“Crowded House”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

‘The Farm.’ Columbus, Ohio.

For those of us in the Ice bloodline, it was a special place both geographically and spiritually. Matched by no other. Many generations of our brood moved through that space. Each of us received our own blessing from having walked on that soil. Carried forward, the collective experiences bound us together in a way no outsider could feel.

My grandfather, M. C. Ice, passed away in early 1999. Afterward, as the snowy bluster of winter receded, my wife and I visited the family homestead. We sought to renew our connection to this most holy of places. But a strange aura met us upon exiting our car. I realized it immediately with a first breath of spring air.

Our castle was dead.

Quite literally, the old fellow had kept this spot alive with his love and determination. Without him, the grass looked pale. The sky above, gray and lifeless. We walked slowly through the house, hearing dry echoes of a lifeless shell. I choked down the angst bubbling in my belly, while looking over remnants from generations that had gone before. Each talisman was sweet to ponder. Yet undeniably sad.

Many years later, I watched my father pass into eternity at Mansfield Place, in Philippi, West Virginia. That night, still reeling and brokenhearted, I returned to the family household, on a hilltop outside of town, with my sister. Her comment upon entering the house awakened old memories long buried by necessity.

“This place does not feel the same,” she observed. “It is dead now.”

I nodded in silence.

Just as with ‘The Farm’ our southern home had been buoyed by the unflagging spirit of one incredible fellow. He treasured the spot in a way appropriate for someone who had wandered across the map for most of his life. He and our mother had found this refuge in the hills 32 years ago. The joy of finally discovering a place to call ‘home’ was irresistible.

R. D. Ice’s intention was to meet eternity at this beloved place, like his own sire. My grandfather had drifted away while in his favorite rocking chair. But circumstances did not permit such a gentle exit from the house on Dadisman Place. First, Dad battled for life in Morgantown, at Ruby Memorial Hospital. Then came a sort of acceptance. He wanted a few last days with our mother. But though his body may have been at the nursing home, none of us could doubt that his heart remained at the house just off of Union Road.

After he was gone, we sat alone in the family abode. Our meal, hastily consumed, consisted of pepperoni rolls from the local Shop n Save. We did not have much of an appetite. I drank Powerade to stay hydrated. Strangely, the clutter suddenly lost its homey feel. There was a palpable sense of sitting in ashes. A noble journey, long savored and extolled in print, had come to its conclusion.

Still, I lingered in the office where my father had spent many hours writing manuscripts of various kinds. On an old typewriter desk that belonged to mother, his Brother WP-85 word processor still sat, waiting for duty. I reckoned that he had not used it in over 25 years. A collection of 1.44 MB diskettes remained in the storage nook. One, still in the drive slot from a long-forgotten project. The power cord had been tied around a post on the bookshelf. 

I took a photo with my cell phone, to document where it had been found.

Everywhere around me, there were books, magazines, church bulletins, and such. Copies of ‘El Popola Cinio’ which was a magazine about mainland China, offered in the world language called Esperanto. An odd favorite often seen in the household. Dad would fill his giant Pyrex measuring cup with coffee, tune the radio to Jazz or Classical music on the local Public Radio station, to escape with the aid of colorful images and words. As a perpetual student, his education literally lasted for a lifetime.

I reflected on the mess, gladdened to be among familiar things.

My sister worked off her nervous energy by sorting old literature and photographs. Her discoveries were amazing. Laminated poems that had been printed in a newspaper, now yellowed by time. Written by Lulu McCray, our maternal grandmother. Childhood images we had never seen. More recent pictures of weddings and reunions. Even reprints from old color slides in the family collection. A booklet surfaced with a date in 1955, one offered at an annual football game in Parkersburg. Along with this sports relic were copies of ‘Mad Magazine’ and ‘Cracked.’

“We should keep this place, just like it is right now,” my sister exclaimed.

I nodded again, in agreement.

A museum of Rhoderick Ice materials would have been fitting. And useful for fledgling writers and seekers of antiquity, alike. For those who loved vintage cars, motorcycles and musical instruments. But the house had already been sold. Moreover, some of the collection was gone, to aid our cousin with his own historical research, in Texas.

Yet the suggestion fell upon my ears like a sweet song of hope.

I reckoned that Dad’s legacy would remain intact through his books, published works in many magazines, Internet blogs, bulletins and letters. My nephew had been given USB memory sticks with articles not printed before. It seemed likely that we would all be working through the collection for years to come.

The house felt empty and cold without its master at his desk in the office. But I felt sure that none of us would surrender his memory to fate. Instead, as with our hallowed patch of ground in Columbus, we would sustain his memory through the blossom of love planted by seeds he sewed in our hearts.

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

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