Trailer Park Vignettes – “63 Days”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Nigel Poutierre had been in his singlewide trailer at Evergreen Estates for 63 days without opening the front door. Except for brief interludes when he heaved stinky bags of garbage onto his front porch. He had run out of everything. All the cupboards were bare. His refrigerator looked sad and empty. His laundry room had run out of soap and conditioners. He hadn’t taken a shower in weeks. Whenever someone called his cellular phone, he would manufacture excuses that were both bold and ridiculous. Standing by the entrance to his prefab hovel caused him to tremble uncontrollably. He would sweat and shake and feel dizzy. Only hiding out in his back bedroom brought a sense of relief.

 

But on Monday morning, he had reached a terminal point in this bout of emotional isolation. For breakfast, there was only one piece of sliced bread left on the countertop in his kitchen. And a single, stale teabag to brew. He had used up all of the coffee, eggs, bacon, hash browns, and other items, long before that day of reckoning.

 

He felt malnourished, and weak. His belly grumbled in protest.

 

As a young teenager, he had been bullied in school to the point where an emotional breakdown of sorts wracked his mind and body. But he tried to mask the symptoms of this affliction, using strategies that were dependable, but damning. He would spend hours in the library, studying. Moments in the classroom found him always in the last row of seats. Unless he had been assigned to sit in a place designated by the teacher. His instructors thought of him as highly intelligent and studious. Yet fellow members of the young population cursed him as a dweeb and a nerd. He was often laughed at and spat upon. He had to give up eating in the lunchroom, because his meals were always tainted intentionally, or knocked to the floor. Long days with no food made his blood sugar drop. The result was that his moods could be unpredictable. He would fight verbally with the staff and his peers. And then withdraw to lick his wounds.

 

These episodes made him doodle pictures on the pages of his notebooks. He became quite an artist while expressing the woes that lived inside of his mind.

 

Upon reaching the status of an adult, he had been somewhat successful working as an office assistant, and accountant for a firm in Lake County, Ohio. But when the company went bankrupt, he was dumped without any severance package. He avoided admitting this inglorious fate to members of his family, and eventually lost his apartment. Only one friend remained in his social circle, a woman he had known in the 12^th grade, named Nikki. She was reputed to be a prostitute and a drug addict, and lived in a remote, trailer enclave south of his native region.

 

Evergreen Estates became his home by that quirk of happenstance.

 

Living in the village of mobile homes was challenging at first. He had little in common with anyone at the park. But old habits of playing the recluse soon returned. He spent less and less time outside. Even opting to hire a local yard service to cut the grass, until his funds were depleted. He never answered the door, unless a police officer showed up to ask questions about one of his seedy neighbors. If they did, he always claimed to know nothing. Such declarations were easy to offer, because he rarely ever went anywhere.

 

Finally, his courage was tapped out completely. And the streak of 63 blocks on his calendar being crossed with a black ‘x’ from a Sharpie pen, began in earnest.

 

He survived fairly well for the first couple of weeks. Because of his history of living as a virtual hermit. Yet the grind wore him down, eventually. His computer quit working, after the internet bill went unpaid. The electricity and water were turned off, as notices came due and got ignored. He was broke and at the mercy of charities. He survived by candlelight. His propane tank dipped to a level that was dangerously low. He had to light the burners with old matches. His reserve of water jugs evaporated.

 

And as the new week was underway, he sat at his dining table with the dried-out slice of bread, and a mug of expired tea. This was his Armageddon. He had to summon the courage to open his door. There would be enough gasoline in the tank of his Chevy Cavalier to reach a local convenience depot, or a Dollar General. He had a wad of physical cash tucked under his mattress, in a spot that would only be discovered by someone inquisitive enough to rip the bedding apart. He had to be stronger, more so than the shy, skinny rube that he saw in his mirror.

 

This call to duty almost caused him to vomit. He went to the front door, and found that his hands were numb. He couldn’t twist the knob. His knees knocked together. His face burned, red hot.

 

The device in his pocket rang, as this moment of truth was unfolding. Nikki McCardle hadn’t heard from her pal in such a long time, that she wondered if he might have committed suicide.

 

“NIGEL! WHY WON’T YOU ANSWER? THIS DAMN THING KEEPS GOING TO VOICEMAIL! YOU BETTER NOT BE STRETCHED OUT ON THE CARPET, OR I’LL KICK YOUR DEAD ASS WHEN I SEE IT! CALL ME BACK, DICKHEAD!”

 

In a dark sort of way, her rant was amusing. He actually grinned for a moment, while replaying her message. Then, he tapped an icon to return the call.

 

“Nikki, I’m okay. I umm... couldn’t get to my phone. Don’t worry about me, I’m good over here on the west side of our little oasis.”

 

His friend wasn’t convinced. She chirped like a mother fowl.

 

“I haven’t seen yer ass outside in weeks, dude! What’s up with that? There’s a pile of bags ‘n shit on the deck! What gives? Did you fall and break your leg or something?”

 

The unemployed geek snorted and lied about his condition.

 

“You must’ve missed me somehow! I’ve been out for job interviews, and all kinds of things! I had dinner with a woman from the old office. I even went to a Captains baseball game at Classic Park! Things are great, and summer is almost here!”

 

The young female could sense he had twisted literal truth into a knot of deception.

 

“Nige, yer a dummy! You tell fibs like I did in high school. Dad could always figure shit out by the tone of my voice. I used to party at night and sneak back into my bedroom through a window behind the shrubs. I put pillows under the blankets so they thought I was still home. I was a naughty bitch, right?”

 

Her loner counterpart nodded and smiled.

 

“Yeah, I remember. Nobody else would talk to me. They thought I was a freak.”

 

Nikki had to pinch her nostrils. She laughed like the cartoon canine, Muttley.

 

“THEY THOUGHT YOU MUST BE A HOMO, BRUH! I KNEW BETTER THOUGH, AFTER I KEPT CATCHING YOU LOOKING DOWN MY BLOUSE! HAH! YOU WANTED A HOOK-UP!”

 

The quiet nebbish was completely embarrassed. But he felt vindicated by her accusation.

 

“I did, I did. You boasted quite a figure, for a teen kid in school. None of the other girls had blossomed like that, really. I was breathless...”

 

She cackled and tapped her long, glittery nails on the screen. This made a sound like hail falling during a storm.

 

“YER A PERVERT, MANNN! HA HA HA! JUST KIDDING, JK, JK! AT LEAST YOU NEVER JUDGED ME, I GOT CALLED A SLUT AND A WHORE RIGHT UP TO OUR GRADUATION, BECAUSE OF MY BOOBS! BUT YOU NEVER ASKED ME OUT, OR ANYTHING! YOU DIDN’T DROOL, WOLF WHISTLE, OR TRY TO GRAB MY BUTT! I THOUGHT YOU WERE KINDA COOL, ACTUALLY. I FELT SAFE WHEN WE WERE TOGETHER! I HAD NEVER MET A GENTLEMAN, BEFORE, YOU KNOW?”

 

Nigel wasn’t sure if he should be insulted or grateful for her remarks.

 

“Yeah, okay. Should I say thank you?”

 

Nikki turned serious again. She shifted gears in their conversation, quickly.

 

“So, here’s the deal homie! What’s really going on over at your trailer? No bull, just tell me the real story. What’s your sitch, Ron Stoppable?”

 

Her longtime associate cringed at this plea for accountability. He could barely hold the phone in his right hand. He needed a deep breath before answering. Then, he unburdened himself with a confession worthy of being delivered to a member of the priesthood.

 

“Alright, alright. Here it is... I’ve been huddled inside my longbox for 63 days. I’m out of everything. There’s one slice of bread on a paper towel, and a cup of tea, getting cold while I stand here talking. I am terrified by the thought of opening the front door. I lost my nerve to face anybody. My hands won’t stop shaking. All my clothes are dirty. I’m broke and busted and bummed out by life! The truth is, I’d like to crawl in a hole somewhere, and disappear! My mother had spells like this when I was a child. One of them lasted for a dozen years! I miss her, and I miss you, and I miss feeling like a human being!”

 

His solo contact was quiet for a minute, while pondering. But when she spoke, it was with the healing grace of a kindred spirit.

 

“NIGE, YOU FLING BACK THAT GAWDAMM DOOR, AND WALK OVER HERE RIGHT NOW! WE’RE GONNA GO OUT TONIGHT, AND DRINK AND DANCE, AND REMINISCE ABOUT OLD TIMES, BUDDY! YOU AIN’T GONNA SIT THERE ALONE FER ANOTHER DAMN SECOND! GET YER SCRAWNY ASS MOVING, RIGHT NOW!”

 

The thought of surrendering to her demands made him quiver and quake, inside. Yet for the first time in 63 days, he felt hopeful. Sunlight streamed through his kitchen window.

 

As they used to say, today was the first day of the rest of his life.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Intifada, Part Six”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Mama Molene Gant had sputtered while pleading for her former prodigy to rejoin the activist troupe in Cuyahoga County. Nothing she said seemed to have an effect. But a final thought turned the tide. As she reminisced about their exploits on the streets of Cleveland, a chilling observation spilled forth from her lips.

 

“You’ll be alone here, forever. Think about that, Dex! Alone in a field full of tombstones. Ohh, damn! Good hearts die out here, there’s no tolerance for diversity. Maybe we disagree right now, honey? I’m not so sure that ain’t just an illusion, but whatevs! Ya still belong with our tribe. We’re your fam, girl! Ya gonna regret spending another day in this dump. Trust me, I been around! I know the drill. Come home with me, right now!”

 

Darcy Trelane had to swallow hard. Guilt and alienation welled up in her throat.

 

“It’s true, Mama! I hate this effing trailer park!”

 

Her one-time mentor nodded and smiled.

 

“Of course ya do, woman! I bet a lot of these hillbillies do, too! This is a shithole. People don’t live in these boxcars by choice. They do it ‘cause they’re broke-ass mofos, with empty pockets and no hope! Come back to tha hood by Lake Erie! We gonna treat ya right!”

 

Her former pupil relented at last.

 

“Okay, Mama. Okay! But there’s paperwork to do, I’d have to meet with the property manager...”

 

Molene was adamant about making an immediate escape.

 

“NAW, SCREW THAT NOISE! PACK YA BAGS, WALK OUT THA DOOR, AND DON’T LOOK BACK! I’M NOT FOOLING, DEX! THIS TRASH HEAP GIVES ME THA HEEBIE JEEBIES! WE GOTTA RUN WHILE THERE’S TIME! OTHERWISE, WE MIGHT NEVER GET AWAY FROM THIS JUNKYARD KINGDOM!”

 

Darcy had her game system, T-shirts, and pajama pants. Otherwise, nothing else mattered too much. She stuffed everything into a duffel bag, and dragged it across the floor. A look of sad resignation made the corners of her mouth curl under.

 

“My dad will be pissed! And that old drunk across the yard, I’ll miss him in a weird kind of way...”

 

Her spiritual guide laughed and shook her long, gray locks in celebration.

 

“Ya gonna be better off, girl! I guarantee it! Yer soul will die out here, it needs some sunshine. We got plenty of that by the lake. Tha fam will be glad ta welcome ya home! Boo yah!”

 

Once they had squeezed everything into her Toyota Prius, getting on the road was an anti-climax. But as they pulled out of the property entrance, onto Pine Trail Road, a caravan of deputies from the Sheriff’s Department passed their tiny vehicle. Barricades were set up, quickly. Rifles and tasers were at the ready. Dogs and their handlers began to patrol the perimeter.

 

When the rambunctious horde of lifted pickup trucks rolled away from their township square, a mood of kinship united them in purpose. Everyone felt confident about their mission to put things right at Evergreen Estates. But upon reaching their destination, only a short distance down the hill, this confident bravado dissipated like morning mist.

 

Armed officers blocked their entry to the park. Not a single 4x4 hauler was given permission to cross the boundary lines.

 

Sheriff Tom T. Rath stood with a bullhorn in his hand.  His weapon was still in its holster. The lawman was tall, beefy, and had the look of a military veteran. Yet his voice resonated with the diplomacy of a gifted representative.

 

“Go home, neighbors! This development is on lockdown, per our governor in Columbus. We’ve had student uprisings all across America, lately. He doesn’t want that kind of thing happening here. I’m not a decision maker, I just carry out instructions. I keep the peace! If people have something to say, let them speak freely. Maybe you don’t agree? I probably don’t, either, to be honest. But it’s not your right to interfere. There’s no fight on the frontlines, every one of us is a citizen of this county. If you’ve got a problem with that, then get out and vote against me, when the next election comes around!”

 

Linn Speck had walked over from his prime lot on the corner. When he heard the impromptu speech being delivered, it caused him to redden with anger and resentment. He thumped his chest and strutted like a rooster.

 

“LOCKDOWN? WHAT THE HECK, SHERIFF? YOU CAN’T DO THAT TO US! OUR TAX DOLLARS PAY YOUR SALARIES! YOU WORK FOR THE RESIDENTS OF THIS PARK! DAMMIT, YOU WORK FOR PEOPLE LIKE ME!”

 

Rath nodded with a somber expression. Radio chatter crackled in the background, from his receiver.

 

“Friend, you’re not wrong. But in this case, I’ve got to enforce what the governor has decided. He wants things to stay quiet. Quiet is good. As a matter of fact, I like peace and quiet, myself. There are things happening around the world today, some crazy things! But none of them affect us here in Ohio. Not like some want you to think. I don’t care where your family came from, or what you believe, it’s all good to me. Do like that old saying, ‘Live and let live.’ Don’t stir up trouble just to get your kicks. Get on your knees and pray for this state. Pray for the world! I’d say that right now, we need some good words said for everybody!”

 

The residents who had followed Linn from his driveway began to chant, spontaneously.

 

“AMEN, SHERIFF! AMEN! AMEN! AMEN!”

 

Their ambitious benefactor was not pleased by the tone of comity, and tolerance.

 

“WE NEED SOME LEADERS WITH A SPINE, NOT WIMPS CRAWLING ON ALL FOURS! LIVE AND LET LIVE? HAH! I HAVEN’T BELIEVED THAT KIND OF NONSENSE SINCE I WAS A KID IN GRADE SCHOOL! IT’S BULL-HOCKEY, SHERIFF! PURE BULL! WE’VE GOT TO FIGHT OUR ENEMIES, WHEREVER THEY ARE! ABROAD, OR RIGHT HERE ON THIS PATCH OF GROUND!”

 

The enforcement chieftain took off his hat, and held it by the brim. He stepped closer to his vocal opponent, and whispered so only the two of them could hear.

 

“Linn, I’ll say this one time. Don’t ask me to repeat myself. Stand down, or I’ll be taking you to a cell in the safety center. Does that resonate inside your thick skull? Stand down! Let this end on a good note. Governor Moerlein doesn’t want another shoot-em-up like during the Kent State protests about our involvement in Vietnam. Go back to your singlewide box! Go home to your wife!”

 

The rotund instigator felt his boxer shorts getting damp. He looked at the service weapon hanging on Rath’s duty belt. Then, at all of the deputies who were standing behind him, fully at attention.

 

From a distance, Townshend Carr Lincoln stood while leaning on his mismatched canes. He was shaggier than ever, dressed in work clothes that were stained with bourbon and chicken grease, and a baseball cap. He saluted and then closed his eyes.

 

“Big J, Holy Father, I thank you. Amen!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Intifada, Part Five”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

After the failed attempt to organize a neighborhood association, Linn Speck felt his jowls burn every time there was an issue with park owners at Evergreen Estates. Being anointed as a leader of residents was something he had worked for since the previous year. He had canvassed every street, gotten signatures on his petitions, and negotiated a plan with legal experts who were eager to help the underprivileged people of their prefab village. Yet everything had gone for naught. A single note of dissent from one of the development’s most senior residents had scuttled his operation.

 

Townshend Carr Lincoln gained notoriety as a thorn in his side, like no other.

 

Failure dogged him afterward. He became an outcast among his own community. That tag hung around his neck like an albatross. It fouled the air wherever he went, and filled his nostrils with a stench of irrelevance. He stopped looking at his own reflection in the mirror, because contemplating what he had become was too burdensome.

 

Until fate intervened at last. With a merciful crackle of lightning, that boosted him back to the pinnacle of their mobile-home ranks. 

 

When the ‘Never Surrender High-Tops’ of Donald J. Trump were introduced at Sneakercon in Philadelphia, everything changed. With that stroke of marketing mastery, POTUS 45 unwittingly rescued the pudgy, floundering Ohioan from his personal doldrums. A scheme of multi-level marketing ensued, with neighbors and friends being encouraged to buy into a business based on vending these trendy articles of footwear. What followed was even more challenging, yet rewarding for those who joined the effort – a citizen group dedicated to marching throughout their rural oasis, and beyond. Carrying a message of an America, restored. When the Trump Bible was added as another item likely to attract buyers, a groundswell of support resulted.

 

The ’Gold Shoe Brigade’ was Linn’s resurrection. His escape from intellectual exile.

 

He had planned a confrontational visit with Miss Poindexter, many times. But on each occasion, some quirk of fate interrupted his intentions. So, when a lavender, Toyota Prius arrived at her trailer on Monday morning, he was more than a bit irritated. The unannounced visit had stymied his vendetta, once again. Instead of putting plimsolls to the tarmac, he and his supporters could only sit in the driveway, and drink low-buck suds for comfort.

 

At Lot 12, a lone figure exited her Japanese economy vehicle, and stood in the front yard while contemplating. Then, she rapped lightly on the window.

 

Mama Molene Gant had driven all the way from Cleveland, by herself.

 

“Dex? I know ya must be inside, girl! I’m here alone, whoo, ya know my people didn’t want that to happen. I had a whole crew of volunteers ready to ride! Tha vibe was crazy! But I told ‘em it’d be better ta let me do things solo. Here I am! Let’s talk out this shit!”

 

Darcy Trelane pulled back a corner of her blue blanket, and peered through the expansive pane of glass. Her orange head of hair was a mess. She had been eating Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, while gaming on her console. Splotches of sugar and cookie dough dotted her Pokemon pajamas.

 

“Mama, I don’t know why you came out here. This place is a hole in the ground! We don’t get any tourists, and not many friends from the outside world. Just the Po-Po, now and then...”

 

Her former mentor cupped a hand over her eyes, for a better view through the glass.

 

“Ya know I love all my kids! Some graduate and move along, some hang around tha lake. Some lose their way and come home when times get hard. I figure that’s yer trip, honey! I know ya got to hurt, deep down inside. Ya been away from us too long! Now, I’m asking ya to make a U-turn. Come back into tha fold. Put that Palestinian flag up in this window, so I can make a Tik Tok video! Ya know, I sho wanna have that resistance shown where it belongs! Right here in tha middle of MAGA hell! We gotta flip tha finger to these bigots! You gotta flip tha finger! Do it, and I’ll forgive yer wandering. It’ll all be forgotten. Come home to yer fam!”

 

Miss Poindexter wiped tears from her eyes, nearly causing her black spectacles to fall on the floor. The lenses were smudged.

 

“Mama, I don’t feel right about our protest. That old dude next door made some sense, even through a haze of whiskey. You’re not saying anything to change my mind. We’re picking a fight when we should be talking about building bridges. People like me get beheaded or jailed in that part of the world. They don’t embrace LGBT rights. It’s a way of thinking we don’t understand. There’s a lot we don’t understand going on right now. We need to be listening more, and thinking more, before we speak...”

 

Her former influencer began to quake where she stood.

 

“DAMMIT, WOMAN! YA JUST WON’T LISTEN! THIS FIGHT HAS BEEN CHOSEN FOR US! SHO YA RITE! THESE PIGGIES IN THE ORANGE MAN KLAN IS THE PROBLEM! NOT US! PUT THE FLAG UP LIKE YA DID BEFORE! LET IT SHINE, LET IT SHINE! STICK IT TO THA MAN! PUT YO HAND IN THA AIR FOR PALESTINE!”

 

Darcy had soaked her garments with sweat. She was hot and uncomfortable in her front bedroom. Musty, stale vapors streamed from the faded carpeting.

 

“I’m on board with the struggle, you know that. These hillbilly hacks have always turned my stomach. But I’ve got all kinds of friends, Mama! That’s the groove you used to teach us, love for all colors and creeds and traditions. I remember getting called a ‘dumb polack’ in school. That made me cry as a kid! I was proud of my grandparents. They came here to escape the wartime occupation in Europe. They watched friends die, relatives die, and people they didn’t even know go to the ovens. That haunted them for the rest of their lives. That old bruh across the yard is right, we’ve got to quit fanning the flames. You used to stand for peace, and I bet a lot of kids would join in if you did that again...”

 

Molene hit the window with her bony fist. A crack spread from the spot of first contact, all the way to one corner.

 

“I AM FOR PEACE, CHILD! CEASE FIRE! NO MORE GUNS! NO MORE SUPPORT! DIVEST! DISCONNECT! DENY!”

 

Her former underling looked oddly sad.

 

“Remember you used to say that a plant won’t die unless the roots get dug up? That’s the truth, Mama! It’ll just grow again. Maybe even bigger and stronger than before. That’s the way hate grows. They hate us, we hate them. Nobody trusts the other side. Nobody believes what they hear or read. That’s where we are right now. Link has been my neighbor since I moved here, and he’s drunk every day. I never saw anyone swallow so much booze! But now and then, he sounds sober. Now and then, he makes a lot of sense. He sounds like you did, years ago. What changed since then? What changed your mind?”

 

The college organizer was livid. She kicked at the tall grass and spat forcefully.

 

“I GOT A WHOLE LOTTA LOVE IN MY HEART, YA CAN COUNT ON THAT, GIRL! BUT NOT FOR THEM ASSHATS WAVING THEIR SNAKE FLAGS AND SPOUTING MAGA BULLSHIT! OHH, I’M GONNA LOSE MY COOL JUST THINKING ABOUT IT! YA KNOW, I GOT A THOUSAND BODIES READY TA HIT THA STREETS RIGHT NOW! BUT THAT WINE WOULD TASTE SWEETER IF YA JOINED OUR PROTEST! SQUEEZE IN THERE WITH US! TRAMPLE THEM REDNECK MOFOS! KNOCK THEM DOWN, KNOCK THEM DOWN!”

 

On the corner, Linn felt his cell phone start to vibrate. He rummaged through his pants pocket, and answered eagerly, after recognizing the number. Pastor Cabriel Forester of their township’s notable Church of the Lord Jesus in Heaven, was on the line.

 

“Christian brother, I’ve got six-dozen pickup trucks in our parking lot right now, up here on the hill. Everything is set for a ‘cleansing’ of your park. We’ll put up a tent and a cross in the front field. Then I’ll preach a sermon from God’s holy word. And we’ll send all the agents of Lucifer straight back to his hideout in the dark underbelly of eternity!”

 

The trailer resident stood up from his lawn chair. He looked around with a surge of excitement, and then put one hand over his heart.

 

“AMEN, AMEN! LET THE ARMY OF GOD SHOUT IT TO THE SKY! SHOUT IT TO NEIGHBORS AND FRIENDS! I SAY - AMENNN!”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Kentucky Kernel”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

The recent anniversary of tragic events at Kent State University caused a moment of reflection for this writer. While many bowed their heads and remembered, others made online posts about the Star Wars movie franchise. Yet at my desk, the mood was somber. For many, what transpired on the campus in May of 1970 was a benchmark for the entire generation. A point reached where unarmed students met the fate of battlefield combatants. I remember a friend observing later, in New York, that he and others who were immersed in hippie culture at the time literally thought that they all might be exterminated in a similar fashion. But in my own life, the yield of this awful happening was more subdued and complex to process.

 

I was eight years old when William Schroeder, Alison Krause, Jeffrey Miller, and Sandra Lee Scheuer were felled by National Guard bullets.

 

In the Ice household, reading our local paper, and watching daily news broadcasts, was a family tradition. My maternal grandmother had a particular interest in staying informed. My father always caught the morning shows while having his coffee. As a young pupil in eastern Kentucky, I went to a school located in a district so poor and remote that my third-grade studies commenced each weekday in a trailer behind the actual building. I was too young to be self-conscious about this obvious token of poverty. When gunfire ripped through the air in my native Ohio, I took it as a bout of adult violence that made no sense. Hearing that kids who were busy working on their education had been struck down, had me stunned and befuddled. Being so naïve and youthful, I equated the four with members of my own class at Owingsville Elementary.

 

With an earnest desire to understand, I asked my father about what had occurred. He was a stout fellow with a solid education, and a calling as a Christian minister. A lifelong Republican. Someone who had voted both for Richard Nixon, and Buckeye Governor Jim Rhodes. So, my innocent query must have caused his stomach to quiver uncomfortably. I recollect that he paused thoughtfully before offering a wise assessment.

 

“Man may err in his beliefs or in his conduct. But God is always on his throne of grace. It is important to remember that, Rodney. At the end of time, it is his hands that will still cradle the world.”

 

My concept of soldiers was dictated in that gentle era by green, plastic Army men who populated our backyard when I played with friends. I was more concerned with riding my Schwinn banana-bike, and finding 45-rpm records at our local five & dime store, downtown. One of those was a single by the iconic, but largely unknown, Jim Ford. A native of the Bluegrass State who was expressive and talented, yet not destined to linger long as a figure in the world of popular music. I had so little life experience under my belt, that comprehending the conflict in Vietnam, and the unrest percolating across America, overwhelmed my budding intellect.

 

My mother and her side of our brood were all old-fashioned Democrats, who sprung from the soil of Appalachia. She stayed busy with the rigorous duties of running our home. But Grandma McCray, who was her own mater, had plenty of love and affection as I struggled with this dark point on the calendar. She was content to let me talk freely, and explore my nerdy sense of wonder. Then, offered assurance that I would always be protected by our benevolent creator.

 

“You will never be alone, child. It says that in the holy scriptures, in Matthew 28. “And lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.”

 

Grandma was a poet who frequently offered her humble vision of life in compositions of creative verse. She once received a letter from Eleanor Roosevelt, thanking her for material written in support of her husband, our 32^nd President of the United States. I trusted her every word without question. Because, while I knew that the admonitions of others were grounded in fact and reason, I could feel what she spoke in my heart. Everything that fell from her lips resonated at my core. Her spirit and insight provided fertile soil from which I would grow, and prosper, for decades to come.

 

After the shootings, Neil Young’s classic ‘Ohio’ was an anthem that would strike with the force of a lightning bolt. A talisman of distant lands which I did not inhabit or tread. As a product of Columbus and the river region below, my experience had little to offer with any sophistication. I knew of our military operations overseas, and about the counterculture pushback of some who were aligned differently in social and political terms. But this awareness came through the peering eyes of a virtual baby. I watched Beatles cartoons on our TV set, a colorless receiver bought from the Sears & Roebuck catalog. I listened to vinyl platters on our hi-fi, also vended by that same noted retailer. But cultural references echoed like a screeching of anonymous birds in the treetops. I had no frame of reference. Only the radio provided a link to what awaited, beyond.

 

The song about Kent State had an unintended effect against this backdrop, in personal terms. It wracked me with a measure of guilt. I was after all, a son of the loam. Sprouted from a seed planted in the capital itself. I also had the lessons and platitudes of a conservative consciousness instilled into my head. My identity, my concept of existing, had been predetermined by this reality. So, how could I put those factors together, while yearning to be a fully-formed participant in our national traditions?

 

This conundrum would stay with me for many years that followed.

 

Sometimes, I stayed up late, with my transistor device hooked to its earphone. And a blanket over my head, to cover up this sin of being awake beyond designated hours. Music beckoned for me to enter this shadowy realm, at first. But eventually talk radio, like the ramblings of Herb Jepko on his syndicated ‘Nitecap’ program, opened new vistas to be sampled. I tuned in on affiliate WHAS, in Louisville. Through the tutelage of this long-distance education, I began to learn about things beyond the guardrails of my family and faith. The process was one that inspired a lively debate, at home, and within myself. A continuing process of evolution, and renewal. My Kentucky kernel of wisdom offered a bumper crop of enlightenment that I continue to harvest, even now.

 

It all began with the daily news, in 1970.

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Intifada, Part Four”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Mama Molene Gant stayed busy over the weekend at her non-profit headquarters by Lake Erie. She still felt perturbed about the apparent withdrawal of her former student and promising advocate, Darcy Trelane, from their social circle. The former protest leader was now in her 70’s and had schooled along generations of counterculture activists since the Vietnam era. But her pupil who lived on the cheap, in a mobile home, had become a genuine disappointment. Someone she no longer recognized as a member of her extended family.

 

The gray-haired, hippie matron complained loudly to her office staff, while sipping Chai tea in the morning. Her nerves were frayed.

 

“YA COULDN’T HAVE CONVINCED ME THIS’D HAPPEN, NAW! NOT THAT GIRL WITH THA POINDEXTER GLASSES! SHE’S BEEN A STRAIGHT-UP SISTA! WHAT HAPPENED TO HER? WHAT HAPPENED OUT THERE IN THA MAGA HINTERLAND?”

 

Her crew of volunteers were all members of LGBT groups in the Cleveland area. A shy, waif of a woman named Orchid Kozlowski stood at the side of her desk, and tried to offer comfort.

 

“Mama, I‘ve always liked Miss Dex. She reminds me of Velma Dinkley from ‘Scooby Doo, Where Are You?’ That was my favorite cartoon as a kid! My mom had it on DVD and she played those old episodes over and over. When you told us about your friend having a change of heart over displaying the Palestinian flag, I wanted to scream ‘Ruh Roh!’”

 

Molene threw a handful of Sharpie pens at the wall.

 

“YA THINK THIS BE FUNNY, RIGHT? IS IT A JOKE OR SOMETHING? WHOO, NOW I’M REALLY GETTING WORKED UP, GIRLIE!”

 

The young aide started to tremble. Her lips curled inward.

 

“What? No! Not at all, Mama! Not at all!”

 

The professional organizer flipped her long, hemp skirt with a kick, under the desk.

 

“WE GOTTA PLAN ON THIS, LADIES! WE GOTTA PLAN, PLAN, PLAN!”

 

Neal Courtier, a skinny, non-binary student still attending Tri-C, added his voice to the mix. He wore a rainbow T-shirt and fishnet leggings.

 

“Mama, don’t! Please! Don’t get all hard on her, or on us! We’re still on the bus with you! We’ll ride until the Po-Po leave our campus! Ride, ride, ride!  We’ll ride in style, I promise!”

 

Molene shook her gray curls and shrieked with irritation.

 

“THIS IS A BIG DEAL, CHILLEN! A DAMN BIG DEAL! YA THINK THIS GROOVE GOT DUG OVERNIGHT? NAW! NAW IT DIDN’T! A LOTTA FOLKS LIKE ME AND YER GRANDPARENTS DONE IT ALL! WE MARCHED IN THA STREETS! WE FOUGHT FOR SOCIAL JUSTICE! WE TOOK THE HITS FROM THA HARD-HAT LOONIES, WAVING THEIR STARS-N-STRIPES! WE DID IT! WE DID IT ALL! NOW, YA MIGHT SAY THAT WE AIN’T PART OF WHAT’S GOING ON IN THA MIDDLE EAST! YA MIGHT NOT BE FROM THOSE LANDS, NOT FROM ONE OR THA OTHER! BUT I’M TELLING YA, IT STARTS WITH PALESTINE, AND DEX TAKING DOWN THAT FLAG IN HER TRAILER WINDOW! NEXT IT’LL THA RAINBOW! THEN IT’S ANYTHING TO DO WITH PEACE, AND PROTESTING, AND JUSTICE! BLACK AND BROWN AND POOR AND WHATEVER THEY DON’T LIKE! IT’S ALL BALANCED ON THE HEAD OF A PIN! WE WON’T LET ‘EM KNOCK IT OVER!”

 

The submissive kid bowed his head and nodded.

 

“No, we won’t! We owe you, mama! We owe you everything!”

 

Their supervisor stroked her long mane, and reminisced over the decades that had passed since she started her own academic journey.

 

“WE NEED SOMEBODY! OHH, YES WE DO! WE NEED A BUNCH OF SOMEBODIES! WHO GOT THA BACKBONE TO TAKE ON THAT TRAILER CROWD IN GEAUGA COUNTY? WHO GONNA STEP UP AND SHOW THA COLORS TO THOSE TRUMP FANS IN THEIR BIG RIGS? WHO GONNA FIGHT FOR THA RIGHTS OF US ON THA WRONG SIDE OF THIS RICH-MAN’S FENCE?”

 

Orchid flushed red, which provided a stark contrast to her pale complexion.

 

“There’s a listing right on our webpage, Mama! I don’t know who put it there, but it’s for a progressive union of concerned thinkers. They call themselves the ‘Trailer Trannies & Troublemakers.’ I clicked on the link while you were talking, and it led to all kinds of event photos. Take a look! This is crazy, I like their design! It’s a long, pre-fab thingy, painted pink and purple...”

 

Molene crouched over her laptop. Suddenly, she had a new angle to ponder.

 

“WHAT’S THAT? ON OUR PAGE? LET ME SEE! WHOO, DAMN! IT’S A SINGLEWIDE TRAILER, HONEY! THAT’S WHAT THEY CALL THOSE KINDS OF LIVING SPACES! IT’S LIKE BEING IN A CATTLE CAR, I’D SHO HATE TO BE COOPED UP IN A LONGBOX MADE OUT OF PLYWOOD SHEETS! BUT IT’D BE BETTER THAN SLEEPING IN A TENT ON THA SIDEWALK, RIGHT?”

 

Neal raised his right hand, as if giving testimony in court. His nails were polished with gold glitter.

 

“Yes it would be, Mama! Hey, they used plywood for the perimeter wall at UCLA, I guess it wasn’t that bad, while they staged the campus sit-in!”

 

Their inspirational leader scrolled through pages of Drag Queens and Drag Kings, gender-fluid artists, and other non-conforming figures. There were references to a dozen parks throughout northeastern Ohio. A rating system declared which of these developments was ‘alternative friendly’ and which were known to be unsafe for anyone on the social fringe.

 

Orchid toyed with her faux-dreadlocks. They were bright blonde, and bouncy.

 

“I could call them about putting together a rally out where Miss Dex lives. You know what they say, Mama, there’s safety in numbers. I wouldn’t go out there alone, or even with a small bunch of us, but maybe if we had a crowd of supporters, that would send a message!”

 

Neal giggled and danced on his Doc Marten shoes.

 

“I bet we’d get your friend back in the ranks, Mama! She’d come to her senses! Nobody with half a brain wants to live in a place like... what is it called? Pea Green Escapes or whatever?”

 

His nymphlike helper in the office whispered and laughed.

 

“Oh my, I think you got that wrong, bruh! But it doesn’t matter, really. We can make it work, I think! I’ll get on my cell phone, right away!”

 

She hit the wrong icon, and opened her Apple Music app instead. The Clash began to perform one of their anthems, which was tagged in her playlist.

 

“This is a public service announcement

With guitar

Know your rights

All three of them

Number one

You have the right not to be killed

Murder is a crime!

Unless it was done

By a policeman or an aristocrat

Know your rights...”

 

Molene sat up straight in her roller chair. For the first time that day, she felt a surge of confidence. Finally, there was some kind of useful mischief, afoot.

 

“EVERGREEN ESTATES, BOY! THEY CALL IT EVERGREEN ESTATES! A NICE PLACE TO GET STARTED, OR TO RETIRE! LET’S GET THE BALL ROLLING! WE GOTTA LOT OF WORK TA DO BEFORE THE FREEDOM TRAIN PULLS OUT FOR THOMPSON TOWNSHIP!”

 

 

 

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Intifada, Part Three”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

Darcy Trelane’s change of heart about supporting protests by friends from Cuyahoga Community College left bad emotions behind. She had always been someone who was trusted and admired in the student body, and among graduates. But now, allies from groups of activists and artists began to question her loyalty. A lively debate ensued online, as her contacts sent memes that were edgy and vicious.

 

Harshest of all was Mama Molene Gant, a leader in the LGBT community across Cleveland. She had been known since the 1970’s as a godmother to disaffected men, women, and non-binary or genderqueer people. Her long, gray curls and hippie attire brightened any event. Yet now, she scolded her former prodigy like a schoolmaster. A window opened on the screen for a live chat as she reached out through cyberspace, from her apartment by Lake Erie.

 

“WHAT’S THE PROB, SISTA? COPS GOT YA TONGUE PINNED? I THINK LIVING OUT IN MAGA COUNTRY HAS CHANGED YER WAY OF THINKING!”

 

Miss Poindexter realized that her thick, black spectacles were fogged. She could barely read her computer monitor.

 

“Nah, c’mon now! I don’t deserve that, Mama! Nobody turned me into a house mouse! Jinkies, what a crazy thought! I’m nothing like any of the other women out here at Evergreen Estates! You’d never see me in a crop-top or a pair of Daisy Dukes!”

 

Molene cackled and shook her tangled mane like a dried-out mop head.

 

“THESE PROTESTS ARE A SPRINGBOARD! DON’T YA GET IT, GIRL? IT’S PALESTINE, THEN IT’S NORTH AFRICA, THEN EUROPE, THEN IT’S ALL THE WAY ACROSS AMERICA, COAST TO COAST! WE GOTTA FIGHT THA POWER, FO-SHO! YER GONNA BE WEARING A BONNET LIKE A HANDMAIDEN! MAYBE THAT’S THA GROOVE YA WANT, AMISH HONEY?”

 

Darcy straightened her Pokemon T-shirt which had ridden up, uncomfortably. The garment left her rounded belly half exposed.

 

“It’s complicated over there, I want to cry! But what are we doing putting up plywood walls and throwing trash at the police? There’s got to be a smarter plan, I’m all for hearing about peace and human rights! Shouldn’t we be talking about a revolution at the ballot box, instead of on campuses like ours?”

 

Her counterculture mentor squawked like a wounded goose.

 

“SISTA! GET YA MIND OFF THA TRUMP TRAIN, AND BACK WHERE IT BELONGS! I DON’T RECOGNIZE YER FACE ANYMORE! WHOO, DAMN! YA THINK ONE ELECTION’S GONNA MAKE CHANGE HAPPEN? IT’LL COME WHEN WE MARCH! IT’LL COME WHEN WE PUNCH SOME FASCISTS SQUARE IN THA MOUTH! IT’LL COME WHEN WE DEFEND OUR SCHOOLS AGAINST THA FOLKS HOLDING ALL THAT GOLD! YA KNOW WHO I MEAN, I DON'T GOTTA CALL 'EM OUT BY NAME! BOO YAH!”

 

Her estranged pupil felt conflicted and confused.

 

“Yes... I mean no... I mean maybe... I don’t know what to say! This started out as a good idea. I like talking out issues and being civilized. The redneck nuts out here are creepy, though! They don’t talk much. Those hicks just shoot off their guns to make noise...”

 

Mama Molene hissed and seethed with rage.

 

“THAT’S WHY WE FIGHT, RIOT GIRL! WE FIGHT THA POWER!”

 

Darcy had been eating Greek yogurt from a cup. But suddenly, her appetite was gone.

 

“I like to fight when it’s gamer combat, you know? That kind of violence gets me juiced. But I’m not much good behind steel barricades. I mean, my arms get tired of tossing out frozen water bottles...”

 

The rebel leader shuddered with disappointment.

 

“NOT MUCH GOOD? YER A LOTTA GOOD, SISTA! TRUST ME! WELL, YA WERE UNTIL THIS THING GOT ALL SCREWY AT THE TRAILER PARK! PUTTING THE PALESTINE FLAG IN THA WINDOW WAS SUPPOSED TO BE AN ACT OF DEFIANCE! YA LOST YER NERVE! WHAT HAPPENED? WHAT TOOK AWAY THA COURAGE?”

 

Her submissive follower had to ponder before answering.

 

“It feels weird to say, but... I think the old drunk next door struck a nerve. He actually made sense, you know, Mama? That dude is a shaggy effer, all wrinkled and covered with age spots and scars... I listened to him, though. He sounded like my Polish grandpa. Someone I could trust. Maybe I needed a voice of reason?”

 

Molene shrieked with the force of a vulture swooping down on its dinner.

 

“NOOOO DAMMIT! NO! THERE’S NO REASON OUT THERE IN THA STICKS! THOSE PEOPLE ARE STRAIGHT-UP ASSHOLES! ALL CHURCHY AND MEAN AND GUN-HAPPY! SCREW THEM! DON’T TAKE A WORD THEY SAY SERIOUSLY! YA GONNA GET HOODWINKED, GIRL! LISTEN TO ME, I BEEN THERE FOR YA! I BEEN IN THE TRENCHES, FIGHTING THE PO-PO! I BEEN KNOCKED ON MY ASS BY A COP’S BATON! I BEEN IN JAIL WITH OTHER FREEDOM FIGHTERS!”

 

Darcy felt a chill run over her pale skin.

 

“Well, I don’t really want to land in jail, you know...”

 

Her role model exploded and began to smack the wall next to her laptop.

 

“YA DONE TURNED INTO A COWARD! I NEVER THOUGHT THA DAY WOULD COME! THIS REVOLUTION NEEDS SOLDIERS, HONEY! SOLDIERS ON THA FRONT LINES! FIGHTING TO FREE, FREE PALESTINE! DIVEST! SANCTION! CUT TIES WITH ENEMIES OF THA PEOPLE!”

 

Her loyalist had gone cold.

 

“Who’s an enemy? Who’s a friend? I don’t know anymore. People keep dying, little babies on both sides of the border fence. Mothers crying for their families. Fathers who have nothing left, no homes, no hope. Where’s the good in that, Mama? Does it matter to argue over guilt anymore? Over who started all this shit?”

 

The hippie icon clenched her bony fists and shook uncontrollably.

 

“THAT’S IT, WOMAN, YA DID IT NOW! I’M KICKING YER PLUMP BUTT OUT OF OUR TRIBE! YA SOLD OUT TO THA MAN! GO GET YERSELF A MAGA COWBOY! THAT’S WHERE YA BELONG, RIDING SHOTGUN IN A 4X4 PICKUP TRUCK! HOO, I NEVER THOUGHT IT’D HAPPEN! I THOUGHT YA WERE A REAL-DEAL LESBIAN TIGRESS! A HUNTER ON THA PROWL! BUT IT’S OVER NOW, ALL OVER. YA DONE CAVED TO THA TRUMPIES WITH THEIR BIBLES AND SNAKE FLAGS! SAY GOODBYE TO THE FRIENDS YA DUMPED, SISTA! WE’LL ALL BE THERE WITH OUR HELMETS AND GAS MASKS AND OUR FISTS HELD HIGH! WE AIN’T GIVING UP THE STRUGGLE! THIS IS A FIGHT TO THE END! OUR VOICES WILL BE HEARD! INTIFADA FOREVER!”

 

Darcy wanted to vomit. She clicked out of the online conversation and slumped in her roller chair. The empty yogurt container fell onto her floor, and rolled into a corner.

 

“I’m an orphan now. All I’ve got left is that cranky alcoholic next door! How the hell did this happen?”

Nothing To See Here – “Control”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-24)

 

 

“We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and – in spite of True Romance magazines – we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely – at least, not all the time – but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.”

                        

                                                                                                                                  – Hunter S. Thompson

 

One of the most perplexing things about my second marriage was when we reached the point where it became impossible to cover our monthly bills, even with drastic measures in effect. I had unexpectedly lost my job as a retail manager, after a company sale. This created a vacuum of sorts, as I also worked for a newspaper in Chardon, for sideline income. That labor alone would not feed my family. So, I went to interviews all over the tri-county area, submitted resumes, and eventually took a job with a second publisher of local news. Yet my weekly reward couldn’t match the amount earned before. There was only one solution to this dilemma – dumping assets and cutting costs for the household. That process put strains on our marriage, and proceeded forward in a haphazard and rough fashion. It was a frustrating exercise, not unlike trying to steer an automobile with flat tires and a sputtering engine.

 

Not being in control sent me over the edge. Both financially, and emotionally. Afterward, I vowed to never let myself fall into that chaotic state, again.

 

Years later, I was back to living alone and dependent on nothing more than my wits for survival. But having the controls in my own hands made all the difference. When another business sale found me kicked to the curb, and struggling, the bumpy ride was easier to tolerate. In part, because of previous experiences with that kind of calamity. Yet also due to the conservative nature instilled by a childhood of hardship and sacrifice.

 

I knew how to live a minimal lifestyle, but had never been skilled at getting others to see the light of that strategy. Flying solo meant that I didn’t have to convince anyone else.

 

Oddly, I received an epiphany of sorts as household funds dwindled, and I returned to old habits. Saving and scrimping and squeezing out extra meals with creations like beans on toast, noodle tacos, flatbread baked on a pizza pan, or fried bologna sandwiches.

 

I was happier and more hopeful, with nothing.

 

Chasing trophies in a workplace environment often left me feeling fatigued, and humbled by futility. I preached a prescribed dogma of effort and loyalty to employees who were under my supervision. But knew well that the axe might fall, if they were deemed to be expendable. Episodes of corporate membership magnified this conflict in my head. I saw firsthand that platitudes of olden days could go pale in the harsh light of modernity.

 

A familiar theme resonated at each pause on my journey. I had to be in control, or suffer the consequences of living as a serf. A cog in the machinery, faceless and anonymous. Useful to be sure, in that I projected a higher power which was, in truth, not vested in me or any of my subordinates. I served the purpose of a conduit. A trench flowing water. Or a cable delivering electric signals from an instrument to the amplifier. Membership in the proper group made me worthy. The proper class. In that case, those of us who had shown enough discipline and obedience to be charged with minding the store.

 

Compliments from employers sounded sweet to my ears. Yet now, I realize that when saying ‘Good boy!’ to my canine companions, at home, the effect is no different. Through an education of chance, I finally realized that freedom and responsibility are two sides of the same coin. The burden of being in control is a yoke that lies lightly upon my shoulders. Its weight is nothing compared to the heft of crosstalk and static from others, who ride the wagon as spectators, without ever putting their bootheels into the dirt.

 

I used to think that climbing the metaphorical ladder to prosperity was an activity founded in reason. The aspiration of studios folk who view life as something built on a foundation of faith in goodness, and the value of hard work. And indeed, some of those tenets remain. I still believe that my own determination will keep the stone rolling. But have scaled that ambition to succeed downward, into proportions that are humble and local. What I do for myself, what I create in this virtual space, what I whisper to the sunset while enjoying a cold brew, is all worthwhile.

 

I once tried to vocalize this outlook to a friend, who was lamenting his own voyage as a musician having been stalled by new trends in the industry. He confessed to feeling like a failure after spending months on a recording project. Something that was delightful to hear and share with others. I thought his attitude was unnecessarily harsh.

 

“You must have heard the phrase, ‘Make art for art’s sake’ at one point or another. That concept goes back to Paris apparently, in the 19^th Century. There is something undeniably French about lifting up a creed of art justifying itself, without any other tangential attachment of politics or philosophy. It matters when a poet composes stanzas of verse. It matters when a painter interprets the sun and moon, and earth below. It matters when a singer adds her voice to the sounds of nature. Why, you ask? Because it does! That is what has propelled human beings throughout recorded history to etch slabs of rock, and carve logs, and build temples. Don’t you get it? Maybe it’s a Buddhist vibe, or perhaps a splinter of wisdom passed forward through the centuries, from Latin scholars. The notion must sound like madness to those that live on the social grid! But not to us, my guitar-plucking compadre. Not to us...”

 

I was never certain if he took my assertion to heart. Or if he understood the relationship between having control and using that privilege to speak freely and honestly. Without making excuses or offering justifications of any kind.

 

But I said it out loud. That alone was enough.