“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

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Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent