c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-26)
After my surreal conversation with T. Randall Squire about joining his stable of rural artists, I needed to seek comfort in the form of a cool beverage. Temperatures in my neighborhood had soared to nearly 100 degrees. So, I sat in my living room with a box fan blowing air around the crowded space. I still had moving crates stacked here and there, in addition to various pieces of castaway furniture. Relics from different periods of my past life, before disability and isolation took hold. Viewed as a whole, the household collection appeared chaotic and even obsessive. As if I might have been a hoarder of some kind, driven by a form of mental instability. Yet the truth was more complex in nature. I had persistently chased career goals until my body began to surrender. Then, with my finances ruined and allies scattering, I simply learned to exist on a level dictated by necessity.
I had seen my elderly father do much the same, as he survived into his 80s, while caring for my mother who was affected by senile dementia.
In my own terms, this battle proved to be less of a burden. Because I was the only member of my household, someone without high standards of need or want in effect. I had grown up with moving as a constant, always losing old friends and gaining new horizons. Never sitting on a spot for long enough to sink roots into the soil. This tumbleweed upbringing served to insulate me against the prejudices and hard perspectives of others. But when I finally ceased this endless rush to nowhere, it took a period of adjustment to become acclimated.
As companions became fewer in number, I turned toward my work. As with my pater, the desk was a refuge, and sanctuary where I could always go to find absolution.
While pondering the notion of penning material under the tagline of Rodney Dean, I once again felt a nudge toward rural ruminations. And what followed was a fictional story told in lyrical form. One that I suspected Mr. Squire would appreciate.
Aldous Crane
“Aldous Crane lived outside of town
In a singlewide shack
They said he became a widower
When his wife had a heart attack
But the true tale is complicated
The heart spell was his
She ran off with a neighbor
When he had no more to give
That boy did his best
But he just couldn’t pass the test
That split broke him in pieces
He was nevermore alive
Like an empty jar sitting out
With nothing on the inside
It left him cold and lonely
Though he smiled through each day
With his Tennessee whiskey
In pitchers of Lynchburg Lemonade
That boy couldn’t get it right
He drank a full bottle, every night
Aldous Crane got to be an old fool
Sitting out on his front porch
It was uncomplicated fun
Stuck right there by the storm door
Nobody came calling to check
Which he rightly did prefer
Nobody really gave a damn
And he was grateful to endure
That boy was running solo
In a backwoods part of Ohio
Daisy Dee saw him on a Sunday morn
And invited him along to church
She said, “Come and hear the Holy Word!”
As he dribbled down his T-shirt
“A shaggy man of your kind
Needs to be reclaimed!”
The very thought put rocks in his belly
He had no interest in being saved
That boy had forgotten how to love
He didn’t care for heaven, above
But she came around, near every day
And kept teaching him with verse
From her tattered copy of the Bible
And candy mints in her purse
She was too wise for a taste of liquor
And by goodness, he was not
But every visit served a purpose
They became partners in thought
That boy had a feeling that some day
They might wed, no matter what folks would say
Aldous Crane finally made a proposal
One that met between the halves
He said, “Give me one more drink of bourbon
And I’ll go up to Sunday class!”
That bargain changed the moment
She saw him with a different face
The moment brought a revelation
And his sorrow was erased
That boy finally figured out
That there’s a way to shed shame and doubt
Now that bearded bum is content
To share his happy stoop
No longer hungry in the evening
Fed on cornbread and bean soup
Daisy Dee is queen of their roost
A godly woman, satisfied
The pair cleaves unto each other
As the good book says is right
That boy finally found a special friend
Staked a claim on being born again
That boy finally found a special friend
Staked a claim on being born again...”
Unselfconsciously, I posted the song on my newspaper blog. And before an hour had passed, my cell phone chirped and squawked with notifications. Then, I heard the ringtone of a classic, Western Electric 500 begin to resound.
A voicemail message had been left at my number.
“Rodney, it’s yer pal, Country Squire again! I just read the words of that new ditty y’all wrote, and I gotta say it’s another damn winner! Boy, ya really have a knack fer gettin’ right down ta the heart of a good ol’ ballad! Plus, this time, yer inflection is more on the positive side. I’d say we need more of that, as there’s been plenty of stuff written about drinkin’ and divorce, or barroom fights and goin’ ta jail! I like a happy ending now and then. Not that we want ta get sappy about life of course. I mean, it is what it is! Workin’ folks get their hands dirty fer a reason. It’s because life in the heartland, or the south, or west, still means sacrifice and heartache! That’s the target we’re aimin’ at every day. That’s how tickets are sold and records fly off the shelves! It’s a formula that has worked for many, many years!”
I had to hold my stomach for a moment, after listening to his message. Though his interest came as a pleasant diversion, I had no real interest in joining his roster of talent. Anonymity gave me cover to continue my craft, unaffected by outside interference. To jump on a bandwagon of public personalities would be to surrender that protective isolation.
I was content in my own skin. Adopting the affectations of a manufactured persona, for monetary gain, did not seem like a bargain worthy of making on any level.
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