Nobody Reads This Page: “My Pater, Explained”

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(8-26)

 

 

“Father Time is not always a hard parent and though he tarries for none of his children, often lays his hand lightly upon those who have used him well; making them old men and women inexorably enough, but leaving their hearts and spirits young and in full vigor. With such people the gray head is but the impression of the old fellow’s hand in giving them his blessing, and every wrinkle but a notch in the quiet calendar of a well-spent life.” – Charles Dickens

 

As a younger man, I often pondered the slow plodding of my sire with curiosity and a measure of confusion. Because of course, I was at a point in my own earthly journey too early for the broad perspective necessary to comprehend his patient pace of movement. I knew from stories retold at family gatherings and such, that he had once been active, ambitious, and even aggressive in pursuing his personal goals. A fellow of education, experiences, and faith. But when I had reached an age advanced enough to appreciate his place in the order of things, he was a different man. Slouching and stooped by cares and woes, hobbled by physical ailments that I did not fully understand, and wallowing in the midst of reorganizing his personal priorities.

 

As a mere offshoot of the grand oak himself, I questioned how that metamorphosis could occur. He would spend long hours working at his desk, reading books, and listening to music, pausing only to refill a coffee mug which had once been a measuring vessel in an earlier life. When he sometimes became nostalgic about childhood days in eastern Kentucky, and central Ohio, I struggled to identify the person portrayed in his recollections. He spoke about traveling, playing a variety of instruments including the piano, banjo, guitar, and fiddle, while also laboring as a mechanic and later, adopting the mantle of a scholar.

 

I reckoned that some sort of divine intervention must have robbed him of inertia. Because the old soul I beheld every morning was less adventurous and more careful in his daily routine.

 

When I chose the craft of creative writing as a worthy pursuit, my early manuscripts were centered on themes of motorcycles and rebellion. This caused him to gently reflect on having owned a vintage, Harley-Davidson VL-series flathead of 74 cubic inches. An iron steed manufactured in the early 1930s. I remembered its presence in a garage barn at our homestead in Columbus, as a kid. He confessed to having sold the machine to someone who was interested in locating the metal bones for a restoration project. Apparently, photographs followed when this endeavor had been completed, to document the resurrection, and pay tribute to my father as a benefactor. Though no one in our brood saw them, directly.

 

In the moment, I was offended at not being chosen to receive the twin-wheeled beast, myself. With a careless attitude of indifference, I protested the surrender of this treasure, instead of passing it down as my logical birthright.

 

“Dad, couldn’t you have kept that bike for me? I deserved it more than a stranger in another state. I would have cherished it as part of our heritage, and traditions! I could have written a dozen stories about that old hawg! What an opportunity that would have been!”

 

My progenitor smiled and nodded without becoming emotional over this raw complaint. He knew that my firsthand knowledge about antique motors was lacking, and that I did not have the required skill to bring a valuable relic, so long neglected, back to life.

 

“Rodney, that was some time ago. You were probably about ten years old...”

 

In the years that followed, I watched his competence decline, along with other infirmities that hindered his ability to cope. He complained of sore knees and fatigue. I noted that he and my mother stopped visiting familiar sites during the summer, and became more isolated socially with their neighbors. Maintenance chores around the home were neglected until I came to visit. In general, their tempo of living gradually shifted to one governed more by necessity than personal desire.

 

A familiar quote in professional sports, sometimes attributed to the athlete Michael Irvin, says that ‘Father Time is undefeated.’ That wise expression was top of mind as I reached my own point of reference for the aging process recently, nearing the mark of 65 years. With both parents and my sister all departed to a higher plane of existence, I have felt at times somewhat abandoned in my own condition of seniority. Yet now, I am able to connect with the unspoken message so often communicated by my bloodline contributor.

 

At last, the epiphany of his own experiences has fallen upon my cerebrum, with meaning.

 

Were we able to converse directly, I might admit my guilt, face-to-face. Perhaps I would offer an apology for being impatient and willfully naïve. But instead of passing judgment, his reaction to this plea for forgiveness might come in the form of a wink, and a grin of acceptance.

 

“It’s all part of the journey, my son. As you are, I once was. As I am, you shall be...”

 

I am moved to reconsider his perspective while sitting at my own desk, here in the rural township where I reside. As with his habits, I have jettisoned anything capricious and impulsive from my regular plan of action. I move deliberately and with some effort, throughout the day. There are no frills to enjoy, any longer. No random escapades in leisure hours. No wild wandering in the dead of night, long after civilized folk have gone to bed. No retracing my steps without a justified cause making it imperative. No running, jumping, or bending my knees.

 

What I feel is gratitude, for still being a sentient member of the community. Awake, alive, and able to endure. A condition described artfully in song, by George Jones – ‘I’m Ragged But I’m Right.’ That statement of confidence is now a mantra on which I depend.

 

My sire cleared the path which I tread, today. I am simply following his lead, toward whatever finality awaits, in the great beyond.