“Home Office”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-19)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example of life in our household.

Dad always had an office at home.

From my earliest childhood days, it was a tradition literally set in my DNA. The idea of having a workplace at home, fortified with some sort of personal library, a radio, hi-fi system, and a typewriter. Though the technical details of this space would evolve over time, the idea was one very much imprinted on my psyche.

Because my father grew up on a farm outside of Columbus, Ohio, he had a genuine knack for working on mechanical things. This love of machinery, particularly motorcycles and cars, permeated our family. Also, he enjoyed tinkering with vintage radios and tape recorders of various kinds. And, he played music on piano, guitar and banjo. But there was a dual nature at work, because his own sire was a university professor. So while he had been familiar with getting his hands dirty, there remained a bent toward higher learning through continuous study.

I did not need a classroom to learn such things.

As a young kid, I would sneak into Dad’s office when he was busy elsewhere. Such clandestine sessions helped me get an idea of the layout he preferred. I could also use his shortwave radio to hear broadcasts from around the globe. Something valuable in the era before cyberspace. Later, I designed my own ‘office’ with a square of scrap plywood on top of a steel trash barrel. My wordsmithing tool was a plastic typewriter from the most recent Christmas holiday. I was ten years old.

Friends at school liked to make jokes about this odd habit. But the plan would endure long into my adult life. Literally, to the present day.

As a teenager, my home workspace was Mom’s old desk and a $10 Royal KMM typewriter bought from a stash of discarded Cornell University equipment. In my early twenties, while wandering in New York, the Royal did service on top of a green footlocker. Then, on the coffee table in our family living room when I landed back in Ohio. Finally, it took up residence on a low-buck desk bought from Fisher’s Big Wheel, with my first wife. 

 

At every point along my personal journey, there was always a place to work at home.

My platform-of-choice developed over the course of time, from the Royal to a Brother word processor, then an eMachine PC running Windows95, another running Windows98, a Sony Vaio, and three laptops. Each offered its own cache of advantages and flaws. My work continued being tucked away on paper, 1.44 MB floppy disks, CD-Rs and USB drives. Dad’s own progression was similar, yet typically more advanced. He adopted new technology with ease. His published books and online blogs grew in number. Each of us would inspire the other with ideas. Once, he actually rewrote a manuscript from my files. Our ‘voices’ as writers were similar, but distinct from each other. He was ahead on the creative curve. It seemed that I never finished trying to catch his prolific wave.

Then, life happened.

A few weeks ago, my sister visited the family homestead to assess the situation of our parents. Not many days passed before her conclusion became evident – that they could no longer live on their own. Friends and neighbors had been urging us to take a closer look. Yet always, our questions were met with the assurance that more help was not needed. From a distance, real insight was often scarce. We debated for months, even years, over the situation. Then, the truth of their plight became apparent.

I had been too combative. My sister knew the proper approach. Dad finally agreed to the move.

At the nursing home, he took a laptop and notebook to remain active as a writer. But there were still devices left behind, some not used for awhile. My nephew accepted a role in looking through the household store of technical tools. Eventually, he approached me with an offer that was both sweet and sad. He had rescued my father’s old desktop, an HP Compaq Pro 4300.

He offered to drop off the computer during his next visit.

My reaction was purely emotional. I felt duty-bound to cling carefully to anything connected with our family mentor and inspiration. But, the angst of knowing that it had been surrendered along with his independence, and that of my mother, made me bow in reflection.

Still, the circular nature of this gift brightened my mood with old memories. Once again, in a sense, I had taken a seat in Dad’s office. I had begun a new course of study. One of hope and gratitude for life and a place at the keyboard.

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

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

“Detour, 1984”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is yet another example of life in our household.

Home.

When I came back to my native Ohio, in late 1983, it was with undeniable regrets. Though my belly was grateful for regular meals and my body felt revived by the comfort of our family couch, a desire to revisit old friends lingered. It would take some time before I made the adjustment to accepting what had become of my life.

Chardon was my resurrection. But I could not see that prize waiting to be taken.

During the first full year back on Buckeye soil, I kept in close contact with Paul and Mollie Race, who lived near Corning. They were spiritually my Rock & Roll parents. Paul’s knowledge of vinyl records and vintage guitars had expanded my youthful consciousness. Meanwhile, Mollie’s kind heart soothed the turmoil in my soul. So when a job at the American Seaway Foods warehouse in Cleveland offered gasoline money, I had one persistent goal in mind.

Going back to New York State.

Someone with greater life experience would have pondered such an adventure more carefully. But I was young and focused on leaving the Midwest instead planning for tomorrow. Carrying only a small wad of bills and a Hagstrom electric guitar, I ventured out in my white, 1973 Volkswagen Beetle. The car had already seen many miles of service, so its motor ran on fatigue and its floorboards were rusty. But I did not fear the road. In those days, the highway had not yet been completed across Chautauqua Lake. So a detour around this long body of water was necessary. It meant seeing a bit of rural countryside populated with sleepy, small villages, still safe in the pattern of yesterday.

I made the journey several times.

My Volkswagen sputtered and stammered like an old drunk. Loudly rolling across the Southern Tier like an overgrown lawn mower. Yet always managed reach my friends on Hornby Road and then get us back home again. On Route 17, during one such trip at sunset, I found courage to discover the limit of my old Bug’s endurance. With its gas pedal stomped to the floor, the vehicle wheezed to a velocity of 88 miles per hour. It steered like a go-cart going out of control. A mechanical howl sounded in my ears. Finally, the sight of a Dodge Diplomat in New York State Trooper colors caused me to abandon the quest for speed.

I would not test the ragged VW again.

On my last trip to Corning during the year, in October, I arrived early. Both Paul and Mollie were still at work. So I went back down the hill to their local P & C Supermarket, for snacks and a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. By the time they arrived, I was nearly exhausted. Later in the evening, we began a jam session which soon stalled as my friends argued in the other room. I sat there plucking away aimlessly at my silver guitar until their spat had finished.

For the first time, I began to wonder about the sanity of wishing to return on a permanent basis.

My mood brightened as we recorded various blues compositions during my stay, improvised and experimental as was Paul’s habit at the time. Afterward, I slept on a long, banana-yellow lawn chair, that folded into a lounge recliner. It had been set up in their kitchen. Boxes of records were strewn throughout the house, even in the bathroom. Filled with vintage Rolling Stones and Beatles bootlegs, and uncatalogued records by groups from the 1950’s up to the then-current era of Heavy Metal. A pervasive odor of unruly pets filled the home, from their many cats and dogs. Something with which I had become familiar over the years. But it only contributed to the counterculture ambiance.

The visit ended too quickly. I lingered on the familiar sight of Paul’s Utica Club Beer sign, hung over the sink, before exiting to the driveway. My Volkswagen rattled to life and we were gone on the path back home, to Ohio. I could only hope for another visit in the near future. 

 

Noisy and slow, my Beetle made it to the eastern side of Chautauqua Lake. Somewhere in the detour off of Route 17, the air-cooled motor overheated. I was literally in front of a deserted motel, next to a bar. Good fortune had placed me at a place of refuge. A peeling, painted sign indicated that the proprietor was in charge of both establishments. So I entered the watering hole with a bit of hopeful trepidation. An old woman with gray curls recited her rates from behind thick glasses. “$15 for a night,” she said with pity. I literally had that much and change in my pocket. Enough to stay in her motel, make a phone call to Chardon pleading my case, and buy a Coke from their vending machine.

The room literally had a black-and-white television set.

With futility, I knob-flipped through the few channels available, finally settling on live coverage of the second presidential debate from that year. Ronald Reagan vs. Walter Mondale. President Reagan, who had looked incoherent in their first encounter, returned to form with cheerful grandpa-smiles and a quick wit. “I will not make an issue of my opponent’s youth and inexperience,” he quipped.

I drank my pop and then refilled the can with tap water from the bathroom sink. Thirst lingered with asphalt dust in my throat.

My father arrived the next day, in his Peugeot 604. He did not scold or lecture me, but instead, busied himself studying the Beetle. After a few minutes, with a strong, farm-borne upbringing on mechanical things, he had it running. I could not wait to get back on the road. The white VW made it to Interstate 90, where the motor overheated once again. In desperation, he pushed the little car forward with his own sedan, along the highway shoulder, as I popped the clutch. That trick got the Bug running again. We made it home to Geauga County without another delay.

I traded the Volkswagen on a late-model Chevrolet Chevette, in the fall, having started a new job at the local Fisher’s Big Wheel department store. My life was changing. Though I could not visualize the future at that distant moment, things were about to get better.

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

“Teisco Philco Combo”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home in West Virginia, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example of life in our household.

In 1978 I was 17 years old.

I grew up in a family of amateur vocalists and musicians. From an early age, the ‘folk’ classics rendered by my father with banjo or guitar formed the bedrock of our cultural knowledge. Like many kids of my generation, I developed a particular passion for Rock & Roll music of the loud variety. But the basic template set by Woody Guthrie or Pete Seeger remained. When I wrote my own compositions, they were straightforward in nature, more of a tonal backdrop for telling stories than any sort of plectrum wizardry.

As a young rebel, my work tools were few and low-budget by design. I acquired an electric guitar around the time of my birthday that year, one crafted in Japan and generically referred to as a Teisco. Only later would I realize that the no-name instrument was likely a Kawaii product, made after that company had bought out the more notable manufacturer. It was finished in a two-tone red and black sunburst, with a shorter scale than those owned by my friends. The guitar possessed an irritating ability to break strings when the whammy bar was used. Yet I could play the tinny twanger through a set of headphones, or directly into a tape recorder. It became my unit of choice because, as a fledgling songsmith, I had no other alternative.

Still, one frustration dogged my efforts – I had no amplifier.

I sometimes used the equipment of friends who were similarly inclined to rattle the windows with their own raucous experiments. But the lack of an amp stalled my work. I needed volume! Buying a competent device, like the Fender products owned by others I knew, seemed far out of reach. My stomach ached from pondering this dilemma. But then, rescue arrived in the form of a leftover radio and the naked chassis of a broken cassette device.

A friend from earlier days had been the son of an engineer for General Electric. His childhood creations included CB radios and rechargeable battery packs. Being around such crude creations was inspirational, even with my poor understanding of how each project functioned. After getting my Teisco, I began to channel this vibe for innovation. In our household roster of things were many discarded television sets, repaired by my father. Also old electrical junk considered likely to serve some future purpose. So I connected an input jack to the tape-head leads of my outmoded cassette player. Then secured everything with white packing tape. I stuffed the mummified carcass into the back of a Philco ‘cathedral’ radio that had belonged to my Great Grandfather, wiring it to the speaker. When I plugged my guitar into the Frankenstein amp, the mismatch created an impressive wall of distortion. Tonally and visually, it was unique. Especially with the advent of ‘Punk Rock.’

Out of necessity, I had created a ‘trash aesthetic’ that impressed my cohorts. Kudos were given, especially by the counterculture visionaries associated with Cornell University. But the deed wasn’t actually art in motion – it happened because I had no bucks.

My Philco hybrid worked for a series of recordings and a few live performances during that primitive era, in Ithaca, New York. I eventually took it on local television, where the limited output of wattage was not so much of a hindrance. Because the little monster worked on battery power, I could carry it anywhere. The device became a topic of conversation at every jam session and party. My friend Manic McManus brought his recording setup to the studios of Channel 13, where we both volunteered, and made the best historical record of this combo. I was struck by the irony that everything in my toolkit had cost less than one of his microphones.

Eventually, I graduated to a Kent Les Paul copy and then, a Fender Princeton amplifier. The setup was a great improvement over my garbage rig. More professional and dependable in character. I stopped being the butt of jokes from serious Rock performers in my circle of contacts. But strangely, the improvisational vibe was lost.

My songs began to sound too mainstream. Too… normal.

During a household move, the Philco was packed with childhood memories at the home of my parents. I threw the cassette chassis away. The Teisco ended up with my sister for a few years, buried in a closet. Only later would a bit of online research revive my interest in the cheap guitar. When I retrieved it, the fiberboard case had been flattened. But otherwise, it appeared unscathed by years of neglect.

I remembered plucking away at the axe as a kid, while wishing for a ‘real’ instrument like those of my heroes. Something expertly made by Fender or Gibson. But now, with many years having passed, my perspective has changed.

I am glad to revisit this Japanese relic. And remember.

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

“Retail Resurrection”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home in West Virginia, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example, still sweet to recall.

Lost and found again.

The story of my own ‘Prodigal Son’ episode literally reads like a more famous tale offered in the Christian Bible. As a teenager, I moved to New York State with my family and landed an apprenticeship through Cornell University in the field of television broadcasting. This experience would enrich my life in the coming years. But I squandered any opportunities that directly came from my study at Channel 13. With a head full of writing projects, potent Rock & Roll visions and a desire to avoid the drudgery of time-clock servitude, I crashed into alcohol abuse. My impulsive lifestyle was thrilling for the moment, but like sin itself, unsustainable. I became a ratty kid. A wandering scarecrow dressed in moth-eaten flannel gifted by friends. They pondered my foolish dance with disbelief and concern. I refused to listen to their voices, instead hearing the drumbeat of counterculture imagination. Every nod to insanity seemed to offer hope. Reason was a tiresome discipline to be feared. I made the moment of abandon last so long as possible.

But as winter took hold, the grim reality of failure became apparent. I was completely unprepared for life itself.

My girlfriend left for the west coast and I fell to living on the streets of Ithaca. I was empty in spirit and the flesh. Snow crusted my leather jacket. One by one, options disappeared. Friends grew weary. I felt hungry and cold. Finally, I landed a ride back to Ohio and made the trek palatable with a fifth of Jack Daniel’s bourbon.

Our first meal in Chardon was ‘Beef & Biscuit Put Together’ which came as a New England recipe my mother learned from an old widow at church. I had dropped to 148 pounds living under a bridge and on the sidewalks around town. So the dinner truly came as a feast worthy of celebration. I ate and ate until my belly could hold no more. Then, I made a bed on the couch. It felt good to fall asleep with a pillow and blankets instead of concrete or a bed sheet on the floor.

Morning brought the harsh realization that a lifestyle change was about to occur. Not by design or out of a sense of duty, but simply because I had no other choice. My family did not permit the use of beverage alcohol. So three months would pass before I had a drink. Camel cigarettes helped bolster my nerves during this process of drying out from daily consumption. The household routine kept me focused as I began to look for work.

My first attempt at gainful employment was a warehouse job in Cleveland. Because I was battling personal demons while struggling to get healthy again, the stint did not last long. Still, it set the pace for future endeavors. (A beginning in what would become a decades-long career in retail store management.)

Our local Fisher’s Big Wheel department store was being updated that summer and I got hired in with the remodel crew. Though the job paid minimum wage to start it was, with hindsight, the most important opportunity of my life. A forward step more auspicious than I could imagine. Since my position as a maintenance clerk was classified outside the normal bargaining unit of employees, I could perform various duties and labor for long hours without being affected by workplace rules. My schedule was altered on-the-fly as needs changed. But there were many chances to learn.

I welcomed each lesson in operating a business. Class had begun, again. 

 

Jim, our Store Manager, fit the prototype that I would come to recognize. He made friends easily, while being gifted in projecting an image of organization and authority. Yet behind this facade lay an individual undeniably human. Not wholly different from myself. Only more experienced in coping with the needs of daily existence. He was wickedly amusing, opinionated but diplomatic, and chain-smoked throughout the day. His example helped me to understand the necessary qualities of an effective leader. Not a cold, ‘corporate robot’ but a classic steward-of-business. When training fell short, he had the instincts to survive. As assistants came and went, he held the position for an unusually long period of time.

The crew made their own contributions to my course of study. One fellow named Harry had been an executive in the company offices, located in Newcastle, Pennsylvania. He loved the day-to-day interaction of waiting on customers. Another member of the team named Sherry was a veteran of A & P Supermarkets. She had an incredible wealth of knowledge about store work.

An Assistant Manager named Fred had served in various stores around the chain. He offered retail platitudes that I still found useful, over 30 years later. Another, named Karen, showed brilliance on the sales floor while being overlooked by superiors. A reality that made me sad. Her work ethic took precedence over traditions of style and chain-of-command decorum, something not welcome in the culture of 1980’s America. But she would later go on to great success with competitors. Most important of all, I met my first wife at Big Wheel. She also was a teacher, having reached the level of Office Manager. Her knowledge was an asset that I would come to rely upon throughout my entire career.

All of this was possible because of the incredible patience shown by my family. The yield of opening a door to someone who had rebelled, kicked, spat, cursed, battled and vociferously refused to be bridled by the habits of our brood. As a landed vagrant in 1983, I did not feel happy or kind. The mirror offered no friendship. I was sore at myself and the world. It might have been reasonable to extend a clenched fist of correction at that moment, as the wages of my own iniquity came due, But instead, I received the most precious gift of all.

Love.

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

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

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“Full House”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home in West Virginia, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is one example, still sweet to recall.

The ‘Little Yellow House’ on Maple Avenue.

In late 1983, this anonymous Buckeye abode was my literal place of refuge. A destination I cherished while living on the streets, and under a bridge in Ithaca, New York. After taking a risky jump from a television apprenticeship through Cornell University, to a life of Rock & Roll wanderlust, failure precipitated a hasty retreat to my native Ohio. I had long since worn out my welcome among the artists, musicians and malcontents who were friends by the southern tip of Cayuga Lake. With the year drawing to a close, I took up residence near another noted body of water. Namely, Lake Erie.

The bulk of my meager possessions were stashed in a green footlocker, which also served as a portable desk. I had the clothes on my back, a couple boxes of records, two cheap guitars and a head filled with ideas. My goal each day was to have enough Camel cigarettes for the hours until sunset.

Though careworn and confused by the circumstances that caused my exodus from the Empire State, I felt gladdened in having the assurance of regular meals and a comfortable, convertible couch where slumber could safely arrive. Greatly preferable to cold concrete or a bed sheet on the floor. After about three months of withdrawal from an alcohol-fueled haze of inspiration and depression, suddenly, life began to take a positive turn.

My family had given me life in the beginning. Now, added to that original gift were new quantities of mercy and hope.

Once again having myself, parents and siblings under the same roof brought the sort of balance and structure that I desperately needed. Though I missed the creative energy of Ithaca, being home in the Midwest steadied my nerves. Where I had been capricious and impulsive before, suddenly a sense of the worth carried by bedrock values of my forebears became apparent. I worked long hours, saved money when possible and tried to better myself by mimicking the quiet discipline taught in our family.

After a brief work episode in Cleveland, I landed a spot at the Fisher’s Big Wheel department store, on Water Street. I traded my ratty, 1973 Volkswagen Beetle on a newer Chevrolet. With a dependable income and a stable address, I began to collect more old plectrum instruments. They occupied a corner of the living room where I slept. Meanwhile, the household provided a needed emotional foundation for rebirth. Brother and sister were busy with their own places of employment. Mother and father held us together with their love.

I grew stronger in the sunshine of their presence.

In 1985, my sister was married and her husband joined the family, not only through this spiritual union, but also in physical form. Our household was busy around the clock. We all worked different shifts, first second and third. My own routine varied, once requiring a holiday stint that ran to the length of 28 hours. We were in close quarters. Generally, a mood of civility held us together. Though sometimes, the pace of life and lack of much privacy could rattle our good intentions. Mom liked to joke that she kept the kitchen open at all hours. Dad could be in or out of the house at any time, as a theological steward and counselor. I tended to have dinner sometime after arriving home around 9:00 in the morning. Brother and sister kept to a more typical schedule in daylight hours. Meanwhile, my brother-in-law typically added to this mix with his own duties as a security guard.

Working took my mind off of nagging, yet unimportant distractions. For the first time in many years, I gained a sense of focus. It did not take long to feel a certain kind of distance from my New York friends. Not only had I moved away in terms of geography, but I also found myself developing beyond the person I had been before. Necessity drove this emotional journey as I feared slipping backward into poverty and despair. I stationed my antique Royal typewriter on the coffee table in our living room, next to my couch-bed, and continued to write.

By 1986 our household routine had been honed to a useful edge. We worked, ate, laughed, cried, celebrated, studied, struggled and prayed together. I pondered somehow moving up to a management position at my department store. An intention that made coworkers giggle when stated out loud. Not the sort of future goal one would have expected from a shaggy, skinny kid in a Harley-Davidson t-shirt. I literally thought that the moment would last forever.

And it did last… until it didn’t.

My parents moved away in early April, when Dad accepted duties in another state. Their departure brought the entire family in line with our own tradition. I had grown up with only a fleeting sense of the ‘Ice’ brood. Grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and the like were scattered around the country. We only met on a regular basis at Thanksgiving, in Columbus. So any sense of membership in a real group was difficult to quantify. Perhaps this reality helped produce the sense of being a loner that had always permeated my soul. Yet my identity became clear with each session at the typewriter. I was the kin of a wordsmithing tribe. 

Writing cleansed my spirit and renewed faith in our walk of life.

I left the house in December. Shortly afterward, my brother and sister did the same. In modern terms, the house is no longer yellow, having been repainted. It is also no longer small, having been remodeled and expanded. But with each passing day, the memory of that place still lingers in my heart.

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

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent