“Places”

c. 2019 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(7-19)

Going back. A journey no longer possible for myself.

Recent comments from the White House, about banishing political opponents from the United States, created a firestorm of protest. Reactions to this trashy rhetoric were severe. But the incident produced an unintended vibe for myself. A personal observation that I could never return to many cherished places that helped to direct my own journey of life.

I wrote in the last few weeks about personally digitizing old VHS recordings from the 1970’s and 80’s. My intent was to archive and share these video artifacts. But after accomplishing the task, I inherited an unexpected vibe of regret. Revisiting these electronic images made me ponder that I could never physically inhabit any of these places again.

4655 Hornby Road, Corning, New York 14830 – While studying television production through an apprenticeship provided by Cornell University, I met a graduate of the school named Paul Race. He would find membership in the family at Channel 13, in Ithaca. And be a collaborator in musical endeavors. Most importantly, he and I became lifelong friends. He was the mentor I needed as a rowdy teenager. I spent many days at his home, practicing guitar riffs and sifting through his collection of vinyl records, even after moving to northeastern Ohio. The house was like an Egyptian tomb, loaded with treasures and trinkets of all sorts. He seemed to collect everything. Records, comic books, magazines, beer signs, old furnishings, music artifacts, guitars, and vintage clothing. He worked constantly. So days off were frantic with Rock jams and yard-sale adventures. Eventually, his high-speed life experience proved to be overwhelming. With frustration, he temporarily abandoned this personal oasis when it could hold no more. Living then at his childhood home, down the hill, in Riverside. He allowed the utilities, phone service, electric and water, to lapse. We fell out of touch for a few years, which troubled my heart. Then in 2014, his wife reached out with the news that he had passed away. The house on Hornby Road had been raided by thieves and finally collapsed due to neglect. A heap of memories crushed under the roof. All that remained was a white rectangle in the trees, visible on Google Maps. My heart was broken. For Paul and the haven he loved so much.

15 Dadisman Drive, Philippi, West Virginia 26416 – After a lifetime of moving from one residence to another, while spreading gospel teachings to the faithful, my parents landed at this spot on the map in early 1986. It became the homestead they had sought forever. A refuge in the hills. Dad’s office boasted a library that was both eclectic and inspirational. Mom’s kitchen offered tasty treats that filled bellies and warmed souls. Grandchildren in our family knew no other place. The “little brown house” was their destination, every summer. For myself, it became a sanctuary when escaping the burdensome weight of everyday life. We reckoned that it should outlive Mom & Dad as a museum. A monument to their love of family and community. But with health issues clouding the horizon, they were forced to leave, last year. The job of clearing away a lifetime of memories fell mainly to sister and myself. As we labored, I could not escape a sense of dread. With each box packed away, we were closer to the final goodbye. The process took month to accomplish, but had been completed by October. My nephew hauled away what was left. Though the shell remained, what we remembered as ‘home’ was no more. Only one thing eased this yield of sadness – a plate of sausage biscuits and gravy. 

5775 Refugee Road, Columbus, Ohio 43232 – We always called it “The Farm.” The property and buildings had been in my family for much of the 20^th Century. Father said this sacred patch of ground was purchased by his uncle, Joseph Roberts, in the 1930’s. But historically, it was first included as a portion of the Refugee Tract, an area of Ohio given to Canadians who had supported the cause of independence during our colonial revolution against British rule. A member of the family discovered that the original deed was handwritten on yellow, legal paper. A document that is now archived in Washington, D. C. as part of our national history. For my family, it was an anchor that kept us steady despite the changing times. My grandparents were stewards of this legacy. Always ready to receive guests at any hour. The reading table in their living room boasted magazines and books of all sorts. The kitchen cupboards were stuffed with sweet and savory snacks. So our minds and bellies stayed satisfied during every visit. But recently, one of our brood discovered that this spot had been cruelly erased from existence. A development that both shocked and saddened our brood. There was no time to bid our 'farm' farewell.

The notion of ‘going back’ has sparked vigorous debate among pundits and partisans in our land. But for this writer, the curse evokes only a quiet response. A bowed head with the realization that there is no longer a past to which I can return. Still, in memory, these places will live forever. And so long as we live and breathe, they will endure in our hearts.

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

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