“Down Home, Part One”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Reverse parenting.

I have written much in this space about my recent travels to Barbour County, West Virginia. With father having passed away in April and mother entering the Mansfield Place nursing home, our roles as protector and protected switched forever. After many years with Dad still at the helm, his steady hand could no longer steer our family through the bluster of daily life.

My sister, who suffers from Multiple Sclerosis, piloted the effort to put things right. It was her patient mood that helped maintain calm when she first convinced our progenitors to leave their home in February. A task that my brother and I certainly could not have accomplished,

Months later, the work of clearing their house and settling their affairs remained challenging. Our visits were like a series of downs in a football game. Each span of yards was gained only with great effort. Being far from my own home, the usual comforts of life, like hot water, the Internet, and adult beverages, were out of reach. So a different kind of therapy helped me survive the inevitable nights without slumber that followed.

I began to write.

Since there was no computer available in the household, or typewriter, I sat in Dad’s easy chair with my iPhone. In the wee hours, thoughts of the vanishing homestead and our humbled family were channeled through that plastic cube into pages of useful text:

Story 9-08-18

This is how the story ended
Barbour County, WV
Court on the 7th
Mom lost and wandering through an invisible fog
Dad in the loam of Parkersburg
Me praying
For release
For the dawn, the daybreak
Surrender to the waking day
Sleep will not visit
In the coolness of night
I peer at my cell phone
Awake, alone
Pondering the task ahead
We are clearing
The place on Union Road
Our never was and forever was
Our southern outpost
The home of our parents
Last stop on the Mountaineer railroad
Sister and me
Her MS and my arthritic knees
Carrying bags of garbage
This is how the story ended
Mom with her plush pretend pet
She no longer calls it by name
Or us
We are vaguely familiar to her
Friendly but no longer family
Children but not her own
I pray for the orphans because
Today, I am in their tribe
Blank and blotted out
Like a ruler
With no numbers
Mom is here but why?
We are here, but why?
I have no tears
No release
We have come to find the one
Who carried us in her womb
Yet she laughs
“You call me mama?”
We still have the memory of father
Our sire and savior
Our captain
Ever certain, our champion
But mother
She is no more
A slate wiped clean
Smiling, gray hair matted
Feet turning blue
Can’t they see she needs socks?
In her wheelchair
We, pretend this is normal
Giving praise for her persistence
She is the last one eating dinner
Has done well to finish her meal
So we celebrate
Sister says “You will be 88 next week!”
Mom reacts
With disbelief at such silliness
“88? I think not!”
No no no
There is conviction in her protest
No, this is the 1940’s
Mom is in grade school
With Frankie Davis
This is how the story ended
Tired, we go home to Union
Still working
Trash trailer in the yard
Clearing the house of 32 years
Dust and bugs and life debris
Porch light half full
Of insects dead and dry
In the office
My desk from high school
Dad’s glasses from 1960
Old radios
A motorcycle tire innertube
Christmas cards
A TV antenna hung by the window
Cord dangling in the air
Magazines long overdue for trash
This is how the story ended
Pepperoni rolls on the table
Sore, sick and moody
Sitting in Dad’s chair
At 3:00 in the morning
Notes app on my phone
Giving thanks
For the words that arrive

After composing my prose poem, I posted it on Facebook, where relatives could read and comment. Their reactions came quickly. Finally, I felt content enough to sleep for a couple of hours. My dreams were restless. Images of turmoil and past memories re-imagined by fatigue. With each turn of the blankets, I hoped for daylight.

In the morning, I sat with coffee and pondered my work.

Many years of study and writing had transpired in this home just off of Union Road. Three decades and more for my parents. Because they had moved constantly throughout their lives, it offered a sense of stability never available before. Much like ‘The Farm’ in Columbus did, for my grandparents.

Now, that story was ending. I felt sad to let it slip away.

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