c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
“I accept chaos, I’m not sure whether it accepts me.” – Bob Dylan
Friends and associates have sometimes likened my personality to that of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. And while that might be taken as an insult by many people, in my case it is decidedly accurate. Because of the split nature of my birthright and heritage.
A son of Appalachia, but also, a child of higher education.
My paternal grandfather was someone who earned two PhD certifications, and taught engineering at a university here in the heartland. Yet he maintained a garden at home, an apple orchard, and raised chickens. The rural nature of his upbringing was never erased by more sophisticated achievements. He enjoyed staying close to the soil. My father also engaged in a routine of formal education, and chose preaching the Gospel of Christ as his calling. But his curiosity about popular culture and the human experience never waned. He could read from the Holy Bible, play his banjo in the style of old masters, and then switch to recordings made by the Brides of Funkenstein, produced under the tutelage of George Clinton. With a sideways glance at volumes of Edgar Cayce’s clairvoyant wisdom, for good measure.
The result for me, was a natural tendency to embrace contrasting viewpoints, without prejudice. I developed an affinity for balance and understanding in all things, over a narrow outlook of willful ignorance.
But that approach could sometimes confuse allies and supporters, who were used to a black-and-white separation between respective philosophical groups. I saw enlightenment in many places, even dark crevices where daylight rarely appeared. Truth, I thought, is nearly always inconvenient and unruly. Like water, the universal solvent, it eventually finds a way to break down the harsh, stoic stuff of intransigence. It wins out where no victory is possible. It glows even in a lightless void. It persists until recognized. It endures when all else succumbs to fatigue and despair. If it raises my blood pressure, and reddens my face, then generally, it must be true.
Some call this perspective chaotic. Even self-destructive. I call it normalcy. The paradigm I have come to accept as familiar and useful.
Such thoughts were foremost in my mind, as I received another call from T. Randall Squire. This time, he was forceful but pleasant, on the order of a dealership salesman attempting to move automotive product off of his showroom floor.
“Rodney, I’ve gotta say that yer silly ol’ pickle song struck a nerve with me. I’m well known fer bein’ able ta spot a hit when I hear it! And that’s got ‘number one’ written all over it! Now I ain’t makin’ promises, ya understand, but if y’all are willin’ ta trust me fer a spell, we might be able ta do business together. How’s that sound, boy?”
I sighed lightly, before offering a response.
“Well, I’m flattered of course, sir. The whole point of being a creative wordsmith is to attract readers, and apparently that mission has been accomplished here. But I must confess that otherwise, your interest is somewhat confusing...”
Squire huffed at my hesitation. I could tell that he had already made plans to promote my work.
“Y’ALL ARE CONFUSED? WELL DAMMIT, CLEAR THAT MESS RIGHT OUTTA YER NOGGIN! I’M A PRO IN THIS GAME, BOY! I KNOW WHAT’LL SELL AND WHAT WON’T. AND I CAN GUESS THAT YER CUT FROM THE RIGHT CLOTH! ONE-HUNDRED PERCENT, UP IN THE HOLLER, HILLBILLY BORN AND BRED!”
I was shy in answering this judgment of authenticity with my own opinion.
“Honestly, I’ve never cared much for Country Music. I’d greatly prefer Blues or Jazz, myself. Still, the roots of that upbringing are deep in my bloodline. Therefore, it is easy to go with that vibe, on occasion...”
The label executive snorted and laughed out loud.
“Y’ALL DON’T LIKE COUNTRY? WHAT THE HELL, BOY? WHAT YA WROTE IN YER SONG IS PURE, WORKIN’ MAN, BLUE-COLLAR MAGIC! NO DOUBT-ABOUT-IT! NO BULLSHIT! NO GAMES!”
I felt embarrassed by his words of praise. Yet attempted to sound gracious when continuing.
“I thank you, certainly. But really had no intention of garnering a music audience with my composition. It was simply a writing exercise at my home-office desk...”
Squire coughed into his fist, and then shuffled paperwork in a noisy show of discontent.
“I figured y’all must be a singer-songwriter. One of them dudes sittin’ in his trailer with a flat-top guitar and a notebook. There’s a damn truckload of people like that callin’ me every day! They all wanna make big money sellin’ records and doin’ shows. But the difference is, most of ‘em don’t got a thimble full of talent. They couldn’t get a crowd of grannies excited with what they project. But that ain’t the case with yer pickle song, boy. If yer willin’ ta work with me, great things can happen fer both of us!”
I did not know how to answer his proposition without coming off as ungrateful.
“Sir, I appreciate your generous assessment. But let’s be real about this, who would pay for a ticket to see someone from an anonymous township in Ohio? My three-letter moniker would make them laugh. And my tuneful output might sound clownish and fake...”
The professional promoter choked up as if he had a cigar in the corner of his mouth.
“Boy, tell me yer full name, okay? What’s it say on yer birth certificate?”
I paused to reflect on the legal terms of my own existence.
“Umm... that document is from a hospital in Columbus, our state capital. It reads, ‘Rodney Dean Ice, parents are residents of Franklin County, delivered by Dr. D.W. Coon...’”
T. Randall Squire began to hoot and howl as if he had discovered a gold nugget while panning in a stream.
“RODNEY DEAN, THAT’S IT! THAT’S IT! I’VE NEVER HEARD A BETTER NAME FER A COUNTRY MUSIC STAR! GAWDAMN, THAT’S PRECIOUS! THAT’S A DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH, WAITIN’ TA BE POLISHED UP BY A SVENGALI LIKE MYSELF! WE’RE GONNA BE RICH! LAID OUT IN HIGH COTTON!”
My stomach had begun to ache. For a moment, I wanted to hang up and end the call abruptly.
“Well, I appreciate your confidence. But I must say that you are overestimating my abilities. I haven’t played my guitar very often in recent years. I am disabled, retired, and earning a meager amount from book royalties. Honestly, I don’t do a lot except get out of bed in the morning, write at my desk, and then count the hours until it’s time for a drink!”
