Nothing To See Here: “Country Crooner” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-26)

 

 

Living alone in a rural neighborhood might seem like being exiled from polite society, as a form of punishment. Yet for this writer, I have discovered that quite often, the opposite is true. Being willfully separated from the mainstream order has meant gaining the free will to labor at my home-office desk on a schedule unhindered by the demands of a traditional existence. Family needs, strong friendships, and expectations of loyalty do not have any bearing on my daily routine.

 

I simply do as I please, and reap the benefits.

 

Yet the connectivity of modern times can often make this exercise a pointless venture. Because while I am indeed on an island of sorts, alone and unburdened by the cares and woes of interacting with other people, my ability to stay aloof is compromised through technology. As I have embraced networking platforms in the interest of basic communication and a measure of personal safety, my emotional firewalls have been compromised.

 

I am distant from everyone in a physical sense. But too easily accessible via my cell phone, or computer.

 

An example of this conflicted phenomenon occurred recently, after I posted song lyrics on my newspaper account. A blog site that I have maintained for several years, after retiring from the Geauga County Maple Leaf weekly, in 2014. I sometimes receive comments from readers who have opinions to offer about my work. And regardless of their character, these posts validate the fact that at least a few subscribers are out there in cyberspace, paying attention.

 

But one of these anonymous comments caught my attention because it stood out as being materially different from all the rest. Instead of grousing about my creative approach to literary forms, or echoing what I had already opined in print, a scanned business card filled the space below my prose. With an offer of contact and negotiations, should I choose to respond.

 

The specific post I had made was of lyrics penned for a Country Music ballad. One I imagined might be delivered in the folksy, twangy style of Johnny Paycheck or George Jones.

 

Pickle Jar

 

“Lost my wife and kids to a new-age rodeo

One I never saw ahead

I was too busy with my shoulder to the wheel

Earning our daily bread

Seven days a week on that bronco, busting out

And I felt like a man in charge

But when I found her note on the kitchen table

I was no longer living large

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

Now I’ve never been anti-social, so to speak

Not against friends and fun

I like to sit ‘round the campfires in summertime

And shoot the bull like a shotgun

But now that everything I had has gone away

It’s not the same exchange

Giving up all my free time for a paycheck

Just don’t feel the same

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

That jar came here filled with tart, cucumber treats

I used to spear ‘em with a fork

While the kids were outside, playing hide-and-seek

And my wife was thanking the Lord

But something changed on a day when I worked overtime

There came a visitor, unknown

And the one who repeated marriage vows at our church

Said she’d had enough of cowboys and cornpone

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

I gave up my job and that house by the riverbank

They didn’t rate anymore

I went to live in a singlewide rail car, sitting on wheels

A mattress laid out on the floor

Friends thought I must have had a broken heart

But it’s not quite that kind of a hurt

You see, I’m sadder, but wiser as an old mutt, off-the-chain

With my doghouse in the dirt

 

Lonely in an empty nest

Or hanging out at the local bar

Either way, it’s all the same

So, I’ll be drinking from a pickle jar

 

Done with the empty nest

And my favorite stool at the local bar

Just three fingers of Tennessee whiskey

Waiting in my pickle jar...”

 

Upon rereading my composition, I was puzzled that anyone would take it as a serious statement with artistic merit. Could it be possible that my writing abilities had struck a promoter directly between the eyes? That seemed doubtful, to be sure. I had no illusions about my skills as a small-town wordsmith. Other than providing ruminations to entertain a local audience, nothing in my portfolio had ever aroused much interest. So, I did not feel puffed up by this unexpected contact from the ether.

 

Yet the notion of someone seeing value in these verses nagged at my subconscious mind.

 

I dreamed frequently of encountering managers and record-label representatives, and performing live at the Grand Ole Opry. My sleep became restless and fraught with torment. Finally, I could not restrain myself any longer. Temptation made me weak and humble. I revisited the information that had been provided, before reaching for my wireless device.

 

The number I had was for a company located in Hendersonville, Tennessee. Supposedly a concern that officially did business with a slew of modern stars. My ears tingled when listening to their telephone menu. As I navigated through choices in the electronic roster, my pulse quickened with anticipation. Then, a booming voice filled my handset.

 

“Y’all have reached the office of T. Randall Squire Promotions! My friends call me ‘Country Squire’ like the station wagon! If ya got this exchange from me, or someone here, please reference that in yer message. Leave a call-back number and we’ll get to ya shortly. Make yer plea at the tone. And have a good day, hear?”

 

I was out of breath, and wheezed my way through a brief introduction.

 

“Mr. Squire, my name is umm... well, it sounds fake to be honest. It’s Ice, that’s spelled with three simple letters. Anyway, you made a comment on my newspaper blog. And honestly, at first, I thought it might be a ruse of some kind. But if not, then here I am front and center. Just a hack contributor to the publishing continuum. I don’t have a band or anything of that sort, and rarely pick up my guitars these days. But the muse still moves me on occasion to compose hillbilly ditties. So there you have it, I appreciate your interest, and would like to discuss whatever you’ve got in mind. Take it easy!”

 

Upon hanging up, I sat at my workspace feeling numb. A mood of uncertainty had taken hold. Was I chasing a scam invitation with my response? Or, had I perhaps stumbled onto an opportunity like no other? It would be interesting to determine which of these possibilities turned out to be valid.

 

In the meantime, I needed a drink.