“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.

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