“Senator Joe”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-18)

Aftermath.

Handling the debris scattered by my father’s passing in April of this year has proved to be a daunting task. While no amount of emotional preparation could have helped our family navigate this experience, more planning might have lightened the burden. Still, this sad hour has brought us all closer together than before.

One difficulty we faced repeatedly over the weeks and months that have passed are the legal hurdles blocking access to my father’s financial accounts. When information or action has been required, as we set up Medicaid coverage for our mother, every step has seemed to generate lots of paperwork and verbal conflict. Because the family lived far away, in another state, the challenge of these exercises has only been magnified.

After a particularly unsuccessful visit to the Freedom Bank branch in Philippi, West Virginia, my sister and I returned to the family home and pondered our options. A clerk and supervisor there had offered polite condolences, but none of the details we needed for court papers being filed in Barbour County.

While sharing pepperoni rolls from the nearby Shop n Save, I observed that a letter composed for one of the state’s political representatives might help channel our displeasure into a positive result. Something Dad would be likely to endorse. My sister agreed. As I went to sleep that night, the words began to form in my head. Once we had returned to Ohio, this idea grew into a useful page of prose:

To:

Senator Joe Manchin III

306 Hart Senate Office Building
Washington D.C. 20510

and

900 Pennsylvania Ave., Ste. 629
Charleston, WV 25302

From:

Rodney D. Ice

P. O. Box 365

Chardon, OH 44024

Re: Senior Care

Dear Senator,

I am writing to you about my parents, who lived on Dadisman Drive in Philippi, WV for three decades. My father, Rhoderick, recently passed away at the age of 88, after serving as pastor for the Union Church of Christ. My mother, Gwendolyn, is now a resident of the Mansfield Place nursing home, also in Philippi. Both of them supported you as governor and as senator with great enthusiasm. Throughout life, they truly believed that West Virginia was ‘Almost Heaven!”

We of the Ice family in Ohio have worked to gather the needed information to settle their minimal estate and get guardian/conservator status to help our mom. Meanwhile, our clearing of the old homestead and Dad’s extensive library continues. One issue has come to mind as this process continues – the difficulty families must face in this end-of-life situation.

My father was very ‘old school’ in his habits, handling all the details of family life. One might cheerfully and lovingly say, ‘stubborn to a fault.’ Therefore, his death meant that mantle of responsibility had to be passed forward. As we have visited various institutions on his behalf, the challenges facing survivors and children have become apparent. At the local Freedom Bank, for example, we were unable to obtain information requested by the Barbour County Court, even after displaying our paperwork, because some things were still being processed. In dealing with insurance companies, we encountered a similar situation, not being able to gather all the needed figures to complete our paperwork. Currently, we are still struggling to get Medicare approval (through DHHR) to cover the cost of our mother’s stay in the nursing facility. This is after months of effort and accumulating bills. Again, with no direct access to the needed figures from their accounts.

With hindsight, I reckon this eventuality might have been better handled with more planning. But, parents are not usually likely to surrender their independence without much prodding. In our case, such needs were never easy to discuss.

With all of this in mind, I offer an idea.

My thought is that many may face the same situation in caring for elderly parents. Perhaps, sir, even you. I wonder if some rule or framework might be established to compel institutions and agencies to assist families who are caught in a conundrum like ours, rather than simply quoting policy guidelines. A ‘Rhoderick’s Law’ if you will. As I say, it seems that most of us are likely to encounter this sort of dilemma as we all grow older. Some formal strategy for helping us navigate these issues would benefit everyone.

On behalf of my sister, Rebecca Mihalacki, and my brother, Ronald Ice, I offer sincere thanks for your consideration of this matter. Our best wishes to you and your family!

Regards,

RDI

I mailed the letter shortly afterward. A sense of accomplishment muted the frustration that had been generated from our struggle. The story made for a positive suggestion to Senator Joe. But also, it yielded yet another column in my current online series. A continuation of my newspaper work from yonder days.

I knew Dad would approve.

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

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

“Office Notebook”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-18)

Note To Readers: What follows is the yield of another sleepless night in Thompson.

2:00 a. m. - Time for coffee.

I was grateful for the hour. One early for most, but late enough from my own perspective to celebrate having managed to sleep for about two hours. After several attempts at being in bed without much restful slumber, I had finally reached the point where exhaustion overwhelmed my joint pain. Having tossed back and forth from my left side to my right, somewhere, the hours slipped by without notice. I was immersed in darkness, hearing nothing but the friendly noise of the box fan on my side table. A sound matched to the medical breeze provided by my CPAP machine.

My pre-dawn ritual was about to begin.

After starting a pot of coffee, I turned on the television. My Black Lab was in his favorite spot on the couch. So I let him snore without interruption. I selected the ‘Tune In’ channel on my Roku, then brought up the Phil Hendrie podcast, episode #1189.

Caffeine awakened my brain cells as the voices went on aural parade. Steve and Bobbie Dooley, Bud Dickman, Robert Leonard, General Gaylen Shaw. And of course, the host, himself. I checked for messages on my phone but there were none. Eventually, my dog wanted to go for a walk. His reward, afterward, was a handful of treats and a slice of fresh bread.

Wrangler likes plain bread. I reckon a low-carb diet would break his canine heart.

3:00 a. m. - Rubbing my eyes.

I pondered watching an episode of Max Headroom, the series broadcast in 1987-88 with Matt Frewer, Amanda Pays, Chris Young, W. Morgan Sheppard and Jeffrey Tambor. It had been on the CW Seed channel, but disappeared in recent weeks. I found it again on the website Dailymotion. The show evoked memories of coming home late from work, at Kresse’s Bi-Rite in Chardon, where I was on the grocery crew. Dinner would consist of leftovers, a 12-pack of beer and whatever was on our cable TV. Sometimes, this meant watching odd films on Cinemax, CNN news, or a videotaped episode of the bombastic Morton Downey, Jr. program. Max had been in the mix, as well. My recollections were hazy. Yet two things had endured across the span of time between then and now. First, the quirky cool of Frewer’s portrayal of the main character as an artificial being. Second, the luscious depth of Pays’ lovely eyes. Seen from my modern perspective as a retired, middle-aged mule, her spark of big-haired, 80’s charm still caused my heartbeat to pause.

4:00 a. m. - Pondering more coffee.

My friend Janis texted just after the hour. I had to re-check my phone to be sure of the time. But my empty coffee pot confirmed that another hour had passed as I sat at the computer.

We chatted in bits and pieces of verbiage, sent between our mobile devices. I began to fear the coming of sunrise. Night was my cloak. My shield against the oppressive force of responsibility. While the world was unconscious, I could roam. Free to imagine while tapping away at the keyboard. A voyager in rhyme. Yet the brightening sky always sapped my power. Like a vampire, I had to seek refuge from the day. Or more accurately stated, my creative self had to flee. In the light of morning, I was simply an aging fellow with bad knees and a disintegrated hip.

I could only finish my work and hope for nightfall to arrive once again, as my friend’s texts grew shorter and fewer in number.

5:00 a. m. - Silence.

Eventually, I realized that my soulmate on the phone had disappeared. Her workday was beginning, in Ashtabula. Meanwhile, my own session at the desktop PC had nearly ended. My Black Lab had chosen a new spot on the living room rug. He snored more loudly than before. I wondered if the extra carbs provided by Schwebels Baking Company had given him a bit of ‘food fatigue.’

A search on Wikipedia revealed that Matt Frewer had reached the esteemed age of 60. Amanda Pays was 59. W. Morgan Sheppard had nearly reached 86. Chris Young, who portrayed a child-prodigy among adults, was 47 years old.

Suddenly, another memory popped up in my Max-flashback. I recalled that Garry Trudeau had created a fictional takeoff of the character called ‘Ron Headrest.’ A stuttering tech-bot, satirically intended to aid President Ronald Reagan. The idea worked so well that it transcended the comic strip, even inspiring off-Broadway performances, a video and a movie. I bought the title song as a 12-inch vinyl single. It was called ‘Rap Master Ronnie.’

I had heard the record played locally on WDMT-FM, from Cleveland.

Having encountered Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five in New York, before moving home to Ohio in 1983, I was taken by the programming available on this local station. It helped influence me to write a ‘Hip-Hop’ tune of my own called ‘Too Bad To Die’ which I recorded on a return visit to the Empire State in 1984. An Internet search revealed historical notes about FM-108, and something more – a post on Mixcloud from one of their ‘Clubstyle’ broadcasts in 1985.

Link: https://www.mixcloud.com/robertmazegosciminski/wdmt-108-clubstyle-fm-1985-side-1/

6:00 a. m. - Bedtime.

By now, the darkness had begun to surrender. I bowed my head and gave thanks for what had transpired while I sat at the desk. Now, it was time to write.

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

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

“Letter To Dad”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-18)

Note To Readers: I have had no time to grieve over the loss of my father, Rhoderick Ice, in April. Responsibilities have filled my plate. Perhaps this has made the process easier. I won’t really know until his meager estate, debts, and Mom’s care have been settled. In the interim, writing has been my refuge. As it was for him, throughout life. What follows here is a letter I penned to him, in eternity:

Dear Dad,

I am here at your old desktop computer. Feeling much as I did around 1970, sitting at the Underwood portable typewriter in your office at our home in Lynchburg, Virginia. Perhaps wishing a bit that I did not feel the creep of age and experience weighing now upon my shoulders. Wishing for the childish innocence I felt composing stories at your desk.

I confess to feeling a sense of emptiness. Like a discarded, dry sponge with no purpose.

When we watched you pass away, only two months ago, I expected some sort of spiritual energy in the room. Or a manifestation of some kind. A rush of wind, flash of light, perhaps a booming echo of thunder. But there was only silence. Shortly afterward I saw Mom in the Mansfield Place activity room. She was sitting at a table, in her wheelchair, with ‘Penny Cat’ and ‘Ticonderoga.’ Her plush companions. It seemed unbearably sad. Literally heartbreaking. Yet already, my mind had turned toward the details. Funeral, burial, gathering paperwork for the estate. There was no time to ponder. I reckon you would have said that was God’s way of numbing the pain.

I just heard from a friend that her late father appeared to her in a dream. They had a conversation that settled her emotions and brought a sense of calm. I have expected a visitation like that from you. But my nights have been restless. Worrying about issues that need to be resolved. Sometimes dreaming about being back at work. Many mental images on parade, without a revelation. Still, I know you are watching over the family.

Little Asher Mihalacki was born a few days ago, your first biological great-grandchild. I know you wanted to be here for the celebration of his new life beginning. I had hoped you could hold him in your arms. Yet already, I see you in his face.

The lineage of R. D. Ice continues.

We are clearing the house in Philippi, a slow process in part because you literally seemed to save everything. Every card, newspaper, coffee cup, magazine and photograph. I even discovered a broken lamp upstairs, something I had won as a 4-H prize around the age of ten. Its white, two-piece shade had cracked and come apart years ago. Yet it still sits there on a stack of boxes. Sorting through this maze has meant revisiting memories long buried under necessity and responsibility. I feel numb.

I framed my favorite photo of you and put it on the entertainment center at home. Your author portrait from 1974. It sits opposite to a family picture from my first marriage, with wife Betty and our Jason. I hung one of your personalized license plates in the dining room, over a typewriter that appeared on my first book cover. You are here with me, every day.

When challenges appear, I think of what you would advise. I hear your patient voice, urging me to pray not for deliverance, but for stronger faith.

Mom seems content at the nursing home. Very involved socially with the other residents and staff. Sometimes she seems to recognize me, and on other occasions she reacts as if I am merely a cheerful visitor. Once, she even confided to sister Rebecca that she did not care for ‘that man sitting over there’ who was a fellow she did not know. An ironic comment, directed toward her son! I tried to find humor in the moment. It has made for a good story.

I recall that you used to observe: “Hindsight is 20/20.” The platitude seems more accurate than ever as I navigate the process of closing your estate, gaining control of Mom’s personal needs and settling financial issues. I have little or no idea what do do but learn in the process. After each chapter is written, the plan then becomes obvious. Struggle results from not knowing before each battle. I reckon you would say it is fertile ground for a book or writing projects in the future.

On our way home from the last trip to West Virginia, we stopped to visit your grandson, Justin, at his new apartment in Ravenna. He showed us artwork, actual paintings, that were some of his most recent creations. Rebecca showed motherly interest in the space and decor of the flat. As a kindred spirit and uncle, I took more interest in his desk. It looked much like your own work station on the enclosed porch in Philippi, or my back-bedroom space, in Thompson. I could feel the creative energy rising from every surface. Just as with K. C. Ice, M. C. Ice, yourself, and me, Justin had continued the pattern for yet another generation.

I felt glad to see his desk. It made me feel at home.

Forgive me for expecting fireworks in the sky or a thunderclap, shaking the soil under my feet. Were I writing this tale, it would surely unfold with that sort of plot. Yet the story is not one authored by human imagination. This is God’s reality. Neither good nor bad but simply and indisputably real. In truth, I could not write such an adventure. I can only hope to retell what has transpired.

I have saved your paperback volumes about Edgar Cayce. Soon, I am sure there will be a stash of ‘Search Magazine’ issues discovered at the house. Or some other Ray Palmer publication. I remember reading those works as a teenager. Now middle-aged and retired, I long to peruse them, again.

We will all take care of Mom. Though I confess to hoping for a nudge of direction from you, as her care continues. Feel free to bolster my confidence. I have so many questions to ask. If only we could have one more conversation, one more call on the telephone. One more long-distance session on the computer.

I love you, Dad. Take care in eternity.

Postscript: While I have no postal address or zip code for ‘Heaven’ I know Dad is looking over my shoulder. He was always my mentor and hero. And now, my spirit guide.

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

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

“Crazy Card Cheer”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-18)

On the road.

Being away from home for extended periods can provide a welcome diversion. A chance to cleanse the soul. But this year has offered a different sort of detour from everyday living. A turn toward family responsibilities and the gloom of yellowed legal documents. As the oldest child in my brood, such duties were handed down by birth order, not choice. I received them long before developing the understanding necessary to complete such tasks.

Having deserted my home office, I recently traveled south for a full week. My immersion in memories of childhood evoked all kinds of emotions. A welcome chance to revisit long-silent echoes of self. But the clutter of paperwork and official routines proved to be less thrilling. By the time I returned to Ohio, a personal rescue was needed.

An escape from the escape.

Sorting mail, I peered through the drudgery of bills and notices. But then, a festive bit of color glowed from the stack. A cartoon image of retro glamour. Shining curls, fluttering hearts and an airborne kiss depicted on the envelope’s back. 

It was from ‘Crazy4me’ who was a model I followed on Instagram. Suddenly, my cares and concerns evaporated in a wash of flamingo pink and vintage Coca-Cola red.

I could not help whistling a bit of Patsy Cline while reading her card:

“Crazy, I’m crazy for feeling so lonely

I’m crazy, crazy for feeling so blue

I knew you’d love me as long as you wanted

And then someday you’d leave me for somebody new

Worry, why do I let myself worry?

Wondering what in the world did I do?

Crazy for thinking my love could hold you

I’m crazy for trying and crazy for trying

And I’m crazy for loving you

Crazy for thinking that my love could hold you

I’m crazy for trying and crazy for crying

And I’m crazy for loving you.”

A couple of years ago, my personal inclination toward Mid-Century Modern culture and early Rock & Roll music made the photo website Instagram a welcome discovery. A place where I found creative imagery provided by visual artists like Candy Coconuts, Ivy Doomkitty, Miss Mari Mambo and Lady Scarlett. Most appealing, however, was a bright and breezy woman named Yasmina Greco. Her charming authenticity made me eager for each new post on the site. More than simply channeling postwar themes, her photos exuded a sense of fun for viewers. A thrilling ride of fantasy dreessed in hues plucked from the yonder days of a simpler time. A playful kiss for the eyes. Each one delivered tastefully with unique cues like vintage automobiles, radios, furnishings and classic fare.

Typically, I have enjoyed Instagram posts while scrolling on my iPhone. Yet the ‘Crazy4me’ page is one best appreciated in the luxury of a high-definition monitor. I prefer to enjoy a mug of diner-style coffee and relax with her daily offerings in between writing stories.

Research on the Internet revealed that her husband, Gary, is a photographer who rebuilds old cameras. His skill in capturing the retro vibe could be seen in every image. I also learned that Yasmina works as an educator on various current topics through E-learning, and as a motivator to inspire and uplift youth. Her blog offers various articles about fashionable apparel, current events and related topics:

“I am... a published Pinup, curve model, fashion and lifestyle blogger helping brands engage with the curvy market while inspiring and equipping my audience to feel beautiful, confident, and empowered. I love gizmos and gadgets, fashion, classic cars, travel, and collecting. I’m passionate about advocating for women and mentoring youth through public speaking, social media and leadership.”

Having long been interested in collectible goodies, I was glad to read of her personal affinity for antiques and artifacts from the classic era. Gladder still to find that her life’s work encompassed such a broad range of activities. Her example reflected my own thought that such fanciful flights, delivered respectfully and with artistic flair, enhance our style of living. A concept sometimes lost amid the frenetic buzz of social media sites.

As my day ended, I was grateful to be home. Not only because of the familiar sights and sounds of this shack near Lake Erie, but also because of the kitschy card on my kitchen table.

Crazy4me, indeed. I promise to be crazy... forever.

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

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

Visit Yasmina at: 
www.crazy4me.com
www.instagram.com/crazy4me
 

http://www.crazy4me.com/

https://www.instagram.com/crazy4me

“Reading Lou Reed”

c. 2003 Rod Ice

all rights reserved

(5-03)

Note To Readers: What follows here is an installment of ‘Thoughts At Large’ that originally ran in the Geauga County Maple Leaf newspaper, in May of 2003. I discovered it while looking through old 1.44 MB diskettes in the home office.

“When I was a young man/No bigger than this / A chocolate Egg Cream was not to be missed / Some U Bet’s Chocolate Syrup / seltzer water mixed with milk / Stir it up into a heady fro – tasted just like silk.” …From the CD “Set The Twilight Reeling” by Lou Reed.

Book reviews are a rarity for Thoughts At Large. To devote an entire column to a published work seems difficult. Such a single-minded task can produce useful results. Yet I don’t often attempt to offer that kind of ‘quick view’ here. It is a task usually left to other souls…

But a recent gift of Reed’s “Pass Thru Fire / The Collected Lyrics” (Hyperion) made me think about that sort of project, immediately. This anthology of classic compositions was a joy to receive. In every way, the book represented an artistic vision filtered through the rough atmosphere of New York City. Even the cover was striking – a black and white portrait of the artist with the book title scrawled across his face. From the first page, it offered a dark vision of yesterday.

Lou has remained an unknown figure to many fans of popular music. Occasionally, classic rock stations have paid attention to “Take A Walk On The Wild Side” or the live version of “Sweet Jane” from ROCK ‘N ROLL ANIMAL. But these moments were few indeed, for one who produced so many recorded works. His resume as a rock ‘n roll icon has always been unique. The artistic importance of what he created always soared beyond mere record sales. Because of this, having a published overview of his material was an achievement worth celebrating in print.

I couldn’t wait to look up some of my favorite Reed compositions to be sure of the lyrics he penned. The material was written throughout four decades of inspiration. Songs like “Wild Child” (from his first studio album as a solo artist) seemed to reflect the tendency to write as a reporter. Observations of his friends filled the verses with cheerful prose: “I was talking to Chuck in his Ghengis Khan suit / And his wizard’s hat / He spoke of his movie and how he was making / A new soundtrack / And then we spoke of kids on the coast/And different kinds of organic soap / And the way suicides don’t leave notes / Then we spoke of Lorraine, always back to Lorraine…”

Other works spoke in cryptic rhyme. “I Can’t Stand It” offered a surreal perspective on everyday living: “It’s hard being a man / Living in a garbage pail / My landlady called me up / She tried to hit me with a mop…I live with thirteen dead cats / A purple dog who wears spats / They’re out living in the hall / And I can’t stand it anymore…”

But most accessible were tracks like “Rock ‘n’ Roll” with a direct message of hope that connected with listeners immediately: “Jenny said when she was just about five years old / You know my parents are gonna be the death of us all / Two TV sets and two Cadillac cars – Ain’t gonna help me at all / Then one fine mornin’ she turns on a New York station / She don’t believe what she heard at all / She started dancin’ to that fine fine music / You know her life was saved by rock ‘n’ roll / Despite all the computations / You could just dance to that rock ‘n’ roll station / And it was all right…”

Each page was a thrill in itself. The images of street heroes, malcontents, debutantes, artists, beggars, and lost souls were compelling. Reed seemed to sense the inherent vulnerability in everyone. His portraits of the human experience captured an essential quality often missed by popular songwriting. He conjured visions of imperfect folk. Those who were not gifted with infallible forethought, but instead, a sense of realism tempered with frailty. In other terms, real people. It was a banquet of ideas.

But still, I was taken with the reference to U-Bet syrup. I remembered seeing the product somewhere in Geauga County. After puzzling for several days, I found the chocolate nectar at the area’s busiest grocery store. U-Bet Chocolate Flavored Syrup was in the kosher section, at $3.19 a jar. A product of H. Fox & Company, 416 Thatford Avenue, Brooklyn, New York.

I studied instructions that were included on how to prepare a proper Egg Cream. The label was printed with precise instructions: “In a tall glass, pour ½ inch of U-Bet, ¾ inch of whole milk, add carbonated water, and mix briskly.” It appeared to be a simple concoction.

My shopping list could have accommodated the extra items easily. Yet I pondered the mixture with care. I couldn’t remember having sampled such a beverage while living in New York. So I wondered… loyalty to Lou, or not… did it make sense to try the drink now, from my vantage point in northeastern Ohio?

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

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