"Small Town Best"

c. 2018 Cheryl Kelly

All rights reserved

(4-18)

My youngest son recently got his temporary license this past week and I took him driving through the old development that I grew up in. It was a safe place to take a new driver; short streets, not a lot of traffic and low speed limits. As we cruised the streets over and over and I gave direction, I found myself flooded with memories from my childhood. We passed houses where my best friends used to live, my own house I grew up in, the corners where the green electrical boxes used to stand that were a hang out for all the kids...it was almost eerie. Things have changed so much and I was amazed at how “small” everything now looked.

The houses are small, the streets so close, almost claustrophobic; strangers walking their dogs and driving past. It almost felt like a dream. I could clearly remember like it was yesterday, who lived where, and whose house we always gravitated towards. I was reminiscing in my head the many happy years spent there and the memories were just swirling. From playing freeze tag and TV tag in bare feet in the front yard to riding my bike up and down the streets stopping at each friend’s house hoping they could come out and play, and of course making sure I got off my bike and walked it across the street as required by my father. (That did work for some time until I got smart enough to figure out that he was not out patrolling the streets watching me…) And lets not forget meeting everyone at the local pool when the summer sun and heat was brutal.

Summer nights in a small town like Chardon were golden. It was a standard rule in my house that if the weather was nice, you weren’t to be seen inside, and that was fine by me. Days were filled with running around all day long playing, never once wanting to stop and come home to eat. Hating to hear the whistle from my father calling me home at night, and never wanting to see those dreaded streetlights come on that meant I better be in my own yard or there was trouble. And when that next morning came, it seemed like an eternity waiting for my friends to wake up so we could do it all over again. How I wish I had that unlimited time and energy now...

Winter was no different. I couldn’t wait to get stuffed into that one piece snowsuit and bundled up hoping that my mother did not zip my chin when she pulled that zipper up. Looking like Ralphie’s brother in A Christmas Story, barely able to walk in my moon boots, oh, but I could play! Sledding down from the railroad tracks, making igloos, snowmen...just running around. And that feeling of getting warm after finally coming in because you couldn’t feel your toes or nose – there was nothing like it.

Springtime in Chardon means one thing...Maple Festival time. We waited all year for this. Our little town square gets turned into a carnival for a brief period of time and when you are young, it means everything. We lived within walking distance and we always had friends and family coming over to walk up and enjoy the food and day at the festival. Making the trek up the hill to the square was filled with anticipation as to which ride you were going to get in line for first, what food you would eat and what new treasures were to be found under the big white tents. As I got older, being trusted to walk from school up to the festival with friends was the big thing. That wonderful feeling of independence and excitement of who you would see and what cute boys you would run into. Innocent fun…

The jerk of the car from brakes being hit too hard brought me back around to reality. Looking at my son next to me I smiled and said, “easy there pal”. I raised my sons right here in Chardon wanting that same close, quiet, family atmosphere for them that I so enjoyed growing up. Even though the times have really changed from when I was young, it survives here. It’s a feeling you get when you drive down the streets or look out your front window and see people living simply, see small businesses flourishing and sense that community vibe, that small town best.

Editor’s Note: A great story here of growing up in small-town America. Passing the torch onward to the next generation. In personal terms, I have long wished for this kind of memory. But moving frequently during childhood, from state to state, exploded that concept. More recently, I used to refer to Chardon, Ohio as my ‘adopted home town’ until divorce and career chaos also overwhelmed such notions of family and self. I now feel more at home in Geneva or Saybrook. Though it is likely that tomorrow will spin the Roulette Wheel once again. Still, the tale here is sweet to savor. Cheers to you, my friend.

“Peugeot Proud”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-18)

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 have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example of life in our household, from bygone days.

Oddball.

At home, this has often been a term of endearment. As my esteemed cousin once observed about our brood: “The Ice family. Doing it our own way since 1710.”

When I came back to Ohio in 1983, after the free-fall that followed my television study through Cornell University, the readjustment of my senses took a moment. I had just spent five years in a cultural climate wholly dissimilar to the one of my upbringing. Namely, that of the ‘Empire State’ of New York. I struggled to align the new world I had inherited with that of my parents. The family had always been devotedly Christian, steeped in common two-party political traditions and wedded to the habit of perpetual study. Speaking quietly while walking with careful, deliberate steps, for fear of offending a neighbor. Yet woven into that fabric was a rowdy thread. A color not matched to the rest.

That stripe of contrast appeared once again as my father decided that the family car needed to be replaced. It was a beige, mid-70’s Ford Maverick sedan with many thousands of miles logged in service. The vehicle had developed numerous issues typically associated with road wear and age. In particular, a broken lock had me driving home on one occasion while holding the door shut with my left arm. Each of us had our own thoughts about what sort of wagon would next occupy our driveway. But no one predicted a product of France, in dark green.

Dad bought a 1979 Peugeot 604. Automotive journalists of the era called it a ‘Gallic Mercedes.’

Though highly successful in Europe, with a history begun making coffee, pepper and salt grinders in the 1800’s, this manufacturer barely managed to register in the American consciousness. Even Renault and Citroen were better known, if only slightly, by comparison. The car was more than a head-turner for bystanders. It typically produced facial expressions of befuddlement and disbelief. Few, if any, could recognize it by name or nationality. Instead of the ‘cool’ vibe produced by most rare or vintage automobiles, it simply projected an aura of mystery. As if some foreign spy had stumbled off the beaten path to land in Chardon for the Geauga County Maple Festival.

To be fair, Dad sometimes was inclined to choose out-of-the-ordinary mules for our everyday transportation. So this meant that little brother, sister and myself grew up with a parade of cars that included a Renault (only one family trip before it developed engine trouble), a Corvair Greenbriar van, two versions of the Saab 96 (one with the two-stroke triple motor, one with the V-4), and a Simca 1100 hatchback. But eventually, he succumbed to practicality and steered toward Ford LTD wagons, a Galaxie, and the utilitarian Maverick.

Especially in our county, the Peugeot stood out like a trespassing rogue. It looked a bit stodgy, yet smartly styled. Perhaps more German in appearance than authentically French. The 604 had a brown leather interior that often sent me slipping around in my seat while trying to drive. But a Blaupunkt 8-track stereo was in the dash, offering competent sound on the road. I much preferred its sturdy, 4-speed transmission to the one in my own Chevrolet Chevette. On those occasions when I got to pilot this wheeler with the Lion Crest, it felt liberating. A cut above the bargain-basement feel of my dinky Chevrolet. 

 

But after awhile, Dad began to remember why he had switched to more mundane vehicles. The Peugeot was quirky and sometimes exasperating. Finding parts and service was a challenge. A shop in Chesterland provided his best hope for repairs not suited to being done in the driveway. When the car needed an exhaust system, the designated pipes were valued like gold. Looking to save ready cash, he had a custom fix welded together at Mr. Muffler, in Painesville. When it needed a starter, purchasing a factory replacement proved to be prohibitively pricey. So he cross-referenced the part through old manuals on hand. In a moment of mechanical lucidity, he realized that something roughly equivalent had been used on American Motors products. This light bulb flash of inspiration eventually produced a heated argument at a local parts store. The counter clerk did not want to sell this item, finally agreeing to do so only with the caveat that no return would be accepted. I held my breath while we returned home with the starter. But it worked.

Of course it worked!

Dad knew everything from mechanics to theology, history, math, music, radio & television repair, minor home construction, plumbing, creative writing and how to make an authentic pan of biscuits or cornbread in a cast-iron skillet.

Owning a Peugeot only seemed to enhance his personal mix of unrelated disciplines and experiences.

My own roster of skills was much less impressive, by comparison. But in the 1980’s, I felt gladdened to be back at home where my routine of learning could continue.

Postscript: The Peugeot was finally traded in on a brand-new Volkswagen Golf. That vehicle begat a second Golf with the diesel motor and a 5-speed transmission. Though slightly underpowered, it would return 50 miles-per-gallon while fully loaded with my parents, various grandchildren and yard sale goodies.

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

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