c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(3-26)
“If you’re going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don’t even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery – isolation. Isolation is the gift. All others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.” – Charles Bukowski
My father passed away in April of 2018.
Which, oddly, I remember because of the specific date, which was 4-27. I thought it to be quite appropriate at the time because we had always been a family with great interest in motor vehicles of all sorts. And 427 was the displacement of a beefy, V-8 powerplant, built by Ford Motor Company and used in some versions of the legendary Shelby AC Cobra. A fact that fit family inclinations which prevailed in our bloodline, though he had actually owned a plethora of cars. Including some built by Chevrolet, Dodge, Renault, Peugeot, Simca, Saab, and Volkswagen, among other manufacturers.
In the months and years since his passing, I have often dreamed about postmortem conversations between us, and the yield of speaking with him from a more mature perspective. But in recent days, this occasional phenomenon produced a lingering memory that I will continue to ponder, for some time.
He was at his desk in the home shared with my mother, a two-story relic situated on a rural road that ran up the hillside, from Philippi, West Virginia. A Mountaineer outpost on the Tygart River. As was often the case, he had filled a Pyrex measuring cup with coffee, to avoid making trips from his study to the kitchen. I caught him after chatting in the living room, with other members of our brood. He typically liked to busy himself with books and magazines, or a shortwave radio which could receive broadcasts from around the world. While working on a church bulletin, or a project of some kind for one of his various blogs on the internet. This reluctance to be directly connected to the stream-of-consciousness mirrored the template set by my grandfather. Who also enjoyed having all of us in his orbit, while not necessarily interacting in real time.
My sleepy adventure smacked of fantasy, with mixed timelines in effect and a surreal amount of self-awareness, without disturbing this void of recollection. I stood in an open doorway to his home office, and puzzled over the healthy appearance and vitality that he projected. Even in a cloak of the slumbering netherworld I inhabited, some details seemed skewed beyond belief, however.
“Doesn’t the old fellow know that he is dead?”
As my father puttered away at his keyboard, I gestured for attention with a humble wave of my right hand.
“Dad, I want to confess something. This will sound ridiculous, perhaps, but I get your vibe. It was always something of a mystery to me, as a young kid, and teenager. Even when I left our household, and married. You were, by my own estimation, stooped and slow, and reluctant to do things that I knew were appealing. I heard stories about your adventures, growing up in Columbus, and marveled at the energy you must have had. It confused me greatly. I wondered how such a metamorphosis could transpire. But now, I don’t wonder any longer. As said before, I get it. I get you. I get your vibe...”
My sire was dressed in the typical garb of a retired citizen from the Midwest. A short-sleeve shirt, certainly acquired from the Sears & Roebuck catalog, with a striped pattern long out of style. And pens in the pocket. Worn with polyester trousers, patterned socks, and casual shoes. No element of his outfit matched any other in the ensemble. He was not visually coordinated.
“You get me? How is that, Rodney? What changed your mind after all these years?”
I coughed lightly and cleared my throat, before answering in a subdued and honest tone.
“Because, Dad, I am tired.”
My remark caused him to look up from his monitor, with a measure of amusement. An expression of surprise passed as he noted that I was using two disability canes to stay upright, like his own.
“Tired you are? How do you mean?”
I had to clear my throat for a second time. Crafting an explanation off-the-cuff was more challenging than I expected.
“I don’t intend to suggest being tired of life, or creative pursuits, or the magic of existing. All those components continue to amaze me. They are gifts. I cherish them equally. But my body, my physical form. My mortal coil. My tortoise shell. It is fatigued and spent. I struggle to get out of bed in the morning. I struggle to make coffee. Often, I eat a plain breakfast, to avoid standing at the counter for too long. One piece of white bread, used to make what I call a ‘foldover sandwich.’ With ham or bologna inside, and some sliced cheese. Maybe a dollop of horseradish sauce, to provide extra flavor. I never describe this to anyone else of course, because they would probably burst into a fit of laughter. It hurts to get back to my chair.”
He smiled with understanding. My description was quite familiar.
“Yes, that is very likely, son. But your habits seem reasonable.”
I sighed heavily, with the realization that he had been gone for an extended period. I wanted to ask questions, and seek his advice. I often missed hearing his voice. But instead of wisely using my opportunity, I simply slouched against the door frame, and shook my head.
“This is what it’s like, right? To get older, and watch family members and friends pass away. That parade seems to continue unabated. No matter what kind of grief and introspection it brings. One after another, after another. And all I can do in response is to feel tired. I am tired, Dad. Not depressed, or sorrowful, or even lonely as I work at my own desk. But thoroughly and completely tired. Nothing comes easily anymore...”
My progenitor nodded and took off his reading glasses. He looked directly into my eyes.
“I’m glad to hear that you are staying busy. That is the goal, Rodney. To stay busy, like I did, right until the end. When you are tired, it means you’ve done something worthwhile. Keep going. Go until you can’t go anymore.”
I awakened just after six o’clock in the morning. My joints were aching. My bladder called out for relief. And I felt somewhat dizzy, sitting on the edge of my mattress. A momentary pause allowed me to realign my thoughts.
I was nearing the age of 65. He had been 88 on his deathbed. Yet both of us lived similar lives, though at differing points in the continuum. If nothing else, I reckoned that synchronicity would keep us together. On opposite sides of the eternal veil, yet still undeniably connected.
I was pleased that we had been able to chat, in my dream. And to confess finally understanding what it meant to be tired.
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