“Summit at the Laundromat”

c. 2008 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(1-08)




It was a frosty morning in Thompson. Mother Nature had finished with an impulsive New Year’s thaw that sent local temperatures into the sixties. Now, Old Man Winter seemed to be reclaiming his seasonal authority. Restless winds howled a warning of unmistakable fury – beware! Atmospheric change was on the horizon. Yet in the Ice Household, my focal point was more immediate in nature.

Breakfast!

I served up a skillet of fried potatoes, eggs, grits, and sausage. The rest of our family had already surrendered to school or work routines. But my office was here, at home. So I felt no dietary guilt while considering my meal. It could be enjoyed while accomplishing tasks for the newspaper. A prayer of thanks was whispered with vittles still sizzling in the pan. And then, I lifted my fork with anticipation…

BRRRRRRRING!!!

The telephone shattered my culinary vibe. After a deep breath, I lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Rodney!” a raspy voice cheered. “How good to find you still at home.”

My face was red. “Still at home? Umm… who is this?”

A belly laugh sounded in my ear. “Ezekiel Byler-Gregg, speaking!”

I coughed with surprise.

Ezekiel was a veteran journalist from the bygone Burton Daily Bugle. Given to farm labor before becoming a wordsmith, he had a keen sense of life in northeastern Ohio. It made him a reliable benchmark when charting local opinion. Beat writers from Cleveland to Ashtabula often sought his eclectic advice on such matters.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” I said with mild irritation. “But, I called you over a week ago.”

He sighed. “The calendar is a master for fools. Wise fellows chart their own way toward tomorrow.”

My eyes were still blurry. “Come on! You know what it means to make a deadline. Don’t tease me with platitudes. I’ve got to finish my story.”

Ezekiel lowered his voice. “Of course. We are wasting daylight. What was your need, friend?”

My mood brightened. “Okay! I’m looking for a homegrown slant on the upcoming year. We’ve got high fuel prices, mortgage woes, ongoing conflict in the Middle East, and a primary election in March. You’ll find such reports in every paper. But what do those factors mean for us, in real terms?”

He paused for a long moment. “I think you’ve missed the point.”

I was dumbfounded. “Look, Zeke. This is an incredible moment. Everything is up-for-grabs, politically, socially, economically, and perhaps… spiritually. What does that mean here at home, in Geauga?”

My compadre snorted like a bull. “You’re talking trivia to me, friend. I want you to think about greater things. The very lifeblood of our democracy!”

“Trivia??” I exclaimed.

“Matters of little consequence,” he retorted.

“Could you explain that line of thinking?” I said.

Ezekiel turned defiant. “I hesitate to speak openly, over this unprotected wire,” he said with caution. “May we meet somewhere to converse?”

I sighed. “Zeke, to repeat myself, I’m trying to finish work for the newspaper…”

He snorted again. “If you desire enlightenment, Rodney, it must come at a safe location.”

My cheeks burned. “Alright then. Where?”

The erstwhile reporter was slow to answer. Finally, he wheezed an unexpected reply. “Meet me at the Chardon Plaza Laundromat.”

I was dumbfounded. “Where?”

“At the laundry emporium, in our county seat,” he repeated, stiffly.

My disbelief could not be hidden. “Zeke, of all places…”

“Our interaction must be confidential,” he implored.

I felt a sense of regret taking hold. But it was too late for apologies. “Well then, I’ll meet you there!”

I hadn’t been to the laundromat in years. But their interior décor remained unchanged by time. Ezekiel was waiting in a far corner. As ever, he wore the traditional garb of a Mennonite farmer.

“Greetings!” he bellowed, through a thick beard of gray.

My eyes lowered with respect. “Zeke, I’m not sure if you’ve been touched by genius or insanity. But I treasure our friendship.”

He chortled. “I’ll take that as a compliment!”

“So what about the New Year?” I asked. “What about the challenges we face in Iraq, Iran, North Korea, and…”

Ezekiel pounded a fist on the folding table. “Distractions, all! There is a bigger threat on the horizon!”

“Right,” I said. “Think of the homefront first. So… how do we make sure that our county retains its integrity as a place of history and culture, while maintaining a healthy mix of economic assets?”

He grunted at my ignorance. “Talk, talk talk! You sound like a politician!”

I felt numb. “Okay, look. We’re completely out of the spotlight here. We’re buried in soapy towels and jugs of detergent. Tell me - what exactly do you mean?”

My friend stroked his salty whiskers. “I’ll respond with a question of my own. What does your beloved newspaper represent to you?”

I shrugged while considering defeat. “Ummm… it signifies liberty in action. Traditions of free speech and providing information to our citizens.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Now tell me, who shares that zeal to serve the public?”

I fumbled for words. “Well, I suppose…”

“The answer is RADIO!” he shouted. “Our closest kin in the business of spreading news to the masses!”

I smiled at last. “Radio? I wouldn’t have guessed you’d champion that sort of technology.”

“It is a very ‘plain’ path for information, in modern terms,” he said.

“Okay,” I agreed. “But what about television?”

“By their nature, video broadcasts usually become theatrical events,” he explained. “Form easily overtakes substance in the medium. Yet with radio, the authentic nature of reporting remains!”

I nodded. “Great. So, how does that translate into a foundation for my story about the New Year?”

“How many stations do we have in Geauga?” he said, quizzically.

My brain was overtaxed. “Well… I can’t name one, actually…”

Ezekiel folded his careworn hands. “The industry is in trouble, my friend. No one makes money anymore. As a result, the variety of content has dwindled. When local outlets do exist, they often simply re-transmit syndicated material.”

I shuddered. “Zeke, you’re on to something there. I’ve got a friend who did a popular morning show in the area. But he was fired recently, when his station switched to canned sports programming from ESPN.”

“Think of it carefully,” he said. “What if your paper stopped printing county news and just ran features from the Plain Dealer with local advertising?”

“We’d soon be out of business!” I exclaimed.

He slapped the countertop. “Yes, yes, yes!”

“So, that’s more important than urban sprawl, gasoline prices, unemployment, and the race for our next president?” I said with disbelief.

Ezekiel sighed. “You can’t control any of those factors. But you can speak on behalf of brave souls like Bill Randle, Kid Leo, Wolfman Jack, or Bruce Morrow. What they gave our society was special. It was more than mere entertainment. Without authentic, live radio broadcasts, their legacy will be lost. That unique bond with listeners will be broken, forever.”

I chuckled. “The Wolfman was my childhood hero.”

“Then do your part,” he said forcefully. “Grab a microphone, and be heard!”

My newspaper feature took on a different tone after our secret conversation. Instead of reviewing challenges for the coming year, I wrote a piece that demonstrated how the Geauga airwaves might bustle with homegrown content.

The headline was an emphatic cheer: A DAY ON THE AIR AT WCDN!

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