Trailer Park Vignettes – “Plunge”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

The popularity of ‘Polar Plunge’ events held on New Year’s Day is a phenomenon found all over the North American continent. Particularly in places like northeastern Ohio, where such happenings are often used to raise funds for charities, or to bolster the goodwill of community organizations. But at the Evergreen Estates trailer park, only one cause could inspire having an above-ground pool set up, for the purpose of taking a frosty dip on the first day of January.

 

Getting shitfaced in the snow.

 

Rand Reskewicz had barely been awake for an hour, when the din from next door became so loud that he couldn’t hear an old radio crackling with reports about college football, in his storage barn. He stood over a Harley-Davidson chopper, while cursing and wrenching and attempting to prod the Shovelhead beast to life. Though temperatures were right below the freezing mark, little precipitation had fallen over the weekend. So, with a new calendar hanging on an interior wall, he felt confident in adding a different wrinkle to the festive day. Instead of getting soaked to the skin with his drunken neighbors, he planned to ride a victory lap around the village of mobile homes. Drag pipes on his iron steed, shorn of their mufflers, would offer a better soundtrack than the ‘Pop Country’ that was currently rattling his frosted windows.

 

Across the street, Zelda Reed and her daughters were all wearing bikinis hued in rainbow colors. Their apparel had been purchased during a college trip to Florida. The tall, statuesque woman felt bold when striding down a trio of front steps from her outside deck. She wore yellow pool slides, and a Spongebob Squarepants beach towel around her shoulders. But the chilly air quickly made her large nipples perk up to the point of being painfully erect.

 

Stunned by this raw display of feminine appeal, Rand dropped a ½-inch spanner on his boot. The tool bounced off of its steel-reinforced toe, ricocheted across the floor, and landed by a box of vintage beer cans. A collection he had gotten from Wisconsin, during his second marriage. Some men might have been excited or aroused by such a treat in winter months. Yet he shielded his eyes, in moderation. His cheeks blushed, under a thatch of beard stubble.

 

“DAMMIT! WHAT’S THAT BIG, BLONDE MILF DOING OUTSIDE? THIS AIN’T A CIVILIZED BURGH FOR ANYBODY. SURE AS HELL NOT FOR A MAMA ON THE PROWL! Y’ALL CAN’T BE TOO CAREFUL IN A TRASH HEAP LIKE THIS ONE! I DON’T TRUST NOBODY!”

 

Down the block, Reba Duchese was busy running water into her fiberglass pond, with a kinked garden hose. She was short and skinny, and wore a sweatshirt over her one-piece, racerback swimsuit. Her spiky hair was standing on end, because of the seasonal freeze in effect. But a high metabolism kept her active. Her joints were still limber and supple. She sang to herself while topping off the reservoir from a spigot on the side of her longbox hovel. A Marlboro cigarette dangled from her mouth.

 

“Polar plunge, polar bear! I’ll take an excuse to get blitzed, anytime, anywhere!”

 

Rand stood outside for a moment, to catch his breath and monitor the gathering that was taking place nearby. A flash mob of sorts had formed at Lot 42. Everyone was shivering and swearing. But jugs of cheap bourbon were passed around, to keep the participants buzzed enough to continue. Tall cans and bottles of Busch and Bud Light were in every free hand. Marijuana smoke clung to the air, oddly thickened because a mist of snow had started to fall.

 

Fatty Fontaine, a balding hulk of a man who lived on the corner, liked seeing Zelda in her summer mode of dress. His wife had already gone through half a bottle of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, mixed with fruit juice. So, she was oblivious to his drooling mannerisms. The middle-aged lecher strutted around like a barnyard rooster, assessing hens in the coop.

 

“GAWWW! THAT’S A PRETTY SIGHT I’D SAY! ESCPECIALLY WHEN WE’RE ALL CELEBRATING A NEW YEAR IN THE PARK! HOT DOGG, I THINK THAT LADY DESERVES A GOOD SQUEEZE! YEAH, TO QUOTE W.C. FIELDS, ‘DON’T MIND IF I DO!’”

 

Granny Gertrude Parker stood under her canopy roof, at a space diagonally situated across from the pool yard where Reba was at work. The neighborhood matron folded her hands and prayed in a whisper while shaking her head. She was mildly disgusted by the impulsive display of seedy ebullience, yet somehow, also amused.

 

“Those children are a wayward bunch, Dear Lord! Don’t let anyone drown, or get frostbite!”

 

After about 30 minutes, half of the community had migrated to the overflowing lot. Music and firecrackers broke the afternoon silence. Icicles were spread over the grass from leaks in the oversized, artificial tub. A few residents tumbled from lawn chairs and perches around the yard perimeter. But the mood remained upbeat.

 

Zelda strode through the clustered mass of humanity with a sense of defiant glee, as a few who had walked over from adjacent streets rubbed their arms to stay warm, while spitting tobacco chaw on the ground. A parade of diesel rigs spun their turbochargers, and huffed black smoke that eventually drifted skyward. As the stylish mom climbed a short ladder, and prepared for her plunge, there was a howl of wanton desire.

 

Flabby Fontaine beat his chest like a caveman projecting strength. His spouse had disappeared behind a hedge in front of their vinyl-sided dwelling. She was wrapped in a dirty blanket, normally used to cover a gap in their trailer skirting. Inebriation had overwhelmed her endurance. Those witnessing her exit figured that she must have gone back inside, to recuperate.

 

The libertine lump who was her life partner reached out a calloused paw, and managed to work one finger under the strap of his target’s colorful attire. With a pop of stretchy spandex, he freed the trembling woman’s breasts, right before she hit the water. Ice had already begun to form around the makeshift pond, and its screwed-together walls shook and shimmied from the waves that resulted. There was a wail of protest, as the wild mom felt her courage evaporate. All of her daughters shielded their eyes, and grimaced.

 

Reba was so shocked that her jaw hung open, and limp. Her bottle of suds fell to the frosty turf.

 

“WHAT THE HECK, DUMBASS? WHY WOULD YOU RUIN OUR PARTY! THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BRING EVERYBODY TOGETHER FOR THE NEW YEAR!”

 

Growling and grumbling resounded from the redneck horde, as Fontaine looked left and right. He picked up vibrations that were not so friendly. This made him decide to ditch taking a ceremonial jump in the tank, after his new love interest. Instead, he turned toward the street. Escape seemed to be a better choice. He stumbled over a snowbank, and ran down the driveway.

 

Music was still playing at a high volume, from a Sears & Roebuck boom box, in Reba’s shed. But suddenly, a cacophonous clatter negated this happy chorus. The burly blast of a Milwaukee steed split eardrums around the prefabricated oasis.

 

Rand had kick-started his motorcycle at last. He dropped the transmission into gear with a metallic thud of inner components, and burned a streak of rubber all the way to his neighbor’s home. While balancing the hawg with his body, he extended his left arm and swung mightily. A gloved fist caught the fleeing miscreant square in the side of his head.

 

Fontaine rolled on the asphalt like a supermarket turkey used for bowling practice. His elbows and knees were skinned and sore. The crash made him whine woefully. He scampered away while sliding on the slick street, and cursing. This pitiful fall inspired catcalls and hoots from everyone in attendance.

 

Zelda covered herself with one arm. Her daughters recovered the Spongebob towel, and brought it to hide their mater’s embarrassment.

 

“GOOD RIDDANCE, ROCKHEAD! YOU WERE ALWAYS A JACKASS!”

 

Reba lowered her chin, and frowned.

 

“I feel sorry for his wife! Being married to a canned ham on legs can’t be much fun. Anyway, did you see where she went just now? I wasn’t paying attention!”

Trailer Park Vignettes – "Frozen"

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Salleigh Hogg had only lived at the Evergreen Estates community of mobile homes for a few years. Perhaps three or four, since her divorce and bankruptcy. Yet it had quickly become the worst experience of her adventure as an immigrant to the United States. She loathed the junkyard oasis with its lowbrow residents and unapologetic lack of social graces. Yet somehow, her foreign accent and manner had attracted interest from some of the neighbors. They doted on her like a favorite grandmother, throughout the winter. Always checking to be sure that she had plenty of food, and fuel for heating and kitchen needs. This convenient situation almost made her feel grateful to be at the trailer development. She could not bring herself to give thanks to a higher power, however. Her native London still beckoned with cultural diversity and a vibrant social scene. She longed to return home. But like others in the park, she had become stuck in the mud. Escape was impossible. Her meager monthly income barely provided enough to stretch from the first day of each month, to the last. So, she was a double exile, of Indian ancestry, raised in the United Kingdom. Now, a prisoner on the North American continent.

 

On Saturday morning, she woke to a temperature of -10 degrees Celsius. What her Yankee cohorts measured as 14 above zero, Fahrenheit. Her longbox dwelling felt decidedly cold, but not so much that she couldn’t survive. Layers of Irish wool kept her comfortable. She puttered around the prefabricated structure in a pair of pink, knit booties. They had been a gift from one of her distant relatives, sent across the big pond via an international postal flight.

 

While singing to herself, she reached for the teakettle on her stove. It was nearly empty and needed a good refill. But when she leaned across the sink, and twisted a faucet handle, there was no stream of clear, fresh liquid as a result.

 

Salleigh kicked the cabinet shroud, and cursed loudly.

 

“BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS! BOLLOCKS!”

 

At such low temperatures, her pipes must have frozen solid. She had forgotten to leave some sources of household water dripping overnight. That error cost her dearly, just after sunrise. She hammered her tiny fists on the countertop, and began to cry.

 

“BLOODY HELL! BLOODY, BLOODY HELL!”

 

Next door, Wolf Chapka was busy devouring a container of sausage gravy and biscuits that had been sent over by his sister, along with literature about her church. The delicacy was one he had enjoyed frequently, while growing up in rural Pennsylvania. Bits of the creamy sauce dribbled into his shaggy beard. When they became a nuisance, he wiped them carelessly on his T-shirt. This smeared the flavorful concoction all over his fingertips. He licked them gently, so as not to waste any of his meal.

 

“Damn that’s a tasty batch, Rhubarb! Yer one heck of a good hillbilly girl! Mama would be proud of that cookin’, I swear!”

 

The phone began to ring as he was finishing a mug of black coffee. He had brewed the beverage in a campfire pot, on the stove. When he lifted the landline handset from its cradle, a squawk of desperation scorched his ear.

 

“Wilk Szymon? This is the crabby old Brit lady on your east side. Good morning, my friend!”

 

The redneck motorcyclist chafed at hearing his given name spoken aloud.

 

“Whatdafugg Sal, nobody ever called me that except my maw, God rest her soul! It’s a handle taken from her Polish bloodline. Yer makin’ me grit my teeth like a little kid about ta get spanked! Why are ya up so early anyway, there ain’t nothin’ ta do on a day like this but huddle inside and watch it snow!”

 

The Indie-English expat tried hard to sound needy, without being an irritant.

 

“My plumbing is iced up over here, lad! As you people would say, ‘I’m screwed!’ I can’t even boil a kettle of water for my cocoa! I need help!”

 

The greasy biker became more sympathetic, while listening. He had a soft spot for anyone in need, after years of living in a glorified shipping container.

 

“Well shit! I’ve got a turbo heater that runs on propane. But it’ll take hours to thaw yer pipes. There’s no quick fix, trust me! January is eternally a bitch in this park! I got plenty of jugs filled though, I always stay prepared. Ya want me to bring some over? That’ll at least cover yer needs fer now. Get a campin’ pot like mine, it works all day, every day. Whether there’s power or not!”

 

Salleigh pulled the thick cardigan tighter around her drooping shoulders, and cursed again.

 

“I’d be obliged, my friend! Bob’s your uncle! Problem solved!”

 

She only had to wait about ten minutes, before the sound of big, leather boots thudded up her front stairs. Dogs were barking, across the street. Diesel exhaust from a three-quarter ton pickup idling in the driveway wafted past her icy windows.

 

“Open up, Queenie! My hands are full. I’ve got water, extra blankets from the Army-Navy store, and a plastic tub of biscuits, if ya want them! They’re still warm from my sister’s oven! I pigged up all the gravy though, sorry ‘bout that! Call me a glutton!”

 

The grateful woman swung her door forcefully, until the wood slab strained on its hinges.

 

“Come inside, come inside! Let’s have a chin wag, I’m bored sitting here alone! I’ll trade you some vegan curry for those plain biscuits! I never eat meat, you know that very well!”

 

Wolf stomped off his black boots before stepping across the threshold.

 

“Thanks fer the hospitality, ma’am. But I can’t stand too much human company all at once. It makes me feel skittish. I’m glad ta help out though, in any event...”

 

The foreign dame shook her gray locks, and protested.

 

“NO, I WON’T HAVE IT! SIT DOWN AND SHARE A PROPER CONVERSATION, I HAVEN’T SEEN ANYONE IN DONKEY’S YEARS!”

 

Her fellow resident had begun to wilt in the heat of her living room. Ice crystals melted and fell from his wild facial hair. He took off his orange, Carhartt toboggan, and held it gingerly while making excuses.

 

“Sal, ya know I’m not the chatty type. I’ll work all day ta help somebody, but flapping my jaws ain’t a priority. You want small talk? Open a bottle of whiskey. It’s too damn early ta drink, though. I’m tryin’ ta stay sober, at least fer this month. Let me stick that heater under yer house, okay? Let it run and see if that helps the pipes. I’ll keep an eye on things while it does the job...”

 

The venerable matron had tears in her eyes. She hugged him until he stiffened like a board.

 

“Damn you, Wilk! You’re a keeper, for certain! But it’s brass monkeys outside, I’d think spending a few minutes with a chum would be appealing! Suit yourself though, I’m glad for your help. Cheerio!”

 

Shortly afterward, noisy bumps and bangs from under the floorboards assured her that the propane jet was being maneuvered into place. She leaned against her stovetop, and started the kettle on a low setting. Soon, there would be hot water and a tasty drink in her cup. The instant cocoa would warm her innards. Something she needed greatly, during such a frosty episode of seasonal abandon. Yet her heart had gone numb without any companionship during the extended blast of winter.

 

Why wouldn’t the mountain man next door stay for a moment, and tickle her ears with his deep, baritone voice? She wanted to get to know him, better.

Trailer Park Vignettes – “Paradise”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

J. Dixon Pflug had lived at the Evergreen Estates mobile home park for so long, that his recollections of life in the outside world were faded and unreliable. In early days at the rural community, there had been a sense that an escape would come quickly. That hopeful inclination kept him upbeat and positive, while going through the daily routine. He had kept busy wrenching on cars and trucks, at a local shop owned by the son of a former professional athlete, who once had a contract with the bygone Cleveland Rams. A franchise that abandoned their original host city in 1945. But as months, years, and decades passed without him finding a moment of release, that optimism evaporated. Eventually he realized that as with most of the other residents, no silver lining adorned his confinement in the low-buck district. He had been stripped of social standing. Members of his family would look sideways and whisper, when he attended seasonal gatherings. Friends first met in high school days would lower their heads and groan when he attended reunions. Bankers fretted over his lack of concrete assets, when a loan was needed. He tumbled from the comfort of a steady paycheck, to career negation and then, futility. Finally, his noggin went numb in a wash of high-proof spirits. This harsh therapy gave him an ability to cope. It made his brain impervious to bouts of contemplation, and remorse.

 

He was better off staying persistently drunk, rather than having to face the weight of his own failings in life.

 

After a generation had come and gone at the trailer oasis, nobody could remember him being anything but a crabby, unshorn beast of a man. Though there were at least a few in the neighborhood that looked upon him with a mild sense of pity. They would pretend not to notice when he slurred his words, while sitting outside. Or when his bladder became uncontrollable, and he soaked the crotch of his denim overalls. He did not cease trying to be a good citizen despite physical handicaps that kept him stuff and sore even in warmer weather. A small garden of floral varieties flanked his abode, in the front. He seemed to breathe life into this space, almost as if the cultivation of nature’s gifts helped to erase the ugly reality of his own existence. A decided contrast to the gloomy, unkempt appearance that he and his boxcar hovel projected otherwise.

 

On a Friday afternoon in January, he bundled up in a heavy parka and gloves, and sat outside with a 40-ounce bottle of Steel Reserve 211. The temperature was below freezing, though not so severe as it had been during previous days. So, he felt grateful for a chance to trade the drudgery of indoor time for something more rewarding, and sunny in character. The malt liquor swill warmed his pipes quickly. He soon had the sensation of being on a roller coaster, strapped into his seat while twisting and turning and reacting to jolts of gravity and noise. Diesel rigs that passed his yard chuffed black smoke into the white mist of snow that was falling. His nose tingled with each breath. He gripped the glass container with gusto, and let foam dribble into his longish, gray beard. The potent refreshment made him feel like a traveling conman and snake-oil seller, holding a fake meeting under a big, canvas tent. He spoke with a hint of sarcasm dripping from his mouth, like doggie drool.

 

“BLESS YOU, EVERYONE! I’M SURE GRATEFUL FOR ANOTHER DAY HERE IN PARADISE! THERE AIN’T NOWHERE ON EARTH I’D RATHER BE! I’M BUCKEYE BORN AND BRED! THANK YOU, DEAR OLD SOL! THANK YOU MOST SINCERELY! NOW, STEP RIGHT UP, FOLKS, TO GET THIS BARGAIN OF THE CENTURY! A YELLOW NECTAR NUMBERED LIKE HYMNS IN A CHURCH SONGBOOK! TWO-ELEVEN I SAY! TWO-ELEVEN!”

 

A window on the dwelling next door slid upward as he continued to imbibe. Its panes had been patched with duct tape. This crude fix obscured much of the light that filtered through. Aberdeen DeCosta was in front of her television, in a spare room full of jar candles and faux works of cowboy art made in China. Her grandchildren were in another section of the house-on-wheels, playing video games.

 

“Dixx! It’s damned cold outside, are you crazy? I won’t even perch on my deck to smoke a cigarette! My daughter was bitching all day about the stench! But I told her a few puffs of tobacco won’t hurt the kiddos. I’m not going outside to freeze my nipples off! You must be really buzzed to stand this weather!”

 

The crusty loner stopped ingesting brew for long enough to catch his breath.

 

“Abby, could you at least wish me a good day before complaining? That tone of yours grates on my ears! It’s like the sound of a schoolmarm I had in the sixth grade. That horrible bitch liked to single me out for correction in front of our whole class. I was perpetually embarrassed and broken. But in that era, no one gave a dang about feelings and such, you know? We got paddled with a long-handled tool made of varnished pine. My rear end broke it in half, on one occasion...”

 

Aberdeen snorted and snickered while lighting a menthol smoke.

 

“I didn’t know you ever had any feelings, old coot! That’s quite a story you just told. But don’t expect me to give you a hug. I’ve got plenty of crap to keep me busy. My daughter has been divorced three times. She keeps switching jobs, and the kids always get left with me! I’m plumb out of energy now. The truth is, I could use a sip of that piss you’re holding!”

 

Dixon forced himself to smile. He reached out with the 211 as a gesture of friendship, though his bench and the window were probably 30 feet apart.

 

“At least you get to see your grandkids. There’s a lot to be said for keeping families together. Mine are in California, well one is anyway. That little chub looks like our side of the brood, he’s definitely in the bloodline. But my former squeeze won’t acknowledge that there was a DNA contribution of any kind. She ditched me when we were both younger and stupid. Something must have given her a clue that our relationship was doomed...”

 

The blue-collar woman shivered just a bit. She stubbed out her coffin nail and cursed.

 

“If you’re looking for sympathy, there’s none here to take. Sorry, Dixx. Once you’ve landed in a place like this, hard times seem normal. I moved here when my husband was killed in a work accident, he drove a dump truck for that stone quarry on the hill. We never had much, but as a widow, I’ve had even less. Go figure, right? But I still raised my kid. Now, I’m repeating the process with her kids. How’s that for a bite in the ass?”

 

The contrarian hobo smiled through a haze of alcohol mash.

 

“Hmm, well now you’ve told your own tale, Abby! I think that might be even sadder than mine, though I guess this ain’t a contest. You know, every morning comes with me wanting to clear my head. I drink coffee until my hands quit shaking, and both eyes can see straight. Yet an hour don’t pass before I’m thirsty again. In hate being sober. It means I see how things are, which is not what I choose to perceive. I’d rather have my boozy façade in place. That veneer of comfort keeps me sane...”

 

Aberdeen coughed and slouched in her roller chair. She was dressed in a jumpsuit patterned after a package of Maruchan Ramen Noodles. The outfit had been an unexpected Christmas surprise. She hated the garish garment, but wore it anyway to amuse her junior offspring.

 

“Drink yourself into a stupor then, and be happy! But don’t linger on your porch, the township police will find you tomorrow, looking like a fat, shaggy popsicle! Take care, neighbor! Empty that bottle, and go to bed!”

 

The window portal slammed shut before he could grunt out a response. But it gave him a welcome opportunity to finish his beverage in peace.

 

“Another day in paradise. Yeah, that’s it right there!”

Nobody Reads This Page – "Snow Run"

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

I have never been one to worry much about the approach of winter chaos. Particularly since buying my first pickup truck, around 35 years ago. Having four-wheel drive kept me on the road when needed. Particularly for the purpose of getting to work, where I could earn an income to support my family. Necessity has always overwhelmed hesitation in being active during bouts of inclement weather. In a sense, each of these adventures felt like an accomplishment, afterward. A challenge from Mother Nature, accepted and met.

 

But with my slide into disability, retirement, and living alone, priorities changed. I no longer held uninterrupted mobility as a primary focus. Instead, the need to stay vertical became my goal. Hobbling down icy porch steps, and through drifts of frosty white, suddenly had a character more dangerous than before. I needed to pace myself, and stay safe. Household chores, appointments, and family visits could wait.

This new discipline meant staying ready for intermittent lapses in between outbursts of climate wrath. Warmer days, clear roads, and brightening skies could offer motivation to get stocked up before the next passing of blustery woes. Yet I had to remain vigilant and attentive, or lose the chance to keep myself ahead of the curve.

 

A recent example of this new phenomenon came after those in my county had survived a long week of single-digit temperatures and overcast skies. Huddling inside with the windows glazed over, and my furnace running incessantly, created a mood of seasonal isolation. One that made me feel oddly like a canned sardine, trapped by circumstance. But a break in the forecast came as reports of another, more violent system that would soon be present got my blood circulating again. After coffee and PB toast on a Thursday morning, I layered myself with a camo hoodie, winter coat, gloves and knit cap bearing a Harley-Davidson crest. My black SUV started willingly upon a first turn of the key, and warmed itself as I struggled around the vehicle perimeter with one cane, scraping and brushing away the crystalized precipitation.

 

My rural environment remained one that offered few creature comforts, particularly in months like January. But only a short distance away was the rustic community of Rock Creek, a timeless outpost where the clock literally seemed to have quit ticking. Cantini’s Village Market became my intended destination for the trip. A vending spot that would provide things I needed, like cases of beer, ground beef, fresh-baked pepperoni rolls, and packaged hash browns. Their small footprint is one I have always found easy to navigate, while offering a bounty of home needs. And their staff has the pleasant, local feel of a crew very much in sync with the blue-collar area.

 

The eastward drive away from my residence park felt invigorating. Particularly after so much downtime behind closed doors. I was glad to get back up to speed, and be running free. My dashboard radio squawked with a familiar refrain of sports stories from Cleveland. Assistant coaches for the Browns franchise being fired, a postmortem analysis of their stalled playoff run, possible situations for the team going forward, and the drama of callers who stood ready to deliver lots of strong opinions in real time. This lively soundtrack turned my journey into an abbreviated experience. I had barely listened for a few minutes, when the country jaunt was finished.

 

Inside the friendly emporium, I took a narrow shopping cart and headed for their last aisle to the right, which was flanked with a row of refrigerated cases and floor displays. As always, I lingered while reading labels. Genesee, Pabst, Busch, Steel Reserve, Budweiser, Coors, Yuengling, and others that were familiar. This exercise was one I reenacted with every visit. Despite the fact that the actual choice had already been made, even before pulling out of my driveway.

 

When I reached the front register with two 24-count suitcases of Miller Lite, and a heap of edible goodies, the cashier on duty smiled with recognition.

 

“Are you stocking up now, before we get more snow? That’s what I have been trying to plan all day. I stand here making a mental list. Asking myself, ‘What do I need to buy before going home?’ I don’t want to forget anything. There’s no chance I’ll go back out in that horrible mess, once it starts coming down! Why can’t we live in a place like Florida?”

 

I laughed at her casual comment, while unloading my buggy.

 

“Those people have unbearable heat in the summer, rain almost every day, and hurricanes. That’s what I hear from friends who moved south for a change of pace. I’m more used to the way it is here at home. These months can be a challenge, but otherwise, it’s not too bad. Maybe I’ve just gone numb from seeing so many winters go by...”

 

The store clerk laughed until her long, glistening curls began to jostle rhythmically.

 

“Doesn’t the cold make your bones ache, sir? It’s no shame to admit you’ve had enough!”

 

I leaned on the commercial cart for support, while lifting bagged items that had been already been scanned.

 

“You’re on target there, but I don’t fight the elements nowadays. Winter gives me a chance to work at my desk. I get things done that wouldn’t happen otherwise. Warm days mean I am out on my porch, with a brew. My social network is different from being on the computer. I wave and talk and stay in touch with anyone going by my hut. That keeps me feeling alive. It reminds my neighbors that I’m still in the saddle.”

 

The young woman nodded and giggled while finishing my order.

 

“You sound like my grandpa, that old soul will never leave Ohio! He says it builds character to live where the thermometer falls to zero every year, and below. I’ve heard him talk about running a plow with his beard frozen over, and a thermos of coffee on the seat in his rig. With nothing but logs in the fireplace, when he got home. Those were different times! I’m not so tough, maybe. Give me a beach and lots of sunshine! That’s what I dream about on days like this one...”

 

After loading the rear hatch of my little hauler, I steered west once more, toward Thompson Township. At home, there would be more work to accomplish. Unloading all of my grocery acquisitions, sorting things into their designated places in the cupboards, taking out the trash, and getting ready for my evening routine. One typically consisting of imbibing alcoholic beverages and gnawing on salty snacks, while amusing myself with trivial programs on YouTube. Such as vintage reruns of Jerry Springer episodes, or antique car reviews.

 

A woman next door was arriving home as I backed into my space on our street. I wanted to shout some sort of greeting across the yard that separated her longbox from mine. But a tingle of snowflakes in my eyes kept me from lingering too long. I decided that getting inside was a more important concern. Only two weeks remained until the first day of February. And from then, a short slog through that pivotal month until March. Thanks to the calendar’s advance, hope and meteorological healing did not lie far away.

 

Now, I had enough suds on hand to make it that far.

 

 

 

 

Nobody Reads This Page – “Interview”

 

c.2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

“You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.” – Ray Bradbury

 

I thought hard about the craft of writing recently, after receiving a phone message that at first appeared to be unwanted spam. My cellular device chirped with a notification, while I was having coffee and toast early in the morning. I had to reach for my reading glasses to catch an accurate glimpse of this intrusive jolt. But after rereading it several times, my eyes focused sharply enough to comprehend. With surprise, I concluded that the unsolicited text actually looked to be genuine.

 

“Mr. Ice, I am a recruiter for a publishing house in New York City. Some of your online material has come to the attention of our editors. I must say that your approach to creating content is unique, if not exactly conventional. We normally review work by published authors or media figures who are notable in the field of journalism. But the staff here was interested enough in your offerings to reach out, directly. If you would like a telephone interview, please respond at the number included with this notice. - Sincere Regards, Rina Coppolo, Director of Resource Acquisition for Empire Press, Inc.”

 

I waited a day or two before sending a reply. Some hesitation about responding to an uninvited call of this kind made me slow to answer. Yet after pondering a litany of excuses, I relented at last. When I finally clicked on the contact link, a traditional ring sounded in my ear. Then, a helpful woman purred a sweet tone of welcome. I figured it must be a secretary, answering calls from a corporate switchboard.

 

“This is the office of Rina Coppolo. Will you hold please?”

 

My hand was trembling enough that I spilled coffee on the end-table by my chair.

 

“Of course. Thank You!”

 

I wanted to hang up before having a real confab. But curiosity kept me on the line. If nothing else, I guessed that making a gesture in return would give me another story to tell. Even if it became a misguided adventure.

 

After a couple of minutes, there was an electronic squawk, and a bell chime. The new voice resonated with clarity and importance. I could tell that it must belong to someone with lots of responsibilities, and little time.

 

“This is Rina, how may I help you today?”

 

I cleared my throat and coughed.

 

“My name is Rodney Ice, I live in the area of Cleveland, Ohio. You sent a message to my cellular phone, it was through an e-mail link I have included on one of my blogs. I pilot an online gazette called the Geauga Independent...”

 

The company manager brightened with recognition upon hearing my name said aloud.

 

“Ice! That’s wonderful, we all thought it was a clever pen name, sir! Bravo! It made us consider the frosty climate of winter. My dash thermometer said four degrees, driving to our headquarters this morning!”

 

I laughed audibly, while covering my face.

 

“Actually, that’s on my birth certificate. Not a conjured-up handle meant to amuse readers. But thank you anyway...”

 

Ms. Coppolo sighed and regathered her composure.

 

“Okay then, I’ll remember that in the future! With respect to your written material, my editorial team was wondering about your formal education. What kind of study made you become a word hawk, Mr. Ice?”

 

I felt my face turning red.

 

“Well, I grew up at the knee of a Church of Christ preacher...”

 

The professional editor and recruiter reacted with astonishment.

 

“CHURCH OF WHAT? I NEVER HEARD OF THAT GROUP. IS IT LIKE BEING CATHOLIC, OR METHODIST? HOW WOULD THAT GIVE YOU SKILLS IN THIS FIELD?”

 

I chortled to myself and leaned forward, over the wireless device.

 

“Umm... it probably wouldn’t be useful to explain the pertinent details. Except to say that my father had some theological volumes published by College Press in Joplin, Missouri. He also wrote all articles for magazines and newsletters associated with his non-denominational fellowship. I absorbed knowledge from him by watching and listening, not by being taught...”

 

Coppolo sounded somewhat confused. I imagined her rattling jewelry and fiddling with a mug of pens on her desk.

 

“So then, you have a degree in literature or some related area, because of his inspiration?”

 

I turned a deeper shade of red.

 

“No, no degree. I was in an apprenticeship program through Cornell University, studying video production and broadcasting. I also had a mentor who was an editor with a local news weekly. She provided technical help, such as proper grammar and formatting. I needed pointers sometimes. Otherwise, I just paid attention at home and learned on my own. Actually, a lot of energy came from the realm of music, not necessarily the discipline of noted scribblers...”

 

The publishing steward was breathy and befuddled.

 

“Well, perhaps that would explain the style you project. One person here thought you had a musical sensibility to your writing. Is that accurate?”

 

I nodded and smiled with a sense of accomplishment.

 

“That’s interesting really, I had an interview with Easyriders Magazine in the 1990’s, and the fellow in charge said he had the same notion...”

 

She had lost her train of thought.

 

“EASYRIDERS? I NEVER HEARD OF IT! WERE YOU JUST EXPERIMENTING WITH IDEAS? OR WERE YOU HOPELESSLY LOST, AND TRYING TO FIND YOUR DIRECTION?”

 

My nose tingled enough that I rubbed it with one hand.

 

“It’s a motorcycle rag you know, custom choppers and individualism. All of that related scene. I was with a different monthly called Biker Lifestyle for five years. There were plenty of motorized steeds in our household, during my childhood. It meshed well with the Rock & Roll sounds I heard from our hi-fi while growing up, intellectually. Those interests came together in features about living on the open road...”

 

Ms. Coppola must have been completely stumped by my honest testimony.

 

“So, music and bikes helped make you a creative scribe? How odd! I’ve never heard that from anyone else! Our other authors have studied the use of language intensely, and perfected their manuscripts by getting a real education! Your experience sounds random, to say the least!”

 

I had to force myself to reply. The words came out in a whisper.

 

“Well, the custom chopper thing got me going again. I used to write poems and silly escapades as a kid. Those tales came later, to revive what I had done before. To bring back my passion for the work. Then I got a gig at a county newspaper here in Ohio. I had always admired columnists like Mike Royko, Dave Barry, and Erma Bombeck...”

 

I heard my new friend huffing for oxygen.

 

“MY GOD, WHAT A DIVERSE GROUP! I MUST SAY THAT IT EXPLAINS A LOT ABOUT YOUR PERSONAL EVOLUTION AS A CREATIVE WRITER. WE’VE BEEN SCRATCHING OUR HEADS TRYING TO GUESS WHAT MADE IT ALL HAPPEN. THANK YOU FOR BEING SO CANDID!”

 

I had run out of anecdotes. My mouth felt unusually dry.

 

“In don’t have a wall of certificates and awards here at home. To be frank, I don’t associate with a lot of artisan types. They often seem too self-important and pompous. I prefer the company of blue-collar folk. People who till the soil or build things to make a buck. Then drink away their cares with friends and neighbors...”

 

My distant contact wheezed slightly. I must have said something that crossed an invisible line in her consciousness.

 

“Midwestern minds perceive things differently, Mr. Ice. We’re all aware of that, at Empire Press. Don’t take that as a word of judgment though, it’s just a truism for the industry. We need all sorts of input to be successful in the marketplace. That is why I reached out to you!”

 

I did not know what else to say. Our conversation seemed to have reached a sort of natural conclusion.

 

“So, what kind of opportunities would I have with your organization?”

 

Coppola hummed and whistled until her brain was able to click back into gear.

 

“I personally appreciate what you’ve put online, everything sounds authentic and earnest. A bit like the Beat Era icons. That kind of straightforward prose is what we need to satisfy readers who think our titles are too stale and predictable. But I’ll just say it bluntly, your material would be a hard sell in the editorial boardroom. This company has a tradition of lifting up educated thinkers. Those who have learned how to approach creating content, intelligently.”

 

My belly tightened and growled. Yet her admission had me grinning.

 

“My schoolhouse was a basement office, with an Underwood typewriter, and a wall of books. Or maybe, a garage filled with car parts, antique radios, and vintage tools in a red cabinet. Maybe even a closet full of guitars and other plectrum instruments. That is where I got my education. Does it mean I became intelligent as a result? I don’t know for sure, but that wandering path definitely kept my attention. I never got bored...”

 

The bookbinding representative sounded hoarse. I suspected that she had begun to question the wisdom of her initial offer to make contact.

 

“Thank you, sir! We will be in touch. Have a great day and try to stay warm!”

 

 

The preceding document was inspired by a junk text on my iPhone, that offered some sort of nebulous business opportunity. I figured it must be suspicious from the outset, yet in the aftermath, wondered what might have happened if I actually responded. The story above is my version of that daydream, offered in long form.

 

 

 

“Cold Snap”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

 

Single-digit trends

Our meteorologist tries to make amends

She smiles and shakes her head

With a feeling of dread

It has turned cold enough to make the walls creak and pop

To make my heartbeat stop

While I listen to the howling wind

Winter is here again

With little interest in a merciful fate

For anyone getting home too late

Stranded after dark

In drifts of snow that buried my residence park

Living this way

In a permanent state

Of humility enforced by need

Living low, crouched on my knees

This is the season of feeling annoyed

With few creature comforts deployed

Blankets over the windows

The trash barrel full of discarded Christmas bows

And me longing for a bottle of bourbon

Or a membership in a club, more urban

A place with a steam bath

A shelter from the frosty wrath

Of an old man on the mountain, flinging icicles

While I sit by an electric heater, getting pickled

Bottoms up my friend

Summer will be here again

To thaw these old bones

To resuscitate my Arctic home

But until that merry moment arrives

I’ll sit here begging God to let me fly

On wings that soar through the brisk bluster of white

Shivering in my bed all night

Glad for a single bulb that glows

Around the corner from my bedroom repose

Coughing up memories

Hoping the pipes don’t freeze

Knowing the full measure of what lies in store

When my feet hit the floor

Once upon a time, I used a wood stove to stay warm

Split logs, blazing red and orange, a primitive energy form

It worked well enough

When my body was younger and more physically tough

I yearn now for that satisfying burn

A survivor’s methodology used in modern terms

Smoke up the chimney

The house stayed around 70 degrees

Until morning meant working through mounds of ash

As the remnants of overnight crashed

I wore my storm coat in the living room

Used a galvanized bucket to scoop out the residue

Then reloaded the hot box

In preparation for another round of hard knocks

Hail falling on the roof like a marching band score

Racoons nipping at the door

Ice on their paws

All of us in the same condition, because

The seething seed of a western avalanche

Had arrived like new cattle on the ranch

A stampede of hooves scattering the muck

Flinging snowflakes at my pickup truck

As it sat out by the road

Stalled in a stormy overload

A shovel in hand

My work gloves secured with rubber bands

Around my wrists

Numbly punching through the mess with my fists

Clutching the handle, tightly sure

Cursing this tantrum of Mother Nature, inferred

It is spoken in a language that needs no translation

A dominant tongue

Shouted over the howl of bare branches twitching and bent

The forecast predicts it will be this way through Lent

After I have fallen asleep in my favorite chair

With a knit cap pulled over my longish, gray hair

There will be a moment to dream, perchance

With Long Johns under camouflage pants

I’ll snooze and snore

Pondering the chores

That await the awakening

When my cell phone rings

And I hear a friendly voice intone

“Thank goodness for our home, sweet home!”

Nobody Reads This Page – “Ghosted”

 

c. 2024 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-24)

 

Note to Readers: When winter rules the climate kingdom, imagination takes over at my office desk...

I had been at my desk in the home office for about an hour on Sunday afternoon. Long enough to ruminate over a list of column ideas and finish a first pot of coffee. A strong beverage that came later than usual as I had slumbered lazily until just before eleven o’clock. Though the temperature outside was frosty, potent rays of sunshine streamed through the kitchen window. After days of overcast skies and meteorological mayhem, the atmosphere had turned calm at last. This brightened my mood while staying busy with writing projects. I tried hard not to linger on thoughts of my thermometer reading numbers in single digits.

 

I was nearly to the point of beginning work on an online article, when a knock sounded at my front door. A rhythmic hesitation made it seem like a burst of wind might have moved furniture around on the porch, at first. Therefore, I did not immediately react. But then the cadence intensified. What had started as a tentative rapping of bony knuckles grew louder with impatience. As I reached for my twin canes to be stable, the noise followed a crescendo to an audible point of irritation. This made me shout as I hobbled over the linoleum.

 

“I can’t move that fast, okay? Give me a minute!”

 

When I reached the entryway, a breathy wheeze sounded from beyond. I twisted the doorknob and pulled reluctantly, finally opening the portal to discover a gray figure dressed in long, shredded rags and a neck chain. This apparition made me jump backwards, with fright. I nearly fell over cases of bottled water that were stacked on the living room floor.

 

“RALDEN IAAC? I AM HERE TO DELIVER A WARNING. MAY I COME INSIDE TO DISCUSS THIS IMPORTANT MESSAGE IN PERSON?”

 

My shoulder fell against the wall. I struggled to prop myself up, while regaining my footing on the carpet.

 

“Ralden? Sorry friend, there’s no one here by that name. This is Evergreen Estates, a junkyard wasteland where people live like caged animals. Who the hell would be snooping around in such awful weather, I have to ask? You must be more mentally challenged than any of my neighbors...”

 

The eerie visitor rattled his bonds and cursed.

 

“YOUR ATTITUDE OF DEFIANCE CAUSES MY BLOOD TO BOIL! THERE IS NO ONE HERE BY THAT NAME? YOUR LIES WILL NOT IMPEDE BY MISSION, SIR! ACCEPT THIS ACT OF MERCY WITH GRATITUDE. I AM A SENTRY FOR BEELZEBUB, THE KING OF PAIN AND SUFFERING! I WANT TO TELL YOU THAT DEATH HAS BEEN CANVASSING YOUR STREETS! HE IS WELL BEHIND ON CLAIMING SOULS FOR THE NEW YEAR! IF HE ARRIVES HERE, THERE WILL BE NO DELAY IN EXECUTING HIS DUTIES! YOU WILL PERISH IN A PILLAR OF FLAME! HEAR ME, AND PREPARE YOURSELF! BE READY FOR THE FINAL JUDGMENT! I HAVE BEEN COMMANDED TO CARRY THIS APPEAL TO ALL WHO LIVE HERE, AS A COURIER!”

 

Suddenly, I wanted to ditch my java for a cold brew.

 

“As I said already, my name isn’t Ralden. Sorry about that, you’ve paid a call on the wrong fellow...”

 

The wandering spirit raised an eyebrow. His shaggy head of hair seemed to crackle with static electricity. His eyes deepened in a hue of blood red.

 

“YOU WILL RESPECT MY AUTHORITY! LIES ARE A FOOL’S DEFENSE. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? ADMIT YOUR GUILT, AND BE CHASTENED! I WON’T TARRY HERE, DEBATING OVER YOUR GIVEN NAME! THERE ARE OTHER LIVING SOULS TO WARN. I MUST BE SPEEDY, AND FINISH THIS DREADFUL TASK BEFORE SUNSET! OTHERWISE, I MIGHT ALSO FACE THE WRATH OF SATAN!”

 

It was early enough in the day that I had not yet partaken of any alcoholic beverages from the household stash. So, I felt confident in possessing sobriety and sound judgment. But the specter in my doorway would not relent. He kicked at the threshold with bare feet, and huffed like a restless goat. Surrendering to the moment, I let him come inside.

 

“Why does that matter, old dude? Sunset? You know it comes early in these winter months...”

 

The crusty curmudgeon shook his head and growled softly.

 

“YES, YES, SUNSET LIBERATES THE GRIM REAPER! DO YOU NOT UNDERSTAND? HE WALKS IN DARKNESS. HE IS THE OPPOSITE OF GOODNESS AND LIGHT! BELIEVE ME, YOUR NAME HAS ALREADY BEEN WRITTEN IN HIS SCROLLS!”

 

I could feel hunger pangs teasing my belly. A plate of leftover Buffalo wings, and bottles of Miller High Life, were waiting in the fridge. Yet I couldn’t move from the spot. Something had paralyzed my arthritic limbs.

 

“Look, I’ve lived in this longbox for over 20 years. I don’t know who would have put you up to committing such a prank, particularly on a Sunday in January. It was only nine degrees on the porch, when I got up this morning! I checked it just to be sure that our weather reports about an arctic system arriving had been accurate. You must be damned cold, traipsing around this community of ours. Especially with no shoes!”

 

The weathered vagabond began to laugh out loud. He threw back his shoulders and howled like a moonstruck wolf.

 

“HAHAHAHAHA! YOU ARE A COMEDIAN, I SEE! VERY AMUSING, GOOD MAN! VERY AMUSING INDEED! IN THE GRAVE, THERE IS NO SENSE OF HOT OR COLD! THE LORD OF ABBADON HAS RELEASED ME FROM MY FINAL REST, TEMPORARILY. I AM HERE AS HIS SERVANT. THIS APPEAL TO YOU IS A GIFT, DO NOT WASTE IT LIKE AN IDIOT!”

 

Now, my gut had twisted into a painful knot. Instead of lusting for Miller Time, I wished for a glass of bourbon on the rocks.

 

“What, Lucifer sent you to this cluster of mobile homes to cheat the Reaper out of souls? Isn’t that conflicted? Wouldn’t they work together? I thought the underworld was better organized...”

 

The mysterious interloper rattled chain links and stomped his feet like an angry child. I could tell that he had not enjoyed a pedicure in eons.

 

“MOBILE HOMES? PRAY TELL ME, WHAT IS A MOBILE HOME? YOU ARE AN UNCOOPERATIVE BUFFOON!”

 

With a chill on my skin, I realized that the gabby ghost was unapologetically lost. His jabbering tone betrayed a lack of confidence.

 

“This is a trailer park. We’re all downtrodden rubes here, all broke and on the edge for various reasons. Divorce, addiction, unemployment, jail time, a myriad of causes, all brought together...”

 

The specter winced and narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward as if his sense of balance had been knocked off kilter.

 

“TRAILER PARK? WHAT KIND OF FOUL PLACE IS THAT, I ASK? ARE YOU TRYING TO TRICK ME WITH THE WORDS OF A RASCAL? I AM LOOKING FOR SOMEONE IN A WOODLAND HUT, A CABIN ON A MOUNTAIN TRAIL!”

 

I rubbed my eyes and belched. He had begun to sound quite annoying. I wanted to drink.

 

“There was a guy named Ralden Iaac in my family history, I believe. That generation spelled it differently than we do now. But he died over 100 years ago. Maybe more, I can’t really remember. I think he lived in Appalachia, our relatives had brought him over from the Netherlands, according to family lore...”

 

The ghastly visitor stood up ramrod straight. Instantly, his piercing eyes were wide open.

 

“DEAD? THAT MAN IS ALREADY DEAD, YOU SAY? WHAT IN BLAZES DO YOU MEAN? THUNDERATION! GOODNESS GRACIOUS DAMNATION! I’VE BEEN SENT OUT ON A WILD GOOSE CHASE BY THE LORD OF HELL! IN YOUR MODERN VERBIAGE, I GOT PUNKED! THIS IS AN OUTRAGE!”

 

I couldn’t stifle a guffaw of satisfaction.

 

“There you go, brother. It’s over now. You figured things out at last. Be on your way hunting for the next homestead, and I’ll get down to the business of watching football and emptying my cooler! Enjoy the rest of your day!”

 

The haggard old man drooped like a wilted flower. He muttered and mused to himself, while stumbling down my long, access ramp. Before reaching the end, he vanished into a wisp of charcoal smoke, and ash.

 

“TOIL AND WOE! THAT’S ALL I GET! WHEN I SEE THAT SON-OF-A-BITCH IN HADES AGAIN, I’LL GIVE HIM A PIECE OF MY MIND! IT IS GUARANTEED! GUARANTEED, I SAY!”

 

I made it to my refrigerator by the time he was gone. Once again, peace had returned to Evergreen Estates. Now, I wanted to guzzle my swill and be happy!