“Five Hours, Eleven Years”

c. 2017 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(10-17)

Retirement. I arrived early to the party.

It had been a typical day at the home office. After a morning filled with household chores and walking my Black Lab, I concocted a pot of homemade ‘Leftover Stew.’ This literally utilized ingredients dictated by their presence in the freezer and my cupboards. It yielded a mix of Italian sausage in a soup base of chicken bouillon cubes, with banana peppers, red jalapenos, garlic, diced onions and pinto beans. Not a dish I might have served for family dinner. But with tortilla chips it was very satisfying.

I pondered being sidelined for one full year. The experience had reset my sense of self. After more than three decades of career pressure, life simply plodded along at a pace of someone with declining mobility. Yet as the speed of existence slowed, my creative inertia built momentum. Suddenly, I was able to write without the interruption of a work routine or mundane responsibilities.

Being broke never felt so good.

This mood of inspiration intensified when an old friend from New York sent a message via Facebook. He was a photographer who had documented the explosive run of my 1970’s local television program, from Ithaca, New York. Once I added him as a ‘friend’ other familiar faces began to appear. Suddenly, I was surrounded by long-lost souls from almost 40 years ago. Some had moved home after studying at Cornell University. Others remained in the general area. We shared pictures and memories still floating in the ether. The experience left me yearning to revisit projects that had never been completed. A newspaper article about that moment in time. Perhaps a photo book. Or a video compilation.

Impossible dreams seemed viable once again.

Sadly, I discovered through this interaction that a close friend had passed. Mollie Race, widow of my older-brother-from-another-mother, musical partner and cohort, Paul. She had been sending old photographs, records, books, and DVDs from his collection. This postal stream ran dry early in the year. With regret, I learned that she had passed away in April.

The sad news brought renewed vigor to our online discussion. But also, it highlighted the absence of a group member still in the unique city by Cayuga Lake. Someone I hadn’t seen or spoken to since 2006. The sterile texts of e-mail messages had kept us technically in touch, over the years. But even those were few in number and short on information. I would occasionally send postal documents just for the dramatic impact of old-school communication. Still, the abundance of years passed was evident.

Thinking of our Facebook group, I sent some of the archival photos to my erstwhile friend in one of those tangible letters. The result was nearly immediate. A voicemail appeared on my iPhone. I played the soundbite over a couple of times. The words rang out like an echo of life crackling through interstellar static from the cosmos.

It was my bygone co-host at Channel 13. He had performed under the pseudonym of ‘Manic McManus.’ Later that evening, he called again. When I lifted my device to answer, an odyssey of sorts ensued. Travel through layers of expired reality. Our conversation lasted nearly five hours. But true to form, it seemed to begin where we had left off, over a decade earlier. Somehow, it was always that way.

One might observe that there is no expiration date on good conversation.

I was struck by the rapid fire of his vocal patter. He detailed buying numerous ‘box sets’ of recorded music. As ever, his passion for collecting held sway. Also, he shared recollections of many concerts seen despite his lack of a motor vehicle for the past few years. My phone seemed to have tapped into a time portal of sorts. It might well have been 1979. Or 1989. Even 2009. In personal terms, I had run across many detours of chance. A roadblock here, a back alley there, all leading to a modern self that my teenage incarnation could not have imagined. But listening to this old friend filled my ear with a familiar vibe. One not heard in a generation, or more.

He still carried the torch for Rock & Roll. Still lived on pizza and Burger King. And even had the same job from when we first met.

When I mentioned that he remained a pure version of himself, unbowed by time and circumstance, my remark was not clearly understood. Rather than trying to explain, I let the comment lapse. Quietly, as he rattled off lists of new music releases like a college professor, I flashed back to yonder days. In my mind were thoughts of long ago. Retained from similar sessions when a young kid from Ohio found his way to the Finger Lakes Region of New York, and cultural enlightenment.

The experience literally charted the course of my life, for many years to come.

Our chat might well have run throughout the night, into morning. But after five hours, I had grown fatigued. Moreover, my Black Lab wanted to go for a walk. With that diversion in mind, I offered thanks for the call. Dutifully, I promised to be a better correspondent in the future. He was busy taping a program on his VCR. We exchanged brief salutations of goodwill.

Then, silence filled my ear.

Our neighborhood was still as the dog and I began to walk. Leaves rustled in the wind. With a hint of sadness, I realized that the telephone time-shift was over.

I had returned home again.

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

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

Published weekly in the Geauga Independent