“Night Owl”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Reverence for the night. A family tradition.

Dad used to tell stories of my infancy, when he was working double shifts as a mechanic and pursuing his theological calling on the weekends. Mom would need a break from caring for me and he would arrive home to hear my bubbly, baby jargon echoing from the crib. He would be a good parent, tending to typical needs of one so few of weeks in age. But eventually, this routine met fatigue like a speeding roadster confronting an edifice of bricks. He and mom would be exhausted and there I was, still thrashing in my bed. Jabbering, spitting, playing, uncooperative, a boom-era bundle-of-joy rolling in the sheets. Able to entertain long past the attention span of my familial audience.

He confessed to reaching his limit one night, only to find rescue from their Sears & Roebuck television.

My father dragged the black-and-white screen toward my baby bed. He put on a program and escaped to the kitchen for a bologna sandwich with coffee. Somehow, my mood was soothed by the primitive video feed. I lay still in the near-darkness, watching and calm. Finally, he was able to nap. This simplest strategy worked because of one behavioral trait carried forward from my forebears.

I was a ‘Night Owl.’

The habit would persist as I grew. Throughout grade school years, I often found myself awake in the hours of night. Solitude was my companion. I would hide under the blankets with a transistor radio and explore the outside world, something mysterious and foreign in the context of rural Ohio. I tuned in stories of the conflict in Vietnam, political intrigue between the major parties, the developing ‘Generation Gap’ and all sorts of unfamiliar pop music. Our television offered only a few channels and a limited viewing schedule. But my plastic box could play for hours on a single 9V battery. No one regulated these after-bed sessions. They were the best opportunity to clear my head and learn.

Later, I read Mad Magazine in the basement, by the light from a festive oil lamp, painted like ‘Old Glory.’ When friends came for a sleepover, they rarely matched my appetite for celebrating the lure of weekend tenebrosity. Generally, I met the thickening shadows alone. With only my imagination, a notepad and a candle of sorts, inspiration visited to bless my restless spirit.

In high school, these bouts of waking-too-soon continued. I would often rise around 2:30 a. m. and begin to catch up on homework. After connecting an old pair of headphones from a crystal radio to my 1950’s television, I could even watch late movies without creating a household disturbance. Sometimes, a bent toward creative writing produced story fragments for later attention. Or I could draw crude illustrations. Any activity helped to clear away the cranial cobwebs. So when I finally grew tired again, sleep could return in peace.

When I began my television apprenticeship, through Cornell University, the ability to function in overnight hours became a valued asset. Long days at Channel 13 would flow downhill into the glistening, black pool of a night jamming on guitar, or feasting on low-buck cuisine at our local ‘State Diner.’ Sunrise often made me sad. I relished the freedom of being awake while others were not conscious enough to supervise.

After returning home to Ohio, my tilt toward life in the dark made it possible to survive third-shift employment. I worked various jobs toiling away in the comfort and anonymity of being on duty after the regular day was finished. Eventually, I felt like a true-life vampire. ‘Undead’ to the world. Able to glean energy from the nothingness. Glad for the embrace of a sunless existence. Strangely, I remember visiting with my sister and her kids on a summer afternoon, only to break out in hives. The touch of daylight literally caused my skin to blemish.

It had been a long while since I fussed in my crib. The night would not surrender my flesh without consequences. Like Barnabas Collins, I had been changed, forever.

After careers in creative writing and retail-store management, I reached the point of retiring long before my appointed time. I was only 55. But health issues had me off-the-schedule and searching. Though frightened by disability, God seemed to have a plan in the works. Just as my father did in 1961, when he scooted the Silvertone TV set toward my bed. Writing was our other family tradition. Suddenly, I had no cause to observe a regular schedule. And no need to be on duty at my business establishment. I was free.

Dad’s discarded HP Compaq Pro 4300 desktop became my modern portal to the outside world. Unleashed and uninhibited, I revived the oldest habit in my repertoire. Awake at 2:30 in the morning and busy with the work of continuing my genetic imperative.

As my cousin once observed: “The Ice Family. Doing things our way since 1700.”

My father passed away earlier this year. Yet with each of these wordsmithing sessions, long after sunset, I still feel his presence. As if he were only out in the kitchen, for a quick meal of cold cuts and black coffee. Watching faithfully just as he did so many years ago.

Waiting for his graying, overgrown junior to fall asleep at the computer.

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

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