“Home Office”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-19)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example of life in our household.

Dad always had an office at home.

From my earliest childhood days, it was a tradition literally set in my DNA. The idea of having a workplace at home, fortified with some sort of personal library, a radio, hi-fi system, and a typewriter. Though the technical details of this space would evolve over time, the idea was one very much imprinted on my psyche.

Because my father grew up on a farm outside of Columbus, Ohio, he had a genuine knack for working on mechanical things. This love of machinery, particularly motorcycles and cars, permeated our family. Also, he enjoyed tinkering with vintage radios and tape recorders of various kinds. And, he played music on piano, guitar and banjo. But there was a dual nature at work, because his own sire was a university professor. So while he had been familiar with getting his hands dirty, there remained a bent toward higher learning through continuous study.

I did not need a classroom to learn such things.

As a young kid, I would sneak into Dad’s office when he was busy elsewhere. Such clandestine sessions helped me get an idea of the layout he preferred. I could also use his shortwave radio to hear broadcasts from around the globe. Something valuable in the era before cyberspace. Later, I designed my own ‘office’ with a square of scrap plywood on top of a steel trash barrel. My wordsmithing tool was a plastic typewriter from the most recent Christmas holiday. I was ten years old.

Friends at school liked to make jokes about this odd habit. But the plan would endure long into my adult life. Literally, to the present day.

As a teenager, my home workspace was Mom’s old desk and a $10 Royal KMM typewriter bought from a stash of discarded Cornell University equipment. In my early twenties, while wandering in New York, the Royal did service on top of a green footlocker. Then, on the coffee table in our family living room when I landed back in Ohio. Finally, it took up residence on a low-buck desk bought from Fisher’s Big Wheel, with my first wife. 

 

At every point along my personal journey, there was always a place to work at home.

My platform-of-choice developed over the course of time, from the Royal to a Brother word processor, then an eMachine PC running Windows95, another running Windows98, a Sony Vaio, and three laptops. Each offered its own cache of advantages and flaws. My work continued being tucked away on paper, 1.44 MB floppy disks, CD-Rs and USB drives. Dad’s own progression was similar, yet typically more advanced. He adopted new technology with ease. His published books and online blogs grew in number. Each of us would inspire the other with ideas. Once, he actually rewrote a manuscript from my files. Our ‘voices’ as writers were similar, but distinct from each other. He was ahead on the creative curve. It seemed that I never finished trying to catch his prolific wave.

Then, life happened.

A few weeks ago, my sister visited the family homestead to assess the situation of our parents. Not many days passed before her conclusion became evident – that they could no longer live on their own. Friends and neighbors had been urging us to take a closer look. Yet always, our questions were met with the assurance that more help was not needed. From a distance, real insight was often scarce. We debated for months, even years, over the situation. Then, the truth of their plight became apparent.

I had been too combative. My sister knew the proper approach. Dad finally agreed to the move.

At the nursing home, he took a laptop and notebook to remain active as a writer. But there were still devices left behind, some not used for awhile. My nephew accepted a role in looking through the household store of technical tools. Eventually, he approached me with an offer that was both sweet and sad. He had rescued my father’s old desktop, an HP Compaq Pro 4300.

He offered to drop off the computer during his next visit.

My reaction was purely emotional. I felt duty-bound to cling carefully to anything connected with our family mentor and inspiration. But, the angst of knowing that it had been surrendered along with his independence, and that of my mother, made me bow in reflection.

Still, the circular nature of this gift brightened my mood with old memories. Once again, in a sense, I had taken a seat in Dad’s office. I had begun a new course of study. One of hope and gratitude for life and a place at the keyboard.

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

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Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent