“Memorial”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

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 given comfort. Time knows no mortal master. What follows here is another example of the ideas that have emerged while pondering this cycle of life.

A Capella singing. A tradition of the church community in which I was raised.

Once the last verse of ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ had been finished, our group fell silent. There was a moment of hesitation as the local pastor looked in my direction. I breathed heavily and reached for my cane. Then, with some effort, I moved toward the pulpit. My eyes were wet. But somehow, purpose brought clarity of thought. I looked across the crowd and back again. Then, with a noisy rustling of printed paper, my address began:

“I am grateful for those who have remembered my father today. For those who have spoken of his faith and service. For those who praised his degrees in formal education. For those who have remembered his authorship of theological books and articles written for many publications. For those who recall him officiating at weddings, funerals, services of all sorts, teaching Sunday School and leading songs. He would be thrilled to know that each step of his journey left an indelible footprint that served to inspire others. I am grateful for each word spoken today.”

In the front row, my sister was crying. She dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief.

“But today, it is my hope to place in your memory a different perspective on this man,” I continued. “You have heard about a remarkable fellow. A scholar, a steward, a leader, a teacher in the old tradition. Now, I want to tell you about… my dad. The man I knew at home.”

A breathless pause held the moment.

“I want to tell you about the giant who led me as a child,” I said. “My hand grasped one of his fingers like it was a mighty sword. He seemed huge and yet so gentle. I trusted him in every way. When questions ached in my head, he never failed to have some sort of answer. I marveled at his knowledge. Every conversation, no matter how innocuous, became a learning experience.”

An old parishioner wearing West Virginia University Mountaineers attire fumbled with his walker. An oxygen cylinder sat nearby. He nodded his bald head in approval.

“We would go to classic car shows in the summer,” I reflected. “Once, I saw a vehicle from the 1940’s and sounded out the name on its chrome grille. ‘Ply-mouth.’ Dad laughed and explained how to properly pronounce this automotive moniker. I never forgot that moment of kind correction. I soon became a vintage vehicle expert of sorts, from reading his Floyd Clymer books.”

My nephews began to smile.

“Dad had taken a course in television repair after graduating from high school,” I observed. “The manual was an enormous document, in a leather binder. During my childhood, he repaired many castaway sets that had been discarded as worthless junk. Even when I became a teenager, our family still watched programs on devices that were many years out of date. When friends visited, they felt mystified and amused. It was a trait of the Ice household. Yesterday and today coexisted in the same space.”

My uncle from Indiana beamed with pride.

“Writing has always been a family habit,” I proclaimed. “From an early age, the need to put thoughts into print was something I inherited from my father with much enthusiasm. I mimicked his office style by creating one of my own, in our basement. Later, his advice on content and editing proved to be invaluable. He admonished me to write from my own experiences, because those were more durable and genuine than any other kind of inspiration. He also said that a useful trick was to read manuscripts aloud, as an aid to proper phrasing. It is a tool I still use to this day.”

From a pew set far back in the church, an old woman prayed quietly. “Thank you Jesus, for such a man.”

“Dad hoped that I would follow in his footsteps,” I confessed. “But my life-path did not lead in that direction, for many reasons. Yet as I developed a career in business management, overseeing retail stores, it became clear that his template had become my own. The strategies I used at my workplace were no different than his own habits tending the flock. ‘Building lines of communication’ with employees and customers, as he had done himself, within the faith community.”

A young boy pondered his song book. He looked sad, but intently focused on every word I had offered. It was impossible not to wonder where his own path would go, in future days still waiting to unfold.

“My first car was a 1973 Volkswagen,” I said. “When it had a broken set of points, Dad helped get the Beetle right again, even though his days as a mechanic had long since passed into memory. Because of growing up on a farm, he had some familiarity with almost everything. After puttering with the German machine, we went back to our house and made coffee. He mused about rigging up radio antennas as a kid, to hear broadcasts of Folk and Country music on WSM from Nashville. Later, we discussed oddities like Edgar Cayce visions and Ray Palmer magazines. He was ahead of me at every point on the curve. I felt thrilled to follow and learn.”

My uncle from Tennessee bowed his head, respectfully.

“In summation, let me declare that the one we honor today was not merely a figure of public renown and regard from his peers,” I concluded. “He gave me life, hope, instruction and purpose. But most importantly of all, he offered the example of a loving father. One who made me feel truly glad to be a member of this family.”

I looked over at the casket, my eyes growing wet once again. “I love you, Dad.”

The congregation stood to sing. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see...”

Postscript: Dad died on April 27^th. I read this manuscript as part of his funeral service at the Union Church of Christ on May 1^st.

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 regularly in the Geauga Independent