“Carrie Hamglaze Returns”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(2-19)

Gone, gone, gone.

After the holiday season of 2018, I expected the typical slide into a winter funk. Geauga County had been unseasonably warm throughout the weeks of festivity and celebration. But then, winter appeared and I had to contend with real snow. Normally, I kept balance by the use of a second-hand, medical cane. But I somehow managed to trade this implement for my shovel. It served as both a prop and a scoop for the frosty flakes. With care, I cleared the precipitation that had heaped itself on my driveway. Piled deep enough that it reached almost to my knees.

With the seasonal gloom in effect, I had more time to spend in the home office, writing. This inverse wealth of time had always been welcome in January and February, with temperatures below zero. But a nagging bit of doubt soured these weeks of reclusive reflection.

Where was Carrie Hamglaze?

After Christmas, my erstwhile friend and spiritual mentor had literally disappeared. Her dignified apparel of Irish green nowhere on the frozen landscape. Her resonant, melodic voice not heard in the markets around our county. I texted and called and wrote and wondered, without enlightenment. Even my brother-in-law, who normally sat in her circle of devotees at the public library, reported of her absence.

She was, quite simply, gone.

I received a bogus friend request on Facebook, from what appeared to be a ‘cloned’ profile in her name. This only deepened the mystery. I commented on her genuine page, as did other friends. Yet no response returned. My yearning for this friend began to foster something more dreadful – real concern. Was she well? Or in the hospital? Unable to connect? Or alone somewhere, cold and hungry?

Oh, Carrie!

My heart was wounded. Finally, I began to post about this lingering mood of fear, on social media. I clicked through old photographs of her, on my phone. Each image inspired sweet adoration with an afterglow of emptiness. Where could she have gone? My heart ached with every passing hour struck by the clock. Worry pooled in my belly.

Then, a friend from Hambden messaged about her status. “Rod, I saw Carrie in town. She is alive and well, I can say. Feisty and fearless!” My pulse quickened. Then another contact spoke with similar fondness. “Carrie was here in Chardon today, I could not reach her in time, through the crowd, but her gait and figure were unmistakable as ever...”

Finally, a friend from the Giant Eagle store sent a message of good cheer. “Rod, Carrie was here today, filling her basket with cookies and Irish tea. She mentioned having a new phone. I wrote down the number for you.” A bloom of hope swelled my heart.

Carrie! Carrie! Carrie!

When I attempted to enter the new number into my phone contacts, there were several previous listings already stored. I deleted these and updated her information. Then, pecked out a short note. “Have missed you, my friend. Glad to hear that you are well...”

Her reply appeared a day later. “Hello, hello!”

After chattering in text about the post-holiday slump, I wondered aloud if she might deliver some creative prose via her new cellular device. I knew that she did not have a computer at the moment. But I reckoned it would be easy enough to capture her work from the messages and transform them into a document for my online newspaper, ‘The Geauga Independent.’

My offer went out with much excitement. “I have always believed you are the true conscience of our county. The ‘Grande Dame’ of local journalists and former public servants. Your voice should rejoin the chorus. Since you haven’t been in the Geauga County Maple Leaf for awhile, I would like to include your thoughts and reminiscences in my own newspaper.”

Her reaction reverberated with positive energy. “I’ll give it a try!”

A couple of days later, I received her first installment:

“The 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month is an historic time for all

members of the public who pause near the steps of our great Geauga County Court House to hear the

patriotic words of veterans who have been presented medals of honor for their heroic deeds defending our country in times of war. Their allegiance to God and country makes us all proud to be Americans.”

I scratched my head. The technological thread between us had become frayed over the distance. Puzzlement clouded my comprehension as I clicked forward to the next page:

“I spoke to the distinguished man afterward and told him I was

proud to be there as we prepared to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the end

of WW 1. As a daughter of WW 1, I was honored to tell tell him of my dad's

service in the gas division of the ‘war to end all wars.’”

I bit my lip. Her stoic command of local history rang out clearly. Yet the message had been muddled by electronic gremlins. One last page of text remained:

“My dad was Harcourt Aaron Hamglaze. After his military service ended he graduated from the Keystone Academy of Business in Pennsylvania. He traveled around the world and spoke five languages. After this great adventure, I am glad he returned home to marry my mom. We had a wonderful life...”

I scrolled back and forth through the pages. Trying to fashion a whole cloth out of her unwoven tangle of yarn. Eventually, my fate became obvious. I bowed my head in surrender. Still wishing for rescue. More time was needed to complete this writing task.

The Geauga Independent would have to wait.

I sent a last plea from my phone. “Carrie, what you have sent is wonderful, but sections of the document are missing. Almost like a magazine with pages torn out for some other use...”

She responded immediately. “Yes, I am getting to know the quirks of this new device. Light years beyond my old flip-phone. Sorry. Will have a look and contact you again. Be well!”

A last burst of text filled the screen. It was a traditional blessing she liked to repeat:

“May the road rise to meet you

May the wind

be always at your back

May the sun shine

warm upon your face

And rains fall soft upon your fields

And until we meet again

May God hold you

in the palm of his hand.”

“Amen,” I messaged, in closing. “So glad to hear from you again...”

Carrie Hamglaze had returned.

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

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024