“Our House”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-18)

Home. Just as the 1982 song by ‘Madness’ described it...

Because we moved constantly during my childhood, home soon took on a spiritual rather than geographical dimension. A place marked by familiar touchstones of our lives. Not a place on the map, but one stamped on the heart. One accessible through love, rather than travel. So when my parents moved to Barbour County, West Virginia, in 1986, it did not matter that I had never been a resident of the ‘Mountaineer State.’ I felt part of the continuum there, because the shifting sands of our household had drifted to that spot.

Being there, with them, brought me back to the beginning.

“Father wears his Sunday best

Mother’s tired, she needs a rest

The kids are playing up downstairs

Sister’s sighing in her sleep

Brother’s got a date to keep

He can’t hang around

Our house, in the middle of our street...”

Home was always a library, cafeteria, workshop, theater, gallery, recreation-center and sanctuary. No matter the place of origin.

Though far from us and our own abodes on the east side of Cleveland, the house in Philippi retained a magic power that streamed northward. For 32 years, every sunrise carried the breath of life from them to us, and back again at the sunset. For the grandchildren, there was no other place to recall.

Dad typically sat in his home office, a converted porch that faced Union Road. Its shelves were filled with books, records, magazines, and miscellaneous souvenirs. A reserve of theology, history and culture. I would often linger in front of those volumes at the break of morning, while having a first pot of coffee and ‘No-bake Cookies.’ Each title reminded me of childhood. In other communities, spread across the landscape. Yet undeniably, the same.

“Our house, it has a crowd

There’s always something happening

And it’s usually quite loud

Our mum, she’s so house-proud

Nothing ever slows her down

And a mess is not allowed

Our house, in the middle of our street...”

Mom had the dual gifts of conversation and culinary skill. Both strong elements of life in the McCray family. Long after Dad had emptied his own over-sized, Pyrex measuring cup of coffee, and wished us good night, we would sit in the living room. Often until the wee hours of a new day. Our voices hushed but still excited to be in her presence. Talking about memories from around Parkersburg, by the river, when she was a young girl. Working in her father’s general store. Taking trips with her brothers and sisters. Loving God and life and the memory of Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

Visiting my parents meant never being hungry, for anything. For love, knowledge, or food.

Even if I arrived late, Mom would have a welcome prepared, waiting on their dinner table. A plate of sliced ham, or fried chicken, with a bowl of potato salad, biscuits or rolls, and a desert. Her ability to cook and converse was unflagging. She often encouraged second helpings. And plenty of cake or pie. Then, she would assess my physique with a grin and ask if I had put on weight.

It was a quirky habit that made my younger brother shake his head with disbelief.

“Father gets up late for work

Mother has to iron his shirt

Then she sends the kids to school

Sees them off with a small kiss

She’s the one they’re going to miss

In lots of ways

Our house, in the middle of our street...”

As in every brood, these traditions seemed sure to last forever. Until they didn’t.

Pondering the eventual plight of our family refuge was an exercise conducted over many years. One which I could never address without polite disagreement, with Mom, or verbal combat, with Dad. The subject remained out-of-limits until my sister finally took charge, in February of this year. With our sire collapsed in his chair and mater lost in the fog of senile dementia, at long last, diplomatic skill broke this domestic impasse.

Our house and home were about to vanish into memory.

Sister solved the riddle in a way not accessible to either my brother or myself. Her kind approach softened the heart of our father, who clung to his independence until the last moment. He and mother had slid far past the time when they could safely live alone. Only with the help of neighbors, church members, and friends had their survival been possible.

Now, Dad uttered words that I’d never heard before. “We need 24-hour care.” He did not flourish away from home, shuttling between Ruby Memorial Hospital, in Morgantown, and Mansfield Place, in Philippi.

His mortal journey ended late in the month of April.

Mom did well in the facility, but would tell us often that she was ready to go home. We made excuses about cleaning up before that was possible. And indeed, our task at the Icehouse home-base proved to be one that tested all limits of endurance. My sister suffered from Multiple Sclerosis. I had been forced into early retirement by poor vision, hypertension, failed joints and arthritis. Neither of us were suited to the physical demands of this work. But with the help of those around us, the heap was sorted, saved and shipped away. After visiting many times over the months since this adventure began, my oldest nephew finished the chore. With a rented truck, he loaded the last of our memories, for relocation to Ohio.

“Our house

Was our castle and our keep

Our house

In the middle of our street

Our house

That was where we used to sleep

Our house

In the middle of our street.”

From my vantage point near Lake Erie, the southern homestead remains intact. Dad is at his desk, working on a sermon or a blog post. Mom has a pot on the stove and bread cooling on the counter. Everything is ready. I only need to visit, and remember.

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