“Twins”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-19)

The Setting: Washington, D. C., in the Oval Office.

The Players: Donald J. Trump, 45th President of the United States; Mick Mulvaney, White House Chief of Staff.

Mick Mulvaney - “Good morning, Mr. President.”

Donald Trump – (Watching ‘Fox & Friends’ on the Fox News Channel) “I don’t understand what happened with these guys, it is sad. Very sad! Running polls against me, very sad, polls from CNN maybe, who trusts them? Very, very sad. I don’t trust the polls.”

M. Mulvaney - “Mr. President, I want to talk about something worse than bad coverage with you this morning...”

D. Trump – (Raising an eyebrow) “Worse than bad? How bad is that? More bad than bad?”

M. Mulvaney - “We have a bigger problem than negative coverage this morning. A much bigger problem.”

D. Trump - “Fox News going against me is HUUUUGE! Believe me, it doesn’t happen. Doesn’t happen much, not much. But now it does...”

M. Mulvaney – (Sweating) “Mr. President, this morning we have a bigger problem than polls or Fox News. You have… disappeared from the news cycle, completely.”

D. Trump – (Looking baffled) “DISAPPEARED?”

M. Mulvaney - “That’s right, sir. Disappeared.”

D. Trump – (Adjusting his overly-long, red tie) “Hillary Clinton disappeared. Gone. Poof! Just gone. Nobody talks about her anymore. I didn’t disappear. Not me.”

M. Mulvaney – (Looking concerned) “Sir, I just watched the first half hour of the CBS Morning News. You were not mentioned once.”

D. Trump – (Laughing) “What? You missed it, Mick, you must have gone for coffee. Maybe a bagel or a cupcake or something. Do you like cupcakes for breakfast?”

M. Mulvaney - “Mr. President, I never left the television. They went 30 minutes and never talked about you. Not a word. Gayle King reported about the Amazon rainforest burning. Dana Jacobson read a tribute to Jessi Combs, known as ‘The Fastest Woman On Four Wheels.’ And there was a segment on Boris Johnson, now the Prime Minister of England.”

D. Trump - “I’m telling you, they mentioned me. They always do, always. You got a bagel with cream cheese, right?”

M. Mulvaney - “I did not, sir.”

D. Trump - “I am in their head, like Rush Limbaugh says. Living rent-free. Winning. Living and winning.”

M. Mulvaney - “No sir, not this morning. They never mentioned you.”

D. Trump – (Exasperated) “Boris Johnson got mentioned? What kind of name is that? Boris? Like the guy that did ‘Monster Mash?’ Really? Boris?”

M. Mulvaney - “Mr. President, we have reached a watershed moment here. Even before you were elected, CNN, MSNBC, they all have talked about you. The New York Times talked about you, incessantly. But this morning, it all seems to have come to an end.”

D. Trump – (Turning red) “Look, they love me, secretly. They love me but they can’t say they love me. But they love me. I get ratings! RATINGS! I get them viewers, people watching, people watching them talk badly about me, very badly. Saying bad things, terrible things. I get them ratings and they know it, they all know it. Huge ratings!”

M. Mulvaney - “Sir, we need to be aware that this free ride could be over.”

D. Trump – (Angry) “This is like the economy tanking, they say, fake news more fake than ever, saying the economy is tanking when they know that is completely fake! Completely! Fake! We are winning bigly, I am pounding on China, I am winning more than ever!”

M. Mulvaney - “Mr. President, they never mentioned China. They never mentioned you.”

D. Trump - “Greenland? They talked about me wanting to buy Greenland?”

M. Mulvaney – (Embarrassed) “That lasted one day, sir. It barely went 24 hours in the news cycle.”

D. Trump – (Turning cold) “Pelosi? Those horrible ladies from ‘The Squad?’ Horrible ladies! They won’t shut up, they talk and talk and talk, lots of Democrats talk about me every day...”

M. Mulvaney – (Bowing his head) “A full 30 minutes on CBS. Not one word about you, positive or negative. Not one.”

D. Trump - “I always get the negative. Always. From the failing New York Times, from phony ‘Morning Joe’ and from everybody. From everybody except Fox News and now they are slipping, I don’t know why they are slipping.”

M. Mulvaney - “Half an hour, sir. Not one mention of you.”

D. Trump - “But they talked about Boris? A guy named Boris? Really, a guy with that name? A name from an old monster movie, Boris? That name?”

M. Mulvaney - “Yes.”

D. Trump - “Boris Johnson. What a name!”

M. Mulvaney – (Shaking his head) “Mr. Johnson has proven to be very aggressive. He is determined to make Brexit happen. He has asked the Queen to prorogue parliament. To suspend the session for five weeks.”

D. Trump - “Pro-whatsis?”

M. Mulvaney - “Prorogue, sir. To shut down parliament for a period of time. The target date of October 31^st is fast approaching. Britain will leave the European Union on that date.”

D. Trump - “Boris… wants to shut down the government… to shut down their parliament...”

M. Mulvaney - “Yes.”

D. Trump - “Could I do that here? Stop Pelosi from standing in my way? Could I stop Nancy, and stop those ladies from ‘The Squad?’ Stop them right here and stop them right now?”

M. Mulvaney - “Our government does not work that way, sir.”

D. Trump - “Boris, you know he has a funny name but I like him. I like him a lot. He has style. Look at his hair, crazy style, I like his style.”

M. Mulvaney - “Sir, you can’t shut down Congress.”

D. Trump - “They talked about Boris on the CBS Morning News. You said they talked about him. Not me. Just him. Maybe that is what I need, like when you are doing a show and you need more talent. Like building a team for more ratings. Like on ‘The Apprentice’ when I had a panel there with me, more people. Maybe I need Boris, funny name but the guy can shut down parliament and get things done.”

M. Mulvaney - (Aghast) “Mr. President, please!”

D. Trump - “I need a summit with Boris. That would be bigger than seeing Putin, bigger than seeing Kim Jong Un. It would be huuuuuuge! Funny guy, funny name. But he gets things done!”

M. Mulvaney – (Sighing heavily) “Yes, Mr. President. I will make some phone calls this morning...”

D. Trump – (Looking triumphant) “Get me Boris Johnson!”

M. Mulvaney – (Deflated and beaten) “Yes, sir. Right away.”

D. Trump - “The guy who can make Britain great again can help me get elected again! Funny name but I love that guy!”

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

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

“Example & Encouragement”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-19)

Note: I read this at Mom's funeral on August 20th, 2019. It was held at the Union Church of Christ in Philippi, West Virginia.

Duality.

I grew up in a household founded on the principle of two as a team being stronger than one alone. This twin tradition of nurture caused a sort of natural balance to develop, from my beginning. Mother and father speaking with their own distinct voices. But doing so in harmony. He, the example for my budding self. A template. A guide for future exploration. A mentor. A genuine sire. And she, the encourager. The breath of life. The sustenance of spirit. The one who always made me believe when faith in myself was needed. She carried my fetal beginning in her womb, then carried my growing life forward with an embrace of hope that never ended.

As a child, she urged me to join a local 4-H club in Virginia. Something she had done herself as a youngster. I was socially awkward and afraid. Every meeting brought a sense of dread as I pondered my own ability to fail. But she stayed patient. Always seeding my mind with new thoughts. New opportunities. New inventions. In the group, I thrived. Like a mystic, she seemed to know instinctively that this new routine would help to open my consciousness to better things. Creative impulses that strained the limits of traditional education were embraced in this setting. Soon, fear of the unfamiliar became joy in receiving the wisdom of learned souls. I chose electricity as a focal point, with new technologies rising quickly in the early 1970’s.

Dad approved in words. Mom gave her endorsement through the heart.

At church, I memorized verses from the Christian Bible. Deuteronomy 5:16 laid a foundation for our philosophy as a family. “Honor thy father and thy mother, as the Lord thy God hath commanded thee; that thy days may be prolonged, and that it may go well with thee, in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.” It was a scripture often quoted and revered. One that helped me aim for the confidence of my father in all things. But another settled in my heart. One that provided fertile soil for the concept of inner dignity to push upward toward the sunlight of truth. Selected words from Proverbs Chapter 31. “Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her so that he shall have no need of spoil. She will do him good and not evil all the days of her life… Strength and honor are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come… she openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness… She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up, and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all. Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain: but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.”

My mind valued the knowledge borne by father, a master of sacred writings and ancient histories. But stowed deep in my spirit was the essence gifted to me by mother. An energy conveyed not through language or instruction, but by love. Delivered directly, just as her own flesh cradled and cultivated my own to the point of independence.

Perhaps this bond was the reason for our emotional connection, long after I had graduated to adult life. We would joke in the family that a typical conversation by telephone was divided unequally. With Dad, a chat might last five minutes. With Mom, it was more likely to run for a few hours. With him, each minute of speaking carried informative thoughts that might still resound many weeks into the future. Yet from her, there was a sort of comfort not unlike sitting in her lap as a child. Wandering in subject matter from this page to the next, or back again. Not following any chronology or discipline. Sharing feelings that words were strained to express. When my wife would ask what we had talked about for so long, the answer might echo as a riddle. “Nothing!” This often produced a blank stare or crossed arms and a glare of befuddlement. Still, it was true.

Mom and I could talk about ‘nothing’ and from that stream-of-consciousness, derive what felt like everything, in my heart.

Even when bowed by the weight of many years, she retained this ability to spread charm and goodwill easily. Like slathering butter on a fresh-baked piece of her French bread. At the Mansfield Place nursing home, even after father had ascended to eternity, she gabbed and smiled and laughed and celebrated each day of being alive. Like savoring a feast set before the flock. When we visited, I sought comfort and personal validation as her child. But just as often, my reward was in seeing her skill with strangers and seekers-of-solace around the table. Her ability to channel the energy of God into a simple, daily prayer remained remarkable. I reflected on the old admonition to “Grow where you are planted.” In a dozen congregations and more, from west Virginia to Michigan to Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York, she did just that with determination. Always able to find enough sunlight and rain to fuel her forward motion.

Paired with Dad, she created a partnership that endured to inspire others for many decades. While he paused with coffee and lesson materials, she put the holy scriptures into daily use. Making each word of Christ come alive in practice. Offered not from the pulpit, but over a fence in the yard, or a table in the kitchen. Given with no-bake cookies or her McCray-style vegetable soup. A present for the spirit and the belly.

This dual concept – that food was a blessing, and a celebration or sorts in the name of God, worked well for me, in childhood and beyond. Perhaps it is why that I still think most fondly of dinners in the church basement where breaking bread together, while reasoning over scripture, was my favorite activity.

To bid Dad farewell, while holding fast to the faith that we would meet again, challenged my resolve even as I believed it to be true. But giving the same salute to Mom, the one who gave me life within herself, was somehow different. A conundrum in seeing the beginning of ‘me’ coming to a mortal end, in her passing. A sting of death being separated from my own beginning. From the spark that set my sentient self ablaze. From the garden where I grew from a mustard seed. From the pool where I learned to swim before wallowing toward the vast ocean of human experiences.

To truly say goodbye would be unbearably sad. So I take relief in knowing that this moment does not come with that kind of finality, rooted in the grave. Instead, she is alive in a higher realm. One to which I can hope to ascend, by following the example of father, and accepting her encouragement to soar.

I love you, Mom.

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

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

“Waffle House Worship"

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-10)

Sunday.

On the calendar, this day of the week is most often celebrated as a time of rest. A moment away from the hustle of routine work responsibilities. An opportunity to bond with family members neglected during the rush to earn a living. For some, it marks a time to pause and give thanks to a higher power. A focal point for worship and reflection.

In the Ice household, our faith demands such a pause. Not only to explore the concept of a divine creator, but also to honor a manifestation of that glory. To visit a temple of culinary faith and sit in pews constructed as booths and truckstop counters. At a church we call the ‘Waffle House.’

My most recent pilgrimage began in the afternoon. I was still drowsy from a late night sharing stories around the fire with my neighbors. A benefit of living in a rural area of Ohio, at a park with the summer mood of a low-buck campground. My t-shirt reeked a bit of spilled beer and stray wood smoke. But I felt no shame. The cleansing ritual of a communion with diner food lay ahead. I knew that a better self would emerge from the brick, metal, and glass of that sanctuary. A soul chastened and healed for yet another week.

My intended faith-partner was Janis, a bohemian friend from Ashtabula County. Her post-hippie style and minimalist outlook helped to make such visits less solitary. Though she did not share my own philosophical devotion to the creed of coffee, comity, and praise at the counter-top, her presence made the journey more complete.

Still feeling groggy, I intended to pick her up in the afternoon.

A Cleveland Indians baseball game crackled from the radio. As I pulled into her driveway, not far from lake Erie, my pulse began to quicken. Sunshine brightened the sky over her modest home. I sent a cellphone text to announce my arrival. Then, adjusted the air conditioning. It was already in the 80’s. I did not want her to feel uncomfortable.

When she appeared, her orange, Harley-Davidson apparel literally seemed to glow. Her faux-purse, a promotional tote from Schwebels bread in Youngstown, swung freely as she walked. Her red hair had been pulled back, and tied with a crude twist of rubber bands. The look was efficient and familiar. A personal style rendered without overthinking.

I daydreamed about grits, hash browns and bacon.

Suddenly, Janis halted her stride. She tilted ominously and began to void the contents of her stomach. My eyes snapped open, forcefully. I stared straight ahead, in total disbelief. A gentle curse slipped from my mouth.

“Ulllp, ullp. Gahh. R-R-Rawwwwww!”

I reckoned her hurl-in-the-grass was some sort of optical illusion. One brought on by my own fatigue after many adult beverages, during the previous night of festivity. But then, she stood still for a second time. Arched and sour-faced. Convulsing while her bag continued to swing.

“Rawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww...”

Anyone else would have apologized, spun around, and retreated humbly to the couch. But she professed a total disconnection from any kind of illness. I sat in stunned silence as she entered my truck.

“You really want to go out for a meal?”

Janis gave me a look of bemused indifference. She insisted that the episode sprang from being hungry. A gnawing emptiness brought on, no doubt, from having nothing left on her tummy. I shook my head and backed onto her road. The day was verdant green, azure blue, and outrageously orange from her shirt. It blasted my tired optic nerves. Appearing even brighter in the limited confines of my pickup cab.

We had passed only a couple of houses when her head bowed. She began to cough. Then, hold her mouth. Then, puff her face like a chipmunk carrying seeds.

“Rawww… rawww... rawwwww!”

Janis had covered herself, with just a slight spew of barf over the truck dashboard and onto the seat. She reached in the glovebox for napkins left over from Taco Bell.

“I’m good!” she cheered.

I frowned over the steering wheel. Predictably, traffic was heavier as we approached the junction with Route 45. There were commercial trucks, boats being towed, cars, vans, campers, bikes and four-wheelers everywhere. I sat at the stop sign until this parade of Sunday celebrants passed, on their journey to the sun.

Then, with tires squealing, I made a U-turn.

She was not happy. “You aren’t going to take us out to eat?”

I laughed while spinning the wheel. “No, of course not. You aren’t well.”

Her eyes nearly closed. “I am fine!”

I could visualize her slouched over the counter at our destination. Shivering and sorrowfully pleading her lack of gastric control. While the wait-staff screeched their disapproval. It made me go cold. Completely numb to the idea of postmodern worship with a sacred meal.

“Honey,” I whispered. “It’s okay. Why didn’t you tell me before? We don’t have to go out when you are sick. There’ll be another Sunday.”

She insisted on changing her clothes.

I rested my chin on the steering wheel. “This is your only day off. Relax. I’ll catch you again, later in the week. If you need anything, let me know...”

At last, her defiance vanished. “Okay,” she agreed.

Even on this traditional day of rest, I had errands to run. Mail to sort, at home. More documents to share with my family, regarding our mom who was at a nursing home in West Virginia. Even more correspondence for the post office, to go out on Monday morning. So I did not lack for chores.

Still, a few hours later, my appetite returned.

I sat in the living room of my sister, in Hambden. She and I discussed our fandom for ‘The Orrville’ with my younger nephew. He had begun to watch the program on Hulu after my recommendation. We all agreed that the show channeled a repurposed vibe of ‘Star Trek’ that made it appealing and worthwhile. I explained that my Sunday visit came after an unsuccessful attempt to visit services at a favorite restaurant-of-reverence in Austinburg. My intention was to pray reverently over a ‘Texas Cheesesteak Melt’ sandwich, topped with sausage gravy ordered as a side dish, and hash browns. An idea I conceived one week before.

A beam of sunlight peeked through their front window, as I confessed this unfulfilled desire. With my belly grumbling in protest for having been denied. Then, an epiphany shined down on the room. Electrifying the air and lifting my spirits.

“Hey!” I cheered. “There is a Waffle House nearby, in Concord... with sweet tea for the communion wine and buttermilk biscuits for the host. Would anyone like to celebrate with me at the evening service?”

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

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

“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