“Aunt J, Gone Away”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Gone home, to God.

This was the thought I pondered, after waking at 1:45 a.m. and starting a pot of coffee in my BUNN counter-top brewer. Only two days had passed since news arrived that my beloved aunt and writing mentor, Juanita Ice Wood had passed away, in Gallia County. Still groggy from the loss of my father, in April, I received the report with a numb heart. One already battered, like a boxer stumbling toward defeat.

I said a silent prayer for her reunion with Uncle Harland to be joyous, in eternity. And for her family to be comforted with peace.

Aunt J was the oldest sister of my father. Born, like him, of Grandma Gladys. The woman to whom I owed so much, but never met. Both of her children possessed a patient spirit. Both proved able to accept life events without losing balance. They were deliberate when thinking and slow to speak. Their words offered healing and guidance. Not the flash of a rapid response.

As I grew older, our kinship only became more apparent. My aunt and father were in sync even with their families. Cousins Rob and Mary were much like my brother and sister. He, the giant who looked after us during visits. She, outwardly creative and kind in our family tradition. Long before I could name others in our brood, they were close in spirit if not always in geography.

My aunt would offer a familiar admonition throughout the years: “Keep your pen moving!” She was a dependable cheerleader for any project in prose.

Because our uncle sold Buick automobiles, professionally, I still think of her driving in stylish vehicles from the 50’s, 60’s and 70’s. Tail-finned, chromed, washed & waxed, glistening and rumbling with 8-cylinder power. The glory of Americana. When they visited us, in Ohio or Pennsylvania or many other places, their carriages always provided joy. Undeniably more fashionable than our own oddball Renault, Simca, Corvair or SAAB varieties.

Aunt Juanita gave me hope for myself.

Once, we visited her and the family, when they had a small farm near Gallipolis. A vintage GMC truck sat out by the fence line. I wondered about sleeping in their barn, on bales of hay. She approved without an argument. After dark, I took my flashlight and sleeping bag, then climbed a crude ladder and found a spot where moonlight was visible through the open bay. The night was full of natural aromas one would expect in a rural setting. I felt like a cowboy. With the sunrise, I discovered that my bed had been made under a nest of mud wasps. Yet not one sting interrupted the experience. They too were slumbering. I felt protected and lucky.

When my niece and older nephew were young, I began to write a series called ‘Adventures With Audrey.’ A string of tales lightly based on adventures at their home near Chardon. Aunt Juanita took a keen interest in this detour toward kid-friendly compositions. She offered suggestions inspired by her grandchildren. Eventually, I went to work for the local newspaper. She and Granddaddy both subscribed, to stay up-to-date with my work.

Ar every step along the path, she was with me, guiding the way:

From: riteonicewood@juno.com

Date: 1/26/01

“Congrats on the nice comments about you. (A reference to my column in the Geauga County Maple Leaf.) Sounds like you’re gaining a good reputation as a writer. Keep up the good work! I’m still working to get my office in shape… moving is such a pain! What writing I’ve done lately is of a religious nature for the ladies at church, but I’m gradually getting there. Hi! To everyone there.”

She became a caregiver, as Uncle Harland saw his health decline. Then, she revived this role when cousin Rob struggled with his own issues. And again as she watched over Great Aunt Areta, who moved back to Ohio after long years living in California.

Despite each challenge, she soldiered on with faith and hope. Much as my own father had done while we moved from city to city and state to state. Her strength, and his, provided a foundation upon which I thrived, even long into my adult years.

“Keep that pen moving!” she continued to exclaim.

Our correspondence grew less frequent as my aunt reached the point in her own journey where maintaining personal inertia became a daily chore. But we remained connected, heart to heart. She returned to writing postal letters from her bed in a nursing home. Some of these notes asked about printed copies of my recent online work, a new habit begun after I had retired from regular journalism. I put together an envelope of material and mailed it, right away.

This week, after hearing that she had passed, I began to sort through her cards and letters in my file cabinet. A Christmas salutation from 2006 still resonated with meaning:

“I am doing as well as possible, spending time in my recliner. Mary is writing lots of poetry & doing well with it. Love, Aunt J.”

I longed for one more visit to the old family reunion, at her home on Centenary Road. Due to work scheduling, my attendance meant driving south from Cleveland, to that spot by the Ohio River. I would share stories with relatives not seen at any other time during the year. Then, a northbound retreat would follow. Once, I bought a ‘Crave Case’ of White Castle hamburgers on the way home, long after midnight. I stuffed my belly while navigating the interstate highway. Something my father would have done as we ventured forth to see my aunt.

I often ended up arriving back in Thompson just before daybreak. Always well-fed and happy.

In the fullness of mortal time, I hope to see her again. With Dad, Uncle Harland, Cousin Rob and ‘Puppy Dog’ at their feet. But today, my heart is heavy. I bid a loving farewell, with my prayer for peace.

Aunt J has gone away.

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