c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(7-24)
June 27, 2024 – A date that FDR might have said, were he still alive, will live in infamy.
Watching the first presidential debate of this campaign season aroused many emotions for voters, oddsmakers, and pundits across America. The amount of prose that has already been written and delivered is considerable, indeed. Yet in the Icehouse home office, a different take on this event still lingers in the air. One that reeks of toasted bread and memories of my late mother, who was a lifelong Democrat of the New Deal variety.
Friends in New York and California must have been weeping as they witnessed the decline of President Joseph R. Biden on display for a national audience. It was a seismic event that can’t be unseen. Something that will be dissected and debated and if possible, debunked by loyalists in and around the White House. Though the likelihood that spinmeisters could be successful at convincing the greater populace that their eyes told a falsehood on Thursday night seems remote. Meanwhile, here in my native Ohio, the cheering of MAGA disciples continues to echo. Neighbors, friends, and many of my own family members worship the Orange Man with a neo-religious fervor that appears to equal the faith Christ’s apostles held in his divinity.
But for this writer, my takeaway from watching these two old men argue over their skill with a golf club was something wholly different. Non-political and sobering in considering that life truly is a gift, but one with an expiration date, not unlike perishable goods in a supermarket.
Around the year of 2009, my father had a second bout with colon cancer. This dreadful affliction was something that altered his habits and sense of well-being, forever. Though by the grace of a higher power, and medical science, he was able to survive. When this new round of woe entered his life, I happened to be unemployed and searching for a way to restart my management career. He and my mother lived in a rural county in West Virginia, their last stop on a long journey of proclaiming the gospel of Jesus as a team. So, I decided to head south and offer help while sidelined as an active participant in the job market.
My beloved mater had received a knee replacement at some point during those years, and afterward found that it was now uncomfortable to sleep in a regular bed. So, she spent nights resting in a lift-chair recliner that helped her get in and out easily and independently. While my sire was away at the university hospital in Morgantown, about an hour from their home on the Tygart River, I provided assistance with chores around the household. And sometimes cooked meals or prepared snacks.
Sharing a first cup of coffee was something decidedly special for us, because she who carried me in her womb only drank one per day. When their Bunn device had finished its brewing cycle, I would bring mugs of the flavorful yield out to their living room. And sit down for a happy visit. She was someone literally gifted at the art of interacting with others through lively conversation. A talent that ran in her bloodline.
We chatted on about nothing in particular, like birds chirping from neighboring treetops to greet the morning. Then, she confessed to having a taste for buttered toast. I immediately jumped up to oblige, and for once, she did not offer an argument. The preparation took only a minute, while I refilled my own vessel with more black gold. I carried the plate to her and bowed with the grace of a waiter on duty. Once I had seated myself again, our wordplay continued. Except that she paused to ponder her food with a look of puzzlement and dissatisfaction.
“Look at this Rodney, can’t you see? There’s not enough butter to cover each slice, it should have been spread out to the edges! Some of the bread is dry, and there are lumps in between. Couldn’t you have done better? I don’t understand!”
Mother was a kind and compassionate soul, who sprang from the Great Depression and a World War that followed. Her demeanor was always cheerful, and grateful. She did not complain much, about anything. So, the tone of her voice came as a shock of sorts. I sat still like a schoolboy that had been scolded.
“Of course, Mama! I can fix it, I’m sorry! I must not have been paying attention. I get too lazy down here, it is good to come home and breathe in the country air!”
My command of kitchen duties never rivaled hers, but the toast I had made was in keeping with any other product I could remember. The moment passed quickly, she had her plain breakfast, and we went on laughing and reminiscing throughout the morning. Yet that brief incident stuck in my head like a Post-It Note. I struggled to get her vibe. What had changed between us, since I was up north, in Buckeye territory? That feeling of uncertainty did not evaporate for many days afterward. In future times, I would realize that it had been a sad sign of things to come.
Almost two decades later, she was formally diagnosed with Senile Dementia, at the Mansfield Place nursing home in Barbour County. Something that confirmed what the family had witnessed, in the interim. Her decline in cognition and ability progressed through stages that she herself did not recognize or comprehend. She stopped cooking and baking, things that were cherished activities, because it became too difficult to remember if she had properly followed steps to her recipes. She quit attending church services, another valued part of her life, while making the excuse that once the season changed from winter to spring, this important component would return. It never did, of course.
She had good days and bad days. A type of roller-coaster existence that I learned was very common.
Eventually, she spoke about seeing her parents sitting on the couch. Both had been dead for several years. Once, she was convinced that a fire had started in the house, and became inconsolably frightened. It took the careful words of my sister to convince her that all would be well. We were numb by that point. No one knew what to do, except to love and pray and hope that her vitality would endure.
Watching our elected head-of-state fumble his words and struggle to stay on track brought all of these memories to mind, as I sat in front of my television on Thursday night. I felt no joy in watching his infirmities being exposed. Instead, his predicament resonated in personal terms. It tugged gently at my heartstrings. It made my eyes moist in reflection.
I will leave political discussions and intrigue to critical thinkers, who have more insight to offer. Instead of passing judgment, or imagining solutions, I will instead remember that the man on my screen was a brother, uncle, husband, father, and grandfather. Someone who served in the Senate from the time when I had only reached classes in elementary school. A fellow that I used to think would probably have a beer with me, if invited casually. And someone who actually responded with a personal letter, when I sent one of my books as a gift during his first campaign for Vice President.
Has he been good or bad on the national stage? An effective leader of the free world? A keeper of the flame of liberty? Or, just an enemy across the aisle, to be battled? All those questions are beside the point as I sit at my desk, today.
I am lost remembering buttered toast. And the celestial clock ticking in my ear.
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