“Hurricane Harvey”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-17)

Harvey.

Like many Americans who are in their mid-50’s or older, for myself, this name immediately conjures up a vision of the Jimmy Stewart film about an invisible rabbit. As a writer, the name evokes a different presence. That of the late counterculture hero Harvey Pekar, creator of the ‘American Splendor’ comic series. This ongoing project used a variety of noted illustrators to bring story lines penned by Harvey himself, to life.

But now, the name has taken on a new and indelible meaning. That of a natural disaster literally of epic and heretofore unseen proportions.

When watching the advance of this storm toward the gulf coast of Texas, I worried about my cousin and his family, who had moved to the state from Tennessee. I feared that they might be in peril with such a calamity of nature in effect. Thankfully, a map search indicated that they were many miles away, around Abilene. Still, as days of news coverage unfolded, it became more and more apparent that this challenge to humanity would not exit quickly. Houston was quite literally flooded.

I recognized the vastness of Harvey when it became apparent that, for a brief moment, partisan political bias, rancor, stories involving Russia and debate about Civil War monuments actually disappeared from the daily news cycle. Volunteers streamed with supplies, boats, pickup trucks and donations from every corner of the land. For once, citizens untied in a worthy cause – to rescue our brothers and sisters in need.

Of course, that moment did not last. It took only a couple of days before media pundits, Facebookers and the Twitterverse had returned to their usual cause-inspired rants.

But despite incredible havoc and forces of natural disaster having been unleashed on the Lone Star State, there was an outpouring of kinship not unlike that of the pioneers. Those with faith and heart were helping to rescue the needy.

The people of Texas were lucky that so many Americans have a fascination with pickup trucks and boats. Both proved to be undeniably useful thanks to Harvey. It seemed to prove once again a personal theory – that Hank Williams Jr. was on-target when he wrote ‘A Country Boy Can Survive.’ I have always reckoned that such blue-collar folk would be more likely to overcome a great apocalypse than those sheltered in urban confines:

“I live back in the woods, you see

A woman and the kids, and the dogs and me

I got a shotgun rifle and a 4-wheel drive

And a country boy can survive

Country folks can survive

I can plow a field all day long

I can catch catfish from dusk till dawn

We make our own whiskey and our own smoke too

Ain’t too many things these ole boys can’t do

We grow good ole tomatoes and homemade wine

And a country boy can survive

Country folks can survive

Because you can’t starve us out

And you can’t make us run

Cuz we’re them ole boys raised on shotgun

And we say grace and we say ma’am

And if you ain’t into that we don’t give a damn

We came from the West Virginia coalmines

And the Rocky Mountains and the western skies

And we can skin a buck; we can run a trout line

And a country boy can survive

Country folks can survive

I had a good friend in New York City

He never called me by my name, just hillbilly

My grandpa taught me how to live off the land

And taught him to be a businessman

He used to send me pictures of the Broadway nights

And I’d send him some homemade wine

But he was killed by a man with a switchblade knife

For 43 dollars my friend lost his life

I’d love to spit some Beechnut in that dude’s eyes

And shoot him with my old 45

Cause a country boy can survive

Country folks can survive.”

First responders of all kinds, from places across the map, were proudly demonstrating this selfless spirit of America. A spirit borne in the hearts of everyday people. Hometown heroes. From every creed and across every line of color and culture. While leaders and public officials spoke their platitudes, everyone else was busy getting things done. Helping to save lives. And to literally safeguard tomorrow.

From the remote distance of Ohio, I could only watch the news and ponder this unprecedented spectacle of unbridled weather patterns. And human sacrifice. A reminder of our own insignificance against the immense backdrop of nature.

My response was to bow my head. And pray.

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 weekly in the Geauga Independent

“On Many Sides”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-17)

Donald Trump.

I loathe writing about this fellow. For a variety of reasons. Mainly because there is little new to contribute. But like most of us who engage in wordsmithing as a regular activity, I do it freely. And have done for many years. Therein lies the conundrum of our current chief executive. Though opinions about him are steeped in contrast and typically expressed with hyperbole of a passionate nature – no one is ever silent about the man. It seems quite literally to be impossible.

The spotlight is his servant.

After the tragic explosion of dark forces in Charlottesville, and the death of Heather Heyer, his initial response echoed like a crude cannon shot from Civil War reenactors. “We condemn in the strongest possible terms this egregious display of hatred, bigotry and violence on many sides, on many sides.” Most saw this statement as a vague equivocation that sidestepped offering genuine outrage. Supporters predictably viewed these words as an honest analysis. One given without the flair of professional polish or craftsmanship.

Family members who gave him their endorsement were resolute in judging his words. “Trump is not a politician!”

It is difficult to imagine any easier task than that of condemning the Ku Klux Klan or modern-day Nazis. For any elected official, anywhere in the nation, at any time. Ronald Reagan or Bill Clinton would have certainly accomplished such a task with dignity and decorum. Barack Obama could have delivered a soaring sermon of unity and hope. Even George W. Bush might have sputtered out a convincing message, despite his usual lack of graceful rhetoric.

But Trump once again displayed his true identity – NOT A POLITICIAN. His bread and butter. The style that pointed him toward prominence.

With white supremacist Chris Cantwell having said that the president “gave his daughter to a Jew” one might have expected a personal response, offered with raw emotion. A statement of genuine outrage. Words of a father speaking with love about his family. But little obvious acrimony was aroused by this hateful remark. DJT missed the opportunity to rise above partisanship and rancor. Then swabbed up his mess by reading from a teleprompter.

Media outlets across the nation, never friendly to Trump for any reason, were unleashed. Many voices joined the chorus. Even our military generals spoke up about the disgusting stain of bigotry being revived. It seemed surreal to a point even Hollywood could not achieve.

But this, after all, was the country where Jim Bakker of ‘PTL’ could twist religious themes into glitzy self-promotion, swindle his flock, engage in multiple sexual indiscretions, end up in jail, and then return to his life-path as an orator of the divine. After being exposed as a hellish fraud, more money filled his coffers. A suspension of reality seemed to affect his believers.

Not unlike having faith in anyone who would stumble over condemnation of the Klan.

Admittedly, Democrats have accused Republican presidential candidates of being Nazis for generations. So the word has lost some intensity from generalization and overuse. Nixon was Hitler. Reagan was Hitler. Bush 43 was Hitler. So when the tiki-torches were lit in Charlottesville, many on the left had already concluded that the president was ready to join their march. But his supporters were unmoved. Even defiant with a rallying cry of indifference. For them, the qualifier of “on many sides” had real meaning. The new phrase ‘alt-left’ joined that of ‘alt-right.’ Antifa, little-known to most Americans, entered the discussion. Despite the public furor, Trump remained standing. Once again, the spotlight was under his spell.

Lots of ink has been devoted to ‘The Donald.’ Enough to drown any other figure in domestic history with the sour wine of their own transgressions. But he has proven to be a sturdy figure. Able to channel revulsion and abuse into renewed vigor. A champion for those who long ago gave up on decorum and our American political system.

A proper strategy for opponents would have been to ignore him in bygone years. To let him wither and die with silence choking away his existence. To offer no lifeline from obscurity by addressing his foibles and quirks. His sins of the flesh. His arrogance, His thin-skinned inability to accept even the slightest note of dissent.

But the press fed him well. In print and through many hours of video coverage. Trump has delivered a course-change of epic proportions. One completely logical to those smitten with his dyed hair and sprayed-on tan.

And we continue to write, despite our doubts and misgivings. Every day, aiming the spotlight once again at its master.

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 weekly in the Geauga Independent.

“Crystal Ball”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-17)

I became a news junkie at the feet of Walter Cronkite.

In our household, during my childhood years, CBS ruled the black & white television my parents bought from Sears. Dad would watch the morning news dutifully, with his huge Pyrex cup of coffee. Mom would sing as she prepared family breakfasts in the kitchen. Then, as the day progressed, school studies, chores and weekend play-time filled the day. Until evening arrived. Then, it was time to sit with Grandma McCray and gaze into the screen at he who was called ‘Uncle Walter’ by many millions of Americans.

“Talkin’ ‘bout my-my-my generation!”

This habit of digesting current events as they were delivered continued throughout my life. From newspapers, magazines, television and radio. Then, via the Internet. And through text messages with friends and family. My obsession with information-on-the-fly never waned. I became skilled at predicting political trends. Following an election season was very much like watching professional sports. And a presidential contest provided similar gratification to viewing a Super Bowl. When predicting the outcome of these contests, I felt a bit like a fortune teller peering into their classic ‘orbuculum.’ Able to view the unseen.

But Donald Trump cracked my crystal ball.

When he announced his intention to run for the nation’s highest elected office, in June of 2015, I told my family that it was merely a publicity stunt. The sort of thing one would expect for a businessman and thrill-seeker that had always courted media attention. I reckoned he was trying to up the value of ‘The Apprentice.’ During the following GOP primary season, next year, I assured everyone that his lack of experience would be telling and obvious. Even if he were to garner enough delegates for the convention in Cleveland, I felt sure that the party leaders would scuttle him as a winning nominee.

Trump as a real candidate? The idea seemed patently preposterous.

When the 2016 presidential campaign began in earnest, I declared that the process would merely be a precursor to Hillary Clinton’s coronation as our first female chief executive. When my family pointed out that I had underestimated ‘The Donald’ and his stamina, laughter was my response. And a promise of intrigue. “He will never take the oath of office,” I said with conviction. “Never.” On Election Day, everyone stayed up late. I expected Mrs. Clinton to be showered with confetti and congratulations. Instead, the nation slipped into a mood of shock.

As did I, being wrong once again. My ‘crystallum orbis’ had gone cloudy.

But between that moment of reckoning, and Inauguration Day, I continued to speak like a prophet. “Nothing changed here,” I explained. “He will never reside at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Perhaps a Soviet-style health issue will be announced that ends his quest. Or some malady with the election process. Wait for it! No one wants him in the Oval Office, not even his own party.” As he took the reins of power from President Obama, Antifa protesters were seen tossing bricks and burning vehicles. It was surreal and frightening. But his ascension became complete.

Wrong again I was – wrong, wrong, wrong.

Russia morphed into a useful demon for the press. They carried the story of possible collusion every day. It looked to be the sort of conflagration that would end Trump’s era literally as it was beginning. And murky business details abounded. And family members in power with their sire, something that prompted MSNBC’s Chris Matthews to term them “The modern-day Romanovs.” Cabinet nominees like Betsy DeVos and Jeff Sessions provided more controversy. White House leaks promoted a mood of chaos. His poll numbers plummeted. Every day provided yet another cause to guess that the charade would end quickly. I made such predictions with certainty. No leader could survive such public outrage.

And once more, I was wrong. My crystal ball had cracked and crumbled, into a heap of unrecognizable shards of glass.

In recent days, the tragic events in Charlottesville, Virginia seemed to confirm for detractors that our ‘Cheeto-in-Chief’ was comfortable with dark forces in his camp. As white-nationalist marchers waved the Klan’s familiar emblems, and others displayed the Nazi swastika, most Americans were overcome with a sense of horror. Pundits across the media spectrum were literally foaming at the mouth. Even our military generals each spoke candidly about the awful stain of hatred. I could not restrain my own need to predict Trump’s demise, one last time. His lack of political savvy was laid bare. “This is it! This is it!”

But of course, it wasn’t.

Were ancient soothsayers still alive, they might have more wisdom to impart about ‘45’ and his unexpected rise to prominence. But those in the professional media have reliably proven to be less than prophetic. Just like this writer. armed with nothing more than enduring memories. Of Uncle Walter on television, and the loving nurture of Grandma McCray.

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 weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Virginia”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-17)

Charlottesville, Virginia.

Another point on the map. Another community name which suddenly has new meaning for citizens across America. A tragic and painful meaning.

Much has already been written about James Alex Fields Jr. and his horrific car-strike into a crowd protesting against white nationalists who had gathered at a local rally. A rally in which he was a participant. Many thoughts have been offered about how to deal with the persistent stain of such groups, and what sort of leadership we expect from our elected officials when considering their hatred.

But for this writer, the story evoked a personal reflection. One from my own past, in central Virginia, around 1970.

In that distant time, I was a child, barely nine years old. Our neighbors were a mother and her adult daughter, both widowed and living quietly on our middle-class street. A dark Mercury Marquis sat in their driveway. Curiously, I noted that the car rarely seemed to move. My first job was to mow their lawn every week, at the compensation of four dollars per visit. I loved them both.

For someone born in Ohio, however, living in the Old Dominion presented cultural differences from what I considered familiar. The accent was much more southern than I had heard before. My family members and I were labeled ‘Yankees,’ a term I associated with Major League Baseball, not regional heritage. Another neighbor even displayed the ‘Stars & Bars’ on their flagpole, not ‘Old Glory.’ (What most call, in generic terms, the ‘Confederate Flag.’) Still, the people were genteel and friendly. And I loved the climate. The religious nature of my own brood fit well with the prevailing outlook of the city.

Mrs. N (the adult daughter) and Mrs. M (the white-haired mother) were ideal residents. Kind and unobtrusive. We sometimes visited because they had a color television, something my family would not afford until the 1980’s. Our conversations were polite to a fault. They carefully avoided subjects like the Vietnam conflict, drugs, promiscuity or hippie rebellion. Especially when I, a young kid, was in the room.

But on one occasion, this dependable standard of decorum was shattered when a TV news report spoke about interracial marriage. In highbrow terms, miscegenation. Mrs. M shook her snowy locks with disgust at the thought of such biological mixing. “I can’t stand such a thing!” she observed. “No sir! Not in my neighborhood.”

Being a precocious kid with a tendency to overstep the norms of conduct for someone my age, I blurted out that a woman in the Christian Bible was given leprosy because she murmured against a union of this kind. Silence and shock filled the air as I repeated a scripture I had heard in church:

Numbers, Chapter 12: (1-10) “And Miriam and Aaron spake against Moses because of the Ethiopian woman whom he had married; for he had married an Ethiopian woman. 2 And they said, Hath the Lord indeed only spoken by Moses? Hath he not spoken also by us? And the Lord heard it. 3 Now the man Moses was very meek, above all the men which were upon the face of the earth. 4 And the Lord spake suddenly unto Moses, and unto Aaron, and unto Miriam, Come out ye three unto the tabernacle of the congregation. And they three came out. 5 And the Lord came down in the pillar of the cloud, and stood in the door of the tabernacle, and called Aaron and Miriam: and they both came forth. 6 And he said, Hear now my words: If there be a prophet among you, I the Lord will make myself known unto him in a vision, and will speak to him in a dream. 7 My servant Moses is not so, who is faithful in all mine house. 8 With him I will speak mouth to mouth, even apparently, and not in dark speeches; and the similitude of the Lord shall he behold: wherefore then were ye not afraid to speak against my servant Moses? 9 And the anger of the Lord was kindled against them; and he departed. 10 And the cloud departed from off the tabernacle; and, behold, Miriam became leprous, white as snow: and Aaron looked upon Miriam, and, behold, she was leprous.”

Leprosy was the punishment given by God for the sin of racism, I declared.

Mrs. M. stood up suddenly. She was shaken by my comments. Without another word, she left the room. Her daughter followed, shouting apologies. “Mama, he doesn’t understand! He just doesn’t understand!” I was left alone on their couch. The television continued to play to itself. I felt awkward and guilty. And very confused. Finally, I left their living room and returned to my own home, next door.

Only later did I confess this happening to my parents. They explained that while I may have surprised our senior neighbor with my childhood sophistication and command of scripture, I was correct. There was no excuse for prejudice.

This memory has lingered ever since. Like a surreal tale of yonder days that modern folk would find difficult to believe. An oddity of past bias. A shadow long forgotten with the sunrise of a brighter day. Something I thought would have disappeared like the dinosaurs.

Until now. Until Charlottesville.

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 weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Faith”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-17)

Religion. A personal tradition of belief.

It is a subject with such nuclear properties that I rarely address it in print. One which I just as infrequently speak about in polite conversation, unless sharing thoughts with someone close to my heart. Most of the world’s great disciplines address the need for evangelism directly. There is logic to the idea of spreading ‘gospel’ truths. And a basic sort of self-preservation in avoiding the same as part of a diverse and colorful nation of immigrants with differing views.

But, here I go………………..

The Christian Bible says: “Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.” (Matthew 5:15) Buddha expressed this idea of sharing enlightenment in a similar way: “Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle, and the life of the candle will not be shortened. Happiness never decreases by being shared.”

The Quran speaks of tolerance and kinship in different paths toward enlightenment: “Say: Oh you that reject the faith! I do not worship that which you worship. Nor will you worship that which I worship. And I will not worship that which you have been accustomed to worship. Nor will you worship that which I worship. You have your way and I have mine.” (Quran 109: 1-6)

The Indigenous Peoples believed in a ‘Great Spirit’ some called ‘Wakan Tanka.’ Lakota hero Russell Means believed this name translated to ‘Great Mystery.’ Their worship was largely of the planet itself, as a vast church that represented the blessing of a higher power.

The Dalai Lama expressed his own faith in a basic, yet elegant way: “My religion is simple. My religion is kindness.”

Common themes exist among the various prophets and their peoples. Community, cooperation, self-sacrifice. Hope and healing. Discipline. Joy in being alive. Love for one another in the spirit of an all-seeing creator. And respect for the creation. These truths ought to unite us like the stitching in a garment.

Yet believers often seem to focus on the disparities between us all.

To my friend Janis, who grew up in Ashtabula without attending a church of any kind, expressing this human inclination to strive for enlightenment was difficult. It was necessary to speak in clear terms, not unfamiliar scriptures. I finally asked her to think of a bumper sticker we’d seen when going out for Chinese food in Geneva:

“DON’T BE A DICK.”

I reckoned that, using the coarse language of our times, this rough admonition accurately reflected the core philosophy of most religious faiths. As the Dalai Lama said: “Our prime purpose in this life is to help others. And if you can’t help them, at least don’t hurt them.”

Janis spoke her mind on the subject without fear. “I have no problem with Jesus,” she quipped. “It’s his fan club I can’t stand. That goes for all religious people.”

The Christian Bible says: “By this shall all men know that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to another.” (John 13:35) One might observe that people of faith, anywhere in the world and of any tradition, should be able to make that claim. But in modern times, religion is often associated with other things not bearing the genuine imprint of their prophets. Loud voices, raised in raucous rhetoric. Political ambition. Media careering. Brute force, with cultural division. Extremism and discord sewn like thistles among the crops. Violence in the name of holiness.

Buddha said: “Love is a gift of one’s innermost soul to another, so both can be whole.” His quote represents another familiar thread. The notion that not only is life a gift, but indeed, that love also qualifies as such.

Human nature has caused many believers to focus on ritual behavior, rites and sacraments, and legalistic habits. Or on the history of an organized group. It is a method to self-identify in a tangible way. But these common messages have lingered. Words with greater importance than any repetitious code of conduct. Even the Wiccan Rede takes aim at this most basic belief of civility in faith: “Eight words the Wiccan Rede fulfill, an it harm none do what ye will.”

Many friends from my days in New York expressed various religions as being like spokes on a wheel. Each spoke ultimately led to the same hub. To the center. Their concept was that all of us look upward toward the face of God and receive a vision that we find familiar.

My friend from Ashtabula had never been to church, or thought about spiritual things with much interest. But the expressive bumper sticker, and a few words from the theological cosmos, had us engaged in a deep conversation that yielded a greater friendship in the balance.

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 weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Faster, Pussycat!”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

Janis. Not your average friend from Ashtabula.

She is a blue-collar soul, content with a safe cloak of obscurity. Ambition does not move her to seek approval or reward from anyone. Only a small circle of friends has tested her emotional defenses. Yet for those who have, great loyalty has been returned. She is true to her heart and real.

We have developed a personal tradition over time: sharing Saturdays after her early work shifts. An afternoon nap typically helps to fortify her endurance. Then, she makes the trek from her home by the lake to my own ‘shack’ in rural Geauga. As a divorced, middle-aged man, I am glad for the company. We talk at random and stream old shows through my Roku box. These sessions may last until the wee hours of morning. Each has its own character. But I am never bored.

Janis does not watch the news. She cares little about media hyperbole or social trends. There is no computer in her home. No stylish apparel in her wardrobe. A prepaid cellphone is her window on the world. Still, she always seems connected to the pulse of her immediate surroundings. By intuition, she makes her way forward.

When our conversations inevitably wander toward politics, religion or history, she speaks with the pure vocabulary of a quiet skeptic. She is generally agnostic. Disconnected, but aware. I doubt she has ever voted in an election. Yet when quizzed on her beliefs, she sounds vaguely Libertarian. Her Bohemian style explodes counterculture assumptions. She fits no profile. Her life is lived without pretentiousness or fealty to any code of conduct.

On a recent weekend night, I happened to mention that the name of a ‘Hair Metal’ band she enjoyed was inspired by a cult film from the 1960’s. Her disbelief prompted me to search YouTube for links to the movie. With surprise, I discovered that “Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!” was available for viewing, in glorious black & white. She curled her lip with suspicion as I brought the post up on my Vizio television. But did not protest.

I smiled, beaming with a sense of accomplishment. It would be a cultural introduction of sorts for my friend from the realm of Lake Erie. Watching the Russ Meyer classic evoked memories of visits to long-ago screenings by the Cornell University Film Club – where I was privileged to encounter works such as Jean-Luc Godard’s “Alphaville” and a modern adaptation of “Nosferatu” directed by Werner Herzog, with Klaus Kinski.

Janis shook her head with mild irritation. I knew that she would rather be immersed in ‘The Rocky Horror picture Show.’ But she kept watching.

With excitement, I explained the artistic importance of Tura Satana. Then, I identified the vintage sports cars we were watching. ‘Varla’ in her Porsche 356, conjuring up an iconic vision that would outlast everything else in the film. Lori Williams as ‘Billie’ in her Triumph TR3. And Haji as ‘Rosie’ in an MGA. All racy foreign roadsters billowing desert sand and gasoline exhaust.

Again, my friend was only slightly interested. But she did not leave my couch.

Eventually, channeling inspiration from another favored series we often watched on Saturday nights, Janis remarked that Stuart Lancaster had a distinct ‘Jim Lahey’ vibe in his role as ‘The Old Man.’ Her assessment was right on target. I marveled that the desert rat character, father of ‘Kirk’ and ‘The Vegetable’ was so close to the drunken ex-cop from “Trailer Park Boys.’

My voice sang out in agreement. “You nailed it!”

I reckoned bombastic director Russ Meyer would have been thrilled with such an odd stylistic connection.

Once the 60’s epic had concluded, Janis begged for a cigarette break, outside. The cool, night air revived us after sitting for so long. My Black Lab was content to sniff around the yard as I tried to convince my friend that ‘Pussycat’ was a notable film of great value.

“Tura is legendary,” I said with assurance. “You can buy figurines of her character. Or articles of clothing. Remember that I once sent you a photo of pajama pants adorned with her image?”

She huffed, indifferently. “Bah!”

“Tura Satana projected a dominant image of female sexuality,” I continued. “Something rarely seen in that era. She was confident. Morally unrestrained. Empowered. Unstoppable!”

Janis shrugged. “Okay. Whatevs… I think you just liked her big boobs.”

I was speechless.

We ended the night with an ‘Inspector Gadget’ cartoon. Something different to conclude her visit. Both of us were amused that commercial breaks for the episode included an ad for Bud Light. A product of Anheuser-Busch.

“Who do they think is watching this show?” my friend exclaimed. I had no response. It was after one o’clock in the morning.

I was just pleased that she had survived her first adventure in cinematic pop culture.

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 weekly in the Geauga Independent