“Dog Detour”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Distractions.

For a creative writer, blocking out the static and background noise of life can be useful in focusing on the task of creating a finished manuscript. Yet occasions arise when a detour from the real-time continuum of existing may be desirable. Even welcomed as a blessing.

The current year began with promise, as always. But when only one page had been torn from the calendar, it quickly spun out of control. In February, my sister visited West Virginia, discovering that the situation of our parents had become dire and unsustainable. After battling for years to retain their independence, age and fatigue had won the battle. They left the homestead, never to return.

Dad passed away in April. Mom remained at Mansfield Place.

Handling the care of our mother, in this local nursing home, proved to be more difficult than expected. And all the details had to be directed from across state lines and at a distance of many miles. My own health issues made each journey difficult. I was disabled and on a fixed income. My career as a retail manager had ended, unexpectedly, in 2016. All of these issues created a din of chaotic tones. I struggled to find balance amid the conflicting demands made from one side or another.

Then, last week, I noticed that the left ear of my Black Lab would not lie down.

Suddenly, the gloom that had dominated much of this year blew away in a rush toward necessity. I had only one point of reference – getting Wrangler to the vet. He had not visited since 2015. But I remembered that the ladies at Geneva Veterinary Clinic, near my home in Thompson, were friendly and helpful. A bit of home doctoring seemed to reveal that my pooch had an inner ear infection. I tried to clear away the wax buildup but had only limited success. When making the appointment, I related these facts to the assistant on duty. She agreed that he should visit right away.

The plan was simple enough. Get my canine friend into the passenger seat of our truck and head north. But he had grown older and heavier than three years ago. Meanwhile, I was walking with a cane to support my exhausted knees and debilitated left hip. Also, the F-150 pickup truck I now owned sat higher off the ground than our old Ranger XLT.

Wrangler was able to get his front paws onto the door sill, with effort. He huffed and scratched and whined and wheezed, but climbed no farther without help. I had to steady myself while lifting his hindquarters in the air. Eventually, he spilled onto the truck floor like a sack of Kibbles n Bits, no worse for the experience.

He found a place on the back seat. I felt like his chauffeur, taking the wheel.

At the clinic, he received a friendly welcome. Their scale measured his weight at 94 pounds. We found a place in one of their examination rooms, where Doctor Christi said that his infection woes had caused exaggerated fits of ear flapping. This created a hematoma on one side. Their prognosis was for cleaning, antibiotic treatment and possible surgery in the future. First, however, he needed a steroid to promote healing of the sideways ear.

Wrangler wandered a bit on the way out, stopping to visit everyone and socialize.

At home, I dispensed the mutt medicine hidden in a Vienna Sausage. He took each dose gratefully. After only one day, I noticed that his pain had begun to vanish. A sense of relief took hold.

Our follow-up visit required a similar boost-and-lift entrance to the truck cab. On our way, a traffic hazard appeared, south of Interstate 90. We had to make a sudden stop. I tried to keep him on the seat but his weight overwhelmed my grasp and he crashed on the floor mat like Evel Knievel. 

Fortunately he was no worse for wear after the impact.

Once again, my Black Lab navigated the clinic with undisciplined curiosity. He wanted to visit with the other pet patients. Or, find treats in the drawers. I was embarrassed when he managed to shed a small heap of hair in the exam room. But our cheerful assistant found it amusing.

The ride home had Wrangler perched on his seat like an anxious kid. The no-belt, safety warning kept going off as we drove toward Geauga County. I fiddled with the radio to cover this aggravating sound. He panted with satisfaction while sniffing cool air from the dashboard vents.

At home, after he found a comfortable spot in the living room, I sorted through forwarded mail for my parents. A task not filled with fun. My eyes grew wide upon realizing that, for a few days, the stress of duty and diligence had evaporated. I felt rested by this brief escape.

A dog detour made it possible.

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

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

“Senator Joe, Part Three”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Mailbox 365.

The ritual of checking for mail at my post office box, in Chardon, has become familiar over the years. Originally, I leased this space to direct correspondence relating to my newspaper column for the Geauga County Maple Leaf. Then it became a portal for orders of my various printed volumes under the banner of Icehouse Books.

But more recently, my P. O. box has been useful in receiving information about the ongoing effort to care for my widowed mother. A task that has tested our reserves of stamina and patience.

On three occasions, I have found a letter from the office of Senator Joe Manchin III, D-West Virginia, when I checked this space. With each new discovery, I drove to the home of my sister and her family, where we read the document, together.

The last of these indicated that the mountain-state official had investigated our work with their Department of Health and Human Resources. His words calmed our fears about paying the considerable nursing home bill that had amassed since the struggle began, in February:

“Dear Mr. Ice, Thank you again for contacting my office regarding your mother’s eligibility for Medicaid assistance… I was happy to contact the appropriate officials about this matter and hope you will find the enclosed information useful. I hope that you will always feel free to contact my office in the future if there is a matter in which I might be of service to you.”

Enclosed was a report from Ken Pinnell, Supervisor of Client Services for the bureau. He was writing on behalf of Bill J. Crouch, Cabinet Secretary and John V. Lopez, Director.

“Our office reached out to… (the) Economic Services Supervisor (for) Barbour/Taylor County DHHR for her assistance… The DHHR received the application for Gwendolyn Ice on 6/13/18. Her husband passed away and she was placed in Mansfield Place. (The local nursing home.) Gwendolyn’s assets cannot be verified until the hearing that is scheduled...”

The response had a timeline that deviated somewhat from literal facts. Mom went to Mansfield Place in February. Dad had been sent to Broaddus Hospital, then to Ruby Memorial Hospital in Morgantown, before returning to the nursing home. He passed away in April. Certificates of deposit that were present in the bank had been turned over immediately, to go toward the bills on hand. The applications for Medicaid assistance on behalf of Mom were numerous. And, unsuccessful for a variety of reasons. Each incident seemed to uncover another fault. Meanwhile, she was diagnosed with senile dementia and could not care for herself. My sister grew fatigued with the conflict and decided that I should take over. But the delay continued.

Meanwhile, mother’s backlog of charges grew at an alarming rate.

My first contact with Senator Joe had been to suggest a ‘Rhoderick’s Law’ on behalf of my late father. Legislation that would compel institutions to work on behalf of families affected in this way, rather than opposing them to reduce or delay costs. We were horrified by the conundrum before us, a situation where we could not effectively handle the responsibilities required of surviving children.

But Manchin’s diligence as a servant of the people gave us hope.

I remembered his time as governor of West Virginia. Once, when visiting the family home in Philippi, we saw a photo of Joe astride a Harley-Davidson motorcycle. The image made me smile. I gained even more respect for this gentle soul. A genuine citizen servant. Reflecting on this struggle, I wondered if it might be appropriate to send a copy of my book, ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond’ to him as a token of our appreciation. It was an idea to be explored later, once the needs of our mother had been met.

An updated bill from the nursing home arrived in August. It stated the current charges at $29,847.24. I forwarded a copy of this document to our contact at the DHHR.

Meanwhile, a familiar tune reverberated in my head. One that my mother could sing from memory when we were children:

“Oh the West Virginia hills!

How majestic and how grand

With their summits bathed in glory

Like our Prince Immanuel’s land

Is it any wonder then

That my heart with rapture fills

As I stand once more with loved ones

On those West Virginia hills?

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.”

Football season was about to begin. I knew that Mom would be ready to cheer her WVU Mountaineers to victory, once again. Even as she battled to remember us, face-to-face, as her kids. Quietly, I prayed for a victory of a different sort, in being able to take care of her needs from my home near Lake Erie, in Ohio.

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

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

“Kindred Souls”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

The joy of junk.

In recent weeks, my immediate family has been involved in the task of clearing our parental homestead, some four hours away. This ongoing struggle has unearthed tidbits of childhood fun and some relics never seen before. We are reliving old memories and adding pieces to the life-puzzle composed by our mother and late father. Unfinished projects are again meeting the light of day, after long periods of slumber.

Like a Sears & Roebuck television set from the late 1940’s, that I purchased three decades ago.

Dad once took a course on television repair, when such devices were becoming popular. I had reckoned that he might heal the vintage receiver, which still had the ability to play audio signals but yielded no video output. He promised to have a look. Then, the long, little box was stashed in a corner of their living room. Mail, magazines and miscellany soon shrouded it darkness. Only my sister remembered its fate.

Like a time-warp adventure, cleaning up after years of neglect gave us a vantage point where yesterday and today were the same.

One sentiment has dogged our efforts in this moment. The conclusion that those who brought us into the world were avid collectors by nature, not design. Steeped in depression-era traditions. They literally saved everything, to be relocated again and again, and again, then studied later and pondered with an air of mystery adding spice.

Predictably, their path became our path.

We of the next generation followed this habit closely. In our own homes, the familiar bent toward gathering useful trinkets has become obvious. But instead of noting these items with affectations of grandeur, we name them lovingly, with a more common touch.

We call them ‘junk.’

The term, in our lexicon, does not connote a lack of worth or significance. Instead, it is one we use as a proletarian bit of verbiage. One expressing our mission as hunter-gatherers without any pretentiousness. We are librarians and urban-archaeologists. Archival hoarders. Students always of what has gone before.

The journey began with my grandparents, and their farm in Columbus, Ohio. A place inhabited by a university professor, his schoolteacher wife, and many children. They remained close to the soil despite their education. My parents turned this art of keeping things into a more mobile experience, relocating many times over the decades. I grew used to the continuity of stuff while the outside world continued to change. My own home is short on usable space, yet long on artifacts. Pieces of yesterday that offer numerous opportunities to peer through the mist and write creative reports.

All of this provided a foundation for my personal enjoyment of ‘Cult Radio A Go-Go’ by Terry & Tiffany DuFoe.

I discovered their station when clicking on a link for Davie Allan. The legendary California guitarist has been a long-distance compadre for many years, after I ordered compact discs from his website. He mentioned having given an interview on a west-coast, Internet station. Initially, I listened to the chat in hope of gaining more understanding about his career. But then, I read of the team responsible for this interaction. I saw photos of their posters, books and bobbleheads, records and movies on disc and tape. I watched Facebook Live posts that toured their studio. I read their manuscripts, penned for fanzines, and interacted with them about music and pop culture. We traded instant messages across the miles between the Pacific Ocean and Lake Erie. Suddenly, I knew these people whom I had never met.

They were kindred souls.

When I recorded a short cellphone glimpse of my office, Tiffany commented with excitement:

“Yes! You are one of us...”

My personal work station is a bulky, metal desk, left by Wife 2.0. This wordsmithing platform is flanked by towers of file cabinets, bulging with yellowed manuscripts and photographs. On top are rotary-dial telephones, beer bottles, a USB radio microphone, and various toys. The room walls boast images of sports, music and motorcycles, in no formal order.

It is my cradle. My crib. My launching pad for ideas-in-print.

The audio stream from CRAGG has provided a proper soundtrack for work done in this space, with unpredictable variety. Songs by Tiny Tim? Show excerpts from ‘Hazel?’ Interviews with ladies from G.L.O.W.? Obscure recordings of old-time radio? Snippets of dialogue from adult films?

Yes, yes, yes.

My only regret is that Paul Race, my spiritual mentor from New York, did not live long enough to hear of this connection with the DuFoes. As a rabid keeper of comic books, vinyl records, guitars, beer signs, pop bottles, antiques and such, he would have been another kindred soul in the group. I often think of him when sitting at the keyboard. Or when listening to T & T with their stream-of-consciousness take on pop culture.

Or… when hauling boxes out of my parents’ home, south of the border.

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

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

“After G.L.O.W. Part Three”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Gorgeous. In sight and sound.

Having Jeanne ‘Hollywood’ Basone and Cheryl ‘Lightning’ Rusa on Cult Radio A Go-Go was a treat for the ears, in terms of their interaction with callers and other veterans of the ‘Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling.’ But when I clicked on the Facebook live feed provided by Tiffany May DuFoe, another of my senses was piqued.

They still looked incredible.

I was transported back to the 1980’s while listening to tales of their athletic and theatrical prowess. Fans had been thrilled with this new wrinkle on the sport. In hindsight, the series seemed to have come and gone far too quickly. But with a modern show on Netflix reviving interest, once again, the ladies were front and center in the public view.

My preparation for writing about G.L.O.W. involved messaging with ‘Hollywood’ herself. Almost as an afterthought, I mentioned that Terry & Tiffany of CRAGG had promoted my book, ‘Biker Lifestyle – And Beyond.’ It was a collection of stories I had written for the California magazine during years when her show was becoming a national sensation. In those yonder days, my strategy was to test the limits of creative thought by submitting stories that pegged-the-meter. With each manuscript, I wondered if editor-in-chief Bob Bitchin would lose patience with this line of thinking. My work veered from typical themes of roadgoing wanderlust, to political intrigue, social commentary, and life after death. Only one offering missed being published. I reckoned that G.L.O.W. also pushed the confines of TV grappling, with extreme participants like ‘Palestina’ and ‘Colonel Ninotchka.’

Jeanne offered an unexpected bit of personal trivia in response:

“I did the cover of Easyriders in 94 or 96… I think it was ‘96.”

I was breathless,

Her comment offered a tempting detour from the road to my intended destination. I tried to regain focus on the task before me, out of a sense of duty. Words took shape in a column about her notable career in the ‘squared circle.’ But then, the rumbling sound of customized Harley-Davidson motorcycles returned.

A patient Internet search revealed that her modeling appearance had been in the April, 1995 issue of the magazine. I found back issues for sale on various websites. Tingling with excitement, I asked her how this had come to pass. Her response sated my appetite for details:

“I think a friend referred me to the photographer Raiko Hartman, the studio was located in Hollywood for the shoot. They also needed a girl who was tall because Grady’s 1990 FLHTC Ultra was a big bike. I had heard that Easyriders would hire women who were more petite as to not make the bike look so small.”

Hartman has long been active as a professional photographer, with many notable clients over the years. His list of credits is stunning. He also has also given technical lectures about the methods involved in commercial advertising.

I asked for more thoughts about her experience and she explained the connection in depth:

“I had been been doing many photoshoots with Playboy, several calendars and bikini postcards (the postcards you find at Venice Beach) before I did Easyriders. Truckin’ June 1993 was another cover I had shot. So this shoot went as smoothly and professionally as the others. When I got to the studio located in Hollywood, I met with the owner of the bike Grady and the photographer Raiko and then went straight into hair and makeup. The bikini you see in the shot was one of the ones I suggested and they loved it! The accessories and heels were mine too!”

I asked if other celebrities from G.L.O.W. had ever appeared in the publication. She said no.

As before, I was struck by the parallel nature of her participation in the 80’s television hit, and my own fond memories of having written for the west-coast biker rag. Echoes still resounded with raucous tones of an age when social media had not yet begun to bind the public consciousness with real-time shaming. When over-the-top literally meant going headfirst across the upper rope of a wrestling ring. When MTV videos, haute couture fashions, and sports competition blended into one.

When I was still in my 20’s, and able to party, years before 1999.

Jeanne invited me to participate in an online chat, through the ‘Independent Pro Wrestling 24/7’ Facebook page. At the risk of appearing out-of-place, I continued my thought detour, asking if she had received any feedback about the chopper-magazine cover. And if she had any personal interest in two-wheeled machines. Her reply made me smile:

“I really don’t remember getting tons of feedback like I did in Playboy… perhaps that magazine was not as widely read by our wrestling fans… and I love Harleys just as long as they don’t break down… like they used to back in the day.”

My face was red, remembering a past motorcycle of the same hue. A tricked-out, 1977 XLH 1000 Sportster. My first hawg from Milwaukee. I had purchased the bike in Madison, while living in Lake County, Ohio. It drew compliments and attention wherever I rode. But being from the company’s dreaded ‘AMF’ period, it had a demonic soul. When properly tuned-up and polished, the old ‘Ironhead’ ran like a beast, thundering mightily through its shotgun pipes. Yet just as often, it ended up being hauled in my pickup truck. A rolling sculpture in metal. Parts vibrated loose. Oil leaked constantly.

But I loved it, with devotion.

In modern terms, only the good moments remain. Just as recollections of watching G.L.O.W. with my kid have deleted any dissonant notes of marriage angst or work fatigue that were present. Now, the pure essence of that era has been distilled to a fine liqueur. One sweet on the palate.

Like the image of ‘Hollywood’ herself, still gorgeous and still wrestling in the 21^st Century!

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

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

“After G.L.O.W. Part Two”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Pro Wrestling.

David Mark, friend of my erstwhile video co-host Manic McManus, once described the genre as ‘spart.’ Sport and art combined.

Hearing Jeanne ‘Hollywood’ Basone and Cheryl ‘Lightning’ Rusa discuss their memories from the television program G.L.O.W., via Cult Radio A Go-Go, was thrilling. But it also aroused dormant memories of an era less concerned with political correctness and more with raw entertainment value. A time when macro-brews like Miller and Budweiser mattered, while thoughts of brie and imported wines seemed foreign.

It is likely that those outside the United States must view TV wrestling with the same bewilderment we might feel for Spanish bullfighting or for fox hunting in Great Britain. Though once a thing of grizzled veterans sucking down pickled eggs and bar sausages, in the 1980’s, such exhibitions joined mainstream culture thanks to celebrity competitors like Hulk Hogan and ‘Macho Man’ Randy Savage.

The ‘Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling’ series exploded this modern paradigm shortly after it began. Though many of the themes were familiar, they found new life when delivered with big hair and glossy spandex. One might have expected a less serious approach to the actual physical competition. Yet the women involved were relentless. Bodies, furniture and foreign objects flew around the ring with abandon.

CRAGG, the Internet media sensation, provided a perfect venue to relive memories of this moment in time. I tuned in on a recent Saturday night through the use of a Roku app on my Vizio receiver, as always. Jeanne and Cheryl interviewed other participants in the bygone program, via telephone. Included were Johnny C., Corporal Kelly, Olympia, Daisy, Jungle Woman, Justice, Tanya the Russian and the Royal Hawaiian.

I had promised to call in and participate, but failed. 

The tempo of this live broadcast was breezy, out of necessity. Not unlike one of the matches featured on G.L.O.W. itself. ‘Hollywood’ moved from guest to guest with skillful discipline. The stories and personal anecdotes were compelling. Interspersed were popular tunes from the period like ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ by Def Leppard, ‘Still Of The Night’ by Whitesnake, and ‘Rock Me Amadeus’ by Falco.

I was stunned to hear that the ladies themselves were sometimes treated like valuable livestock. Multiple matches could take place in the same day. They endured a grueling schedule. Injured participants were simply pushed to the side while production continued. Perhaps most shocking of all was the revelation that they were kept largely in the dark about their own white-hot status with viewers:

Hollywood: “So Lily, I got a question… when G.L.O.W. was over, where did you go or what did you do…?”

Corporal Kelly “I went back to singing and my band and you know, working a straight job and that’s pretty much it.”

Lightning: “How was it in your straight job, after your experience with G.L.O.W., was it like, odd…?”

Corporal Kelly “You know the funny thing is that G.L.O.W. has been that constant thing where people are like ‘What? You were a G.L.O.W. girl?’ And it has always blown my mind because they kept us so kind of cloistered and secluded from what was going on… “

Lightning: “Sheltered.”

Corporal Kelly: “Yeah. That I felt like we didn’t, or personally, I didn’t realize the impact that G.L.O.W. was having while we were involved in it. You know?”

Hollywood: “I think you’re right because I didn’t. There is no way, I didn’t feel that either… somebody asked about us getting our fan mail, there were bags and bags of fan mail...”

Lightning: “Hollywood, you gave me like a dozen letters and that was it, that’s all I ever saw because you were there and you stole a few of them for me… she ‘Hollywooded’ them...”

Hollywood: “I had to pick up my check on Wilshire Boulevard. So I went in there one day and I saw these bags of mail. And I’m like ‘What are those?’ And Jackie says ‘That’s the fan mail.’ And I go ‘What??’”

The evening passed like a flashy, frenzied Heavy Metal video on MTV.

In personal terms, I was transported back to working my ‘real job’ at a local supermarket in northeastern Ohio. Something I did to aid my less-than-sufficient income as a professional writer. Managing on the weekends and learning the trade to support my family. The store staff and crew existed outside the realm of normal business operations. Much like G.L.O.W. shattered the framework of typical sporting events. On duty and after hours, we bent the rules. Breaks could involve beer, wine coolers and pizza or nachos. We smoked constantly. Pretty cashiers sometimes visited when the store had closed. Being young and rambunctious, we encouraged their misbehavior. Our bosses were very tolerant. We played Frisbee in the parking lot, at 3:00 in the morning. Local police were amused and looked the other way.

My wife went on the road for her company, from 1987 to 1989. This meant I had to raise our son with help from her parents. That part of life remained serious and stable. It provided an anchor as I drifted on the rowdy seas of my unconventional employment adventure.

When the CRAGG session had ended, I felt spent. In a good way. Like the sensation tingling over your skin after a thrilling roller-coaster-rendezvous. I switched off the television and sat with my cell phone, reviewing new posts about the show.

Now, it was time to return to my home office, and get to work!

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

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

“After G.L.O.W.”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserve(8-18)

The 80’s.

It has become a popular decade to relive. Especially for those who experienced youthful abandon in that span of years, before entering an adult world of regrets and responsibilities. In print, in song and in the visual arts, it is a subject often touched upon with fondness.

For this writer, that focus was shifted a bit by chronology. I graduated from high school in the 1970’s, so the time that followed has always seemed more ‘recent’ in nature. The soundtrack of New Wave and Heavy Metal tunes provided a tonal backdrop for my first family experience, raising a son with Wife 1.0. Working many long hours at one job, or two, or even three for awhile.

I had little time to ponder that era.

But years later, when children in the family were grown and I had burned through two marriages and several stops on the real- job, retail-management-rollercoaster, a lightning bolt of energy struck from that distant time. Unexpected and yet welcome.

Hollywood and Lightning, to be exact.

Terry & Tiffany DuFoe, the creative duo behind Cult Radio A Go-Go, posted on their Facebook page about an upcoming episode of their nationwide Internet radio broadcast. It would feature two celebrities from the bygone ‘Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling’ program. ‘Hollywood’ (Jeanne Basone) and ‘Lightning’ (Cheryl Rusa) were slated as guest hosts, with several other show veterans to be interviewed on the telephone.

I was struck by a flash of recollection. My wife had been fantastic as a mother and steward of the household. Incredibly adept with handling money. Only one nagging issue stained our marriage. Jealousy. She was given to fits of irritation and suspicion with any hint of misbehavior. I learned quite literally to keep my head down, as looking innocently in the direction of a female nearby could arouse an argument that might last for hours or more. I had to be discreet with my purchase of magazines dedicated to the motorcycling lifestyle. Explicit record album covers could be a topic of furious debate. I was careful not to linger on videos for Heart, Lita Ford or Vixen when they appeared on MTV. Rhonda Shear could only be enjoyed when I was ‘Up All Night’ after a long shift at work. With everyone in bed, I sometimes had dinner and a six-pack of brew alone, with the TV as my companion.

Those moments were happy, even liberating to enjoy.

As parents, neither of us had much time to discuss current events with our kid. He depended on the helpful embrace of his grandparents, who lived up the road. But at some point, he mentioned having become a fan of a series popular with other students at his grade school. One with which I was not familiar.

G.L.O.W.

On a Saturday afternoon, as my wife busied herself in the kitchen, our precocious boy asked if I wanted to watch his new favorite show. I had worked overnight and slept only a couple of hours. Groggy clouds still cast shadows across my brain. But, I did not have to work again until Sunday morning. With a bottled beer in hand, I took a seat next to his revolving, bamboo chair. I expected some sort of cartoon adventure, or a mirthful video descendant of H. R. Pufnstuf. But instead, the screen brightened with attractive, athletic women who had big hair and wore sheer, shiny outfits.

I choked on my brew.

My wife did not notice at first, being content to enjoy a day away from her position as supervisor of personnel matters and the store cash office. I kept peeking around the corner to be certain we were safe in watching the program. There was lots of hairspray, makeup and spandex flying around the wrestling arena. The kid cheered and snorted and giggled over each match. I took a more serious view, appreciating the limber nature of each colorful competitor, while sipping my beverage.

I knew pro wrestling, having grown up with an uncle who watched such programs in the black-and-white era. My aunt gave us RC Cola and bologna sandwiches for lunch while we enjoyed these performances. The bombastic, blue-collar nature of this sport was perfect for us as children. And for my relatives as humble, working-class folk.

Yet what I saw on that day was wholly different in nature. Not loud and crude but instead, glamorous, chic and erotic. Sort of an extended music video with acrobatic flights of fancy. I could not help but wonder if other dads were also in front of their TV sets, feeling as confused and entertained as myself. These ladies jumped from the ropes, flipped and flopped, twisted arms and bit noses. Things that were expected in the genre. But seeing it happen with the glitz and sheen of appealing curves in stretchy attire had me stunned.

Gorgeous ladies, indeed! They were fierce, fearless women, as well.

Predictably, my wife appeared from the other room before long. Her distaste for the broadcast was immediate. “What… are… you… watching??”

“Mom!” our kid protested. “It is called G.L.O.W., the Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling!”

She seemed to throw up a little bit, inside her mouth.

“He wanted me to check this out,” I pleaded in my own defense. “Have you ever heard of this show? It is nothing like watching Classy Freddie Blassie or Harley Race.” My uncle the baker would spill his RC Cola.”

She was not amused.

I pretended to have no further interest in the show, and followed my wife into the kitchen. The moment of carnal joy had passed. More brews followed, while I received a lecture about watching “women who thought they were pretty.” Later, I mentioned the incident to friends on the crew at my store and many confessed to being avid fans.

I felt stupid for needing our son to introduce me to the series.

In modern times, Terry & Tiffany had sparked a new reflection on this yonder tale. I brought up the 1985 pilot episode of G.L.O.W. and watched it on YouTube. Coffee was my beverage of choice instead of Miller or Budweiser. Yet the images remained compelling. Strangely, Matilda the Hun evoked a look and disposition similar to my mother-in-law with Wife 2.0, a completely divergent take on the show. I did not want to dwell on that fact, however. Now, I was middle-aged, retired, and twice divorced. Safe to see such sights without fear of scolding or shaming. 

After watching for an hour, I wanted a beer. And a time machine. In that order.

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

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

“WondeRoast, Revisited”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-18)

Rotisserie chicken.

I have had several versions of this delectable fowl, many of which came from food stores where I was a member of management during my retail career. But only one variety remains paramount in memory, still juicy and delectable enough to cause hunger pangs while composing this column.

WondeRoast!

My personal experience with this product came from a tall, self-serve case at the old Convenient Food Mart on Cheery Street, In Chardon, Ohio. A reality during the middle 1980’s. At the top of this rack was a genuine rotisserie oven, where the chickens could be seen cooking on their metal spits. At the bottom was a warmer, where cooked cluckers were bagged in foil and ready to be purchased.

My own store, across town, offered nothing so tasty. So I often stopped by on my way home for beer, soda, and a pair of spicy birds to feed the family. It was a ritual carried out for several years, until the business itself disappeared.

I wrote about the elusive bird in a newspaper column for our local Geauga County Maple Leaf, from April of 2013. Though an Internet search indicated that it was available at a store in nearby Lake County, a trip to investigate yielded no quarry. I felt like a hunting dog with a sinus condition. Somehow, I had lost the scent of this cooked critter.

I barely remembered having written the article, some five years ago, when an e-mail message arrived, this week:

“Please let me know if you’re still looking for information on WondeRoast. Thank you.” - Todd Larson

I was intrigued. The note appeared on my iPhone app, as I was having coffee in the wee hours of morning. With radio iconoclast Phil Hendrie voicing characters in the background, I read the text over and over again.

My reply went out immediately:

“Todd, thanks for your message. I am a writer and former newspaper editor in addition to be(ing) a retired supermarket manager… WondeRoast chickens were more zesty and flavorful than any of the rotisserie birds sold at the stores I managed during my career… I wondered what happened… I have not seen them in northeastern Ohio for years.”

He sent a chart of northern vendors in the state and invited me to choose which locations might be of interest. I was thrilled to see that many stores across northern Ohio seemed to include WondeRoast with their daily offerings. I noted two spots within reasonable driving distance from my home. Both were in Lake County. I passed along my preferences with a screen capture from his map, and he responded with details about each location:

“These are the closest I can find - Surfside Convenient Food Mart, 36201 Lake Shore Boulevard Eastlake, OH 44095 (440-951-9295) and Reider’s Fresh Foods Market, 7596 Fredle Drive Painesville (Concord) OH, 44077 (440-579-1400).”

My pulse began to quicken.

I answered immediately:

“Todd, I really appreciate your help. I believe the Reider’s store is closed. I will check on the Eastlake C-store. (You have) a great product. Your mix of spices made the birds red and ready for dinner! A wonderful memory opening those foil bags. Thanks again.”

A quick check of the News-Herald website confirmed what I remembered, that Reider’s had closed on October 15, 2017. Though they apparently handled WondeRoast at one time, out of their prepared foods section, I never found any on hand.

I reread the newspaper column from five years ago, with a persistent ‘jones’ for that spicy fowl revived in my belly. More online investigating revealed that the Surfside store had just gone through a change in ownership. I pondered while at the computer.

Would I ever taste a WondeRoast chicken again?

I clicked through related links, while my mouth began to water. A site called ‘The Midnight Baker’ offered yet another recipe for a dry rub mix that promised to deliver the flavor I wanted:

Rotisserie Chicken Seasoning:

Ingredients

2 tbs. Kosher salt

2 tbs. High-quality smoked paprika

3 tsp. Onion powder

1 ½ tsp. Garlic powder

3 tsp. Thyme

1 ½ tsp. Black pepper

3 tsp. White pepper

1 ½ tsp. Cayenne pepper

1 tsp. Crushed dry rosemary or crushed dried tarragon

(optional)

Directions

Mix all ingredients and store in a tightly-sealed jar, not stored in direct light

Notes

If you want a lower sodium mix, replace half or all the salt with and equal amount of lemon zest

This unexpected encounter by e-mail seemed sure to generate yet another writing project. Something always celebrated in the Icehouse home office. And in the virtual pages of the Geauga Independent. But even more satisfying was the lure of a genuine WondeRoast chicken that might be warmed and waiting nearby. Nestled in red, white and silver foil. Waiting to burst out with a taste sensation not had on my table in many years.

Hope had taken flight once again… on a wing and a prayer.

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

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