“Vintage TV”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

Stuff.

I grew up in a family not gifted in the financial sense, but wealthy in terms of love and ideas, along with artifacts from previous generations. What we affectionately called ‘junk.’ Thus, it has always seemed natural to be surrounded by trinkets, knick-knacks, bric-a-brac, tchotchkes and the like. These treasures adorned shelves full of antiques, printed volumes and vinyl records. When I grew old enough to create my own household, the template was already set.

Having ‘stuff’ felt natural. And, necessary.

This predisposition toward collecting has often caused episodes of material lust that later seemed ill-advised and patently indefensible. But in our family paradigm, such purchases never needed to be justified. I was reminded of one particular acquisition while sorting through the home of my parents, during a recent visit to West Virginia. As they were both products of the ‘Great Depression’ this beloved couple literally kept everything. Clearing their abode, after father passed away and mother went to a nursing home, proved to be a chore of consequence. But also, an adventure in self-discovery.

For years, I had remembered that for Christmas of 1970, at the age of nine, I received a plastic, functional typewriter as a gift from Santa. Details were sketchy from years that had elapsed since I last saw the machine. But as we cleaned Dad’s office, there it was, hidden on a windowsill next to a rack of books.

The discovery brought tears to my eyes.

Later, I pondered another relic still hidden in the mess. During the 1990’s, I had found a vintage television set in Painesville, with my first wife. We attended the ‘Great Lake County Garage Sale’ at the fairgrounds. Late in the day, with vendors packing up their unsold goods, I spied the rectangular box on a half-empty table. Its screen was tiny by modern standards. A peek inside revealed that the chassis still carried a full compliment of vacuum tubes. I tingled with excitement.

The seller was visibly exhausted. We shared polite conversation and then began to haggle over the price. My wallet had little to offer. I walked away for a last trip around the tables. Then, impulsively, I returned and offered him $8.00 for the set.

He must have been drunk with fatigue. His answer was nearly shouted.

“YES!”

When I got home, a quick test proved that the television actually received analog stations. I could hear the audio portion of local broadcasts. But the picture tube stayed dark.

My father had taken a course on TV repair in the 1950’s and still had his textbook manual in the home library. It was bound in a huge, leather cover. I called him and described the device. He observed that it sounded like something they had bought in the postwar 1940’s, when the notion of watching shows at home had only begun to take hold. Some units were offered as a kit, he recalled. Yet mine apparently had been sold in completed form. Its viewing portal almost looked to be an afterthought, on one end of the long, wooden case.

Dad offered to have a look. We carried the set along on our next visit.

Almost predictably, the TV sat in his office for weeks. Then for months, and years. He had grown too old for restoration projects, with other needs, like providing care for my mother, growing more urgent. Eventually, my flea-market-find moved to a side corner of the living room, where it was buried under boxes.

My sister remembered its hiding spot as we were packing donations. We took three minivan loads to a local charity store. But the vintage TV had still not been uncovered. Finally, we had to return home to Ohio.

“We’ll find it on the next visit,” she promised.

Back at home, I began to research the unit on Internet sites. One called the ‘Early Television Museum’ offered a variety of technical information, with various photos, charts, catalogs and brochures. Of particular interest was a newspaper clipping from the Lincoln Times-News, in North Carolina. Their readers’ forum featured a story by Marshal Fox about having a coal-powered TV in the summer of 1951:

“One of my fondest memories as a child was when we got our first television. Because of the unavailability of electricity in most rural areas, several companies manufactured coal powered televisions… we stoked up our TV, lit it and eagerly waited. It felt like hours as it warmed up. You could hear the internal turbine starting to turn and slowly a picture appeared… all the neighbors crowded into our small living room just to get a glimpse of this great entertainment device… because of the excess heat, some people actually cooked on top of their televisions. It was the ideal place for a slow cooking stew or a big pot of pinto beans… as the availability of electricity grew the coal powered TV went the way of other stop-gap inventions like the propane washing machine and goat lawn mower. Nothing ever stays the same.”

I reckoned this surreal creation would have been appropriate for Barbour County with its coal connection. But unfortunately, the relic I had discovered and then lost used the more conventional power of electricity to function. Still, the story added to my list of things saved to mention upon seeing my late father once again, in eternity.

Finding my antique set suddenly seemed a lot less important. I had a new question to ask.

“Hey Dad, did you ever own a coal-powered TV?”

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Dad Morning”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

Sleep.

I woke up just before 4:00 a. m. with a sense of accomplishment lingering in the air. While making coffee, I pondered having slept about 4 ½ hours. My longest session in bed since the month of May. My body felt rejuvenated. Like some energy potion swelled my veins.

The household Bunn coffeemaker gurgled purposefully on our kitchen counter. Meanwhile, my Black Lab snored away on the living room rug. Waiting for a first cup of brew, I turned toward the framed photo of my late father that sat on our entertainment center.

“Good morning, Dad,” I whispered.

The ritual was familiar, if subdued. I had offered the same greeting since he passed away in April. Each time, I felt a gnawing sense of emptiness in my belly.

I started to make toast when a familiar voice boomed through the house, in response. “Good morning, Rodney!”

I dropped the loaf of bread. “What? What was that?”

The dog did not seem to notice. He continued to snooze. I put the bread by my coffee pot and went back to the living room. Sweat began to trickle from my forehead. “Hello?”

Again, the voice filled my ears. “Good morning, Rodney!”

My hands were shaking. “Dad?”

“Certainly so,” he answered.

I rubbed my eyes. Suddenly, they were wet with tears. “Good morning! God morning, good morning! You know, I have been expecting something like this… you know… some sign from eternity...”

“I know,” he said.

“You know everything now...” I replied. “Rennie said that, recently.”

“Your brother is right,” he observed.

“Yeahhhh… everything,” I coughed. “Look, there are a few transgressions I should probably explain...”

My father began to laugh. “Rodney, I am not here to judge. Just to say that God has taken me home. I am well. Do you understand? This has all been an interesting experience. I met Issac Asimov yesterday. And Kurt Vonnegut. We sat and listened to a jam session with Woody Guthrie and Leadbelly.”

“Incredible,” I mused.

“I do miss your mother,” he confessed.

“Of course,” I said. “We are taking care of her. It is a conundrum for us as we would like to have her close, especially now. But we all agree that her care seems best near your old home. Neighbors and church members visit on a regular basis. Some of the nursing facility staff actually grew up with both of you in the community. We reckon that moving her would only add to the confusion of her dementia and risk losing the personal touch. That extra measure of care.”

“I agree,” he said. “Don’t feel guilty.”

I stared at his picture for a moment, in silence.

“You had something more to say?” he wondered aloud.

“Well yes,” I replied. “Yessss… there are so many questions I have wanted to ask. About your insurance policies and the bank accounts and...”

“No Rodney,” he interrupted. “There is something more on your mind. Something of greater importance.”

“Yessss,” I admitted, wheezing. “Having time to think has made me fear that liberty...”

“What I used to call ‘the perverseness of nature’ sometimes,” he said.

My eyes went wide open.

“I did my best to teach all three of you,” he remembered. “WHAT to think was always less important than HOW to think. I wanted you to have the toolkit. The methodology to find answers for yourself. To find truth and nurture your faith.”

“Faith, that’s it,” I stammered. “You and Mom provided an example of life lived with a sense of duty and discipline. But lived with joy. With the belief in a higher calling.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

My eyes were growing wet once again. “So… I must say that we all expected more. I did, anyway. A dramatic clap of thunder when you passed. A lightning flash across the sky. Angels singing. Trumpets blaring from the clouds. Something dramatic! Even a visitation, later on...”

His photo seemed to grin. “Of course. You have a writer’s soul. Something only you inherited from me… perhaps you will put pen to paper and create a version of the story with that kind of embellishment.”

“We just expected more,” I said.

“YOU expected more,” he proclaimed.

“Yes,” I acquiesced.

“Rodney, I was very tired,” he explained. “I was a very old and tired man. Your mother had been in decline for years, seeing imaginary visitors and members of her family that were long deceased. I cared for her with all my strength. With all my love. Despite the woeful failings of an aging body. Even with my own mobility nearly gone. She was happiest at home. But God’s plan was in motion. For both of us… for all of us...”

“Yes,” I nodded.

“Love endures above all else,” he preached. “Read 1 Corinthians, Chapter 13. Division, prejudice, pomposity, self-importance, legalism, grandeur… all of that goes pale when viewed against the final moment of mortality. Love continues onward.”

“Yes,” I said again.

“You do not need a sign,” he laughed. “No alignment of stars or vision in the night. My love is in you. In your brother and sister, It is with your mother, even as we speak. You are all carrying that energy forward.”

“Right,” I echoed.

“When you are at the office desk, I am there,” he continued. “Writing was my craft. It is yours as well. I am with you in the vibration of strings on your guitar. In the exhaust note of your motorcycle. In the pale hues of morning over your rural neighborhood...”

“You are!” I cheered, silently.

“Take care of YOU,” he insisted. “I watch you hobble around the house. Fretting and drinking and cursing fate and responsibilities. Remember that we are all on a journey. Each soul is in motion, like the universe itself. Your path is not my path. Yet we are in concert with each other. My light is in you as it always has been. I am not gone...”

“We sometimes think that it feels like you are sitting in your office,” I smiled. “Reading a book or working on a manuscript. Just out of sight for a moment.”

“And that is literally true,” he said. “In my office… in a new location...”

I paused in reflection. But the air had gone stale and still.

“It is good that we had this talk,” I said.

My Black Lab raised his head. Almost as if someone had shut the front door.

“Dad?” I shouted. There was no reply. “DAD!!!”

He was gone, again.

The dog went running for our couch. My hands were shaking. I tipped the coffee mug for a final swig, but it was empty. Empty like the room full of trinkets and trash.

My anguish turned to hope while pondering his photograph. I raised the cup in a salute.

“Love you, Dad,” I whispered. My morning at the keyboard had only begun to shine.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Free TV”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

Simple living.

There are many benefits yielded by being a resident in my rural neighborhood. Summer months offer a bountiful blessing of natural beauty, with the camaraderie of a vacation campground. Winter months deliver the quiet comfort of a quilt by the fireplace, as snow slows the pace of life. Both are friendly from the vantage point of one who has reached retirement.

When I first moved to my isolated park, cable television was included at no extra cost. I barely noticed this benefit, with career demands dominating most of my waking hours. Eventually, a nominal fee was added to cover cost increases. My first bill for the service totaled only $18.00. I paid the increase without much attention. But each year produced fee hikes that soon had me questioning the household budget. When the cost neared five times its original amount, I joined the ranks of a growing group in America – the ‘Cord Cutters.’

I purchased a Roku device at our local discount store, and discovered that literally thousands of channels were available. Many of these carried free shows and movies I remembered from bygone days. Others offered the sort of unique programming I craved as an oddball viewer. Some, like ‘Cult Radio A Go-Go’ were full of original content and archived recordings with famous guests from many genres.

My other discovery after dropping cable service was less thrilling in nature, however. I realized that my spot on the map was literally terrible for over-the-air TV reception. A problem during football season.

My first attempt at buying a digital converter and a set-top antenna, for local broadcasts, failed miserably. I could not receive even one channel. Later, after buying a new television, I tried using a Mohu Leaf to bring in signals with its extended range. The result was a group of stations that were few in number and located to the south. Though my home sat only a few miles east of Cleveland, I could not receive any of their popular channels. Internet sites like ChannelPear and USTVNow helped me survive.

Geography was my enemy. A hill blocked signals from the northwest. But being busy lessened the pain.

Still, poor TV reception was little more than an irritant in the household, until I had to retire because of health reasons at age 55. Suddenly, I had time to pause in front of my flat-screen friend. Though the old Roku endured, useful as ever, I began to suffer from a nagging sense of being disconnected. Weather patterns slimmed the number of local stations I could find on a regular basis. Then, I reached the point where they had declined to zero.

I was reminded of Robert Schuller’s famous admonition: “Don’t just sit there. Do something!”

Simmering in frustration, I pondered the idea employed by my neighbor in a blue home, to the west. He had bought an outdoor antenna off of eBay and mounted it by his back door. This simple installation afforded him viewing capability for stations from Erie, Pennsylvania. Informally, I discussed this with my friend BA, a maintenance technician from the company where I had worked in Geneva. He remembered having metal poles leftover from a remodel that could be used as a makeshift tower. A quick search for digital antennas yielded lots of results.

All it took was the lure of a cold brew to bring him over. We built the mast, with improvised anchor straps, and had my new antenna in the air without much difficulty. The unit came with a controller and wireless remote. Rotating the assembly required nothing more than thumbing a pair of buttons. Pointing it northeast brought in Erie, as my neighbor had chosen. Directed southwest, I found several stations from Youngstown. Plus, the public broadcasting outlet in Cleveland.

I wanted to compose a victory song called “Retired guys can survive!”

While flipping through the channels, I began to hear echoes of visits with my aunt and uncle in Parkersburg, West Virginia, during my childhood. They had something of a rarity in our family during the late 1960’s and early 1970’s – an actual color television.

It was made by RCA as I remember.

My uncle was a professional baker by trade and a handyman at home. He had constructed a sturdy, metal tower for his own TV antenna. There was of course no cable service or satellite provider for help in those days. His intention was to provide first-rate reception for the family. The analog array stood many feet in the air, with a rotor assembly in place. It was controlled by a box that sat on top of his set in the living room. A twist of the dial produced distant mechanical groans and a ponderous change in direction. We learned as children not to fiddle with the controls. 

The rendered images were normally a bit out of focus and made of murky hues. But each visit to Parkersburg had us in awe of this technology. Our lunches usually consisted of bologna sandwiches, RC Cola, and Mr. Bee Potato chips, a regional favorite. We would watch wrestling on Saturday afternoons, while my uncle provided his own assessment of each match.

At home, my family had nothing more sophisticated than a pair of ‘Rabbit Ears’ and some bits of aluminum foil. We only saw the video world in black-and-white, on a set purchased from the Sears & Roebuck catalog.

These memories lingered as I fiddled with my new home system, last week. Though almost fifty years had passed, the sense of wonder continued. I turned my rooftop signal-grabber back and forth, to tune in the best roster of channels. And, took comfort in the notion that my late aunt and uncle might be looking down from heaven, with a smile.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Summer Projects”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

Note To Readers: I recently had to replace the rope lights around my porch entrance, at home. This mundane task loosed emotions that had been penned up since winter. What follows here is the story.

It normally happens in July.

As I ponder that half the year has already gone by, a dreadful sense of being behind-the-eight-ball takes hold. I typically fret over the unaccomplished tasks on my list, and my own inability to tackle many of them with any hope of completion.

Then, the frenzy begins.

Having jettisoned notions of buying a new patio set with a canopy, for the back deck, I usually turn toward other ideas. Getting my motorcycle back on the road? Nope. My extra cash has gone toward trips to West Virginia. Putting a roof over the porch? Maybe. But only with the help of a friend who collects scrap like I collect vinyl records. Buying an iMac at long last, to escape the ever-present gremlins of my Microsoft PC? Doubtful. I reckon instead on another 12 months of wallowing in the flaws of Windows. Putting up a TV antenna for free, local channels to compliment my Roku? Again, my scrap-hound buddy would need to be involved. Replanting a stray tree to stand in for the ‘Whoville Pine’ that had been lost with a harvest of dead wood, weeks ago? Impossible without help. Using a shovel would tempt fate and probably have me falling in the grass. Whacking weeds around my tin-box domicile? I would need to buy my own machine. And hobble around sans my cane.

Bowed in surrender, I turn toward more meager goals after this seasonal ritual. Like the necessary painting of my porch.

Regular readers of this column will be familiar with the fact that I had to retire early, at the age of 55, due to health concerns. In particular, because my dwindling mobility made even routine chores nearly impossible to accomplish. So the thought of working outdoors seemed appealing but ill-advised. Still, I yearned to do something useful. Something of which I could be proud. Something that would restore my sense of independence.

Sprawled in bed, I pondered the job. In yonder days, I had been able to kneel and twist, while slinging redwood deck stain with a brush. But now, my left hip was shot. Both knees were exhausted. And my shoulders were creaky. Just getting myself from the porch to ground level involved much huffing and groaning while holding on to whatever could provide support.

A light bulb of inspiration came when I remembered my ladyfriend Janis talking about an extender she had seen for her paint roller. The pole was intended to be used when working on the outside walls of a house. I wondered to myself if the same principle might be inverted, to allow for coating my porch while remaining vertical.

“Eureka!” I whispered. As they used to say in cartoons of the 1960’s, “It’s so crazy that it just might work!”

With sunrise came a pot of coffee and a clearer head to think through my plan. I remembered that the old broom I used outside had a metal handle that screwed into its base. Removing the bristles gave me the simple extender I needed. A new brush, anchored with duct tape, completed this crude implement. It seemed likely to succeed, in theory at least. Though it looked like something from a Facebook meme about hillbilly life.

Would it work? Only real-time testing would yield an answer.

Armed with a screwdriver and the remnants of last year’s bucket of Behr liquid stain, I went outside. The morning was still friendly. Around 75 degrees. I opened the can, dipped my makeshift tool into the brown, chemical sap and… “Voila!” It was perfect. Suddenly, I felt stupid for not having tried this trick, before.

Wielding the paint brush at a distance of about three feet meant that my strokes were exaggerated. But the task went more quickly than when I had used a conventional approach. I had the porch, deck, ramp, side table and barn bench in the yard all done in about 30 minutes. The work was sloppy, yet acceptable for my rural neighborhood. Worthy of being christened with beer.

Only after finishing did I realize that the odd angles created by my broom/brush meant that the tool itself suffered in the process. The thing looked like an 80’s model with her hairdo trashed, after a long night of champagne and cigarettes. Once I had applied a second coat, it went into the trash bin. Still, my mission had been accomplished. The porch was painted and I could still walk without grumbling in pain.

My ex-wife once observed “Can’t you do anything without getting a story out of it?” Her question was nonsense when asked of a newspaper veteran. I reflected on her comment while snapping photos with my cell phone, in between sections of the porch. Even before cleaning up, I had begun to compose a page of creative text in my head.

Perhaps even more exciting than the thought of being able to conquer my disability was the knowledge that it would mean another writing project was close to being completed.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Senator Joe, Part Two”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

Unexpected.

As the oldest child in my generation and the one chosen to handle matters of the family estate, once my father had passed away, I knew the challenges would be many. In arranging for the care of my elderly mother, far from home and in another state, it seemed likely that the distance involved would add difficulty to whatever needed to be done. Still, I wanted to honor the tradition set when she and my father moved south, over 32 years ago.

For Mom & Dad, West Virginia truly was ‘almost heaven.’

What I did not expect was the daunting task of getting my mother qualified for Medicaid payments to the nursing home. The process began in February, when my sister had found both of our parents living in conditions that could no longer be tolerated. Her kind demeanor and patience finally broke a stalemate that had lasted for several years. Dad, ever the independent chief of our brood, finally relented. He had become too frail for being at home, even with help from neighbors and friends in the church community.

Sister began the paperwork with their local DHHR, the state’s Department of Health and Human Resources. When statements began to arrive in the mail, I did not feel great concern. We were in the midst of bidding farewell to our father and pondering the mighty job ahead of clearing out the family residence.

But again and again, Mom’s application for Medicaid was rejected. Each time with a new excuse. Too much money on hand, when their accounts were locked and out of reach. Or, not enough documents submitted. Or, deadlines not met. Finally, a life insurance policy not copied and forwarded. Then, back to the assets on hand, once again.

Eventually, I received a letter from the nursing home demanding that I accept personal responsibility for the mounting debt mother had accrued. A feat that was, of course, literally impossible. Being a disabled business manager and former newspaper editor, my own worth was only a few hundred dollars. I decided to take charge of the Medicaid approval and started making phone calls immediately. But my expectation of finding aid and comfort were exploded. Instead of offering a path to gaining coverage for my mother, those involved were more like claim adjusters seeking to limit liability for an insurance company.

I felt very naive. Only one priority kept me focused – taking care of Mom.

As these turbulent events were transpiring, I had written to Senator Joe Manchin III about the situation. I suggested that he might consider legislation to help families like ours who were stuck in such a conundrum. He was a favorite of both parents. In particular for Mom, who had always been an old-fashioned, conservative Democrat. His response could not have been more welcome:

Dear Mr. Ice,

I have received your letter regarding the difficulties that you’ve encountered in settling your father’s estate and arranging for care for your mother. I’m sorry to learn of the difficulties that you and your family are experiencing during this process, and would like to be supportive in any way that I’m able. As you may be aware, the Privacy Act of 1974 requires that I have written permission before I can make any inquiry on an individual’s behalf. If you would like assistance in contacting the West Virginia Department of Health and Human Resources regarding your mother(‘s) Medicaid application, please complete the attached authorization form…

With Warmest Regards, Joe Manchin III

I had opened the letter at the home of my sister and brother-in-law, after finding it in my mailbox at the Chardon post office. Everyone cheered upon hearing it read aloud. I completed the form eagerly and mailed it to his Martinsburg, WV office, the next day.

“We have been trying to get Medicaid approval since February… we have been warned that she may be evicted… God bless you for helping!”

While we were officially at a standstill, waiting for our court date on September 7^th to take charge of Mom’s affairs, the letter provided relief. I bowed my head and gave thanks, silently. My sister’s eyes grew wide with amazement. Then, full with joyful tears.

The ‘Mom & Dad’ file in my home-office cabinet had already become overfull, yet I felt gladdened to place another document in the folder. One I knew would make my mother proud if she were clear enough of mind to read it for herself. The journey would continue as her needs remained paramount in our thoughts. Hope had made us stronger.

Gratitude echoed across our family. “God bless you, Senator Joe!”

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Piggy Bank Jar”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

The recent passing of my father brought much sorrow to our family.

But this event also revived childhood memories, bitter in flavor but sweeter as remembered from a perspective of innocence. Having died with many debts unpaid seemed ironically appropriate for he who was our sire.

Dad was always in debt. In his own language, “flat broke.”

As a kid, I learned quickly to be careful when answering the telephone. Bill collectors were known to frequent the line and would always ask for my father by his full legal name. When I handed the receiver to him or my mother, a look of concern would spread across their faces. Then, I would be brushed away with some excuse. A diversion to protect my ignorance. Only later would I come to realize that these regular inquiries via the rotary-dial device were because household bills had gone unpaid.

Such memories were tattooed on my psyche.

Around the age of eight, I once found my father pinching coins from my piggy bank, which was an old jar on top of the refrigerator. When I expressed youthful disbelief, he confessed a need for gas money. In the 1960’s, a handful of coins would actually fill our tank. I liked to retell this story as a kid because it evoked laughter from family and friends. With wide eyes, I missed the actual issue completely. My parents were busted.

Dad had somehow obtained a Sears & Roebuck charge card, which proved handy throughout my upbringing. I used to joke that my younger sister and brother must have come from this chain of retail stores because literally everything in our household was purchased from that company. When the balance grew too large, Sears would shame my father into paying off some of the debt. Then, his credit line would be extended. This cycle of deficit spending and negotiation kept him on the hook for years. Costing a great deal in interest on the actual amount. But it also provided us with clothes and household goods.

Throughout life, I retained these memories in the pit of my belly.

Many years later, the sale of family property brought a brief infusion of cash to my parents. The money burned up rapidly as help was allocated to all of us, their children and grandchildren. Then, predictably, old habits returned. As before, we were shielded from knowing the full measure of this situation.

In personal terms, I feared debt like a plague with no antidote. But as my parents aged, their spiral into red ink only continued. I was given ‘Durable Power Of Attorney’ by Dad in 2009, to prepare for any family woes that might visit. Too late, I discovered that this document meant little to anyone we had to approach, except for the nursing home where they ultimately landed. It only provided an avenue to direct bills in need of payment. In his will, my father specified that I was to be his executor. This simply guaranteed that I was in the bullseye for claims against the estate. A duty about which I had to learn while in motion.

In particular, a hospital bill left by Dad was reissued in my own name. I could not avoid speculating that this charge might place me in legal jeopardy. I felt enough concern to address the issue directly, in a letter to the healthcare provider:

Dear B of P Hospital,

You recently sent a bill left by my late father. This bill was addressed to me at my home in Ohio and lists me as the target. I feel compelled to reply in this letter and state what is obvious – I am not personally responsible for this debt and do not voluntarily guarantee its repayment... As executor of my father’s meager estate, I am well aware that you have already filed a claim on this bill with the county court. The original charge was sent to my parents at the nursing home, where my mother currently resides. This document was forwarded to me as is all their mail… I have no current access to my parental accounts as they were ‘locked’ after Dad’s passing. Once I am named conservator for my mother and am able to take actions on behalf of her and my late father, I will review the available options... I ask for your cooperation.

Sincerely, RDI

I debated over sending the letter. Indecision made me weak. Dad might have opined that it was best to simply do nothing. To let the moment pass without reacting, as I went forward with the task of settling his estate. It was impossible to be sure. Yet something in my gut said that silence would only invite further injury.

My letter gathered dust, never making it to the mailbox. Because before a decision could be made, I began to receive calls from a debt collector. Despite the fact that only two months had passed since my father’s death. This brought us to direct contact via telephone. I described the current stalemate and observed that a court date in September should offer relief.

My plea was not unlike those offered by Dad, so many years ago. I remember the inflection of dread in his voice when saying: “I will send you a check on Monday...”

Losing my father opened a floodgate of sorts. I have received many stories from family members and friends about their own ‘eldercare’ experiences. But the voice I longed to hear was one no longer echoing through the mortal world. The patient adviser I wanted to consult had moved on to paradise and a court of angelic wisdom. I had so many questions, for Dad.

Like where to find my piggy bank jar.

Comments about ‘Words On The Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Driving Dirge”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-18)

Creative impulses know no discipline of time.

Inspiration may appear at any moment, whether opportune or in conflict with regular routines or constrictions of schedule. But a frequent cerebral plane upon which new ideas have frequently arrived, for this writer, is one not distinct or hallowed in print. Simply stated, these connections to the subconscious often occur as I am driving. In particular, after work or when headed home at sunset.

It has long been a dependable phenomenon.

I recall once composing song lyrics while driving west, from Ithaca, New York to the home of a friend near Corning. That short jaunt on the roadway offered enough time to hum out a tune as I piloted my 1973 Volkswagen Beetle. Then, words began to dive from my lips. I rapped out lines in succession, repeating them to remember more clearly. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. Hearing the composition in full-blown glory, in my head. Upon arriving at my destination, I scribbled out the lyrics on a brown, grocery bag.

Months later, this asphalt vision yielded a recording session and multiple versions of my song.

Over the years, I have continued to have spells of creative fire while at the wheel. Staccato poetry, cheerful hymns, ballads of sorrow. All entering my cranial sphere, and exiting again, without much notice. Occasionally, I captured fragments from these along the way. Once, while using four-wheel-drive to get home from a late, winter meal at Waffle House in Austinburg, I busted out a spoken-word rhyme, delivered with only my pocketed phone as a witness:

“I’m traveling in the darkness

Endless waves

Endless waves of darkness

I’m on the journey

Others have gone before me

Chris and John, Paul and Mark

They’re all gone

But here I travel

(On) this road late at night

After midnight

I look up in the road

Just ahead

And I can see my reward

Or punishment

This is my destination...”

The yield was a visual contrast of headlights and snow, with a rapped-out, verbal rhythm of consciousness streamed over the glow of dashboard lights.

Yesterday, while returning home from a holiday visit to Hambden, I inhaled yet another breath of roadgoing vapors, this time from the muggy air of summer. My fingers were dancing on the steering wheel, as before. My jaw locked in a Blues pose, as an oath spat forth from deep in my belly:

“The end of days is near

I am no longer here

I’m going away

Going away.”

My time on the pavement was brief. So, only a few minutes passed before I had stopped at Dollar General on the Thompson square for dog treats and bread. At home, I found cold comfort from Labatt Blue in my refrigerator. With the sunset came fireworks, eager to explode in celebration.

But then, it was 2:30 a. m. and I had awakened with purpose. While coffee brewed, I sat in my living room chair and began to tap out useful bits of text on my phone:

“The end of days

Has come to pass

Gonna taste the poison

Gonna break the glass

I’m going away

Going away

Spit hate loneliness

Crouch in the dirt

God help me Jesus

I’m doubled with hurt

I’m going away

Going away

The end of time

Is my reward

Lost like a loser

Tied to a board

I’m going away

Going away

Talk shit and happy

That’s been my plan

But the hour is passing

I am a dead man

I’m going away

Going away

Like him before me

Stretched out on a bed

The vastness of eternity

Filling my head

\I’m going away

Going away

Spitfire snakeskin

I wear as my shroud

The last breath of life

Gonna take it loud

I’m going away

Going away

Busted teeth smiling

Look like a fool

Stiff on the bedsheets

Gone gray with drool

I’m going away

Going away

-

Last taste of what God gave me

Agog at the gates

Now I’m set free

I’m set free

Last taste of mud and the rain

Bent in a half shape

But free from the pain

Free from pain

-

Last will and testament

Prayer said in haste

Look away friends

My life’s gone to waste

I’m going away

Going away

Last minute before midnight

Eyes gone empty

Blank and burned out

I’m drowning in feces

I’m going away

Going away

Thank you, thank you

My ration consumed

The end of days

Away to the tomb

I’m going away

Going away.”

The surge of imagination ran through my fingers like a flickering voltage. But before I could focus, it had vanished. I scrolled through the verses entered in my ‘Notes’ app. Just as in yonder days, my connection to the ether had come while in motion. But this time, a period of fermentation had taken place before receiving my revelation. Slumber had aged the wine of song.

Coffee and my cell phone had set it loose.

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