“Friend Farewell”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-18)

Mortality.

In this difficult year, one sure to be remembered in the dim glow of future days, I have contemplated this subject with dread and wonder. Not as a willing participant, but instead as a rider on the train to eternity. One resigned to taking a seat by the window. A voyeur, a seeker. Sometimes inspired by the passing colors and landscapes, yet tonight, bent in sorrow. Silently grieving for not only a friend who is no more, but also for a world that was, and is no longer.

I sat at Burr Funeral Home, in Chardon, counting those who had crossed over during the year. Sweet Jennifer, who worked next door at Bobbie Gee’s apparel store when I was at Kresse’s Bi-Rite supermarket. My father in West Virginia, and beloved aunt from Gallia County, Ohio. The wife of local friend Rick, who blessedly had made himself an enduring figure throughout my exile from New York. Ruth, a gentle soul who worked on the crew at two of my retail stores. And now Kevin, an honest and decent man steeped in traditions not surrendered to antiquity.

The year of 2018 had been, to use colloquial expression, ‘a bitch.’

As in months that passed before, my thoughts turned to yonder days. Specifically, the early 80’s. I remembered coming home after my long-term, Cornell experience, to Maple Avenue, not far from the high school. My last act as a resident of the Empire State having been to consume a bottle of Jack Daniel’s bourbon. While riding in the car of a compadre. Being reborn on my native soil was a necessary process. But one I did not initially accept with gratitude. After flaming out as a Cleveland warehouse clerk, I took a job with Fisher’s Big Wheel #69, a retail store at home. My primary responsibility was to be their janitor.

During off-work moments, I visited Ernst Lanes with a friend named Tim, from the store. An interesting choice as I had never tried to bowl. But their bar was fully stocked with Miller High Life. It became my refuge from idle hours sleeping on the couch in my parents’ living room. I met Rick, Jennifer, Ron, Scott, and a number of other locals. One fellow had me raising an eyebrow with curiosity, however. His name was Kevin.

Kevin Johnson gleefully joined the prevailing beer discussion of Cleveland Browns football, Indians baseball and Cavaliers basketball. And then, he instigated an assessment of the Russian revolution. A detour of subject matter I did not expect. He observed that I looked a bit like Leon Trotsky. It was a remark that baffled my mind. I literally laughed out loud. He went on to discuss the fall from favor of this Marxist disciple, his exile, and his assassination by an agent of Stalin. The room cleared quickly, but he was not deterred. Our conversation was the sort I would have expected at Pete’s Cayuga Tavern, In Ithaca. Down the hill from Cornell University. Not something to be heard at a bowling alley in Buckeye-land.

I knew immediately that we were kindred spirits.

My own recovery from excess in the Empire State continued, while writing stories on the coffee table, and climbing toward management duties. I still saw these bowling-buddies as customers in my stores. Eventually, Kevin and I worked together at Mikolsky’s Giant Eagle. I tried to project an image of professional style, having been promoted to co-manager. But my friend knew the back story. Somewhere, buried deep, was still that skinny kid in a tattered, Harley-Davidson T-shirt. One who pushed a broom, but hungered for more. Fallen from grace but not finished. He kept my secret in a bond of friendship. Though he was younger, I looked to him as a guidepost. An example of what I could achieve.

Later, I saw him at work in Painesville. His eyes drifted to my ‘Dr. House’ cane, with flame adornment one would expect on a ‘57 Chevy. An implement I now needed to stay vertical. I reckoned he might offer some details of how the use of walking sticks evolved from tree limbs carved by primitive civilizations. Or perhaps, confess that my graying hair and rotund physique made me look more like Burl Ives than the ‘Rodster’ of olden days. But he simply shook my hand and said hello.

Now, seated at his celebration of life, I listened to his wife, Lisa, speak of the love Kevin had for her, Jasmine and Joshua. Then, Ron talked about him attending Chardon High football games, every year since 1982. A ritual that strengthened the camaraderie of their group. The church pastor spoke of his inquisitive nature. A bookworm of sorts. Reading, researching, reviewing.

With emotion, Rick read eloquent words written by John Lodge of the Moody Blues:

“Isn’t life strange

A turn of the page

Can read like before

Can we ask for more

Each day passes by

How hard will man try

The sea will not wait

You know it makes me want to cry, cry, cry...”

In silence, I considered that it was November. Only one more flip of the calendar left, before the year had been completed. An event I would celebrate, to be free of this period. This uneasy train trip with so many having exited the ride. While the rest of us remained rocking in our seats. Peering through the windows, into eternity. I could only whisper, to myself.

“Farewell, my friend.”

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