“New Year Of Yore”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-18)

New Year.

With the old calendar about to be flipped into our household trash bin, I decided to complete a personal project in tribute to the pages about to expire. While running between Thompson and West Virginia, for reasons of family business, I had accidentally discovered a curious Instagram page on my iPhone. At first, this photo repository, with the unlikely moniker ‘More Whores of Yore’ seemed to be one of many documenting adult themes from the postwar era. But peeling layers of the virtual onion revealed that it also boasted a reserve of antiquated words and slang terminology. Something of particular interest to a creative writer.

I resolved to revisit the page at a future date, when a better opportunity might visit for further study.

In this week of ‘in between’ holidays, with Christmas having passed and the New Year sparkling from just days in the future, I remembered my mental bookmark. There seemed to be no better time to turn back toward this happy task, and peer more deeply into the MWOY reserve of olden-days linguistic curiosities.

At my desk, I began to scroll through their entries:

GRIMALKIN (18^th Century) – A bad tempered old woman. Shakespeare is the first recorded use of ‘grimalkin’ as the name of a witch’s familiar in Macbeth. During the 18^th century, it came to be used for a grumpy old woman.

FINGER-POST (1785) – A vicar. Francis Grose’s ‘Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue’ explains “so called, because he points out a way to others which he never goes himself. Like the finger post, he points out a way he has never been and probably never go, i.e. the way to heaven.”

PANSHITE 19^th Century) – An old Scottish word meaning to be in a state of excitement or rage. “Brexit has caused a right panshite, hasn’t it?”

ECDYSIAST (1940) – A striptease artist. Pronounced ‘eck-dizzy-ast’ & coined by H. L. Mencken. ‘Ecdysiasm’ is the act of removing your clothes & both some from the Greek ‘ekdysis’ meaning to cast off.

ARSE-FEET (18^th Century) – Penguins. In “History of the Earth and Animated Nature” (1774), Oliver Goldsmith described how penguins have an ‘awkward position of the legs, which so unqualifies them for living on land… Our sailors, for this reason, give these birds the very homely, but expressive, name of arse-feet.’

LADYBIRD (1695) – A sex worker. “I’m afraid your father and I have spent your inheritance on whiskey and ladybirds.”

BRIM (19^th Century) – A violent and irascible woman, as inflammable and unpleasant as brimstone, from which the word is contracted.

ARFARFANARF (19^th Century) – a glass of porter and ale was called an ‘arf-an-’arf.’ Someone who was drunk could be described as being ‘arfarfanarf’ - the suggestion being that too many ‘arfs of ‘arf-an-’ arf had been consumed.

FRIDAY FACE (18^th Century) – A grumpy face. Before, and long after the reformation, Friday was a day of abstinence. After the restoration of Charles II, a proclamation was issued, prohibiting all publicans from dressing any suppers on a Friday.

SCOLLOGUE (19^th Century) – To behave in a wild or debauched way: for example, if somebody had been out on a drinking spree, you would say that they “had been out scollogueing.”

DIFFIBULATE (1656) – To unbutton or unzip.

WIMBLING (1600’s) – Kissing with tongues. ‘Wimble’ meant to penetrate. In ‘Kisses Loathsome’ (1648), Robert Herrick warns readers to ‘Not a wimbling tongue admit.’

SCANDAL-BROTH (1811) – Tea. “Me & Edwardo have just got back from Magaluf, so sit yourself down Eunice, and I’ll put on a pot of scandal-broth.’

SPROGDROP – Pregnancy. “I say Miss Bennett, have you been truffling the Scotch Eggs, or has Mr. Darcy infected you with the sprogdrop?” (Jane Austen, ‘Pride and Prejudice’)

CRAPULOUS (1500’s) – Hungover. From Latin crapula, from Greek kraipale “hungover, drunken headache, nausea from debauching.”

YULE SKREP – A very old word from the Shetland Islands, meaning a spanking administered over Christmas time for bad behavior.

BETWATTLED (18^th Century) – Completely surprised. “He betwattled me with a birthday party.”

MANESS (16^th Century) – A woman.

MA’AM PUSS (1820) - “A pert lass, a barmaid at a tavern; one suspected of loose practices, with a saucy tongue, is said to be a Ma’am Puss.”

JACK-WHORE (18^th Century) – Defined in “Dictionary of Vulgar Tongue” as ‘A large masculine, overgrown wench.’

TIDDY-DOLL (18^th Century) – One who is dressed tawdrily or above their station. Named after a Georgian gingerbread seller, known as “Tiddy Doll,” who wore ruffles, feathers and a gold suit. “You look as tawdry as a Tiddy Doll” / ”You’re tarted up like a Tiddy Doll.”

TRUMPERY (1780’s) – Defined in “Dictionary of Vulgar Tongue” as “An old whore, or goods of no value; rubbish.”

STEWED-QUAKER (18^th Century) – Burnt rum, with a piece of butter. (An American remedy for a cold.)

PUDDING SPOILER (18^th Century) – Someone who talks at great length. From clergymen whose sermons are so long on a Sunday that by the time you get home, the puddings are spoilt.

BIT OF FAT FROM THE EYE (19^th Century) – A compliment. Comes from eating the eyes of a boiled sheep head, which have a layer of fat inside that was said to be the best part.

RABBIT CATCHER (1780) – A midwife. “I’m only having the one jar of gin this morning, Bettie – the Rabbit Catcher has me on a health kick.”

BEHINDATIVENESS (19^th Century) – Positively referring to a ladies’ large bottom: “I say, she has a great deal of behindativeness.”

DEADLY NEVERGREEN (18^th Century) – The gallows. The branch that bears fruit all year round.

CURTAIN LECTURE (1780) – A woman who scolds her husband in bed, is said to read him a curtain lecture.

DUCKLING (1715) – An affectionate name for a lover. / A hopelessly besotted lover.

BARREL FEVER (1790) – A hangover. “No gym today, Bertie – I’ve got barrel fever.”

TRUMP (1425) – To break wind audibly. The earliest recorded use of this meaning of trump is in ‘Wyntoun Cron’ (vi. ii. 176). “In publick placis ay fra pat day Scho was behynde pan trumpade ay; Sa wes scho schamyt in ilk steid.” (In public places on that very day she was behind & trumped; she was so embarrassed on that occasion.)

WHITHER-GO-YE (1785) – A wife. Wives being sometimes apt to question husbands whither they are going.

PUNK (1575) – A sex worker. An etymological mystery. The pu-prefix echoes pure and public, but where this word came from is unknown. Its original meaning regularly surprises people who come across it in Shakespeare (he uses it four times).

My adventure-in-text had been productive. One guaranteed to generate more writing projects in the upcoming months. I felt glad to have stumbled upon this bit of adult theater and its unexpected history lesson.

Now it was time to ring in the New Year!

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

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

Instagram page for More Whores of Yore: https://www.instagram.com/more_whores_of_yore/

“Christmas Cheer, Revised”

c. 2013 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-13)

Note To Readers: What follows here is an installment of my old ‘Thoughts At Large’ column from the Geauga County Maple Leaf.

For a lyricist and professional writer, the holiday season offers a time to tap inspiration from traditional themes. In particular, Yuletide carols evoke seasonal cheer.

A few years ago, I composed liner notes for the Davie Allan recording “Fuzz for the Holidays 2.” It was a fantastic opportunity to write while drawing energy both from King Fuzz himself and the seasonal tunes that have become so familiar to everyone.

Regular readers of this column will know that Allan and I have enjoyed a long-distance friendship that has endured since the 90’s.

Beyond such efforts as a critic and scribe in the music realm, it has also been tempting to modernize old Xmas chestnuts with a bit of modern flair. So recently, during an evening spent doing pre-holiday household chores, I found time to reflect on these familiar hymns and recreate some of them, anew.

The results were unpredictable, like an essay from MAD Magazine in yonder days:

JINGLE BELLS

Dashing through the snow

In a bailout Chevrolet

Stimulus is gone

Don’t need it, anyway

Wintertime is here

I shovel snow for cash

Then work at Walmart, stocking shelves

And taking out the trash

(Oh) Jingle bells, jingle bells

Jingle through the night

The only things that keep me sane

Are wings and Miller Lite

Jingle bells, jingle bells

Jingle down the street

Can’t afford to move away

From freezing rain and sleet

Though one might have expected an inclination toward traditional emotions of joy and peace, it seemed just as easy to lean the toward real-world challenges faced by blue-collar families. Again, a vibe of William Maxwell Gaines, publisher of E.C. Comics, and later MAD, took hold:

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU

Water boiling on a propane fire

Satellite dish is on the blink

Stockings hung on the entertainment center with care

Santa is coming here, I think

Neighbor has a new Korean car

Can’t afford much without a check

Walking around with holes in my shoes

Merry Christmas, to you

Eventually, the holiday spirit took hold and I was truly inspired to write. Words began to flow with the energy of bygone days spent celebrating the season. I opened my mind and the prose was plentiful. Rhyme and rhythm filled my head:

RUDOLPH THE REDNECK REINDEER

Rudolph, the redneck reindeer

Got around with four-wheel drive

He had a trusty GPS

Just to help him in the night

All of the other reindeer

Use to laugh and call him names

They wouldn’t let poor Rudolph

Join their Xbox real-time games

Then one foggy Christmas Eve

Santa’s truck went down

He said “With your nose for maps,

you’re way better than Google apps!”

Then how the reindeer loved him

As they shouted with a wail

Rudolph the redneck reindeer

Help us find a Christmas ale!

I couldn’t help remembering a Christmas season from almost thirty years ago. While working at Fisher’s Big Wheel on Water Street in Chardon, I struggled to afford gifts for family and friends. My shopping routine happened on payday, right before Santa was scheduled to arrive. Though my basket of presents was humble, I truly felt the holiday spirit in my heart.

In modern times, my own perspective on the season was colored in hues of realism rather than childhood fantasies. Yet a reason to believe remained:

SILENT NIGHT

Silent night, powerless night

Electricity is out, nothing is bright

In the country nobody cares

They won’t hurry to make our repairs

Sleep in your frosty bedroom

Sleep in your frosty bedroom

Silent night, powerless night

Eating supper by candlelight

Charge my cellphone in the car

Generator at the neighborhood bar

Sleep in a jacket and hat

Sleep in a jacket and hat

Silent Night, powerless night

Network fail, with gifts on sale

Can’t do Amazon with no wi-fi

Tonight I feel like an unlucky guy

Thank goodness for the flashlight app

Thank goodness for the flashlight app

Another powerful Christmas memory finished my day of rewriting Christmas carols. It was of a year when I filled the bed of my F-150 pickup truck with gifts for the family. Very different from today’s new-age drive through the paradigm of ‘big brother’ keeping watch:

SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN

He’s making a file

Of the Excel kind

He’s going to keep track

Of who stepped out of line

NSA Claus is watching your town

He’s backing up

A big data file

To make sure that

He can prove it on trial

NSA Claus is coming to town

He sees you when you’re sleeping

He knows what sites you surf

He’ll follow every move you make

Till you’re stretched out in the turf

You better not pout

You better not cry

Your big red brother has

bionic eyes

Santa Claus is coming to town

Comments about Thoughts At Large may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

“Nathaniel”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-18)

On the journey.

Throughout life, for this writer, one constant has remained enduring as a focal point. The idea that being alive, in the mortal sense, is having gained a seat as a passenger on a train traveling across the vast distance between birth and eternity. A trip taken from station to station. With fellow adventurers entering and exiting the rail cars, while images roll past the windows. Each charting the experience from a personal perspective. Witnessing and processing the trip as a singular happening. Yet sharing the same on every level. Bonded by wordless expressions of excitement, hope, wonder and sometimes, dread or regret.

Recently, I have pondered my own metaphoric train ride, being carried back to Ohio after an experience through Cornell University. One that happened in New York State. After dreaming of grandeur I spun back to earth, like someone with a ticket not properly punched. Instead of disembarking at a station in London, Paris, Rome or perhaps Moscow, Beijing or Bangladesh, I found myself standing on a platform in Geauga County.

Instead of writing for Rolling Stone Magazine or rubbing elbows with creative celebrities, I took up sleeping on a fold-out couch in my parents’ living room. Shortly afterward, I began to hang out at Ernst Lanes, a local bowling alley, despite never having participated in the sport. There, a new circle of friends gathered regularly. Tim, Jennifer, Kevin, Rick and Scott, who everyone knew as ‘Scooter.’ And there, I was persuaded to trade my aspirations for champagne, in favor of the more attainable taste offered by Miller High Life beer.

The group remained important even as we moved in separate directions. Scott provided a connection to the owner of a supermarket in town, where he was employed. More friends joined the circle. Keith, Mike, Wayne, John, Bob and Paul. Cheryl and Charlene. Eileen and Vicki. I soon found myself in the midst of an unexpected rerouting of this life-by-rail. Now part of what felt like a local baseball team, sometimes undisciplined and unorthodox in habits, but always productive. Unaware, I had begun a training regimen that would lead to over 30 years of retail management, a gainful occupation that paid bills and supported my family, while I continued to write. The train chuffed away with purpose, carrying passengers here and there, while I sat and pondered. I was married and married again. Promoted, laid off, reclassified, and promoted again. Then, technology broadened the scope of this ride toward oblivion.

Facebook brought us all back together.

The social platform made it possible to reconnect with Keith and Charlene, now united in matrimony. I remembered him as ambitious and intelligent. One likely to have strong opinions. I remembered her first as a cheerful high school kid, and then, as a nursing student. Gifted with promise. And purity of heart. I followed with great interest their posts about baby Nathaniel. A young son with the sort of charm that warmed the digital confines of cyberspace. His interest in colorful cartoon figures and sports competitors was appealing. From the vantage point of a child, he retained the ability to wonder honestly and fully, with joyful eyes. Something often lost to adults. I enjoyed watching his development while my own train ride continued.

At some point, a dark cloud of sorts drifted overhead. Nathaniel was diagnosed with cancer. Thus, his transformation into a ‘little warrior’ began. He battled this affliction with moxie more intense than some might expect from such a young soul.

Quietly, I admired his energy.

Nathaniel’s journey had been set off course. Yet while playing and singing and dancing and doing the things typical children do with abandon, he also fought the good fight. The ultimate fight. As did his parents. The contest of light against looming darkness. One better suited, perhaps, to those of advanced years and memories amassed by time. But in a battle joined by circumstance, not choice.

The family searched out of state, for medical alternatives. Studied options, made and remade plans, consulted experts, prayed and held fast in their faith. Charlene’s employment with the Cleveland Clinic undoubtedly helped in these efforts. Watching as a concerned spectator, on my laptop or cell phone, I prayed for the loving embrace of a higher power. With each day that passed, it became clear that such bursts of positive energy were what he needed to thrive. Like any of the mythical, illustrated beings inhabiting the pages of comic books throughout history, this ‘little superhero’ was on a trek unimaginable to mere mortals.

A quest to retain life itself.

Notable to many were Nathaniel’s interactions with professional athletes. Names and faces like those of Joe Thomas, Francisco Lindor, LeBron James, and Steph Curry became commonplace in family posts. At first, I reckoned that these meetings might boost his spirits, and those of his family, while enduring the daunting burden of many medical treatments. But then, an epiphany arrived. I saw something different and unexpected.

His unflagging spirit and determination to live was more uplifting to them, in the end.

The year had been one that cast long shadows across my erstwhile group from the bowling alley. Beginning in January, I found myself hobbling along to pay tribute to one, then another, and another. Eventually, from the safety of my imaginary rail car, peering into eternity through the windows, I remembered lines of scripture from the Holy Bible. 1 Corinthians 13:

“For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears… For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

As his own journey drew to a close, Nathaniel wielded a superpower on par with any of the heroes he enjoyed. One far more mysterious and everlasting than any other ability known to those who walk paths of mortal existence. Or those who ride as a passenger on the train of life.

The power to love, and be loved.

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

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

“Coffee & Toast”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-18)

Insomnia.

According to my father, the template was set, in 1961. I would not sleep restfully through the night. Not for him or my mother, despite their encouragement, as new parents. After a variety of tricks and coddling, he simply pushed my crib next to their black-and-white TV. With gleaming rabbit ears towering above, I basked in the glow of real-time video. And defiantly, stayed awake.

Some 57 years later, my plan to survive such nights has become more sophisticated. One that channels the restless energy of open eyes into useful accomplishment. Typically, I take a seat at my desk, and begin to research or write. In the wee hours, images fill my head and trickle downward, with purpose, into my nimble fingers. There, they begin to dance.

A recent example came after coffee and P. B. toast, on a Saturday morning:

Coffee and toast

I aim not to boast

But the night is so empty

The darkness within me

Has spun away my hope

Like a blacked-out zoetrope

I kneel in the mud

Bombshell is a dud

No spilled blood

Coffee and toast

The image of a ghost

Fleeting footsteps run

Heel prints scored in dung

Looking for an answer

In the tread-tracks of a Panzer

Run down in the dirt

I know my true worth

I am hurt

Coffee and toast

Keep my enemies close

Split the night with a spark

Watching reruns of ‘Quark’

I have twisted up bedding

And a mission, forgetting

What was my intention

Too embarrassing to mention

I am your son

Coffee and toast

In a past life, engrossed

With the laugh of a jester

And the saw-teeth of a terrier

I scamper and hide

At full moon and high tide

Giving up only once

Like a fumble-mouthed dunce

On the run

Coffee and toast

Life on the Northcoast

Pecking out my sad tales

My klaxon horn wails

Paint flecks fly free

There’s darkness in me

A guidepost gone lost

A busted tooth in the permafrost

My ring she tossed

Coffee and toast

Roots cooked with the roast

Burned up in the same pot

Nailed and surveilled in the same spot

Holy grail on a chain

Holy snakes on a plane

Tongue, teeth and a serpent kiss

How many rhymes did I miss?

Bullshit is bliss

Coffee and toast

Sign on a fence post

Lead the way to tomorrow

I have textbooks to borrow

Words flat on the page

About citizens, enraged

Got to spend my inheritance

On a fool’s flip in silk pants

On a dice rolled for chance

Coffee and toast

AM Coast to Coast

Art Bell, my hero, died

BayGen radio, I cried

Freeplay, turn the crank

In the deep, dark and dank

With a nod to the night

In the absence of light

Our hero takes flight

Coffee and toast

And a mark on the goalpost

Where my cleats hit the side

To show that I tried

No score but a ribbon

For nothing that I won

Standing, stooped in the rain

Another play run for no gain

I’m humbled and shamed

Coffee and toast

A quick wit, riposte

Tapped out on the keyboard

A dry, twisted gourd

With leaves in a circle

And seeds colored purple

I make my escape

On ink dots and neck’s nape

And a length of duct tape

Coffee and toast

I aim not to boast

But my song is now ended

My compadres, befriended

I leave by God’s grace

With mud on my face

No intent to be merry

With visions most scary

Do not make me tarry

Coffee and toast

My thoughts, innermost

Poured out on the parchment

Like spray paint on the pavement

A screed lifted up

In a beggar’s tin cup

A brew to be savored

Dirt and dust offer flavors

These are my last words

As a newborn child, in 1961, I could not rise from my crib to search for our household typewriter. But it is certain that, even as I lay sputtering and cooing in my blankets, new ideas were beginning to form in my baby brain. From that primal moment, that incubation in front of our Sears & Roebuck receiver, I had begun a journey of sorts. One that would lead to scribbling with crayons, compositions for school, magazine submissions, newspaper work, the authorship of five books, and eventually, to the completion of a grand circle.

After nearly six decades, still up at night, and ready to imagine.

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

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

“Roundtable, Minus One”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-18)

It was an early morning at Geauga Gas & Grub on Water Street, in Chardon.

The annual gathering of local journalists had been scheduled over three months ago. But now, as we had all come together for breakfast and spirited conversation, our moderator was missing. We stalled with banter about current events, cell phone plans, and the weather. Then, the delay could last no longer.

Martha Ann Reale of the Newbury Siren-Monitor vocalized what we all were thinking. “Where is Carrie Hamglaze?”

Everyone looked around the room, as if she would appear out of the crowd.

Mack Prindl of the Parkman Register shook his bald head. “I haven’t seen her in weeks. She has been absent from local meetings.”

I bowed my head. “Not a good sign...”

Ezekiel Byler-Gregg of the Burton Daily Bugle stroked his long, gray beard. His overalls were still crusted with ice and snow. “Who will be our moderator? Somebody has to play traffic cop or Pringle will spend the whole morning blathering about his damn Steelers!”

Mack went red. “That’s P-R-I-N-D-L!”

Sandy Kimball, editor of the Claridon Claxon, fretted noticeably. Her nails tapped the counter. “She hasn’t returned my text messages. At first, I thought she might have gone to the family cabin near Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Cellular service is spotty there, as I remember. But it has been several weeks now.”

Ezekiel thumped the table. “Someone has to chair this meeting!”

Martha Ann adjusted her big-framed glasses. “How about you, Rod?”

I gripped my notebook with anxiety. “Me? I can’t pretend to measure up to Carrie as a journalist. I have been retired from the Geauga County Maple Leaf since 2014...”

Sandy gestured with her pen. “I think you are doing well with the revived Geauga Independent. As a matter of fact, I found it interesting to read your piece about the original paper, published in Middlefield, from 1884-1885. Quite fascinating, really.”

Martha Ann spoke up before I could protest. “Yes! Rod can lead our discussion!”

“I approve!” Ezekiel bellowed.

Mack smoothed his Steelers jersey and sat up straight. “It’s official, Rod. You are the coach today!”

I sighed heavily. “Let it be noted that we meet here with heavy hearts, missing our cherished Carrie. I hope one of us will unravel the mystery of her absence, before long.”

“Indeed!” Martha Ann agreed.

“Now, let’s get to the topic most people want to hear about in my newspaper,” Mack gleamed. “Pittsburgh football!”

Boos and catcalls filled the air.

“Pringle, you are an ass!” Sandy retorted.

“P-R-I-N-D-L!” he growled.

“Have you not heard anything about Baker Mayfield?” Ezekiel laughed. “Your star is dimming at the three rivers. We have a new division leader coming to town!”

Mack chortled like a drunk. “Please! Cleveland is still a loser city. Six Super Bowls, my friend! Count ‘em. SIX!”

Sandy coughed with disgust. “We have an international trade war about to explode, and you want to talk football?”

“Okay, what about Urban Meyer stepping down at Ohio State?” Mack replied.

“That’s still football!” she shrieked.

Martha Ann trembled with irritation. “Local stories, my friends. What are your local stories?”

I flipped through my notebook. “Okay then… Paula Horbay is selling her Christmas trees again this year., in Chardon. A dependable benchmark of life in Geauga County!”

Ezekiel smiled. “Best trees anywhere.”

“Tim Statz has a piece about the new Dollar General, in his township,” I observed. “A front-page feature in the Hambden Herald. But he never comes to these meetings.”

Ezekiel raised an eyebrow. “Statz? He must be 80 years old!”

Martha Ann nodded affirmation. “I think you are right. His wife passed away in April...”

I bowed my head again. “This year has been a long procession of funerals. I found out my friend Mollie Race was gone, months ago, in New York State. My friend Jennifer died, in January, then Dad in West Virginia, Aunt Juanita in Gallia County, Ruth from Chardon and Kevin who grew up here but moved to Orwell...”

“Very sad,” Sandy concluded.

“I’d rather talk sports than funerals,” Mack interjected.

I rubbed my eyes. “For once, you are right. It isn’t a happy subject.”

Sandy waved her notebook. “Doesn’t anyone have a happy ending to offer for this year?”

Ezekiel adjusted his overalls. “The pancake breakfast on Christmas in Burton. Best you’ll find in our county. I am inviting you all! Plenty of maple syrup and homemade sausage!”

“That sounds better than anything we’ve talked about, today,” I declared. “Here’s a coffee toast to our esteemed moderator, in her absence. And a wish of Christmas cheer to all of you. Happy holidays, my friends!”

The counter cleared quickly. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged in a festive mood. But one thought lingered as I walked outside, to my Ford pickup truck.

WHERE WAS CARRIE HAMGLAZE?

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

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

“Lou Reed & Me”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-18)

“KFTW – 1313 on your AM dial. Bringing back the golden days of radio, one shockwave at a time! Live on the air and around the whole wide world on the world wide webbbbb!”

A voice sounded in my ear. “Rod, we are live in 60 seconds.”

I had been sitting at my desk, drinking coffee, for most of the past hour. Reading an article on the ‘Please Kill Me’ website. A hand-written page of notes for my interview lay under a plate of toast with peanut butter. My thoughts had been sidetracked.

“Ready here in Cleveland,” I replied.

The broadcast started abruptly with a blast of wild, electric guitar. I reckoned it must have been a snippet of tonal fire by Eddie Van Halen.

“This is Gil Scott Darin on KFTW! Old-time AM radio!” the disc jockey cheered. A promotional loop boomed from the speakers on my computer. “KFTW… in the west… in the west… in the west...”

I adjusted my headphones as the interview began:

GSD - “Today we have music journalist and author Rod Swindle in Gil’s Gap on radio 1313. Rod lives outside of Cleveland Ohio and once hosted a top-rated television program in New York Cityyyyy!”

Rod S – (Clearing my throat) “Actually, the show originated in the Finger Lakes Region of New York State. In Ithaca, home of Cornell University. It was rated highly because there was nothing else offered in those days, on Friday nights at 11:30 p.m., in terms of local programming.”

GSD - “Right! Right, right, right. Anyway, where’d you get that name, Mr. Swindle?”

Rod S - “It is from the Sex Pistols movie.”

GSD - “The Great Rock ‘n’ Roll swindle?”

Rod S - “Correct.”

GSD - “So, what’s on your mind, pork rind?”

Rod S - “Well, I know you wanted to cover my television experience… but I was sitting here just now, and saw an article posted on the ‘Please Kill Me’ website...”

GSD - “Kill me! Kill me softly with a big bang of old-school bebop booms!”

Rod S - “The article was written by Eric Davidson. ‘Designing And Living With Lou Reed: An Interview With Sylvia Reed.’ It provides a chronicle of their relationship and its effect on his music. They met in 1977, were married in 1980, and divorced in 1994.”

GSD - “I’d love to have Sylvia on the show, sometime. But right now, let’s talk about youuuuu...”

Rod S - “Well, that’s the upshot here, really. You see, reading the article brought back echoes of my own life, intertwined with the albums Sylvia Morales Reed mentions in the story.”

GSD - “A new vibe, a Swindle vibe! Go ahead, Rod! Rock your roll!”

Rod S - “She tells the story of her involvement with each album, in particular with the cover art and visual aspects, from ‘The Bells’ in 1979 to ‘The Velvet Underground Live MCMXCIII’ in 1993. It made me pause and reflect on my own life at the time. I had burned up in Ithaca after the TV experience, lived under a bridge, lived on alcohol and pizza, stayed with friends. Eventually, I went home to Ohio in 1983. I met my first wife the next summer, while working at a local department store. I had gotten hired on the remodel crew and accepted a regular position as the janitor and maintenance guy.”

GSD - “Jazzing janny! Doing floors? That kind of thing? Taking out the trash?”

Rod S - “Right. I was desperate. Sleeping on my parents’ couch. Drying out, getting my head clear. Trying to relearn adult behavior, you know? I had been off the grid for about five years. Betty, my first wife, was for me what Sylvia represented, for Lou. She provided stability and a sense of calm.”

GSD - “He needed that, and you did too?”

Rod S - “Yes. I was always a fan of Lou’s work. With the Velvet Underground and as a solo artist. But being back in the Midwest left me feeling empty. I worked a lot of hours, got a better job at a supermarket where I was a manager on weekends. I started to learn the retail routine. By my passion for music and writing continued. I would explore on days off with my wife and eventually, we found a store in Meadville, Pennsylvania called ‘Flip Side Records.’ Their original location on Arch Street. They had lots of obscure vinyl. A huge section of Lou’s work. I was able to pick up some of the records that were missing from my collection. Some of those mentioned by Sylvia. They helped ease my sense of alienation. LPs like ‘The Bells’ or ‘Legendary Hearts’ or ‘The Blue Mask.’ When Lou released ‘New York’ I came home from work one morning, after a long night of exhaustion, and my wife had a copy on the night stand. Waiting to soothe my head with good musical vibes.”

GSD - “Coolness, bro! Your wife was in the know!”

Rod S - “The song ‘Legendary Hearts’ fit my vibe. Those lyrics that said ‘When he took his bow, no audience was clapping.’ The words were chillingly appropriate. I was moody and isolated. Away from the old crowd.”

GSD - “On Lake Erie, my dearie!”

Rod S - “I lived a double life in those days. Working a regular job. We lost our house in 1990, the property was sold to an investor. Betty, our son and I moved to a condominium in Painesville. A three-level space, sandwiched in a row of domiciles. Then, my supermarket closed, it was sold to a corporate owner. I was rehired with a loss of seniority, vacations and pay. Ended up working third-shift. Lots of hours with no sleep. I started drinking heavily, once again.”

GSD - “Not a good thing, not the right way to swing!”

Rod S - “Yeah. But the three-level living space turned out to be beneficial. I could sit in my basement studio, regardless of the hour, and work with my guitar. Our bedrooms were on the top floor. So I didn’t disturb the wife or kid. At work, I would have those Lou Reed melodies and words in my ears. Then, at home, I would take out my Applause ‘roundback’ guitar and my notebook. Between 1990 and 1997 I must have recorded 500 demo tracks in that underground space.”

GSD - “Wow! And you still have them now?”

Rod S - “Yes. I hope that someone in the family will discover them, after my death. Could be a compilation there of some kind.”

GSD - “Rod on a roll. Swindle on your spindle!”

Rod S - “Right.”

GSD - “So what happened to your marriage?”

Rod S - “Lou and I had similar experiences, I think. Sylvia got him healthy and clean. But then it was time to move onward, to write the next chapter of his novel. I grew apart from Betty, had career goals and such. Only later would I realize how much she was missed. I carry that regret today...”

GSD - “A regret you can’t forget. Like a summer breeze and a Lou Reed melodyyyyyy!”

Rod S – (Laughing) “Yeah.”

GSD - “Well, that’s all the time we have in Gil’s Gap this week. Join us next time here on KFTW 1313 AM, your home of the hits and misses and dinosaur kisses! Thanks, Rod!”

After the interview was over, I started searching through the shelves of vinyl records that lined my office walls. Somewhere in that mess was my Lou Reed section. I wanted to hear his ‘Legendary Hearts’ track one more time.

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

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

Please Kill Me article: https://pleasekillme.com/sylvia-reed-interview/

“Old Man Club”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-18)

Dollar stores.

One thing I have learned from early retirement is the attraction old men have toward low-cost retail venues. Specifically, those such as Dollar General, Family Dollar and Dollar Tree. All three of these chains are represented well, in my area of Ohio. In each store, I have joined a parade of senior fellows, in Carhartt apparel or professional windbreakers, with baseball caps at the ready, canes in their carts, and military insignia or workplace logos prominently displayed. They represent a seasoned army of age-rich veterans. Worthy of respect. Gleaming with pride. But often, wholly unfamiliar with shopping on a regular basis.

They greet each other in the aisles, and discuss infirmities, distant memories, and grandchildren.

In my case, becoming a member came because of physical disability. Not a chronological benchmark. Thus, I was “early to the party.” At first, unwelcome. Not someone who would traditionally be in the group. Too young and unprepared. Retired at 55. Out-of-service. Sidelined. Warming the bench while other, more capable competitors continued the game.

But, I have learned how to belong.

My own cane is an item purchased while still managing supermarkets for a living. A tool for work, not puttering through golden years. But its flame design, a mimic of one used by Dr. Gregory House, fits my personal style. I prefer its height and sturdy construction for getting around. My cap is a giveaway tchotchke for the Jim Beam World Series of Poker. Something I received from the beverage department head at one of my stores. Though faded and worn by years of outdoor activity and indoor neglect, it fits better than any other skullcover in my collection. My jacket is a plain, job item from eBay.

As he grew older, my father began this march by patronizing the local Rite-Aid pharmacy in Philippi, West Virginia. An in-between sort of place with shelves of discount merchandise laid out to compliment a selection of medicinal goods. While getting prescriptions, he also bought soft drinks, tubs of cheese puffs, and cured snacks. This helped to minimize trips to their full-size grocery store. Something that became increasingly difficult to endure, walking with canes in both hands.

My younger brother adopted the Dollar General near his home as a favored spot for buying consumables, under similar circumstances. Though he did not need a walking stick. After years of piloting a tractor-trailer rig, he also suffered from declining mobility. But like myself, he was too young for automatic membership in the club of old men. Eventually, he enlisted our sister to perform the actual gathering of goods. He served as a driver and she handled navigating the stores.

This partnership works well, even today.

For myself, visiting dollar stores has offered a refreshing bit of social engagement, after years of salaried supervision. I enjoy hearing stories about the habits of each different vendor. When a manager on duty at one store spoke about receiving stock, presorted on wheeled carts from their warehouse, I was intrigued. She probably wanted to resume her work. But I felt hungry for information. When a new discount depot opened in my neighborhood, I attended the grand opening to ponder their layout.

Every detail made me curious.

Still, I was there to fill my cart. Like Dad, like brother, like the crowd of gray and balding oldsters steering around displays of crackers, potato chips and popcorn tins. Each store seemed to have its own hits and misses on the bargain scale. I soon learned that a healthy household bottom line meant shopping at a variety of chains, not simply one. I could buy twice as much hot sauce, for the same price, by driving down the road. Or find Pop Tarts in a bonus pack, at no more cost, by crossing the street. A favorite brand of pork rinds, made out-of-state, could be had by driving to yet another shop. Dry goods were easiest to find at bargain prices. But some value could be had with a bit of time perusing cases filled with oddball refrigerated and frozen items. Fresh potatoes were cheapest at another local business, offering processed meats.

My only limit was personal endurance.

Using a shopping cart at every stop helped to provide stability. Even if I only intended to buy a slim selection of items. I started keeping an open banana box in my truck, so that the loose bags of groceries would not fly around while driving. My list was divided according to each store, with a traditional food market still in the mix.

Stooped and stumbling, I had found my place in the club. An old man of sorts, before my time. Yet young at heart, by the grace of God and the calendar.

Comments about ‘Words On The loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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