“Art Bell, Frozen In Time”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-18)

The recent passing of radio legend Art Bell produced many emotions on the part of this writer. It has evoked memories of late nights on the road and visions of unknown demons peering through the veil between our world and eternity. To think that this broadcaster has literally passed beyond that boundary, into what awaits us all, gives hope to the mundane existence of human life.

If only he were able to find a microphone and report back to the living about what he has now discovered. That would surely be the greatest episode of his series.

Stories of Bell’s influence as an overnight phenomenon on the airwaves have been prolific and varied. In particular, fellow radio iconoclast Phil Hendrie has offered a loving tribute by replaying several of his old spoofs of Coast to Coast AM, during his current podcasts.

But for myself, one particular tale has emerged while reflecting on the unique journey of this media figure. A recollection tied to my own adventure in retail operations, the gainful employment that for so long paid bills for my family as I worked on an alternate career in creative writing. A yarn spun in the 1990’s, when I worked on the third-shift crew for a local depot of our most prominent Cleveland supermarket chain.

I was at a low-volume store in Geauga County. One that had struggled to be competitive as the market evolved from simple platitudes of small-town living to a more cosmopolitan mix. After offering a plethora of consumer choices, without gaining sales volume, the company reversed its direction. Store features began to disappear, with the aim of reducing our overhead. Labor hours were cut, again and again and yet again. Each time, the yield was a lower customer count. Not the desired result. But that reality only stiffened the resolve of our masters to swing the hatchet.

Our graveyard crew was reduced to two people. A company veteran named Bruce and myself.

Eventually, we began to lose members of the daytime staff. Our young Frozen Foods Manager left and was not replaced. In his stead, a clerk from Health & Beauty Accessories accepted the responsibility of ordering stock for that department. The actual deliveries were worked on a haphazard basis. Sometimes by our team at night, on other occasions by front-end personnel or even by our store leadership. The department quickly went out of control, while new orders were placed with little attention to what we had on hand.

The final reality was a walk-in freezer with 13 flats (we called them ‘U-Boats’) of overstock. There was so much product on hand that when a delivery of ice cream arrived, during the summer, we literally could not find a way to get the pallet into its proper home. Moreover, the long carts were needed for our regular operations. On one occasion, a notable patron demanded colorful bomb-pops for her picnic and we were forced to climb on top of the teetering mass to retrieve them from the back wall. This risky act drove our supervisors crazy. And, made us glad that no bones were shattered in the process.

Desperate for change, the Store Manager deemed that a complete reorganization of our freezer, with a running inventory, would be required. The task seemed best suited for those of us who were at the store during hours when it was closed. So my friend Bruce and I were ‘volunteered’ for duty.

We had a habit of listening to different kinds of music overnight. Sometimes a Jazz broadcast on the local Public Radio station, or grunge music from WENZ-FM, ‘The End.’ But this dreadful moment called for something more strange to fit the mood.

Art Bell was chosen to provide our workplace soundtrack. His odd themes helped carry us through the night, despite misgivings about the task.

We literally had to stack off hundreds of cases. Incredibly, many seemed to have never been opened. Empty milk crates served to form the base for our wall of backstock. We sorted the mess into some sense of order. Frozen vegetables on one side, dinners on the other. Ice cream and novelties in their own corner. Pizzas stacked, by brand. Frozen potatoes, ravioli and pierogies. Our plan involved a system that would make it easy for the clerk writing orders to oversee what was already available. We spent eight full hours working through the pile.

Heavy winter coats bolstered us against the frost.

Meanwhile, stories of UFO appearances, werewolves. government conspiracies, the looming specter of Y2K and ads about hand-cranked, survival gear bolstered our spirits. We listened while working, from the back room speakers. Bell was our champion, his dry voice echoing over the concrete floor. By the morning, our big freezer had been completely transformed.

Bruce thoughtfully observed: “It won’t stay like this for a week, I bet.”

I looked around the open space with pride. Though his assessment was likely to be correct, the fleeting thrill of accomplishment was something to be savored. My fingers were numb, but I felt the glow of glory.

While driving home that morning, Bell continued to reverberate in my head. I imagined him calling off our list of items in his dramatic style. “Friends, I ask you to envision bagged corn, peas and green beans... with Stouffer’s French Bread Pizza. Or perhaps… Larry’s Bacon & Cheddar Cheese Potatoes. Now there…, is a thrill... to be had!”

My friend’s opinion ultimately proved to be prophetic. Our team had become so depleted that the boss himself was forced to pull pallets of frozen stock onto the sales floor. He worked them while executing his everyday management duties. Meanwhile, the miracle we had worked in our walk-in freezer collapsed under the weight of more product coming from the warehouse.

Our local store was finally closed in September of 1998. But my bond with the Art Bell and his ‘Kingdom of Nye’ would last forever.

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

“Peugeot Proud”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example of life in our household, from bygone days.

Oddball.

At home, this has often been a term of endearment. As my esteemed cousin once observed about our brood: “The Ice family. Doing it our own way since 1710.”

When I came back to Ohio in 1983, after the free-fall that followed my television study through Cornell University, the readjustment of my senses took a moment. I had just spent five years in a cultural climate wholly dissimilar to the one of my upbringing. Namely, that of the ‘Empire State’ of New York. I struggled to align the new world I had inherited with that of my parents. The family had always been devotedly Christian, steeped in common two-party political traditions and wedded to the habit of perpetual study. Speaking quietly while walking with careful, deliberate steps, for fear of offending a neighbor. Yet woven into that fabric was a rowdy thread. A color not matched to the rest.

That stripe of contrast appeared once again as my father decided that the family car needed to be replaced. It was a beige, mid-70’s Ford Maverick sedan with many thousands of miles logged in service. The vehicle had developed numerous issues typically associated with road wear and age. In particular, a broken lock had me driving home on one occasion while holding the door shut with my left arm. Each of us had our own thoughts about what sort of wagon would next occupy our driveway. But no one predicted a product of France, in dark green.

Dad bought a 1979 Peugeot 604. Automotive journalists of the era called it a ‘Gallic Mercedes.’

Though highly successful in Europe, with a history begun making coffee, pepper and salt grinders in the 1800’s, this manufacturer barely managed to register in the American consciousness. Even Renault and Citroen were better known, if only slightly, by comparison. The car was more than a head-turner for bystanders. It typically produced facial expressions of befuddlement and disbelief. Few, if any, could recognize it by name or nationality. Instead of the ‘cool’ vibe produced by most rare or vintage automobiles, it simply projected an aura of mystery. As if some foreign spy had stumbled off the beaten path to land in Chardon for the Geauga County Maple Festival.

To be fair, Dad sometimes was inclined to choose out-of-the-ordinary mules for our everyday transportation. So this meant that little brother, sister and myself grew up with a parade of cars that included a Renault (only one family trip before it developed engine trouble), a Corvair Greenbriar van, two versions of the Saab 96 (one with the two-stroke triple motor, one with the V-4), and a Simca 1100 hatchback. But eventually, he succumbed to practicality and steered toward Ford LTD wagons, a Galaxie, and the utilitarian Maverick.

Especially in our county, the Peugeot stood out like a trespassing rogue. It looked a bit stodgy, yet smartly styled. Perhaps more German in appearance than authentically French. The 604 had a brown leather interior that often sent me slipping around in my seat while trying to drive. But a Blaupunkt 8-track stereo was in the dash, offering competent sound on the road. I much preferred its sturdy, 4-speed transmission to the one in my own Chevrolet Chevette. On those occasions when I got to pilot this wheeler with the Lion Crest, it felt liberating. A cut above the bargain-basement feel of my dinky Chevrolet. 

 

But after awhile, Dad began to remember why he had switched to more mundane vehicles. The Peugeot was quirky and sometimes exasperating. Finding parts and service was a challenge. A shop in Chesterland provided his best hope for repairs not suited to being done in the driveway. When the car needed an exhaust system, the designated pipes were valued like gold. Looking to save ready cash, he had a custom fix welded together at Mr. Muffler, in Painesville. When it needed a starter, purchasing a factory replacement proved to be prohibitively pricey. So he cross-referenced the part through old manuals on hand. In a moment of mechanical lucidity, he realized that something roughly equivalent had been used on American Motors products. This light bulb flash of inspiration eventually produced a heated argument at a local parts store. The counter clerk did not want to sell this item, finally agreeing to do so only with the caveat that no return would be accepted. I held my breath while we returned home with the starter. But it worked.

Of course it worked!

Dad knew everything from mechanics to theology, history, math, music, radio & television repair, minor home construction, plumbing, creative writing and how to make an authentic pan of biscuits or cornbread in a cast-iron skillet.

Owning a Peugeot only seemed to enhance his personal mix of unrelated disciplines and experiences.

My own roster of skills was much less impressive, by comparison. But in the 1980’s, I felt gladdened to be back at home where my routine of learning could continue.

Postscript: The Peugeot was finally traded in on a brand-new Volkswagen Golf. That vehicle begat a second Golf with the diesel motor and a 5-speed transmission. Though slightly underpowered, it would return 50 miles-per-gallon while fully loaded with my parents, various grandchildren and yard sale goodies.

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