“Picklebilly Proud”

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-07)


Writing is often portrayed as a glamorous profession. Gifted wordsmiths in the style of Hunter S. Thompson or Mike Royko have made the craft seem effortless. Yet it requires earthy qualities such as vigilance and skill. Typically, there are few bright lights or accolades on the way to journalistic excellence. Instead, good writing usually is the byproduct of basic persistence and intuition.

I pondered these truisms recently, while researching local bands for a music feature. My intent was simple enough – find information about two local outfits that would be playing our area in the future. Then, compose a brief feature about each group. A phone call started my quest for enlightenment. But then…

Another call transpired. And another. No one was available to speak on the subject of these regional entertainers. I gathered numbers for additional contacts, with a similar result. Everyone had previous commitments. Not a single tidbit of news appeared from my search. All I had were two names: ‘Kingpins’ and ‘Blues Project.’

An Internet overview only offered confusion. The name ‘Kingpins’ produced results that included a local act from Northwest England, a Canadian ska band from Montreal, and a rockabilly quartet from Reading, Pennsylvania.

‘Blues Project’ was even more perplexing. In addition to the famous 60’s collective by that name (featuring guitarist Danny Kalb, and keyboard wiz Al Kooper) a list developed that included New York bluesman Don Brewer, a North-of-the-border ensemble from Fredericton, New Brunswick, and Clevelander Collin Dussalt.

A week later, I was still stumped.

With my deadline approaching, I began to concoct alternate ideas. Perhaps an empty spot in the newspaper? I imagined a logo that said ‘This space under construction.’ It wasn’t an appealing sight.

Finally, a message appeared on my voice mail. My primary contact was a busy teacher, volunteer, and musician. While on the run, he called to mention that he would be attending a free show scheduled for that night. The event would include classic cars, a prize raffle, and high-calorie foodstuffs.

I immediately agreed! But the location was at least forty-five minutes away.

After visiting an American Cancer Society charity walk, I left for the outdoor festival. It was already near 7:00 PM. I still had no idea which band would be performing. Or what they might include for a musical repertoire. My tools were few – a reporter’s notebook, and digital camera.
The distant village was crowded when I arrived. Revelers were everywhere and no access had been left to the downtown area. A raucous street celebration was already in full swing. I backed my pickup into an empty space behind a blue, cinder-block restaurant. It seemed likely that no one would pay attention with so much activity afoot.

Walking around the eatery, I heard live music echoing with tempting force. Had I been so lucky as to find my target without hunting through the crowd? I tingled all over while the band played ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula’ by Gene Vincent. Their interpretation of the tune was gritty and authentically energetic.

I was mesmerized. Were these The Kingpins?

The trio throttled-up their instruments, for a powerful electric joyride. The truck-trailer stage they had inherited literally bounced off the tarmac! A string of familiar tunes developed, touching on work by a number of iconic 50’s performers. Dancing spectators lined the sidewalks. Quietly, I considered quizzing someone that displayed a connection with the group.

Then, the frontman shouted over his seafoam-blue guitar. "We’re the dirtiest pickles you ever saw!"

I shrugged. "Dirty Pickles??"

The band played a rollicking original tune called ‘My Baby Loves Rock ‘n’ Roll.’ Afterward, the unusual moniker was repeated for emphasis. "I’m Matty B. and we’re The Dirty Pickles!"
I was elated and perturbed at the same instant. The picklebilly sound had me craving more… but where were The Kingpins? Or the fellows from Blues Project?

Elated with the stripped-down music selections, two girls appeared from the crowd. They wore matching black and white polka-dot dresses. While the pickle-sonic vibrations echoed, both began to dance.

I reached for my camera.

A bearded fellow standing next to me observed that they were Joy and Amanda, two colorful friends of the band. He spoke through an aromatic haze of after-work refreshment. When I mentioned being a music journalist, he immediately scrambled to tell the young ladies. "Hey, this guy writes for a newspaper…!"

As I fumbled for my camera, Amanda put a finger to her cheek, playfully. It made for a perfect shot.

While The Pickles took a break from performing, I decided to walk around the car show. About one block from the stage, new sounds appeared with tantalizing energy. Then, I turned west. The strange music continued to swell. Another block of vehicles led to my original target… The Kingpins!

I chatted with bandleader Jim Fuller, after a rousing version of ‘Mustang Sally.’ The yield was enough information to complete my preview, and fill out an extra article mentioning the pickle-power of my new favorite band:

"VLASSIC ROCK IS ALIVE AND WELL - At the Hometown Sock Hop on June 15th, there was no reason to stand still. In fact, it just might have been impossible.

Vintage cars were everywhere, as were aromas of hot dogs, hamburgers, and fresh pizza. It was the kind of street fair only a close-knit community like this could muster.
Participants were entertained by live music from two different stages, and two different generations, at the colorful event.

Jim Fuller and the popular local group Kingpins provided a dramatic lesson in Rock history. "I was lucky to grow up in that era," he said. "We all were."

Fuller played keyboards in the group, and handled lead vocals. Dave Koski played bass; Jimmy Atzemis played guitar; and John Leombruno kept the backbeat going, on drums. Each was a cultural historian at work.

For Matty B. and The Dirty Pickles, the years might have been fewer. But their love of Rock ‘n’ roll was no less intense. They rendered a stellar list of songs by artists like Buddy Holly, Gene Vincent, Bobby Fuller, and the heroic Link Wray.

"We love this stuff," Matty said with a grin.

Matty B. played guitar and sang lead vocals in the band. Ben Jammin played bass. Marky G completed the trio, on drums. Throughout their performance, their truck-trailer stage bounced up and down. Onlookers were impressed by the group’s energetic interpretation of classic Rock anthems.

The automobiles displayed ranged from primitive early models, to big-motored performance cars from the 1960’s. There was literally something for everyone. Products from GM, Ford, and Chrysler were well represented.

A Volkswagen Microbus from Pennsylvania boasted V-8 power, mounted amidships, in the vehicle’s interior. The VW amazed nearly every passer-by - not an easy feat, considering the variety of cars available to view.

Local residents Joy and Amanda wore matching polka-dot dresses to the Sock Hop. They were a festive sight, dancing between rows of custom, chrome chariots.

"This is great!" Amanda observed.

Undoubtedly, everyone else at the Sock Hop would have agreed."

The day ended with a return to Chardon. I paused for groceries, and my own ration of adult beverages.

My cell phone rang as I was standing in line with a basket of goodies.

Liz had been shopping with her mother. But their excursion ended several hours ago. It was after 10:00 PM. She had become a lonely wife. "Aren’t you finished looking at cars?" she pleaded.

I answered with a grin. "Don’t worry, I’m almost home."

"Were there any pink flamingos at the show?" she warbled.

My brain was fatigued. "Hmmm… I can’t remember one but there must have been. I think it’s a law."

She sighed. "So do you have ideas for your story?"

"Yeah," I replied. "The article will be called ‘Vlassic Rock.’ I think our readers will find it interesting."

"Vlassic?" Liz squeaked. "Like… a pickle?"

"Exactly," I said.

She was stunned. "Okay… why would you write about that??"

I paid for my groceries, and walked outside. The night air whispered a subtle blessing to finish the pickle-delic adventure. "It’s a long story, sweets. Wait till I get home!"

GENEVA-ON-THE-LAKE ADVENTURE

Geneva-on-the-lake is an incredible patch of real estate.

Nationally, this expanse is known as one of America's most well-preserved summer resort areas. In Ohio lore, it is a spot revered for motorcycling abandon. Those from all varieties of two-wheeled experience come to "The Strip' to commisserate.

A favored point on the G-O-T-L roadway is Eddie's Grill. The dogstop and ice cream haven is well known to local visitors. Many bikes are present here, at any given moment during the summer.

With attractions like 'Adventure Zone,' and 'Sportsterz,' the strip is a constant draw in Ashtabula County. Those who seek cycling brotherhood need not go far from home.

The atmosphere is close at hand!

DENNIS CHANDLER & THE STRATOPHONICS

Dennis Chandler and his Stratophonics appeared at Jefferson Days on June 24th.

The group provided an incredible mix of classic rock tunes, along with an education in the genre. For example: Chandler observed that 'Blueberry Hill,' a classic tune normally associated with Fats Domino, actually originated in 1938 with Gene Autry, the singing cowboy.

The band offered a medley of songs including 'Kansas City,' 'Good Rockin' Tonight,' and 'My Blue Heaven.' Then, they played 'Pretty Blue Eyes' which was made popular by by Steve Lawrence.

Then, the group ventured into instrumental classics from the rock era, including 'The Happy Organ' by Dave 'Baby' Cortez.

Their ending rendition was the title theme from 'The Mickey Mouse Club.'

Chandler is a guitarist and keyboard wizard of great renown. He has recorded with legendary artists like B. B. King, and Chuck Berry.

In addition to performing as a musician, Chandler was an executive with Gibson Musical Instruments for five years.

JEFFERSON DAYS CAR SHOW

The 2007 Jefferson Days Car Show

by ROD ICE

The cars were plentiful at Jefferson Days. So were ribs, family attractions, and music performers.

A black 1937 Ford Coupe took best-in-show, owned by Carl Griffith.

Next was a 1956 Pontiac Catalina, painted blue and white. The car was displayed by Bill & Sylvia Braden of Conneaut.

Following that was a yellow 1968 Ford Falcon Futura. It boasted a vintage six-cylinder engine. The car came courtesy of Jack from Hot Wheelz Kruzers.

Then came a 1972 Nova painted brandywine red, owned by Bob & Sandy Kuhar. The car featured a skyroof option, which was very rare for that model year.

A 1955 black Lincoln Capri followed that, owned by Ken & Rose Hope.

Twin VW 'Herbie' models appeared at the show, owned by Chris Hare, Jr.

Lots of vehicles crowded the street.

Finally, a custom Chevrolet dragster piloted by Robby Bates thrilled everyone. It made the most noise when started to leave the show. The car featured race-spec, open headers.

The event offered lots of classic cars against a backdrop of rock music. It was a cheerful celebration of baby-boom culture!

The Kingsville Motel

This is a favorite spot for reflection while traveling east along Interstate 90. The park & sleep establishment is across Route 193 from a TA Travelcenter truck stop. During pauses for diner food, roadgoing attire, and collectible goodies, I've often looked across the way and pondered this local landmark. More stoic than the Dav-Ed Motel, it exudes the charm of a beckoning highway rest stop. I often imagine the comfort that has been discovered there. Quiet moments out of the confining space in a commercial rig - perfect after enduring a run from Bakersfield to Cleveland. Or a post-bar conversation with other drivers. Perhaps even a tender night of unexpected bliss, shared on a whim?

The neon sign is impressive at night. Meanwhile, the actual building has an upturned, 60's-style awning over its front entrance. There is hope in the sweeping architecture. "Come," it says. "And I will give you sanctuary at a bargain rate... $29.95 per night with free coffee and toast in the morning." Or at least... a warm place to discover solitude, a shower, and a few hours of shut-eye.

"Always - Your County Offices"

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(6-07)


Note to readers: What follows here is a joke. Please don’t send snappy letters to the editor. You’ll give him a headache. And don’t try to order a sausage & bologna omelet in Burton. Thank you.

7:30 AM – I was still at the computer. It had been a long, sleepless night of pondering data and statistics. My intent seemed simple enough. I wanted to read through reports on relocation of Geauga County Government, and write a relevant news story. With groggy eyes, I flipped through a document from D. B. Hartt in Cleveland, for the seventh time. It was an exhaustive survey, prepared after a careful analysis of the situation:

"Within the last year the City became aware that the County was contemplating moving more of its offices and employees to the County owned land in Claridon Township. While it was uncertain as to the number of employees that might be relocated, or the timing of such move, would adversely affect the City from a variety of perspectives. Therefore, the purposes of this study are to: Assess the impacts of the potential reduction of County employees in Chardon; Identify preferred locations for new County facilities if they were to stay in Chardon; (and) Determine the type and level of assistance that Chardon might offer as an incentive for the County facilities to remain in the City."

My coffee tasted like mud. The pot had been on its warmer for several hours. I read through the thirty-eight pages of evidence until fatigue made the exercise pointless. Yet a new wrinkle on the story wouldn’t appear. Other journalists in the area had already quoted Geauga County Commissioners as saying that the idea was nothing more than speculation. No plan had been drafted. So what could I offer that might expand knowledge of the subject? Once more, I scanned the Hartt report conclusion for something new:

"From the preceding site evaluations it is most likely clear that D.B. Hartt considers the Chardon Square site preferable to any other option. Chardon Square is the only option that satisfies all of the City’s concerns and needs. The costs and potential obstacles may be greater, but the immediate and long-term benefits are significant. Conversely, there are significant negative prospects of not locating on the square. However, while our estimates found development costs for the square option would be measurably higher than those for a ‘greenfield’ site, the square option would not be significantly different from any other developed or partially developed site within the Old Chardon area of the City."

Suddenly, mental and visual focus returned. I’d been trying to weigh the issues involved on my own. A more logical approach would be better – talk to someone who represents the county! If nothing else, such an interview would provide intellectual contrast. I knew Chardon residents were likely to want the county to retain its presence within city borders. But what about average citizens from Middlefield, Hambden, Montville, Thompson, Chesterland, or Parkman? What would they prefer?

8:15 AM – By the time I arrived at Belle’s American Grille in Burton, Ezekiel Byler-Gregg was already busy with his special-order sausage & bologna omelet. My friend was a studious fellow, dependable for his ability to offer clear and unique opinions on nearly anything about Geauga. Named for a Mennonite grandfather that lived to the age of one-hundred-and-two, he was good-natured and ornery. Though lanky and bent from years of farm labor, Ezekiel achieved local fame writing for the bygone Burton Daily Bugle. His insight could not be surpassed.

I took a seat as he paused in between forkfuls of egg.

"Good morning, Rodney!" he said.

"How are you, Zeke?" I replied, rubbing my eyes.

He considered my exhaustion with curiosity. "Not sleeping well, my friend? You look like a beaten mule."

My face went red. "Thanks. I feel like one, too."

"So, what’s the matter?" he said, scratching his beard. "Why did you want to join me for breakfast instead of getting some shut-eye?"

I took a deep breath. "Zeke, I’m stuck on a story. My deadline is approaching. You’re a veteran reporter. What would you do?"

He smiled. "Get out of the office, for a start. Take a fresh look at things. Find yourself a new perspective."

I nodded. "Okay, that’s sound advice. Then what?"

"Ask questions. Different questions! Don’t get in a rut. Open the barn door and let those thoughts run free!"

"Okay,"

I agreed. "Then here’s a surprise quiz for you. Swing that door wide open! What’s the best way to serve the needs of our county? Save taxpayer money by putting new offices in Claridon, or keep things in Chardon where they’ve always been?"

Ezekiel dropped his fork. He sat upright, and narrowed his eyes.
I was confused. "Uhmm, did I touch a nerve there?"

Without warning, he began to laugh. "My friend, solving a problem by creating another is a fool’s strategy."

"So,"

I said, after ordering a fresh cup of java. "You’d decide to keep the county offices in Chardon?"

"On The Square? Where access is limited, and space is at a premium…?"

he said.

I was confused. "Well then… you think the county should relocate its headquarters?"
Ezekiel shook his graying head. "If there are two choices available to solve a problem, both of which are bad, then how do you decide?"

"Uhh, take the one that causes less harm?"

I said.

He groaned. "Horsefeathers! Think about the question. You choose to find another option!"
My composure was lost. "Okay! So what would you advise Geauga County to do with their offices?"

He laughed again. "Put them in a place easy for everyone to visit…and a spot where expansion can take place when needed, without tearing things down."

I shrugged my shoulders. "And where is that?"

He nearly shouted. "WAL-MART!"

Coffee spewed from my lips. "Whaaaaat??"

Ezekiel pounded his fist on the table. "Face it. Nearly everybody goes to Wal-Mart."
I protested. "Don’t say that!"

"No matter what opinion people have of the retailer, most citizens of the county shop there,"

he boasted. "It’s a given fact. Sooner or later, we all go to Wal-Mart. Some go proudly, and some go under the cover of darkness. Some go trembling. Some go out of economic need. Some go with naïve illusions. But we go. So while we’re there getting clothes, food, lawn ornaments, or tires for the car, why not conduct county business? It just makes sense."

I was speechless.

"Then, our officials can brag about the cost savings," he continued. "Just think of it! Get your printer paper, staples, and scotch tape on-site. Upgrade the county computers whenever you want – just walk across the sales floor for a new E-Machine with Microsoft Vista. No more wasteful driving to Office Depot. Gasoline is too expensive, after all!"

My mouth dropped open.

"Meetings could be held at the in-store Subway franchise," he implored. "Need a photo of the commissioners? Take it by the express checkout and have it printed in the photolab. Then everybody can take a break to buy T-shirts and pet food for home. Thunderation! Can you think of an easier way to get business done?"

I could barely breathe.

My friend returned to his omelet. "Wal-Mart isn’t going away. Customers won’t let them, no matter how much we complain. So let’s make the best of it! Put the ‘smiley face’ out front, and we’ll have as much room for the county offices as we need! Everybody can call it a win, and they’ll all be happy!"

My stomach was churning. "I don’t know, Zeke. I think… this is the craziest thing you’ve ever suggested. Have you been hitting the corn squeezings?"

"Read the words of company CEO Lee Scott,"

he snorted. "Wal-Mart calls it ‘Sustainability 360.’ They’re looking for direct engagement with associates, suppliers, communities, and customers. This would be the completion of that idea. Corporations control our destiny anyhow. Welcome to the future!"

I felt dizzy. "Somehow, I thought you’d take a more traditional view of this, Zeke. Wal-Mart doesn’t fit with plain living or reverence for tradition."

"Look, I may be old,"

he replied. "But I don’t have to think according to old rules! Neither do you, Rodney."

10:01 AM – I passed out after driving home. Fatigue and a wild-eyed friend were too much to endure!

7:09 PM - I was back at the computer, again. Writing assignments had kept me busy throughout the evening. But I still couldn’t quite finish the news story about potentially moving our county offices.

Ezekiel Byler-Gregg had made unique, unconventional observations, before. But this time, he must have been kidding…

Or was he??

Kingpins, Dirty Pickles, and Hot Rods

By ROD ICE

CONNEAUT – At The Conneaut Sock Hop on June 15th, there was no reason to stand still. In fact, it just might have been impossible.
Vintage cars were everywhere, as were aromas of hot dogs, hamburgers, and fresh pizza. It was the kind of street fair only a close-knit community like this could muster.
Participants were entertained by live music from two different stages, and two different generations, at the colorful event.
Jim Fuller and the popular local group Kingpins provided a dramatic lesson in Rock history. "I was lucky to grow up in that era," he said. "We all were. There’s a connection here with the very beginning of our local Rock ‘n’ roll scene. To artists like Johnny Cado and Jimmy Calabreze."
With his band mates, Fuller performed a varied collection of tunes from the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. Each was its own trip down memory lane.
Fuller played keyboards in the group, and handled lead vocals. Dave Koski played bass; Jimmy Atzemis played guitar; and John Leombruno kept the backbeat going, on drums. Each was a cultural historian at work.
For Matty B. and The Dirty Pickles, the years might have been fewer. But their love of Rock ‘n’ roll was no less intense. They rendered a stellar list of songs by artists like Buddy Holly, Gene Vincent, Bobby Fuller, and the heroic Link Wray.
"We love this stuff," Matty said with a grin.
Matty B. played guitar and sang lead vocals in the band. Ben Jammin played bass. Marky G completed the trio, on drums. Throughout their performance, their truck-trailer stage bounced up and down. Onlookers were impressed by the group’s energetic interpretation of classic Rock anthems.
The automobiles displayed ranged from primitive early models, to big-motored performance cars from the 1960’s. There was literally something for everyone. Products from GM, Ford, and Chrysler were well represented.
A Volkswagen Microbus from Pennsylvania boasted V-8 power, mounted amidships, in the vehicle’s interior. The VW amazed nearly every passer-by - not an easy feat, considering the variety of cars available to view.
Local residents Joy and Amanda wore matching polka-dot dresses to the Sock Hop. They were a festive sight, dancing between rows of custom, chrome chariots.
"This is great!" Amanda observed.
Undoubtedly, everyone else at the Sock Hop would have agreed.

“Revelations at the Ice Cream Stand”

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-07)



It was a quiet morning in Thompson. Sunlight had just begun to filter through treetops at the edge of our yard. I had both of our canine residents leashed and ready for a brief excursion. Coffee steam rose playfully from my cup. Together, we walked across the empty road, facing east. Quigley, the family Pomeranian led our team with discipline and resolve. I sipped coffee while considering the brightening sky. Riley, our new Lab puppy, bounced and fidgeted while following our march. His black profile blended into the waning shadows.

Suddenly, there was a chirp from my cell phone. I jumped with surprise. "Who’d be calling me so early?" The number in my Caller ID display was a line of gibberish. Something made me feel cold. But I answered after a deep breath. "Hello?"

"Good morning Mr. Ice," the caller said, without emotion.

"Uhm… may I help you?" My throat was dry.

"Rod," he said. "It is good to speak with you. I work to protect our… national security. We have similar goals. You are a very independent fellow. A journalist that won’t be silenced."

I raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"We’ve been reading your reports for many years," the caller continued. "No one else wrote about the ‘Tube Farm’ mystery. That was very courageous. Then you uncovered the plot to turn Burton Village into a truckstop by breaking local spirit through the ‘Pancake Water Tower.’ Your work has been commendable."

I coughed. "Look, sir. I write for entertainment. Do you understand?"

There was a long pause. "Rod, you’ve been skillful in using the guise of local humor to cover controversial messages. Like your cryptic meeting at Thompson Drag Raceway with secret personalities, for example…"

"Look, Agent X," I insisted. "All of that was fabricated. Like a comic book! Or an episode of ‘Heroes’ on NBC."

"Of course!" he chortled. "Raw truth makes powerful figures fearful. A journalist must take care not to be eliminated."

My blood pressure began to rise. "Let me offer you some advice. Go back to Washington and tell them you got lost on the way here… or that you got your North Korean sources mixed up with ones from North Kingsville. Tell them anything. But leave me alone! Okay?"

There was another pause. "Rod, did you know that Hillary Clinton will be elected to the White House in 2008?"

"That isn’t news." I said with sarcasm. "Tell me Dennis Kucinich will win the Oval Office… now THAT would be a story!"

There was a distinct sigh over the phone. "We deal in fact, not fantasy, Mr. Ice!"

I laughed out loud. "Many people suspect that Hillary will win, easily. But others reckon Barack Obama will make it a lively contest."

The Agent snorted. "Obama will be her Vice President."

My skin tingled. "Really? I’d guess he would be better off to wait until 2012…"

"Politics is a game of compromise," he observed. "For that reason George H. W. Bush accepted the same position in deference to Ronald Reagan. Do you remember?"

I nodded. "Yes, of course…but how can you possibly know who will win a contest before it’s over? What about John Edwards? Or Fred Thompson? Or Rudy Giuliani?"

He snorted with indifference. "The choice has been made already!"

Quigley and Riley were busy playing in the grass. They wrestled over ownership of a withered tree branch. Neither was big enough to carry the treasure away.

I had grown impatient. "My pets are restless. I’m in the middle of a morning walk. This conversation is going nowhere. So let me say goodbye!"

Ending the call abruptly made both dogs snap to attention. I gestured down the road. "Okay boys, here we go!"

Silence made the brightening day strangely ominous. No birds were singing. The sunrise was pale, and unfulfilled. We strode carefully at the asphalt’s edge, though there was no traffic in motion. The world around us had… stopped!

Then, I saw it. WE WERE NOT ALONE!

In front of the empty Thompson Ice Cream Stand, a black limousine was waiting. It bore no markings or license plate of any kind. A tinted window opened, dramatically. I could not see inside.

My phone rang again. The sound made me jump!

"Rod, you were rude just now," Agent X said. "That is out of character. But as you can see, we don’t need to speak by electronic means. Would you approach my vehicle, please?"

Quigley growled defensively. Riley hid in a thicket of tall grass. But after considering my options, I complied at last. The vast slab of metal seemed to consume sunlight, like a black hole. The surrounding air was unusually cold.

"You are very persistent!" I observed. Only a slit of light revealed that anyone was inside the vehicle.

"Indeed," he responded. "What I bring to you, today, is of great importance. You must carry the message to your readers. Unprecedented actions are going to commence in the coming years. Their development will be possible because of silence from Washington. But not all of us at ‘The Company’ agree. That is why I am here. YOU can help us foil the plot, and maintain sanity in the USA."

I gasped. "Me? A small-town reporter??"

"It must be a grassroots effort," he insisted. "My identity… and my partners… need the cloak of anonymity to remain alive. As before, you can communicate the message! We need your help!"

"Okay, since you won’t take a hint…" I said with resignation. "Tell me. What’s the scoop?"

Agent X stroked his chin. "It is a three-part strategy. The first phase has already been implemented – gas prices are rising to insane levels. This non-violent step will precede the next two. As unrest increases, our domestic beer supply will be targeted by foreign operatives. Once crippled by coordinated strikes, our breweries will no longer yield product. America will be a desperate, thirsty land."

My jaw dropped open. "Now who is dealing in fantasy?"

"The threat is quite real," he replied.

"Okay," I said. "What is their plan for an encore?"

"Selective poultry breeding has begun already," he whispered. "A brood of wingless birds is being developed at a secret farm in Kentucky. The genetic code will be spread… through clandestine means… industry-wide."

"Birds that can’t fly?" I said, mockingly.

He frowned. "It would be better characterized as ‘Limbs that can’t fry’ I think… no more Buffalo Wings. No more beer. No more SUVs and pickup trucks. No more America as we know it now."

I shuddered. "So, I’d guess that President Hillary would react immediately?"

"In principle," he agreed. "But without substance. Many progressive leaders will call it a blessing of consequences. They already desire action on the crisis of domestic obesity. Many also want to eliminate personal autos in favor of mass transportation systems. The calamity will serve their needs. And, unify citizens against a common threat."

I was stunned. "The government would just… let it happen? Wouldn’t voters rebel?"

Agent X smiled at my ignorance. "Don’t you read Alex Jones? Everything is decided at the Bohemian Grove. What the nation is allowed to witness constitutes public relations material. Nothing more. It is a puppet show for adults. A dependable cycle between left and right is maintained to keep regular citizens hopeful and… cooperative."

"So, who do YOU work for?" I wondered aloud. "Us… or them?"

He was amused. "A question with merit, Mr. Ice. The answer is a matter of perspective. Look inside yourself… to whom does your own loyalty belong?"

"The people!" I shouted. "And liberty!"

"Very good," he said in reflection. "Then serve their needs. Write the story now. Spread the word. Our cause is just!"

The limousine window rolled up, suddenly. A squawk of tires sent gravel into the air. I narrowly avoided being knocked to the ground!

Quigley and Riley were glad to be on the move. We returned home, immediately! My wife was waiting with a fresh pot of coffee.

"So," she smiled. "Did your walk help those gears turn inside your head? Tell me you’ve got an idea for the next newspaper column."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Well, yes… I’ve got an idea. But I think another feature on pork rinds would be a safer bet…"

Liz bit her lip. "Huh?? What are you trying to say?"

My words came deliberately. "I’m saying it isn’t safe to leave the house before having a cup of Joe… don’t ever let me do that again!"

"BUILDING TIM'S HOUSE"

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-07)


For a parent, no greater woe exists than the death of a child.
Suffering through the emptiness left behind after such a loss can be overwhelming. Often, breaking hearts are taxed to their limit by grief. Many are moved to ponder relationships, theological traditions, and their own existence. It is a part of life that can cause even the most steadfast of souls to tremble.

Those who have lost a son or daughter to suicide must struggle mightily to find inner peace. Often, questions multiply in the search for understanding. The drastic act of self-negation might seem unthinkable and careless. Yet it represents a wounded cry made for all eternity. Those who choose this final leap toward oblivion know a kind of loneliness that even parental love may not be able to dispel.

In the world of local resident Carole Brazis, this dark reality arrived in September of 2006. Friends and family members were shocked to hear that her only son had ended his life. In an open letter, she speaks of the tragic events with courage and sincerity:

"I live in Geauga County and have for all but two years of my life. I was a single mother of one beautiful boy, Timothy Weed. My only child never gave me trouble in school or otherwise. He saved money his whole childhood to buy his first car and pay for his own insurance, as I believed lessons learned about being self-sufficient were very important. He got his first job at the age of sixteen… and held that job for nearly nine years until his life ended abruptly at the age of twenty-four. Three weeks prior to him committing suicide he struggled as his life quickly fell apart. He faced… loss of his girlfriend, and loss of his independence. His drug and alcohol abuse intensified. He begged and pleaded with me over and over again… I took my son Tim everywhere for help to no avail."

Weed was outgoing, personable, and popular. Certainly not the type of person that appeared likely to slip into the awful grasp of depression. He made friends easily and understood the value of team spirit. At his Chardon workplace, this good-natured outlook pleased customers and fellow employees. Tim connected with nearly everyone that patronized the business. He seemed particularly able to help others who were in need. Because of this, news of his passing surprised the community. To memorialize someone so special, a unique plan was required. Carole decided that a tribute should be developed that would have lasting benefits for our community:

"My dream as Timmy grew up was to help him buy a house so he always had a place to go. As a parent you just believe that you will die first. So now… I cannot allow his memory to fade away. My mission is that my son is not forgotten… The first phase is that ‘Tim’s House’ will be the foundation of hope. It will hold multiple self-support groups for the families and loved ones of those who have committed suicide, and an outreach and educational portion to provide public speaking and materials on suicide to be given to all police and Sheriff’s deputies, fire departments, and all local public establishments. ‘Tim’s House’ will have a library, and a food cupboard to help those suffering from loss of income during the most tragic time imaginable. We strive for funding to help those in need of in-patient mental assistance. Many are being turned away due to financial reasons."

Though faced with a daunting task, Carole focused her energy on generating light in the darkness. From her tears, the dream of ‘Tim’s House’ grew from a kernel of inspiration to genuine fulfillment. In this way, her tragedy yielded deliverance rather than despair. It demonstrated the unstoppable power of maternal love. Finally, she found that hope does indeed endure for all eternity:

"As a parent our job is to teach our children many things, to be kind, patient, respectful, honest and loving, forgiving and helpful, productive people. However, my son also taught me many things. He taught me how to love unconditionally and to be patient and forgiving. He taught me that I had to provide, and to be strong in the world even when I felt weak. And even in his death, my son taught me that I must be forgiving, helpful and productive. He was such a gentle, loving soul and the greatest gift. Lastly, Tim taught me great sorrow only comes from great love. You cannot have one without the other. He was my rock, my touchstone and the love of my life…He was everything to me, my life’s work. His kindness spilled out as hundreds of people came to his funeral service, and the stories told were always of him helping people and trying to make them happy."

TIM’S HOUSE is a local organization, with universal merit. Its purpose is to help individuals, families, friends, and the greater community when a loved one commits suicide. Upcoming fundraising events include a Chinese Auction & Dinner, planned for June 30th at the Hambden Town Hall. A golf outing will be held at Chardon Lakes GC on July 29th. For additional information, those interested may contact any of the volunteers who are making this vision a reality:

TIM’S HOUSE, INC.
P. O. Box 1074
Chardon, Ohio 44024
440-286-HOPE (4673)

Will this sanctuary eventually touch those from other points on the map? It seems likely that the value of such a community resource will prove to be universal. Though born here in Geauga, the need for patience and understanding is unlimited. Any of us might be touched by the loss of someone like Tim. In remembering his life, we can halt the approach of darkness. Other hearts may draw comfort from the legacy of this gentle young man. Through help and service, his spirit can live with us, forever.