“Down Home, Part Two”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-18)

Sleep.

In the life of this writer, restful slumber has always been a precious commodity. Not only for the traditional reason that time constraints make it difficult to find such episodes, but because this static state never comes easily. From birth, I seem to have missed having the talent to shut my eyes and drift away.

Visiting the home of my parents, in West Virginia, has only intensified this lack of willful snoozing. With each arrival, dread of going horizontal returns. I nod off just enough to survive. But always return to a waking state too soon for comfort. The upshot is that I tend to sit in my father’s chair, reading old issues of MAD Magazine or discarded newspapers from decades ago. When the new day arrives in sun-drenched fullness, I stagger along at half-power. Wishing for rescue from the restless cycle of need and disappointment.

Still, as Dad would say, “Any experience is useful for a creative writer.”

Being awake and alone in the wee hours can provide both inspiration and opportunity. During my most recent week at our southern, family homestead, I happened to remember the ‘notes’ app on my iPhone. A friendly tool for jotting down ideas on-the-go. After finding a spot in the living room, amid stacks of open boxes and clutter left from years of neglect, I began to wander in spirit. Each framed photograph on the wall, each battered piece of furniture, each bowed step on the staircase seemed to speak with its own voice. Together, this chorus of memories filled my head. Voices, voices, voices...

A television antenna from the 1960’s? Still hanging in the office. A metal cabinet always used to hold canned foods, coffee, and spices? Still standing tall, in the kitchen. An electric roaster oven, from Parkersburg, kept with thoughts of finding a replacement power-cord so it could live again? Still sitting on its stand. Never repaired. A faux-painting bought with S & H Green Stamps, sometime around 1969? Stashed behind a bookcase after it fell off the wall.

The result of my reality-lapse was a prose poem inspired by these relics from yonder days:

Sleepless Night, Union Road

A sleepless night
I’m on my way
Writing rhymes
Like Grandma McCray
This house is fading
Into the past
The ship has sailed
The dice are cast
Dad in the ether
Mom in the home
It’s long after midnight
I feel alone
Rain on the roof
A chill in the air
This house once proud
Vanished into air
Birthdays near
But also the dark
A trailer full of rubbish
Sits in the yard
Surrender, sad
Traditions, blessed
No more R. D.
At his office desk
I watch the clock
It gives no comfort
I pray for sleep
But my rest was short
Now in Dad’s chair
I tap the screen
And write about
My backwards dream
They knew this house
For many years
A refuge with
The Mountaineers
A place for grandkids
Cats and dogs
And singing sparrows
With old creek frogs
Each Sunday, bright
They went to church
Paused there and prayed
In gospel words
But flesh goes weak
Like fading daylight
This house is empty
I do not delight
My heart is heavy
As the clock hands swing
No sleep can come
Thinking of these things
So in Dad’s chair
I sit and write
Until the dawn
Of morrow is nigh
Grandma whispers
Into my ear
And suddenly
These words appear
I love those souls
In heaven’s splendor
And by God’s grace
I will be there
When, like this house
I too go away
That reunion will be
A joyous day
But until then
I sit and ponder
Let words do tricks
Let my mind wander
With Grandma, Auntie
And Uncle Fritz
I search the night
For a word that fits
With Aunt Faenon
And Uncle Ronald
I soldier on
Till this page is filled
Then when at last
My head grows heavy
The pillows will
Come and cradle me
I will say goodnight
With a poet’s prayer
God bless my loved ones
Everywhere

The physical work of clearing our family abode has been taxing to the body. Joints creaking and aching with woe. Bones bending with fatigue. My tired flesh throbbing for relief. But the mental journey offered here has yielded a more welcome experience. A peek into the vastness of olden days, long filed away in antiquity. 
 

Dad was correct. Every experience can provide fuel for a wordsmith. From agony to ecstasy. From soaring success to the humility of defeat. Even the sad emptiness left after he passed away in April. Or the daunting task of cleaning out the house he loved so much, in the hills of Mountaineer country.

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

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