“Letter To Dad”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(6-18)

Note To Readers: I have had no time to grieve over the loss of my father, Rhoderick Ice, in April. Responsibilities have filled my plate. Perhaps this has made the process easier. I won’t really know until his meager estate, debts, and Mom’s care have been settled. In the interim, writing has been my refuge. As it was for him, throughout life. What follows here is a letter I penned to him, in eternity:

Dear Dad,

I am here at your old desktop computer. Feeling much as I did around 1970, sitting at the Underwood portable typewriter in your office at our home in Lynchburg, Virginia. Perhaps wishing a bit that I did not feel the creep of age and experience weighing now upon my shoulders. Wishing for the childish innocence I felt composing stories at your desk.

I confess to feeling a sense of emptiness. Like a discarded, dry sponge with no purpose.

When we watched you pass away, only two months ago, I expected some sort of spiritual energy in the room. Or a manifestation of some kind. A rush of wind, flash of light, perhaps a booming echo of thunder. But there was only silence. Shortly afterward I saw Mom in the Mansfield Place activity room. She was sitting at a table, in her wheelchair, with ‘Penny Cat’ and ‘Ticonderoga.’ Her plush companions. It seemed unbearably sad. Literally heartbreaking. Yet already, my mind had turned toward the details. Funeral, burial, gathering paperwork for the estate. There was no time to ponder. I reckon you would have said that was God’s way of numbing the pain.

I just heard from a friend that her late father appeared to her in a dream. They had a conversation that settled her emotions and brought a sense of calm. I have expected a visitation like that from you. But my nights have been restless. Worrying about issues that need to be resolved. Sometimes dreaming about being back at work. Many mental images on parade, without a revelation. Still, I know you are watching over the family.

Little Asher Mihalacki was born a few days ago, your first biological great-grandchild. I know you wanted to be here for the celebration of his new life beginning. I had hoped you could hold him in your arms. Yet already, I see you in his face.

The lineage of R. D. Ice continues.

We are clearing the house in Philippi, a slow process in part because you literally seemed to save everything. Every card, newspaper, coffee cup, magazine and photograph. I even discovered a broken lamp upstairs, something I had won as a 4-H prize around the age of ten. Its white, two-piece shade had cracked and come apart years ago. Yet it still sits there on a stack of boxes. Sorting through this maze has meant revisiting memories long buried under necessity and responsibility. I feel numb.

I framed my favorite photo of you and put it on the entertainment center at home. Your author portrait from 1974. It sits opposite to a family picture from my first marriage, with wife Betty and our Jason. I hung one of your personalized license plates in the dining room, over a typewriter that appeared on my first book cover. You are here with me, every day.

When challenges appear, I think of what you would advise. I hear your patient voice, urging me to pray not for deliverance, but for stronger faith.

Mom seems content at the nursing home. Very involved socially with the other residents and staff. Sometimes she seems to recognize me, and on other occasions she reacts as if I am merely a cheerful visitor. Once, she even confided to sister Rebecca that she did not care for ‘that man sitting over there’ who was a fellow she did not know. An ironic comment, directed toward her son! I tried to find humor in the moment. It has made for a good story.

I recall that you used to observe: “Hindsight is 20/20.” The platitude seems more accurate than ever as I navigate the process of closing your estate, gaining control of Mom’s personal needs and settling financial issues. I have little or no idea what do do but learn in the process. After each chapter is written, the plan then becomes obvious. Struggle results from not knowing before each battle. I reckon you would say it is fertile ground for a book or writing projects in the future.

On our way home from the last trip to West Virginia, we stopped to visit your grandson, Justin, at his new apartment in Ravenna. He showed us artwork, actual paintings, that were some of his most recent creations. Rebecca showed motherly interest in the space and decor of the flat. As a kindred spirit and uncle, I took more interest in his desk. It looked much like your own work station on the enclosed porch in Philippi, or my back-bedroom space, in Thompson. I could feel the creative energy rising from every surface. Just as with K. C. Ice, M. C. Ice, yourself, and me, Justin had continued the pattern for yet another generation.

I felt glad to see his desk. It made me feel at home.

Forgive me for expecting fireworks in the sky or a thunderclap, shaking the soil under my feet. Were I writing this tale, it would surely unfold with that sort of plot. Yet the story is not one authored by human imagination. This is God’s reality. Neither good nor bad but simply and indisputably real. In truth, I could not write such an adventure. I can only hope to retell what has transpired.

I have saved your paperback volumes about Edgar Cayce. Soon, I am sure there will be a stash of ‘Search Magazine’ issues discovered at the house. Or some other Ray Palmer publication. I remember reading those works as a teenager. Now middle-aged and retired, I long to peruse them, again.

We will all take care of Mom. Though I confess to hoping for a nudge of direction from you, as her care continues. Feel free to bolster my confidence. I have so many questions to ask. If only we could have one more conversation, one more call on the telephone. One more long-distance session on the computer.

I love you, Dad. Take care in eternity.

Postscript: While I have no postal address or zip code for ‘Heaven’ I know Dad is looking over my shoulder. He was always my mentor and hero. And now, my spirit guide.

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