“The Pragmatist”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

Overnight.

My favorite time for creative work comes when the sun has vanished, and most of my neighbors are lost to slumbering away daily fatigue. Cloaked and comforted with this pause, I feel revived. Safe to approach the ideas that have percolated in my subconscious mind during regular hours.

I was at my desk in the home office. Coffee and my Black Lab offering companionship. The morning had been quiet so far, except for a light rain that teased at our windows. I was reviewing material for the local newspaper-of-record, the Geauga Independent. A task faithfully executed each day, as editor and publisher. Puzzlement stalled my dedication, however. I fretted over choosing an appropriate story for the front page. The Maple Festival, in Chardon? Spring awakening thoughts of leisure activities on the horizon? No… not now. These things had vanished.

In our current age of challenges and changes, they did not exist.

My company phone rang while I pondered. Its screen announced an anonymous number from Burton, Ohio. This made me sit upright, and take a deep breath. The device sounded three times in succession. Finally, I accepted the call.

“You have reached the Independent. May I help you?”

A cough and static filled my ear. “Rodney! This is Zeb!”

I rubbed my eyes. “Who?”

There was more static on the line. “Zebulon Byler-Gregg! Brother of Ezekiel and Lemuel! Have you forgotten me, young man?”

I laughed out loud. The caller was a trusted friend, brother of a fellow newspaper editor and also of a vagabond journalist who had moved from the Midwest to the Virgin Islands.

“Zeb! Zeb!” I laughed. “It is five o’clock in the morning!”

He growled like a bear. “So, you’re an understudy for the rooster now?”

“Wait,” I complained. “You called me, sir. Despite the early hour...”

“Rodney, I know your habits,” he said.

I nodded silently. “Yes, they haven’t changed. I made coffee almost two hours ago. Are you working on a feature for the Burton Daily Bugle?”

Zebulon huffed with indifference. “Brother Zeke hasn’t run any of my features in over a month. He’s obsessed with our pancake breakfasts being canceled because of the Coronavirus.”

“Right,” I reflected. “We’ve all experienced a shift of epic proportions. I wonder when we will find our way home to normalcy...”

He lowered the tone of his voice. “That’s what I wanted to discuss, Rodney. Being normal. As in me thinking that you haven’t been very normal, lately.”

I was unprepared for his comment. “What??”

Zebulon sharpened his thoughts. “You used to be a good Libertarian. An independent thinker, an arbiter of truth and justice in print. I liked that, liked reading your work. You were a good kid.”

I had no response. It seemed better to let him ramble.

“Governor DeWine and Dr. Acton have thrown down a gauntlet for citizens from Cincinnati to Cleveland,” he said forcefully. “A violation of liberty like we’ve never seen before. Not in our generation. Not in many generations. Not since the days when the Confederacy challenged our national unity.”

I took a deep breath. But still said nothing.

“It’s time,” he declared. “Time for citizens in Ohio to stand up for freedom. To stand up for our state and our nation. To stand up for our way of life!”

I slumped in my chair. “Zeb, get down off the soapbox.”

“You’ve sold out, brother!” he shouted. “What happened to the man who idolized Lysander Spooner? And William Godwin, Josiah Warren, or Max Stirner? And could quote them all, including Henry David Thoreau? Who voted for Dr. Ron Paul? Who used to have a porcupine bumper sticker on his pickup truck?”

“Zeb,” I laughed. “You are getting carried away. I’m not a scholar. Just a small-town writer. Though I did have the porcupine sticker, until it faded.”

“I’ve read your material in the newspaper,” he continued. “It isn’t the same. Urging people to follow CDC guidelines. The worst of big-government edicts!”

I sighed heavily. “Zeb, we are fighting a worldwide pandemic...”

“Horseshit!” he shouted more loudly. “This is opportunism. A political move!”

I leaned over my desk. “It’s a response to danger. An effort to rescue our society.”

“Traitor!” he yowled. “You’ve gone over to the other side! To socialism, to partisanship, to thought-control and submission of the masses. We might as well live in North Korea now!”

I couldn’t take any more of the rant. “ZEBULON! STOP IT!!”

He groaned as if in pain. “Rodney, you disappoint me.”

“Sorry Zeb,” I apologized. “This is pragmatism at work. Platitudes won’t help fight a virus. They won’t protect us from an invader like COVID-19. We need scientific analysis, and perhaps, a bit of luck...”

My friend went silent for a moment.

“Intellectual sparring is fun,” I added. “In normal times. An academic exercise, entertainment for political geeks like you and me. But not now, not today. Not when thousands have died and more are slipping toward oblivion. Gagging on their ventilators.”

Zebulon had grown angry. “You’re a turncoat!”

I shook my head. “I’m a pragmatist. Like my father. Conservative? Yes. An iconoclast? Maybe. Even a dedicated Libertarian? Yes, yes. My heartstrings reverberate with those tones. But I want to live. I want you to live and our neighbors to live. I want our world to live.”

“HYPOCRITE!” he bellowed.

I stiffened in my chair. “Sorry, brother. I won’t simply be a mouthpiece for the protesters. Though I defend their right to speak. I defend their right to be ignorant. But I won’t help them to wallow in darkness. I won’t will them to be uninformed.”

My cohort grumbled audibly.

“This is our creed and our mission,” I concluded. “To present the evidence. Then readers can decide. Freely and fortified with information. That is our tradition. To educate. To cast light where it is needed. To inspire analysis and debate...”

Zebulon wheezed like a door being shut. He hung up without another word.

Daybreak filled the window above my desk with brightening blue. The coffee had vanished from my cup. My dog was snoring.

Now, it was time to finish my writing project, and return to bed.

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

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

“My Pillow Guy”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

The Setting: Washington, D. C., 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the Oval Office.

The Players: Donald J. Trump, 45^th President of the United States; Mark Meadows, White House Chief of Staff; Rudy Giuliani, counsel to the president.

Mark Meadows: “Good morning, Mister President.”

Donald Trump: “Mark, did you bring me a Coke?”

M. Meadows: (Flustered) “What??”

D. Trump: “A Coke! Mick Mulvaney always brought me a Coke. And those cheese crackers if I wanted them, very cheesy crackers. Crispy and cheesy.”

M. Meadows: “Sir, I am not a waiter, I am chief of staff...”

D. Trump: “Mick never got uptight about bringing me a Coke.”

M. Meadows: “Sir, we have important issues to discuss. The Coronavirus is ravaging America. But citizens are restless, they want you to lift social distancing. This may open us up to a second wave of viral infections...”

D. Trump: “You sound like that woman in Michigan. Gretchen Whitmer. Very sad!”

M. Meadows: “I have Rudy Giuliani waiting in the hallway. He has some ideas for the fall election...”

D. Trump: “Rudy! Bring him in here.”

M. Meadows: (Speaks into the intercom system) “Send in the former New York City mayor, please.”

Rudy Giuliani: (Brusque and bombastic) “Don! Good morning, old friend!”

D. Trump: “I am President Trump, to you and everyone! Rudy, you were supposed to get things moving with the investigation of Sleepy Joe’s son, but that didn’t pan out. What gives?”

R. Giuliani: “Sorry, Don. Nobody bit on the Burisma Holdings story except Fox News.”

M. Meadows: “What can we do for November?”

R. Giuliani: “Tara Reade has a tale to tell. About being assaulted by Joe Biden. I say we let that percolate for awhile.”

M. Meadows: “Sir, with all due respect, we need more leadership on the Coronavirus.”

D. Trump: “I am letting the governors decide when to reopen, they wanted leadership, I know leadership, I have been a leader in business.”

M. Meadows: “You were on Twitter, firing up the protesters against our lockdown, sir. I would not call that leadership.”

D. Trump: “This is America, Mark. We do things in America, big things. We think bigly. Very big! A leader thinks big. I think big.”

R. Giuliani: “Be careful, Don. What if some of those protesters have COVID-19?”

D. Trump: “What they have is patriotic spirit. A lot of spirit.”

M. Meadows: “Governor Cuomo has been pleading for federal help on testing, sir.”

D. Trump: “Why should I help when he is bashing me? Bashing terribly, I think, treating me badly. Very badly.”

M. Meadows: “We need a plan for the fall, sir.”

R. Giuliani: “Don, I think you should reach out once more to Mike Lindell. The ‘My Pillow Guy.’ He has what we need. Americans know him and love his products.”

M. Meadows: (Wide-eyed) “The creepy guy looking through a medicine cabinet?”

D. Trump: “MPG! My Pillow Guy!”

R. Giuliani: (Grinning) “He has what we need. He’s making masks right now instead of stuffing pillows. That’s the spirit Americans will support when voting in November!”

M. Meadows: (Out of breath) “I’ll say it again, sir, we need a plan.”

D. Trump: “I like Lindell. He gets the Evangelical vote, a loyal vote. Very loyal.”

R. Giuliani: “They love that guy!”

M. Meadows: (Red-faced) “Sir, you need to build a broad coalition of voters to win. Joe Biden has support across the political spectrum.”

D. Trump: “America knows MPG and knows his pillows. His sheets too, very good sheets, actually. Very good. Comfy sheets.”

M. Meadows: “The governors of California, New York, Illinois, and Michigan are all concerned about keeping their states safe. You need to show real leadership, going forward.”

D. Trump: (Defiant) “I care about freedom, being free, really free. We’ve got to get this economy going again, Democrats want everything shut down, want the economy down, want the whole country down. Americans don’t want that at all.”

M. Meadows: (Befuddled) “Sir, Americans want to live. They want their loved ones to be safe.”

R. Giuliani: “My Pillow Guy knows safe.”

D. Trump: (Laughing) “Safe in bed with a good pillow. A great pillow, really, very great.”

M. Meadows: (Covering his face) “Yes, sir.”

R. Giuliani: “He’ll be in your commercials. He’ll come to your events. He’ll do a livestream from the factory in Minnesota if that’s what you want, Don. Whatever you want.”

D. Trump: (Brightening) “Great pillows, and keeping America great.”

M. Meadows: (Slumping in his chair) “Yes sir.”

D. Trump: “You call MPG and get him here, get him back to Washington. We have a lot to do. He is making masks, more masks, lots of masks. Masks instead of pillows. You can’t wear a pillow on your face. We need masks. I don’t need one, meeting foreign leaders, but other people do, they really do, they need masks.”

R. Giuliani: “Mike cares about this country.”

M. Meadows: (Shaking his head) “We all do, Mister President.”

D. Trump: (Angry) “I think you have to care a little bit more to make a pillow. The pillow has to be soft, very soft. You have to care that it’s soft. A lot of caring. No caring means no sleep. No caring means a bad America. Not a winning America. We want to win, every day.”

R. Giuliani: (Cheering) “WINNING EVERY DAY!”

M. Meadows: (Broken) “Every day.”

D. Trump: “Call MPG and have him come to Washington again. He believes in God, tell him God called him here, called him to help my campaign. He’ll like that, a call from God. I need someone to help America see my leadership was quality leadership, good leadership. Call him now.”

M. Meadows: (Bowing his head) “Yes sir.”

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

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

“Trump Terminology”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

Donald J. Trump. The one thing he never inspires is… silence.

This bombastic business-mogul-turned-media-figure-turned-candidate-turned-elected-official has literally rewritten the political history of America. With the messy hue of a smashed crayon. Regardless of a spectator’s political inclination, he has become a focal point. For scorn or blind loyalty. Yet his effect on the landscape has not been limited to governance. Instead, he has also inspired new wrinkles in our popular vocabulary. We speak of him on a daily basis, in loathing despair or kneeling praise.

His place in the public consciousness is seemingly secure. No one will forget his reign. It is likely that historians will count him as one of the most significant American leaders of the 21^st Century. Despite being reviled by much of the world’s population.

Examples in mainstream publications and social media are many. Literally millions of words have been written about him, in an endless tide of prose and poetry. What follows here are a few that have been noted by this writer:

The Donald – Perhaps the very first slam against Trump. Common when he hosted ‘The Apprentice’ on television. His arrogant sense of self-importance was known all over this nation and the world. But perhaps, not fully understood. Opponents underestimated the scope of his hubris. He has shown an ability to plunge depths unimagined by previous occupants of the White House.

The Dealer – Trump’s ‘The Art of the Deal’ used to define him as a public figure. Though after his election to the presidency, most now think of him as a political icon.

Cyrus – A reference to Cyrus the Great, mentioned in biblical texts. Evangelical Christians see Trump as a modern version of this Persian king, who became a protector of the Jewish people. They believe that he also has been ‘anointed by God’ to watch over those of faith as they battle secular foes.

God Emperor Trump – A Facebook page. Recently notable for posting a story that the WWE’s Vince McMahon had been chosen to help counsel the president on reviving our national economy after the COVID-19 pandemic. A supreme buffoon.

Tangerine Tornado – A breezy label applied by Dana Carvey, alumnus of SNL.

Spray Tan Republi-can – A nod to Trump’s liberal use of an artificial bronzer in public.

Cheater-in-Chief – A reference to the fact that Trump seems to have never enjoyed a truly committed relationship during his life. He has been married three times and has been unfaithful to all his spouses. His appetite for women apparently rivals that of former national chief executive Bill Clinton.

Mr. Bone Spur Defer – Inspired by his Vietnam deferment to avoid military service, in 1968.

Adolf Twitler – A play on his fondness for Twitter. Very clever.

Drumpf – A common twist on the original spelling of Trump’s family appellation.

Drumpf Der Dorito – A variation that plays on the president’s artificial skin toner.

Pussy Grabber – Used by a friend who actually voted for the president.

Cinnamon Hitler – Another reference used by a friend in New York State. Attributed online to Trevor Noah on ‘The Daily Show.’

Hitler/Satan/Misogynist Fool – An improvised slur shouted in print by a counterculture friend with a longstanding opposition to social norms.

Murdering Fascist Trump; 45 – An in-your-face descriptive. Used by someone I know in New York City.

Nitwitted Sherbet Turd – A nickname offered by my niece. Creative and original.

Mango Mussolini – A fun reference to Il Duce Benito from Italy. Used by a New York friend in a recent e-mail message. With a bit of research after-the-fact, I discovered that there is a brew with this name, apparently a Danish product. Described as a New England IPA. “Full of lively notes of tropical fruit, freshly squeezed orange juice, pineapple and freshly-cut grass. A fantastic bittersweet balance between mango and strong citrus. Oatmeal finishes the silky smooth.”

Orange Shit-Stain – A favorite of someone I met in Erie, Pennsylvania. A friend who maintains a high profile on Facebook as a vocal opponent of ‘45.’

Former President Donald Trump – A nickname offered by Joe Biden, a past vice president and the presumptive Democratic Party presidential candidate for 2020.

Cheeto in Chief – My own moniker for the president, used a few years ago here in my column series.

Herr Cheeto – A later variation I have also used in print.

Whether through defeat at the ballot box or via having simply exhausted his limit as president after another four years, Trump’s position at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue will come to an end. But one can be assured that the legacy of this inflammatory figure will endure for generations to come.

Trump may be considered a foe, a fool, or an extremist hero. But he will never, ever be ignored.

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

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

“Easter Sunday, 2020”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

The Resurrection.

It is the focal point of Christian theology and of this special day on the calendar. But here today, in the moment, there was no formal service. No family meal to share. No celebration to mark the awakening of dormant life that had waited under the shroud of winter. Instead, there was only the ‘now.’ Socially distanced, quarantined, masked, gloved, sanitized, separated and shielded from the invisible menace.

The Coronavirus.

For this writer, the day had simply become a moment to pause in reflection. Which I did while walking my dog. A Black Labrador Retriever, aged 13 years. Birds were loud in announcing the season as we toured our yard. They stayed busy chirping and cackling from trees that were nearly bursting with the promise of new growth.

In my head, a familiar hymn from childhood resounded:

“Low in the grave he lay

Jesus my savior

Waiting the coming day

Jesus, my Lord!”

Our backyard tree stretched across a western corner of the lot. Brimming with buds. I remembered it first appearing under our propane tank, a dozen years ago. An errant, ‘weed tree’ lifting its scrawny trunk toward the sky. A lonely stalk, very out-of-place and odd. I was counseled to simply cut it down, and be free of guilt. But this yearning plant touched my heart. I wondered about transferring it to a more friendly location. To a patch of ground in our side yard. My wife agreed. So we dug carefully, lifting the tiny timber from its grotto under the cylinder.

That summer was memorably hot and dry. We watered the tree regularly, to rescue it from shock. My wife feared that it would not survive. Its leaves drooped with fatigue. I felt sad, as if we were watching a child in a hospital ward. But the garden-hose-therapy continued. After standing, half-bent, until fall, winter covered it with a graceful overcoat of white. We decided moving the tree had been a bad idea. One that bowed us with regret.

Spring flipped our mood, however. The orphan wildwood was reborn! New limbs sprouted in every direction. This miracle once again revived the music in my head, with seasonal joy:

“Up from the grave he arose

With a mighty triumph o’er his foes

He arose a victor from the dark domain

And he lives forever with his saints to reign

He arose! He arose!

Hallelujah, Christ arose!”

The stray sapling grew ferociously. Seemingly inspired to occupy the full measure of its new corner of our yard. White blossoms adorned its breadth and height. During mowing chores, I carefully cut around it to avoid disturbing limbs that reached out for room. I sometimes stood in the grass with a beverage, while admiring its humble grace. An unwanted outcast of sorts. Now able to serve as an anchor on the property. Noble and proud.

Long separated from the dark spot under our tank.

Each year found the tree blooming and blossoming and rising higher toward the regal blue. Eventually, I had to prune it back from touching the neighbor’s bathroom window. A feat that would have been unimaginable only a short while before.

Every spring that followed loosed the same melody in my ears:

“Vainly they watch his bed

Jesus, my savior

Vainly they seal the dead

Jesus, my Lord

Death cannot keep his prey

Jesus, my savior

He tore the bars away,

Jesus, my Lord.”

Even with COVID-19 on a rampage, this Easter felt joyous and pure, like any other. Yet I pondered the day feeling more solemnity. More consideration for the cycle of mortal beings. Of we who walk the earth with rituals and traditions to accompany our journey.

My roam around this rectangle of green had now lasted 18 seasons. With sober eyes, I realized that our tree would likely outlive both of us, in time. My Black Lab, now an old fellow, with frosted whiskers and wrinkled paws. And myself, bent and stumbling with two canes. Trudging in the footsteps of my late father.

This arbor fetched from the propane bay, given new purpose as a fixture of the residence park – would survive us both. Perhaps to convey our story forward, to others who inherit this lot and the neighborhood.

For them, perhaps, the spring of yonder days will brighten with skies untouched by a pandemic like the one we face. With the familiar hymn still signaling the seasonal rebirth of nature:

“Up from the grave he arose

With a mighty triumph o’er his foes

He arose a victor from the dark domain

And he lives forever with his saints to reign

He arose! He arose!

Hallelujah, Christ arose!”

I let my Black Lab off his leash, to wander. Though this Easter had come amid worry and fear, it arrived nevertheless. Just as sweet, just as hopeful. Just as marvelous and miraculous.

Amen.

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

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

‘Low in the Grave He Lay’ - words & music by Robert Lowry

“Cuomo Echo”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

Pandemic.

It is no act of exaggeration to state that the Coronavirus has reshaped life in our world. Revealing both good and bad qualities that have remained dormant, for generations. Fear and courage have been aroused and inspired by this challenge to social order. Our very concept of personal liberty has been placed under review. The full yield remains yet to be seen.

But here in Ohio, jewel of the Midwest, I have thought less about such weighty issues, and more about coffee and the need for creative prose.

In my state, we follow daily briefings by Governor Mike DeWine and Department of Health Director Amy Acton while striving to find normalcy during the crisis. With asides by local Cleveland commentators like Mike Trivisonno of WTAM radio, a populist outlier in his field, providing entertainment.

Yet morning broadcasts on CNN have offered cause for personal reflection. Specifically, their live coverage of briefings from Governor Andrew Cuomo, chief executive of New York. Each day, when these sessions commence, I am transported backward, through time and space. To Ithaca, a city in the Empire State’s Finger Lakes region, and the year of 1982.

Mario Cuomo had been Lieutenant Governor under Hugh Carey, who famously volunteered to drink a glass of PCB’s during a scandal about the cleanup of a state office building. While campaigning for higher office, he visited the State Theater in Tompkins County. A friend mentioned the appearance, and I was struck by this opportunity to see him in person. Something a bit out-of-character for a young poet, drifting through debris left after studying television through Cornell University.

In that era, family members liked to comment that my own talent had been wasted. A taunt that stung with meaning.

Upon entering an apprenticeship program, I worked at Channel 13, an offshoot of our local television provider. I learned the various phases of production and hosted my own show about ‘Punk Rock’ and local, alternative culture. The experience was intended to preface becoming a full-fledged student at our esteemed university. One who dedicated himself to mastering communications in the modern era.

But a flaw dogged my soul. Unbridled love for Rock & Roll music.

Instead of focusing on life and career aspirations, I followed a downward slope into misanthropic abandon. This wrong turn made me something of an outsider to family members. Later, even to my friends. An alien in my own world. Only two things brought joy. Alcohol, and my typewriter. It was easy to contemplate success as an author or a musician, or to blush over thoughts of a spectacular descent toward oblivion. I turned 21 in the fall. Death held no meaning. I was not afraid to die. Instead, I hoped to exit with great fanfare. To seek out self-negation. To erase what my parents had created through their union. I could not conceive of the true measure of mortality. Instead, it seemed enticing to fantasize about following Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin and Jim Morrison to the grave. And of course, a later icon of rebellion I held more closely, Sid Vicious. My hero and inspiration as an immature lump of flesh. On television, I wore a padlock around my neck. On a chain, as a pendant. I had seen him do the same in photographs of the Sex Pistols.

Mario represented something more sane in my life, however. A link to my mother’s stories about Franklin Roosevelt and her childhood during the Great Depression. As a willful outcast and vagabond, I needed some sort of lifeline. So on that afternoon, instead of hanging out at Record Den or Napoli’s Pizzeria, I decided to visit West State Street, just off the Commons.

Upon entering the theater, with my cohort ‘Manic McManus’ from the television studio, I heard ‘Happy Days Are Here Again.’ This song was memorable for being used as the campaign theme for FDR in 1932. The anthem worked its intended spell as we waited. It put everyone in a hopeful and progressive mood. Then, a familiar figure appeared. His voice resonated through the public-address system like the admonition of a priest, a school principal, or favorite uncle. He talked about responsibility, about love of family, and about “the greatest state in the nation.”

Mario was never phony. Never a caricature, never an actor.

He spoke about his parents and Kessler’s Grocery Store in South Jamaica, Queens. They were immigrants from Campania, in southern Italy. My eyes grew wet when he remembered their hard labor and sacrifice. It rekindled moments when my grandmother would talk about the general store she helped run in West Virginia. Where my mother first learned to handle patrons and operate a business. A place where families came for food and household needs, but also, for fellowship.

When the appearance had ended, I left on foot, alone. Trudging back up North Cayuga Street toward my neighborhood by Fall Creek. A glow of inspiration remained. I was determined to offer my vote for Mario, in November. Yet in that moment of introspection, I should have considered something greater. A move to resurrect myself. To fulfill the promise of my birth. To shed the guilt, anger, alienation, and befuddlement of my journey in favor of a new, creative mission.

To write out my passions, unencumbered by weakness.

But in 1982, I did not have such control over my thoughts. The wanderlust continued, for awhile, until I returned home to my native Ohio. Though this encounter with Mario would grow larger over time. From a simple event to a reference point that spanned decades of consciousness.

An echo that now helps to chart how far I have traveled.

Andrew Cuomo makes me think lovingly of his father. Something that I must share with millions of Americans who tune into CNN for information about the sprawling, global virus. But indeed, he also moves me to thoughts of something else, something closer to home.

Myself.

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

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

“Broaddus Bummer”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

Bills in the mail.

I have written here before about growing up in a home where debt collectors were like members of the family. They never appeared on sunny days, preferring to descend when we were struggling and sick, or feeling lost amid the chaos of rural living on a limited budget. But they became a familiar part of my childhood. I knew the look on my father’s face when one of these hawks had swooped into action. I memorized his response on the telephone, said with an earnestness that could not be summoned except by someone with true faith in God and himself.

“I will send you five dollars on Monday...”

Dad passed away in 2018. Besides medical bills, he had about $30,000 of unpaid credit card charges lingering. He owned no property at the time of his death, not even a motor vehicle. Navigating this minefield was a responsibility that fell to me, as his oldest son. Though in a sense, the work to settle his accounts kept me grounded. I had no time to wallow in grief. Instead, with help from my sister, the tasks at hand kept things clear and focused.

My father’s estate had a bottom-line value of zero. Yet one claim stalled efforts to get it legally closed in the State of West Virginia. It was an unsatisfied obligation to Broaddus Hospital, the health institution associated with Mansfield Place, where my parents resided. Located in the Barbour County hamlet of Philippi.

The charge was for $1953.00.

I found success in working through the other bills, and canceling unused services, while striving to stop the incessant stream of junk mail and solicitations. A nagging issue that perplexed the nursing facility. But Broaddus took a hard line, despite my labor. When Dad’s statement was not paid, they reissued the bill in my personal name. Something that my family counseled was illegal. Then, I was sent to a collection agency and the harassing calls began.

I could not help thinking of my childhood. Though frustrating, it made me laugh with a sense that life had indeed moved in a circle.

The hospital debt was paid at last, through a meager trickle of insurance money, with the rest going to Mansfield Place. When the local Clerk of Courts reviewed what happened, she displayed genuine outrage. Her assertion was that my father’s estate had no final value, so the bill should have been denied as a claim and written off as noncollectable. But in personal terms, I was simply glad to have things settled.

My mother passed away during the following year. Though emotionally draining, the experience had less legal issues. As before, I put her affairs in order. The folder for her and my father had grown to a size I imagined would equal a phone book for Morgantown. After eight months had elapsed, the family felt some sense of relief. I reached a point of calm and sadness. Perhaps at the point where I could authentically mourn the loss of my sire and mater.

This moment of stillness and introspection exploded when I saw a familiar logo in my mailbox. The shape of a mountain profile, used by Broaddus Hospital as their logo. It made me cringe. Yet somehow, once again, I returned to my childhood.

Mom had coverage from Medicaid, being widowed and destitute. We had thought that her situation was clearly defined by need. But somehow, charges for her care had been refused. Like grains of sand spilling through a broken hourglass shell. There had been no estate. She had only her clothes. Plus a video player and a wheelchair, which we donated to the home. No funds were left.

I wrote to Broaddus and explained the situation. The result was a new billing, the one now in my mailbox. As before, the hospital reissued their charge in my own name. It stung my eyes.

“Pay Immediately: 1979.89.”

I contacted my sister with the distressing news. Her reaction was modeled after our late father. She said that I should not worry. A comment he would have made, before assuring a bill collector that Monday would find him sending out a payment of five dollars.

I had to smile, remembering his patience and strength.

After a bit of pondering, I wrote a letter to the hospital. One that briefly outlined our situation as surviving children. It went in the mail a day later:

To:

Broaddus Hospital

P. O. Box 1484

Elkins, WV 26241

Re:

Gwendolyn A. Ice (Deceased, Mansfield Place)

Dear Broaddus Hospital,

I recently received a medical bill for my deceased mother, which you reissued in my name. The stated amount is $1979.89. I am Gwendolyn’s oldest son and was appointed by the court to manage her financial affairs, as conservator, while she remained at Mansfield Place. That responsibility has now concluded.

Gwendolyn was on Medicaid. She qualified due to having no assets. When she died, there was no estate.

With regret, I must say on behalf of my family that Gwendolyn left no funds to satisfy this debt.

Thanks for your kind attention in this matter.

Sincerely,

RDI, 4-09-20

I had no idea of what might follow my correspondence. Though being turned over to another collection agency, or perhaps even legal action, seemed possible. I remembered the hospital sending a letter at one point after my father’s death, stating that their standard policy was to pursue every delinquency with gusto. A note that soured my stomach, but kept me firmly fixed on handling the details. Their enforcement activity actually shielded me against the pain of loss.

Strangely, I felt comforted. Perhaps because the experience was so familiar. I imagined Dad speaking into a gold telephone, while sitting with Jesus, Mom, and our grandparents, in Heaven:

“I will send you five dollars, on Monday!”

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

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

“WLUV / WWOD”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

Memories.

The human mind has unlimited abilities to perceive, ponder, and process information. Yet it can also be a maze of odd connections. Links that make little sense to the outside world. A song may evoke the recollection of a person. A painting might bring forward the remembrance of a place or a time. An aroma may tingle with meaning from a banquet or party. These triggers of information vary with each person and each set of experiences. While having lasting value that does not fade over time.

For example, old vinyl LPs in a friend’s collection reminded her of living in England, during the 1960’s. Working as a guest student. She acquired early recordings by British groups and some American artists. But for myself, these same platters would arouse different echoes. I recalled staying with her two decades later, over the summer. For each of us, the memory-cue those relics provided was powerful. Even as they were different in nature.

This phenomenon came to mind recently, when listening to ‘Cult Radio A Go-Go’ via my Roku streaming device. On Saturday evenings, Terry & Tiffany DuFoe, creators of the music channel, present a live broadcast from the west coast. Their roster of guests has been undeniably impressive. Everyone from Marion Ross, star of the ‘Happy Days’ television show, to Davie Allan, the legendary guitarist, known for music featured in ‘chopper’ films of the 1960’s.

Occasionally, the program features old tapes of radio broadcasts from the early days of Terry’s career. Airchecks captured mainly on audio cassettes that may yield their golden contents in a joyful wave of sound, or sometimes, warble and waffle into a tangled mess.

These episodes of time-travel provide listeners with a snapshot of DuFoe’s work at WLUV, a station in Loves Park, Illinois. Serving the Rockford area. At a time during the 1970’s and 80’s that he was developing his skills in the industry.

Terry and his daughter Tiffany present each episode with cheerful asides about the station. But as I listen, a personal mood takes hold. One separated by a distance of many miles and a variation of regional culture. My memory colors these broadcasts, reworking them into something else. Something unique and fondly familiar in my own life.

WWOD, Lynchburg, Virginia.

My family moved to this central city in the commonwealth during the summer of 1970. Because we were ‘yankees’ from Ohio, first impressions made us become outsiders. Yet we soon felt at home in our neighborhood. The people were friendly and kind, if a bit old-fashioned.

I was a radio fan with a few different devices in my collection. At night, I often listened to stations located at distant points on the continental map. But during daylight hours I enjoyed popular music on WLLL, oldies on WGOL, or Country tunes on WWOD.

Terry’s loving tributes to Elvis Presley activate my own recollections of ‘The King’ during his maturation as an icon of popular music. In his white jumpsuit, sparkling and sweating out performances across the nation. In particular, when hearing these archival bits from WLUV, I flash on buying the vinyl 45 “Take Good Care of Her” at a W. T. Grant store in our Fort Hill Village shopping plaza. The song was written by Ed Warren and Arthur Kent:

“I suppose I ought to say congratulations

For you won the only girl I ever loved

But I hurt too much to face the situation

Just take good care of her

Take good care of her

Just to be around her was my greatest pleasure

She was everything my future held in store

So remember when you take my only treasure

Just take good care of her

Take good care of her

I must accept it, she loves you more than me

So with my broken heart, I’ll bow out gracefully

Please don’t send me any wedding invitation

For I couldn’t bear to see her there with you

If she’s happy, that will be my consolation

Just take good care of her

Take good care of her.”

When listening to the DuFoe shows, I remember trying to make an apartment for myself, first in our basement and then in our garage. A point of honor in 1974, when I was 13 and feeling like a full-fledged adult. I tuned into music broadcasts in Lynchburg with my Philco console radio, from the 1930’s. It was a trash-day artifact, left at the curb. Rescued by my father, and refurbished from his collection of electrical parts.

The tapes of Elvis tributes transport me backward, to that gentle era.

Though Illinois and Virginia may be separated by many miles of geographical space, each one becomes the same as I listen. And though Terry and I have never met, he seems like an older brother. One who carries the same love of showmanship, the same love of music, the same love of entertainment. Indeed, the same love of cultural history.

WWOD as I remember it disappeared several years ago. Photos of the building being demolished linger on the Internet. The call sign is now licensed to an alternative station in Woodstock, Vermont. Yet with each CRAGG episode culled from the DuFoe archives, whispers of central Virginia in the 70’s are alive again. Just for a moment, I can hear my father’s voice. With the melodic tones of Elvis Presley also in the air.

And I feel at home.

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

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

“Corona Ready”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-20)

One o’clock in the morning.

I started drinking too early today, after a quick lunch of Buffalo wings with Janis. Afterward, my neighbors were socially distanced but eager to lift a Bud Light to the blue sky. Then, my sleep cycle turned on itself. Out by 7:00, up again at 9:30. I needed coffee to clear my head. But after listening to CRAGG Live via my Roku streaming device, fate took hold.

Now, it was midnight and I was awake.

I could hear the muse whispering in my ear. “Get to your desk, wordsmith. The hour is late. Write on, brother. Write on...” With the COVID-19 pandemic having been loosed on our planet, my subject matter was set, even before the first keystroke.

Safe in the night, my adventure-through-poetry began:

Corona ready

Bandanna on my face

Heartbeat gone unsteady

The late hour beckons

To those who beg for crumbs

A trip to the store

Like a voyage to distant stars

Through radioactive pores

Coins in the fountain

For a dance, stepping lightly

The voice of Dr. Fauci

Brings comfort

To me

Corona Ready

There’s a demon from darkness

Afire, within me

Loose in the land

Of the free

Like the harsh words

Of Heisenberg

King of the streets

Beware of what awaits

These simple minds

Lost to their fates

Inglorious, notorious

On the courthouse steps

We weep

Corona ready

Wrestle in the town square

For nickles and pennies

Till I witness defeat

A nod of negation

From the best of the beasts

Humbled and low

Like crumbs on a couch throw

Whipped into air

By the flip of a wrist

An arrow that missed

A Judas kiss

Corona ready

Boots on, to ride

A pale horse is ready

The planet has a fever

Loosed from Satan’s eye

A cocktail of poison tears

And top-shelf rye

Broken bottle dripping judgment

A stain on the counter

A mark for the hurt

To live as a witness

Or perish with the herd

Which is worse?

Corona ready

Wind at my heels

Like a dash with Crazy Eddie

Tear up the stock market

Moneychangers in the temple go broke

Their fineries fade

Into ashes and smoke

There’s a virus among us

Wicked, invisible

Wicked, invincible

No touch

No taste

Empires and kings

Laid to waste

Corona ready

Regal, ruthless and right

Like a stanza of Tchaikovsky

Lungs filled with pain

Will they know the atmosphere

Or simply drown in a tide of fear

I can’t hear

My eyes gone black

There are stones in my ears

A tube in my throat

A dragon at the castle moat

Dr. Wenliang, where is the cure?

The mighty have fallen

Swimming in a solution

Gone impure

The dirty deed is done

By chance on the run

We can be sure

Corona ready

Hung over a Bunsen burner

Twisting in heat

A world fixed in flame

Full of scabies and stains

Offal scattered across the board

Of a Monopoly game

Masks at the chin

Sanitized hands

Scrubbed and suited for battle

Across the desert sands

There’s a hospital bed

For the lucky among us

Who are quicker than dead

Sunday morning is nigh

But I’ve already said

Goodbye

Corona ready

Another prize bauble glimmering

From the top of the heap

Glimmer, glam, glossy globe

A prick in the nose

A swab in the earlobes

Testing, treating the sick

The masses of sinners who fell short of grace

With unwashed hands

A touch on their face

The virus, a greedy worm

A hungry little germ

Loose in the air

While false prophets foretell

And politicians stare

Look at me

I am there

I am nowhere

Corona ready

A stout staff held skyward

A valiant steed

An errant screed

Too long was the chase

Now the family goes shopping

With masks on their face

Plexiglas shields

Mobile morgues in the fields

Tent hospitals

Body bags

Toe tags

Sanitizer spray rules the day

Let us pray

Keep away!

The pandemic yield

Makes the human race homeless

We have failed our test

Corona ready

Cough on command

Through the needle, we bleed

Animals we may be

But blessed as the same

With visions of eternity

Our habits are set

We fight hard for a chance

For redemption, for deliverance

This too shall pass

This age of doom

When our neighbors lie down

Under soil and grass

We march to tomorrow

Torches aglow

Corona ready

Spelled with drumstrikes

And a story

A clean draw of breath

By challenges, pressed

Necessity is alive

Some must survive

To carry forward this species

Over debris and feces

Left from vanquished foes

In raggedy clothes

The last hope of yesterday

Turned away

Corona ready

A diagnosis in time

A guitar riff from Duane Eddy

Doctors linger with care

Not a minute to spare

Windpipes made clean

A new-age vaccine

This is our glorious rant

Our spiritual chant

To the great ‘I am’

We fight on through the darkness

Through the deepest of blue

Through disease

Through and through

You are me

I am you

Corona ready

Birthed from flesh

Sired on speed

We kick through mud and malaise

Our greatest days

Poised with the great

In lightning and showers

We arrive at the darkest hour

Not defeated, but instead

Ready to receive

Visions from the godhead

Swimming upstream

To a place

Where deities intervene

‘Tis not what it seems

A glorious scheme

A spike in the bloodstream

There’s a gleam

With my navigation through the overnight completed, I sat at the desk and pondered what lay on my screen. The beer can at my side was empty. Now, it was time to return my bed.

But first, I had to post my newest writing project online.

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

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