c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-26)
Note to Readers: This account is skewed a bit from literal facts. Do not be alarmed.
When writing my ‘Thoughts At Large’ column for the Geauga County Maple Leaf, a newspaper published in Chardon, Ohio, I used to observe that quite often, the best manuscripts in that series seemed to write themselves. Whether as a byproduct of incidental happenings, chance encounters along the way, or random memories that appeared from the ether. But most recently, this phenomenon was aroused from a conversation heard on WJW-8, a television outlet of great renown, in Cleveland. A regular segment on their morning broadcast is called ‘Plugged In’ – sponsored by Liberty Ford. During one of these freeform, verbal interactions, the subject of reading sliced cheeses was mentioned. And while I let it pass from one ear to the other while waking myself with several rounds of coffee from the BUNN brewer in this household, eventually, the recollection caused me to post something on social media. I offered a simple opinion that as William Shakespeare is said to have observed, “Our fate lies not in our stars, but in ourselves.” I reckoned that this tidbit of wisdom also applied to reading palms, tea leaves, or falling silverware. None of that was particularly relevant, I thought, in an age of scientific analysis and documentation.
Like most of the content I share in public, this offhand remark got no likes. Despite writing for various publications over the years, I have generally managed to remain anonymous in my personal life. But later in the afternoon, as I moved to the front porch for a cold brew and fresh air, a notification chirp sounded from my cell phone.
An estranged partner who had reinvented herself as a modern-day Wiccan and seeker of ancient traditions, hit me up via the Messenger app. Her impulsive comment was blunt and very direct, as I might have expected. Yet it made me somewhat uncomfortable.
“Rodney, don’t be so sure that you’ve got it all figured out! There’s a woman right in your neighborhood who does sessions with the Ouija board. She might surprise you with her ability to see and hear things that are invisible to most people. Why don’t you give her a call?”
I was familiar with this mystic appliance, of course, but had never actually seen one first-hand. Moreover, I had never heard anyone in my rural community speak about having such interests, even after some 24 years of residency. But the admonition from my departed love-interest stuck like a dart in the wall. I could not forget her plea, wash it away with beer, or commit it to mental storage in some remote and neglected corner of my mind.
Eventually, her report caused me to chatter about this odd subject with other residents in my isolated park. At first, the query seemed to inspire concern over my emotional state, as a retired fellow, living alone with few friends on our street. But then, my appeal produced a token gesture of acknowledgement from our property manager, Dana Alvarez. A steward for the development, employed directly by distant owners located in southern California.
“You want to know about some lady who tells fortunes and contacts dead spirits? Ayyyyy, that sounds like Mercy Goodrich-Tait, she’s all the way on our back parcel. The very last road on this big piece of land. Her trailer house is a doublewide, full of cats and plants, crystal hangers, brass gongs, and burning incense. I never go there for any reason, she’s kinda spooky, you know? But I get her rent check on the first of every month, so that keeps me happy. It’s all good, bruh, I don’t judge! You do you and I’ll do me!”
My stomach began to ache just a bit. I knew that my second wife would be popping up again, on the phone, with questions about what had occurred when visiting this unusual neighbor. So, thoughts of avoiding a face-to-face encounter were hard to sustain. But I stalled on making contact for several weeks. Only an intervention by a casual friend next door put us together as a client and benefactor. Somehow, she passed along my name and number.
Eventually, a crude business card was left in my door, actually a folded piece of notebook paper, with a handwritten note clumsily scribbled in between the lines.
“To receive the gift of knowledge you must be pure. Are you a child of the wise crone? Come here, and be sure!”
I rarely ever drove to the far corner of our little village. It was a portion of the whole situated past township woods, an abandoned dump, and a busted sewer facility. I did not know anyone who lived at that point on our map. But when rolling to my destination, there was an aura of otherworldly vibrations palpable. I could smell ginseng and other aromatic elements lingering on the breeze. The lot inhabited by Ms. Goodrich-Tait was messy and overgrown. Her extended hut was surrounded by tall trees of various kinds. I guessed that sunlight was a precious commodity in such a restrictive environment. And indeed, the stoop by her front door was dark and dreary.
I knocked gently, for fear of being too forceful with my petition to be heard.
When the portal opened, I beheld a tall, slender woman with curls of gray, wearing a homespun frock dyed in hues of purple and maroon. She carried a walking stick carved from a natural branch. Though it seemed to serve no purpose other than perhaps, representing a ceremonial scepter of some sort. The interior of her dwelling was crowded and musty. An octagonal table sat in the midst of this cramped space. She invited me to sit, and then took out a glass fishbowl. Into that vessel, she poured wine vinted along the shore of Lake Erie, in Geneva. Then allowed elbows of homemade macaroni to float around in that liquid reserve.
I could not discern how this ritual would unravel riddles or reveal hidden truths. Yet she cooed and murmured over the bowl, with her eyes closed. Massaging the air with her fingers extended, and jewelry clattering.
“I see many things for you neighbor. But they will not come to pass until you believe. Am I a serpent to be feared? Am I a demon to be shunned? Am I a jester to be mocked and jeered? Only you can open the puzzle box. When the latch is set loose, your answers will prevail!”
I recalled that my erstwhile spouse had altered her personality, preferences, and appearance, in a progression that no one understood. So, the cryptic chant I heard resonated as perhaps another peek into a void of unresolved mystery. I did not comprehend her vibe, and was possibly not intended to be given that kind of access. Just as the flight of fancy that ensnared my former companion seemed artful and fascinating, yet beyond my ability to process.
As I watched, Ms. Goodrich-Tait set the fishbowl aside, and took out her vintage Ouija board. An audible growl sputtered from my belly.
“Umm, excuse me, ma’am. I’ve got to admit being a novice in this regard. Are you going to summon a ghost or gobblin now, or what?”
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