“Dad’s Chair”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

all rights reserved

(11-18)

A king’s throne.

Dad’s chair, especially after he passed away in April, had meaning for those of us in the Ice family. It was his landing place for moments of pure relaxation. A spot where he could converse with Mom, and read. Different from his seat in the office, a place where work was his focus. Different also from his folding chair in the kitchen, where quick meals and television held his attention.

In the living room, seated comfortably and feeling mellow, he was at his best. A neighbor, husband, father, and grandfather, waiting with wisdom to impart. From that recliner, he was truly able to project the love and understanding of one who had lived and learned for so many years.

Late in his journey, the chair became a dependable home base when the rest of their dwelling had largely been abandoned. With unsorted mail, empty boxes, forgotten gifts and furniture piled everywhere, that one bit of household acreage remained intact. It was where my sister found him in February, unable to stand and on the cusp of a life transition he refused to willingly embrace.

After months of work that followed, to clear the house, my nephew rented a U-Haul truck and completed our task. The family homestead for 32 years was empty, at last. But there had not been enough space to carry everything back to Ohio.

Dad’s chair was gone.

In October, my sister called to discuss attending a meeting at the Mansfield Place nursing home, where Mom remained. It would require booking a motel room, overnight. The first time since 1986 that we had not stayed at the familiar bungalow off Union Road. On a whim, she contacted the new property owner and asked about her progress in remodeling the venerable structure. Work had already begun, despite the seasonal cascade toward winter. Leftover appliances and furnishings had been quickly claimed in the process.

But the comfy throne of our humble sire remained.

Sister and I left early on Tuesday, after I voted in Thompson. It was election day, with mid-term results hanging in the balance. A referendum taken in a contentious time. We made quick work of the trip, arriving in West Virginia early enough to visit Premier Bank for an adjustment in Mom’s account. Then, we spent a few hours with her, in person, until dinner arrived. As ever, the team was cheerful and made us feel welcome.

I mentioned writing a column for my online series about traveling to mountain country. In particular, about finding lyrics for their state anthem, written by Ellen King. Suddenly, Mom’s eyes began to fill with tears. She sang out with emotion:

“Oh, the hills, beautiful hills

How I love those West Virginia Hills!

If o’er sea, o’er land I roam

Still I’ll think of happy home

And my friends among

the West Virginia Hills.”

At night, we stayed up late in the Mountaineer Inn motel, watching news reports about all the nationwide contests. I felt glad to hear that Joe Manchin had been reelected. ‘Senator Joe’ had helped us to secure Medicaid coverage for Mom at the nursing home. A task that required some seven months of diligence and hard labor.

In the morning, we paused at Hardee’s for breakfast. A fast-food depot that had been in town long before anything like a McDonald’s or Sheetz discovered their Tygart River community. The Medallion or Philippi Inn would have provided us with more sophisticated fare, at an unhurried pace. But we needed to be moving. I savored the biscuits and gravy in their breakfast platter.

The Care Plan meeting was at 9:00 a.m., with two members of the staff. We were impressed with the amount of details in their activity log. Mom’s health had improved with the expert care and better nutrition. She socialized well, always a strong point among her many gifts. We were also satisfied with the communication between us, despite the geographical distance involved. Then, as a game was about to begin in their activity room, we excused ourselves.

The moment had arrived for our drive up the hill.

I had not seen the erstwhile family homestead in two months. A black, work trailer was parked in the front yard. The door stood open, and a neighbor and her son were working inside. Silently, I celebrated this stroke of good fortune because the thought of hoisting Dad’s recliner into the truck bed made my tired knees and disintegrated hip quiver with fatigue.

They brought out the chair, and separated it into two more manageable pieces, as we waited. Then loaded them into the pickup. It was nearly a perfect fit. I reckoned the cargo would be safe all the way back to Geauga County. My sister felt brave and had a last look inside the house. But I stayed in the yard.

My head bowed in reverence. “I’ll remember this place as it was...”

We made it back in three hours and forty minutes, despite road construction that hindered our progress. My youngest nephew helped to unload Dad’s chair and boost it up the front steps of brother’s mobile home. The experience had begun and ended much like a flash of lightning in the sky. By dinnertime, I was at home with a package of pepperoni rolls from the Philippi Shop ‘n Save, and some bottled water. My limbs were sore. I panted for my breath. Yet a sense of calm had taken hold. We had rescued and returned a vital part of Ice history to our family.

I knew that in eternity, the old fellow would be glad.

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