Thoughts At Large Book

'Thoughts At Large' collection available as an e-book:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/thoughts-at-large/id459480615?mt=11

https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/thoughts-at-large/id459480615?mt=11

“Thompson, Overnight”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-17)

One of the changes in my life routine that came after entering ‘early retirement’ was the abandonment of a regular schedule. Suddenly, I had no need to wake or sleep at any predetermined time. This meant that making coffee at midnight, to fortify myself for an off-hours writing marathon, had become perfectly acceptable. Dog walks could now occur with random frequency. My only precaution was to carry the phone whenever leaving my house, even for a moment. Should the cover of darkness cause me to fall in the street, I wanted to be prepared. Crawling home with my pooch clearing the way did not seem appealing.

Such late activities reminded me of my New York days, when creative sessions often extended into the wee hours. In that era, regular television broadcasts were often not available around-the-clock. But a program called “NBC News Overnight” debuted in 1982. It was a frequent companion as I discussed projects with friends from the area. Somehow, the twilight seemed to focus our creative energy. Decades later, that ability to concentrate on ideas returned as my work habits were exploded.

What follows here is an example of a recent trip from night into the morrow, while at my desk:

8:30 p.m.

Not enough sleep from the previous night has me weak. Pasta carbs and cold beer from the fridge makes it worse. I am struggling to stay awake while editing new material submitted for the Geauga Independent. My eyes grow narrow. I want to write a personal sketch of Joshua Fried, my erstwhile friend from days studying through Cornell University. His latest ‘Radio Wonderland’ release echoes from my phone. But finally, the battle is lost. I stumble toward the bedroom, still in my clothes. Welcome, oblivion.

1:00 a.m.

I enter into the early morning. Awake, but not completely functional. A check of sports scores on my iPhone yields relief. A ginger ale helps calm my stomach. It is a blessing to know that the neighborhood has finally calmed down. My joints still ache from mowing the lawn, on Tuesday. But now, the calm of dark offers soothing relief. Resumes wait for the mail, on top of the printer. Even at this hour, there is work to be done. But I pause to savor the quiet. Then, decide to find my bed once again.

2:30 a.m.

Another try at being awake. The morning cool is welcome. I decide to put a small fan in the kitchen window, while making coffee. YouTube offers an episode of ‘Boston Blackie’ with Kent Taylor, from 1952. I linger on memories of late-night television during my brief video career. Beer and pizza were staple items during such sessions, with friends from Channel 13 in Ithaca. We would often talk until dawn. Now, I am glad for silence. And the sound of my dog snoring on the couch.

3:30 a.m.

First dog walk of the morning. My Black Lab is done with his nap and ready to prowl the neighborhood. I try to stay quiet. Only one car passes by as we roam. The temperature is 52 degrees. Nearly perfect for our stroll before sunrise. But a cat in the shadows causes my canine friend to bolt down the street. I can’t run in pursuit. My gait is more of the hobble one would expect from an accident victim than a useful stride. Somehow, the dog reappears after a couple of minutes. When I scold him, he reacts with indifference. But then, follows my direction back to the house. He is ready for treats.

4:11 a.m.

A text message arrives from my friend Janis. She is just getting up for work, which begins at five o’clock, in Ashtabula. Her greetings always brighten my day, whether received in real time during an all-night writing session, or at a later moment when I have just gotten out of bed. This morning, she confesses the rowdy desire to ‘call off’ work. But I know she won’t. Her six-day schedule leaves little free time, yet brings the benefit of a full pay envelope. I am proud of her.

4:42 a.m.

I decide to make breakfast. As usual, a skillet selection not in keeping with dietary correctness. Fried eggs, Canadian bacon and toast, with a fried red chili burrito. And more coffee. My Black Lab wants to share. But I banish him to a bowl of Kibbles & Bits. He is not satisfied.

5:00 a.m.

The local news begins, from WKBN-27, in Youngstown. Because of my location on the east side of Geauga County, I am unable to receive any digital broadcasts from Cleveland. An odd situation, being only a short distance from Lake Erie. But after a few reports of political intrigue and inner-city mayhem, I decide to revisit YouTube for another episode of ‘Boston Blackie.’

5:30 a.m.

Janis sends a photo of her workplace desk to my phone. She is using my old transistor radio for background music, while working. Around the device is a collection of tiny, plush animals and a few odd souvenirs. She has a small collection of painted stones which keep showing up in Ashtabula. I text a photo of my desk in reply.

6:01 a.m.

With the Geauga Independent suitably updated, I decide to browse job listings on the Internet. Several opportunities for social media management appear when I use ‘writer’ as a search term. One is with a floor care company, which seems amusing. I imagine creating content for their website. “Mop We Must! It’s Us You Can Trust!” I send a resume to their human resource department.

6:24 a.m.

Daylight returns in full effect. Predictably, my creative mood is broken. I decide to close the laptop and make another attempt at getting useful rest before the new day takes hold. There is a snort of befuddlement from my canine friend. He follows grudgingly, to a place by the laundry hamper. The bustle of waking souls is audible, outside our window. Defiantly, I pull the covers over my head, with a prayer for the continuance of night on my lips.

The late session has expired. Yet creative thoughts await to be liberated, in slumber.

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

“Pain – Part Two”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-17)

Pain, my partner.

The new presence of this woe as a life-companion became apparent when warmer weather finally came to Geauga County, Ohio. Snow as a component of the weather forecast was finally gone. Daffodils were blooming in the front yard. Avian songs could be heard lingering in the air. The bonfire season had nearly begun.

I plucked the red Murray mower from its winter rest next to my motorcycle and began the seasonal starting ritual. Prime the carburetor, pull-to-start. Prime again, pull again. Dry, matted grass flew into the air. I waited for the engine to settle into a regular idle. And then, the spring habit was ready to commence!

My yard is barely wider than the driveway. Literally a green border with squares of lawn, front and back. Mowing takes about half an hour, with extra care given to cropping the two abandoned flower beds and a large circle under the blooming tree behind my mobile home. It should have been easy for a man aged 55 years to accomplish such a humble task.

But after finishing my chore, which required two breaks in between, I could barely walk. My knees, left hip, and lower back were spent. I sat in a living room chair while pondering the pain that coursed through my body. How was it possible that this simple job left me so bent and beaten?

It took a full day to recover.

I felt humbled by the weakness manifested in my limbs. It literally made no sense that a fellow of this age, middle years of life in effect, could be brought to the point of surrender by a routine task like cutting the grass. Yet here I was, sipping water and slumped in my chair.

My sister, who had been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, offered emotional support. I felt grateful. Yet still, the questions lingered. Why had I arrived so early to the phase of life where commonplace tasks sapped my endurance? Why did I struggle to manage living alone with so many years waiting to be known? Why was I so old before my time?

A week later, I tried to tackle this job again. I reckoned it was simply a happening of chance. But the resulting agony muted my hope.

Fatigue was now my master.

A neighbor offered support with her own story of limited abilities. “I can’t weed my flower garden like the old days!” she said. “Or go running around with friends. But, you get used to making changes in life! My great-grandchildren help me so much. I am grateful for their kindness!” Her admonition provided welcome relief. Yet I realized that she was nearly 80 years old. How had I reached a similar point of inability so young?

My spirit felt weary. I was not ready for this change of life.

After a knee injury from trying to boost myself off the couch, after watching sports, I surrendered that furnishing to my Black Lab. It became part of his domain. I needed the dual arms of a formal chair to assume a vertical posture. My cane (patterned after one used by television character ‘Dr. House’) became a constant companion. I grew accustomed to receiving looks of concern from bystanders and having doors held open.

My orthopedist said “You multiply your body weight by seven times, when going up a flight of steps.” I reckoned he had to be correct. Lifting myself up to the front porch at home required a bullish amount of effort. More than I would have expected under any circumstances. But I managed to maintain my mobility.

Then, I arrived at the point of ‘early retirement’ from my job. At first, this detour from everyday responsibilities was welcome. But soon, I developed a sort of ‘arthritis’ from being inactive. Sleep became difficult. I had no routine. The ache of worn-out joints was persistent. Hour by hour, the throb of injury made itself known. In a sense, I was paying the piper for years of self-neglect.

Both parents, in their 80’s, walked with the aid of canes. I had literally followed in their footsteps. Though a bit too close for comfort.

Changes in the weather reminded me of my right ankle break, in 2014. I had declined proper treatment to maintain my work duties as a business manager. But now, this extra ping of pain added to the burden. The onset of rainy weather caused my bones to sing out the memory of their impact on slippery concrete. I hobbled along like homeless senior. Still mystified by the scope of my own impairment.

A familiar adage says: “No pain, no gain.” It is often displayed on T-shirts and exercise wear favored by those too young to fully comprehend.

From my own perspective, I could easily attest to the truth of that statement, having reached the point in life where literally nothing was achieved without some sort of hurt. Yet owing to discipline of soul and mind, I put aside the worry over physical woe. Pain evaporated in the joy of doing. I was glad to be active and free. Not with the abandon of youth, but with a sterner sort of determination born of necessity. And age.

It was then that I came to comprehend the strength of my forebears.

My joints were often trembling as I met the challenge of common living. I no longer had the stamina of my youth. Sometimes, simply getting through a 24-hour day meant employing creative strategies for success. But I did succeed. And I was able to thrive.

Pain, my partner, did not snuff out the daylight.

It only served to bring the beloved essence of life into sharper focus. To highlight the joy of survival. To illuminate the satisfaction in meeting challenges of existence.

And winning.

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

“Janis”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-17)

I met her at work.

She was unusual for the crew at my “real job” in Geneva. Long, red hair and no makeup. Thrift-store clothes, often in either orange or black. Colors I reckoned came from her affinity for Halloween. For a time, she wore a plastic spider on a necklace with every outfit. Amazingly, no one seemed to notice. Perhaps it was because they typically avoided getting too close.

She was at times what an earlier generation would have called a “klutz.” Impulsively changing her direction and losing balance. I once saw her fall on a concrete pad with such force that it seemed to guarantee broken bones in her leg and hip. Yet she simply righted herself and walked away without much concern.

I nicknamed her ‘Janis’ because of the Bohemian appearance she projected, and a love for the 60’s music icon. She talked at length about being raised by her grandmother. And related episodes from her favorite TV programs, ‘The X-Files’ and ‘The Walking Dead.’

Neither of us could remember when it was that we became friends. We had worked together during my first week in Ashtabula County. But shared little more than small talk. Somewhere along the way, she began to linger in the parking lot, after the business day was complete. We would sit on car hoods and chatter away. Eventually, our mutual love of Chinese food inspired a ‘date’ of sorts. We went to the local ‘Hong Kong King Buffet’ and feasted. I wondered if she had a boyfriend, but soon realized that her connections were treasured and few.

I asked why she had come to like me and our co-worker, Italian Jay. She insisted that I stop posing stupid questions. Secretly, I guessed that she literally had no explanation. Her thought processes defied regular organization. Even from a personal perspective. And her emotions… were buried deep in a morass of complex psychic layers. Visitors were not welcome under any circumstances.

“Feelings!” she snorted when I asked. “I don’t have those!”

Janis liked to walk after our meals of Pepper Steak, Lo Mein and General Tso’s Chicken. This habit reminded me of my grandmother, who was a retired schoolteacher. She would always have the family children ‘on parade’ after a meal. She lectured that it was good for our digestion and overall well-being. My friend echoed this plan with enthusiasm. As I struggled along with my cane, she would be slightly ahead, cigarette in hand, babbling about details of her day at work. Friends often saw us on the streets of town and would honk their car horns to offer encouragement.

Because we so often dined on the high-sodium cuisine of China, another part of our tradition became a pause after eating, at the local Circle K. My friend always wanted a ‘Polar Pop’ for refreshment. But I was more interested in conversation with the crew and their leader, Big Jeanne. Even with the brief duration of a typical visit, we would manage to share meaningful chatter. It was also challenging to guess what random locals might be present during our visit.

When the driver’s door on her car became hopelessly rusted, Janis rigged up a long string of bungee cords to hold it shut. This worked throughout the winter. Yet once her tax refund arrived, she found a replacement at a nearby junkyard. I picked it up in my truck and took it to her mechanic. She was visibly proud in declaring “My car is orange but the new door is purple!” When he asked about having it painted, she refused. It made for a unique look on the road – three doors matching the body color, with one standing out on its own.

Her necklace with the plastic spider had long ago disappeared. When I bought her an owl pendant, it served as a worthy replacement in her everyday wardrobe. But eventually this ornament also disappeared. Her bent toward wearing orange and black did not go away, however. She added a ‘mushroom’ T-shirt which appeared again and again on successive days. Over her hoodie, under a work shirt, or worn on its own. Her fashion sense was keen for someone who had a stated desire “not to bother looking pretty for men.”

I admired her freewheeling style of living. And her confidence.

But admittedly, there was fear in my heart over what she might say in public. Her ability to ‘self-censor’ remarks was undeniably broken. Once, we were getting fast food during a road adventure and saw an Amish fellow with his family. As he looked away after noticing her unconventional appearance, she became energetically vocal. “Did he just shun me?” she giggled. “Am I being shunned?” I wanted to hide under my truck. “I am going to post that on Facebook! I was shunned by an Amish man!” she cheered. It became difficult to breathe.

On another occasion, she began to discuss her choice of intimate apparel while we were having dinner. “Yesterday, I put my bras and panties in a bucket and dyed everything orange. Now I match completely!” she confessed. Silence filled the air around our table. My face was bright red. She began to laugh out loud. “Don’t you like the color orange? I’d rather wear that than anything pink!”

After a few years of hearing tales from ‘The Walking Dead’ and seeing old episodes stored on her DVR, I actually began to watch the program. It gave us something extra to discuss besides the quality of Chinese food at buffets in the area. Though at first, the show seemed like a typical ‘zombie’ creation, I soon realized that it was actually about how survivors of the apocalypse handled living in a fractured world. They were scavengers. Political order was nullified and replaced by naked tribalism.

Her critique of each episode was interesting. I reckoned that in some dark sort of way, she was the lone descendant of an emotional war. One which left her to cope by using imagery borrowed from Hard Rock themes and horror movies. A musty breath of Halloween that never faded with the dawn.

I did not really know her. I suspected that no one did. Perhaps not even herself. But whatever she might be, underneath red locks and orange garments, she was always… my friend.

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

“Morning Walk”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-17)

It was nearly 3:00 in the morning when I finally surrendered.

Sleep was seemingly not welcome. I could think of little else than my need to get more resumes in the mail. This mood of restlessness had me rolling from one side to the other in my bed. The comforter was already in a heap, with pillows strewn around carelessly. When brief slumber arrived, I dreamed of being at my computer desk. So the decision to ‘go vertical’ was an easy choice.

I made coffee and sat in my living room chair.

Riley, my Black Lab, stretched out on the floor. He was visibly excited that I had prematurely gotten out of bed. The early hour almost guaranteed that he would get an extra walk for the day. He yelped with satisfaction as I found my Giant Eagle jacket.

The outside air was chilly, a mere 33 degrees. Not what one would expect with summer approaching. Frost covered my truck windshield. But the driveway was clear. I let the dog run free for a moment, while rolling our trash barrel to the front lawn. He high-stepped into the neighbor’s yard, then ran across the street. Rowdiness made him wander. In the moonlight, I had difficulty picking him out of the shadows. But at last he appeared by a wooden deck adorned with rope lights. I connected the leash to his collar. And he spoke out loud with obvious discontent:

“Did you have to do that? Really? I was enjoying a good run, searching for stray cats!”

I stood there for a moment. Disbelief made me rub my eyes.

“You talked?” I whispered in the darkness.

My Black Lab nodded his head. “Yeah, I talked. Big deal. Could you unhook that leash and let me run for a couple more minutes?”

I clearly needed to have a cup of coffee.

“The leash!” he exclaimed. “Unhook the leash!”

I took a deep breath. “So… you speak English?”

“You expected Chinese?” he growled, trying to pull away.

My face went red. “This is what I get for waking up so early. Hallucinations!”

The dog shook his head. “Okay, never mind letting me go free, let’s just do the walking thing. Take me down the street and back. Just make sure I get to pee on the bushes next door. They have a little fuzzball of some kind over there. I want to make sure he knows who is boss of the territory.”

I was obviously in a daze.

We trudged down the street with clouded moonlight illuminating our way. It helped me to feel more confident being out before sunrise. I pondered work resumes that were waiting to be finished. Writing samples needed to be printed, addresses needed to be researched… stress began to cloud my thoughts.

“Hey, could you pick up the pace a bit?” Riley pleaded. “You don’t seem to be into this, buddy. Normally we have more fun. You get the cardio workout and I get to hunt for cats!”

I yawned out loud. “This is insane. I just thought you talked again.”

My Black Lab flopped his ears. “Talked schmalked. Of course I did! You heard me, right?”

“Stop it!” I said. “My brain must be fried from getting no sleep overnight.”

“You never heard a dog talk before?” he snorted.

I spun on my heel. “No, of course not. Nobody ever did, unless it was in a cartoon or a Disney movie. Your species isn’t much on real conversation. Okay? Quit making me crazy!”

“Wow, are you stuck up or what?” he yowled. “Not much on conversation. Have you heard the boys in our neighborhood when the kitties are on parade and we all start barking?”

“That’s what you should be doing right now,” I advised. “Barking. Bark bark bark. No more people words. You’re freaking me out, pooch!”

Riley’s black coat glistened in the moonlight. “This is all about you. It’s always all about you. Just once, could a dog’s feelings get to matter?”

I started giggling to myself. “This is nuts. I need coffee.”

“Coffee won’t get me any cats,” he complained. “I need the thrill of the chase!”

My eyes were burning. “Let’s go. Back to the house. Screw the coffee, I am ready for a beer. A cold, refreshing Labatt Blue. Do you hear me?”

“Beer,” he muttered. “Sure, go inside and drink a few of those. Then you’ll lay in bed till noon while I am wanting to go out again. How about taking off the leash and I’ll just wander around for a few hours by myself? You can trust me, I promise.”

I slapped my cheeks. “Wake up, Rod! Wake up! Wake up!”

“You are awake!” Riley huffed.

“No, this is a dream,” I replied. “A messed up dream. It’s time to get out of bed and make the coffee. I give up! I give upppppppppppp!”

“You really do need a beer,” the dog laughed. “I’ll get it for you, myself!”

“Nonsense!” I shouted. “We’ve worked on that trick for years and you have never managed to figure it out. Don’t tell me today will be different!”

“Calm down!” he whispered. “It’s only just after 3:00 in the morning. You’ll be waking up the neighbors.”

“No, you’ll be waking them up!” I exploded. “BECAUSE YOU WON’T STOP TALKING!”

A stray tabby ran across the yard. Riley strained at his leash, pulling me off my feet. I landed in the grass as he ran away. I grumbled out a string of curses.

“Come back here, dog! Come back!!!”

The aroma of fresh-brewed Java woke me from my slumber. I had fallen asleep in the chair. News headlines flickered on the television. Riley lay sleeping on the couch.

The clock said 4:30 a.m. which meant I had zoned out for more than an hour, after ‘going vertical.’

I rubbed my eyes again. “Okay… did we go out for a walk? Or did I just fall asleep again after getting out of bed?”

My Black Lab offered no comment. But he snored loudly with contentment.

I stood at the counter for a moment. “Dream or reality? Dream or reality? Who knows about the talking dog? Is it a true tale or am I in the fog?”

He continued to snore.

“Okay then,” I said. “Coffee or beer? Coffee or beer? Where do we go from here?”

He shuffled his paws, still soundly asleep.

“Beer is the verdict,” I declared, while slamming the counter with my fist.

Riley jumped from the noise. He circled the room. Then went for a drink of water. His eyes looked heavy. He curled up at my feet. Suddenly, the house had gone completely silent. Calm once again ruled the morning.

“Very well,” I said. “No beer or coffee right now. Just a bit more sleep... in this chair.”

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

“First Car”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-17)

Erstwhile local journalist and active writer Josh Echt recently submitted a manuscript to the Geauga Independent that talked about his first car, a 1997 Ford Contour. We have had a long-running conversation about motor vehicles that has literally spanned several years. His fond recollection of this Euro-styled ‘horseless carriage’ prompted me to ponder my own primal hauler. Thus, what you read here became a reality-in-print.

My own first car was a white, 1973 Volkswagen ‘Standard’ Beetle.

The story of Herr Porsche’s ‘wunderkind’ remains a familiar part of automotive lore. The VW Type 1 provided a useful foundation for an entire generation of funky, air-cooled chariots. They meshed with ‘hippie’ culture of the 1960’s and eventually opened the way for imported vehicles from Japan and elsewhere as the ‘oil embargo’ had us all struggling to cope with fuel shortages. The Bug reigned as a pop icon until its mechanical lack of sophistication forced the company to look elsewhere for fresher designs.

After passing my driver’s test in a 1969 Ford LTD ‘Country Squire’ wagon, the V-Dub was a breeze to pilot. It sipped fuel compared to the large sedans that were common in my family. And although it earned me a fair amount of teasing for owning a small, foreign car, it served my needs. (In those days, the full-sized American style of automobile still dominated our roadways.)

The Beetle boasted all the quirks associated with air-cooled products sent over from Deutschland. It had a ‘gravity flow’ heating system that was all but useless. I grew accustomed to driving with an ice scraper in one hand, to keep the windshield interior clear, during winter months. In the summer, heat from the rear-engine was persistent and unwelcome. Once, when my New York friend Paul Race, Jr. placed a stack of vinyl records on the rear floor, they were actually melted by the blast. (One of the vent doors was rusty and stuck open.)

The Bug had competent winter traction, with its weight bias over the drive wheels. But when tire spin arrived, the tail-heavy Bug could behave like a bumper car at the fair. It handled well, with more ‘road feel’ than the ponderous power-steering of our large Fords. Additionally, it proved to be easy to park at concerts or urban venues where space was limited. But interior comforts were few.

One of my bosses confessed that he reckoned I must have been smoking ‘weed’ on my breaks since I drove such a rolling symbol of counterculture ethos. His comment made me laugh out loud. Far from engaging in such nefarious activities, I instead preferred the taste of blue-collar beer, after work. He looked on in disbelief as I explained. I tried hard to set him straight. But my long hair and ragged jeans did not help. At any rate, I kept my job. And my car.

On long trips, the Beetle was unmasked as an ‘economy’ car, not really suited for any sort of grand touring across wide-open spaces. It was cramped, loud and harsh on long rides. Still, the respectable fuel economy meant I could visit friends in central New York for only a few dollars worth of gasoline. On one of these lonely voyages, I decided to test the vehicle for its speed capability. Assured that no one else shared the road during late hours after dark, and feeling safe from the NY State Police with their big Dodge cruisers, I literally floored the accelerator in 4^th gear. The Bug shuddered and howled its way to a top speed of 88 miles per hour. Wind noise actually competed with the flat-four for supremacy. Not a truly impressive achievement, yet certainly all the 1.6 liter motor could produce. I couldn’t help thinking of the ‘Red Baron’ pushing his airplane to its limits.

“Curse you, Snoopy!”

I arrived early that night, in Corning. Friends were impressed with my white V-Dub. It looked out of place behind their more modern, green Pinto station wagon. My friend Paul suggested that I pose for a photograph being chewed on by the front hood of the Beetle. As if I were in the mouth of my little beast. After coffee the next morning, I complied. The photograph became a legendary part of his personal collection.

Eventually, the VW burned oil and began to rust after years of service. Typical of the breed, its running boards surrendered to the ‘metal termites’ leaving only black rubber matting as evidence of their existence. When I grew tired of the factory AM radio, I installed a Sparkomatic stereo system from Fisher’s Big Wheel. (Still a struggle to hear over road noise and the clatter of the air-cooled motor.) When the gas pedal broke, I used a discarded, plastic roller wheel in its place. It fit the accelerator pin and linkage, perfectly.

Eventually, my family advised that the Volkswagen needed to go away in favor of something more up-to-date. At Hal Artz Pontiac on Water Street in Chardon, we found a low-mileage 1981 Chevrolet Chevette. It was unappetizing in every respect. Beige, with four doors. A matching interior with contrasting brown stripes. A four-on-the-floor transmission and a more sophisticated 1.6 liter motor. An appliance, like a refrigerator, with no ‘soul.’

It felt like a Cadillac compared to my old VW. But the car had no style. No vibe of hippie wanderlust. No notion of Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple or MC5 jamming out on stage.

I last saw my Beetle sitting at the Artz car lot. It looked dejected and forlorn. Spent. Used up and abandoned. Amid large sedans and pickup trucks, it seemed unlikely that anyone would be interested in purchasing the car. Not in Geauga County, anyway. Soon enough, I would realize that the utility of a 4x4 hauler was something I desired. Especially living in the snow capitol of northeastern Ohio. But at that moment, I bowed my head and said a silent goodbye.

Years later, I would occasionally dream that I had rediscovered the old Beetle and was taking it for a drive. Reconnecting with the careless abandon of my lost youth. Once again at the wheel with that flat dashboard and windshield before me, glistening in the sun. The clattering motor tick-tick-ticking away like a worn piece of farm equipment.

I would never want to own the Volkswagen again. Yet it is a memory I am glad to hold, forever.

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