“Crazy Helmet Guy”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-19)

The Setting: Washington, D. C., the White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue

The Players: President Donald J. Trump; Chief of Staff Mick Mulvaney

-------

Mick Mulvaney: “Good morning Mr. President.”

Donald J. Trump: “Mick, where is my Coke? I like to start the day with a Coke, it’s still the real thing you know, believe me...”

M. Mulvaney: “Sir, we have some important news items to discuss.”

DJT: “Put on Fox & Friends, I like the news they give. Not fake news, the real news, the news people want to hear, not CNN with their hoaxes of Russia and quid pro quo, sad, sad news...”

M. Mulvaney: “Sir every network is running coverage of the impeachment hearings.”

DJT: “That’s a bad word, Mick, a very bad word. Very bad. I don’t like that word.”

M. Mulvaney: “The only other story this morning is a follow-up about Myles Garrett and the Cleveland Browns.”

DJT: “Miles Davis? The guy with his trumpet? A jazz guy. I never liked Jazz… I like Toby Keith, he played for my inauguration. A great concert, the best of any great concert, very great.”

M. Mulvaney: “Myles Garrett, sir. A defensive end for the Cleveland Browns. He was attacked by Mason Rudolph, a quarterback for the Pittsburgh Steelers. Rudolph tried to strip his helmet and kicked him in the groin. But Garrett got the upper hand, grabbed Rudolph’s helmet, and bashed him in the skull. He has been suspended indefinitely.”

DJT: “Bashed him with a helmet?”

M. Mulvaney: “Yes, Mr. President.”

DJT: “The Cleveland Browns. A Brown hit a Steeler.”

M. Mulvaney: “Essentially, yes.”

DJT: “The Steelers are winners. I like winners. The Browns are losers. Very bad losers. Losing 0-16 for the season, losing badly like Nancy Pelosi and the failing New York Times...”

M. Mulvaney: “Sir, I was trying to make the point that the news cycle today is about those two stories, impeachment and Mr. Garrett.”

DJT: “Garrett sounds crazy. Like a crazy helmet guy, swinging a helmet...”

M. Mulvaney: “He is being portrayed that way.”

DJT: (Smiling) “I would call that NOT fake news.”

M. Mulvaney: “News clips have been carefully edited so they offer no clue of what actually happened. They don’t show Mr. Rudolph instigating the fight. Steelers Coach Mike Tomlin claims not to know if his team did anything to make the incident happen.”

DJT: “Winners win, they don’t make things happen. They don’t make helmets swing. It’s a job, Mick, a job like how you come here in the morning and get me Coke when I ask for it… Coca Colaaaaa.”

M. Mulvaney: (Embarrassed) “Sir, I am your Chief of Staff!”

DJT: (Laughing loudly) “My Chief of Coke you are, Mick!”

M. Mulvaney: (Grabs his stomach) “Mr. President, you need to take the impeachment hearings seriously.”

DJT: “Witch hunt. Another witch hunt. People care about football much more than Adam Schiff, believe me, more than Nancy Pelosi. If this ‘Crazy Helmet Guy’ is swinging at another player, at a winner, a winning player, that is bigger news.”

M. Mulvaney: (Red-faced) “The Steelers lost, sir. Cleveland 21, Pittsburgh 7. But I should never have mentioned that story.”

DJT: “I would fire the crazy guy just like Kaepernick. Go ahead and kneel, BAM! You’re fired, you’re out of here...”

M. Mulvaney: “That was also on the news, the NFL intended to give Kaepernick a workout, available to all 32 teams.”

DJT: “FIRE HIM! Kneeling on the flag? FIRED! Fired, out, out, fired.”

M. Mulvaney: “He did not kneel on the flag, sir, he took a knee during the anthem.”

DJT: “OUT! Fired. Out.”

M. Mulvaney: (Shaking his head) “Anyway, the Myles Garrett story is not related in any way.”

DJT: “You have a crazy guy, the sad ‘Crazy Helmet Guy,’ and a kneeler. And Adam Schiff, I call him ‘Shifty Schiff.’ The worst failure in Congress. Very, very bad.”

M. Mulvaney: “Sir, my original intention was to discuss how we could gain some positive coverage in this news cycle.”

DJT: (Defiant) “Fake news, it is all fake, except for the helmet guy. Fire him for hitting a Steeler, Steelers win, I like winning! I know winning, like how I beat Hillary!”

M. Mulvaney: “Mr. President, the story is starting to turn. People read that the NFL refused to suspend Rudolph even though he instigated the entire incident. Opinions are fluid on the subject. Just like those who are hearing the mountain of evidence against you, and are opening their minds to impeachment. We need to grab some positive headlines. Before your presidency is lost.”

DJT: (Angry) “Nothing is lost, Mick, I don’t lose, I’m not a loser. I am a winner. A WINNER. I win. I don’t bash people in the head with a helmet, I don’t need a helmet at all. I win. I WIN BIGLY!”

M. Mulvaney: (Flustered) “Mr. President, we are completely off the track here...”

DJT: (Picking up the phone) “Get me Roger Goodell. I’m going to tell the commissioner to fire ‘Crazy Helmet Guy’ that son-of-a-bitch. Get him out! He is taking up news time on Fox & Friends, he does not deserve that time, I need that time to fight the witch hunt...”

M. Mulvaney: “Sir, the league is a private entity. It does not serve the government.”

DJT: (Confused) “I am president of everything, Mick, president of it all. All America. Left coast to right coast, all of it.”

M. Mulvaney: “Mr. President, the NFL is a sports league. Essentially a private business.”

DJT: (Roaring) “Mick, we have a crazy guy with a helmet, swinging the helmet at a winner, a Steeler, a Steeler winner. Taking up news time. Making people not pay attention to the witch hunt against me, another hoax...”

M. Mulvaney: (Dejected) “You are really going to call the NFL offices. Like you called the president of Ukraine?”

DJT: (Satisfied) “I want Roger Goodell on the phone here. And then I am going to call in to Fox & Friends. This morning, we start winning again! WINNING!”

M. Mulvaney: (Defeated) “Okay sir... Did you want a Coke this morning?”

DJT: (Triumphant) “Yes. A Coke. I want a Coke. Yes I do!”

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

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

“Poetry, Overnight”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-19)

Being awake in the dark. A challenge and a gift.

Ancient humans may have been bound by the natural cycles of day and night on our planet. But in modern terms, these limitations have been exploded by technology. Still, it is impossible not to speculate that even during primitive times, there must have been a few hardy souls who burned sticks, or pools of animal fat, in their caves to extend the light beyond its limits. Perhaps these were the first beings to climb toward the development of language and a recorded history. Huddled with crude tools and stains for the purpose of illustrating what they could not write with an alphabet.

To their brave experiments I nod in this moment, while sitting at my desk after three o’clock in the morning:

Poetry Slam

Poetry slamming

Keyboard jamming

Cold in the silent hours

My spirit devours

An image of self

Old volumes sat on the shelf

Unread

Poetry slamming

Curse said for damning

Whipped by the wind

The outcast is kin

My coffee mug, empty

Yet full with words in me

Go ahead

Poetry slamming

My channel, programming

Hits on the tube

The product is you

I sit here, uninhibited

I sit here unfed

Fill my head

Poetry slamming

Good citizens, scamming

Fools on the hill

Stuck with the bill

My broke ass is better

No chase for a letter

Face gone red

Poetry slamming

Myself, examine

The need to speak up

Fills my soul and my cup

Cold fingers on keys

Accept if you please

Praise for the godhead

Poetry slamming

E-mail spamming

Spit phrases ruthlessly

A phlegm of insanity

Cracked skull vision

My work here is done

Time for bed

Poetry slamming

P-Bee and jamming

Butter up to the hilt

With a sporran and a kilt

Dance over the keys

Bound head and bare knees

My piece is said

Poetry slamming

Whamming and bamming

Throwing punches in haste

Not a word will I waste

Through the light from my lantern

Slowly, I turn

Newlywed

Poetry slamming

Potato salad and hamming

My meal is the sound

Of a deal going down

A composition of lyric prose

And the tears in my clothes

Colors, bled

Poetry slamming

A salute to the morning

A tribute in clicks

To the author- wordsmith

Huddled over my heater

In the midst of this winter

Not yet dead

Poetry slamming

Academy cramming

A glorious waste

An educational mistake

Now spun like a spool

I run with the fools

In their stead

Poetry slamming

Chipping and chancing

Stone bits in my craw

Too proud of my flaws

Laugh at the flat-screen

Laugh at the daydreams

In my head

Poetry slamming

Lost and remembering

My sire, gone to rest

His guidance, the best

I miss him especially

In lonely hours and memories

Those I dread

Poetry slamming

Overhead camming

Run the motor to redline

Now I’m feelin’ fine

Horsepower to the wheel

Got verses to steal

With my sled

Poetry slamming

In paradise, it’s raining

But here only snow

The routine that I know

Slouched low in my chair

Middle-aged, going nowhere

Words are bred

Poetry slamming

The window is cracking

On visions of night

And the typesetter’s delight

I’ve run out of prose

There are holes in my clothes

At the woodshed

Poetry slamming

Flimming and flamming

Did you expect a game prize?

A reflection of blue eyes

Got the taste of abandon

And a manuscript undone

Groom, unwed

Poetry slamming

Sunrise brings the healing

But I don’t want to be well

Let me stay with myself

To draw out the poison

Will make me a slogan

Unsaid

Poetry slamming

This is the morning

Not ready to wake

Leave me here in the dream state

Evermore at the keys

Evermore on the blowing breeze

Like an arrowhead

Poetry slamming

The patient, programming

Wind in my hair

Chopper chicks at the fair

This rebel is praised

Let’s all ride away

On his thread

With my insomnia sated and my type-trip taken, I fall back I the chair. The hour has reached half past four o’clock. Caffeine still swells my arteries. But the journey has gone far enough for this night. Far enough to bring me close to the hope of daylight.

I remember a fellow in the Davie Allan fan group. Someone I encountered many times in text, through that connection. He seemed to be something of a scribe. A poet, a philosopher. Scatterbrained or gifted? Both, perhaps. Inspired or demented. I reckon both branches grow from the same, sturdy tree. He went by the unlikely tag of ‘Boobie.’ I used to read his posts and marvel at the free association of words. Something I struggled to achieve. Discipline had made me a prisoner of compositional reason. In his babbling brook of prose, I saw an escape. An opportunity to tap invisible energy. To meet the spark of consciousness shared by all, but ignored by most.

My attempts to ‘plug in’ were few. Normally inspired when the guitarist himself, ‘King Fuzz’ Davie Allan, would release a new recording. The first listen would open my brain like a drug of choice. Phrases would fall, spilling like beer or wine into the glass.

In the dark, at my desk, I had found that stream once again.

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

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

“Furnace Freeze, Part Two”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-19)

Half past one o’clock in the morning.

My fingers were icy. They spent the evening alternately typing away at the keyboard, or being held in front of my Kmart ‘Home Essentials’ heater. A veteran unit that had somehow lasted since the onset of cold weather in late 2002. Living for three weeks without a working furnace had brought an increased sense of gloom to the cold. Yet I managed to improvise. With two electric cubes and the burners on my kitchen stove, our lingering burst of seasonal frost was kept in check for the moment.

Meanwhile, I had begun to learn about options for staying warm throughout the full course of winter. An initial offer of professional system replacement for $3500.00 made me shiver with more dread than the falling temperatures. But because we had reached November, every heating & cooling company was already overbooked. I could not get more than a casual inspection. So the price had no meaning in real terms. We were stuck in a cold conundrum likely to last for more than a month.

My Black Lab did not complain. He simply huddled with pillows on our couch.

An immediate solution would have been to buy more common, electric space heaters. But these were certain to inflate my monthly bill. I pondered an auxiliary propane unit on the wall, before realizing that more than a single unit might be needed. Again, not an affordable solution. My friend the maintenance guy suggested trying a pellet stove, a modern variation of the traditional wood-burner. An interesting alternative. I had used an end-loader to burn logs in past years, with my first wife and son. But I had no extra space for storing any kind of solid fuel. Or, stamina to carry pellets in 40-pound bags while leaning on my cane. Every choice had drawbacks that stalled my hunt for a quick solution.

So I turned back to my Kmart companion for warmth and comfort. A pot of coffee offered energy for the journey toward sunrise. Then, words came to fill the void:

“Furnace Freeze

That’s the sitch for me

Stuck in November

With no mix in the blender

Just a house and a dog

And a Duraflame log

Can’t you see

Furnace Freeze

That’s the way my life be

With a foot of the white stuff

My belly full enough

Of hope gone sour

Counting minutes by the hour

Till daylight I see

Furnace Freeze

Temperatures in the teens

Rain changed to snow

Stranded and cold

Not a repairman in sight

Gonna sit up all night

And hammer the keys

Furnace Freeze

What’s the matter with me?

It’s the season, they say

My night better than day

At the desk with my mug

And my dog on the rug

Mercy me

Furnace Freeze

Christmas trees on TV

Just a few weeks till Saint Nick

That lovable prick

He reminds me of gloom

And the frost in this room

I need heat

Furnace Freeze

The neighbors are peeved

We live in Ohio

But they want Key Largo

A Corona in the hand

And volleyball on the sand

That ain’t me

Furnace Freeze

Arthritis in my knees

An early breath of winter

It’s only November

Here’s me caught pants down

My self-confidence on the ground

Busted teeth

Furnace Freeze

No goat for the thief

I can’t lose what I don’t have

Irony makes me laugh

At the desk in a snowstorm

I’ll write until morn

That’s just me

Furnace Freeze

Want bourbon with caffeine

But each step through the alphabet

Has to bring no regret

I am careful and cautious

Do it for both of us

You can thank me

Furnace Freeze

On the phone is my she

A friend by the lake

Who made no mistake

Her heater is alight

With warmth for the night

Her I need

Furnace Freeze

Text messages come in threes

She’d be better off sleeping

But my girl sits up reading

The nonsense I write

As the window fills with winter white

Rescue me

Furnace Freeze

Phone sits, silently

My friend gone to bed, at last

Glad the moment has passed

But my night ain’t dark enough

There’s a shot in the rough

Undeniably

Furnace Freeze

A chill on the breeze

Four o’clock in the morning

And my mattress is calling

But not with a rose bloom

There’s no glow in the room

No heat, you see

Furnace Freeze

I need a pizza with cheese

No more of these brewed grounds

Some beer I will pound!

Let me celebrate abandonment

And the holes in my tent

Ever free

Furnace Freeze

On eleven-twenty-three

A day without meaning

A bell without ringing

A pair of dice, uncast

My wish, to outlast

Demons dancing daintily

Furnace Freeze

A word solution I see

Among taunts and temptations

There’s a hint of redemption

I write for my supper

For warmth against winter

No retreat

Furnace Freeze

News straight out of Wall Street

Sounds from the other room

Voices echoing through

But I am still silent

No flame in the pilot

Smothered in need

Furnace Freeze

Black Lab at my feet

This journey in prose

Is about to close

The black sun of midnight

Is ready to take flight

I believe

Furnace Freeze

A benediction, for me

The type-trip is over

This is my surrender

Got pages of notes

And a hot stone in my coat

Let me flee

Furnace Freeze

Bow out gracefully

Glad for this mind slip

Glad for this thought trip

Shivering and solemn

The words are my friends

Eternally

Furnace Freeze

There’s an end I can see

When a new flame hits the old match

A fix I will catch

There’ll be fire in the boiler

And I’ll make it through winter

This I decree

Four hours had elapsed while I sat at my desk in the back bedroom. Satisfaction warmed my spirit. Though a fix for the furnace had not yet appeared, there was something more soothing to behold. The sense that my time had not been wasted.

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

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

“Sunday Circle”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-19)

Everything inevitably comes back to Harry Chapin.

Most people have heard his memorable ‘Cat’s in the Cradle’ at least once. But otherwise, may know little about his prolific songwriting, and life as a folk troubadour. Yet in personal terms, his legacy is one held as a compass of sorts. A marker which has dependably directed my thoughts backward to the beginning on many occasions. Most recently, while honoring the memory of my late nephew-by-marriage.

God called him home at the age of 56 years. Like the singer, gone too soon.

My first wife expressed fandom for Chapin often during our marriage. She would play his music at home and in her car. Sometimes, adding her own concert anecdotes. Her son loved the tune ‘30,000 Pounds of Bananas’ and would giggle with amusement when listening. The song ‘W.O.L.D.’ was a particular favorite of mine, said to have inspired Hugh Wilson to create ‘WKRP in Cincinnati.’ But another classic composition also stuck in my brain. His song ‘Circle’ struck a personal vibe, because I remembered him playing in Ithaca, New York. So hearing his work took me back to those Cornell days, before returning home to Ohio, and meeting my wife-to-be while wallowing in the confusion of readjustment. The first concentric trip of many to come while we were together.

“All my life’s a circle

Sunrise and sundown

Moon rolls through the nighttime

‘Til the daybreak comes around

All my life’s a circle

But I can’t tell you why

Seasons spinning round again

The years keep rolling by...”

She grew up in a family founded in rural Pennsylvania. I sprang from parents who were born in Kentucky and West Virginia. So we both had relatives who lived close to the soil. Our pairing happened naturally, with no need for encouragement from a matchmaker. Her influence was cherished by everyone. After my childish fits of rebellion in the Empire State, she nudged me back to sanity. I needed her for companionship, but even more as a voice of experience.

She was ten years older, and more wise in spirit.

When we divorced in 2002, with work stress and self-importance clouding my judgment, I felt the circular motion take hold once again. My life routine fractured, as it had on the streets in New York. I stayed with family members and lived out of my truck. Off course, off kilter, and wandering. Unbalanced and unprepared. I squandered time like cheap liquor. My only concern was to be free. And free I was indeed, though also homeless and nearly out-of-work.

My wife wanted to dump our careers, and begin again. To save ourselves from the perpetual ladder-climb. I should have listened. But as before, logic held little appeal. I was distracted by shiny trinkets and the rolling dice. A fool’s gambit, with much risk and little reward.

“It seems like we’ve been here before

I can’t remember when

But I have this funny feeling

That we’ll all be together again

No straight lines make up my life

And all my roads have bends

There’s no clear-cut beginnings

And so far no dead-ends...”

After a second divorce and personal chaos, my circles continued to spin, while trying to get back on track. Like broadening ripples across the surface water of a pond. I worked as a newspaper editor. Echoing childhood traditions with a basement office, set up as a copy of the one used by my father. Writing every day. This wordsmithing adventure paid dividends of self-satisfaction, accolades from readers, and notability. But little cash. Every stepping stone felt familiar under my toes.

I never found another stable relationship. Yet the imprint of she who had gone before remained. I could hear her advice, whispered in my ears. Her sense of discipline. Her enduring hope. Her kinship with others on the journey.

And, I could hear Chapin from my stereo. Even with no vinyl platter spinning on the turntable.

“I found you a thousand times

I guess you done the same

But then we lose each other

It’s like a children’s game

As I find you here again

A thought runs through my mind

Our love is like a circle

Let’s go round one more time...”

Even after most of two decades apart, small things carried me backward to the beginning of our courtship. Someone mentioning Fisher’s Big Wheel, the department store where we met. The sight of an old Ford Maverick in my neighborhood, like one she had owned when we were dating. An old woman at work, short of stature and tough with her Irish heritage, who made me long for my ex-wife. Every loop turned inevitably back to the point where we had joined.

Now nearly 60, out-of-steam and retired early due to disability, I returned to some of the platitudes she offered when time had not yet moved us so far forward. Things made sense that did not, before. Meanwhile, deja vu filled my head. Each sunrise mirrored the last. A figure cast in the heavens, repeated day after day. With my personal arc just as curved and infinite.

“I found you a thousand times

I guess you done the same

But then we lose each other

It’s like a children’s game...”

Last week, when my wife’s nephew passed away in his sleep, I did a time-slip back to our beginning. The news came as both shocking and sad. With a roundabout effect of transporting me to the time when I had first begun to ponder membership in the family. I remembered that my new relative laughed when calling me ‘Uncle Rod’ as we were only two years apart in age. He was gifted, socially skilled, handsome and funny. Always smiling and cheerful. In good health. Yet somehow, chosen by the master of eternity to leave before we were ready.

I was numb when trying to process his exit.

My trip to the funeral home was one taken in silence. Because I had not spoken to many of them in 17 years, it felt much like our primal meeting from 1984. A gulf of dissimilar experiences separated us, in the wake of my divorce. Yet strangely, my affection for them remained. My love for the nephew I had gained, and now lost. Though invisible for so long, the bond had not been broken. Waiting in line, balanced on my failing hip and hot-rod cane. Sweating, shivering, swallowing down the unpleasant taste of bad decisions and humbling results. I waited, for my turn to offer condolences and love.

Then, it was over.

The ride home had Chapin crooning in my head. His message-in-song offering comfort. The circle from yesterday to now had been drawn again, in chalk mined from the ages. I felt strangely close to my ex-wife, undeniably paired though divided by circumstance. Her whisper remained in my ear, and her touch lingered on my heart.

I knew Harry would understand.

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

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

“Furnace Freeze, Part One"

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-19)

Three o’clock in the morning.

I had gotten up at midnight. With an immediate sensation of cold after throwing aside my comforter. There was frost on the front window. I shivered while cursing. Wrangler, cheerful guardian of the house and representative of the Labrador Retriever breed, lay snoring in his corner. In the dark, I found my glasses. Then, pondered for the 1,000th time that our home furnace was hopelessly broken. With the bluster of winter approaching, and the air at 29 degrees, we were sunk. I had one small electric heater, purchased at Kmart, almost two decades ago. And a backup capability of warmth from the burners on my kitchen stove. Little comfort when facing the season ahead. But tonight, those two would be enough for the journey toward sunrise.

I was disabled and retired. But never defeated.

My friend Janis had been sending text messages since 9:30 last night. Insomnia made her a weary companion. Each of us was glad for the other, though sad when peering through the fog of fatigue. We had met yesterday for Chinese food, in Mentor-on-the-Lake. I needed to visit Home Depot for clues to resolving my heating crisis. The day went quickly. But not our night that followed.

She had developed a sleep disorder after being hospitalized, in Cleveland, a month ago. Meanwhile, I was wallowing in grief over my hot-box in the front hallway.

The furnace was a Coleman unit, manufactured in 2000. The last of its particular model run. A DGAT070BDF. Three different repair calls yielded a trio of diagnoses. The first was a professional kid who charged $110 to teeter on his half-sized ladder, and opine that the ‘roof jack’ (furnace pipe) needed replacement. He added that this would be impossible because those parts were no longer on the market. Out of reach for his company. When I asked for advice, he suggested spending $3500 on a completely new system. A declaration that made me snort and shake my head in disbelief. The second opinion came from a maintenance fellow who worked for my last employer. After an evening of cleaning, testing, prodding, and pounding on the metalwork tower, he concluded that the control board might need to be updated. An expensive shot-in-the-dark that could solve the problem or simply deepen my gloom. A third technician happened to be the nephew of a long-time neighbor. He performed a bit of exploratory surgery on the big device, using a mirror-tool to look inside. His conclusion was brief and direct, that the heat exchanger had cracked. It was likely time to replace everything. This judgment brought me back to a mood of befuddlement and dismay over the prohibitive cost.

I warmed myself in the kitchen. It would be a long wait until morning.

Janis continued her own restless struggle, to the north by Lake Erie. She tapped out messages with a desperate edge on each word of her story. Apparently, episodes of ‘The Golden Girls’ were keeping her entertained as she fretted over still being awake. I tried to offer some sympathy.

After four hours, the kitchen had finally warmed to a temperature that felt appropriate for being inside.

Surprise added to the glow of heat in the air. An Internet search revealed that my Coleman furnace had been subject to a recall in the past, apparently in 2004. I cringed when reading the details:

“The U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission, in cooperation with the manufacturer… today announced the voluntary recalls of the following consumer product. Consumers should stop using recalled products immediately unless otherwise instructed… These furnaces can overheat, causing heat-exchanger cracking, burn-through and, in extreme cases, furnace wrapper burn-through. This can lead to heating and possible burning of the drywall and other combustibles adjacent to the furnace, which poses a fire and smoke hazard to consumers.”

It also said that the units affected were approximately 226,000 in number.

I had been using the Coleman calefactor regularly since 2002. It came as original equipment in my pre-fab home. No notice of a recall had ever been delivered here, so I remained unaware of any catastrophic issues associated with its use. The unit was serviced regularly by an HVAC specialist from Ashtabula, named Tom. A man who proved able to keep the system in working order while being gentle to my wallet.

With more investigation, I found that the recall had been repeated in 2012 due to persistent reports of home fires burning out of control:

“York International is re-announcing the recall of… Coleman, Coleman Evcon and Red T gas furnaces for manufactured homes due to more than 300 incident reports since the 2004 recall involving the furnaces, which can overheat, posing a fire hazard. York International has received reports of 393 incidents, including some involving extensive property damage… manufactured between 1995 and 2000, the recalled furnaces includes about 223,600 in the U.S. and 2400 in Canada.”

Tom passed away in 2016. I was lucky not to need service on the DGAT, until now.

My Black Lab was content to lie down on the office floor, in our back bedroom, while my search concluded. Five hours had elapsed since I awakened. The house was, at last, a livable space without frost on the countertops.

I texted my friend in Saybrook Township. But she did not answer. Seemingly, her sleepless night had finally come to an end. A blissful slip into the netherworld of morning rest. Late, but no less satisfying. At the computer, I finished a writing project, and then decided to return to bed.

It had been a productive, if cold, night in November.

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

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

“Cleveland Crash”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-19)

Friendship.

A human bond that may exceed the limits of logic, self-discipline, practicality, and decorum. A partnership often deeper and more everlasting than any romantic paring. A connection likely to endure across decades of mortal existence and beyond the finality of death itself.

This is the definition of my non-marriage to Janis.

When I arrived at my last supermarket, as Co-Manager in Geneva, Ohio, she was there already. A clerk and dependable member of the crew. Bohemian as we used to say. A feral cat in human form. One who was wild but pure, not unlike Janis Joplin, the singer and 60’s icon. With long, scattered hair and no makeup. Wearing clothes that looked like thrift-store merchandise given new purpose. Sometimes, adorned with a plastic spider around her neck. She had been cross-trained to perform various responsibilities, including stock replenishment, cashiering, ordering, receiving deliveries and file maintenance. All of these tasks were accomplished with the same indifference to convention or formality. She did the job. But made little effort to mimic habits of her coworkers. Her preferred spot on the store map was one colored by shadows. She sought no accolades or career advancement. Her persistence was driven by basic need. Working for a paycheck. To get cigarette money and funds for Chinese food or Taco Bell.

Our friendship was forged in iron, after the Store Leader and Human Resource Manager approached me with her personnel file. They hoped I would ponder this accumulation of paperwork, critically. Each insisted that our out-of-the-mainstream employee deserved to be terminated. Yet a quick review uncovered only random notices of discipline, for minor infractions. The sort of ticky-tack fouls that could have been called against nearly every associate on our team. I reckoned that their negative opinions were more founded on distaste for her rough exterior than for real incompatibility in the workplace. As someone carrying a toolkit of various skills, I reckoned that her employment would be guaranteed for life at one of the company’s corporate-owned locations.

When I voiced this opinion, it fell like a meteorite in the sea. Swallowed up with waves of disbelief, shock, and frustration. We did not discuss the issue again as a trio of salaried supervisors.

Janis continued her service over the years, seeking no particular distinction. She labored, simply, for a paycheck. But I learned to depend on her for extra duties. When our business sold to a new owner in the chain, one who already held the Ashtabula location, she transferred to that store as Head Receiver. This happened in 2016. Shortly afterward, my tour-of-duty came to an end. Health concerns pushed me toward retirement and disability. But we remained close, even at a distance.

She worked six days out of the week.

We normally saw each other only on Sunday. For a trip to the Waffle House in Austinburg or Mary’s Diner, closer to home. At first, these encounters over comfort food were heavy with stories of accomplishment and satisfaction. But in recent months I noted a change in tone. From her typical, free-spirited, breezy sort of thinking, to a darker mood. She complained often about fatigue. Sometimes oversleeping in the early morning, when her workday was about to begin. She was late and late again. A vexing problem because of her important position. Though I did not know it at the time, she had begun to slip in work quality and accuracy. A dreadful development as steward of vendors with incoming merchandise.

Sadly, she never mentioned being coached or disciplined.

Meanwhile, I suggested a doctor visit to assess her personal health. My own physician was friendly and caring. A woman that seemed perfect to handle this feral feline with respect. Instead of arguing, she accepted. I was surprised, but happy.

Days before the appointment, Janis revealed that she had lost her position in Ashtabula. This ended a streak of employment that spanned 13 years. My stomach churned with agony. Yet typically, she professed little concern. I urged her to keep the date with my doctor. Her health insurance was likely to continue for at least a few more weeks. She agreed reluctantly. In reflection, I sensed that she knew that her body had reached a point of exhaustion.

To ensure her attendance at the clinic in Madison, I volunteered for chauffeur duty. My Ford truck served as her personal taxi. I arrived early, stalled only by a train on North Myers Road. At the doctor’s office, she fumbled through forms authorizing care with obvious disinterest. Almost like considering a plate of sour lemons at a buffet. I sat in the waiting room while she was ushered toward an exam cubicle. The expense of time seemed like a bargain because I knew it would help her endure. I only hoped that any admonitions of healthy conduct would sound sweet in her ears. Not bitter with the din of dire predictions.

She appeared after about 30 minutes. “You have to take me to the emergency room in Geneva,” she spoke with numbness. “My blood pressure is very high...”

I tilted my head. A maneuver often used at home by my Labrador Retriever to indicate serious consideration before an unwelcome task. “The emergency room?”

“We have to go… now,” she repeated. The doctor says to take me immediately.”

At Geneva Hospital, Janis registered a blood pressure of 258/158. Amazingly, with no obvious symptoms such as a headache, sweating, or jitters. The ER physician immediately suspected Renal Hypertension. But tests revealed other issues. She had a cyst on one of her ovaries. With no shame, she confessed having discontinued medicines in the past because they were a bother. Something I did not know.

After a long wait, she gave us more unexpected news. “They are going to send me downtown, to Cleveland. The main University Hospitals location.”

I gasped out loud.

Her residence at the facility lasted for six days. They poked and prodded as medical professionals are known to do, considering every possibility. Her brain showed evidence of having survived small strokes. I realized that her endurance with on-the-job duties had been a sort of miracle. Having to check in product and break down a complete grocery order every day was stressful work. The schedule must have taxed her body to the point of breaking. In a sense, I felt that she was released from service because of this silent sickness. A pity. Empathy for a suffering member of the team seemed more appropriate than being discharged.

But perhaps it had saved her life.

I visited during her stay with co-pilot assistance from my younger sister. My own disability made navigating the streets of Cleveland less than ideal. Yet we stayed connected, in person or over the network. I kept my cellular device nearby throughout the week. When enough examinations had transpired, Janis was freed from her room in the Lerner Tower. Her adoptive mother, who was another member of the crew in Geneva, provided homespun Uber service back to Ashtabula County.

Visiting the pharmacy in town, hours later, felt very strange.

It rained through the evening. Fogging my vision and multiplying threads of stray light like cobwebs left from the woeful experience. Janis played on her phone as if nothing had happened. Still, occasionally, she began to choke on tears when revisiting her ordeal. Never surrendering to the weight of her burden. But wounded without words.

My observations were met with defiance, or deafness. “I know you do not believe in God. But on an occasion like this, it is appropriate to say that he allows u-turns in life. Hell, atheists can make u-turns. Anyone can...”

She pretended not to hear.

“This was a wake-up call,” I continued. “You could have been alone, on the concrete floor at work. Do you understand?”

She scrolled through noisy video clips on her Facebook account.

“You deserve a second chance,” I declared. “Call your store. Talk to the owner.”

Janis frowned and tightened her jaws. “I don’t want to go back there. Never.”

Worry over her crash made me weak. I surrendered without further combat. My energy would be needed in the days ahead. For trips to seek Medicare coverage, more doctor visits, perhaps public assistance, and ultimately, a new job.

I was her friend. A connection made to keep.

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

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

“Tired, Again”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-19)

“Where the rubber meets the road.”

This familiar expression must have been born of the physical contact that makes transportation possible on public thorofares around the globe. A useful intersection of basic science and political wisdom. Yet for this writer, the phrase recently took on a different character. One descriptive of my own struggle to re-shoe the family hoss with fresh hoops of carbon black and chemical compounds.

Over the years, I have visited a variety of tire shops and dealerships to acquire these necessary treads for the family trucksters. Once, I even purchased a set of old-style, bias-ply tires from my brother-in-law, for a bargain price of $75.00. He installed the quad in his garage, with a vintage machine powered by an air compressor.

Eventually, my buying habits wandered toward the discount monolith, Walmart. After having luck with Goodyear Wrangler tires on my 1979 Ford F-150, I purchased another set when needed. And again and again. Each 4x4 hauler received similar road-rings for everyday use. I settled into a groove of sorts, repeating this habit without much forethought or worry.

But last year, my buying streak crashed into the retail reality of our local megacenter in Geauga County. When I arrived early on a Monday morning, as the second customer of that day, my plan scrambled quickly. The auto-center did not carry tires in my particular size, P255/70R17. They would have to be ordered from warehouse stock. After discussing options for my 2006 F-150 STX, a wider size of 265 was deemed acceptable. With a different brand, I was assured that my pickup could still get ‘re-tired’ in a jiffy. Karma intervened, however. The mechanic on duty could not remove a front wheel with his impact wrench. The situation stalled their progress for the day, with other customers arriving as I waited. I received a lecture about the process of handling damaged vehicles, should any repairs go awry. If not for my own worsening physical disability, I could have removed it myself. Finally, having lost confidence in the shop, I canceled the transaction altogether. With my head down, I left in silence.

Being a professional writer, and a former supermarket manager, I decided to pen a note to those in charge of the Walmart location. Not as a complaint but simply to offer my particular slant on what happened, and how it might have been handled differently. I hoped my personal letter could offer some insight.

Surprisingly, no response ever hit my mailbox.

Meanwhile, I paused at a tire depot just down the road from my homestead. A place that once helped my wife find new rubber for her Taurus. When I rattled off the needed size, their installer went wide-eyed. “Seventeen? I don’t have a single one of those in the building!”

Online searches found plenty of replacement items available, but few at a friendly cost. Several local dealers refused to list prices at all, instructing potential patrons to call for further information. In every case, an appointment would be needed. My own nature complicated the process. I preferred to make a catalog selection while managing my expense, and get the job finished in one trip. Finally, I decided to ride my mule on the old shoes, for another winter.

With circuitous fate in effect, I arrived at my original point of inception, when warmer weather returned. The tires on my truck were usable, yet now truly at the end of their life span. Continued online research brought me once again to the behemoth from Arkansas. And the Goodyear Wrangler series. I found the AT/S variety in-stock at the Madison, Ohio location. In a P265/70R17 size. For insurance, I printed out the description from their website. Summoning courage and vigor, I went to claim my set of four black rings, for immediate duty.

The representative I met was a courteous young woman, who confessed that they had eight of the Wrangler AT/S tires on hand. But she shook her head when I requested a set for my truck. A quick inspection confirmed to her that my vehicle currently rested on tracks of the 255 width. The standard issue, proscribed by Ford Motor Company. I pointed out that a larger replacement would easily fit the pickup. But she took a stern tone of schoolteacher admonishment. “We are not a custom shop!” she said with brusque intonation. “We can only offer to order exactly what is listed for your vehicle.”

Again, I left in silence. The proper tires were not only more expensive but would also require waiting a few days and then making another trip.

Later in the summer, I sat by a bonfire next door, with other residents of my neighborhood. As beer and snacks were passed around, I mentioned the quandary about worn rubber on my truck. A veteran of the group, older and more seasoned, suggested visiting the Walton megacenter in Ashtabula.

“They’ll fix you up!” he promised. “I’ve signed a waiver in the past. That size will be fine on your Ford. You go up there and everything will be handled right. No problem.”

He was someone we all trusted. When I looked up the Wrangler tires, they were in-stock at that location, and at a friendly price. I reluctantly decided to try Sam’s brood one last time. My ladyfriend Janis went along for company.

We arrived about 1:30 p.m. and were greeted by a fellow in the repair bay. He was familiar with the Goodyear line, and directed us toward their counter, inside. A quick check confirmed that three different profiles were listed for my 4x4 truck. Sizes of 245, 255, and 265. They had ten of the desired hoops on hand. A waiver was not mentioned.

I felt confident, at last.

As the process got underway, one of the installers mentioned having appointment slots available on the next day. He said I was number five in line, but could return at 4:30 or 5:30 p.m. tomorrow. I reckoned on finishing this task with no further procrastination. So my choice was to stay. Janis wanted a meal at Subway, located by the main entrance. So we took the work ticket and proceeded to go up front for a late lunch. The department clerk promised to page us when the job was completed.

After consuming our Turkey Italian Subs, we sat in the lobby, waiting for an Amigo cart. Amazingly, their entire fleet was in use. My debilitated joints were crying out for relief. After about 20 minutes, an associate wearing a yellow safety vest appeared, returning one of the carts. I hailed him cheerfully. Janis and I shopped lazily after that, circling the store a few times while counting customer calls over the public address system. The hours spun away on my Dakota watch. Three o’clock, four, five, six and then… fatigue began to take hold.

Around half-past-six I returned the Amigo and sat down in a line of leather chairs at the auto center. Janis played on her cellphone. I struck up a friendly conversation with the customer before us in line. An older fellow with many stories about being in and out of the hospital. He observed that one of his sons coached high school football in Perry Township, which piqued my interest.

“Did you know Chinese people drink all of their beverages warm?” he inquired. “We had visitors stay and they kept everything out of the refrigerator. Everything warm!” I nodded at regular intervals to indicate my enduring attention span. He helped us pass the time. I wished we had shared more of the night listening to his tales.

Finally, at 7:30 p.m., my name was called. The truck was re-shod with fresh rubber, and ready to run. We had waited six hours. Thankfully, the bill amounted to a total even less than I had calculated. Driving home felt terrific. The old hoss rode and handled much better than before. Janis complained about the pungent stench of fresh rubber wafting through her window. But I received it as an appealing fragrance. A trophy of battle won.

The STX was re-tired, at last.

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

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