“Junk Mail”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Trash.

When I was a kid, many notions passed through my developing brain. Without the discipline of adulthood to hinder free movement of concepts and images, I pondered at will. Numerous plans held my attention, including one to become a reseller of cast-off technology. Our banner was ‘Microwave Electronics.’ I put together this childish store in our garage, with the help of a friend from church. His father worked for General Electric. We made no money, but it offered us a chance to map out ideas.

Later, I imagined being a vendor of junkyard antiques. Old items of questionable value that piqued my interest. A thought born, no doubt, from growing up in a household with lots of recycled relics and funky furniture thrown away by friends and neighbors. I called it ‘Eureka Trasheries.’ The only manifestation of this imaginary company was a business card, drawn by hand. I carried it in my wallet and flashed the certificate proudly, when asked for details.

This obsession with unappreciated diamonds-in-the-rough was encouraged by a curious family habit – reading ‘junk mail’ with enthusiasm. While most families tossed away letters, cards, catalogs and mailed miscellany without paying much attention, my father preferred to mine this vein in search of free educational benefits. A persistent memory is that of waiting at the local post office while he sorted through trash in their container. The yield was an armload of magazines, brochures and free books to take home. Mom did not normally see the worth in these re-purposed stacks of printed matter. But that did nothing to dim the luster of such treasures.

In that gentler, pre-cyberspace era, Dad seemed to possess an insatiable appetite for reading material. He was shameless in hunting for buried treasure. Our own mailbox never went empty.

Over the years, Mom would complain about unread mail being piled on their couch. It was a gripe that I heard frequently. Now and again, someone in the family, usually my sister, would help sort away a bit of this considerable pile. Yet the mass seemed to grow organically. Like clinging ivy searching to wander, the paper trail soon filled every open space in their house. Only a tiny square around Dad’s desk remained accessible. A table at the back of their kitchen teetered with torn envelopes. Boxes of mail sat in the downstairs bedroom. Only when children visited would any of this heap be made to disappear.

We simply accepted what could not be changed.

Then, early this year, my parents had to be moved to a nursing home in their community. Mail was forwarded to that new address. In April, Dad passed away. Suddenly, we had to handle care for Mom and the leftover family details. We expected this somber moment would arrive eventually, but an extra concern appeared when I began to receive inquiries from the long-term-care facility. They were overwhelmed with one pressing issue. “What should we do with all of this mail?”

I could imagine Dad, laughing in eternity.

Mixed with requests for donations, magazine subscriptions, political mailers, advocacy-group newsletters and advertisements were legitimate items we needed to keep. So simply discarding each pile of postal poop would have been reckless. After a few months, the nursing home cried out for relief. Canceling the original order to forward mail did little to stem this tide. Many mailers of muck already had the new address in their system. Each visit meant wading through another mail-storm. Eventually, a staff member at the facility passed along advice from their postmaster. “You need to reply individually to each sender,” she said. “Let them know that Rhoderick is deceased.”

Childhood junk-mail memories quickly melted into a sour gruel, in the pit of my stomach.

I bought extra stamps, to fortify myself for this new quest. Business-reply envelopes helped defray the cost of responding. It became part of my daily ritual. I sat at the desk and wrote on each letter, subscription blank and solicitation. “Rhoderick is deceased. Rhoderick is deceased. Rhoderick is deceased. Please update your records. Thanks for your kind attention. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you...” Days would pass with little in the mailbox. Then, another wave would arrive. And another plea from the nursing home.

I reported of my diligence in responding, on a regular basis. These words seemed to offer hope to the advocate at Mom’s facility. With each week, the flood of mail was receding. Dutifully, I listed the most recent roster of submissions that were handled. Each word uttered with dramatic effect. I hoped my earnest mood would inspire confidence. Even while pondering the doubt that lingered.

Dad’s laughter continued to echo in my ears. He was with us still, in our hearts and in the mailbox.

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

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

“Rowdy Ramen Recipes”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Dissident Chef. A title to wear with pride.

One of the habits I learned during childhood was to make food on my own, when hungry. Despite the fact that our family enjoyed delicious and satisfying meals, every day. Dad had acquired a reckless familiarity with the kitchen, while helping to raise his younger brothers and sisters in Columbus, Ohio. So that boldness in preparing off-schedule snacks was passed down to me, with great zeal.

While still in grade school, I tried tossing together a skillet of fried fish sticks, eggs, and liquid smoke seasoning. My creations were experimental in nature. Often lacking any sound basis in culinary discipline. But I learned at the stove. Like Thomas Edison, my failures led to greater enlightenment. Eventually, things began to coalesce into a style that was both budget-friendly and unique.

An early favorite was using Ramen in various forms, because this staple item could be had for a pittance. I tended to prepare it as a soup, with Tabasco, chopped onion, peas, bean sprouts or tuna added for flavor. Later, my mind wandered toward using the noodles as a medium for other dishes, like in an omelet with eggs, or as a filling for tacos.

Being a wordsmith, Ramen recipes have persisted to inspire columns for past newspaper employers, and here in ‘WOTL.’ Typically, I find the best are either related to those incarcerated for miscreant behavior, or students working their way through college. What follows are a few examples:

Orange Porkies (www.bbc.com)

Ingredients:

1 pack Ramen (any flavor)

1 cup boiling water

1 cup cooked white rice

About 3 tablespoons unsweetened orange flavor Kool-Aid

1 bag (about 6 ounces) pork skins or rinds

Directions:

Crush the Ramen in the wrapper and empty into a large bowl. Save the seasoning packet for another use. Add the water, cover, and let sit for 8 minutes. Drain off excess water. Add the rice and stir well. Set aside. Pour the Kool-Aid into a large microwavable bowl and add a tablespoon or two of hot water. Stir until it has a syrupy consistency. Toss a handful of pork skins into the syrup and stir. Repeat until all pork skins are coated. Cover and microwave the pork skins for about 5 minutes, until they puff. Serve the pork skins on top of the Ramen and rice.

Note: for a spicier flavor, try a dash of hot sauce on top of the porkies.

Prison Nachos (www.ranker.com)

Ingredients:

1 package of Ramen

1 summer sausage

1 chili without beans

1 nacho tortilla chips

1 onion

1 squeeze cheese

Directions:

First, boil the noodles, drain and set aside. Chop summer sausage and onion, mix together, then add Ramen seasoning. Place onion and summer sausage mixture in the microwave for 4 minutes on high. Afterwards, take out and place to the side. Take tortilla chips and place a large amount in a bowl. Mix water (or milk) with cheese, after warming the cheese until it melts, and blend until smooth and creamy. (Put) meat and onion mixture over tortilla chips. Next take your chili and cooked noodles and pour over your chips. Lastly spread your melted cheese over your chips. Voila, nachos delight.

Chili Cheese Dog Ramen (https://corporatetarget.com)

Ingredients:

1 package of Ramen

1 hot dog, cooked

shredded cheese

canned chili

Directions:

Prepare the Ramen as directed. Cut up the hot dog and stir into noodles. Top with chili and cheese. Heat until warm.

Easy Ramen Breakfast for College Students (www.budget101.com)

Ingredients:

1 package of Ramen, any flavor

1-2 eggs

½ onion, thinly sliced

1 small tomato, thinly sliced

Directions:

Put the unbroken block of Ramen in a pot with just enough water to cover. Bring to a boil over medium heat. Once the water begins to boil, add seasoning & a layer of tomato slices, (then) layer of onion slices. Pour the egg(s) on top, put on a lid, cook for 1 minute or so. Serve!

Spicy Sausage Ramen Toss (www.mattfischer.com)

Ingredients:

2 packages Ramen, chicken or chili flavor

¼ cup of onion, diced

½ cup of green pepper, sliced or diced

½ cup of green peas

2-3 links (approximately 1 pound) of cooked and sliced Italian sausage

1 teaspoon minced garlic (fresh preferable)

1 can of Rotel Original diced tomatoes with green chili peppers

Directions:

Cook the sausage, slice after cooking and set aside. Cut and saute onion and garlic in a pan. Pour the liquid only from the Rotel diced tomatoes into a pot, and add 2 1/2 cups water and flavor packets. Boil the water. Place noodles in pot with onion, garlic, peas, peppers. Cook until noodles are soft. Transfer to serving bowl, add diced tomatoes and sausage – TOSS! Voila… just hot enough to maybe make you sweat. Substitute regular diced tomatoes for a less spicy rendition.

Compiling this recipe list made me remember that I recently saw a 12-count case of Ramen on sale at our local Walmart for $1.97. Armed with these delectable choices, I reckon on visiting again soon, to grab my own for these and other culinary experiments.

As they say in China: “Chi chi chi!” (Eat, eat, eat!)

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

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

“Waffle House, After Dark”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Insomnia.

After being pushed into early retirement by health issues, two years ago, I surrendered a normal sleep pattern along with career goals and a typical life routine. Suddenly, I was floating free, like a lost asteroid in the cosmos. But instead of inciting fear, these developments were liberating. Living off-schedule meant that the unpredictable flow of creative ideas was something I could now embrace with the glee of an artist.

Such thoughts were on my mind recently, as I woke to find that the digital clock on my kitchen stove read 1:20 a.m., with bold, merciless defiance. Suddenly, I wanted coffee. And, breakfast. A full moon peered through the overcast sky, and into my window. I felt a burst of inspiration. The cover of night offered a respite from personal habits. For example, leaving the house dressed in a stained, wrinkled shirt and athletic pants of the style worn by Ricky during episodes of ‘Trailer Park Boys.’ Normally, I would not slip away, half-dressed and unprepared for the outside world. But the lunar light blessed this sin.

My destination was clear – the Waffle House in Austinburg.

A quick inventory confirmed that necessary tools were on hand. Cane, Jim Beam Poker Tournament cap, hoodie, cell phone, keys. My truck was ready, in the driveway. I piloted the F-150 eastward, through Rock Creek. Then, north on Route 45. Few other drivers shared my journey. There were no deer crossing the road. The night was cool and crisp. An authentic breath of fall. Good for my overactive blood pressure.

I streamed a Phil Hendrie netcast on my iPhone, for entertainment along the way.

The trucker haven was deserted when I arrived. Being mid-week and off-season, late stragglers from the local bars were few. I took a seat at the counter and looked around for someone on duty. After a minute, one lone waitress appeared from the cooler. Her red hair was pulled into a ponytail, slipped through the back of her uniform hat. She looked tired, and pale. But her smile warmed the air.

“Rod?” she chirped.

I blinked for clearer vision. It was a woman from one of my retail stores, before arthritis and debilitated joints ended my journey in business management.

“Rosita?” I said with a hint of disbelief.

“I haven’t seen you in months,” she exclaimed. “Did you find a girlfriend who knows how to cook? Or just decide to visit more expensive places after dark?”

I chortled with amusement. “Not that fortunate, no. And I don’t like expensive places.”

“So, then… what?” she laughed, while filling a mug with coffee.

I patted the handle of my cane. “It’s hard to walk. I stay at home a lot, drinking beer and writing stories. Tonight, though, I wanted to get out for a couple hours. I have become claustrophobic, you know?”

“Still writing?” she quizzed. “That’s good. You need to stay busy.”

“It’s strange to be off the merry-go-round,” I confessed. “My dreams often lead back to work. Running the store, building displays, waiting on customers. Arguing with the other managers...”

“You were good at that!” she recalled.

My face reddened a bit. “I longed for this kind of opportunity. To write full-time. To escape the ‘black hole of retail.’ To no longer be swirling around the drain, waiting to disappear, forever. But it ended too quickly. I wasn’t ready.”

“What about your hip? And your knees?” she wondered aloud.

“No health insurance right now,” I answered. “Not for almost another year.”

“Rodddddd!” she cried. “There has to be an option out there.”

I shrugged while pausing in between gulps of go-juice. “No idea. Everyone has turned me down for assistance. I was lucky to get disability.”

“I thought health benefits came with that!” she said.

“After two years,” I replied. “Then I have to surrender a good chunk of my check every month, and still cover 20 percent of the remaining bills. That is the conundrum that has driven my younger brother into bankruptcy.”

“The truck driver?” she asked.

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“I see people in here all the time who get everything covered,” she scolded. “Even with changing jobs or being unemployed. How do they get it done?”

“No idea,” I confessed. “They must know the system.”

Rosita fumbled with a stack of dishes. “You could work here. Not a far walk from one end of the counter to the other. You are good with people!”

My belly shook with laughter. “I’d eat all the profits. All of your country ham and hash browns. And cheesy grits!”

She paused with a pot of fresh coffee.”They used to say that you’d be managing Giant Eagle from a wheelchair. Rolling around the store like a Dalek on Doctor Who. I figured you would be working into your 70’s.”

My stomach hurt. “So did I...”

“But, you’re happy now?” she pondered.

“Yes,” I proclaimed. “Living in my tin box, with the Black Lab. He is an old dog now, with white whiskers on his chin. I’m up all night writing, then sleeping throughout the day. Or whenever I want. Drinking Labatt Blue on the porch. Messaging with other writers and media types on Facebook. No more struggling to maintain my work image. I report to no one.”

“I hated the store after you left,” she admitted. “Your replacement went down in flames. He got demoted and the next one quit. Then the one after that and the one after that...”

I shrugged again. “Sorry, not sorry. You know?”

She nodded with satisfaction. “Anyway, good for you, getting out. Good for you, doing your writing thing. Good for you, staying in touch with people like me. So... how about breakfast?”

“Yes, please!” I cheered. “Ham, eggs and grits!”

Postscript: While driving home to Thompson, after my meal, I pondered a book idea from years ago. The tale of a man exploring America in a vintage pickup. Searching for peace after the death of his brother, who had been an over-the-road trucker. A story of middle-aged angst and renewal. I had waited for years to work on the project. But needs and responsibilities always blocked my path.

Now there was only the road ahead, with the promise of a new day waiting to be savored, like my coffee at the Waffle House.

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

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

“Lucifer, Bored”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-19)

It was a boring day in Hell.

Lucifer Satan, king of the underworld, sat on his throne of skulls with a mood of restless impatience. He sniffed the air for a hint of hot ash from lake of fire. But there was nothing. Simply the stale aroma of a dungeon overgrown with black mold. He tweaked his reddish goatee in disgust.

“Sulpherio! Attend me!”

The minion assistant came scampering like a drowned rat. “Yes, dark lord! What is your pleasure on this dreadful morning?”

The supreme demon bowed his head. “Is that lake still burning? Or did you let the fire go out once again?”

Sulpherio fell to his knees. “No, my lord. We just stocked it with fresh coals from the furnace of Hades.”

“I can’t smell anything,” Satan huffed. “Normally, my nostrils tingle with blistering bits of burning flesh. Could you check it for me?”

The minion nearly folded himself in half. “Of course, of course...”

Satan slumped in his throne. “Life here has become so routine. Torture, punishment, agony, woeful cries for mercy. So very predictable. Mercy? The damned souls of Hell actually expect mercy from me? From meeeeeee?”

Sulpherio stopped in his tracks. “Haha. Amusing, I must admit, dark lord...”

“I AMUSE YOU??” Satan bellowed, with red flames spitting from his mouth.

“No!” the minion begged. “No… I mean these pitiful souls are amusing...”

“IN A PLACE OF ETERNAL PAIN, YOU FIND AMUSEMENT?” Satan exploded.

“Please, dark lord,” Sulpherio cried. “I meant no offense...”

Satan began to laugh. “I know you did not. Just thought maybe a bit of vocal violence might break this mood, you know? But, no.”

“Perhaps you could look upon creation for some entertainment?” the minion sputtered. “Tom Ellis is reprising his role as you in season four of ‘Lucifer’ which is coming to Netflix. I have also noticed that Motorhead’s version of ‘Sympathy for the Devil’ is being used in an ad for the Acura RDX...”

“CHILDISH FOLLY!” Satan thundered. “DO YOU THINK I COULD BE SATED WITH SUCH FOOLISHNESS?”

Sulpherio began to tremble once again. “I meant only to please you, sire...”

“Yes, I know,” Satan snorted. “This is so incredibly boring. Like waiting in line at a government office. Tedious with no upside-down masochistic fulfillment. Just vacuous, numbing boredom.”

“Did you know it was election season in the United States?” the minion asked.

Satan perked up his pointed ears. “Ah, really? I have been occupied with ushering new souls into our living tomb of iniquity. Election season, you say? Running for president?”

“No,” Sulpherio answered. “An off-year, mid-term contest. But still quite thrilling...”

“THRILLING?” Satan roared. “WHEN HARDLY ANYONE SHOWS UP AT THE POLLS?”

The minion curled his fingers, fearfully. “But my lord, this is year different. Americans are in the age of Twitter and Donald Trump. Hatred and tribalism are boiling from the cauldron. There are confrontations in the streets, in restaurants, on Capitol Hill and on social media platforms...”

Satan chortled. “Yes, yes, yes… I could retire with so much infighting loosed by mortal beings. They are doing my will, unwittingly. What do earthers call it? ‘A freebie?’”

Sulpherio giggled. “They are doing your bidding with great enthusiasm!”

“Yes,” Satan whispered. “Many of them. Even some of those who use the name of that fellow upstairs, with the long beard and white robe...”

“God?” Sulpherio wondered out loud.

“DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME IN THIS PLACE!” Satan shouted.

“Forgive me,” the minion warbled. “Forgive me, dark lord.”

“So what do you expect in this election season?” Satan pondered, stroking the pointed tip of his tail. “More left versus right chatter? That isn’t out of the ordinary. That is boring!”

“But pundits predict further division in the Congress,” Sulpherio explained. “Democrats will retake the House of Representatives, while Republicans will hold the Senate. Impeachment hearings for Mr. Trump will begin, almost immediately. They expect President Donald to exceed his already ‘huge’ capacity for self-aggrandizement and faux-righteousness. The raucous rancor of Washington will be ratcheted up yet another notch...”

“Hatred, glorious hatred!” Satan said, baring his fangs. “My bread and butter.”

“The Russia probe has sputtered,” Sulpherio observed. “Like a wet firecracker. No bang for the buck. They put Paul Manafort in jail and indicted some foreign nationals...”

Satan chewed his splintered nails. “As Hunter S. Thompson said, ‘In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity.’ Manafort was very stupid. And quite boring.”

“I agree, sire,” Sulpherio acquiesced.

“Mueller should have indicted President Donald!” Satan laughed. “That would have been more festive. Like standing the logic of ‘lock her up’ for Hillary on its head. A show worthy of me!”

The minion clapped his hands. “Yes sire, yes!”

“But… no,” Satan wheezed.

“No, indeed,” Sulpherio admitted in defeat. “There are a few who believe that control by two money-rich political parties is not real democracy. They are working for genuine citizen participation in the process. For a real contest with grass-roots groups.”

“Yawn!” Satan said, mockingly. “Americans are too stupid. Pitiful fools! They need to be herded like sheep. Red sheep, blue sheep. Me sheep, you sheep. All sheep, in deep!”

“A rhyme with reason,” the minion chuckled.

“I AM SO SICK OF BEING BORED!” Satan growled, hot with breaths scalding the rocky facade over his throne.

“Be patient, sire. I beg you. Watch, and enjoy,” the minion promised. “This new episode will make Watergate seem like a church picnic.”

Satan choked on his breath. “Watergate? Hey, didn’t we hire that guy?”

Sulpherio grinned. “Richard Milhous has a place of honor here, dark lord. You made the decision long before he joined us in Hell...”

Satan rubbed his eyes. “I probably did. Hard to remember, really. I have been so busy down here, overseeing torture, punishment, agony, while hearing woeful cries for mercy… IN GENERAL, BEING VERY BORED!”

The minion began to shake. “I promise you, this will be exciting. I promise you!”

“Tom Ellis is a handsome fellow,” Satan confessed. “I would not mind a vacation from Hell, as imagined by Neil Gaiman and Mike Carey. Or by Tom Kapinos.”

Sulpherio raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you could run for office in America, like Mr. Trump...”

“IDIOTIC MORON!” Satan yowled. “YOU WOULD SEEK TO LOWER ME TO THE LEVEL OF FOOLISH MORTALS WHO BATTLE FOR POLITICAL POWER?”

The minion fell to his knees. “Forgive me, sire, forgive me...”

“I would just like to drive that vintage, black Corvette.” Satan concluded. “And perhaps have a date with Chloe Decker. A flight of fancy most certainly not boring at all!”

Sulpherio covered his mouth. He had learned his lesson, at last. Silence would be his shield. Blessed, beautiful silence, interrupted only by cries for mercy amid the craggy outcroppings of pumice and the sparkling throne of his evil king.

“Indeed,” he whispered. “A Corvette, and Chloe. Indeed!”

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

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

“Truck Run Tuesday”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Retirement life.

Since leaving the workforce in 2016, I have maintained an unpredictable schedule at the Icehouse. Writing projects often coalesce after midnight, accompanied by coffee and P. B. Toast. I generally sleep in shifts. These episodes may occur at any time throughout the day. I sometimes liken them to a ‘nap attack’ of the sort experienced by Garfield the cartoon cat.

In disability, I have channeled a bit of my inner Jim Davis.

A recent afternoon demonstrated this living-on-the-fly routine with great clarity. My friend B. A. called after an extended period of radio silence. He had planned to vanish for a day due to a family wedding on his social calendar. An event he seemed to dread because of the need to dress in formal attire. But this day out of circulation stretched into two, then three, then four and finally, I found myself completely disconnected.

It was a familiar happening.

B. A. has often been described as “the older brother I never had.” Though in terms of chronology, he is younger by a few years. With varied interests including cars, motorcycles, travel, music and home cooking, he reflects a similar back-story to my own. And his appearance, tall, stocky and gruff, projects an image like my own sibling.

To claim him as my kin has never seemed out of bounds.

After a long weekend, with Monday included, I sat in my chair eating a late breakfast. The hour was half past ESPN, or in other words, 10:30 a.m. and 30 minutes into the broadcast of ‘First Take’ with Steven A. Smith and Max Kellerman. I took lazy bites of fried potatoes and eggs, while listening to their sports banter. But then, my telephone began to ring.

Via my cellular screen, the face of B. A. appeared. His isolation was at an end.

“Rod!” he cheered, with a voice trained on cartons of cigarettes and gallons of energy drinks. “What’re you doing today?”

I rubbed my eyes. “Well, nothing. I do nothing every day.” Not literally true, but my fib fit the appearance of being unemployed.

“What a life!” he exclaimed. “Wish I could get paid for doing nothing all day!” My friend was the head of maintenance for a pair of local retail stores.

“It’s a fair exchange,” I observed. “Wish I could walk like a normal human being. We all want something...”

“You want to take a ride to Kingstown?” he wondered aloud. “I’ll buy you lunch, brotha!”

My stomach was already full, and I had Chicken & Potato Stew bubbling away in the Crock Pot. Yet the offer provided a welcome diversion. And I knew he would insist long after I had run out of plausible excuses.

“Sure,” I agreed. “Looking at a car, or a piece of business equipment?”

He turned sour. “I got a traffic ticket last night! The intersection wasn’t marked. I need to go back there and take another look. Dang their small town!”

“Haven’t been out that way in years,” I confessed.

“I’m at the Madison exit,” he explained. “Can you be ready in a couple minutes?”

My eyes were still groggy. “No problem,” I lied.

“Find your cane!” he cheered again. “We’re going on a road trip!”

I located a pair of regular pants, a hoodie, and my Cleveland Indians cap before he arrived. Dinner could cook away in my absence. But my Black Lab needed to go outside. I walked him in the yard until B. A. arrived. His truck, a weathered 1985 Chevrolet S-10, was overloaded with gear. Suddenly, I realized the true purpose of his visit.

“You drive, buddy!” he said. “I need to see about this ticket, hit the company storage space, and pick up an employee to help with a project. How’s that sound for a day?”

I laughed out loud. He was a skilled hustler.

“A good story is worth the drive,” I answered. “Anything for a story.”

We headed north to the freeway, then east to the Kingstown exit. Each mile seemed to clear my memory with familiar sights. Not much had changed since visiting the area, around a dozen years before.

When we pulled up at the intersection of Main Street and the state route, B.A. began to testify. “Do you see that??” he shouted. “No right on red here. That is what the local cop said. He spun around in his cruiser and followed me to the light. But look up there. Can you read the sign?”

It had been flipped around backwards, possibly by a gust of wind. The other side was completely blank. On a far pole, another, smaller sign barely peeked out for daylight.

“You can’t read that, can you?” he bellowed, scratching his white stubble of beard.

My response made him bounce in the seat. “No, I can’t.”

“I should fight this ticket,” he growled. “But there ain’t enough time...”

“So, what is your plan?” I asked.

“Turn here,” he gestured. “We have to find the municipal center. It’s in an old tavern. A brick shithouse from years ago. Right on Main Street.”

After a short drive, I saw the building. A festive hovel, constructed with rocky, red chunks, laid out in a warped pattern. Lots of mortar filled gaps between the bricks. The old bar’s moniker remained just below a roof peak, out front and to the left. It had been set with white stones for contrast.

“This is the police station?” I grinned.

“Police, tax assessor, and courthouse,” B. A. explained.

“This is actually sort of cool,” I said. As we drove around the structure, I saw a military-issue Humvee parked out back. It had been repainted with police colors and an official logo.

“It ain’t cool!” my friend thundered. “They’re taking my money!”

As we walked inside, I silently prayed that his mood would soften.

A clerk waved to us as we looked from room to room. “May I help you?” She appeared quite relaxed and civillian-ish, not what I had expected. Long, dark hair and doe eyes.

“I need to pay a ticket,” B. A. groused. “But I gotta say that this ain’t fair. No right on red uptown there, I was told, but nothing is marked!”

“There is a sign by the traffic light,” she said, unemotionally.

“Turned around so you can’t read it!” he barked.

“There is another sign on a telephone pole across the intersection,” she added.

I could tell that this situation had been brought up by other travelers through the village. The clerk seemed very familiar with each detail. Carefully rehearsed. She did not flinch when my friend groaned and griped.

“One hundred and sixty dollars, please,” she said.

B. A. looked like a sick mule. “Really? Really??” He counted out bills from his wallet. “This just don’t seem fair to me...”

I wanted to leave, before being tagged as disruptive in this public venue. But as we turned to go, I noticed magnetic stickers that said “Look Out For Motorcycles.” The safety-yellow design was similar to one I’d had on my previous pickup truck.

“Are these free, ma’am?” I inquired with humility.

The pretty clerk nodded her head. “Help yourself!”

A few minutes later, we were at Bob Evans. I ordered a giant biscuit-bowl with sausage gravy. My friend opted for a version with sriracha sauce.

“Well, at least we got free bumper stickers out of this deal,” I uttered in jest.

“Damned expensive ones, at that!” he yowled. “But, at least you got your story!”

My writing discipline was fully intact. The adventure was one guaranteed to yield a worthwhile prose project. I had already begun to compose paragraphs of creative text, in my head.

“Yes... I did!”

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

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

“Steering Wheel Poet”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

The ‘real job.’

Writing professionally can yield a wealth of memorable experiences. But to depend on this craft for useful income is often a fool’s gambit. Most simply accept that the habit does not pay well enough to support self or family. The result is a dual path, with divergent loyalties and goals. A sort of split personality that provides sustenance and tension in equal measures.

After returning home to Ohio in 1983, with my television study through Cornell University tucked away like an old newspaper, I joined this bi-polar group. My daily employment consisted of working at retail stores in the area, where I would soon rise to management responsibilities. But at night, my wordsmithing journey continued.

Frequently, my thoughts turned toward creative ideas as I was driving home from work. I became used to rapping out lyrics or poems while at the steering wheel. This behavior peaked at my last stop on the journey, a supermarket in Geneva, Ohio. I would sometimes detour onto back roads when heading home at night, and write with my virtual pen in the glow of gauges on the dashboard:

Under cover of darkness

I will cheat the light

These crazy questions are justified

We have already died

Under cover of darkness

I will greet the night

These crazy visions are magnified

We have already cried

I did my best

On a road less traveled

Spun rubber, spit the fumes

All too soon

I took the test

In a room cold and empty

At my desk, sitting straight up

Nothing in my cup

I felt the cold

With the breath of life going, gone

Out of my chest

No happiness

But this day

Comes around, quick

Sunrise sealed with appeal

Spin the reel

Under cover of darkness…

The way home was a straight shot, south on Route 534. But as I neared the county line, my course could begin to vary. I might turn off on Trumbull Road, then across Trask to the junction in Footville. Or, go past Rock Creek Road to connect with Dawsey, then curl back toward the way home. Each extra mile allowed for my personal muse to whisper ideas. Sometimes, my drive of 13 miles might extend to twice that length, or more. Around the Hartsgrove square and back again. Or across Route 6, to Hambden. With my truck headlights leading the way to inspiration.

I found the way

On a road in the moonlight

Right turn, left turn

Not concerned

Not going home

Not going anywhere

Before my ears get kissed

Writer’s bliss

No one is waiting

If I am late it is no matter

Midnight is alright

There’ll be no fight

I kick the tires

After stalling my motor

Metal pinging, hot

On the spot

I take my 12-pack

In a grocery sack

Carry the lot in side

And the moon is high

Under cover of darkness…

Once, I came home through Rock Creek during a lull in winter storms. The landscape washed in crystal-white and roads cleared but frosty. Peering into the darkness ahead, I could hear the reverberation of unwritten verbiage waiting to be birthed. I sat my phone in the center console and let it record each finger-tap on the wheel. “On Donner, On Blitzen… on the two step, on the double check, on the beat over icy streets, till I am home and under the bedsheets.”

Opening my front door often felt like a mic-drop. The performance was over.

I did my best

Never failing

To give a good report, a quick retort

This is my favorite sport

I play to win

Though no trophy is awarded

Just a laugh, no ready cash

A pebble’s splash

Lost in the dark

With a half-ton hauler

Country boy, city ploy

This is a decoy

You can believe

In flannel and jeans

Don’t be deceived, by what you see

It isn’t me

Under cover of darkness…

My Black Lab and aging Pomeranian would be ready to romp in the yard. Often, I let them wander while opening a first can of Canadian beer. But creative clouds would linger in my head. Later, as fatigue beckoned with hints of oblivion, I would sit in my living room, scribbling out lines of text. Sometimes, this meant falling asleep in my chair, still dressed in job attire.

Upon waking up, in the wee hours, silence would drown such moments of inspiration with a need to find my bed. But I knew that with the new day yawning into life, there would be another cycle of gainful employment at my shopper’s depot. And then, a ride home under starlight skies, straight south from Ashtabula County and into the welcome embrace of prose pronouncements, and oblivion.

A poet of the shadows, in an F-150 with four-wheel drive.

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

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

“Midnight Muse”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Coffee at midnight.

Being retired has offered an escape from the traditional discipline of working by day and sleeping at night. A routine that always failed to provide authentic freedom for creative bursts of energy in the Icehouse. I chafed at the restrictive collar of regular employment. But as my career collapsed under the weight of a health decline, there came a consequence unintended. Suddenly, I could write when the mood was right.

My personal muse has always been something of a bitch.

In past years, creative ideas could arrive at inopportune moments. Like half an hour before leaving to work the graveyard shift. Or, while battling to streamline our budget at one of my retail stores. Even in the midst of a sleepless episode, staring intently at stains on the ceiling. These kisses from eternity were often lost to consequence. Necessity faded them into the ether. But now, my head is full of these voices, offering a siren-song from behind the veil. Instead of worrying about lost opportunities, I embrace these fleeting moments, and tap away at the keyboard.

A recent example came while listening to the end of a Phil Hendrie podcast, online. His bumper music resonated with the ‘Punk’ energy of an earlier era. And suddenly, I was jazzed up with the juice of a wordsmith in heat. I paused the show, grabbed my iPhone, and began to write:

Podcast Echoes, 1979

Flash and trash
Phil Hendrie on the podcast stream
Guitar blast
Plugs me in
Connected again
To 1979
Amplifier cranked up
Life force screwed up
Broken body, beaten up
I have woken up
Midnight starts the day
And I feel a chill
Make of it what you will
Parched from haste
In a hurry to mature
Arthritic fool
Head full of memories
Heart full of regret
Dad would say:
“You ain’t dead yet”
I’m on stage
Beginning the next set
Lyrics written
Or I would forget
I need my pills
Make of it what you will
Half a century
And more
Careful through the land mines
Or I’m wrecked on the floor
Cane-bound and cautious
No more skipping on plastic
No more light fantastic
No more voice tones, frantic
I am no fanatic
Humbled, hobbled
Wiped-out by fall
Breezes blow still
Make of it what you will
Wheeler in the shed
V-twin horse is silent
I have to count pennies 
To pay my rent
And buy beer for the week
Before falling asleep
By the TV set
At the windowsill
Make of it what you will
Black night comfort
Black coffee taste
Black cinema retrosphere
Black tarmac, going back
Blackness in my eyes
Blacked, blocked, blunted
Black and blue
Fool on the hill
Make of it what you will
A moment ago
I was merely a watcher
A listener
A beam in the stream
Floating along
While Phil played a song
After doing his voice shtick
The show went quick
Then I fell into a vibe
Heard the crunchy barre chords
Fuzz and distortion
I took my portion
Took a ride on that wave
To yesteryear
Buzzing
Crackling generator juice
Worn out amp cord
Sparking static
With every move
Every dance step and thrill
Make of it what you will
Each night I TuneIn
App on the Roku
Coffee and toast
And the radio host
Voices provided
Flowing, falling
Spit from the maw
Of a stone sculpture worshipped in fire
Of vacuum tubes and wire
We have come this far
On an earful of banter
On a drunken burst of laughter
On a crash through the window
On a prayer in the snow
On a momentary thrill
Make of it what you will
I remember Mark
Cornell educated
Well lubricated
With drink and with song
A radio vet
He wrote poems and more 
Song stanzas galore
His words made us eager
To be more than street kids
We wanted what he did
We wanted to grow
To know what he showed
To glow
To go pro
Bespoke but half-broke
A cultural shill
Make of it what you will
Now satire goes silent
Background crawl
A first breath of fall
Dog on the carpet
My coffee cup unfull
My head gone to null
Episode #1267
Played and spent
Shot out of the cannon
Not squeezed from a tube
There is naught more to do
So I tap on my phone
In this moment of self
While the world is away 
And my demons can play
Wander and wonder
Twitch and twirl
Kick rocks and rusty cans
Kicks on the net, man
A joyride, a buzz-kill
Make of it what you will 

After typing the last word, I made a mental mic-drop. The moment passed quickly, with the intensity of brain-freeze after a cold swallow of ice cream. I shook my head to clear away the numbness. Silence filled my living room. The television sat idle. It was nearly 2:00 in the morning.

Now, my task became clear. To sit at the desk, and write.

Comments about: ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com
Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024