Dad's Cajun Recipes 2004

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Note To Readers: I have been looking through old 1.44 MB diskettes in my archives. This one seems to have come from my father as it contains various articles including these cajun recipes by 'Dee' Gautreau.

PICKLE MEAT

(Creole Pickled Pork)

Pickled pork, or "pickle meat", as it's called in New Orleans, is what some folks consider the quintessential seasoning meat for red beans and rice, as well as other bean dishes. Some folks use ham hocks, some smoked ham, some even use tasso. But you'll find a significant number of Creole mamas who'll tell you that it ain't red beans without pickle meat. It's readily available at many New Orleans markets, but you can make it yourself

2 pounds boneless pork butt, cut into 2-inch cubes

• 1 quart distilled white vinegar
• 1/2 cup mustard seed
• 1 tablespoon celery seed
• 2 tablespoons Tabasco sauce
• 1 bay leaf
• 6 cloves garlic, peeled and cracked (not smashed)
• 1 tablespoon kosher salt
• 12 peppercorns

Combine everything except the pork in a non-reactive saucepan and boil for three minutes. Cool and place in a refrigerator container (plastic, glass or stainless-steel) and add the pork. Stir to remove bubbles. Cover and refrigerate for three days.

CREOLE HOT SAUSAGE

Grilled or pan-fried on the side with red beans and rice, or on a po-boy, or even (sparingly) in gumbo ... mmmmm, this stuff is great. And hot. Add it to smothered vegetables, or use it as a breakfast sausage.

My grandfather Joe Luquet used to make his own hot sausage for the meat counter at Niedermeier's, the Bywater neighborhood grocery store he and my grandmother Dot Luquet née Niedermeier used to run at the corner of Mazant and Royal Streets. I was a little too young to remember how he did it, but it was probably very much like this excellent recipe.

• 4 pounds lean fresh pork
• 2 pounds pork fat
• 2 teaspoons finely minced garlic
• 2 tablespoons cayenne pepper
• 1 tablespoon freshly ground black pepper
• 2 tablespoons salt
• 1-1/2 teaspoons ground bay leaf
• 2 tablespoons paprika
• 1/2 teaspoon sugar
• 3 yards sausage casing (optional)

Grind the pork and fatback to a medium to coarse grind, and mix well with the other ingredients. Stuff into sausage casings, and tie them off so that each sausage is about six inches long. You can omit this step and make sausage patties if you like.

Fresh sausage should be used quickly, and will keep in the refrigerator for three days. You can also freeze it for up to three months.

1978 WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP
CHICKEN JAMBALAYA 

Here's an award-winning recipe (along with some tips and some history of the dish) as prepared by: Matthew "Dee" Gautreau, Dee Gautreau's Cajun Catering, Gonzales, Louisiana 70737, Telephone - (504) 644-5977 or 644-4405.

This makes damn good jambalaya, and is a brown-style rather than the red tomato-based jambalayas you see in New Orleans (like mine for instance). This one doesn't use a chicken stock because you make your own as you go along here.

• One 3 to 4 pound hen cut into serving pieces
• 3 cups long grain rice - uncooked
• 1/4 cup cooking oil
• 3 medium white onions - chopped fine
• 6 cups water (but Chuck says use chicken stock if you want it to be really good)
• 1 tablespoon salt, or to taste
• 2-1/2 teaspoons granulated garlic
• 1 cup green onions - chopped
• 1/2 cup green peppers
• 1/2 cup celery - chopped fine
• 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
• Red pepper to taste
• 2 tablespoons Louisiana hot sauce

Fry chicken in cooking oil until golden brown. Remove chicken and oil leaving just enough oil to cover bottom of pot. Add onions, and fry until golden brown. Put chicken back into pot with onions, and add 6 cups of water (note water level). Add remaining seasoning and simmer covered until chicken is tender. If necessary, add enough water to bring back to previous level. Bring back to a rolling boil, and add rice. Simmer uncovered for about 15 minutes - turn rice. Cover with tight fitting lid, let steam for 15 minutes, or until rice is tender. Turn rice once more, and turn fire off. Let stand for 10 minutes and then serve.

Jambalaya is more tasty if highly seasoned, so don't forget the red pepper. When adding salt, water should taste a little too salty, as rice absorbs considerable salt.

Yield: 6 to 8 generous servings. 

HELPFUL HINTS FOR
INEXPERIENCED JAMBALAYA COOKS:

Most jambalaya cooks prefer to cook in cast iron pots - whether cast iron or aluminum pot is used, it should be heavy enough to prevent easy burning, and have a tight lid.

To brown onions:

Onions and shortening are put into the pot, covered, and cooked over low heat until golden brown, stirring frequently. A little water added to the onions will help prevent sticking.

Jambalaya should never be stirred - turn rather than stir after the rice has been added. This prevents the grains of rice from breaking up. Most cooks turn jambalaya only two or three times after the rice is added, being sure to scoop from the bottom of the pot to mix rice evenly with other ingredients.

A LITTLE JAMBALAYA HISTORY

Similar in many ways to Spanish paella, the term "jambalaya" is derived from the Spanish jamón for ham. Jambalaya found its way into Creole cookery in the late 1700's where it soon took on the flavor of added local ingredients.

It can be made (separately or all together) with ham, chicken, sausage, fresh pork, shrimp and oysters, to which is added shortening, rice, onion, garlic, pepper and other seasonings.

Starting with church fairs, which were the largest public gatherings at the turn of the century, Jambalaya emerged from small quantity indoor cooking to become the ideal dish for outdoor cooking over hardwood fire. Big black cast iron pots made preparation so easy and economical for church use that Jambalaya was rapidly adapted for political rallies, weddings, family reunions and other affairs. No fair or political rally around Gonzales is complete without Jambalaya cooking.

The Jambalaya Festival and World Champion Jambalaya Cooking contest is held annually at Gonzales and attracts area cooks who have spent years perfecting the are of cooking and seasoning this Creole delicacy. Gonzales really is the Jambalaya Capital of The World.

About the creator of the championship recipe:

"Dee" Gautreau is a World Champion Jambalaya cook; he won the title in 1978. He has his own catering business, "Dee Gautreau's Cajun Catering." In the past nine years he has cooked Jambalaya all over the United States and in France, too.

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 

"The Velvet Elvis" (revised)

c. 1998 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-98)

Note To Readers: Recently, I have been going through a box of 1.44 MB diskettes from my old home office in Painesville. What follows here is the fifth column from my ‘Thoughts At Large’ newspaper series, which ran in the Geauga County Maple Leaf from 1998-2014. The velvet painting that inspired this manuscript has been lost to the foggy realm of history.

Recently, I bought an important treasure for the basement of our home. This multi-

purpose cavern serves well as a library, office, display area, underground restaurant, and

occasional recording studio. Now, I can also think of our subterranean room in a different

context, as it has become something of an art gallery. The purchased item was a portrait of the

late cultural icon, Elvis Presley, rendered on a canvas of cheap velvet!

Such paintings always seemed to appear at filling stations, and roadside markets.

Were they sold anywhere else? Mine bears an irrefutable mark of authenticity. On the reverse

side of it's frame is stamped: 'Hecho En Mexico'!

As a collectible, their value is dubious. Does a plastic, pink flamingo hold any great

worth? You may consider this tribute to 'The King' a cruelty, or a joke. Still, there had always

been yearning in my heart for one of my very own! In the center of a truck-stop shrine, this cloth

creation might prove useful in spreading goodwill, and cheer. The citizen's-band airwaves

could crackle with a throaty "Thank you! Thank you very much!" But, on the basement wall,

it strikes a pose across from an autographed poster of Dolly Parton. They frame the entrance

to our burrow with rhinestones, and screaming polyester!

In the traditions of Greek mythology, Elvis was beautiful, and gifted. But a flawed

creature, indeed! With similar imperfections is the velvet painting. A bit of the hip-shaker's

mouth was missing, perhaps owing to the fact that I had to transport our artifact home from a

local flea market on my Harley-Davidson. (Hey, Big 'E' himself rode a variety of Milwaukee's

finest, so such a mode of conveyance should provide no insult!) My wife offered first-aid with a bit of makeup to dab the offended lip, and it looks correct. Well, almost!!

The Velvet Elvis is Takin' Care of Business among a court of fellow members in the

heavenly hall of fame. John Lennon is at his side, and Keith Moon. Roy Buchanan, and Faron

Young are nearby. Jerry Garcia waits in the form of a concert button. But this a chapel of

Memphis devotion. There will always be rockin' in our jailhouse!.

Central to the faith of many devotees is a belief that Elvis still walks among us, today.

The Hound Dog is constantly viewed in pizza parlors, and donut shops, around the nation. His

rich legacy seems not enough for many. They are satisfied only with the thought that he will

return to glory, and conquer again!

But whether his Wooden Heart still beats like a 'Hunk-O Hunk-O Burnin' Love', I know

that he is alive in the manner of Zeus and lesser deities, on Mount Olympus! He lives in the

form of a dancing clock over our bar (a gift from my sister), in a metal reproduction of a

Tennessee license plate (bought at Graceland), and in a bottle of 'Elvis Cologne Spray' (which

came with a guitar-shaped belt buckle)... as it says,"For All The King's Men!" A retail value of

$17.50, available for a pittance at an oldster's garage in Western Pennsylvania, while on the

way to Flip Side Records, in Meadville!

My son is of a generation too youthful to understand the transcendent nature of our

Velvet Elvis. He has reserved comment on the portrait. Still, there is that "You guys are weird!"

look in his gaze. Perhaps we are moody for a simpler time? Does the painting revive thoughts

of rear-wheel drive, Ed Sullivan presenting The Beatles, the 45 RPM supremacy of vinyl, and

Converse All Stars as choice footwear for the masses?

If so, we can be forgiven. Still, it is easy to imagine that, twenty years from now, he

might stumble across a surreal, balsa-wood frame filled with the troubled image of Kurt Cobain.

And in a moment of weakness, peel a few dollar bills from his wallet…

Postscript: After it appeared in the GCML, I also submitted this column to Cleveland Scene and other publications, unsuccessfully. 

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

“Floppy Disks”

c.2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Old tech.

In a place like the Ice Household, the useful nature of outdated technology is enduring. While I have a genuine need for modern tools of connectivity such as an iPhone, laptops and flat-screen TV, old rules still apply. A recent adventure on eBay proved this truism once again.

While sorting through my late father’s home office, in West Virginia, I discovered one of his venerable Brother word processors, a WP-85. Our family habits were set in the Depression Era. Thus, few items were ever discarded. Instead, everything was saved in the hope that they might one day prove to be useful in a new context. The device still had several 1.44 MB diskettes in its storage nook and one in the drive. In personal terms, I remembered having similar ‘floppy disks’ at home filled with old files.

A time worn adage says “The acorn does not fall far from the tree.” In my own version, specific to our surname, the phrase is “The cube does not fall far from the tray.”

In yonder days, I had graduated from my manual Royal KMM typewriter to a Sharp electric model purchased in the 1980’s at Fisher’s Big Wheel. But Dad advised that I try something more sophisticated. It was called a ‘word processor.’ A half-step toward becoming computer literate. He owned two or three of these products, made by the Brother company. When I bought my own at Office Max in Mentor, it was like receiving a revelation from above. My ability to sling ink suddenly took on amazing proportions. The device provided a quantum leap beyond old traditions of tapping out single sheets of paper and correcting them with white-out. I got a box of 3 ½ inch Memorex diskettes and soared forward into the future.

Now, while looking around at old disks in Dad’s office, I wondered – would it still be possible to purchase an accessory to read these funky, plastic squares?

I discussed this query over pepperoni rolls and Powerade, with my nephew, the technology wizard. He reckoned that files written on the WP-85 might be in a proprietary format sometimes used by the company, unreadable by modern equipment. (240K GCR) But I recalled that my own Brother word processor produced material that I could view on a regular computer as a text file. My conclusion was simple. Upon returning to Ohio, I decided to search for an external drive to read the old diskettes.

Days later, I checked eBay for relevant entries. It had seemed likely that such an anachronistic device might be pricey or difficult to find. But both assumptions were wrong. I discovered many USB disk drives available, at reasonable prices. One offered for $10.29 with free shipping seemed most attractive. I was able to acquire the unit in a short period of time. The disk drive came without a startup CD that had been described in its listing. Meanwhile, I heard complaints that such devices would not function with more current operating systems. But when I plugged the device into my father’s HP 4300 desktop, it worked.

I inserted a floppy from my collection. Suddenly, it was 1998 all over again. 

My own association with the local Geauga County Maple Leaf newspaper began in February of that year. I wrote columns on my own workhorse Brother machine. After a brief trial period, submitting printed pages and then the disks themselves, I was able to e-mail compositions from our household eMachine PC. This saved much time in the creative process. I continued to use the diskettes for a few years, into the early 2000’s. Then, relocation to Thompson and newer computers caused these files to disappear from memory.

Buoyed by initial success with the drive unit from eBay, I took out one of Dad’s forgotten disks. It buzzed and spun for a few seconds, then produced an error message. I tried again, with the same result. A check showed there was no information stored. My nephew had been correct. The WP-85 used Brother’s proprietary format.

I was glad to have brought the bulky beast home with other relics from Dad’s office.

Revisiting my own collection of 1.44 MB storage squares, I found a lost column of personal significance. A feature written in early September of 2001. My intention had been to offer a short biography of erstwhile Biker Lifestyle Magazine editor Bob Bitchin. My long-distance boss for five years in the 1980’s. I wanted to portray him as an outlaw hero and an anti-government rebel-in-print. A wordsmith channeling Libertarian vibes. The manuscript was intended for Keith Ball, once chief at Easyriders. But the timing could not have been less fortuitous. Two days after finishing my original version, the dreadful events of 9-11 transpired. Suddenly, the national mood turned somber. Humbled by the news, I rewrote this biography with a softer tone. It ran later on Ball’s Bikernet website, but lacked the zest of my original missive.

I posted the long-ago column on a Facebook page for ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond’ which was a book that collected stories from my run with the magazine, from 1983-1988.

Afterward, my thoughts turned toward reading the old files rescued from our southern home office. Father’s word processor still had a typewriter ribbon installed over the carriage of its onboard printer. A quick check in cyberspace revealed that new cartridges were still readily available should one be needed. With a bit of luck and perhaps a user’s manual, I felt confident in being able to get his work from the device. It would be a completed circle of sorts, once more finding inspiration from my sire as I had so many years before.

Ever the student at his feet, I was learning even after he had passed into eternity.

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

“Bob Bitchin”

c. 2001 Rod Ice

all rights reserved

(9-01)

Note To Readers: This column was recently retrieved from an old 1.44 MB diskette. It was written on September 9, 2001. I intended it for Keith Ball, once the edtor at Easyriders and later chief at Bikernet. My hope was to portray the former head of Biker Lifestyle Magazine as an anti-government rebel and folk hero. However, with the tragic events of 9-11 coming only two days later, the national mood was changed forever. I rewrote the piece in subsequent days. But from a modern perspective, I think the original version speaks well to the unique nature of this rowdy, cultural icon.

America in the 1970’s was a nation ripped by turbulence of every kind. Political scandals and fuel shortages made the future seem uncertain. Nauseating cultural oddities like disco were promoted by entertainment tycoons. Post-hippie guilt encouraged the idiocy of Joan Claybrook and Patricia Zonker. It was a moment when liberty itself hung in the balance. But for a young bro in western Pennsylvania, hope was delivered in the glossy pages of Choppers Magazine. It was there that I first read a story called “Happy Birthday Blues” by Mike Skvorzov. (This honest recollection of an outlaw celebrating everyday life made me wonder about a writing career of my own.) Soon afterward, the colorful ramblings of a wild, former patch-holder who called himself Bob Bitchin would crank-up that desire. 

 

Robert Lipkin attended UCLA and USC, where he snagged degrees in Psychology and Business Administration. But wanderlust made him unhappy with the life of an average citizen. So he moved in a different direction. “I remember taking my copy of ‘Cycle Magazine’ and ordering all the catalogs out of it, just so I could see what was available for motorcycles,” he remembered. “And this was all before I had a bike!!” His vagabond nature would take hold soon after, in the mid 60’s.

Liner notes from the kickass epic BIKER said it best: “What happens when a 300+ pound, tattooed biker goes out of his way to find a good story while riding across the country? What happens when your feet freeze to the footpegs while crossing the Smokies in a snowstorm? What do you do when you break down a thousand miles from nowhere?” The answer, of course, was that the frustration of these events exploded into a series of editorials, features, and Ride On stories that would entertain a generation of readers. No one in the industry duplicated this mix of humor, and anti-social philosophizing. It would make the Bitchin approach to journalism distinctive and memorable. I was unaware at the time that my schooling in this discipline had begun.

Never had Floyd Clymer or Joe Parkhurst imagined such rowdy behavior under the guise of editorial direction. Bob rolled through Choppers, Biker, Big Bike, Chopper Guide, Street Chopper, Custom Chopper, Supercycle, and Chopper Magazine. As he touched each of these rags, a passion for extreme adventures developed. His tales moved closer to the fringe. With the advent of Biker Lifestyle Magazine came a lawless attitude of outright rebellion. This met a brick wall of opposition in the Reagan-era crackdown on obscenity. Attorney General Ed Meese made a personal task of delivering the nation from purveyors of objectionable material. Sadly, little attention was paid to the first amendment issues that were involved. Soon, government agents would visit BB on his houseboat. It was an episode that fueled the paranoia of those who already distrusted our federal authorities. 

Into the storm of conflicting values, I sent a manuscript called Death’s Payback. The old IRON HORSE (at the time, a pale imitation of Easyriders) was desperate for extra fictional works, and advertised the fact in their classified section. I had mailed out a beggar’s banquet of freelance submissions to their P. O. box. As an afterthought, one off-the-wall story also went to Bob because I had followed his writing for several years. The HORSE showered me with rejections. But Bitchin immediately welcomed me into his dysfunctional family. In 1983, Payback became my first printed contribution. The photograph used with this cycling yarn was of a frightening skull, leering through some mystical purple haze. Friends from The Ithaca Times (I was in New York by then) were astounded. It was the beginning of a partnership that would last for over five years. 

BB showed an incredible ability to put raw truth into print. This gave his rag an added dimension of street credibility. Nearly twenty years ago, he wrote: “Most citizens are jealous of the freedom that an outlaw lives with. The freedom itself scares them. They couldn’t handle waking up on the side of the road, with nothing but their wits and a motorcycle to get them through the day.” Such bare-knuckled opinions were common. And his roadgoing adventures were too strange to be fabricated.

This made my own tour of duty a raucous vacation from the real world. I tried to produce increasingly radical prose to see if Bitchin would reach his limit of tolerance. (It never happened!) I wrote about vengeance, life beyond the grave, insane personal habits, drunken uprisings, and political mayhem. None of this was out of the ordinary for him. Almost everything I submitted landed on the pages of BL. Only one manuscript from that period missed publication. 

Just before the end, Bob hammered his opponents with verbal gunfire. In 1987, he wrote: “As I see it, this country was founded by people who, if born into today’s world, would be bikers. They were fed up with all that bureaucratic nonsense and founded a free America. One that allowed you to live your life free from undue persecution. If they tried it today, they would be jailed.” His patience with the overbearing nature of neo-socialist society was wearing thin. 

A year later, cohort-for-life Degenerate Jim offered the news that Bob had disappeared into oblivion: “Long time readers of this rag already must have noticed something’s missing. Where’s the JUST BITCHIN’ column? Your next question is probably – what’s the deal, what happened? Well, he didn’t quit or get fired and he wasn’t busted, but he doesn’t really work here anymore… sort of. How’s that for a clear-as-mud answer?” It was a quiet departure for one who had lived on the edge. 
 

My personal involvement with that magazine ended at the same moment. The production quality and format improved under new ownership, but Bob’s style of rock ‘n roll journalism was gone. Only with the passage of many years would I realize that he had moved to the high seas in search of new horizons to explore. 

 

Thirteen years later, I found a website dedicated to his modern brainchild, Latitudes and Attitudes Magazine. It was difficult to believe that my old mentor had morphed into a modern pirate. But a familiar address (P. O. Box 668) resonated with memories. When an e-mail link was uncovered, courage appeared. Fueled by pints of Guinness, I sent an electronic letter to the site. It was a cannon shot across eternity…

Bob responded after a few days. His message came like the visitation of a ghost: “Rod, Although my memory was shot out... in the seventies, I do recall your name and articles. It’s good to hear from you... I still run into readers when I do boat shows, and it feels good to know I have poisoned a few minds.” Much time was required to fully comprehend that he had finally stepped from the shadows. The correspondence was a brilliant flash of yesteryear. I was spellbound by his reply.

 

The end result was a news feature for BIKERNET.COM, and this full-blown tribute. In the process, I completely sorted through our household stash of vintage chopper material. It was a time-warp getaway on par with Star Trek. Somewhere, Bob was probably sailing THE LOST SOUL as I played the role of archaeologist. But for this writer, he will always remain a biker, running forever on the lonesome highway!

“The Tiple”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Rhoderick D. Ice June 25, 1929 – April 27, 2018

Memories of Dad.

As I struggle to comprehend his passing, old recollections have emerged from the ether to give comfort. I sit in front of his abandoned desktop computer and let these colorful stories flow into text. With each recorded tale, I imagine that he is smiling, in eternity. For a writer, every experience is an opportunity. Even the loss of one so beloved as my father. So I know he would expect nothing less than an ongoing series about growing up on the folk music of Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, or Mad Magazine.

A recent session at the home-office desk documented another such familial reflection. While talking about childhood experiences with my sister, I had remembered a particular Christmas gift from sometime around 1970. It was a ukulele from the Sears & Roebuck catalog. The instrument offered a chance to tap into the creative continuum present in our household, much like using Dad’s Underwood typewriter.

A lesson book was included in the cardboard box. I can only remember its red cover. And, that it offered “My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean” among some popular melodies. I learned the tune quickly. A crude chord chart provided basic knowledge of how to play the uke with some proficiency. But once I had practiced for a few weeks, my focus shifted in a predictable direction.

I began to write my own songs.

The subject matter of these early compositions varied wildly. I was around nine years old. One anthem boasted about the notoriety of Jim Stapleton, a broadcaster on local Virginia television, at WLVA-13. Later, I appeared on their morning show to demonstrate an electrical project. The experience produced a first attempt at doing something Dad had advised – writing from personal experiences.

“Hey Jim, how’s the weather? Hey Jim, how’s the news?”

(From left) Jim Stapleton and Wayne Tyler, 1974.

The ukulele was a perfect companion for basement sessions and visiting friends. A useful foundation for storytelling in the ‘folk’ tradition. But when my membership in the Campbell County 4-H program yielded a chance to compete as part of a talent show, the tiny twanger was upstaged. My father suggested playing his C. F. Martin ‘Tiple.’ It used 10 steel strings, arranged in four courses (2,3,3,2) that mimicked the uke pattern of four strings.

The Tiple had a bold, echoing presence. I strummed the instrument with a pick made of felt.

No one had ever seen such an odd plectrum. Adding to the mystery, I played a traditional ballad called ‘Froggy Went A-Courting.’ The obscure ditty had been recorded by everyone from Tex Ritter to Burl Ives and had roots back to Scotland in the 1500’s.

“Froggy went a-courting and he did ride, uh huh

Froggy went a-courting and he did ride, uh huh

Froggy went a-courting and he did ride

With a sword and a pistol by his side, uh huh

He went down to Miss Mousey’s door, uh huh

He went down to Miss Mousey’s door, uh huh

He went down to Miss Mousey’s door

Where he’d often been before, uh huh...”

I won a week at Holiday Lake summer camp, with all expenses paid. As a kid, it felt like a million-dollar lottery prize. Later, the performance qualified me for statewide competition, where I came in second to a semi-professional Country & Western group. Though their moment of victory was sweet, the band seemed more interested in my Martin Tiple. After the extravaganza, I fielded questions about the odd plucker.

Though I did not receive a trophy, the moment represented another kind of victory. A triumph of the family’s individualistic nature.

Eventually, a passion for the Blues and early Rock & Roll records in my father’s collection took hold. Searching for the overdriven tones of Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley, I taped a loudspeaker to one of the full-size guitars in our household and connected it to an RCA radio which had phono inputs on the back. The result was lots of microphonic feedback. Something less grand than the mastery of my heroes. Yet it fit the mood.

My songwriting continued. Dad watched proudly as the seed he had planted began to grow and flourish.

From Mother Maybelle Carter, to Bob Dylan, to the stark, urban vistas of Lou Reed, my study of the craft continued. Though sonically diverse, each style was rooted in the same, fertile soil. That of rendering a tale in song. A tradition I sometimes likened to being a “reporter with guitar.” As an adult, I began to record demo tracks during quiet moments away from work. In the 1980’s and 1990’s these archived tapes grew to at least 500 songs in number. Many were real-time observations on daily life, sung over chord progressions or riffs. I wrote about friends in New York, motorcycles, job dissatisfaction, wanderlust, mayhem in my personal life, unrequited love, and the search for myself.

Perhaps the strangest of these audio ventures was a tune called ‘Farewell Old Soldier’ about my beige, 1981 Chevrolet Chevette. The unreliable car had expired with 77,640 miles under its wheels and became a storage shed in our yard, primarily for dog food. I sang with emotion about its many woes including a cracked piston, rusted floor, broken springs, worn 4-speed transmission and gutless highway performance.

“Farewell, old soldier, you served us well

Got us through three-and-a-half years of heaven and hell...”

Though much more sophisticated than my childhood experiments with the Sears ukulele, the pattern remained intact. I had learned much as a pupil in our household academy.

With or without musical accompaniment, Dad had sired a writer, for life.

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

“Crowded House”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

‘The Farm.’ Columbus, Ohio.

For those of us in the Ice bloodline, it was a special place both geographically and spiritually. Matched by no other. Many generations of our brood moved through that space. Each of us received our own blessing from having walked on that soil. Carried forward, the collective experiences bound us together in a way no outsider could feel.

My grandfather, M. C. Ice, passed away in early 1999. Afterward, as the snowy bluster of winter receded, my wife and I visited the family homestead. We sought to renew our connection to this most holy of places. But a strange aura met us upon exiting our car. I realized it immediately with a first breath of spring air.

Our castle was dead.

Quite literally, the old fellow had kept this spot alive with his love and determination. Without him, the grass looked pale. The sky above, gray and lifeless. We walked slowly through the house, hearing dry echoes of a lifeless shell. I choked down the angst bubbling in my belly, while looking over remnants from generations that had gone before. Each talisman was sweet to ponder. Yet undeniably sad.

Many years later, I watched my father pass into eternity at Mansfield Place, in Philippi, West Virginia. That night, still reeling and brokenhearted, I returned to the family household, on a hilltop outside of town, with my sister. Her comment upon entering the house awakened old memories long buried by necessity.

“This place does not feel the same,” she observed. “It is dead now.”

I nodded in silence.

Just as with ‘The Farm’ our southern home had been buoyed by the unflagging spirit of one incredible fellow. He treasured the spot in a way appropriate for someone who had wandered across the map for most of his life. He and our mother had found this refuge in the hills 32 years ago. The joy of finally discovering a place to call ‘home’ was irresistible.

R. D. Ice’s intention was to meet eternity at this beloved place, like his own sire. My grandfather had drifted away while in his favorite rocking chair. But circumstances did not permit such a gentle exit from the house on Dadisman Place. First, Dad battled for life in Morgantown, at Ruby Memorial Hospital. Then came a sort of acceptance. He wanted a few last days with our mother. But though his body may have been at the nursing home, none of us could doubt that his heart remained at the house just off of Union Road.

After he was gone, we sat alone in the family abode. Our meal, hastily consumed, consisted of pepperoni rolls from the local Shop n Save. We did not have much of an appetite. I drank Powerade to stay hydrated. Strangely, the clutter suddenly lost its homey feel. There was a palpable sense of sitting in ashes. A noble journey, long savored and extolled in print, had come to its conclusion.

Still, I lingered in the office where my father had spent many hours writing manuscripts of various kinds. On an old typewriter desk that belonged to mother, his Brother WP-85 word processor still sat, waiting for duty. I reckoned that he had not used it in over 25 years. A collection of 1.44 MB diskettes remained in the storage nook. One, still in the drive slot from a long-forgotten project. The power cord had been tied around a post on the bookshelf. 

I took a photo with my cell phone, to document where it had been found.

Everywhere around me, there were books, magazines, church bulletins, and such. Copies of ‘El Popola Cinio’ which was a magazine about mainland China, offered in the world language called Esperanto. An odd favorite often seen in the household. Dad would fill his giant Pyrex measuring cup with coffee, tune the radio to Jazz or Classical music on the local Public Radio station, to escape with the aid of colorful images and words. As a perpetual student, his education literally lasted for a lifetime.

I reflected on the mess, gladdened to be among familiar things.

My sister worked off her nervous energy by sorting old literature and photographs. Her discoveries were amazing. Laminated poems that had been printed in a newspaper, now yellowed by time. Written by Lulu McCray, our maternal grandmother. Childhood images we had never seen. More recent pictures of weddings and reunions. Even reprints from old color slides in the family collection. A booklet surfaced with a date in 1955, one offered at an annual football game in Parkersburg. Along with this sports relic were copies of ‘Mad Magazine’ and ‘Cracked.’

“We should keep this place, just like it is right now,” my sister exclaimed.

I nodded again, in agreement.

A museum of Rhoderick Ice materials would have been fitting. And useful for fledgling writers and seekers of antiquity, alike. For those who loved vintage cars, motorcycles and musical instruments. But the house had already been sold. Moreover, some of the collection was gone, to aid our cousin with his own historical research, in Texas.

Yet the suggestion fell upon my ears like a sweet song of hope.

I reckoned that Dad’s legacy would remain intact through his books, published works in many magazines, Internet blogs, bulletins and letters. My nephew had been given USB memory sticks with articles not printed before. It seemed likely that we would all be working through the collection for years to come.

The house felt empty and cold without its master at his desk in the office. But I felt sure that none of us would surrender his memory to fate. Instead, as with our hallowed patch of ground in Columbus, we would sustain his memory through the blossom of love planted by seeds he sewed in our hearts.

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

“Marietta Mood”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Note To Readers: My parents entered a nursing home early this year after 32 years in northern West Virginia. Dad passed away at the end of April. Navigating the emotions produced by this experience has brought our family closer as we shared memories of childhood days and the hope that Mom would remain with us for awhile.

Rhoderick D. Ice 1929 – 2018

Saying goodbye.

My father’s funeral came as a surreal experience, not only because of the grief associated with losing one so beloved, but also in view of the numerology involved. It happened on my wedding anniversary with Wife 1.0 and on the birthday of famed guitarist Link Wray. I read a column titled ‘Memorial’ at the event. Something I had written earlier, with the knowledge that our paths were about to be crossed by the shadow of mortality.

We gathered at the Union Church of Christ, outside of Philippi, for his service. Standing before the group, I was struck with memories of speaking during worship services as a young kid. In yonder days I had imitated the cadence and style of my sire. Speaking with quiet, yet cheerful tones. But now, my voice cracked with sorrow. Still, purpose carried me forward. I wanted to give the address in Dad’s honor. I knew he would be smiling down from eternity, with approval.

I gave thanks on behalf of my sister and brother, for the joyful embrace this community had given to our parents over many years.

We buried Dad the next day, in Parkersburg, where other family members had been laid to rest, before. Then, it was time to go home. We were destined for Ohio and the region of Lake Erie. After long days drowning in tears, the experience had finally come to an end. My niece and nephew shared the ride. We were in the family’s Chrysler minivan.

‘Poppa’ had literally provided everything, even a chariot for our transportation.

At our southern family home in Barbour County, WV, my nephew picked up his Ford Focus. We followed each other on the highway as traffic ebbed along. Heading north, on I-77, he asked if anyone wanted to stop for a taste of Indian cuisine. It seemed a fitting sort of repast for celebrating the life of one always given to curiosity. My father had an insatiable desire to explore new worlds on every level, through study. Though he remained throughout his life a humble fellow. An observer, not a participant. So, everyone agreed.

My nephew remembered us having visited a restaurant called ‘Star Of India’ which we thought was located in Parkersburg. But after a few miles, we realized that the eatery must have instead been across the river in Marietta. It represented a peculiar manifestation of the ‘Mandela Effect.’ A misremembering of events. I likened it to my own recollection that the green, 1978 F-150 I had owned carried round headlights, while a previous, blue, 1979 version had illumination provided by rectangular bulbs. An old photo discovered while rearranging boxes at home proved that both trucks had the square-edged lights. My fallible memory had embraced an error.

When we found the ‘Star’ restaurant, it looked different than either of us expected. My nephew finally exclaimed “I am not sure this is where we ate, at all!” But it did not matter. The mood was festive in a college-town way. Always a student, Dad would have felt right at home.

The tastes of India were offered in a buffet setting, not what I remembered from before. Yet undeniably appropriate as we would have been unsure of what to order. The meal offered a soothing calm not only to the palate, but also to our souls. We were all exhausted. The feast seemed to renew our spirits.

Anonymous patrons shared the room as we dined. Conversation led us through family quirks and reflections. I talked about the experience of my television apprenticeship program through Cornell University, a journey begun in 1978. I remembered a family from India having opened a buffet-style restaurant in the city, which offered particularly distinctive flavors.

Then, a young man dining on the other side of our table approached us to say hello. “I could not help overhearing that you wrote for some newspapers,” he confessed. “Perhaps you would find these to be of interest?” He dropped two copies of a Marxist publication on the table. It was called the “Workers World.” 

I smiled, broadly. The headline boasted “Mobilize To Say No War, No Way!” A reaction to President Trump having launched a rocket attack against Syria for the use of chemical weapons. Inside, an article challenged the reader to ponder a notion not seen in mainstream journals: ‘End Police Murder = Abolish Capitalism.’

“The Workers World Party is a revolutionary Marxist-Leninist party inside the belly of the imperialist beast,” the newspaper read. “We are a multinational, multigenerational and multigendered organization that not only aims to abolish capitalism, but to build a socialist society because it’s the only way forward!”

As a Libertarian Conservative, the irony could not have been more pronounced, to receive such a gift from a stranger. Yet it was the sort of happening I would have expected in Ithaca, New York. Or, while breaking bread with my late father. I thanked the bearded student for his thoughtful contribution. Much like myself, he was outside of the American political mainstream. A seeker of knowledge. I suspected that we might not agree on many things. But his confidence shined like a beacon.

I reckoned that Dad would have nodded with kindness even as he rejected the message implied.

After dining, my niece and nephew headed for Ravenna. Sister and I ventured toward the east side of Cleveland and Geauga County. I missed a turnoff after road construction and a detour, so we drove up to Cleveland for a juncture with Interstate 90. then, we turned east.

Before long, we were at home.

I unloaded goods brought back from West Virginia, including my father’s old Brother WP-85 word processor. It still had 1.44 MB diskettes in the storage slot. Evidence of wordsmithing tasks he had performed many years ago. I felt eager to read through the stored manuscripts that waited inside.

Our farewell voyage was complete. Now it was time for the ultimate tribute to one who lived for the written word – to write and remember.

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