“Five Hours, Eleven Years”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-17)

Retirement. I arrived early to the party.

It had been a typical day at the home office. After a morning filled with household chores and walking my Black Lab, I concocted a pot of homemade ‘Leftover Stew.’ This literally utilized ingredients dictated by their presence in the freezer and my cupboards. It yielded a mix of Italian sausage in a soup base of chicken bouillon cubes, with banana peppers, red jalapenos, garlic, diced onions and pinto beans. Not a dish I might have served for family dinner. But with tortilla chips it was very satisfying.

I pondered being sidelined for one full year. The experience had reset my sense of self. After more than three decades of career pressure, life simply plodded along at a pace of someone with declining mobility. Yet as the speed of existence slowed, my creative inertia built momentum. Suddenly, I was able to write without the interruption of a work routine or mundane responsibilities.

Being broke never felt so good.

This mood of inspiration intensified when an old friend from New York sent a message via Facebook. He was a photographer who had documented the explosive run of my 1970’s local television program, from Ithaca, New York. Once I added him as a ‘friend’ other familiar faces began to appear. Suddenly, I was surrounded by long-lost souls from almost 40 years ago. Some had moved home after studying at Cornell University. Others remained in the general area. We shared pictures and memories still floating in the ether. The experience left me yearning to revisit projects that had never been completed. A newspaper article about that moment in time. Perhaps a photo book. Or a video compilation.

Impossible dreams seemed viable once again.

Sadly, I discovered through this interaction that a close friend had passed. Mollie Race, widow of my older-brother-from-another-mother, musical partner and cohort, Paul. She had been sending old photographs, records, books, and DVDs from his collection. This postal stream ran dry early in the year. With regret, I learned that she had passed away in April.

The sad news brought renewed vigor to our online discussion. But also, it highlighted the absence of a group member still in the unique city by Cayuga Lake. Someone I hadn’t seen or spoken to since 2006. The sterile texts of e-mail messages had kept us technically in touch, over the years. But even those were few in number and short on information. I would occasionally send postal documents just for the dramatic impact of old-school communication. Still, the abundance of years passed was evident.

Thinking of our Facebook group, I sent some of the archival photos to my erstwhile friend in one of those tangible letters. The result was nearly immediate. A voicemail appeared on my iPhone. I played the soundbite over a couple of times. The words rang out like an echo of life crackling through interstellar static from the cosmos.

It was my bygone co-host at Channel 13. He had performed under the pseudonym of ‘Manic McManus.’ Later that evening, he called again. When I lifted my device to answer, an odyssey of sorts ensued. Travel through layers of expired reality. Our conversation lasted nearly five hours. But true to form, it seemed to begin where we had left off, over a decade earlier. Somehow, it was always that way.

One might observe that there is no expiration date on good conversation.

I was struck by the rapid fire of his vocal patter. He detailed buying numerous ‘box sets’ of recorded music. As ever, his passion for collecting held sway. Also, he shared recollections of many concerts seen despite his lack of a motor vehicle for the past few years. My phone seemed to have tapped into a time portal of sorts. It might well have been 1979. Or 1989. Even 2009. In personal terms, I had run across many detours of chance. A roadblock here, a back alley there, all leading to a modern self that my teenage incarnation could not have imagined. But listening to this old friend filled my ear with a familiar vibe. One not heard in a generation, or more.

He still carried the torch for Rock & Roll. Still lived on pizza and Burger King. And even had the same job from when we first met.

When I mentioned that he remained a pure version of himself, unbowed by time and circumstance, my remark was not clearly understood. Rather than trying to explain, I let the comment lapse. Quietly, as he rattled off lists of new music releases like a college professor, I flashed back to yonder days. In my mind were thoughts of long ago. Retained from similar sessions when a young kid from Ohio found his way to the Finger Lakes Region of New York, and cultural enlightenment.

The experience literally charted the course of my life, for many years to come.

Our chat might well have run throughout the night, into morning. But after five hours, I had grown fatigued. Moreover, my Black Lab wanted to go for a walk. With that diversion in mind, I offered thanks for the call. Dutifully, I promised to be a better correspondent in the future. He was busy taping a program on his VCR. We exchanged brief salutations of goodwill.

Then, silence filled my ear.

Our neighborhood was still as the dog and I began to walk. Leaves rustled in the wind. With a hint of sadness, I realized that the telephone time-shift was over.

I had returned home again.

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

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

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Cleveland Conundrum”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-17)

Sports in Cleveland.

For those not familiar with life on the shore of Lake Erie, thinking about fandom for professional sports might not arouse any particular sort of emotion. The habit of modern Americans to place loyalty with athletic teams is well-known. Thanks to the advent of social media, these individual preferences may now be broadcast in a fashion far superior to the ‘bumper sticker’ of yonder days. But the love for sports is not unusual, or really compelling to those who are not fond of such competition. It is, simply, a fact of life.

In Cleveland however, the seasonal ritual of following pro sports has taken on a kind of tribal identity that defines the city and its region. Because of the long drought we have experienced in winning – one championship in over 50 years – the agony of engaging in any kind of fandom can literally be overwhelming. Our people have faithfully watched epic failures occur, over and over again.

Familiar disappointment has sometimes touched supporters of the Indians and Cavaliers. But the post-move Cleveland Browns, here again since 1999, have literally rewritten the parameters of sports woe, itself. Network pundits have sometimes observed: “It is statistically impossible to be so bad as the Browns, year after year.” In truth, the statement is wholly accurate. Yet this conundrum by the Cuyahoga River has continued. The franchise has been perpetually awful. So much that many fans simply migrated to Pittsburgh with their affection. A hateful act of self-loathing that is disgusting and treasonous. One can only imagine the spirit of Paul Brown witnessing black-and-yellow being worn here in Cleveland. Such cruel behavior boggles the mind and tests the spirit.

Judas Iscariot might be proud of this trend. But he never had to watch a generation of bad football.

As George S. Patton famously observed: “Americans play to win all the time. I wouldn’t give a hoot and hell for a man who lost and laughed. That’s why Americans have never lost nor ever lose a war.” While some might dispute the factual content of this statement, it is an admonition true in spirit. No one in our nation worships defeat. We celebrate championship rings, not embarrassment on the field of play. Thus, the temptation to flail our bodies by donning the colors of an enemy tribe has proved to be overwhelming, for some.

In Yankees hats and Steelers jerseys, such sad fools immerse themselves in a baptism of shame. For Americans, losing is a sin. There is no greater stain on the soul than that of being a traitor. Yet, still, it feels good to be a winner.

In Cleveland, it is popular to discuss ‘Red Right 88’ and ‘The Drive’ or even ‘The Fumble.’ Like some religious monks wear their suffering as a badge of honor. A sign of sacrifice given to prove our fealty to the Northcoast. Dependably, ticket-holders flock to the ‘Factory of Sadness’ (a.k.a. First Energy Stadium) for Sunday services. Hope is doled out like communion at mass. The faithful are sure in their belief that one day, another championship will appear. It is right and proper. Also logical when viewed upon a foundation of statistics.

Yet somehow, the misery has continued.

In antiquity, our home was termed “The best location in the nation.” But now, we are more likely to be thought of as “The mistake on the lake.” This is why LeBron James will forever be heroic to sports fans of the region. Despite his past sins, or abandonment that may come again, he brought the experience of winning back to Cleveland. It was a meal for a starving skeleton of a fan base. One denied sustenance for decades. Our thankful prayer over that feast will never cease to reverberate on the water of Lake Erie.

Some ruefully observe that this is ‘Browns Town.’ A city defined, for good or bad, by its NFL Franchise. For a place twice shunned by the league, in 1946 and 1995, this literally seems amazing. But our love of the game has been unflagging. Despite betrayal by Art Modell and bandwagon stooges of rival teams, despite a horrific reanimation in 1999, despite futility, chaos, quarterback changes and front-office terminations, despite fired coaches and ownership transitions, Clevelanders still live and die with their football.

We have scars. We are proud of them, like medals pinned to a uniform.

Following sports in Cleveland, of any kind, is a challenging activity. We know too well the sting of defeat. We have become too familiar with the pain of rebuilding and rebuilding and rebuilding once more, only to find ourselves at the same crossroads. Yet the priceless essence that keeps us alive is like breath in our lungs, sunlight in our skies, or food in our bellies. It takes grit to love athletic competition in Cleveland. And one thing more.

Faith. In at last being a winner.

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

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

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“Memories of Mollie”

 

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-17)

1978.

I was a high school student in Pennsylvania. A native of Columbus, Ohio, but lost among the Steelers fans of the Pittsburgh area. Fascinated by old radios, science fiction, custom motorcycles and a phenomenon called ‘Punk Rock.’

I followed the lead of a prolific writer who called himself ‘Bob Bitchin.’ He was editor at Choppers Magazine. An overgrown, tattooed biker with an English degree. Veteran of lonely roads and wild festivities. At my tender age of 17 he seemed like a mythical movie hero. I was a rebel seeking guidance. All these influences had me wandering emotionally, in search of finding myself.

Discovery came when we moved to New York State.

Ithaca was the home of Cornell University. An Ivy League school of consequence. A vortex of opportunity for hungry souls from around the world. And, my adopted kingdom. Through an apprenticeship program called ‘The Learning web’ I began a hands-on study of television broadcasting. This detour threatened to wreck my family life and challenged my perceptions of reality and self. But the yield was hope.

This kid with an odd habit of writing stories on a vintage typewriter suddenly felt the embrace of sunlight. At Channel 13 I met wizened old hippies, outcasts, and malcontents of an artistic nature. In addition to knob-twisting techies who were busy creating the future we were yet to inherit.

Paul & Mollie Race were a couple from the nearby city of Corning. They were older than the rest of our group, already in their 30’s at the time. Bohemian troubadours with a pedigree that emanated from the era of yonder days. Their perspective was very much unlike our own, having a wisdom of years we had not yet achieved. But they enabled us to fly.

Paul was literally like an older brother. A looming, bearded figure with guitar. Street-professor of DIY music and grunge philosophy. He recognized every artist and group that I spoke about with reverence. Chuck Berry, Bob Dylan, the Rolling Stones, Davie Allan and the Arrows, Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, the Sex Pistols. The Ramones. I was in awe of his mastery.

Mollie was a perfect foil for his stream-of-consciousness insanity. She played bongos or tambourine as he hammered out barre chords on his Fender Telecaster guitar. Her aura filled the room with a sense of love and security. Not unlike a cloud of incense. She was the prototypical ‘hippie mom’ with flailing hair and ever-present moods of celebration. At a concert or a jam session or a back-alley pizzeria stuffing our faces, she always seemed to be having fun. She protected us, with care.

Her joy of being was contagious.

As I grew to manhood, raising a son, Mollie’s guidance remained important. I called frequently to discuss vinyl record acquisitions with Paul, but always found myself in deeper conversations with her, relating to family and living. I trusted that she would understand. Her patience was a resource that I tapped again and again. She played the role of teacher, mother and favorite friend.

As a professional writer, memories of that classic era in New York returned many times over. Paul & Mollie shaped not only my concept of self but also set the tone of wordsmithing projects. I wrote about them in my newspaper column. Their images echoed in magazine stories. And in songs I recorded.

Then, they were gone.

Somehow, I lost track of them over the years, as I worked to advance my ‘real job’ career in business management. Visits to New York, once a regular exercise, halted without warning. Responsibilities and the cares of existence put up roadblocks in my path. I sent letters and photographs and pleas for attention. But nothing returned in the mail. Sometimes, I would read old notes while reflecting on those glory days. Tears filled my eyes. A sad sense of loss stained my memories. But then, I received a card in the summer of 2014.

Mollie had returned.

She said that Paul died of a heart attack in recent days. I sobbed over the parchment of her letter. She offered a phone number which I called immediately. Her voice hit my ears like a sweet breath of morning. We cried together. And planned to meet at her home in Endicott, NY.

Circumstance can be a cruel steward of time. I rediscovered this when pondering a return trip to the Empire State. Long hours at work, debt and personal fatigue took hold. I struggled along while receiving packages from her of records, books, vintage photographs and such. I wrote frequently. Sometimes scribbling out multi-page essays while chugging beer and inhaling Pizza Rolls.

Personal mobility had become an issue of consequence. I walked with a cane, even on the job. Then, a new owner took over. I was ‘made redundant’ in October of last year. Expelled like a rowdy student. What I politely described as being ‘retired.’

Then, old friends appeared on Facebook as the subject of Ithaca culture was aroused. Photos were shared of long-ago gigs by the ‘Sweaty Tools.’ They once opened for the fledgling ‘Talking Heads’ at a lost venue called Night Court. Paul and his wife were ubiquitous in that scene. It served as a precursor to the television adventure I enjoyed, a couple of years later. One of this new collective asked about contact information for Mollie. I offered it freely, but then, his response came like a cannon shot: our Rock & Roll mother was dead. She had passed away in April. Suddenly, her recent lack of correspondence was explained. I felt stricken with a sense of loss greater even than the death of her husband. My chance at redemption had slipped away. 

Silence, deeper than any ocean, overtook the hour.

I waded into the rush of emotions and memories. Tossed about by seas of regret. No release from my grief seemed near. There was only one way to swim through the tide of sorrow…

I began to write.

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

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

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent

“October Monday”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-17)

Morning on Youngstown’s channel 27, WKBN.

Waking up early on Monday morning produced familiar vibes for this writer. Grogginess, an immediate need for coffee, and wishing for a food synthesizer like the Starship Enterprise so that breakfast could appear at the touch of a button or a voice command. Mild amusement resonated that my Black Lab was sleeping with his favorite toy, a squeaking cheetah hybrid. I went looking for my iPhone with the realization that the house had somehow swallowed my device in a reckless gulp.

In passing, I turned on the television while headed toward our bathroom.

Cold water worked its magic. I pondered the figure in my mirror, slightly bent from fatigue and scoliosis. Graying a bit more after a recent haircut. Narrowed eyes. Having what other wordsmiths used to describe as ‘a furrowed brow.’

A CBS News special report echoed from the living room. I’d left the device tuned to a friendly station while watching programs on Sunday night. Now came a broadcast live from Las Vegas. Thoughts of a cousin who lived in that part of Nevada entered my mind. I struggled to comprehend what had happened. Gunfire? Chaos? Finally, I sat in my chair.

And began to drown in disbelief.

From the Mandalay Bay casino/hotel an active shooter had attacked revelers at a concert by Country Music celebrity Jason Aldean. I remembered walking through the notable gambling spot with Wife 2.0, during our honeymoon in 2006. Video footage offered a sound akin to military combat. Something I would expect to hear from Afghanistan or Iraq. But this was no foreign land.

Cries of fear and anguish were coming from... America.

Already, my phone had begun to burp a steady beat of electronic tones, as posts and messages were appearing. Not simply prayerful prose as I might have expected, but full-tilt, excrement-in-the-fan rhetoric one would expect at a campaign event. Blame & shame. I rubbed my eyes. This tragedy had just occurred on Sunday night? Only now being reported to much of the nation? It took a few cups of coffee to help me focus.

Politics.

In the modern world, they are never far away. Always as close as your mobile device or your first impulse to squawk out a Twitter ‘tweet.’ (Even our nation’s highest executive can’t resist the lure of such power.) With bodies and rubble still strewn across the ground, I pondered that humanity ought to be grieving. Kneeling in tearful reflection. For lost lives and lost innocence. A unified expression of our sorrow as a nation of diverse, yet kindred souls.

But instead, the strident drums of culture war were resounding. Outrage and partisanship filled the air of cyberspace. Advantages were leveraged to score points. About half-past noon, I could take no more. I posted on my Facebook account: “A moment to grieve for our brothers and sisters. No politics on this page. #Vegas.” 

My admonition received only two ‘likes.’

Somewhere in this Internet melee, I scrolled upon a TMZ report about rocker Tom Petty having collapsed after a cardiac event. His survival was in doubt. Then, it was reported that he had died, at the age of 66.

More anguish flooded my senses.

“Enough! Enough! Enough!” I shouted aloud.

But another controversy had been aroused. Again, the main story was missed. Acrimony flew wildly as the status of Petty himself became fodder for debate. His daughter added to the confusion with her own expression of obvious grief, hopeful that he would miraculously escape the embrace of oblivion. Insults were hurled by online trolls. Friends attacked other friends. Again, I shouted into the ether.

“Enough!”

Petty’s personal manager finally issued a statement, later in the night. One confirming his loss. But even a day later, people were still posting messages that contradicted the timeline.

“He’s alive! He’s alive!”

Woefully, Tom Petty wasn’t still his corporeal self, of course. Over 50 people in Vegas had been confirmed dead before him, on this day of dread. Inexplicable, seething horror ruled the moment. Along with gnawing sadness.

I bowed my head in silent prayer. Then, I began to sing my favorite from among his many compositions:

“I Won’t Back Down” (Tom Petty)

Well, I won’t back down

No, I won’t back down

You can stand me up at the gates of hell

But I won’t back down

No, I’ll stand my ground

Won’t be turned around

And I’ll keep this world from draggin’ me down

Gonna stand my ground

And I won’t back down

(I won’t back down)

Hey baby, there ain’t no easy way out

(I won’t back down)

Hey, I will stand my ground

And I won’t back down

It was the first Monday in October.

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

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

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent