“Retro TV”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-18)

Roku.

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

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

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

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

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

“Lots of free channels,” he observed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And a channel called ‘24/7 Retro.’

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

I was thrilled!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Call it a second childhood... video style.

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

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

“Philco Radio Memories”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-18)

Radio. I have always been a fan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are they throwing that away, Dad?”

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

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

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

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

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

I felt crestfallen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An error I will regret forever.

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

Until then, I will ponder… and write.

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

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

Shared occasionally in the Geauga Independent

Note: Philco radio photograph from AntiqueRadios.com

“Beer Before Five”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-18)

Retirement.

Being permanently off the work schedule was an adjustment I expected later in life. A foreign experience often described by veteran folk who were ahead of me on the chronological journey. So when my employee negation arrived around 16 months ago, it hit with the force of a bowling ball scattering pins. I was unprepared for this new adventure.

It took a full year before I was able to comprehend that being out-of-service was more than simply an interlude of unemployment. My concept of self had to be changed.

Still, old coping mechanisms remained in effect. As I began to navigate these new waters, familiar habits took hold. Thus, while my own daily schedule was exploded, the dependable routine of having a regular libation of sorts throughout the day became even more compelling. As these drinking episodes ensued, I found my iPhone useful in documenting their characteristics. My need to write blended perfectly with the desire to be mellow.

With each bottle, I added more to the poetry on my tiny screen:

Beer before five

I’m barely alive

Beer after ten

I’ ll do it again

Beer in the day

Blows me away

Beer in the night

Feelin’ alright

Beer and TV

That does sound like me

Beer in the yard

A headache hits hard

Beer in the sun

Try not to get stung

Beer with the moon

Be slumbering soon

Beer in the snow

It’s on with the show

Beer by myself

Texting Michelle

Beer in my chair

I’m going nowhere

Beer till the daybreak

Makes me feel so great

Beer with Phil Hendrie

The radio stream

Beer with a book

I can’t wait to look

Beer with guitar

Better play, by far

Beer with a horn

Gonna jam until morn

Beer with a drum

All alone having fun

Beer and a chime

Much better than wine

Beer and balalaika

Garage sale perestroika

Beer and my phone

I’m ready to go home

Beer by myself

An elf on the shelf

Beer in the dark

The muse brings a spark

Beer in my belly

My legs turn to jelly

Beer in my hand

I make here my stand

Beer flowing cold

Heal now, my soul

In yonder days, I opened a brew after a long day had turned into night, at the “real job” in Geneva. But my retirement ethos knew no limit of the clock. A drink with breakfast? Miller High Life and eggs with bacon. A drink with lunch? Coors and cold cuts. A drink with dinner? Killian’s Red and a pot roast. A drink at night? Labatt Blue and streaming shows on the big tube. A drink in the wee hours? Pabst Bee Arr and a black & white show with screaming police cars.

A drink in my sleep? I’d heard stories of such things but never yet have gone so far.

This wild ride continued for a few months, until I became adjusted to the lifestyle of one unplugged from the grand social network. Suddenly, another old habit took hold. One less likely to cause mayhem with my health and family life.

Drinking coffee.

Around two or three o’clock in the morning, ideas seemed to flow freely. With a pot of grounds brewed by my Bunn home system, I took my spot at the desk. And began another journey in the quiet hours, toward self-fulfillment:

Coffee my friend

We meet here, again

Coffee my hope

Pure love you bestow

Coffee my love

A gift from above

Coffee my sweet

You fulfill my need

Coffee my savior

You bring warmth and flavor

Coffee in the cup

Now I drink you up

Beer has always been more of a stimulant for poetic rambling, I confess. A beverage well-suited to cerebral flights through imaginary dimensions of vision and prose. One likely to produce wild inspiration from the ether. Or evoke stories of bygone days, as yet untold. But my companionship with coffee seems more likely to make the nights, and creative impulses, last longer. A clear head being required for proper editing skills.

Still, the muse appears as a bottle ends. So perhaps alternating both at regular intervals might be the best strategy of all. Or at least – the most productive.

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

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

“Nine Below Zero”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(1-18)

New Year in Thompson.

We had reached a low in temperature for the season, made colder still by my own recognition that the phone app upon which I depended typically read warm by comparison to the value reported by neighbors and members of the family. With a chilling wind at work, I reckoned that the true cold outside was stronger in force than the number displayed on my cell phone screen.

Still, nine below zero was enough.

Having abandoned our household television and the living room for a safe space in the home office, and fortified with cold cylinders of brew, I took a familiar spot at my desk. The hour had grown late, now past 2:30 in the morning. With a swig of grains and hops, I dialed my rotary telephone, one that hadn’t worked in years, hopefully waiting for some response from my son in Pennsylvania. After a few rings, the line went clear. Then, a familiar voice answered.

“Hello? Do you have any idea how late you are calling?”

I laughed out loud. “Woody Hayes Ice! Of course I do, you rascal!”

“Damn it, Dad!” he shouted.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “Couldn’t sleep. I watched an episode of ‘Deadwood’ on the Roku just now. But it didn’t tire me sufficiently. So I decided to ring you up for a quick bit of chatter,”

“Damn it, 2:30 in the morning!” he complained.

“Time is relative when you are retired,” I observed.

“But I’m not fucking retired!” he exclaimed.

“Language!” I barked. “Show some respect for your father.”

He yawned loudly. “Okay. Respect to you, old man. What have you been doing since Christmas? Hanging out at the Chinese buffet with your lady friend, Janis? Or playing shuffleboard at the senior center?”

“Stop it!” I shouted. “No shuffleboard. Just drinking beer.”

He was silent for a moment. “Now many naps in between 12-packs?”

“A few,” I confessed. “My drinking stamina is gone.”

“You shouldn’t even buy that stuff,” he said with a lecturing tone.

My embarrassment took hold. “Of course I shouldn’t. Just like I shouldn’t be off my medicines. And I shouldn’t have trouble walking like a normal person. Shouldn’t have lost my career. Shouldn’t be on disability in my 50’s. Shouldn’t be here without your mother. Shouldn’t have my family spread around the country when I need someone to help me keep up with the household repairs...”

“Dad, please!” he yelped.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“This isn’t fun you know,” he coughed. “You get drunk and start feeling sorry for yourself. Then you call at odd hours and talk about missing mom. She doesn’t live that far away. Maybe you could make a date to see her?”

“She thinks I am an asshole,” I said.

Woody cleared his throat. “Yes, yes… well some things can be overlooked to help another. You know? A gesture of kindness.”

“She didn’t seem kind when we talked the last time,” I remembered.

“Dad, look, I’ve got to be at work in only a few hours,” he protested. “I love you. I miss watching football games together. Or any sports, for that matter. But life has a routine. That’s what you used to tell me when I was a kid. Follow the routine… you’ve got to have a routine.”

“You get a grade of ‘A’ for memory,” I said.

“Dad, I need some sleep.” he pleaded.

My throat was dry. “I need another beer!”

“Now it is 3:00 and you are still rambling,” he concluded. “I am going to hang up for now. Get some rest and call me back at a decent hour.”

“Noooooooo!” I argued. “Do not hang up the receiver! Don’t do it!”

“Dad, I am on a cell phone,” he smirked. “So are you. There is no receiver.”

My face went red. “No I am not! This is the old rotary phone we had when you were a kid! The black one from our bedroom!”

“Mom’s lavender bedroom?” he chuckled.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I hated that decor of hers. It was smothering. All that fucking purple. Satin and silk bed covers, a mirror over the headboard. Lace curtains on the windows. Disgusting.”

“It made her happy,” he recalled. “Something needed to bring her joy. Anyway, that phone hasn’t been connected to anything since we moved away from Munson Township in 1990. Do you understand?”

“No!” I shouted. “No! No! No!”

The line went silent. Suddenly, I realized that my beer can was empty. My Black Lab had given up on begging for smokies and retreated to the living room. My seat at the desk was cold.

And Woody Hayes Ice was gone.

“Woody!” I cried. “Woody, pick up the phone, damn you! Woody!”

It was nine degrees below zero. My friend Janis would not be awake for at least another hour. Somehow, the silence and darkness seemed to be magnified by my own sense of alienation. I was drifting in the ether. Only my home-office desk provided any link to the existence of reality. Needfully, I gripped its corners like a drowning sailor clinging to pieces of driftwood.

“Good night my son,” I whispered. “Good night to you...”

I hung up the receiver with a clumsy thud of plastic on plastic. The time for another beverage had arrived and also, cause to sit at my computer.

And begin to write.

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

“Christmas 2017”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Retirement.

Last year, I was unemployed on Christmas Day, but hopeful for a re-start of my career. I had many applications pending with a variety of local companies. My looming, personal mind-shift into obsolescence had not yet occurred. The paradigm established by over three decades of business operations and creative writing remained fully intact.

One year later, my world had been forever changed.

I woke up for the third time on Christmas morning, at half past eight o’clock. My body was already aching on the way out of bed. With a weighty plop of self, I fell into my designated chair. Festive lights were still on from the previous evening. Holiday cards adorned the entertainment center, my substitute for a household mantle. But the mood did not fit this joyful time of year.

While pondering coffee, I also considered the fact that I might never gain meaningful work, again.

A disability exam in November had highlighted many health issues in the way of my return to a purposeful existence: Left hip ruined from years of service, with my knees following suit. Hypertension out of control, vision failing, sleep apnea, general physical deconditioning, cardiac strain. The doctor seemed surprised that until my exit from a management position only a year before, I had been reporting for duty every day despite pain and fatigue.

Our family work ethic was strong. Enough that it literally carried me through the daily routine.

Such thoughts swirled in my head as I yawned away the cobwebs of slumber. But instead of taking me on the downward slope to depression, I felt transported to a different reality – that of writing creative prose. With my laptop sitting at the other end of our house, I chose my iPhone and its useful ‘Notes’ app for the purpose of composition. Words came from the ether while colored lights danced from the tree with seasonal cheer:

Here’s a beer for Santa

He came here in his sleigh

I know he must be thirsty

‘Cause he rode from far away

His reindeer might eat cookies

And his elves might drink the milk

But Santa wants a mug of brew

Sat on the windowsill

Here’s a beer for Santa

He’s here with winter white

That old man must be parched because

He’s been in the sky all night

His reindeer have no preference

And his elves will follow suit

But Santa wants a tall-boy beer

‘Cause he is feeling pooped

Here’s a beer for Santa

His gratitude is sure

Take out your finest Christmas mug

And give that man a pour

His reindeer fly like magic

His elves have made the toys

But for himself he wants a drink

Don’t disappoint our boy

Here’s a beer for Santa

He came here in his sled

No matter wind and weather

Dressed up in white and red

His reindeer need some water

His elves need Christmas cheer

But Santa Claus needs just one thing

A big damn mug of beer!

Here’s a beer for Santa

Now his worldwide trip is done

The toys have been delivered

The good kids are having fun

His reindeer are so tired

And his elves are at the end

Step up with a frosty mug of beer

And make Santa Claus your friend!

I finished my poem by the time coffee brewing had been completed. Outside, sub-zero temperatures helped maintain the Christmas atmosphere. Everything was frozen in a timeless hue of white. For a moment, I forgot about my infirmities. Cheerful thoughts held sway.

Briefly, I wondered over my choice of a beverage. Perhaps a stronger drink might be more satisfying on Christmas morning. Should I follow my own suggestion and join Santa with a cold brew of my own? Temptation made me weak with desire. I could almost taste the malted barley and hops. A fresh case of beer lay so close at hand. The household refrigerator was only a few steps away. I just needed to struggle out of my chair in the living room and get moving...

Instead, I brought up Davie Allan’s “Fuzz for the Holidays 2” on YouTube. The roster of songs played while I had a first cup of wake-up juice. This rocking holiday album had become a seasonal staple in the household, particularly because I provided liner notes for its original release.

My Black Lab was sleeping in front of the Christmas tree. He did not notice my episode of self-restraint. Or the music that played through our television. He had no interest in my quick creative project. Only in dreaming about his dog bone, wrapped under the tree.

It was a quiet Christmas morning in the household. And I felt glad that my personal muse had visited in the form of Santa Claus, himself.

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

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

Published regularly in the Geauga independent

“Dollar General Christmas”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Readers Note: The holiday season always seems to arouse stories of a personal nature. What follows here is another tale of life in the Ice household.

I moved to Thompson, Ohio in 2002.

Far on the east side of Cleveland, this off-the-beaten-path rural community was a perfect spot to rebuild life as my first marriage was falling apart. A place where I could slip into an interstellar wormhole of anonymity, while trying to preserve my dual careers of journalism and business management. Close enough to my family that contact was not difficult. Yet with a geographical moat between them and myself encompassing 9.7 miles of Geauga County farmland. A safe zone that let me rest in a kind of self-imposed isolation.

The only drawback by comparison with my former residence in Painesville was that suddenly, access to basic creature comforts were few. My new community did not have a gas station. Or a convenience store. Or a pizzeria. Only a long-closed IGA on the township square. And soon enough, an abandoned Ford dealership. Because I worked in Chardon and then Geneva, this change barely caught my notice. But the arrival of early retirement last year caused a personal reassessment like I had never known, before. Declining mobility and a lack of employment forced me to reassess personal priorities.

Suddenly, my comforting distance from the civilized world became a bit more burdensome to endure.

While time passed, someone had already reopened the slumbering IGA as Thompson Center Market. Then, they added a Master Pizza franchise. But the most stunning development in local history came early in 2017 when Dollar General placed a store on the square.

During three decades of my business career, DG barely garnered any notice. I first encountered one of their locations while visiting my parents in Philippi, West Virginia. Their efficient floor plan and merchandising were obvious assets. But I couldn’t imagine paying much attention. Retirement changed my perspective, however. I found myself visiting this retail oasis more and more frequently. Especially when snowstorms blanketed our roads with winter white. While perusing their aisles of stock, I noticed that other old fellows with canes and baseball caps were also busy shopping. And senior ladies with white hair and bulky sweaters.

My younger brother, a disabled trucker, had already become a convert after his own slide into disability.

In personal terms, I remembered that years ago, our father had begun shopping at a local Rite Aid drugstore, in the mountain country, because it was easier to navigate than their full-size grocery depot. He walked with two canes for support and had quite a chore loading goodies into his minivan. But the downsized venue helped him keep up with family needs while maintaining his dignity. Later, little bro followed in his footsteps after a stay at the Cleveland Clinic to battle serious health issues. He mirrored the strategy by switching to no-frills dollar stores in our area.

Then, with great reluctance, I came along from behind. Our new Dollar General offered less walking and a surprising selection of products at value prices. The items missing in comparison to larger stores were mostly those that I never shopped.

I had become a believer.

With the approach of winter and holiday themes, I visited our DG in search of Christmas gifts. Once again, their offerings were surprising and affordable. Plenty of candy, trinkets and household decorations. Everything was easy to reach. My new routine was set – cane in a yellow cart as I entered the lobby and then, off to snatch bargains. Conversation with fellow patrons and the store crew came as a bonus. Holiday cheer and savings ruled the day!

I only wished that they had an osmosis machine to fill jugs. (A popular alternative for folk out in the country with well water.) While loading my cart, I resolved to write the company a letter on that subject. Plus, I reckoned on suggesting that they ponder the vending of gas, beer and cigarettes like a Circle K in neglected communities such as our own.

Loading my truck with the groceries, I reflected again on Dad with his drugstore ration of pop, cookies, canned ham, sardines, pretzel barrels, chips and snack nuts. The family tradition seemed secure. For myself, everyday meals, household goods and even Christmas gifts all came from the Thompson Dollar General.

Retirement and the holidays had never felt so good.

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 regularly in the Geauga Independent

“Frankentruck”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(12-17)

Readers Note: I have observed in the past that the best newspaper columns seem to write themselves. What follows here proves that maxim once again. While doing research for a holiday manuscript, I stumbled upon a Ford truck advertised on Craigslist. The result is this extra journey through my family history, written while continuing to reflect on seasonal memories.

Three from one.

I have often observed that we three children of my particular Ice generation split our father’s personality into equal parts. Each of us seem to reflect a different portion of his total identity. My sister has his patience and faith. Thus, she is the rock foundation of our family group and a patient adviser. I inherited the creative bent and have been involved in writing and music nearly since birth. This has steered me toward a variety of projects that have, like those of my sire, failed in financial terms while providing much enlightenment and adventure. Finally, my brother reflects the rural ingenuity of a fellow raised on a farm by an engineering professor with a frugal disposition. As the youngest sibling, he refused to let birth order place him in the shadows of those who had come before. In particular, he displayed a keen ability to fix things with very little money. Once, he bought a Pontiac Catalina for $175 and then sold it for parts, after a long period of use as a daily driver, for over $300. On another occasion, he replaced the rear axle in a Galaxie 500 behind our home with nothing more than a pair of jack stands and a few common tools.

In other words, little bro always loved to tinker, like our dad. It was a useful talent to have in a family not blessed with great monetary resources.

I reckon that my brother has easily owned more than a hundred cars in his lifetime. Some provided stories that I used in my bygone column for the Geauga County Maple Leaf newspaper. In particular, I recall writing about a ratty, red Buick Regal that he drove in the 1980’s. As we were crossing Chardon on a run for supplies (likely potato chips and cold beer) the acrid smell of chemical smoke became alarming. Upon pulling over, he realized that the floor was completely rusted away underneath the rear carpet. This sheath of reinforced cloth had dropped onto the muffler system, which set it on fire. Fortunately, no injury resulted, or significant damage to the car. In personal terms, I was glad for another story to tell. He continued to use the Regal until a better alternative could be found.

At another point in our youth, both of us had Ford Econoline vans. His was more stylish, a dark blue ‘Super Van’ with power steering, an automatic transmission, and chrome bumpers. Mine was a one-ton cargo hauler with a steering wheel like a school bus and a three-speed manual on the column. (Three-on-the-tree.) It had been sprayed Army green, and came up for sale at an auction in Pennsylvania. The family nicknamed it ‘Godzilla.’ From the driver’s seat, it felt like navigating streets in a living room on wheels. But the utility of my van became so indispensable that my next vehicle was a full-fledged pickup truck.

Most famously, my brother once acquired a Ford F-250 from the mid-70’s which had been sold as a camper special. (Slide in campers having still been popular in those yonder days.) It needed a motor which he already had on hand from an old police cruiser. Restoring the vehicle also meant using junkyard body parts to save cash. The yield was a sturdy beast with plenty of horsepower but not much visual appeal. The vehicle was several different colors in hue. It got the nickname ‘Frankentruck’ as an honest tribute to its stout nature and homely looks.

Being teased about his ride only intensified a desire to be seen and conquer detractors. In a stunning moment of braggadocio, he took the truck from Chardon to our local, iconic venue, Thompson Drag Raceway (now Thompson Raceway Park). After a reception of loud guffaws and rude comments, he raced the F-250 and actually won in competition. Most satisfying was a match against a sleek Olds Cutlass with a big-block 350 V-8. He bested the desirable chariot easily. Something its owner took as a bit of an insult. Though merely a footnote in the storied history of this rural dragstrip, his escapades became an enduring part of Ice family lore.

With the passage of years, my younger brother became a professional driver and crossed the nation many times. Then, age and health issues took their toll. But the story of his pickup-of-many-colors was passed onward to generations of the family that followed. We would never forget the Frankentruck. Or such memories, which seem especially poignant around the Yuletide season.

Merry Christmas to you, my brother.

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Published regularly in the Geauga Independent