“Megacenter Mistake”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

Retirement.

For many, reaching this point in the life cycle may open an opportunity to pause and reflect upon family, friends and past accomplishments. But for one such as myself, with a dual career path of professional writing and business management, I have found such days filled with a different concern. To be specific, the urge to do more work.

I felt this need recently, when attempting to secure repairs for my aging Ford F-150 pickup truck. After a visit to the local mechanic in Geneva, it became clear that new treads were needed for my mule. I had patronized a megacenter in the county with past vehicles, and decided that this depot would once again fit the needs of my fixed budget. But, an unexpected roadblock appeared during the visit. One that, in the end, actually served to help me maintain frugality for the holiday season. The young mechanic involved could not remove lug nuts from my truck. So the sale was declined.

Later, I felt glad to have been forced to choose a less costly option. Yet the urge to share my story lingered. What about other customers that might encounter a similar bottleneck? What about lost revenue that might hinder the progress of this company operating in my neighborhood? I felt no particular loyalty to the megacenter, itself. But what of the manager in charge? Did they not deserve to know what had transpired? If I were still on duty as a salaried supervisor, wouldn’t I want to be made aware?

Finally, this sense of responsibility overwhelmed by reluctance. I composed a letter to be sent via postal mail:

To: Megacenter Store Manager

Re: Auto Care

Greetings,

I want to share a story with you regarding my recent experience at your auto center on November 15^th. I offer this not as a traditional complaint, but instead as a FYI for your use in overseeing the store. Because I am a retired supermarket store co-manager (33 years in retailing) it is my belief that you would want to be aware of any such situation. In my own career, I faced this sort of problem on several occasions and made it a point to use each one as a learning experience.

On Thursday morning, I arrived at your auto center about 6:50 a.m. with the intent of purchasing a set of tires for my Ford F-150. I had repeatedly been a customer at this location in the past, and felt that I could get a good bargain and professional service once again. There was already one other customer ahead of me, parked by the entrance. The shop itself was completely dark. We waited a short time, until someone appeared and began to open up for the business day.

Customer #1 was very talkative and kept your opening employee busy. But I was soon able to make my request, as the second customer of the morning. My primary concern was for the left, front tire which had an issue discovered during front-end work, earlier in the week, at a repair facility in Geneva. I had wanted Goodyear Wrangler tires, but they were unavailable in the proper size. So I chose a different brand. A clerk who arrived quoted me a price of $607 for the set of four. I agreed, was given a number, and decided to look around the store while waiting.

When I returned, shortly afterward, a young mechanic approached me to explain that he had been unable to remove the wheel from my truck. He said the lug nuts would not ‘free up’ despite his use of an impact wrench. I explained that the truck had literally just been serviced, and that this seemed impossible. He agreed to try again. Meanwhile, Customer #1, still very gabby, literally offered to help this young fellow. I declined of course, as it would have been ill-advised and not permitted.

Your mechanic returned a second time to say that he had only been able to remove two lug nuts and that he feared breaking the axle studs. He described the procedure for towing damaged vehicles to an off-site repair facility, with much familiarity, something which rattled my confidence a bit. I again repeated that the F-150 had just been serviced, but calmly accepted his assessment. If it could not be done, I would go elsewhere with no hard feelings. He asked if I wanted to buy the tires and take them home. I replied in the negative, as this would not solve my problem. He shrugged and pulled my truck out of the repair bay.

Bottom line: A sale of $607 lost to your business.

On November 16^th, I visited a local shop in town. I explained the immediate need for a left, front tire. While pondering that the holidays were near, and that I would require all my available resources for Christmas, I decided to replace only that tire for the moment. The proprietor offered a discounted tire which was perfect for my needs. We also agreed for a follow-up visit after the holiday season, for a full set of replacement tires. There was no issue with removing the wheel in question. Though they were quite busy, and I had appeared without an appointment, he got me in and out with less than an hour spent waiting.

My thoughts regarding this incident can be simplified into three questions. First, was your mechanic’s inability to remove the truck wheel an issue with equipment? Second, was your mechanic’s inability to remove the truck wheel an issue with training? Third, is it typical to speak with customers about damaged vehicle procedures, which seemed to give the impression that such incidents have been somewhat common? As a store manager, going forward, I would want to know.

Your crew was courteous and I have no issue with their conduct. My desire is not to complain or cause a disciplinary incident of any kind. I expect no coupons or gift cards or apologies. I will continue to be a customer. Please accept this letter as a friendly word from a veteran of the industry to someone who, like yourself, is still active.

My thanks to you, for kind attention in this matter.

Regards, Rod

Predictably, some friends pondered what things of value I might receive in response. Yet my own intention was more humble. More pure in nature. Remembering the rush of holiday operations that I had endured, over decades of service, I simply wanted to tell my story. To inform those in charge. To assist them in their important role overseeing the business. And perhaps, to help in their personal quest for excellence.

As a retail manager, I would have desired the very same for myself.

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

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

“Mr. X, Resurrected”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

Welcome to the ATM.

It was late night, in Chardon. I had just arrived at my financial institution, to withdraw a small amount of cash, when news broke on CBS Sports Radio that former Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice was being considered to coach the Cleveland Browns. As I fumbled for the volume knob on my truck radio, a warning appeared on the bank screen. I had to blink several times, before the image made literal contact with my brain.

“WE ARE WATCHING YOU.”

I punched buttons in sequence, with no result. The ATM was jammed. After a brief bluster of descriptive curses, I shifted my F-150 into drive and pulled out of the teller lane. Turning right, I aimed for the exit onto South Street. But then, a black limousine blocked my escape. More curses filled the air. My face went red. I watched the passenger window roll down after a dramatic pause. From inside, a dark figure beckoned for my attention.

“Rodney,” the rude visitor intoned. “How have you been?” His voice was like sandpaper in my ears.

I slapped the steering wheel in frustration. “Look, I need some cash. Something caused the machine to freeze. So I’ll get cash back at Giant Eagle. If you get out of my way...”

The figure began to laugh. “Something caused it… I caused it!”

My patience had evaporated. “You?”

The visitor pushed back his sunglasses, adjusted his black Fedora, and gestured through the window. “Don’t you recognize me, friend?”

My stomach twisted into a knot. “Damn it! Mr. X?”

He chortled with glee. “Yessssssssssss...” His breath reeked of expensive cigars.

“What is it with the ATM?” I wondered out loud. “This seems to be your favorite spot.”

“An easy place to catch you alone,” he observed. “Secrecy is important for a covert agent. But I have chosen to reveal myself once again to you. Get out your reporter’s notebook.”

My head bowed with fatigue. “I have been retired from the newspaper for a few years. Since 2014. Anyway, we use our cellphones now, easier to take notes in real time...”

“Blast that!” he growled. “No phones! Nothing that can be traced or copied! Do you hear me?”

I snorted with amusement. “Okay. Pen and paper. So what am I supposed to write?”

“For years I have kept you in the loop, Rodney,” he reflected. “Your status as a true patriot made you valuable to us on the inside. We have turned to you in the hope that our message would be shared with other critical thinkers, throughout the republic...”

“What??” I choked.

“Admit your role,” he said. “Your glorious role as a spokesman for those without a voice.”

“Friend of those who have no friends,” I smirked. “Enemy of those who make him an enemy.”

“What was that?” Mr. X blurted out with puzzlement.

“The opening of ‘Boston Blackie’ with Kent Taylor,” I mused. “A television show from the early 1950’s.” 

“Imbecile!” he swore. “I have only a few precious moments to educate you! Would you rather loaf in ignorance?”

“No loafing,” I replied. “Go on with your speech.”

“Rodney, we have reached an ominous time in the history of our nation,” he explained. “I was fearful with the ‘Tube Farm’ of antennas, constructed in Ashtabula County, to call UFO invaders to this planet. And more afraid when Hillary Clinton conspired to breed limbless birds and run Budweiser out of business, so that there would be no more wings and beer on game days, with football. Perhaps most distressed when your employment with the Geauga Maple Leaf ended due to a clandestine government intervention...”

I laughed out loud. “Look, Mr. X, I retired by mutual agreement. After 16 years, they were ready to move in a different direction. That was a fair decision, I believe.”

“You are so brave,” he smiled, through yellowed teeth. “If only the enemies of America were half as admirable...”

I thumped the steering wheel, again. “So, is there a point to your story?”

“Rodney, we have reached a critical moment in the history of our republic,” he declared. “We have a petulant man-child in the White House and a cadre of career bureaucrats bent on usurping power. The situation is chaotic. Literally, no one is at the helm of our ship of state. We have fighting in the streets, verbal combat on social media, rampant drug abuse, moral decay, and now, a true sign of the apocalypse that looms over the horizon.”

“A sign?” I pondered.

“Indeed,” he said. “A crack of thunder from the cosmos. A sign of the paradigm shift that will change this nation for all eternity!”

I was befuddled. My truck had idled so long that wisps of hot exhaust came through the open window. My face grew redder than before.

“What sign portends this seismic shift?” I asked in a dubious tone.

“The Cleveland Browns have begun to win football games!” he exclaimed with fear. “CLEVELAND! WINNING! GAMES!”

I was speechless. My hands gripped the steering wheel until each finger throbbed with arthritic fire.

“Beware!” he cautioned. “Beware what lies ahead! We are about to enter a black hole of unknown time and space. I want to place this vision in your mind: Cleveland going to a Super Bowl. CLEVELAND! Shock gripping the nation. Marathon segments on ESPN. Then, tanks in the streets as ‘Big Brother’ and the UFO invaders join ranks when no one is paying attention… and a gray-skinned alien taking the oath of office, in Washington, D. C. with no one left to preserve our republic.”

The black limousine retreated at last.

“Beware!” Mr. X shouted into the night. Tires squealed and then, he was gone. His voice trailed away in the mist and darkness.

“BEWARE!!!”

The ATM screen had cleared, at last. I swung around to re-enter the lane, and retrieved 20 dollars in cash. Now, it was time to buy some beer. And wings.

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

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

“Two Years Retired”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

Retirement.

Over the past 25 months out-of-service, I have written about this subject on many occasions. Sometimes with serious interest, and alternately, with the numb approach of a drunk assessing sobriety over a bottle of bourbon. I have not yet begun to fully comprehend this shift in my life routine. Yet my position has become clear. My place. My spot of earth. My mark on the wall.

Climbing the career ladder meant self-sacrifice. I worried over supporting my family and lost track of less important matters. But divorce and declining health rearranged these practicalities. Without time to prepare, I reached a cliff of sorts. What followed was something akin to Wile E. Coyote dropping ominously toward the canyon floor in old Warner Brothers cartoons.

I literally fell out of time.

But having escaped the employment paradigm offered a sort of liberty not seen before. Suddenly, I could wake in the wee hours, make coffee, and begin to work on projects of a more artistic nature. While cursing my own failed mobility, hobbling through my home with grunts and groans of protest, my inner muse began to whisper with hope.

Out of mortal frailty, a child of wonder was reborn:

Two years retired

Coals in the fire

Hot from yesterday

Red heat gone away

The glow gone black

No going back

Out of my routine

Living on a paper ream

I feel wired

Two years retired

No chance of re-hire

Mule pulled up lame

Quarterback out of the game

Got to warm the bench

No longer a mensch

Spit out suddenly

Is this really me?

My turn is expired

Two years retired

Feet in the mire

Coughing up yesterday

No more rhymes to say

A bowl of grits gone cold

This dog getting old

Bricks under paws

Mud splash and hay straws

I ain’t a liar

Two years retired

Goodbye to my sire

Life circle complete

Marching to the beat

I look in the mirror

It causes a stir

Who is that old fool

Going back to school

No textbook required

Two years retired

A face once admired

Now I am the lonely

Loyal to me only

A party of one

My journey is done

Straight up, like a rocket

Silver in pocket

A taste to acquire

Two years retired

A mule undesired

Hoof-deep in snow

Got nowhere to go

Arthritic and gimpy

Is this really me?

Gray shadows at noon

My journey ends soon

I feel tired

Two years retired

A songster, with lyre

Slinging a cow pie

Here’s mud in your eye!

A thought and a wish

Half-loaves and a fish

My hope for a new day

Out of being cast away

A prickly brier

Two years retired

Back to the fire

Sit low with my beer

A few friends are here

They stare into darkness

While I confess

Sitting on the bench

Like a rusty old pipe wrench

Undesired

Two years retired

Mama didn’t raise no crier

I give up no secrets

No joke in my jest

Five decades of membership

Five decades of horseshit

Still unknown by tribe

A bruised-up word scribe

In denim, attired

Two years retired

Miller High Life, desired

A commoner with royalty

A lock with no key

I sit here overnight

And drink till I write

Then write till I pass out

Of insecurity and doubt

Till I am pyred

Two years retired

Last coal in the fire

The sky above is brighter

I’ve pulled an all nighter

Sat up till the dawn

With mad thoughts going on

Tapping hard on my keys

Until this story is out of me

Taking a flier

Often, these inspired bursts of energy would arrive in the midst of darkness. And vanish as the light of morning was at hand. I quickly learned not to battle this new reality. Instead, these visions brought hope. After a jolt of caffeine, I would sit with my iPhone, or at the computer.

And write, write, write!

Each episode made me remember admonitions given from Grandma McCray, from Dad and From Aunt Juanita, now gathered together and waiting, in eternity. “Keep that pen moving!”

As I did so long ago, on notebook paper or discarded envelopes or blank sections of grocery bags, my subconscious mind began to sling out prose proclamations and poetry. Profundity and nonsense. Trippy texts and missed success. Pages of ideas, unfinished and half-baked. A mix-tape full of alternate takes. Daydreams, dips, doodles, diddles, and dung. Like a Christmas ornament, waiting to be hung. Or a bridle over a rail at the stable. Ready to ride, when I am able. Sunrise seemed to still such visions. But I began to trust in their return, with the next sunset.

At last, I was retired, and ready.

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

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

“Second Coming”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

It was a quiet morning at the White House.

President Trump had dozed off after midnight, while watching reruns of  'The Apprentice.' His wife was away on a foreign tour, but promised to return before the week of Christmas. Even the Secret Service agent outside his bedroom had succumbed to the prevailing boredom. No sounds could be heard, not even the heartbeat in his chest. This seemed more than odd. It was an eerie portent of judgment. But he ignored the mood. The Donald brushed back his comb-over hair and sprawled across the empty bed. A deafening, smothering silence filled his ears. Then, he realized that the clock on his nightstand had stopped running.

No breeze pressed at the window. No rush of air came from the ventilation. He had literally stopped breathing. His lungs were like stone. He could not cough or call out in distress. Yet somehow, his life continued. Somehow…

A face split the darkness, glowing in hues of white and gray. Then, a soft voice resounded.

“I am Christ, the Lord,”

President Trump pulled the bed sheet over his face. “Whaaat? Melania? Did you get home early?”

“Behold, the Son of God,” the voice continued.

Trump trembled under the bunched fabric. “Security! SWAT team! Secret Service!!”

The face brightened. “I have paused time itself. Do not fear my presence. No one can hear our conversation. Sit up and behold me, now.”

President Trump rubbed his eyes. “Is this a CNN trick? You’re Jim Acosta in a fright wig, right?”

The visitor bowed his head. “Behold the Lamb of God, Jesus.”

“Jesus?” Trump exclaimed. “The Big J. C.? This is huge! Where is my cellphone? I have to send out a blast on Twitter. A Twitter tweet. The biggest, greatest, ever. And when I say huge I mean huuuuuuge...”

“I have come here, in this suspended moment, to admonish you,” the visitor said. “You have claimed to act with my blessing. Yet your heart is filled with self-interest and pride. Do you remember my words? ‘Not every one who saith unto me, Lord, Lord shall enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he that doeth the will of my father which is in heaven. Many will say to me in that day Lord, Lord, have we not prophesied in thy name? And in thy name cast out devils? And in thy name done many wonderful works? And then I will profess unto them, I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity.’”

President Trump scratched at his spray-tanned cheek. “Is that from a Charlton Heston movie?”

“I am the savior of humanity,” the visitor whispered. “Hear me now! You claim before the world to know my teachings. To hold them dearly in your heart. But I ask you now to examine yourself. Do you act in service to me and my father, or only with selfish pride? Are you only using my name to shield yourself?”

“I’ve got a big Bible at home, let me tell you,” Trump retorted. “A big one. Gold edging on the cover and pages. It came from my parents. From my grandparents. A big one, bigger than you’ve ever seen, anywhere...”

The visitor covered his eyes. “Have you read my words? And received them into your heart?”

President Trump shook his head. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I am busy being the commander-in-chief, very busy being in charge, busy, very busy...”

“I have stilled time,” the visitor replied.

Trump was irritated. “I have a lot of churchy people in my corner, okay? A lot of them. You don’t see that with Hillary unless they are street-priests, those kind of hippie street preachers who hide illegal aliens. People who really believe in you believe in me. Believe me!”

“I am Christ,” the visitor repeated. “The Son of God. Not a political figure. Not one to anoint holders of wealth and privilege. Or holders of power. Do you remember these words? ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: But lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven.’”

President Trump shook his head once more. “Churchy people don’t like Hillary. They want her locked up. For a long time. A very long time. They want me to run again in 2020. They want me to run again and again and again, believe me...”

The visitor covered his face. For a moment, the room went dark.

“I am the messiah, the fulfillment of prophecy,” he said. “Not a tchotchke for a campaign season. Not a spokesperson. Not an endorser of willful, prideful men. To inherit the kingdom, you must shed the trappings of sin and follow me. Do you understand?”

Trump closed his eyes. “I understand this must be a trick from MSNBC. Or the failing New York Times. A trick. A stupid trick. But I am not going to be fooled, okay? Not a fool. Not going to be fooled.”

The glowing face disappeared, at last.

“I want a Coca-Cola,” President Trump shouted. “Bring me a Coke and my cellphone. Waiter? Butler? Secret Service?”

Air ebbed from a vent in the wall. Time had been restored, in full.

An agent outside rapped gently on the door. “Mr. President, are you alright, sir?”

“Yes, I am great!” Trump boasted. “I’m greater than great. For a man my age, greater than anyone younger. Anyone. No more steak before bedtime, though. No more dreams, no more dreams. No more.”

“Very good, Mr. President,” the agent agreed.

Trump sat up in bed and reached for his slippers. “Now get me a Coke!”

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

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

“Friend Farewell”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

Mortality.

In this difficult year, one sure to be remembered in the dim glow of future days, I have contemplated this subject with dread and wonder. Not as a willing participant, but instead as a rider on the train to eternity. One resigned to taking a seat by the window. A voyeur, a seeker. Sometimes inspired by the passing colors and landscapes, yet tonight, bent in sorrow. Silently grieving for not only a friend who is no more, but also for a world that was, and is no longer.

I sat at Burr Funeral Home, in Chardon, counting those who had crossed over during the year. Sweet Jennifer, who worked next door at Bobbie Gee’s apparel store when I was at Kresse’s Bi-Rite supermarket. My father in West Virginia, and beloved aunt from Gallia County, Ohio. The wife of local friend Rick, who blessedly had made himself an enduring figure throughout my exile from New York. Ruth, a gentle soul who worked on the crew at two of my retail stores. And now Kevin, an honest and decent man steeped in traditions not surrendered to antiquity.

The year of 2018 had been, to use colloquial expression, ‘a bitch.’

As in months that passed before, my thoughts turned to yonder days. Specifically, the early 80’s. I remembered coming home after my long-term, Cornell experience, to Maple Avenue, not far from the high school. My last act as a resident of the Empire State having been to consume a bottle of Jack Daniel’s bourbon. While riding in the car of a compadre. Being reborn on my native soil was a necessary process. But one I did not initially accept with gratitude. After flaming out as a Cleveland warehouse clerk, I took a job with Fisher’s Big Wheel #69, a retail store at home. My primary responsibility was to be their janitor.

During off-work moments, I visited Ernst Lanes with a friend named Tim, from the store. An interesting choice as I had never tried to bowl. But their bar was fully stocked with Miller High Life. It became my refuge from idle hours sleeping on the couch in my parents’ living room. I met Rick, Jennifer, Ron, Scott, and a number of other locals. One fellow had me raising an eyebrow with curiosity, however. His name was Kevin.

Kevin Johnson gleefully joined the prevailing beer discussion of Cleveland Browns football, Indians baseball and Cavaliers basketball. And then, he instigated an assessment of the Russian revolution. A detour of subject matter I did not expect. He observed that I looked a bit like Leon Trotsky. It was a remark that baffled my mind. I literally laughed out loud. He went on to discuss the fall from favor of this Marxist disciple, his exile, and his assassination by an agent of Stalin. The room cleared quickly, but he was not deterred. Our conversation was the sort I would have expected at Pete’s Cayuga Tavern, In Ithaca. Down the hill from Cornell University. Not something to be heard at a bowling alley in Buckeye-land.

I knew immediately that we were kindred spirits.

My own recovery from excess in the Empire State continued, while writing stories on the coffee table, and climbing toward management duties. I still saw these bowling-buddies as customers in my stores. Eventually, Kevin and I worked together at Mikolsky’s Giant Eagle. I tried to project an image of professional style, having been promoted to co-manager. But my friend knew the back story. Somewhere, buried deep, was still that skinny kid in a tattered, Harley-Davidson T-shirt. One who pushed a broom, but hungered for more. Fallen from grace but not finished. He kept my secret in a bond of friendship. Though he was younger, I looked to him as a guidepost. An example of what I could achieve.

Later, I saw him at work in Painesville. His eyes drifted to my ‘Dr. House’ cane, with flame adornment one would expect on a ‘57 Chevy. An implement I now needed to stay vertical. I reckoned he might offer some details of how the use of walking sticks evolved from tree limbs carved by primitive civilizations. Or perhaps, confess that my graying hair and rotund physique made me look more like Burl Ives than the ‘Rodster’ of olden days. But he simply shook my hand and said hello.

Now, seated at his celebration of life, I listened to his wife, Lisa, speak of the love Kevin had for her, Jasmine and Joshua. Then, Ron talked about him attending Chardon High football games, every year since 1982. A ritual that strengthened the camaraderie of their group. The church pastor spoke of his inquisitive nature. A bookworm of sorts. Reading, researching, reviewing.

With emotion, Rick read eloquent words written by John Lodge of the Moody Blues:

“Isn’t life strange

A turn of the page

Can read like before

Can we ask for more

Each day passes by

How hard will man try

The sea will not wait

You know it makes me want to cry, cry, cry...”

In silence, I considered that it was November. Only one more flip of the calendar left, before the year had been completed. An event I would celebrate, to be free of this period. This uneasy train trip with so many having exited the ride. While the rest of us remained rocking in our seats. Peering through the windows, into eternity. I could only whisper, to myself.

“Farewell, my friend.”

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

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

“Words On The Loose”

c. 2008 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-08)

Prescript: What follows here is a column from my old ‘Thoughts At Large’ series written for the Geauga County Maple Leaf newspaper, in January of 2008.

Note to Readers: The following manuscript contains several words that may not actually be part of the English language. Discretion is advised when perusing this feature. In the event of a brain-freeze, consult your local librarian for advice and assistance.

Words are the currency of professional writing. It is impossible to pursue the craft without having a fondness for language, itself. Yet in journalism, the roster of terms is always changing. Elements used here continually evolve over time. So the commitment to self-education must endure. What the author scribbles today may be seen in a different light by future generations. Therefore, a balance is required between maintaining traditional verbiage and embracing bursts of hip lingo. Care and insight may help keep the scales level. Good instincts will make the result a pleasure to read.

This is the profession – to get the most from rowdy words on the loose.

Such thoughts were present recently, as I read a message from my father. We often trade notes and notions while browsing for untapped ideas. The shared quest keeps us focused on a similar goal – translating stories from imagination into hard text.

Last week, he offered information about a variety of subjects. The range was broad, including science fiction, folk music, pulp magazines, automotive design, and theology. But the most intriguing tidbit was about groups dedicated to charting the progress of linguistic evolution.

Words for a wordsmith. It seemed undeniably appropriate!

His useful message opened a thoughtstream ripe with potential. From the first entry, there was magic at work. I began to discover creative new words that were battling for genuine public acceptance. Typically, the worlds of business and politics have been rich with manufactured jargon. But these sources offered more. There were urban references, media blurbs, techno-shorthand, and youthspeak.

My journey as a wordsmithing detective had begun:

From: GLM – The Global Language Monitor

Smirting – The new-found art of flirting while being banished outside a building for smoking.

Ideating – Latest in a long line of verbalisms: the descendent of concepting and efforting.

Amigoization -- Increasing Hispanic influence in California, the Southwest and into the Heartland.

Menaissance – A resurgent ‘manliness’ culture or politically-correct male renaissance.

Crunk: A Southern variation of hip-hop music; also meaning fun or amped.

I paused over the last term on this list. It was strangely familiar… even to someone far removed from the edgy coolness of metropolitan culture like myself. But, for what reason? Then, I remembered that it was once a generic, fictitious expletive used on ‘Late Night with Conan O’Brien’ to avoid offending NBC censors.
A deep breath restored my resolve.

Further reading revealed more embryonic words seeking recognition. Each offered insight into the expanding nature of our cultural consciousness. In an age governed by slower forms of communication, these changes might have taken generations to witness. Yet the lightning speed of Information-Age technologies has made such actions nearly instantaneous:

From: Word Spy / Paul Mc Fedries

Affluenza - A social condition arising from the desire to be more wealthy, successful or to ‘Keep up with the Joneses.’

Agonism - An argument or debate in which the opponents use knee-jerk aggression instead of reasoned analysis.

Al Desko – Eating lunch at your desk to save time; dining ‘Al Desko.’

Actorvist - An actor who is also an activist.

Alcopop – Sweetly flavored alcoholic beverages.

Andropause – Male menopause; also characterized as a ‘mid-life crisis.’

Gotcha Day - The anniversary of the day on which a child was adopted.

Push Present - An expensive gift given to a woman by her husband in appreciation for having recently given birth.

Lifestreaming - An online record of a person's daily activities, either via direct video feed or via aggregating the person's online content such as blog posts, social network updates, and online photos.

Upcycling - A process that takes used or recycled materials and creates a new product with a higher quality or value than the original materials.

My collection of improvised verbalities was momentarily satisfying. But the page left me feeling unfulfilled. I needed to conclude the exercise in a more personal sense. These colorful bits of vernacular were precious for today. But would they survive the next wave of conversational editing?

Finally, inspiration took hold. The result was a flood of words that came more quickly than expected. It was my own interpretation of New-Century speech:

From: The Icehouse

Flappervate – To talk incessantly to the point of hyperventilation.

Titanic Seating – Membership in group failure.

Bottle Drool – The last drop of a beverage still left inside, when finished.

Plasticize – To buy with a credit card.

Friendsurf – Checking out someone’s buddy list for potential matches on MySpace.

Sideshuffle – Reassigning unproductive managers as a disciplinary tool.

Aggratize – To make someone upset or aggravated.

Mug Alert – At a party, keeping track of your guests drinking needs.

Spudderific – Having the characteristics of mainstream, midwestern life.

Gone Crispy – Worn out; tired; exhausted.

Agnostelytize – Spreading the doctrine of non-belief.

Plectrum Meister – A skilled player of guitar or other stringed instruments.

Groovage – The amount of music on a vinyl record; the amount of music on a compact disc or in an audio file.

Crabaceous – Complaining constantly.

Golden Shovel – Excellence in the ability to spread bullwaste.

Tailhead – A backward thinker.

Meterblind – Unable to read and understand evidence.

Excremental Logic – Poor reasoning.

Superiority Complex – Misguided notion of being better than others.

Pedal Forward – To take action aggressively, or with zeal.

Whratty – A whining child; one who acts like a wining brat.

Fry King / Fry Queen – An immature teenager employed in fast food retailing.

Telebot – A person addicted to watching television.

Guitarista – One obsessed with guitars.

Threevianity – A belief that the late Dale Earnhardt will one day come back to life.

Full-Case Abs – Flaccid abdominal musculature developed by drinking lots of beer.

Bricked Up – Overinflated; stiff.

NASBAR – A tavern frequented by blue-collar patrons.

Shredpacker – A smoker who makes their own cigarettes to save money.

Pump Splitter – A person who fills more than one vehicle at a time to extend their gasoline discounts.

It was late on a weekend night when I finished writing the list. Peaceful silence had taken hold with the darkness. Everyone else lay reveling in slumber. My neglected mug of coffee had gone lukewarm with disinterest. But a glow of success offered comfort. In solitude, I had finished the task.

My contribution to our national lexicon was complete!

After proofreading the document, I sent it to my father, with a note of gratitude. Somehow, I knew that before long, he would be working on a list of his own…

At last, I had earned the right to occupy my slab of bedspace until daybreak. Another day at the Icehouse home office was complete.

Comments about Thoughts At Large may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com
Visit us at: www.thoughtsatlarge.com

“Marilyn”

“Marilyn”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

An iconic name. A bodacious, bawdy, beauty. A curvy, inviting frame.

When most readers see the name ‘Marilyn’ they will be mentally transported to visions of Norma Jeane Mortenson, the erstwhile pop-culture goddess who became larger-than-life, and able to transcend the mortal limits thereof, as Marilyn Monroe. A figure of legend but also one of passion expressed against a backdrop of puritanism, unique to her era. A sweet taste of forbidden lust, delivered as innocent candy for a mass audience. A tease for the senses. But for this writer, hearing that name read aloud evokes a different image.

Curve model and adult video queen, Marilyn Mayson.

I first encountered her work while perusing websites devoted to retro fashions and cosplay modeling. Both areas of interest for myself. Her dark hair, big eyes and generous measurements were instantly appealing. But what struck me like lightning was her authenticity. The quality of being genuine rather than adorned in the artifice typically associated with such performers. She looked like the girlfriend of a friend. Or perhaps, a friend from the neighborhood who I wished could be my girlfriend. One more likely to share a spicy meal at Taco Bell than to prance across the stage, dripping gold accents and perfume, in Las Vegas.

My knowledge of Marilyn was limited. I read that she lived in Houston, Texas. Her XL modeling sets were easy enough to find, but little else. Some featured her wearing yesteryear apparel or glasses, which added a nerdy vibe to her realism. Something I felt enhanced the spectrum of her appeal. I felt that she was a positive force for female empowerment. For developing a positive self-image, unfettered by commercial concepts of faux-ideal womanhood.

Then, I happened to post a photo of Marilyn on Twitter. The reaction made me ponder whether she was also on that social platform. I searched her name for results. And… reality invaded my happy space with unexpected force.

Like a coin flipped in the air, I was now able to see her other side.

Marilyn offered more than the charm of purveying plus-size photographs. More than appearing appealingly as a bouncy, BBW babe. She was also… a porn star. Friends laughed out loud when I described this tale in depth. Had I been willingly naive? Silly? Foolish? Or a straight-up liar? Surprise made my face go red. I had followed many models, particularly on the Instagram site, with names like Candy Coconuts, Ivy Doomkitty, Crazy4Me, Ruby Roxx, and others. Yet Marilyn stood apart from the rest, recorder, phallic implement and hamburger in hand. She was unique in the adult realm as in the world of modeling. Funny, ad-libbing video sequences in funky outfits, offering singalong segments from her bedroom or car, doing a send-up of Little Red Riding Hood or Ronald McDonald, interpreted as a Jugalette. Every tidbit offered with those lusciously huge, deep eyes.

Eventually, I was moved to opine about her, in song. With my 1980’s Ovation Applause guitar, I composed a ballad to celebrate her charm and candor:

Marilyn.

I don’t know where you’ve been,

And I really don’t wanna speculate,

I just think you’re great

You’re the Burger Queen

A Jugalette, on the scene

Or Little Red Riding Hood

Oh my

You are so good

You’re a curvy lass

On the Internet showing ass

Nylons and stiletto heels

I love how

Loving you feels

Marilyn...

You’re an XL star

T-shirt goddess is what you are

Make me laugh make me scream

Cool Whip and hot blue jeans

You’re the girl next door

If that girl was on the floor

Making movies pay-per-view

Oh Marilyn I love you

Marilyn...

You’ve known some men

But not me, then again

Wish I could be your man

Please tell me that I can

I don’t want your videos

I want to feel how love grows

When a heart respects

What a man should protect

I recorded the song on my iPhone. In one or two takes, at my desk. On Valentine’s Day of 2017, an odd coincidence. Afterward, I posted the finished product on YouTube, Facebook and Twitter. It got little, if any notice. I suspect that most of my friends, perhaps all of them, were unfamiliar with her name. Or maybe they assumed that I had written some sort of light-hearted, lyrical parody associated with the aforementioned Ms. Mortenson. For whatever reason, the video had almost no views.

Recently, however, I stumbled upon a comment offered on Instagram. MM had discovered my song while searching for material. She had re-posted the work on her ‘Yur2Yung’ page.

“I just found this entire ballad written for me while googling pictures of myself and I am beyond touched. (Smiley face) I don’t know if you found me again since my hiatus but if you’re reading this, I think you’re great too. (Hearts)”

Suddenly, views and likes were numerous. I read the string of comments on her page with wonder and amusement.

All of this brought me full-circle, back to browsing her photos and videos in cyberspace. Back to peering into those lovely eyes. Back to snorting with laughter over her campy routines and real-time recordings, improvised and on-the-fly. A stream-of-consciousness ‘hot take’ for the modern world.

Against the needed backdrop of #MeToo awakening, Marilyn seemed to offer an alternate view of women taking charge of their lives and their bodies. One just as valid and real. But, perhaps not quite ready for everyday consumption. Not exactly the mainstream titillation of Norma Jeane.

At the most basic level, I was glad she liked my song. Now, it was time to write about this experience!

Comments on ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: rodswindle@yahoo.com

See Marilyn on Instagram: @Yur2Yung

Marilyn illustration for sale: www.storenvy.com/products/21364526-marilyn-mayson-extra-2

“Kentucky Lucky”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

‘Loner.’ A descriptive word, both accurate and indelible.

As a kid, I moved many times when my family hip-hopped from one destination to another, with an unpredictable zeal for adventure. Dad’s service as a clergyman and counselor meant that our home was ever built on shifting soil. I never had a sense of being from any geographical spot on the map. Or, of being part of a group. We were a nomadic tribe, sometimes able to depend on the kindness of strangers. But ultimately, alone with ourselves.

In the summer of 1969, we moved to a small town in Kentucky, named Owingsville. Located in the northeastern part of that state, our new home was the seat of Bath County. Though the greater nation writhed in social upheaval and the military mire of Vietnam, our community lagged behind. Life was much as it might have been in the 1940’s or 50’s. Men still sat, whittling wood sticks, in front of stores, downtown. My school had long since outgrown its dated, brick dimensions. So I took third-grade classes in a trailer. On weekends, I walked with my brother and sister to the front end of Wells Avenue, where a gas station offered Ale-8-One from a vending machine.

Downtown, a ‘five and dime’ store had 45 rpm records on sale for 10 cents, each. I had already begun to gather tuneful vinyl, mirroring the habit of my father. But this new vein of grooved platters excited my obsession, in earnest. It made me feel less isolated to seek and find music.

Instead of being a loner, I was now a collector.

One of these treasures was a single by the Turtles called ‘House on the Hill.’ A group well known, nationally and overseas. Another, more anonymous, was by Jim Ford, a native of the Bluegrass State. Issued on the Mustang label, in red and black.

His song was called ‘Linda Comes Running.’ Co-written with Pat Vegas and released two years earlier:

“When I call her name, well-a india Linda

Linda comes running, as fast as she can

She knows how to make me feel like somebody

She knows how to make me feel like a man

The way she moves is like a soft summer breeze

The things she says, she’s got a hold on me

Whenever I need her I don’t have to worry

When I call her name, she’s there in a hurry

Linda comes running as fast as she can...”

I felt lucky to have discovered this nugget of Rock & Roll so close to home.

Soon, I made a makeshift studio upstairs, in our attic. There, I sat with a portable Silvertone hi-fi, acquired from the Sears & Roebuck catalog. A big-speakered device, wrapped in upholstery colored green and white. Dad was busy with duties at church. Brother and sister liked to play in the yard. Mom struggled with lingering remnants of postpartum depression and weight issues, while shielding us from such concerns with love. Her songs in the kitchen inspired me to dream of performing on my own.

I played records over and over and over again.

From my youthful perspective, Ford might well have been a star like Elvis or the Beatles. Though the true scope of his career was much more humble. I literally wore out the circular slab of wax, while imagining myself on stage:

“When I was down and out she made me feel like living

My cup’s overflowing with the love she’s given

Whenever I need her I just call her name

And Linda comes running as fast as she can

She knows how to make my temperature rise

Linda comes running it ain’t no surprise

Here she comes here she comes here she comes now

Linda comes running, look at that gal...”

Ford issued his seminal LP ‘Harlan County’ that year. Though largely unknown to many fans of popular music, his compositions were recorded by successful artists, including Bobbie Gentry, Ron Wood, Nick Lowe and Aretha Franklin.

Later, as I grew to adulthood, my copy of the 45 disappeared into a mass of records, which I carried from state to state. While discussing music with other collectors, I sometimes referenced my childhood gem. Universally, I received the same response.

“Jim Who??”

After decades of life experiences, and other vinyl treasures, I began to wonder if my underdeveloped memory had concocted the record out of fantasy. But the modern miracle-tool of online research revived my recollections, and more. Bear Family Records, from Germany, had gathered and re-released many of his classic works and unknown demo tapes. A website created by Robin Dunn and Chrissie Van Varik offered information on Ford, with a wealth of transcribed lyrics from his compositions. He was born on August 23^rd, 1941. In the Johnson County town of Paintsville, not far away from where I had lived. Sadly, he was found dead on November 18^th, 2007, while plans were in motion to revive his career.

Once again, I could hear his voice projected from the old Silvertone player:

“Hey-hey Linda girl I need you right now

Ah, look at my baby, she’s coming to me now

When I call her name, well-a india Linda

Linda comes running as fast as she can...”

It was as if I had teleported through time and space, back to 233 Wells Avenue. My home for a year, my memory, forever.

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

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

Read more about Jim Ford at: https://robindunnmusic.wordpress.com/

Bear Family Records: https://www.bear-family.com/

“Dad’s Chair”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

all rights reserved

(11-18)

A king’s throne.

Dad’s chair, especially after he passed away in April, had meaning for those of us in the Ice family. It was his landing place for moments of pure relaxation. A spot where he could converse with Mom, and read. Different from his seat in the office, a place where work was his focus. Different also from his folding chair in the kitchen, where quick meals and television held his attention.

In the living room, seated comfortably and feeling mellow, he was at his best. A neighbor, husband, father, and grandfather, waiting with wisdom to impart. From that recliner, he was truly able to project the love and understanding of one who had lived and learned for so many years.

Late in his journey, the chair became a dependable home base when the rest of their dwelling had largely been abandoned. With unsorted mail, empty boxes, forgotten gifts and furniture piled everywhere, that one bit of household acreage remained intact. It was where my sister found him in February, unable to stand and on the cusp of a life transition he refused to willingly embrace.

After months of work that followed, to clear the house, my nephew rented a U-Haul truck and completed our task. The family homestead for 32 years was empty, at last. But there had not been enough space to carry everything back to Ohio.

Dad’s chair was gone.

In October, my sister called to discuss attending a meeting at the Mansfield Place nursing home, where Mom remained. It would require booking a motel room, overnight. The first time since 1986 that we had not stayed at the familiar bungalow off Union Road. On a whim, she contacted the new property owner and asked about her progress in remodeling the venerable structure. Work had already begun, despite the seasonal cascade toward winter. Leftover appliances and furnishings had been quickly claimed in the process.

But the comfy throne of our humble sire remained.

Sister and I left early on Tuesday, after I voted in Thompson. It was election day, with mid-term results hanging in the balance. A referendum taken in a contentious time. We made quick work of the trip, arriving in West Virginia early enough to visit Premier Bank for an adjustment in Mom’s account. Then, we spent a few hours with her, in person, until dinner arrived. As ever, the team was cheerful and made us feel welcome.

I mentioned writing a column for my online series about traveling to mountain country. In particular, about finding lyrics for their state anthem, written by Ellen King. Suddenly, Mom’s eyes began to fill with tears. She sang out with emotion:

“Oh, the hills, beautiful hills

How I love those West Virginia Hills!

If o’er sea, o’er land I roam

Still I’ll think of happy home

And my friends among

the West Virginia Hills.”

At night, we stayed up late in the Mountaineer Inn motel, watching news reports about all the nationwide contests. I felt glad to hear that Joe Manchin had been reelected. ‘Senator Joe’ had helped us to secure Medicaid coverage for Mom at the nursing home. A task that required some seven months of diligence and hard labor.

In the morning, we paused at Hardee’s for breakfast. A fast-food depot that had been in town long before anything like a McDonald’s or Sheetz discovered their Tygart River community. The Medallion or Philippi Inn would have provided us with more sophisticated fare, at an unhurried pace. But we needed to be moving. I savored the biscuits and gravy in their breakfast platter.

The Care Plan meeting was at 9:00 a.m., with two members of the staff. We were impressed with the amount of details in their activity log. Mom’s health had improved with the expert care and better nutrition. She socialized well, always a strong point among her many gifts. We were also satisfied with the communication between us, despite the geographical distance involved. Then, as a game was about to begin in their activity room, we excused ourselves.

The moment had arrived for our drive up the hill.

I had not seen the erstwhile family homestead in two months. A black, work trailer was parked in the front yard. The door stood open, and a neighbor and her son were working inside. Silently, I celebrated this stroke of good fortune because the thought of hoisting Dad’s recliner into the truck bed made my tired knees and disintegrated hip quiver with fatigue.

They brought out the chair, and separated it into two more manageable pieces, as we waited. Then loaded them into the pickup. It was nearly a perfect fit. I reckoned the cargo would be safe all the way back to Geauga County. My sister felt brave and had a last look inside the house. But I stayed in the yard.

My head bowed in reverence. “I’ll remember this place as it was...”

We made it back in three hours and forty minutes, despite road construction that hindered our progress. My youngest nephew helped to unload Dad’s chair and boost it up the front steps of brother’s mobile home. The experience had begun and ended much like a flash of lightning in the sky. By dinnertime, I was at home with a package of pepperoni rolls from the Philippi Shop ‘n Save, and some bottled water. My limbs were sore. I panted for my breath. Yet a sense of calm had taken hold. We had rescued and returned a vital part of Ice history to our family.

I knew that in eternity, the old fellow would be glad.

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

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