“Marietta Mood”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Note To Readers: My parents entered a nursing home early this year after 32 years in northern West Virginia. Dad passed away at the end of April. Navigating the emotions produced by this experience has brought our family closer as we shared memories of childhood days and the hope that Mom would remain with us for awhile.

Rhoderick D. Ice 1929 – 2018

Saying goodbye.

My father’s funeral came as a surreal experience, not only because of the grief associated with losing one so beloved, but also in view of the numerology involved. It happened on my wedding anniversary with Wife 1.0 and on the birthday of famed guitarist Link Wray. I read a column titled ‘Memorial’ at the event. Something I had written earlier, with the knowledge that our paths were about to be crossed by the shadow of mortality.

We gathered at the Union Church of Christ, outside of Philippi, for his service. Standing before the group, I was struck with memories of speaking during worship services as a young kid. In yonder days I had imitated the cadence and style of my sire. Speaking with quiet, yet cheerful tones. But now, my voice cracked with sorrow. Still, purpose carried me forward. I wanted to give the address in Dad’s honor. I knew he would be smiling down from eternity, with approval.

I gave thanks on behalf of my sister and brother, for the joyful embrace this community had given to our parents over many years.

We buried Dad the next day, in Parkersburg, where other family members had been laid to rest, before. Then, it was time to go home. We were destined for Ohio and the region of Lake Erie. After long days drowning in tears, the experience had finally come to an end. My niece and nephew shared the ride. We were in the family’s Chrysler minivan.

‘Poppa’ had literally provided everything, even a chariot for our transportation.

At our southern family home in Barbour County, WV, my nephew picked up his Ford Focus. We followed each other on the highway as traffic ebbed along. Heading north, on I-77, he asked if anyone wanted to stop for a taste of Indian cuisine. It seemed a fitting sort of repast for celebrating the life of one always given to curiosity. My father had an insatiable desire to explore new worlds on every level, through study. Though he remained throughout his life a humble fellow. An observer, not a participant. So, everyone agreed.

My nephew remembered us having visited a restaurant called ‘Star Of India’ which we thought was located in Parkersburg. But after a few miles, we realized that the eatery must have instead been across the river in Marietta. It represented a peculiar manifestation of the ‘Mandela Effect.’ A misremembering of events. I likened it to my own recollection that the green, 1978 F-150 I had owned carried round headlights, while a previous, blue, 1979 version had illumination provided by rectangular bulbs. An old photo discovered while rearranging boxes at home proved that both trucks had the square-edged lights. My fallible memory had embraced an error.

When we found the ‘Star’ restaurant, it looked different than either of us expected. My nephew finally exclaimed “I am not sure this is where we ate, at all!” But it did not matter. The mood was festive in a college-town way. Always a student, Dad would have felt right at home.

The tastes of India were offered in a buffet setting, not what I remembered from before. Yet undeniably appropriate as we would have been unsure of what to order. The meal offered a soothing calm not only to the palate, but also to our souls. We were all exhausted. The feast seemed to renew our spirits.

Anonymous patrons shared the room as we dined. Conversation led us through family quirks and reflections. I talked about the experience of my television apprenticeship program through Cornell University, a journey begun in 1978. I remembered a family from India having opened a buffet-style restaurant in the city, which offered particularly distinctive flavors.

Then, a young man dining on the other side of our table approached us to say hello. “I could not help overhearing that you wrote for some newspapers,” he confessed. “Perhaps you would find these to be of interest?” He dropped two copies of a Marxist publication on the table. It was called the “Workers World.” 

I smiled, broadly. The headline boasted “Mobilize To Say No War, No Way!” A reaction to President Trump having launched a rocket attack against Syria for the use of chemical weapons. Inside, an article challenged the reader to ponder a notion not seen in mainstream journals: ‘End Police Murder = Abolish Capitalism.’

“The Workers World Party is a revolutionary Marxist-Leninist party inside the belly of the imperialist beast,” the newspaper read. “We are a multinational, multigenerational and multigendered organization that not only aims to abolish capitalism, but to build a socialist society because it’s the only way forward!”

As a Libertarian Conservative, the irony could not have been more pronounced, to receive such a gift from a stranger. Yet it was the sort of happening I would have expected in Ithaca, New York. Or, while breaking bread with my late father. I thanked the bearded student for his thoughtful contribution. Much like myself, he was outside of the American political mainstream. A seeker of knowledge. I suspected that we might not agree on many things. But his confidence shined like a beacon.

I reckoned that Dad would have nodded with kindness even as he rejected the message implied.

After dining, my niece and nephew headed for Ravenna. Sister and I ventured toward the east side of Cleveland and Geauga County. I missed a turnoff after road construction and a detour, so we drove up to Cleveland for a juncture with Interstate 90. then, we turned east.

Before long, we were at home.

I unloaded goods brought back from West Virginia, including my father’s old Brother WP-85 word processor. It still had 1.44 MB diskettes in the storage slot. Evidence of wordsmithing tasks he had performed many years ago. I felt eager to read through the stored manuscripts that waited inside.

Our farewell voyage was complete. Now it was time for the ultimate tribute to one who lived for the written word – to write and remember.

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

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