“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

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Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent