Geauga County

 

Postcards - Chardon, Ohio

 Chardon Square

 

Chardon House

Opera House

Courthouse

Potential Sticker Designs

“The Pragmatist”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

Overnight.

My favorite time for creative work comes when the sun has vanished, and most of my neighbors are lost to slumbering away daily fatigue. Cloaked and comforted with this pause, I feel revived. Safe to approach the ideas that have percolated in my subconscious mind during regular hours.

I was at my desk in the home office. Coffee and my Black Lab offering companionship. The morning had been quiet so far, except for a light rain that teased at our windows. I was reviewing material for the local newspaper-of-record, the Geauga Independent. A task faithfully executed each day, as editor and publisher. Puzzlement stalled my dedication, however. I fretted over choosing an appropriate story for the front page. The Maple Festival, in Chardon? Spring awakening thoughts of leisure activities on the horizon? No… not now. These things had vanished.

In our current age of challenges and changes, they did not exist.

My company phone rang while I pondered. Its screen announced an anonymous number from Burton, Ohio. This made me sit upright, and take a deep breath. The device sounded three times in succession. Finally, I accepted the call.

“You have reached the Independent. May I help you?”

A cough and static filled my ear. “Rodney! This is Zeb!”

I rubbed my eyes. “Who?”

There was more static on the line. “Zebulon Byler-Gregg! Brother of Ezekiel and Lemuel! Have you forgotten me, young man?”

I laughed out loud. The caller was a trusted friend, brother of a fellow newspaper editor and also of a vagabond journalist who had moved from the Midwest to the Virgin Islands.

“Zeb! Zeb!” I laughed. “It is five o’clock in the morning!”

He growled like a bear. “So, you’re an understudy for the rooster now?”

“Wait,” I complained. “You called me, sir. Despite the early hour...”

“Rodney, I know your habits,” he said.

I nodded silently. “Yes, they haven’t changed. I made coffee almost two hours ago. Are you working on a feature for the Burton Daily Bugle?”

Zebulon huffed with indifference. “Brother Zeke hasn’t run any of my features in over a month. He’s obsessed with our pancake breakfasts being canceled because of the Coronavirus.”

“Right,” I reflected. “We’ve all experienced a shift of epic proportions. I wonder when we will find our way home to normalcy...”

He lowered the tone of his voice. “That’s what I wanted to discuss, Rodney. Being normal. As in me thinking that you haven’t been very normal, lately.”

I was unprepared for his comment. “What??”

Zebulon sharpened his thoughts. “You used to be a good Libertarian. An independent thinker, an arbiter of truth and justice in print. I liked that, liked reading your work. You were a good kid.”

I had no response. It seemed better to let him ramble.

“Governor DeWine and Dr. Acton have thrown down a gauntlet for citizens from Cincinnati to Cleveland,” he said forcefully. “A violation of liberty like we’ve never seen before. Not in our generation. Not in many generations. Not since the days when the Confederacy challenged our national unity.”

I took a deep breath. But still said nothing.

“It’s time,” he declared. “Time for citizens in Ohio to stand up for freedom. To stand up for our state and our nation. To stand up for our way of life!”

I slumped in my chair. “Zeb, get down off the soapbox.”

“You’ve sold out, brother!” he shouted. “What happened to the man who idolized Lysander Spooner? And William Godwin, Josiah Warren, or Max Stirner? And could quote them all, including Henry David Thoreau? Who voted for Dr. Ron Paul? Who used to have a porcupine bumper sticker on his pickup truck?”

“Zeb,” I laughed. “You are getting carried away. I’m not a scholar. Just a small-town writer. Though I did have the porcupine sticker, until it faded.”

“I’ve read your material in the newspaper,” he continued. “It isn’t the same. Urging people to follow CDC guidelines. The worst of big-government edicts!”

I sighed heavily. “Zeb, we are fighting a worldwide pandemic...”

“Horseshit!” he shouted more loudly. “This is opportunism. A political move!”

I leaned over my desk. “It’s a response to danger. An effort to rescue our society.”

“Traitor!” he yowled. “You’ve gone over to the other side! To socialism, to partisanship, to thought-control and submission of the masses. We might as well live in North Korea now!”

I couldn’t take any more of the rant. “ZEBULON! STOP IT!!”

He groaned as if in pain. “Rodney, you disappoint me.”

“Sorry Zeb,” I apologized. “This is pragmatism at work. Platitudes won’t help fight a virus. They won’t protect us from an invader like COVID-19. We need scientific analysis, and perhaps, a bit of luck...”

My friend went silent for a moment.

“Intellectual sparring is fun,” I added. “In normal times. An academic exercise, entertainment for political geeks like you and me. But not now, not today. Not when thousands have died and more are slipping toward oblivion. Gagging on their ventilators.”

Zebulon had grown angry. “You’re a turncoat!”

I shook my head. “I’m a pragmatist. Like my father. Conservative? Yes. An iconoclast? Maybe. Even a dedicated Libertarian? Yes, yes. My heartstrings reverberate with those tones. But I want to live. I want you to live and our neighbors to live. I want our world to live.”

“HYPOCRITE!” he bellowed.

I stiffened in my chair. “Sorry, brother. I won’t simply be a mouthpiece for the protesters. Though I defend their right to speak. I defend their right to be ignorant. But I won’t help them to wallow in darkness. I won’t will them to be uninformed.”

My cohort grumbled audibly.

“This is our creed and our mission,” I concluded. “To present the evidence. Then readers can decide. Freely and fortified with information. That is our tradition. To educate. To cast light where it is needed. To inspire analysis and debate...”

Zebulon wheezed like a door being shut. He hung up without another word.

Daybreak filled the window above my desk with brightening blue. The coffee had vanished from my cup. My dog was snoring.

Now, it was time to finish my writing project, and return to bed.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Impeachment Trial”

c. 2020 Rod Ice 

All rights reserved 

(1-20) 

Impeachment trial 

Longer run by a mile 

Drinking beer in early morning 

No siren for warning 

I sit in my chair 

Beholding the beasts 

Of these I am the least 

A conflict of politics 

Run to the light 

Long into this good night 

America is sleeping 

On this decision of champions 

Locked in battle to be won 

By the best of our tribe 

Above the muck, we rise 

To educate 

To pontificate 

Timeless, enduring 

Long-suffering all 

Let the gavel fall 

Build no wall 

Chief Justice 

Sits as the arbiter 

Of wrath incurred 

By factions set 

An experience we won’t forget 

Let me catch my breath 

And begin again 

Hear me, friends 

Wee hours begin 

In tradition we trust 

This republic 

We are us 

Names called from the roll 

Johnson, Nixon Clinton 

And the spray-tan troll 

Anti-heroes 

Anti-matter 

in the chamber reactive 

Stray bits of matter 

Stained in their existence 

A lean across the fence 

Rewarded with electric shock 

The senators in their socks 

Creeping into darkness 

The exercise is a success 

A trip for the mind 

Leaving history behind 

Keening over hope lost 

Over the cost 

An acrid flow 

For those in the know 

Impeachment 

An action of government 

A trial on TV 

Ratings to read 

To the victor goes reward 

A mini-series on board 

Plugged in for broadcast 

This won’t be the last 

High drama in D.C. 

Like Max Headroom 

Jitterbugging on the screen 

Im-peach 

Sweet tea 

Overreached 

Peachy I feel peachy 

The House has spoken 

For you and me 

Voices raised in judgment 

Articles to the Senate 

The constitution to defend 

Believe me, friend 

This is what democracy looks like 

Going long into the night 

No sailor’s delight 

Steering a partisan ship 

Into waves that flip 

One side to the other 

Believe me, brother 

This is the best 

We have to give, the acid test 

The strike for gain 

Overrules motions of the brain 

Studious foes 

Battle in their Sunday clothes 

Ritualistic procedure prancing 

Like they are dancing 

Twist and spin 

Schumer has an objection 

McConnell shakes his head 

We watch in his stead 

With Doritos and beer 

America 

America, we fear 

The sunset of a grand community 

The fade of those 

Who believe 

Where do we go, then At 1:30 a.m.? 

To our beds, with gratitude 

Respite 

Rest 

A recharge for the cellphone 

Coming home 

For weary bones 

The state of our nation is sound 

We’ll march to midnight 

High-step on hallowed ground 

And repeat the fete 

Tomorrow on Main Street 

Who cares? Who is aware? 

The nation draws a deep breath 

As we navigate our fate 

Sailing on to the dawn 

The antidote to endless night 

Schiff and Schumer 

Shaken, not stirred 

The final word 

A blot on the ballot 

Opinion, undeterred 

This process will go on 

A diva dance 

With Amazons 

For prizes to be won 

Rancor, are you done? 

Yet in the end 

The nation-state 

We defend 

With votes in November 

A mission bell 

Sounded in alarm 

To keep us from harm 

Kick kick kick 

In the air 

Listen to the souls that care 

This impeachment ride 

This surf at high tide 

Is a grand gesture given 

For democracy’s friends 

Yet we have reached the end 

Say it again 

End this fight 

Fatigue yields delight 

Turn off the light 

Good night!  

“Example & Encouragement”

Note: I read this at Mom's funeral on August 20th, 2019. I had written it earlier in the month as her health began to decline.

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-19)

Duality.

I grew up in a household founded on the principle of two as a team being stronger than one alone. This twin tradition of nurture caused a sort of natural balance to develop, from my beginning. Mother and father speaking with their own distinct voices. But doing so in harmony. He, the example for my budding self. A template. A guide for future exploration. A mentor. A genuine sire. And she, the encourager. The breath of life. The sustenance of spirit. The one who always made me believe when faith in myself was needed. She carried my fetal beginning in her womb, then carried my growing life forward with an embrace of hope that never ended.

As a child, she urged me to join a local 4-H club in Virginia. Something she had done herself as a youngster. I was socially awkward and afraid. Every meeting brought a sense of dread as I pondered my own ability to fail. But she stayed patient. Always seeding my mind with new thoughts. New opportunities. New inventions. In the group, I thrived. Like a mystic, she seemed to know instinctively that this new routine would help to open my consciousness to better things. Creative impulses that strained the limits of traditional education were embraced in this setting. Soon, fear of the unfamiliar became joy in receiving the wisdom of learned souls. I chose electricity as a focal point, with new technologies rising quickly in the early 1970’s.

Dad approved in words. Mom gave her endorsement through the heart.

At church, I memorized verses from the Christian Bible. Deuteronomy 5:16 laid a foundation for our philosophy as a family. “Honor thy father and thy mother, as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee; that thy days may be prolonged, and that it may go well with thee, in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” It was a scripture often quoted and revered. One that helped me aim for the confidence of my father in all things. But another settled in my heart. One that provided fertile soil for the concept of inner dignity to push upward toward the sunlight of truth. Selected words from Proverbs Chapter 31. “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life… Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come… she openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness… She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.”

My mind valued the knowledge borne by father, a master of sacred writings and ancient histories. But stowed deep in my spirit was the essence gifted to me by mother. An energy conveyed not through language or instruction, but by love. Delivered directly, just as her own flesh cradled and cultivated my own to the point of independence.

Perhaps this bond was the reason for our emotional connection, long after I had graduated to adult life. We would joke in the family that a typical conversation by telephone was divided unequally. With Dad, a chat might last five minutes. With Mom, it was more likely to run for a few hours. With him, each minute of speaking carried informative thoughts that might still resound many weeks into the future. Yet from her, there was a sort of comfort not unlike sitting in her lap as a child. Wandering in subject matter from this page to the next, or back again. Not following any chronology or discipline. Sharing feelings that words were strained to express. When my wife would ask what we had talked about for so long, the answer might echo as a riddle. “Nothing!” This often produced a blank stare or crossed arms and a glare of befuddlement. Still, it was true.

Mom and I could talk about ‘nothing’ and from that stream-of-consciousness, derive what felt like everything, in my heart.

Even when bowed by the weight of many years, she retained this ability to spread charm and goodwill easily. Like slathering butter on a fresh-baked piece of her French bread. At the Mansfield Place nursing home, even after father had ascended to eternity, she gabbed and smiled and laughed and celebrated each day of being alive. Like savoring a feast set before the flock. When we visited, I sought comfort and personal validation as her child. But just as often, my reward was in seeing her skill with strangers and seekers-of-solace around the table. Her ability to channel the energy of God into a simple, daily prayer remained remarkable. I reflected on the old admonition to “Grow where you are planted.” In a dozen congregations and more, from west Virginia to Michigan to Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York, she did just that with determination. Always able to find enough sunlight and rain to fuel her forward motion.

Paired with Dad, she created a partnership that endured to inspire others for many decades. While he paused with coffee and lesson materials, she put the holy scriptures into daily use. Making each word of Christ come alive in practice. Offered not from the pulpit, but over a fence in the yard, or a table in the kitchen. Given with no-bake cookies or her McCray-style vegetable soup. A present for the spirit and the belly.

This dual concept – that food was a blessing, and a celebration or sorts in the name of God, worked well for me, in childhood and beyond. Perhaps it is why that I still think most fondly of dinners in the church basement where breaking bread together, while reasoning over scripture, was my favorite activity.

To bid Dad farewell, while holding fast to the faith that we would meet again, challenged my resolve even as I believed it to be true. But giving the same salute to Mom, the one who gave me life within herself, was somehow different. A conundrum in seeing the beginning of ‘me’ coming to a mortal end, in her passing. A sting of death being separated from my own beginning. From the spark that set my sentient self ablaze. From the garden where I grew from a mustard seed. From the pool where I learned to swim before wallowing toward the vast ocean of human experiences.

To truly say goodbye would be unbearably sad. So I take relief in knowing that this moment does not come with that kind of finality, rooted in the grave. Instead, she is alive in a higher realm. One to which I can hope to ascend, by following the example of father, and accepting her encouragement to soar.

I love you, Mom.

Comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“To Be, or Not To Be...With Someone”

c. 2019 Cheryl Kelly

All rights reserved

(3-19)

Starting over, no matter the subject, is one of the single most difficult things to do in life. Whether you find yourself in the midst of a motivated comeback from a failure, trying to recover and heal from some kind of loss, or simply attempting to redirect yourself into improvement, starting over can be a daunting and often times, fear provoking task. No one likes to admit or accept that they have failed, even if the failure is not completely theirs to own. And change does not come easy to most. Learning to adapt to change and live outside of one’s comfort zone that they have built for themselves over time can be a tall order. A tall order, yes, but not unreachable.

I will use myself as an example. After a 12 year failed marriage and another lengthy, failed relationship after that, I had convinced myself that perhaps I was just meant to be alone. Perhaps, this relationship thing was not for everyone. After having my heart returned to me in pieces more than once, I was not about to risk what little I had left to another. I was absolutely content, or perhaps resigned is a better word, with the thought that I would be flying solo. The thought of starting all over again, trying to connect with someone new was just not an option for me; I was done.

Having struggled in my last relationship for the last 2 years of it trying to find and give forgiveness, it was clear to me that it was time to move in a different direction. I was alone again, and to be honest, I was okay with it. The stress slowly lessened, the constant arguments were gone, and the feelings of inadequacy lingered, but were not all-consuming. The bitterness I felt, and still feel at times, I was learning to process in a productive way. I threw myself into my work and spent time with family and friends to navigate the emptiness that at times reared it’s ugly head. However, after some time, even though those were convenient replacements, they did not fill the void I often times felt, and this bothered me.

Priding myself on my independence, it was a harsh reality to swallow. The fact that I do need someone else; that I do miss having a partner to share even the most mundane tasks; such as enjoying a cup of coffee in the morning at the kitchen table or sharing a pizza and a movie on a Friday night. I would, after all, prefer the presence of another human being in my life, on an intimate level, to feel the best parts of me. Now before all you other independents rise up in revolt, please understand that I am not equating my needs and desires for a relationship with a general comment of one’s inability to find internal, independent happiness with oneself. I am not downplaying the importance of the thought that true happiness starts from within and should not be dependent on another person, place or thing. What I am saying is that for me, I feel my best happiness when I can share with another.

Human beings, by nature, require the interaction of others. Human touch and companionship have been shown to not only aid in healing, but also nurturing and growing. Total isolation is very damaging to the human soul not to mention the negative effects it can have on the physical body. What differs from person to person is the amount of interaction that they need to feel fulfilled. For some, it resembles an intimate relationship sharing not only time, but space as well, and for others it’s more casual with the need for alone time slightly outweighing the need for interaction. And then there are those of us, like me, who prefer a nice balance; the company of someone to share with, but also the alone time required to ensure that the best parts of me are nurtured equally.

To be, or not to be with someone...that is the question. And like everything in life, one size does not fit all. The need for relationships differ from person to person and from situation to situation, and not all relationships fall neatly into one definition. In the end, we all need somebody, some form of interaction, to some extent, to be well; to be the best versions of ourselves. Sometimes, along the way, we choose poorly and find out through heartache that we should have chosen differently. But then there are those other times, those moments we get lucky and connect with someone on a level where the best parts of us shine bright. And even if those relationships come to an end at some point in our lives, the takeaway is invaluable and we are better for them. So nurture yourself; start over when you need to, make that change or choose to be with someone, because you may just be that person that is making that someone shine.

Editor’s Note: I could not have expressed this more eloquently. Even for those of us who are independent in spirit, there is a natural inclination toward bonding with another on some level. Relationship failure may increase the fear but does not decrease the need.