“Teisco Philco Combo”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home in West Virginia, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example of life in our household.

In 1978 I was 17 years old.

I grew up in a family of amateur vocalists and musicians. From an early age, the ‘folk’ classics rendered by my father with banjo or guitar formed the bedrock of our cultural knowledge. Like many kids of my generation, I developed a particular passion for Rock & Roll music of the loud variety. But the basic template set by Woody Guthrie or Pete Seeger remained. When I wrote my own compositions, they were straightforward in nature, more of a tonal backdrop for telling stories than any sort of plectrum wizardry.

As a young rebel, my work tools were few and low-budget by design. I acquired an electric guitar around the time of my birthday that year, one crafted in Japan and generically referred to as a Teisco. Only later would I realize that the no-name instrument was likely a Kawaii product, made after that company had bought out the more notable manufacturer. It was finished in a two-tone red and black sunburst, with a shorter scale than those owned by my friends. The guitar possessed an irritating ability to break strings when the whammy bar was used. Yet I could play the tinny twanger through a set of headphones, or directly into a tape recorder. It became my unit of choice because, as a fledgling songsmith, I had no other alternative.

Still, one frustration dogged my efforts – I had no amplifier.

I sometimes used the equipment of friends who were similarly inclined to rattle the windows with their own raucous experiments. But the lack of an amp stalled my work. I needed volume! Buying a competent device, like the Fender products owned by others I knew, seemed far out of reach. My stomach ached from pondering this dilemma. But then, rescue arrived in the form of a leftover radio and the naked chassis of a broken cassette device.

A friend from earlier days had been the son of an engineer for General Electric. His childhood creations included CB radios and rechargeable battery packs. Being around such crude creations was inspirational, even with my poor understanding of how each project functioned. After getting my Teisco, I began to channel this vibe for innovation. In our household roster of things were many discarded television sets, repaired by my father. Also old electrical junk considered likely to serve some future purpose. So I connected an input jack to the tape-head leads of my outmoded cassette player. Then secured everything with white packing tape. I stuffed the mummified carcass into the back of a Philco ‘cathedral’ radio that had belonged to my Great Grandfather, wiring it to the speaker. When I plugged my guitar into the Frankenstein amp, the mismatch created an impressive wall of distortion. Tonally and visually, it was unique. Especially with the advent of ‘Punk Rock.’

Out of necessity, I had created a ‘trash aesthetic’ that impressed my cohorts. Kudos were given, especially by the counterculture visionaries associated with Cornell University. But the deed wasn’t actually art in motion – it happened because I had no bucks.

My Philco hybrid worked for a series of recordings and a few live performances during that primitive era, in Ithaca, New York. I eventually took it on local television, where the limited output of wattage was not so much of a hindrance. Because the little monster worked on battery power, I could carry it anywhere. The device became a topic of conversation at every jam session and party. My friend Manic McManus brought his recording setup to the studios of Channel 13, where we both volunteered, and made the best historical record of this combo. I was struck by the irony that everything in my toolkit had cost less than one of his microphones.

Eventually, I graduated to a Kent Les Paul copy and then, a Fender Princeton amplifier. The setup was a great improvement over my garbage rig. More professional and dependable in character. I stopped being the butt of jokes from serious Rock performers in my circle of contacts. But strangely, the improvisational vibe was lost.

My songs began to sound too mainstream. Too… normal.

During a household move, the Philco was packed with childhood memories at the home of my parents. I threw the cassette chassis away. The Teisco ended up with my sister for a few years, buried in a closet. Only later would a bit of online research revive my interest in the cheap guitar. When I retrieved it, the fiberboard case had been flattened. But otherwise, it appeared unscathed by years of neglect.

I remembered plucking away at the axe as a kid, while wishing for a ‘real’ instrument like those of my heroes. Something expertly made by Fender or Gibson. But now, with many years having passed, my perspective has changed.

I am glad to revisit this Japanese relic. And remember.

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

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

“Retail Resurrection”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home in West Virginia, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example, still sweet to recall.

Lost and found again.

The story of my own ‘Prodigal Son’ episode literally reads like a more famous tale offered in the Christian Bible. As a teenager, I moved to New York State with my family and landed an apprenticeship through Cornell University in the field of television broadcasting. This experience would enrich my life in the coming years. But I squandered any opportunities that directly came from my study at Channel 13. With a head full of writing projects, potent Rock & Roll visions and a desire to avoid the drudgery of time-clock servitude, I crashed into alcohol abuse. My impulsive lifestyle was thrilling for the moment, but like sin itself, unsustainable. I became a ratty kid. A wandering scarecrow dressed in moth-eaten flannel gifted by friends. They pondered my foolish dance with disbelief and concern. I refused to listen to their voices, instead hearing the drumbeat of counterculture imagination. Every nod to insanity seemed to offer hope. Reason was a tiresome discipline to be feared. I made the moment of abandon last so long as possible.

But as winter took hold, the grim reality of failure became apparent. I was completely unprepared for life itself.

My girlfriend left for the west coast and I fell to living on the streets of Ithaca. I was empty in spirit and the flesh. Snow crusted my leather jacket. One by one, options disappeared. Friends grew weary. I felt hungry and cold. Finally, I landed a ride back to Ohio and made the trek palatable with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s bourbon.

Our first meal in Chardon was ‘Beef & Biscuit Put Together’ which came as a New England recipe my mother learned from an old widow at church. I had dropped to 148 pounds living under a bridge and on the sidewalks around town. So the dinner truly came as a feast worthy of celebration. I ate and ate until my belly could hold no more. Then, I made a bed on the couch. It felt good to fall asleep with a pillow and blankets instead of concrete or a bed sheet on the floor.

Morning brought the harsh realization that a lifestyle change was about to occur. Not by design or out of a sense of duty, but simply because I had no other choice. My family did not permit the use of beverage alcohol. So three months would pass before I had a drink. Camel cigarettes helped bolster my nerves during this process of drying out from daily consumption. The household routine kept me focused as I began to look for work.

My first attempt at gainful employment was a warehouse job in Cleveland. Because I was battling personal demons while struggling to get healthy again, the stint did not last long. Still, it set the pace for future endeavors. (A beginning in what would become a decades-long career in retail store management.)

Our local Fisher’s Big Wheel department store was being updated that summer and I got hired in with the remodel crew. Though the job paid minimum wage to start it was, with hindsight, the most important opportunity of my life. A forward step more auspicious than I could imagine. Since my position as a maintenance clerk was classified outside the normal bargaining unit of employees, I could perform various duties and labor for long hours without being affected by workplace rules. My schedule was altered on-the-fly as needs changed. But there were many chances to learn.

I welcomed each lesson in operating a business. Class had begun, again. 

 

Jim, our Store Manager, fit the prototype that I would come to recognize. He made friends easily, while being gifted in projecting an image of organization and authority. Yet behind this facade lay an individual undeniably human. Not wholly different from myself. Only more experienced in coping with the needs of daily existence. He was wickedly amusing, opinionated but diplomatic, and chain-smoked throughout the day. His example helped me to understand the necessary qualities of an effective leader. Not a cold, ‘corporate robot’ but a classic steward-of-business. When training fell short, he had the instincts to survive. As assistants came and went, he held the position for an unusually long period of time.

The crew made their own contributions to my course of study. One fellow named Harry had been an executive in the company offices, located in Newcastle, Pennsylvania. He loved the day-to-day interaction of waiting on customers. Another member of the team named Sherry was a veteran of A & P Supermarkets. She had an incredible wealth of knowledge about store work.

An Assistant Manager named Fred had served in various stores around the chain. He offered retail platitudes that I still found useful, over 30 years later. Another, named Karen, showed brilliance on the sales floor while being overlooked by superiors. A reality that made me sad. Her work ethic took precedence over traditions of style and chain-of-command decorum, something not welcome in the culture of 1980’s America. But she would later go on to great success with competitors. Most important of all, I met my first wife at Big Wheel. She also was a teacher, having reached the level of Office Manager. Her knowledge was an asset that I would come to rely upon throughout my entire career.

All of this was possible because of the incredible patience shown by my family. The yield of opening a door to someone who had rebelled, kicked, spat, cursed, battled and vociferously refused to be bridled by the habits of our brood. As a landed vagrant in 1983, I did not feel happy or kind. The mirror offered no friendship. I was sore at myself and the world. It might have been reasonable to extend a clenched fist of correction at that moment, as the wages of my own iniquity came due, But instead, I received the most precious gift of all.

Love.

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

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

Local Writers Welcome!

Local Writers:

send your material to

editor_geaugaindependent@aol.com

or

P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

for consideration.

We love stories of life
in Geauga County!

“Full House”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home in West Virginia, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is one example, still sweet to recall.

The ‘Little Yellow House’ on Maple Avenue.

In late 1983, this anonymous Buckeye abode was my literal place of refuge. A destination I cherished while living on the streets, and under a bridge in Ithaca, New York. After taking a risky jump from a television apprenticeship through Cornell University, to a life of Rock & Roll wanderlust, failure precipitated a hasty retreat to my native Ohio. I had long since worn out my welcome among the artists, musicians and malcontents who were friends by the southern tip of Cayuga Lake. With the year drawing to a close, I took up residence near another noted body of water. Namely, Lake Erie.

The bulk of my meager possessions were stashed in a green footlocker, which also served as a portable desk. I had the clothes on my back, a couple boxes of records, two cheap guitars and a head filled with ideas. My goal each day was to have enough Camel cigarettes for the hours until sunset.

Though careworn and confused by the circumstances that caused my exodus from the Empire State, I felt gladdened in having the assurance of regular meals and a comfortable, convertible couch where slumber could safely arrive. Greatly preferable to cold concrete or a bed sheet on the floor. After about three months of withdrawal from an alcohol-fueled haze of inspiration and depression, suddenly, life began to take a positive turn.

My family had given me life in the beginning. Now, added to that original gift were new quantities of mercy and hope.

Once again having myself, parents and siblings under the same roof brought the sort of balance and structure that I desperately needed. Though I missed the creative energy of Ithaca, being home in the Midwest steadied my nerves. Where I had been capricious and impulsive before, suddenly a sense of the worth carried by bedrock values of my forebears became apparent. I worked long hours, saved money when possible and tried to better myself by mimicking the quiet discipline taught in our family.

After a brief work episode in Cleveland, I landed a spot at the Fisher’s Big Wheel department store, on Water Street. I traded my ratty, 1973 Volkswagen Beetle on a newer Chevrolet. With a dependable income and a stable address, I began to collect more old plectrum instruments. They occupied a corner of the living room where I slept. Meanwhile, the household provided a needed emotional foundation for rebirth. Brother and sister were busy with their own places of employment. Mother and father held us together with their love.

I grew stronger in the sunshine of their presence.

In 1985, my sister was married and her husband joined the family, not only through this spiritual union, but also in physical form. Our household was busy around the clock. We all worked different shifts, first second and third. My own routine varied, once requiring a holiday stint that ran to the length of 28 hours. We were in close quarters. Generally, a mood of civility held us together. Though sometimes, the pace of life and lack of much privacy could rattle our good intentions. Mom liked to joke that she kept the kitchen open at all hours. Dad could be in or out of the house at any time, as a theological steward and counselor. I tended to have dinner sometime after arriving home around 9:00 in the morning. Brother and sister kept to a more typical schedule in daylight hours. Meanwhile, my brother-in-law typically added to this mix with his own duties as a security guard.

Working took my mind off of nagging, yet unimportant distractions. For the first time in many years, I gained a sense of focus. It did not take long to feel a certain kind of distance from my New York friends. Not only had I moved away in terms of geography, but I also found myself developing beyond the person I had been before. Necessity drove this emotional journey as I feared slipping backward into poverty and despair. I stationed my antique Royal typewriter on the coffee table in our living room, next to my couch-bed, and continued to write.

By 1986 our household routine had been honed to a useful edge. We worked, ate, laughed, cried, celebrated, studied, struggled and prayed together. I pondered somehow moving up to a management position at my department store. An intention that made coworkers giggle when stated out loud. Not the sort of future goal one would have expected from a shaggy, skinny kid in a Harley-Davidson t-shirt. I literally thought that the moment would last forever.

And it did last… until it didn’t.

My parents moved away in early April, when Dad accepted duties in another state. Their departure brought the entire family in line with our own tradition. I had grown up with only a fleeting sense of the ‘Ice’ brood. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and the like were scattered around the country. We only met on a regular basis at Thanksgiving, in Columbus. So any sense of membership in a real group was difficult to quantify. Perhaps this reality helped produce the sense of being a loner that had always permeated my soul. Yet my identity became clear with each session at the typewriter. I was the kin of a wordsmithing tribe. 

Writing cleansed my spirit and renewed faith in our walk of life.

I left the house in December. Shortly afterward, my brother and sister did the same. In modern terms, the house is no longer yellow, having been repainted. It is also no longer small, having been remodeled and expanded. But with each passing day, the memory of that place still lingers in my heart.

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

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

“Retro TV”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-18)

Roku.

A few years ago, I placed a repair call to my Internet provider. While the technician was working, I confessed that the cost of in-home television via cable was becoming distressingly expensive. It created a burden that seemed unjustified because I spent most of my waking hours on duty as a business manager. The TV served only one useful purpose – to brighten the living room with glimpses of the outside world as I drank beer after getting home at night.

The professional repairman was middle-aged, like myself, A fellow in scruffy work clothes and a logo cap from his company. After nodding a few times, he offered affirmation. “I hear that every day,” he said. Then he added a tidbit of advice. “Get a Roku box.”

I was confused. The name did not sound familiar. “Royko? I used to read his columns in the newspaper. Witty fellow he was...”

The fix-it man wiped sweat from his brow. “Roku. You can get them anywhere, really cheap. Go to Walmart. You’ll be amazed.”

While he busied himself installing a new modem/router combination on my home line, I puzzled over his advice. “You get television through this box?”

“Lots of free channels,” he observed.

I shook my head. “What about ESPN? And the news channels?”

He smiled indifferently. “They are all there. Some cost money some don’t. Check it out.”

Weeks later, after another increase on my cable bill, I remembered his admonition. The advice turned out to be quite prophetic. When I visited my local megacenter, there were several versions of the device on display. One worked with older CRT television sets like my own. Suddenly, I began to comprehend what he had been saying. The Roku could stream programming via the Internet to a regular TV, something I, as a Luddite of sorts, had never seen before. I purchased the unit with silent glee. Upon connecting it to my old Curtis-Mathes set, a new world of programming opened with dazzling dimensions.

I canceled my cable subscription after one week of the Roku.

At first, this electronic portal let me keep in touch with game highlights after work. Also, I used it to stay abreast of world developments with 24-hour news channels. CBSN, one I’d never seen before, became a particular favorite. There were so many options available that after adding new content to my media list, I often found myself forgetting to watch.

Typically, I settled on ‘Sportscenter’ and viewed their parade of game clips until post-work fatigue took over and I fell asleep in my chair.

Early retirement changed my household paradigm, however. With personal mobility, eyesight and general health in question, suddenly I had more free time for writing projects or TV viewing than ever before. I began to truly dip into the vast sea of alternatives on my Roku. What followed was a period of discovery and wonder.

And a channel called ‘24/7 Retro.’

I added it from a listing someone had posted on Facebook. Almost as an afterthought. Later, one night, I spied it in my list. A click on the icon turned my screen to glorious black & white. Then, I flashed on a vibe of Saturday afternoons during my childhood. When local TV stations would run low-cost programming like Tarzan movies, Charlie Chan adventures, Godzilla films, obscure westerns, celluloid shorts and the like.

I was thrilled!

The channel had lots of programs from the post-war era. When the very idea of television was new to most Americans. ‘The Lone Ranger’ and ‘Dragnet’ were familiar. But I began to see other exciting shows barely known in the 21^st Century:

‘Lights Out’ - An anthology series. Eerie tales hosted by Frank Gallop. (1946-52)

‘Decoy’ - Starring Beverly Garland as an undercover policewoman. (1957-58)

‘Lockup’ - Featuring Macdonald Carey as real-life attorney Herbert L. Maris. (1959-61)

‘Tales of Tomorrow’ - A series of various sci-fi stories. (1951-53)

‘Follow That Man’ - With Ralph Bellamy as Mike Barnett. (1949-54)

‘Passport to Danger’ - An incredible early appearance of Caesar Romero. (1954-58)

‘Man With A Camera’ - Charles Bronson. (1958-60)

‘One Step Beyond’ - A popular anthology show, hosted by John Newland. (1959-61)

‘Annie Oakley’ - Starring Gail Davis. (1954-57)

‘Rocky Jones, Space Ranger’ - With Richard Crane. (1954-55)

‘Suspense’ - Anthology series. (1949-54)

‘Quatermass II’ - A British sci-fi serial, middle of a trio from the 1950’s, written by Nigel Kneale. (1955)

‘The Lawless Years’ - Featuring James Gregory. (1959-61)

‘Sherlock Holmes’ - A version starring Ronald Howard. (1954-55)

‘The Adventures of Robin Hood’ - With actor Richard Greene. (1955-59)

These shows were accompanied by old serials like ‘Radar Men from the Moon’ which featured the notable character of Commando Cody. Plus, ‘Shadow of Chinatown’ with noted actor Bela Lugosi. I became spellbound by each production. It was as if my own slide into disability had reconnected me to the world I remembered as a kid.

Call it a second childhood... video style.

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

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

“Philco Radio Memories”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-18)

Radio. I have always been a fan.

One of the earliest gifts I can recall from childhood, somewhere in the mid-60’s, was a gray, Silvertone table radio out of the Sears & Roebuck catalog. Made of hard plastic. Our household consisted of many items from that notable retailer. Indeed, I sometimes wondered if my sister and little brother came from their holiday ‘Wish Book.’ The AM receiver was old enough in design that it still used vacuum tubes. Likely, a closeout item as transistor devices were beginning to flourish in the market. But I felt a rush of new-world experiences when tuning frequencies with its white, circular dial. The radio connected my rural world to another dimension, like a portal into the cosmos.

In that distant era, it was my ‘Internet.’

Later, for Christmas around 1967, in got a sleek, new transistor device. It had a stylish leather case and cream-colored earphone as accessories. Very typical in that moment. Also, quite useful for discovering late programs after bedtime. Because I could tune around on my own, listening truly became a learning experience. While an affinity for music made me want such a gadget, soon enough, news and on-air chatter piqued my interest. I listened intently as voices from afar discussed issues of the day. The progress of technology had changed my world forever.

But somewhere after 1970, this march toward tomorrow hit a ‘speed bump’ of sorts. One in which I rejoiced with youthful glee.

I was riding home from grade school with my father, through a suburban neighborhood near our own. The tree lawns were piled with rubbish and old furniture. Apparently a cleanup day of some kind was close at hand. Something my own family would hesitate to observe because we rarely, if ever, threw anything away. There, at the curb of a home we passed was a Philco console radio. Quite stately and grand in obsolescence. The sun glistening from its faded, wood cabinet.

As a kid, I was struck by its physical dimensions. It was literally huge compared to anything seen in our household. Immediately, I bounced up and down in my seat.

“Are they throwing that away, Dad?”

My father seemed disinterested. “Probably,” he replied.

“Can we look at it?” I pleaded. “Please?”

He raised an eyebrow. Something about my naive enthusiasm must have reminded him of his own younger days. Without protest, he turned the car around. We pulled into the driveway and waved to the homeowner who watched our approach with curiosity. A short conversation revealed that the radio was ‘junk’ waiting to be hauled away. It had been manufactured in the 1930’s. We were encouraged to take it for free.

Somehow, the Philco managed to fit in our beige, two-door, Ford Maverick. I cheered as we finished the drive home. Later, friends would laugh out loud at my relic. But for the moment, I felt like a trophy hunter with an incredible score.

Dad knew what my child-brain could not imagine. Namely, that the antique was likely being discarded not only because it had fallen out of fashion, but also because it no longer functioned. Once we had it in the basement, a quick check revealed the awful truth. Besides being visually battered from decades of use, it needed a transformer of some sort and a speaker.

I felt crestfallen.

Some of the tubes lit up when we plugged it in, and the dial light worked. It was an AM receiver with shortwave bands. But of course, no sound came through the tattered grille-cloth.

Happily, as a farm boy, Dad had mastered not only automotive repair, amateur carpentry, and later in life, philosophical and theological disciplines, but additionally – radio & television service. He had a manual published in the 1950’s with all sorts of useful information. So after diagnosing the receiver’s woes, he rummaged through a stash of spare parts in the garage. In less than a week, my new-old radio was once again in service.

I cheered even louder than when we first spotted it during our after-school drive!

Though about 40 years old at that time, the Philco proved to be very dependable. I listened to stations across the country at night, like WHO in Des Moines, Iowa, WLS in Chicago, or WSB in Atlanta. The shortwave bands brought in broadcasts from around the globe, often in English, but some in foreign tongues that I could not understand. Still, I tried to mimic their inflections. Varied blips and beeps and artificial noises from orbiting satellites provided extra entertainment.

Eventually, I encountered Wolfman Jack, who I believe was on WABC at that moment, doing the routine seen famously in ‘American Graffiti.’ I loved his style and wished for my own career as a disc jockey.

“YES, GRACIOUS! PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE RADIO AND FEEL THE VIBRATIONS COMIN’ THROUGH!”

With my march toward adulthood, the Philco faded from consciousness. I left home at the age of 19, to pursue personal goals associated with motorcycles and Rock & Roll. The console radio was eventually given away to a family friend who hoped to restore it to factory condition. But instead, it ended up in his garage. Water damage from a leaking roof finished its lengthy life-cycle. Only later would I realize my mistake in not retaining this beloved friend.

An error I will regret forever.

In recent years, I have looked for another Philco without success. Many versions of a similar design were produced before and after World War II. But nothing exactly like my lost receiver has appeared locally. Still, cyberspace research has offered clues that have helped to jog my memory. I can only hope to find a family photograph at some point to clarify what Dad and I discovered.

Until then, I will ponder… and write.

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

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

Shared occasionally in the Geauga Independent

Note: Philco radio photograph from AntiqueRadios.com

The Three Courthouses

Here is a link to discover photos of Geauga's three courthouses throughout its rich history:


http://courthousehistory.com/gallery/states/ohio/counties/geauga