“Broken”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-20)

It all comes back to Bob Dylan.

As this year has unfolded, writers around the world have written of many challenges and calamities that face our civilization. Of pandemic pain and political peril. All against a backdrop of environmental woes that threaten the planet. But here at home, on the shore of Lake Erie in Ohio, a different reality has seized attention. One that is both alarming and familiar.

Everything in my household is broken.

Our generational poet laureate Robert Allen Zimmerman expressed the woes of this condition in song, with much dramatic effect:

“Broken lines, broken strings

Broken threads, broken springs

Broken idols, broken heads

People sleeping in broken beds

Ain’t no use jiving, no use joking

Everything is broken

Broken bottles, broken plates

Broken switches, broken gates

Broken dishes, broken parts

Streets are filled with broken hearts

Broken words, never meant to be spoken

Everything is broken.”

My bed literally was broken, with a frame propped up on stray bricks, and a mattress showing springs amid a gaping hole of shredded material, down the middle. I reckoned an old bathroom rug would keep it in use, for the moment.

Around the household, wounded appliances were everywhere. My neighborhood water supply had been suspect in the past, causing damage in random places. My sinks and tubs were stained with rust. The dishwasher surrendered years ago, to muck that hardened like glue. Bathroom faucets plugged. The washer had lost its cold water setting. The front bath drain was full of sludge, rendering that room of rest useless.

That is, until, it was repurposed as a large storage closet. I stacked boxes in the shower, more on the commode, with guitars leaning in the doorway. Cleveland sports apparel hung on what had been a towel rack.

Our main furnace developed a crack in its heat exchanger, last year. Leaving me to depend on a propane wall-heater from Tractor Supply Company for warmth. Because the system had reached an age of 20 years, every repair adviser recommended complete replacement. But the cheapest estimate came from Home Depot, at $3200.00. A sum I could not hope to gather. Even my General Electric stove did not escape the prevailing creep of infirmity. Its oven failed while making a pork roast, over the winter.

All of this came to mind while pondering my own disability. Hobbling with canes, somehow beating back the idea that I should surrender to the weight of physical afflictions. I had maintained my forward motion with a few tricks of handicapped living, and had managed to budget everything on a meager income more suited to apartment life than living alone in the country.

“Seem like every time you turn around

Something else just hit the ground.”

My aging pickup truck had an electrical problem with the passenger-side, front headlight. Causing frequent hood-up adjustments while on the road. It also surrendered a tailgate hinge to rust, requiring the use of tie-down straps for support. A month ago, the old mule developed ominous vibrations during a trip to the Thompson Township square, something that eventually forced a tune-up and a brief interlude of downtime.

Back inside, the water heater in my front closet finally expired after two decades of service. This let a filthy flow infuse the bedroom carpet where my dog normally slept. A situation that had me using a rug cleaner to pick up the excess water, and him scurrying for higher ground.

Though irritating, these bouts of brokenness reminded me greatly of childhood. Growing up in a family blessed with love, but not much financial foundation. Our environment was always littered with busted tools, toys, and trinkets. Dad knew how to fix what failed, but often lacked the time and wherewithal to keep up with these needs.

In a sense, it made me feel at home to be dollar-broke and broken.

“Broken cutters, broken saws

Broken buckles, broken laws

Broken bodies, broken bones

Broken voices on broken phones

Take a deep breath, feel like you’re chokin’

Everything is broken.”

Eventually, my Everlast shoes came apart, after a Miller Lite break on our front steps. They had protected my feet for about a dozen years. Another milestone of equipment failure, though less costly to replace.

In the dining room, a window squawked from use, owing to a structural weakness at that end of my home. The laundry room had a door that fit poorly. The bathtub had a kitchen faucet pressed into service, late on a weekend when I had no days off from work, and few dollars in my pocket. Everything reminded me of being a kid. Running lean, fixing only what was absolutely necessary.

And often, not even that, in the rush to make our household budget.

“Broken hands on broken ploughs

Broken treaties, broken vows

Broken pipes, broken tools

People bending broken rules

Hound dog howling, bullfrog croaking

Everything is broken.”

Earlier in the year, I had cataract surgery at a local eye center. A pair of procedures precipitated by a creeping blindness that threatened to force me off the road. This sight restoration rolled up the shades on a new era of improved vision. But more than letting me see clearly again, it produced butterflies in my belly. A gentle gnaw of emotion. Something had actually gotten fixed in the household.

Me!

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