c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(11-26)
“I never submitted the whole system of my opinions to the creed of any party of men whatever, in religion, in philosophy, in politics, or in anything else, where I was capable of thinking for myself. Such an addiction is the last degradation of a free and moral agent. If I could not go to heaven but with a party, I would not go there at all.” – Thomas Jefferson
The midterm elections for 2026 are literally occurring as we are in the midst of an unresolved military conflict with Iran and its proxies. Yet here at home in the western hemisphere, a mood of extreme conflict is in effect for reasons not directly related to that unrest in the Middle East. We have finally reached a point feared by our founders, one of such acrimony and philosophical contrast, that our dominant tribes are in a perpetual state of combat. One that inflames every argument with bellicose rhetoric, and pits these opposite factions against each other with the effervescent vitriol of ancient armies.
Peacemaking is not a concept to be discussed among the elected horde, on Capitol Hill.
I pondered this national affliction recently, while suffering through repeated ads on my television, during every broadcast of the day. Including football games, news reports, and even when perusing video clips on YouTube.
“Liberal Senator Sherrod Brown spent 32 long years in Washington. Brown gave us a border in chaos, sky-high cost of living, and boys in girls’ sports. That’s why Ohio said (in a Trump voice) ‘You’re fired!’ to liberal Senator Sherrod Brown...”
With the vocal skills of professional announcers, I was assured that should I foolishly cast my ballot for a Democratic candidate, socialism would run rampant. Our national borders, healthcare, police, liberty to worship, and freedom in general were certain to vanish. With puffs of counterculture incense metaphorically lingering on the air, as a reminder of my mistake in the aftermath.
On social media sites, this flagrant infection of ire was just as raw. There were jaw-dropping posts that depicted Trump as Hitler, Republican voters as Klan members attired in white sheets, and as a visual counterpoint, those on the left as raging Drag Queens or anarchist protesters, bent on partnering with Muslim immigrants to impose Sharia Law. A cooperative arrangement that seemed not only unlikely, but also, theologically unworkable.
To restore a measure of sanity, I called upon my erstwhile cohort from the Geauga County newspaper industry, Carrie Hamglaze. As a faithful Catholic and a descendant of Irish immigrants, she was perhaps my best option for seeking out some thoughtful discourse amid all of the noise. But when I called via one of my vintage, Western Electric 500 rotary phones, her initial response was one of disinterest.
“Rodney, I’ve been busy all morning with a plumbing issue in the kitchen! There is a fellow from our maintenance company here right now! Did you know that drain pipes under the sink are vented for a proper flow of wastewater when emptying dishwashing residue?
Her remark was puzzling, and unexpected. I had guessed she would be actively assessing the status of local races, for her weekly column with the Chardon Claxon & Chronicle.
“Plumbing? Really? I thought you’d be reading through political materials, for clues about the current contests...”
My mentor and cohort was miffed by the distraction in her kitchen. I could tell that she did not want to be bothered with the repair of a malfunctioning sink, when more important events were happening.
“This has come at a bad time for me! But I could only get someone to help, today. So here I sit, watching this burly man take my cabinets apart. He has to get under the countertop for proper access to the pipes. Do you know how expensive this will be?”
I shrugged and coughed while thinking.
“I don’t have a clue, actually. The sink here has been erupting water onto the floor in my little dining room. So I use a dishpan and then dump whatever is left, outside off my porch...”
Carrie snorted as if I had provided a revelation, but too late for her liking.
“Why didn’t I think of that? You’re brilliant, Rodney!”
I needed her to offer words of wisdom about the electoral strife. But realized that my query might be sidelined in favor of her present need for a kitchen fix.
“Friend, my head has been aching from all these raucous campaign advertisements. They seem to get louder, and more prolific, every day! I can’t escape them, no matter where I go. And I can’t find my usual videos online, like dogs playing piano while howling along, or cats cracking jokes and hissing at their owners. I need to stop this insanity! Can’t you offer some advice? Otherwise, I might become completely desperate, and take a sledgehammer to my TV set...”
While conversing with my esteemed colleague, another attack sounded from the vacuum-tube, Zenith radio on my desk.
“Of all 535 members of Congress, who’s taken the most money from associates of Jeffrey Epstein? John Husted, that’s who. In fact, Husted’s taken over $116,000 from one of Epstein’s closest friends and co-conspirators. And last year took a maximum donation from him just weeks before voting to block the release of the Epstein files. John Husted: Who’s he really working for?”
I covered my eyes, with both hands trembling. Then, there was a whistling sound from the telephone receiver.
“Rodney, when I can’t take anymore of something, be it stress or stupidity, or careless mistakes with grammar or punctuation, I turn to an age-old remedy from my ancestors. It has gotten me through many trials and tribulations, and I depend on it whenever the weight of living is heavy on my shoulders. A good, stiff drink of Jameson Whiskey, neat in my emerald glass!”
Her candid advice rattled my nerves. But I could not debate her unconventional approach without first, giving it a try.
“Jameson Whiskey? You’re kidding! At your age? My goodness, Carrie! That’s a hoot!”
She huffed slightly at my rude retort. But maintained her composure while a metallic clanging persisted, in the background.
“I’m about to have a snort right now, as a matter of fact. Once this big bruiser finishes his work, that is! I recommend it highly, if you’re really in a tizzy about all the campaign caterwauling! Have a good drink, sit in your office chair, and let it all go! Turn off the lights and take a nap! You deserve it, and so do I!”
I did not have any liquor in my household, but decided to settle on a cold brew, instead. Her prescription for relief sounded better than enduring more punishment from the partisan pundits who were determined to vanquish foes, and spin their victories.
I fell asleep while dreaming of my childhood days. A different era, with John F. Kennedy in the White House, which I reckoned would never come around again.
In wartime, any comfort, however slight, was a welcome diversion.
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