fair to see the stubborn stain rubbed out, forever.

 

But oddly, this episode of harassment and hardship had the opposite effect.

 

Leaseholders and renters organized a pig roast for the Independence Day weekend. It was sponsored by the local racetrack, and a Dollar General store on the hilltop. Then, the neighborhood association did something that was unthinkable. They invited their tormentor to attend, and immerse himself in the unique culture of their humble hamlet.

 

The senior malcontent was astounded upon receiving this note in his mailbox. He shouted angrily while dragging his feet all the way back to the front door.

 

“ARE THEY FREAKING CRAZY? I’D LIKE TO GO OVER THERE WITH A GAWDAMN SLEDGEHAMMER AND TEAR SHIT UP! WHAT KIND OF INSANE NONSENSE IS THIS? I WISH THEY WOULD ALL GO STRAIGHT TO HELL!”

 

He had been determined to refuse the invitation, and continue finding reasons to cite the development over deficiencies in their upkeep. But other trustees on the township board had become fatigued with this strategy of antagonism. A resolution was voted on, and passed in a monthly meeting. One that called for an olive branch to be extended, with some kind of rapprochement between the warring sides.

 

The reluctant oldster felt incredibly out-of-place when walking across their road, and entering the notorious community. Yet when approaching the garages, he saw a long line of tables that had been set up for serving a sort of banquet meal. There were large bowls of potato salad, ears of sweet corn piled high on serving plates, steaming crocks of pulled pork with barbecue sauce, seasoned green beans, and chunks of roasted hog. Along with homemade rolls and biscuits, chocolate cake, and Jell-O desserts.

 

A blessing was offered, before anyone took a bite. Granny Maylene, matron of the park, folded her hands reverently, and prayed aloud.

 

“Dear Lord, we thank you for this opportunity to come together as one. We accept this bounty in your stead, and give thanks for your grace!  We honor you with our fellowship, in a spirit of peace! In the name of Holy Jesus, Amen!”

 

Coolers of cold brew were waiting under the tables. He had not taken a drink in years, but somehow, the flavor of a blue-collar beer tickled his taste buds. He enjoyed a second round, and a third, while engaging in conversation. This odd pairing of sworn enemies took on a more gentle tone, as everyone filled their bellies and quenched their thirst.

 

A young kid dressed in stripes, shorts, and Converse sneakers approached the elected official, at last. He was freckled and pudgy, but spoke with a naïve tone of innocence and honesty.

 

“Mr. Able, I heard that ya came here from Cleveland when bein’ about my age. I never lived in a big city before, but have always heard that those people are mean and nasty. But yer alright, sir. Kinda like my papaw, he died in Kentucky, smokin’ and cussin’ and wishin’ we’d never left. My dad needed work and he found it up here, this is the best place we’ve ever lived so far. I like havin’ my own bedroom! And I hope maybe ya kin come see us again, cause I miss that old guy... he knew how ta fish and hunt and fix things with rope, duct tape, and deck screws!”

 

Fronden hung his head. He could feel a flush of blood flowing in his cheeks. Something he attributed more to the beverage alcohol than embarrassment. He had no words of wisdom to offer, so instead, just kept drinking.

 

There would be many things to ponder when he went to bed, later in the evening. But for now, he was content to eat and drink, and cease his hostility.