c. 2025 Rod Ice
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(9-25)
My friend Michelle grew up in Saybrook Township, about one block south of Lake Erie. Her personal life was a confusing, twisted tale perhaps better left untold for gentle ears. One that saw her being raised by a grandmother who lived down the road from both parents. For a reason that I have never been able to deduce, and probably have no need to know. Her personality was odd, off-the-wall, and sometimes combative. She did not look pretty. Her dyed, reddish mane was often unbrushed and messy. She never wore makeup or flattering clothes. Her habit of donning a plastic spider like a necklace produced eerie vibes. Yet it seemed quite appropriate. If Morticia Addams had discovered a lost sibling, living in an abandoned shack, that might have been my unlikely companion. She wasn’t particularly kind, funny, or compelling. Not even generally interested in friendship, except with a very small number of individuals who like myself, could not explain the attraction. Her rationale was one given with a smirk and narrowed eyes.
“Don’t question it! I am awesome!”
But in 2009, she had the best quality of all as a healer. She was there...
I separated from my second wife, shortly after being hired at a business in Geneva. My financial situation was decidedly chaotic, and I worked long hours to remedy this challenging problem. My personal life turned dark and empty. Even members of my own family took a negative position on what had transpired. I ended up wearing my late father-in-law’s coat for the winter. A garment hued in colors of the Dallas Cowboys football team, a franchise I had never liked. Its zipper was broken. The synthetic fabric was stained. Yet it kept me warm.
When I met this new member of my depleted social circle, she had already been on the team for a few years. I could not remember her name, right away, but was struck by the fact that though much younger than myself, she somehow had a fan crush on Janis Joplin. So, that impulsive nickname stuck. It also seemed to fit her carefree, breezy style of behavior. She did not shy away from taking a hard line with coworkers or other managers at our business. Something that I thought to be reckless. Still, this direct approach always worked out, in the end. She did not mince words or attempt to be diplomatic. But soon enough, I found that she would contact me almost every day, if for no other purpose but to wish me a good morning, or good night.
At that juncture in my life, knowing there was someone on the other end of a phone connection meant a great deal.
I had always enjoyed Chinese food, and particularly the sort of cuisine available at self-service restaurants in New York State, an idea that was only beginning to thrive back home in Ohio. When I happened upon the Hong Kong King Buffet in town, an epiphany of sorts occurred. I mentioned my desire to score some Oriental grub, with a partner for conversation, and she reacted with a positive spark of interest. I was caught off guard initially, having expected some kind of epithet to be hurled. Then however, I realized that we had formed a useful alliance.
General Tso’s Chicken, Egg Rolls, Fried Rice, and Wonton Soup brought us together in earnest.
In years that followed, we would visit the eatery many times over. Once, for dining and fellowship, three days in a row. Yet Michelle had a curious habit after we would finish our meals. She would want to take a walk down the street, to stretch our legs, and aid in digestion. It was something I remembered a gray-headed matron in my own brood recommending. A festive march through the old apple orchard, once our kitchen had been cleaned up after dinner time.
Junior Janis would ask questions that were unexpectedly probing and thoughtful, as we crossed the successive squares of narrow concrete. She wondered about religion and the afterlife. And also, about how women were treated in many foreign lands. She expressed sympathy for those on the social fringe, which I thought was completely in-character. Even offering her opinion that rights given to mainstream folk should extend to all. But she tired easily when talking too much. Her attention span was limited, like that of a child. If I became too zealous in presenting an intellectual or philosophical argument, her face would go pale.
“Did I tell you that Granny used to raise chickens? The henhouse is still in my back yard. I liked them as pets! Lots of clucking and squawking and strutting around.”
The zig-zag course of these discussions kept me distracted from my own woes, at home. Which was something I needed desperately.
We began to branch out a bit after that, in terms of restaurant choices. Eventually meeting at Waffle House in Austinburg, Taco Bell, Mr. Hero, and Wendy’s locations around the area. Or sourcing goodies from Toro Carryout, along West Prospect Road in Ashtabula. A tiny food outpost east of her humble home, which boasted a diverse menu and courteous service. We would sometimes order a pan of 50 hot wings, and devour them while sitting on her front porch.
She still had an antique glider, left from the previous inhabitants of her household. It was rusted slightly, and sagged on one side. But reminded me of yonder days and the continuity of life, from one generation to the next.
The Covid Pandemic interrupted our partnership with rude consequences, as her own health began to decline. Her appetite for cigarettes had continued, unabated, despite warnings about the eventual results that were likely. Her blood pressure spiked, and an ER visit became necessary. She had suffered a stroke while working, but did not get diagnosed until much later. A second event struck eventually, and then a heart attack. Followed by a third interruption in blood flow to her brain.
I took her to medical appointments, sat with her at the hospital, and eventually, filed her disability claim twice, after we spoke to a lawyer. She was in Cleveland for about a full calendar year. But finally made the trek back to Ashtabula City, and a friendly facility that had the skilled personnel she needed for constant care. In the interim, I had to retire from my own dual career in business management, and journalism. By that point, I had adjusted to my solitary status, however. It did not matter so much that we were distant. I knew that she was protected.
We no longer speak on a daily basis. Though I can say with honesty that her presence lingers still. She is part of every day, in hindsight. I am gladdened to know that she has adapted to her current environment and routine, with courage. Out of necessity perhaps, yet with a good dose of her grandmother’s old-time wisdom.
I thank you, friend, for being there when I needed someone. Literally anyone, to brighten the shadows. That gift is one I will never forget.
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