“Desaparecido”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Desaparecido.

Literally, this term speaks with gruesome finality for those who have vanished in silence. It means one who has disappeared at the hands of military forces or the police, in nations where democracy and the rule of law are unknown concepts.

Yet in terms of a rural trailer park, the word carries different connotations.

I pondered this recently, while walking my Black Lab on a warm, Tuesday morning. In my diminutive world, there were many who had joined that vacant group. Gone without warning. Lost to financial ruin, relationship breakup, or incarceration for miscreant behavior. I looked over at a brown-and-tan single-wide down the street. Had there been another? My neighbor had not appeared in at least a week. Perhaps I was too hasty in judgment. Or, maybe he had simply slipped away in the night.

I recalled arriving home from work, a few years ago. My neighbors to the west had a blue box, frequently remodeled and then abandoned. A sort of Bermuda Triangle in manufactured form, from which many had never returned. Its fractured history paid tribute to the transitory nature of our park.

Those inside were a family of five, from Madison. Living for a month with no running water or electricity. A feat that seemed incredible in view of three young children being in the household. When I returned from Geneva and my ‘real job’ on a late evening in the summer, I noted that all their lights were burning. Curtains no longer adorned their windows. More specifically, they had blankets employed for this duty. Real window accessories have always seemed rare in a mobile home development.

After a couple bottles of Labatt Blue, I grew bold enough to approach the dwelling more directly. Kid toys lay strewn across the driveway. Inside, all the cabinet doors were open. A bed frame remained. And various pieces of clothing with discarded household items.

I tried the front door. It had been locked.

Over a week elapsed before the owner arrived. Likely, because it was a rent-to-purchase investment. Each night, I would come home to enjoy my cold, adult beverages, while looking at the vacated home. Eventually, the lights were no more. A neighbor spoke of seeing the family move out, under the cover of night. They begged not to be reported. Apparently, the brood was several months behind in their payments.

Fleeing to oblivion brought them rescue.

As we continued the walk, my Black Lab pawed at tall grass by a different trailer, long abandoned. His play caused me to recall another of the previous residents, an undisciplined fellow, that had joined the desaparecidos after a rocky period in our neighborhood. He was loud and shabby. Seemingly a perfect sort for life in a tin box. But his habits were erratic. He once chained his dog to a cinder block, only to have the pooch pull this bouncing bit of debris down the street. An amusing sight that he himself did not think was funny. Later, he circled the park in his van, wondering if anyone had a pool table for sale. I could not help befuddlement over who would have room for such an entertaining piece in their home.

Suddenly he was like the rest. Gone after an appearance by the sheriff’s department. Whispering neighbors said he had been found in possession of a stolen rental car, from Chicago.

Yet another family up the street was known in our community for inhabiting a long trailer with an extensive side porch toward the back. Also, for domestic disputes that sometimes attracted the local police. Once, the wife threatened her unhappy hubby with a butcher knife. On another occasion, the husband flipped his child’s tricycle in the air, demonstrating his bad temper. I had to walk by their residence on occasion when visiting my girlfriend. These encounters always made me cradle my beer carefully, in case I needed to dodge airborne furniture or human bodies in motion. After a particularly violent episode, they too were added to the lost.

Soon afterward, their battered, tin creation disappeared as well.

This procession of souls soon had me dubious about who actually resided in the park. Warmer months brought the rapidity of ingress and egress to a boil. Families would stay for a few weeks, only to vanish with the sunset. Projects were left unfinished. Empty homes still bore the traces of their past. Framed photographs, canned food, bedding, kitchen gadgets, and the like, remained.

I felt thankful for those who brought stability to the enclave. Like my neighbor across the street, a teacher of Sunday School at our local church, and a friend since my entry into the park, 16 years before.

My Black Lab did not worry himself over such concerns. He simply sniffed the ground during our brief adventure. Only the sight of a stray kitty held his attention. But as we walked, I read each lot number to myself and wondered…

Who would be the next desaparecido to go missing with the sunrise?

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

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

“Gremlins”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

A visitation of gremlins.

These invisible bugs seem able to nest anywhere, only to reveal themselves at inopportune moments with consequences that may be irritating or weighted with damnation. A curse in the air, like the stench of roadkill that fouls a summer evening. An obscene descriptive uttered without cause. A speck of dirt on nature’s grandest work of art.

I pondered the eerie force of these little devils while driving home from a visit with my friend Janis, over the holiday weekend. With the sun reduced to an orange orb at treetop level, I had relaxed into my seat in the F-150. Thoughts of a cold ‘Polar Pop’ on the way, at Circle K, made my mouth wet with anticipation. I had feasted first on a Memorial Day meal with family members in Hambden, then driven north to view a household reorganization with my colorful friend by Lake Erie.

We sat in her upstairs room with the air conditioner running at full tilt. Even after passing the mid-day peak, the outside temperature was still nearly 90 degrees.

Driving home, shortly afterward, I felt lazy. But able to pause on the empty road for a quick phone snap of the sunset. Then, I turned southwest, toward Geneva. The truck A/C was already on ‘max’ and I reached for the headlights. The blue sky would be gone in a few minutes. I wanted to be ready. Something made me realize that the dashboard seemed very dark. I switched off the lights and on again. But there was no difference. Everything remained black. Then, I saw that there was no reading on any of the gauges. At the city limits, my pulse began to quicken. Would I make it home? Or should I try?

The pickup sputtered a bit as I neared the center of town. I turned left into a bank parking lot, crossed to the boulevard behind, and back onto Main Street in the opposite direction, from where I had come. My heart thumped with purpose. There would be no getting home on my own terms. Instead, while the vehicle was still in motion, I decided to head for a repair shop on Myers Road.

It was my best hope for a safe resolution.

Still driving, I enlisted Siri from my iPhone. “Send a message to Janis!”

“What do you want to say?” she responded, dryly.

“I am in trouble. Just turned around in Geneva. Trying to make it back to the repair garage you use. The truck has some sort of electrical gremlins tonight. Damn those pesky critters!”

Her reply came quickly. “You need a ride home?”

I enlisted Siri again. “Send a message to Janis.”

“What do you want to say?” she answered.

“YES,” I barked. Remorse and frustration collided in my head. “Sorry, friend. I know this sucks.”

It had been past her bedtime when I left, a few minutes before. Her return to work would be early on Tuesday morning. Yet she was quick to help. “It’s okay. Let me grab my keys and I will meet you there...”

I counted each landmark on the way back. BB’s Corner Store, the railroad crossing, a boat still for sale in someone’s front yard. Finally, the auto repair depot appeared, on the left. My old hauler had made it all the way. I braked hard, nearly missing the turn. After pulling in next to their split-rail fence, I switched off my truck. Then twisted the key again.

As I suspected, there was a weak clicking of the starter relay but nothing else. My old horse was finished for the evening.

Janis arrived shortly afterward. I wondered about leaving a note for the mechanic, since no appointment had been made. She produced part of a pizza box from the debris on her back seat. I scribbled out a brief description of what had happened. Then left my key in the night drop.

“This definitely calls for a Polar Pop!” my friend cheered as I buckled the seat belt. Her car had no cooling on board. The compressor was long out of service. With windows rolled down, we again headed for Geneva. This time with a greater sense of certainty in effect.

And no gremlins.

At the Circle K on 534, I noticed a tall, weathered old fellow filling up his 1980’s Chevrolet Caprice. He had been a regular customer when I was still a manager for the local Giant Eagle supermarket. I caught his attention while my friend ran inside for beverages.

“How are you?” I asked, pondering his hobbled stride. He used a cane festooned with new-age graphics. I hoisted my own walking stick for comparison. “You see, I still have one of my own!”

The man was stooped by time and hard work. But he smiled broadly. “I have a joke for you, friend. A ‘Hee Haw’ joke. There was a fellow who heard about someone selling fresh milk from their farm. Unpasteurized. Something he wanted to try. When he met the proprietor, his curiosity could not be contained. ‘This is fresh milk you say. But I ask, how fresh is it?’ The farmer snorted with defiance. ‘How fresh, you ask? Why this morning, that milk was grass!’”

While I chuckled, he strode toward the store entrance, then turned in a half circle, danced a step and said “Hee Haw!”

Janis appeared with our beverages as the old man went inside. “Who was that crazy dude?”

“A customer from up the street,” I explained.

“He told you a joke?” she laughed.

“Yes he did,” I said.

She giggled while getting behind the wheel. “Sounds like a perfect ending to your day. One more thing you didn’t expect.”

I could only nod and agree.

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

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

“Hymn From My Father”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

My father passed away one month ago, today.

I pondered this short anniversary while reading posts by my sister, on Facebook. She had shared a few different songs of a melancholy nature, sweet and sad. Remembering and reflecting. Indeed, it has been impossible to process what transpired at the Mansfield Place care facility, mere weeks in our past. We watched Mom and Dad hold hands for the final time. Numb to the march of mortality. That night, I stood in his office, alone. The spot where I knew his spirit would be close. My heart was broken. Still, I felt motivated as never before to sit at the keyboard, as I had done at his typewriter so many years ago, and put my thoughts into useful prose.

Father wore many titles during his earthly stay. But none more precious than that of ‘wordsmith.’

His DNA remains in us, his successors. Yet also, the imprint of writing, of the joyous habit he pursued from childhood to the grave. As he lay in his hospital bed, ‘witnessing’ to the staff and visitors, I reckoned that he would wish for a notepad and pen. His mind was still sharp. Even at the moment of passage between here and eternity.

As a silent observer, I began to hear a familiar hymn from church in my mind. It grew louder as he struggled and fell forever asleep:

“To the work! To the work! We are servants of God

Let us follow the path that our master has trod

With the balm of his counsel our strength to renew

Let us do with our might what our hands find to do

Toiling on, toiling on

Toiling on, toiling on

Let us hope, let us watch

And labor until the Master comes.”

The old standard had been composed by Frances J. Crosby, in 1869. It was something often used during formal worship services at the Church of Christ.

I received this vision as a call to action. It continued to echo as I stood in the office after Dad was gone. I could hear him singing to me while I looked at his desk and chair and the many books in his library. Though grief clouded my eyes and heart, he seemed to warn against wallowing in sorrow. I remembered him observing that every life experience had value for a creative writer. Now, his voice gave me strength, singing out from oblivion:

“To the work! To the work! Let the hungry be fed

To the fountain of life, let the weary be led

In the cross and its banner our glory shall be

While we herald the tidings ‘Salvation is free!’

Toiling on...”

I hummed the tune to myself while driving home to Ohio.

Later, various childhood memories brought inspiration as I pondered Dad’s death. Stories appeared from the ether. I reckoned each was a gift of sorts, handed lovingly down from paradise. Yet the strains of this familiar song only grew with intensity. It was as if I were sitting in church with family members who had gone before, all lifting up their voices in praise. And in insistence that I busy myself with the task of channeling brokenness into duty:

“To the work! To the work! There is labor for all

For the kingdom of darkness and error shall fall

And the love of our Father exalted shall be

In the loud swelling chorus: ‘Salvation is Free!’

Toiling on...”

Only a short time ago, I had considered ending my work as a professional scribe. It appeared logical to put all energy into regular employment as a business manager. To press hard toward the nearing goal of retirement with a full pension and profit-sharing plans tucked away. But a sale by my employer and rising health issues exploded such thoughts. Battling infirmity, I found myself unemployed and at the end of my career, far too soon.

The result came like a shining revelation.

I had decided to give up on creative pursuits. “My journey is finished as a writer,” I confessed to the Great Spirit. Discipline made me turn toward practical things rather than the self-serving interest of tapping out pages of text. He seemed to answer with a surprising observation. “You are not done, my child. Instead, you have only just begun!”

The woe of watching my father fade away seemed sure to still my hands over the keyboard. But there was zeal in the thunderous refrain I heard in my head:

“To the work! To the work! In the strength of the Lord!

And a robe and a crown shall our labor reward

When the home of the faithful our dwelling shall be

And we shout with the ransomed ‘Salvation is free!’

Toiling on, toiling on

Toiling on, toiling on

Let us hope, let us watch and labor till the Master comes.”

Four weeks have passed, with many projects already finished. I bow prayerfully, in awe, while considering what awaits in the months and years that lie ahead.

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

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

“Junkyard Chicken"

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

I grew up in a junkyard.

Quite literally, in a museum without pretense or the conscientious dusting of artifacts. A modern-day Egyptian tomb, no less appealing for its lack of precious metals or royal remains.

Our heap was too neglected for any nomenclature of elegance, out of necessity, because we were always moving. City to city, state to state. Thus, my sense of ‘home’ was not linked to any geography but instead to the things we carried on our journey. Books, vinyl records, photographs, spare parts from motorcycles and cars long lost from the household stable. Each relic spoke about those who had worn my family name, before. I grew up with a sense of membership in a bloodline that had endured for many generations.

‘Junk’ was a term I came to use with affection.

I immersed myself in the noble pile whenever inspiration was needed. Or when seeking shelter from negative vibes. Literally, I reconnected each day with this, the soil of my birth. Every castaway trinket, every faded keepsake, every stale splinter of yesteryear reverberated with spiritual energy. Neighbors would sometimes refer to us as ‘pack rats.’ But we were more than hoarders. Like gypsies, we carried these talismans of our culture along the trail, in the hope that future generations might behold them and learn.

I was that generation.

A recent exercise on Facebook revived such thoughts. One of my friends from New York offered a challenge to post favorite record albums, one for each day until they numbered ten in all. At first, I struggled to remember. Then, distant echoes began to resound. I remembered ‘Batman Theme’ by the Batboys and ‘Shock, Terror, Fear’ by Frankie Stein And His Ghouls. But finally, an oddity of lingering importance emerged from the mind-shadows. An LP my father acquired only a year before I was born:

‘Introspection IV – Weirdos From The Uncommon World Of Johnny Gunn With The Outre Musical Sounds Of Don Ralke (Warner Brothers, WS 1372, 1960)

Outre is an obscure word meaning ‘unusual and startling.’

This experimental recording was made up of spoken-word sketches, offered with Jazz of a space-age variety. Something very much in the vein of Ken Nordine. But with a dollop of good-natured humor like Stan Freberg. More than simply a comic exercise, it presented a sort of ‘Twilight Zone’ vibe with social commentary as the upshot. Being a kid, I connected with this platter in a way my developing brain could not fully understand. Only with the passage of time would I realize that the pairing of words and tones was something carried in my DNA. 

 

Decades after first hearing these grooves, the concept remained potent.

A search in cyberspace revealed that someone had posted the entire long player on YouTube. I clicked on the link and entered a warp in space and time:

“Go on… do it. Do it even if you don’t want to do it. Do it ‘cause I’m telling you to do it. ‘Cause your chick’s eyes are telling you. Look at her! Now go on… go ‘cause you know when I say go, you know you’re gonna go. You know if you don’t, they’re all gonna laugh at you. Keep on! Go… more, chicken! Why you waiting? You not gonna not do what I say! No… you know… I know… that in a few minutes it’s gonna be done. And everybody will know but they won’t know why. Well you just keep moving. Keep going, you’re gonna make history. And people gonna talk about you for a long time! And I’m gonna hear that talk, and I’m gonna live on it, and get fat on that talk! Listen chicken, they’re gabbling already! They’re talking already! And you’re starting to love it, too! Come on, chicken! You’re almost famous! Go! Go, chicken! You can do it! You gotta do it! You gotta! Come on, chicken!! CHICKEN… you did it. And I didn’t really think you’d go. I thought you’d fall over dead. I knew you’d try, but I didn’t think you’d go all the way. And I’m proud of you. And now the world is gonna wonder till the end of time. Why? What would possess a chicken like you… and nobody will know. You know, and you can’t ever say… and I know, and I won’t ever tell. And the mystery of all eternity will remain unsolved. And I made you do it. A million years from now, little kids gonna ask their mothers, why? And chicks gonna ask their daddies, why? And the daddies ain’t gonna have nobody to ask why… hahaha… WHY DID THE CHICKEN CROSS THE ROAD?”

The album was stylish and carefully put together. Each reading provided a wrinkle on familiar themes. Because I was so young and able to absorb these ideas freely, they helped shape my own concepts of writing and performance. Before long, I was creating stories of my own.

As with many such childhood influences, I only realized the true importance of this LP in hindsight. Viewed from the perspective of a middle-aged adult, this slab of vinyl seems nearly prophetic. A revelation from on high. But in the 1960’s, played on our Silvertone Hi-Fi, from the Sears & Roebuck catalog, it was simply one more shiny, black disc in my father’s collection.

Thank you, Dad.

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

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

“Willie G. Davidson”

c. 2001 Rod Ice

all rights reserved

(5-01)

Note To Readers: This is a column written many years ago as part of my ‘Thoughts At Large’ series for the Geauga County Maple Leaf. I had suggested a retro-themed Sportster model to Harley-Davidson and actually received a reply from Willie G. himself. A memorable tale.

Readers of this column will remember a recent tour through ‘day off’ adventures designed to relax our weary souls. An idea conceived during this moment of rest was the creation of a new model for HARLEY-DAVIDSON. Communicating the thought directly became a personal quest. I was satisfied only when the proposal was on its way to Milwaukee. (Even if it seemed unlikely that my suggestion would be accepted!)

My careful notion went directly to WILLIAM G. DAVIDSON (‘Willie G’ to the faithful) who is Vice President of Styling. His legacy with the company is priceless. Indeed, one might observe that HARLEY as we know it would not exist without the insight he provided. Corporate history has young WILLIE joining the fold in 1963. His father was WILLIAM H. DAVIDSON, erstwhile President of the firm. Grandfather WILLIAM A. DAVIDSON was one of four founders who created the enterprise. Soon, WG’s influence on the ‘look’ of this American icon was undeniable. (Much of this

came from the fact that he spent a great deal of time on the road, with his customer base!) When the 1971 FX 1200 SUPER GLIDE debuted, it was a move toward greater things. Young rebels had been ‘chopping’ the fat-fendered HAWG into shape for many years. The thought of manufacturing a cycle closer to those customized needs was a bold step into tomorrow. From that creative nugget grew a fresh perspective for H-D. Dozens of future models were made possible by that venture into uncharted territory. 
 

In my letter, I spoke of having owned three different motorcycles that were sired by the Wisconsin group. Also mentioned were family ties that caused my devotion to the brand. (My father was once a mechanic at FARROW’S H-D in Columbus, during the 1950’s.) Closing thoughts were directed toward the remarkable transformation of HARLEY-DAVIDSON since leaving AMF in 1981. Production quality, merchandising, and customer service improved dramatically. One might never suspect that in an earlier time, their incredible reserve of history and ‘style’ was nearly untapped. My proposal for a new version of the SPORTSTER series seemed lost amid these personal reflections. But I attached a ‘scan’ of the 1957 XL model to illustrate my point. 
 

Soon, an envelope arrived in our mailbox that boasted the familiar ‘bar and shield’ HARLEY logo. A return address on W. Capitol Drive in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin had my eyes wide open! The response came directly from WG himself. Warmly, he offered appreciation and gratitude: “Dear Rod, Thanks for your recent letter… it is always good to hear from our riders and I appreciate you taking the time to write to me with your thoughts and comments!” He completed the note with an appropriate salutation, “Ride Free!” It was signed in his own script, “Willie G.”

While sharing the reply with my wife, I used our 1989 edition of THE BIG BOOK OF HARLEY-DAVIDSON to demonstrate Willie’s development within the company .

A favorite photograph depicts the corporate staff (circa 1978) posed on various motorcycles produced that year. Vaughan Beals, John Davidson, and the rest are clothed in standard executive attire. But Willie G. is notable for his beard, leather jacket, and boots! Always, he has been ‘one of us’ instead of strictly a management figure. This bond produced an understanding of the phenomenon that transcends ‘opinion polls’ and ‘customer surveys’. No other business can be said to have such a unique connection with its patrons. 
 

The response from WG immediately found a place of honor in my personal archives. It provides an example of the best in consumer recognition. Success has come in great measure to the descendants of those fellows from Milwaukee. With this kind of heartfelt, emotional connection to those of us who ride, it is certain that the glory of HARLEY-DAVIDSON will continue to grow!

Comments about 'Words On The Loose' may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com
Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024 

“Night Owl”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Reverence for the night. A family tradition.

Dad used to tell stories of my infancy, when he was working double shifts as a mechanic and pursuing his theological calling on the weekends. Mom would need a break from caring for me and he would arrive home to hear my bubbly, baby jargon echoing from the crib. He would be a good parent, tending to typical needs of one so few of weeks in age. But eventually, this routine met fatigue like a speeding roadster confronting an edifice of bricks. He and mom would be exhausted and there I was, still thrashing in my bed. Jabbering, spitting, playing, uncooperative, a boom-era bundle-of-joy rolling in the sheets. Able to entertain long past the attention span of my familial audience.

He confessed to reaching his limit one night, only to find rescue from their Sears & Roebuck television.

My father dragged the black-and-white screen toward my baby bed. He put on a program and escaped to the kitchen for a bologna sandwich with coffee. Somehow, my mood was soothed by the primitive video feed. I lay still in the near-darkness, watching and calm. Finally, he was able to nap. This simplest strategy worked because of one behavioral trait carried forward from my forebears.

I was a ‘Night Owl.’

The habit would persist as I grew. Throughout grade school years, I often found myself awake in the hours of night. Solitude was my companion. I would hide under the blankets with a transistor radio and explore the outside world, something mysterious and foreign in the context of rural Ohio. I tuned in stories of the conflict in Vietnam, political intrigue between the major parties, the developing ‘Generation Gap’ and all sorts of unfamiliar pop music. Our television offered only a few channels and a limited viewing schedule. But my plastic box could play for hours on a single 9V battery. No one regulated these after-bed sessions. They were the best opportunity to clear my head and learn.

Later, I read Mad Magazine in the basement, by the light from a festive oil lamp, painted like ‘Old Glory.’ When friends came for a sleepover, they rarely matched my appetite for celebrating the lure of weekend tenebrosity. Generally, I met the thickening shadows alone. With only my imagination, a notepad and a candle of sorts, inspiration visited to bless my restless spirit.

In high school, these bouts of waking-too-soon continued. I would often rise around 2:30 a. m. and begin to catch up on homework. After connecting an old pair of headphones from a crystal radio to my 1950’s television, I could even watch late movies without creating a household disturbance. Sometimes, a bent toward creative writing produced story fragments for later attention. Or I could draw crude illustrations. Any activity helped to clear away the cranial cobwebs. So when I finally grew tired again, sleep could return in peace.

When I began my television apprenticeship, through Cornell University, the ability to function in overnight hours became a valued asset. Long days at Channel 13 would flow downhill into the glistening, black pool of a night jamming on guitar, or feasting on low-buck cuisine at our local ‘State Diner.’ Sunrise often made me sad. I relished the freedom of being awake while others were not conscious enough to supervise.

After returning home to Ohio, my tilt toward life in the dark made it possible to survive third-shift employment. I worked various jobs toiling away in the comfort and anonymity of being on duty after the regular day was finished. Eventually, I felt like a true-life vampire. ‘Undead’ to the world. Able to glean energy from the nothingness. Glad for the embrace of a sunless existence. Strangely, I remember visiting with my sister and her kids on a summer afternoon, only to break out in hives. The touch of daylight literally caused my skin to blemish.

It had been a long while since I fussed in my crib. The night would not surrender my flesh without consequences. Like Barnabas Collins, I had been changed, forever.

After careers in creative writing and retail-store management, I reached the point of retiring long before my appointed time. I was only 55. But health issues had me off-the-schedule and searching. Though frightened by disability, God seemed to have a plan in the works. Just as my father did in 1961, when he scooted the Silvertone TV set toward my bed. Writing was our other family tradition. Suddenly, I had no cause to observe a regular schedule. And no need to be on duty at my business establishment. I was free.

Dad’s discarded HP Compaq Pro 4300 desktop became my modern portal to the outside world. Unleashed and uninhibited, I revived the oldest habit in my repertoire. Awake at 2:30 in the morning and busy with the work of continuing my genetic imperative.

As my cousin once observed: “The Ice Family. Doing things our way since 1700.”

My father passed away earlier this year. Yet with each of these wordsmithing sessions, long after sunset, I still feel his presence. As if he were only out in the kitchen, for a quick meal of cold cuts and black coffee. Watching faithfully just as he did so many years ago.

Waiting for his graying, overgrown junior to fall asleep at the computer.

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

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

“Tinkerbell”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Cats. In my childhood, they were everywhere.

I must confess to being a ‘dog’ person. But this inclination might seem somewhat incredible when viewed against my family backdrop of feline pets. This association with kitties began at an early age, as I witnessed my grandfather feeding barn strays at the family farm in Columbus, Ohio. He would toss slices of bologna onto the concrete porch. They seemed to be thrilled with each meat Frisbee gifted in that setting, receiving them with grateful yowls and loud purrs.

I learned to value life and to care for others through the discipline of having a cat. In Chandlersville, a rural community near Zanesville, we adopted an old momma kitty that mother called ‘Purr Mew.’ The life lessons gained were useful and enduring. But I also received painful knowledge of a darker sort.

The final touch of mortality.

Purr Mew disappeared in the summer of 1969, after we moved to Kentucky. She simply went away to finish her journey in peace. I scouted the neighborhood for weeks, not understanding this curious habit. Eventually, my heart surrendered. Yet the sadness never went away.

Later, other cats entered our household. Each revived my faith in having an animal companion. They were numerous and short-lived. The fateful temptation of city streets doomed them to a quick end under automobile tires. My heart broke each time.

A pair of black & white males, with the unlikely monikers of “Elvis’ and “Mewer’ managed to avoid the asphalt guillotine and lived long enough to be given to relatives who owned a farm near Gallipolis, as we were moving. Then, when we lived in Virginia, my sister found a Calico female ready to be adopted. She called the cat ‘Tinkerbell.’ We soon realized that this new pet was destined to be unlike any other we had known.

Miss T was fiercely independent. A characteristic that would later serve her well as a mom. He desire for affection yielded a bi-polar mood that was either ‘on’ or ‘off.’ One moment, she would be content with snuggling and being petted lovingly. Then, her switch would flip to the desire for solitude. Her claws dug flesh and she jumped for escape. We learned to be ready when this happened. Her awareness of surroundings proved to be invaluable. Though she liked to cross the street and play in other yards, no car could tempt her into recklessly coming too close. She pranced skillfully through shrubs and tall grass, darting over the tarmac only when there was an opening in traffic.

She quickly became like a sister. A literal member of our family. Perhaps this was due to her intelligence, the gift of caution and care. But each of us felt differently about her than we had any other pet. She shared everything, every childhood experience. I even remember her having a spoonful of birthday cake and ice cream during one household celebration.

Tinkerbell would live in four states. Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York and Ohio.

I studied through Cornell University in the late 70’s and early 80’s, lingering in the Empire State until personal ruin sent me once more back to my native Buckeye soil. Coming home meant a quick kiss for Mom, a handshake for Dad and then, I wondered about the cat. “Where’s the kitty?” Our Calico was in the basement. She burst into a chorus of loud meows and jumped on top of the washing machine to dance, as I came down the steps. I scratched her ears and hugged her like a lost friend, rediscovered through the mercy of fate.

There was little personal space in the house on Maple Avenue, in Chardon. So the living room couch became my bed. I put my Royal typewriter on the coffee table when working on writing projects. Tinkerbell liked to curl up, nearby. She would watch with silent curiosity as I typed away.

By the mid-80’s, she had reached the age of eleven years and more.

Having a pet of any kind stay so long in the household was something none of us could remember. So her place in the family continuum became certain. We revered her. And she displayed the same affection for us, with feline devotion. Her bond to Dad was particularly strong, to the point that she often placed herself between him and mother when they were speaking. Her body language rang out clearly. “He is mine!”

Tinkerbell developed cancer as a mature cat. I do not clearly recall how this was discovered. Perhaps from a routine checkup at the vet. After such a long journey together, letting her go felt impossibly difficult. We had come a long way together. Life had spun away from the ease of kinder days into a rush toward tomorrow. But we paused as a group, to mourn.

The grief came furious and raw, just as I felt losing my grandmother or favorite aunt.

Afterward, I saw my father cry, for the first time. A commercial for cat food ran on the television as we were about to have dinner one evening. He wiped a tear from his eye, blinking away more that were about to fall. I was stunned. He had always been a durable rock of a man. I could not imagine anything causing him to break. But the loss of our beloved pet touched his soul.

Today, my sister has a black & white kitty named Clara. Elegant as if she were wearing a black gown with white tights underneath. Her personality has the same loving, bi-polar vibe of our lost cat-sister. Sometimes I ponder the idea of reincarnation and muse that perhaps, Miss T has returned to us, in modern form.

We will never know the truth of such speculation. Yet our love for this incredible pet endures.

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