“Farewell, NFL”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-17)

Pro football.

I have literally followed the sport for my entire life. Never completely swayed by basketball, baseball or hockey. Little interested in tennis or golf. I must confess that there is definitely no soccer on my personal radar. Perhaps a nod of bemusement to cricket. A brief encounter at Cornell University with Lacrosse.

American football has ruled my sports consciousness, always. From the time I collected plastic helmets out of the vending machines at W. T. Grant’s. Musing that the team from my native Ohio had no logo on its head wear. And, having been born in Columbus, hearing from some in my family that they would rather cheer for the Bengals.

The accepted truism was always that baseball had been the nation’s pastime. But football reflected the changing social habits of our nation. More speedy, more corporate, more intense. Big hits and splashy product endorsements. The sensibility of TV wrestling on a grander scale. Namath’s ‘guarantee’ of a Super Bowl win. Ickey Woods’ end zone shuffle. Mean Joe Greene trading his jersey for a Coke. Joe Theismann hawking diet products, with glee.

Welcome to the National Football League - an entertainment company with 32 divisions.

Super Bowl dreams grew from birth as the antiquated ‘AFL-NFL Championship Game’ morphed into a national holiday of sorts. Incredibly, the league out-commercialized every other sport. Even NASCAR. Lots of revenue was generated. Literally billions upon billions of dollars. Plenty of champagne and caviar for everyone. Or if you prefer, Budweiser and Buffalo Wings. The league used patriotic imagery to promote its for-profit wares. Literally ‘pimping’ the respected common culture for their own benefit. Red, white and blue and... the register rings, too! The ‘Star Spangled Banner’ brought to you by Miller-Coors and Chevrolet. You deserve a break today!

So there was little fan notice paid when Colin Rand Kaepernick decided to sit down during the national anthem, before a preseason game with the San Francisco 49ers, in 2016. The din of this party-for-pay literally drowned any notes of dissent. The state of our league was sound.

As it has been observed: “Money changes everything.” The flood of football lucre remained overwhelming. Even amid the lone protest of someone attempting to raise social awareness. With league franchises like the Rams, Chargers and Raiders all jumping from city to city, while others literally held their host communities hostage for a ransom of new stadiums and facilities. The NFL proved more skillful at this game of extortion than any other collective.

Some, like myself, grumbled. But we continued to watch. Football had become the opiate drug of choice for America. Particularly in Cleveland, there was plenty of angst over the sport. Yet loyalty to the game kept us interested. Even as we endured losing seasons.

Then, Donald Trump commented on the subject.

The result came like Hurricane Harvey. Forceful and raw. Ranks were joined to the right and left. Facebook, ever the benefactor in such instances, along with Twitter, exploded. One camp stood tall for the flag and anthem. The other rose to lobby for free speech and attention to racial injustice. The divide appeared not unlike the Red Sea after Moses got busy.

Somewhere in this cultural melee, football itself got lost.

Jerseys began to burn. Along with tickets and paraphernalia. Videos posted were so numerous that some appeared on the network evening news broadcasts. Meanwhile, others dramatically ‘took a knee’ to show their support for the protesters. Predictably, both sides spoke in ‘absolutes.’ In black-and-white terms that left no room for actual discourse. In sound-bites that matched the choppy tempo of the game itself.

But for this writer, the chaos yielded a moment of reflection and pause.

Respect for the national flag and anthem was non-negotiable, in my own estimation. A habit every citizen should observe. As was the concept of free speech under our constitution. Liberty of language even for those who foul the air with contrarian views. These concepts were part of our identity as a people.

I feared the idea that any group would symbolically surrender their membership in this grand, democratic experiment by shunning symbols of national pride. America is whole only when everyone has a place at the table. Even those who have no appetite for the meal being served. So the strategy of kneeling seemed to step upon the message.

Still, I pondered over the practical details. Why was the NFL using our national colors and anthem to promote its seedy business interests? Did it not cheapen the value of these emblems with the stain of easy money and hucksterism?

I reckoned that veterans and first responders, the police, firefighters, and those who literally protect and serve our communities were right to wrap themselves in the comfort of ‘Old Glory.’ But millionaire athletes, many of whom have engaged in untoward, reckless and selfish acts? Do they have a right to claim pridefully the status of soldiers and warriors? More to the point – should their employers have this privilege to use the flag as if their own blood had won our freedoms?

As ever, there was more to the story than an Internet meme or a brief clip on CNN. After long hours of consideration, my personal response came like a beam of light, through the clouds.

I turned off my television and began to write.

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

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

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Royal Resurrection”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-17)

My writing career began, in earnest, at the age of ten.

I was able to set up a childhood version of my father’s home office using a trash barrel and a square of scrap plywood. My writing instrument was a blue-and-white, plastic typewriter. It formed text in a blue-green ink that was instantly recognizable in the household. Though intended as a toy, this instrument was fully functional. My habit was set. I continued to write regularly since that moment in time.

Years later, after my television study through Cornell University, a family friend mentioned having a stash of discarded office equipment from that august institution of higher learning. He suggested that I might purchase a real typewriter of my own, rather than borrowing those of my parents. It seemed like a great opportunity to move forward with a career in professional writing. But when I saw his relic, my heart sank.

It was a manual Royal ‘KMM’ office mule, from the 1940’s.

At a price of ten dollars, the machine was a bargain. But my friends laughed loudly at the thought of using such an outdated artifact to author creative prose. In 1981, there was no need to have a museum piece on my desk. Still, the odd clunking of keys and ringing bell after every carriage return endeared me to the device. I wrote several years worth of manuscripts on the Royal, including many of my stories for ‘Biker Lifestyle Magazine’ beginning in 1983.

Bob Bitchin was my editor at the California publication.

I had already been reading his work as a teenager. In rowdy publications like ‘Choppers Magazine.’ So his influence as a mentor and wordsmithing director were strong. I hammered out a vagabond variety of manuscripts on the old typewriter. Because it did not require electricity, I took it everywhere. From my parents’ coffee table to the stoop of a low-buck apartment, to the field of a friend’s homestead farm. I wrote about a ‘biker’ returning from the grave to avenge his own death. About gun battles and whiskey dreams. About fierce, fighting cycle-cats on heels. About political intrigue after a revolution. About old men bargaining away their two-wheeled steeds. About alienation and the search for hope.

The Royal was more than merely a sturdy appliance. It was a mind-portal through which I drew visions from the beyond. Each story brought the satisfaction of having birthed a new tale. But also carried the wonder of seeing what was invisible until I began tapping away at those glass and metal keys. I felt like a medium, peering into a crystal ball and describing the cloudy apparitions that came into view.

Eventually, my first wife suggested a more modern appliance for the home office. She bought an electric typewriter from Fisher’s Big Wheel that had a built-in correction ribbon. A Smith-Corona. It was easier to use and allowed my creative impulses to be transcribed with greater speed. It also could produce a sheet of finished text without cutting embarrassing holes through the paper. But I missed the aura of my veteran beast. The new piece of hardware was sleek and technologically refined. Not clunky or spiced with storage-barn must inherited from years of neglect after being discarded. It was efficient, but lacked character. And I had to plug it in before any signs of life appeared.

My trade-up had been justified. Yet I felt empty.

After decades of prolific writing, I began to once again long for the sturdiness of my old Royal. Instead of being thrown away, it ended up in a Bil-Jac box, stacked with other hidden treasures in our basement. When I decided to put ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond’ into print, the machine was inseparable from my concept of how the book would appear. I used a vintage font to help recreate the spirit of my bygone ink-slinging adventures.

Another tribute came with my design for a personal business card. In hope of selling my books and advancing a consulting business tailored to commercial promotions, the ‘KMM’ seemed like a perfect logo. I placed it above the pertinent contact information. 

With some 35 years of professional writing having passed, the black Royal had become a sort of ‘Holy Grail.’ A talisman of my personal creative journey. Also, a direct connection to those brave word-warriors of the past who had paved the road upon which I was traveling.

It was my point of origin as a professional scribe. And indeed, the place where I still felt most at home.

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

“Conrad Was My Dad”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-17)

William Conrad. My famous father.

In 1971 I was ten years old. Most kids in my neighborhood were collecting baseball cards or building model kits. But I had a different pursuit in mind – setting up my first home office. It was an idea born from the inspiration provided by my dad, who was a scholar, theologian and published author. After years of sneaking into his workspace after hours, I wanted one of my own.

In our Virginia basement, I took a metal trash barrel, topped it with a square of plywood, and stationed my plastic, blue-and-white typewriter on top. A discarded electric motor with a model-airplane propeller served as my fan. For music and talk, I used the family Sears & Roebuck ‘Silvertone’ transistor radio. (AM only.)

The effect was perfect. I felt liberated and focused on my work.

Early writing projects ensued from this humble location. But none more heartfelt than speaking about a television star who echoed my own genetic sire. His character name was Cannon. Frank Cannon. A private detective, ex-cop and amateur chef of some renown.

‘Cannon’ was, like many popular shows of the era, a Quinn Martin Production. In 1971, to see a gruff, pudgy, crimefighting hero with slicked-back hair and a business suit felt glorious. Though he did not look stylish next to Jack Lord or Mike Connors, this plus-sized sleuth represented a familiar image to me – that of my own papa.

My ‘Real Dad’ had suits that were a decade or more out of date. He complained about his knees and lumbered with the gait of one who had done farm labor as a kid, before putting on extra pounds in adult life. But my ‘TV Dad’ could run after criminals, use a revolver with expert skill, and still find time to whip up an exotic recipe to impress lady guests at the end of an episode.

And his quips were perfect. Sometimes witty, sometimes amusingly odd. But much like what I might hear at home:

“Compulsion. I suppose everybody has a compulsion of some sort. Heh. I sometimes think nature invented the pistachio nut as a device to control the compulsion to eat. You know, by the time you get them shelled, you’ve lost your appetite.”

Sometimes while running home from church, dressed in my blue suit (the only ‘good clothes’ I had at the time) my imagination would grow wild. I darted between trees and shrubbery along the street, looking for evildoers. When a big Lincoln automobile would appear, I pretended that it was my car, waiting to cruise in search of evidence.

With my own march toward adulthood, I put away this fascination. Conrad passed through ‘Nero Wolfe’ along with ‘Jake and the Fatman.’ I tried to distance myself from his image. It seemed wise to develop my own signature persona. A unique expression of self.

But after a long struggle as a creative writer, and a retail business manager… there they were again. ‘Real Dad’ and ‘TV Dad.’

I was them and they were me… forever.

I had just turned 56 years old. My knees, left hip and back were shot. Mobility, something I took for granted since first crawling from my crib, became a precious commodity. I had to take early retirement in 2016. Coffee and the computer were my companions. Suddenly, 1971 loomed again over the horizon. But now I was the graying, middle-aged man in a suit. (More literally a work shirt and trousers, but the personal vibe remained intact.)

Like my heroes, I cut a profile swelled by food and caffeine.

My Roku box offered MeTV, a.k.a. Memorable Entertainment Television. A streaming channel from Chicago. There, in the wee hours of morning, I saw Conrad once again. Driving his Lincoln Continental Mark III, joking about his own heft, pursuing lawbreakers from coast to coast and growling bits of randomness with authority:

“When it comes to bluegrass music and a jukebox, I’ve got a memory like an elephant. No joke intended.”

Over four decades had passed. I could not run anymore. The hands on my biological clock spun like a windmill. My business career was over. It was too early to sit on the bench. Yet there I rested. ‘Real Dad’ remained active as an author, having reached his 80’s and more. I could only hope for such longevity. But I felt grateful for his parentage. And for television reruns.

William Conrad. Fat fellow with a jacket and tie. Immortal through the magic of electronic media. And everlasting as the doppelganger of Dad and myself.

Comments 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

“And Away We Went”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-17)

Welcome to the weekend.

My friend Janis works six days a week. So her Sundays are precious. A welcome pause to catch her breath and get up to date on household chores. A time to remember the comforts of home. But a routine of sorts developed between us as did our friendship, over the past few years. After working an early shift on Saturday, she will take a quick nap to revive herself, then drive the 20 miles or so to my humble hut across the county line, in Thompson.

From there we usually drive north to Madison, for a quick meal. Then shop at various stores including our former workplace, in Geneva. Afterward, we return to my home for relaxation on the ground-level deck in my back yard, or in front of the television for some entertainment via my Roku streaming device. It is a simple, but satisfying way to enjoy a few hours together.

We normally have enjoyed all sorts of food in the area, at a Chinese buffet, the Waffle House, or a 50’s diner nearby. But my side step into early retirement squeezed the household budget. So our habits shifted to fast-food purveyors. At first this presented no issues. Our cost-per-meal was fantastic. And the conversation shared between us was no less satisfying. But then, two weeks ago, we arrived at the local Wendy’s. A familiar spot for ‘old-fashioned hamburgers’ and refreshment. After 15 years of regular visits, it felt very much like the home of a relative. Yet soon after entering, we realized that something was amiss.

A long line of patrons stretched backward from the front counter. I could see that the crew seemed to have changed from our usual group. Lots of young boys were milling around. An older woman seemed to be herding them like sheep. They were polite and friendly. Still, no one seemed quite sure of their responsibilities. As a result, the line had nearly slowed to a complete standstill.

A woman ahead of us was having trouble with her order. She repeated it over and over. Two more salads were needed. The delay had her snorting and pacing around. Not with anger but simply a sad resignation to the fact that dinner for her family would only be prepared after a great amount of patience and supervision of the inexperienced crew.

Behind Janis and myself, customers started leaving the restaurant. I counted them silently. “One… two… three… four.” Right out the front door. The obvious loss of business made me sigh. Particularly because, in my long-term career as a retail manager, I had seen such breakdowns occur, before. No one behind the counter seemed to notice the customers scrambling for escape. I was more than a little bit surprised.

After a long wait, Janis and I got our meals.

I tried to talk about something more cheerful. But our chatter kept turning back to the mess up front. I shook my head as the cattle-call continued. Eventually, enough customers had been served that the rush quieted down. I felt sorry for the adult woman trying to direct her herd of kids.

A week later, Janis and I returned to the Madison Wendy’s location. We honestly reckoned that our previous experience had been an outlier. Not typical of the burger chain. We were also a bit later in the evening, after the normal dinner rush. So we approached the front register with renewed confidence.

This time, an adult woman was supervising a gaggle of young girls. We waited as she had to re-train her employee on how to perform a card transaction. This caused the line to back up a bit. Next was a kid obviously on her break. She chattered with the clerk as the other patrons entered the place and stood behind us, wide-eyed and hungry. The girls sputtered and giggled as menu choices were discussed. Then, something seemed to go wrong. The one on her break started to walk away. “I’ll be right back!” she said. We were all confused. The clerk whispered “I’ll have to ring up these other people and get back to you!” But she did not do this, instead choosing to stare into space as her co-worker ran out the door. Had she forgotten her Money? Was the clerk unsure how to clear the register and start a new order? No one paid attention to us as the adult woman on duty had disappeared. I could hear those behind us becoming restless.

“What’s going on?” Janis wondered out loud.

No one would acknowledge us, as the drive-thru window also seemed to be busy. I had a similar feeling to our visit of the previous week, except that on this occasion, there were no polite apologies. Not even eye contact. I quietly imagined myself trying to handle such a situation.

Finally, my patience was exhausted. “Let’s go!”

And away we went.

None of the girls seemed to notice as we turned to our right and walked out the front door. As we were leaving, the employee on break reentered with a blank look of indifference. I fumbled for the keys to my truck. “Well then, its Taco Bell tonight. Is that okay?”

Janis smiled. “Of course.”

Our $5.00 ‘Cravings Deal’ was actually quite satisfying. A Cheesy Gordita Crunch, Beef Burrito Supreme, Crunchy Taco and Chips & Nacho Cheese Sauce. I got the Brisk Mango Tea to drink.

My friend was happy because her meal box included an offer to win a video game.

The next day, I pondered sending an e-mail about these incidents to the company. Not seeking contrition or any coupons, but simply in the hope that those in charge would be made aware so that they might take corrective action. It was the kind of dust-up I had handled on many occasions during my management career. But the website only provided a corporate number for customer calls or texts. Wanting to form my thoughts carefully, with the discipline of a professional writer, I chose the latter.

“Dear Wendy’s, I am a long-time customer in general and have visited your Madison, OH location frequently over the past 15 years...”

I imagined the local manager receiving my message. It would present a challenge on top of an already busy workload of supervision. Yet I recalled what my own brother had said, after managing a Burger King franchise. “The worst kind of problem is the ‘walk-away’ customer.” he observed. “Because you never have a chance to make things right.” It was an example I had used many times, when thanking someone for calling me with a complaint. Not because I wanted to receive bad news but because… as the one in charge, I needed to know.

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

“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.

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