“Medicare Monday”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-19)

Note: This is a fictional story. But I hope, one to be made real, very soon.

D-Day. In this case, the D was for doctor.

I arrived at the University Hospitals complex earlier than expected. It had been two years and eight months since my last visit. So any notion of how long the journey would take was erased by neglect. Their parking lot simmered like a kettle on low boil. Cars entering and exiting, patients hobbling under the weight of affliction, others busily checking their phones before returning to duty. Each image struck nerves in my brain. I had been absent for a long time.

At a window inside, I waited for the receptionist. Her glasses were heavier and thicker than my own. She looked up as if I seemed familiar, yet forgotten.

“You name, sir?” she asked.

My voice cracked a bit. “Rodney... Rodney Ice.”

She blinked her eyes. “Have you been a patient here, Mr. Ice?”

“Yes,” I responded.

She scanned through entries on her computer. “I’m sorry, you are not listed here...”

“I have been away for some time,” I confessed. “Almost three years.”

Her blue eyes grew wider. “Away?”

“No health insurance,” I said. “It has been a marathon of endurance.”

She shook her head, while switching to another screen on her terminal. “Ah, we have you listed as inactive. Why no insurance? There are plans through the Affordable Care Act, Medicare, Medicaid, retirement plans, all sorts of ways to be covered.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “A pity that some people still fall through the cracks. People like me, for instance.”

She shook her head again.

I filled out new paperwork while waiting. The room filled with eager visitors. All hoping for a cure or comfort of some kind. Then, I was called for one of the examination rooms.

A young, perky assistant took my pulse and blood pressure. Her concern could not be hidden. She took my BP a second time. Then a third.

“Are you on any medicines, Mr. Ice?” she fretted.

“None,” I replied. “Not for almost three years.”

Her eyebrows raised and she exhaled noisily. “Three years?”

“That’s right,” I confirmed.

She took my BP once more. “This is very high. How long has it been since you had any meds for your condition?”

“January of 2017,” I answered.

She scratched at her brown hair. “How... have you... survived?”

“Prayer and bed rest,” I said.

The doctor knocked loudly, then entered before her helped had finished. “RODNEY! I thought perhaps you had moved away!”

I chuckled with relief. “No, still here, still in Thompson. Still living alone, with my dog.”

Doctor Puzjelski smiled with frustration. “You should have seen me many months ago. Do you realize the risk you took by going so long without any care?”

My face reddened. “I do. No one would help. I did not qualify for any assistance. I could not get hired after losing my job. My cane and obvious physical impairment frightened away employers, despite a good resume. I barely avoided being homeless at Christmas time.”

Doctor P. folded her hands. “So, what have you been doing?”

“Writing a lot,” I explained. “Staying active so much as I could. Trying to maintain a sort of routine. Difficult in the winter months, as the cold aggravates my arthritis and debilitated joints.”

“Have you seen your cardiologist?” she wondered out loud.

“No,” I declared. “Three yearly appointments missed, so far.”

“Have you had a colonoscopy due to your family history?” she inquired.

“No,” I repeated.

“An MRI on your hip and knees?” she stammered.

“No,” I answered yet again.

“You seem to have one word in mind today,” she said with regret.

“Very true,” I agreed. “No career, no insurance, no help.”

“You don’t take any pain meds?” she said quizzically.

“None,” I shrugged. “The painkillers worry me more than the hurt from aching bones.”

“So, you do have pain?” she asked.

“Every day,” I nodded. “Have gotten used to it over time. When it becomes too much, I simply go to bed. Rest, work, rest, work, rest. I can do that in retired life.”

Doctor Puzjelski smoothed her jacket collar. “So why now? Why see me today?”

My skin began to tingle. “I finally qualified for Medicare. It took two years after being approved for disability. A long wait.”

“Very long!” she exclaimed. “You could’ve had a stroke! Or had that hip or knees come apart!”

“Last year, my parents had to be taken out of their home, in West Virginia,” I added. “My father died shortly afterward. I had to clear their home with help from my sister and nephew. I was the executor of Dad’s estate and conservator for Mom. That meant frequent southern trips and appearing in court. Just getting Medicaid certification for my mother took from February to September. Lots of appointments, telephone conversations and written communication.”

“But nothing for you?” she said in amazement.

“No,” I replied.

She wrinkled her nose. “Forgive me, Rodney, but you walk like an old man.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Like my father, who was 88 when he passed away.”

“I need to run tests,” she declared. “You have put yourself in quite a situation, but I must say your stamina is a welcome surprise.”

“A family tradition,” I observed. “Dad continued to work until he couldn’t get out of his chair. Even then, he stayed active as a wordsmith. My friend Janis keeps me moving. We still walk on her road by Lake Erie.”

“WALK?” the doctor shrieked. “For pleasure?”

My eyes lowered with embarrassment. “I go slowly. Cane and limbs in motion. Thinking carefully about every step. Pacing myself.”

Doctor Puzjelski smiled. “Whatever you’ve been doing has worked.”

“It has,” I laughed. “I am still here...”

“Well now, this is where it all turns around,” she spoke confidently. “Now that you have Medicare, we can begin to get you right again. Get you feeling better about yourself.”

My hand clasped hers, gratefully. “I am ready!”

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

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

“Places”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-19)

Going back. A journey no longer possible for myself.

Recent comments from the White House, about banishing political opponents from the United States, created a firestorm of protest. Reactions to this trashy rhetoric were severe. But the incident produced an unintended vibe for myself. A personal observation that I could never return to many cherished places that helped to direct my own journey of life.

I wrote in the last few weeks about personally digitizing old VHS recordings from the 1970’s and 80’s. My intent was to archive and share these video artifacts. But after accomplishing the task, I inherited an unexpected vibe of regret. Revisiting these electronic images made me ponder that I could never physically inhabit any of these places again.

4655 Hornby Road, Corning, New York 14830 – While studying television production through an apprenticeship provided by Cornell University, I met a graduate of the school named Paul Race. He would find membership in the family at Channel 13, in Ithaca. And be a collaborator in musical endeavors. Most importantly, he and I became lifelong friends. He was the mentor I needed as a rowdy teenager. I spent many days at his home, practicing guitar riffs and sifting through his collection of vinyl records, even after moving to northeastern Ohio. The house was like an Egyptian tomb, loaded with treasures and trinkets of all sorts. He seemed to collect everything. Records, comic books, magazines, beer signs, old furnishings, music artifacts, guitars, and vintage clothing. He worked constantly. So days off were frantic with Rock jams and yard-sale adventures. Eventually, his high-speed life experience proved to be overwhelming. With frustration, he temporarily abandoned this personal oasis when it could hold no more. Living then at his childhood home, down the hill, in Riverside. He allowed the utilities, phone service, electric and water, to lapse. We fell out of touch for a few years, which troubled my heart. Then in 2014, his wife reached out with the news that he had passed away. The house on Hornby Road had been raided by thieves and finally collapsed due to neglect. A heap of memories crushed under the roof. All that remained was a white rectangle in the trees, visible on Google Maps. My heart was broken. For Paul and the haven he loved so much.

15 Dadisman Drive, Philippi, West Virginia 26416 – After a lifetime of moving from one residence to another, while spreading gospel teachings to the faithful, my parents landed at this spot on the map in early 1986. It became the homestead they had sought forever. A refuge in the hills. Dad’s office boasted a library that was both eclectic and inspirational. Mom’s kitchen offered tasty treats that filled bellies and warmed souls. Grandchildren in our family knew no other place. The “little brown house” was their destination, every summer. For myself, it became a sanctuary when escaping the burdensome weight of everyday life. We reckoned that it should outlive Mom & Dad as a museum. A monument to their love of family and community. But with health issues clouding the horizon, they were forced to leave, last year. The job of clearing away a lifetime of memories fell mainly to sister and myself. As we labored, I could not escape a sense of dread. With each box packed away, we were closer to the final goodbye. The process took month to accomplish, but had been completed by October. My nephew hauled away what was left. Though the shell remained, what we remembered as ‘home’ was no more. Only one thing eased this yield of sadness – a plate of sausage biscuits and gravy. 

5775 Refugee Road, Columbus, Ohio 43232 – We always called it “The Farm.” The property and buildings had been in my family for much of the 20^th Century. Father said this sacred patch of ground was purchased by his uncle, Joseph Roberts, in the 1930’s. But historically, it was first included as a portion of the Refugee Tract, an area of Ohio given to Canadians who had supported the cause of independence during our colonial revolution against British rule. A member of the family discovered that the original deed was handwritten on yellow, legal paper. A document that is now archived in Washington, D. C. as part of our national history. For my family, it was an anchor that kept us steady despite the changing times. My grandparents were stewards of this legacy. Always ready to receive guests at any hour. The reading table in their living room boasted magazines and books of all sorts. The kitchen cupboards were stuffed with sweet and savory snacks. So our minds and bellies stayed satisfied during every visit. But recently, one of our brood discovered that this spot had been cruelly erased from existence. A development that both shocked and saddened our brood. There was no time to bid our 'farm' farewell.

The notion of ‘going back’ has sparked vigorous debate among pundits and partisans in our land. But for this writer, the curse evokes only a quiet response. A bowed head with the realization that there is no longer a past to which I can return. Still, in memory, these places will live forever. And so long as we live and breathe, they will endure in our hearts.

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

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

“Monica”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-19)

“Good morning, Twitter!”

Like most Americans, her image has been indelibly tattooed onto my consciousness. Her undeniable cuteness, her curiosity, her deep eyes and dark hair. Her longing gazes, her ebullience and youthful charm. The unwilling ‘It Girl’ of 1990’s tabloid lore. The focal point of a factional maelstrom. The implement of justice for rivals of the president. The butt of crude jokes for late-night comics. The victim ignored. The forgotten and never-forgotten. Ever-present even when watchers prefer not to see.

I encountered her via Twitter, perhaps a year ago. Still charming and effervescent. But now more seasoned with the experiences that only age can bring. Past the point of being an active celebrity. No longer selling fad-diets or handbags. I gasped silently, reading that she had reached her mid-40’s. A smart student with a master’s degree in psychology. Living well after the sort of life that would have humbled even the strongest souls.

A champion in the art of endurance.

Predictably, posts about her colorful past continued. Foolish, low-hanging-fruit barbs in cyberspace. The sort of nonsense one would expect to hear from youngsters who had surreptitiously acquired their first pack of cigarettes and bottle of liquor. Dumb, sexist, marginalizing jabs from male and female tweeters, alike. I read them with a wincing reaction in my belly. Feeling both gladness and guilt. Glad for her ability to soar over the debris of her notoriety. Guilty because, like so many, I swam in the muddy river of support for her powerful pursuer. And remain, to this day, made unclean by that moment.

I voted for Bill Clinton. Twice.

Stories of his adulterous liaisons were known, even then, but cheerfully ignored by supporters. Some truly believed in the “vast, right-wing conspiracy.” Others simply chose expedience over moral beliefs. But a sort of bargain with Lucifer was struck. Instead of inspiring an early echo of #MeToo awareness, the moment provided cause for a circling of wagons. Clinton’s accusers were trashed, even by his wife. Meanwhile, Newt Gingrich and his congressional horde brewed up a poison punch from elements of duplicity and prevarication at the White House. One that ultimately did not prove to be fatal to its target. President Clinton remained popular enough. And able to work with his opponents, despite the rancor.

Thus, my votes in 1992 and 1996.

With the modern rise of Trump, our nation has encountered something of a biblical storm. One that might be defined as “wages of sin.” Republicans who cheer for the grabber-of-privates and adulterer-in-chief justify such conduct on the foundation laid by their enemies. A mistake with no judgment of mortality. And foes who clamor for impeachment hear a similar accusation of partisanship to the one they employed not so long ago. Roles have been reversed. Routines wildly run amok.

But Monica remains.

Her stamina must be viewed as remarkable. But more important is her ability to remind us of our failings. In the 21^st Century, with demons of Harvey Weinstein, Donald J. Trump and Jeffrey Epstein looming in our consciousness, we have still not fully shamed such offenders with the might of public opinion. President Clinton remains a folk hero and elder statesman. While Monica Lewinsky yet hears the locker-room banter of those on social media platforms.

More damming than what these comments say about her is what they reveal about us, as a group.

In the 1990’s, I struggled with my own marital woes. It became easy to transfer that condition to the scandals of our president. He seemed locked in a marriage that was more convenient than fulfilling. His young intern offered fresh air in an environment that had grown deathly stale. This perfect storm was predicated on weakness and sin. But I, like many other voters, felt a kinship with him, in our failings. We were men at our core. Sly, self-interested, stealthy. Incredibly stupid. In the balance, flawed to the point of injuring ourselves.

Hillary’s zeal in combating her husband’s accusers left a foul aftertaste that never evaporated. Her concern was tilted toward political survival, not marital wholeness. If she had spoken out for justice, for fidelity, for reconciliation and genuine remorse, who knows what might have developed in decades of the future. But, she did not choose that path.

Monica, young and overwhelmed by a powerful figure of worldwide renown, took on the mantle of guilt that her chaser should have worn. Therefore today, ‘Slick Willie’ remains a hero of yonder days and she still dodges the jeers and jabs of internet trolls. While Trumpers grouse about these past transgressions in hope of hiding the filthy state of their own hero.

This is the unintended magic of Ms. Lewinsky. She raises a cultural mirror in which we are forced to view ourselves. Naked of artifice and convenient shadows.

In Matthew 25:40, the Christian Bible says “The King will reply ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’” And in verse 45, “‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’” (New International Version) A modern paraphrase of this lesson might be offered for today:

“What you have done unto Monica Lewinsky, you have done unto America.”

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

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

“Dirty Pickles - New Batch”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-19)

I owe it all to Gazette Newspapers.

In this column, I have previously observed that my first encounter with Matt Boland and his lively Rockabilly group came as something of a happy accident. Like a wandering brushstroke in a Bob Ross painting. I was employed as Sports Editor for Gazette Newspapers, out of Jefferson, Ohio. An extra responsibility with this position involved creating content for special sections included with our publications. In particular, writing music features. It was a labor of love for someone raised in a household filled with records and tuneful instruments of all kinds.

Seeking a local Blues combo for an upcoming feature, I visited the Conneaut Sock Hop in 2007. I had not been in that city since the 1980’s, when helping out the floor crew at a local Fisher’s Big Wheel department store. Something I did as part of my employment in Chardon. So I had little idea of what to expect. But after circling the downtown area, I parked on a side street and entered the festivities with my camera and reporter’s notebook in hand.

On a flatbed stage across the street were young musicians who performed an energetic version of a Buddy Holly song. They immediately captured my attention. But the name of their group sounded unfamiliar. They were ‘Matty B and the Dirty Pickles.’ I checked my notes to be sure. Yet their sound was infectious. I stood on the tarmac, tapping my foot.

“Maybe baby, I’ll have you

Maybe baby, you’ll be true

Maybe baby, I’ll have you for me

It’s funny honey, you don’t care

You never listen to my prayer

Maybe baby, you will love me some day...”

Rock & Roll revivalists were plentiful. But this young celebrity was channeling the energy of a bygone era through a nimble, elfish body not yet diminished by time and fatigue. He leaped around the stage, strummed hard on his vintage-style guitar, and eventually jumped off the drum kit with a flash of acrobatic showmanship. 

 

The encounter brightened my summer in a way only true art could achieve.

Back at the office in Jefferson, my main duty was to report about popular activities like baseball, golf, and local auto races. But I could think about little else than this energetic new band from Erie, Pennsylvania. A group that seemed to transcend the time elapsed between the rise of beloved 1950’s pioneers and the 21^st Century. I wrote various stories for the newspaper company about their shows. Eventually, I witnessed Matt in a production of the Buddy Holly Story at a theater in Erie. In a sense, this experience capped my long-term fascination with his work. When meeting his mother, Valerie, I noted that our backgrounds were similar. It deepened my affection for all things ‘Pickled.’

“Well you are the one that

Makes me glad

Any other one that

Makes me sad

And when some day

You want to leave

Well I’ll be there

Wait and see-hee...”

Through the magic of social media, I was able to remain in touch with Matt Boland even after leaving Gazette Newspapers. His career arc proved to be fascinating as he became ‘Broke Boland’ and broadened his repertoire. He graduated from the visceral appeal of roots music, to social consciousness and commentary. I felt somewhat like a parent, watching him mature through each stage to the next. Meanwhile, my own progression went from focusing on career goals, to unemployment, health issues, unexpected early retirement, and a personal review that brought me once again to the joy of writing as a noble craft.

Matt left for New York City, where he encountered the strong brew of cultural and intellectual diversity available in a world-class community. A complex brine that seasoned him with artistic flavor. I noted that he was no longer merely an upstart kid from humble beginnings. He had truly grown into a keeper-of-the-flame. A troubadour in the old tradition. Part jester, part crooner, part storyteller and historian. One who carried the best hope of Rock music forward.

With much anticipation, I read messages from him and Valerie about the Dirty Pickles evolution into a band with more members, and a greater variety of sounds. They were scheduled to appear at the Conneaut Sock Hop once again.

I pondered that it had been a dozen years since our first encounter.

The event in Ohio’s easternmost corner evoked familiar sights and sounds of Americana at its best. A colorful display of postwar hope and achievement. Our return to prominence after defending the cause of freedom around the globe. Our struggle to put right the misdeeds of our founders through cultural interaction. Our stylish, wheeled beasts, literally rolling sculptures, that portrayed the ingenuity and diversity of this nation. Our love of plectrum tones and bare-bones jump and jive.

This happening provided a friendly backdrop to witness a resurrection of the Pickledelic sound.

“Maybe baby, I’ll have you

Maybe baby, you’ll be true

Maybe baby, I’ll have you for me

Maybe baby, I’ll have you for me.”

While listening to the band work through their roster of songs, I conversed with mom Valerie. My eyes grew wide when she spoke about life from a perspective that was both challenging and familiar. Her own routine being stretched by the forces of nature taking hold, while Matt and her daughter Cara pursued their ambitions with youthful zeal. My head nodded in understanding. As it was during our encounter so many years before, we seemed to be on a similar path.

Afterward, I hobbled back up Main Street toward my vehicle. Pausing to snap photos of vintage cars and bikes with my cellphone. Leaning on my cane. Feeling grateful for a prevailing breeze that muted the blossoming of summer temperatures.

But thankful most of all for believers in the spirit of Rock & Roll. Like Matt Boland and his talented crew from Erie, Pennsylvania.

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

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

“VHS Voyage”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-19)

Memories.

In shadowed crevices of the human brain, such recollections may linger for a near-eternity, still fresh and unaffected by the passage of time. But in analog form, specifically, when recorded on magnetic tape, such events suffer through an aging process not unlike the one that governs human mortality.

I witnessed this truism recently, when a friend from yonder days requested copies of any material I might have on hand from our shared stint at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York. He was in charge of the station, and I had landed in his care through an apprenticeship program of Cornell University.

Our voyage together was from 1978 to 1980. I first met him at the age of 17.

I called him ‘The Guru’ as he had already lived into his 30’s, graduated from college, and become a teacher in the SUNY system. The State University of New York. He introduced me to the compositions of Woody and Steina Vasulka, a husband-and-wife-team notable in the early days, for pioneering work in media arts. Though my reserve of ideas was plentiful, I lacked much practical knowledge. Yet he spoke in a language I could understand. Patient, yet demanding.

“Think of a video system like plumbing,” he declared one afternoon. “You have a supply, pipes to feed the flow, and a destination point, like a spigot.” The analogy registered in my teenage brain. Soon, I was able to re-wire our studio, when it had been broken down for other needs. After a class on editing, I assembled a compilation of a show I hosted at the station.

It was a music and culture program, called “Punk-Out!”

Through the magic of social media, I located ‘The Guru’ almost 40 years later. We connected via Facebook and traded messages. Other friends in Ithaca and New York City made this possible. Then, a few weeks ago, my erstwhile mentor sent a query about video relics that I might have on hand.

His request was straightforward: A digital copy of any tapes that had survived from our cooperation at Channel 13.

With some trepidation, I pondered that our late cohort Riverside Paul, also involved in the show, had dubbed off a VHS copy of material sometime in the early 1990’s. He had originally recorded my compilation video with his Sony Betamax device, at the studio. He also had black & white footage of a session with house band ‘The Embarrassing Pinworms’ when I had taken over as lead vocalist due to the departure of student and frontman, Johnny Youth.

The videocassette had been in storage for almost 30 years. I tried to play it once before, in recent times, with the contents jamming in my neglected Kmart VCR. So the thought of making another attempt to revive the video-brick gave me butterflies in my stomach. Yet I knew that the tape would only decompose further with time added to its isolation. So I purchased a USB system off of eBay, with the needed connectors and a driver program included on CD. I hooked up the hardware to a brand-new VCR discovered at the home of my parents. Then, installed the driver. After winding the tape through for safety, I clicked on the input controls. What followed was a trip back to 1979, before career fatigue, divorce, family alienation and old age took their toll on my body and soul.

On the computer screen, I was young again!

The sight of deceased compatriots from that distant era quickened my pulse. Most impressive was the moving image of Mark the Poet, a local iconoclast and songwriter from that era. His creation ‘Mike Hammer Dead In Black & White’ became an anthem for Pinworms shows, rendered over music stolen from Henry Mancini’s ‘Peter Gunn Theme.’ Sadly, Mark left the mortal realm in 1980.

I felt a sweet release of stress as the recording finished its run without incident. My task seemed to be at the end.

When trying to copy the file onto a SanDisk USB stick, so that it could be sent to the Guru in Brooklyn, I encountered an error message that said the file was too large. I knew this could not be correct. Yet the message repeated again and again. Feeling a rising tide of frustration, I consulted online help. A forum post prescribed reformatting the stick from FAT32 into NTFS to avoid the 4GB limit on saved files.

As in my days with ‘The Guru’ I barely understood, but trusted the guidance. This procedure wiped the stored memory clean, but it worked. I was able to transfer the two-hour video at last.

The first digitization had been accomplished at my kitchen table, with an old Compaq laptop, running Windows 7. The USB link I bought included Honestech TVR 2.5 as a driver program, which according to comments on eBay, was a Chinese bootleg of an outdated Ulead program. When I plugged the stick into my more modern PC in the home office, running Windows 10, it failed. I could not get a video signal.

I pondered the situation over adult beverages. My path was clear. The real-time transfer would have to be done all over again.

A day later, I shuffled notebooks, mail, and ephemera to make a spot for the VCR on top of my PC printer. I hooked up the USB device and cables, again. I wound the tape through once more, for good measure. A search in cyberspace revealed the computer program ‘Open Broadcaster Software’ which was a freeware alternative. Offered for PC, Mac and Linux. When downloaded, it looked much like the TVR 2.5 setup, but was improved with better features.

I repeated the process and again heard the ringing of Riverside Paul’s Fender Telecaster, contrasting with the keyboard doodles of our friend Manic McManus. My co-host on the show. They were performing a version of the Janie Bradford / Berry Gordy classic, ‘Money (That’s What I Want).’

Finally, the had transfer worked.

Assured of my success, I packaged the SanDisk memory stick to be mailed. Jangling, buzzing guitar riffs still echoed in my head. I felt glad to have saved the vintage recording to a current format.

And glad to have preserved the memories of my friends who had graduated to eternity.

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

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