c. 2025 Rod Ice
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(9-25)
For this writer, the subject of death is one typically avoided in polite conversation, yet never far away in terms of art and pondering. For some unexplained reason, this dark wrinkle in the human experience has always resonated with a measure of realism that most people would find distasteful. To linger on the finality of an extinguished flame might be said to rob the joy of living, at a point too soon to be palatable. But in my own world, it has offered a measure of balance. A rationale for appreciating the gift of being, as a cherished quantity not to be taken for granted or abused.
I cannot remember a time, even during my childhood, when this was not the case.
I grew up with stories of those who had gone before, even as an intellectual babe. My paternal grandmother passed when he who sired me was only five years old. His first wife perished in a car accident, on their honeymoon. My own mother almost met a similar fate, at the wheel of a 1950 Chevrolet. Thankfully, she was spared by grace and good fortune. My maternal grandmother, a poet and anchor of the brood, left our mortal realm when I was at a tender age. Only 11 years and a few months. That event was decidedly emotional and gut-wrenching to witness, so much that it has tinted my consciousness with hues of sadness, ever since. In July of 1980, a cohort from days working at Channel 13 in Ithaca, New York chose to end his journey by leaping into a geographical gorge in the city. His exit was jarring and unexpected. Another mile-marker of sorts, along the way.
None of these events could be said to have caused shadows of eternal night to follow me on my own jaunt through the chronology of recorded history. Yet each instance reinforced my awareness. Deepening a crevasse of stale, silent awe that seemed to always be close at hand.
Jim Carroll, the late songwriter and performer, attained fame for speaking to this uncomfortable truth with candid boldness. His cultural anthem immediately shook me to the core, upon being heard for the first time. Strangely, in the same year when my friend and inspiration from Cornell, left the earth.
“Teddy sniffing glue, he was twelve years old
Fell from the roof on East Two-Nine
Cathy was eleven when she pulled the plug
Twenty-Six reds and a bottle of wine
Bobby got leukemia, fourteen years old
He looked like sixty-five when he died
He was a friend of mine
Those are people who died...”
A short while later, I recorded with a group known officially as Absolute Zero, and when we were in an Elmira studio, recording tracks for a vinyl single, improvised a closing to one of those songs. As guitar, bass, and drums throttled up to an intense, musical climax, I shouted about wanting to die. A rowdy bit of audio theater, inspired by the fade of a classic, Rolling Stones record called ‘The Last Time.’ I was still in my early 20s, and obviously naïve. But the effect of this outburst on my bandmates was chilling.
Thankfully, like most residents of the planet, I banished these graveyard echoes while using my mental energy to handle other, more timely issues as I grew older. Education, family concerns, career advancement, and writing endeavors all took precedence. I channeled my self-awareness into more positive pursuits. Still, I did not completely escape the knowledge that at some point, with the anonymity of a random selection, my voyage would end. As a young man, this sense of finality did not carry the weight it might have done, if closer to the bullseye. Yet decades later, by happenstance and the woes of aging physically, I suddenly found that this unseen force had not disappeared from view.
A neighbor in her 40s fell prey to a heart attack. A co-worker in Geneva was diagnosed with stage-four cancer, and passed in a matter of weeks. Then, I reached a point where my own mobility had become so limited that I had no choice but to retire early. Something for which I was completely unprepared.
As I struggled through months and years without a regular routine, a new reality took hold. Both parents concluded their life span, in the space of approximately 18 months. I learned a great deal about handling the responsibilities involved, with help from my sister. A platonic friend met in Ashtabula County filled the resulting void with needs of her own, after a heart attack and three strokes. I took her to see doctors and a lawyer, and finally, handled her paperwork on my own. Never at any point in this process did I dwell for too long on the concept of death or dying. Yet somehow, with the creeping crawl of a slow-moving apparition in effect, I realized that my personal space had been invaded. Overtaken, in a sense, by fate.
My brother had to be hospitalized, and landed in a nursing home. My sister developed diabetes, and then cancer, in a rapid and inexplicable succession. A best friend from days in the Empire State had a health crisis in New York City, and was stuck, hours away from his home in the Finger Lakes Region. And my brother-in-law succumbed to senile dementia.
These bursts of virtual machine-gun fire left me riddled with doubt, when considering what lay ahead. For the first instance that I could remember, so many members of my own tribe, and those in my circle of friends, were incapacitated that it made my head spin. I could not comprehend having reached such a benchmark, seemingly in good condition, when my own lifestyle had been so full of sin and bad behavior.
I could not justify still being on the outside, with my liberties intact.
Most recently, the quick collapse of Terry DuFoe, my radio and broadcasting hero, sent me into a creative funk. Especially with California guitarist Davie Allan already having retreated into seclusion, due to his own maladies. But as a metaphorical sunset was about to blot out the daylight, I got a telephone call from Ms. T, someone at the center of my social perimeter. An adviser, expert witness, sounding-board, and occasional co-conspirator. Someone who could balance a lively conversation with the gastronomic bliss of a meal shared in the Cleveland area.
She had received her own diagnosis of the proverbial end-times being close at hand, and chose to use this occasion with wisdom and sobriety. She had decided to call each and every figure that dotted her path with importance. For the purpose of communicating love and appreciation. Against that backdrop, the process of handling legal chores had begun. I was struck by her courage and discipline. Not to mention being humbled by my inclusion on her roster of true friends.
As before, I have been busy with the labor of helping others who are on their way to traversing the horizon of eternity. Too much to wallow in heavy thoughts of my own graduation from the flesh. But when that tick-tock of God’s celestial clockworks resounds, I hope to meet it with the same intensity and fortitude. And perhaps with a final testament offered here, in print.
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