"Starting Over" (2010)

c. 2010 Cheryl Kelly
All rights reserved
(12-10)

Note To Readers: This was originally featured in a 'Thoughts At Large' column titled 'More Greetings From A Local Writer.' (Geauga County Maple Leaf)


The start of a New Year equates to a new beginning for some of us. In truth, I think everyone at some point reflects and sets goals for themselves moving forward, but for some of us, moving forward entails quite a bit more than just losing a few pounds or vowing to quit smoking. Some people are forced into making that new beginning and some do so by choice. No matter where you find yourself this upcoming year, starting over to whatever degree it might be, is never an easy task.

Decision making is a skill that not everyone does with ease. The ability to have confidence in your choices is a gift, and not one that everyone possesses. Constant second-guessing can be your worst enemy and learning to allow yourself the pleasure of making a mistake is the core to being able to start over. You can’t start over without first acknowledging that there is a need for it…a reason for it. It’s not always necessarily to fix a mistake; it could simply be a choice to try a different path. Change is an acquired taste, and one that not everyone handles with grace. It’s learning to accept that not all change is controllable, and not all change is bad.

I remember I had just started a new job, my first “professional” job as a working woman. My boss, an older man, very much set in his ways had given me a letter to type and I was taken aback by the address. The correspondence began with “Gentlemen”, not “To whom it may concern”, not “Sir or Madam” (which was the current appropriate address), but “Gentlemen”. I promptly got up from my desk and walked to his office. Knocking on his door and asking for a moment of his time, I inquired about the address. Now, being a fairly new employee, I very respectfully questioned the appropriateness of his opening address. The response I received was, “That’s how I was taught, and that’s how I want my letters addressed.” I was shocked. How could this man in this high position clearly not know that it was no longer proper to address blind letters with “Gentlemen”? For months I gently protested, and to no avail. I finally had to accept the fact that it was his signature at the bottom of those letters and not mine...no matter how hard it was for me to type and overlook. No, change was not in his vocabulary.

Change, like starting over is an acquired taste. Something some handle well and something others avoid at all cost. We go through life believing that at some point we will reach that ultimate goal of being able to sit back, relax and enjoy what we’ve worked so hard to achieve. As we go along, we ultimately discover that it doesn’t always work that way…that life is ever-changing and malleable, like a clay model that changes shape with every choice or decision we make and every person that we invite into or who touches our lives. And like clay models, life can be smoothed out and rolled and shaped into something new.

Starting over is like buying a new car. You pay and pay, month after month, year after year, thinking to yourself that eventually, it will be paid off and it will be mine, and I will have true ownership. But then what happens? The car gets paid off, sure, but now it’s falling apart and you need a new one, so, you start over. Again, sometimes by choice…sometimes by force. Life is full of constant start-overs…time to question and reflect…time to try again and see what it is that you’re going to do differently this time. Time to see what you’ve learned and time to apply different strategies in the hopes of finding the one that truly works…that allows you that opportunity to sit, relax and finally enjoy.

It can be a daunting task to start over…to begin again, a scary one at times, but a necessary one as well. No one ever said change was easy, but it doesn’t have to be debilitating. It can be exciting and refreshing and exactly what you need. The key is to open yourself up for whatever comes your way…either by choice or by necessity. Having faith in yourself that you will make the right choices, and if you get off track, you will find your way back, and be better for it. So, whether you find yourself making your own resolutions this year, or find yourself being pressed into making those changes…embrace it, because therein lies true ownership.

“Terrible Meanness and Beautiful Kindness”

c. 2018 Cheryl Kelly

(5-18)

Isn’t it odd how life gives you signs and shows you things that you weren’t looking for? That it can take one single, simple moment and make it have such an impact on you that you just can’t stop thinking about it and what it means…? That it can alter your thinking in one second or change your view with one experience? That it can show you terrible meanness and beautiful kindness all at the same time? Here’s a story I’d like to share of one such event for me…

A friend and I stopped after work one evening for a beer and a bite to eat at a local restaurant and bar. We grabbed a couple open bar stools and ordered our beers. We were there for about a half hour or so talking and watching the ball game on the big screen over the bar when I caught part of a conversation that was going on between a couple of people sitting a stool away from me. Now I’m not one to eavesdrop, but there was a tone to this conversation that grabbed my attention and so I nonchalantly tuned in. It was between this young woman, I would say in her early twenties, and this clearly drunk older man about sixty if I had to guess. The young woman was sitting at the bar looking up at one of the screens drinking a glass of water, and the man was speaking at her (yes I do mean “at”) spewing the most hateful things. “You know what you are don’t you? A waste, a piece of shit...” I looked at them, wondering if I really heard what I think I just heard.

The young woman was quiet for the longest time as the man continued to taunt her with one vile comment after another. She finally looked at him and responded with, “You don’t even know me. You don’t know anything about me...” By this time, my friend had noticed I had gotten preoccupied elsewhere and he began to get wind of the situation unfolding, along with several other patrons at the bar. It dawned on me after taking a long look, that this young woman clearly had some issues. It wasn’t just in the way she was dressed in her mismatched clothes and what looked to be pajama pants, or the way her hair looked as though it hadn’t seen a brush in awhile. It was her uncontrollable shaking of her leg and her slight disconnection from the immediate environment that made it clear to me that she was an addict of some type and was struggling at the moment.

Not being able to listen any further to the hate that continued to pour from this man’s mouth like vomit, I turned in my stool to face them and told the young woman to change her seat and come over by us; that she did not have to listen to that any longer. She picked up her water and walked down by us and sat on the other side of my friend saying a quiet “thank you”. The inebriated man then turned his hatred towards me and my friend asking us if we were “alright with that” pointing his finger at the young woman. My friend and I exchanged some words with the man telling him that she wasn’t hurting anyone, that she was quietly sitting drinking her water without disturbing him or anyone else, and who was he to judge or comment on anyone…? The conversation escalated with the old man, filled with liquid courage, calling my friend out for a fight. We both just looked at each other unbelieving that this was transpiring. I give a ton of credit to my friend too...it’s not easy to keep your head calm and cool when you’re being called names and called out to fight by someone who clearly needs his ass beat.

Finally, after waiting too long in my opinion, the manager of the bar approached the old man and escorted him outside. My friend and I went about our evening, ordering a drink and some food for our new friend who was clearly hungry. Although reluctant to eat at first, she soon warmed up and began to eat. We boxed up what she did not eat and told her to take it home for later. As we were finishing up our own food and drink, the manager stopped by to talk to us, trying to explain that the old man was a regular, a Veteran and had many times been kicked out of the bar for his behavior. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask, “then why is he still allowed in?”, or “what does being a Veteran have to do with anything?”, but I didn’t. I know the manager was trying to excuse the old man’s poor behavior, and although I understand why, I think my friend summed it up best when he said, “People like that don’t change.”

A bit later something happened that I have not been able to get out of my head. Another man quietly stepped between me and my friend, he put his arms around our shoulders and without saying a word, looked at me and kissed me hard and long on my cheek and then looked at my friend and extended his hand to which my friend took to give it a good firm shake. Then just like that, without a word, the stranger turned and left the bar. My friend and I sat and stared at each other for a long moment wondering what just happened. We weren’t sure what to say. Neither of us knew this man nor did we remember seeing him in the bar at any time. I don’t know why this gesture has made such an impact on me...but it has. I have rerun that whole scene over and over again in my head wondering whether it was just someone simply saying “thank you” for your kindness or if it was a sign of some sort. All I know is that in one typical afternoon, I got a chance to witness life, at its worst and at its best, the worst in people and the best in people...utter meanness and beautiful kindness.

“Memorial”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have given comfort. Time knows no mortal master. What follows here is another example of the ideas that have emerged while pondering this cycle of life.

A Capella singing. A tradition of the church community in which I was raised.

Once the last verse of ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ had been finished, our group fell silent. There was a moment of hesitation as the local pastor looked in my direction. I breathed heavily and reached for my cane. Then, with some effort, I moved toward the pulpit. My eyes were wet. But somehow, purpose brought clarity of thought. I looked across the crowd and back again. Then, with a noisy rustling of printed paper, my address began:

“I am grateful for those who have remembered my father today. For those who have spoken of his faith and service. For those who praised his degrees in formal education. For those who have remembered his authorship of theological books and articles written for many publications. For those who recall him officiating at weddings, funerals, services of all sorts, teaching Sunday School and leading songs. He would be thrilled to know that each step of his journey left an indelible footprint that served to inspire others. I am grateful for each word spoken today.”

In the front row, my sister was crying. She dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief.

“But today, it is my hope to place in your memory a different perspective on this man,” I continued. “You have heard about a remarkable fellow. A scholar, a steward, a leader, a teacher in the old tradition. Now, I want to tell you about… my dad. The man I knew at home.”

A breathless pause held the moment.

“I want to tell you about the giant who led me as a child,” I said. “My hand grasped one of his fingers like it was a mighty sword. He seemed huge and yet so gentle. I trusted him in every way. When questions ached in my head, he never failed to have some sort of answer. I marveled at his knowledge. Every conversation, no matter how innocuous, became a learning experience.”

An old parishioner wearing West Virginia University Mountaineers attire fumbled with his walker. An oxygen cylinder sat nearby. He nodded his bald head in approval.

“We would go to classic car shows in the summer,” I reflected. “Once, I saw a vehicle from the 1940’s and sounded out the name on its chrome grille. ‘Ply-mouth.’ Dad laughed and explained how to properly pronounce this automotive moniker. I never forgot that moment of kind correction. I soon became a vintage vehicle expert of sorts, from reading his Floyd Clymer books.”

My nephews began to smile.

“Dad had taken a course in television repair after graduating from high school,” I observed. “The manual was an enormous document, in a leather binder. During my childhood, he repaired many castaway sets that had been discarded as worthless junk. Even when I became a teenager, our family still watched programs on devices that were many years out of date. When friends visited, they felt mystified and amused. It was a trait of the Ice household. Yesterday and today coexisted in the same space.”

My uncle from Indiana beamed with pride.

“Writing has always been a family habit,” I proclaimed. “From an early age, the need to put thoughts into print was something I inherited from my father with much enthusiasm. I mimicked his office style by creating one of my own, in our basement. Later, his advice on content and editing proved to be invaluable. He admonished me to write from my own experiences, because those were more durable and genuine than any other kind of inspiration. He also said that a useful trick was to read manuscripts aloud, as an aid to proper phrasing. It is a tool I still use to this day.”

From a pew set far back in the church, an old woman prayed quietly. “Thank you Jesus, for such a man.”

“Dad hoped that I would follow in his footsteps,” I confessed. “But my life-path did not lead in that direction, for many reasons. Yet as I developed a career in business management, overseeing retail stores, it became clear that his template had become my own. The strategies I used at my workplace were no different than his own habits tending the flock. ‘Building lines of communication’ with employees and customers, as he had done himself, within the faith community.”

A young boy pondered his song book. He looked sad, but intently focused on every word I had offered. It was impossible not to wonder where his own path would go, in future days still waiting to unfold.

“My first car was a 1973 Volkswagen,” I said. “When it had a broken set of points, Dad helped get the Beetle right again, even though his days as a mechanic had long since passed into memory. Because of growing up on a farm, he had some familiarity with almost everything. After puttering with the German machine, we went back to our house and made coffee. He mused about rigging up radio antennas as a kid, to hear broadcasts of Folk and Country music on WSM from Nashville. Later, we discussed oddities like Edgar Cayce visions and Ray Palmer magazines. He was ahead of me at every point on the curve. I felt thrilled to follow and learn.”

My uncle from Tennessee bowed his head, respectfully.

“In summation, let me declare that the one we honor today was not merely a figure of public renown and regard from his peers,” I concluded. “He gave me life, hope, instruction and purpose. But most importantly of all, he offered the example of a loving father. One who made me feel truly glad to be a member of this family.”

I looked over at the casket, my eyes growing wet once again. “I love you, Dad.”

The congregation stood to sing. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see...”

Postscript: Dad died on April 27^th. I read this manuscript as part of his funeral service at the Union Church of Christ on May 1^st.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published regularly in the Geauga Independent

"Small Town Best"

c. 2018 Cheryl Kelly

All rights reserved

(4-18)

My youngest son recently got his temporary license this past week and I took him driving through the old development that I grew up in. It was a safe place to take a new driver; short streets, not a lot of traffic and low speed limits. As we cruised the streets over and over and I gave direction, I found myself flooded with memories from my childhood. We passed houses where my best friends used to live, my own house I grew up in, the corners where the green electrical boxes used to stand that were a hang out for all the kids...it was almost eerie. Things have changed so much and I was amazed at how “small” everything now looked.

The houses are small, the streets so close, almost claustrophobic; strangers walking their dogs and driving past. It almost felt like a dream. I could clearly remember like it was yesterday, who lived where, and whose house we always gravitated towards. I was reminiscing in my head the many happy years spent there and the memories were just swirling. From playing freeze tag and TV tag in bare feet in the front yard to riding my bike up and down the streets stopping at each friend’s house hoping they could come out and play, and of course making sure I got off my bike and walked it across the street as required by my father. (That did work for some time until I got smart enough to figure out that he was not out patrolling the streets watching me…) And lets not forget meeting everyone at the local pool when the summer sun and heat was brutal.

Summer nights in a small town like Chardon were golden. It was a standard rule in my house that if the weather was nice, you weren’t to be seen inside, and that was fine by me. Days were filled with running around all day long playing, never once wanting to stop and come home to eat. Hating to hear the whistle from my father calling me home at night, and never wanting to see those dreaded streetlights come on that meant I better be in my own yard or there was trouble. And when that next morning came, it seemed like an eternity waiting for my friends to wake up so we could do it all over again. How I wish I had that unlimited time and energy now...

Winter was no different. I couldn’t wait to get stuffed into that one piece snowsuit and bundled up hoping that my mother did not zip my chin when she pulled that zipper up. Looking like Ralphie’s brother in A Christmas Story, barely able to walk in my moon boots, oh, but I could play! Sledding down from the railroad tracks, making igloos, snowmen...just running around. And that feeling of getting warm after finally coming in because you couldn’t feel your toes or nose – there was nothing like it.

Springtime in Chardon means one thing...Maple Festival time. We waited all year for this. Our little town square gets turned into a carnival for a brief period of time and when you are young, it means everything. We lived within walking distance and we always had friends and family coming over to walk up and enjoy the food and day at the festival. Making the trek up the hill to the square was filled with anticipation as to which ride you were going to get in line for first, what food you would eat and what new treasures were to be found under the big white tents. As I got older, being trusted to walk from school up to the festival with friends was the big thing. That wonderful feeling of independence and excitement of who you would see and what cute boys you would run into. Innocent fun…

The jerk of the car from brakes being hit too hard brought me back around to reality. Looking at my son next to me I smiled and said, “easy there pal”. I raised my sons right here in Chardon wanting that same close, quiet, family atmosphere for them that I so enjoyed growing up. Even though the times have really changed from when I was young, it survives here. It’s a feeling you get when you drive down the streets or look out your front window and see people living simply, see small businesses flourishing and sense that community vibe, that small town best.

Editor’s Note: A great story here of growing up in small-town America. Passing the torch onward to the next generation. In personal terms, I have long wished for this kind of memory. But moving frequently during childhood, from state to state, exploded that concept. More recently, I used to refer to Chardon, Ohio as my ‘adopted home town’ until divorce and career chaos also overwhelmed such notions of family and self. I now feel more at home in Geneva or Saybrook. Though it is likely that tomorrow will spin the Roulette Wheel once again. Still, the tale here is sweet to savor. Cheers to you, my friend.

“Peugeot Proud”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(4-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example of life in our household, from bygone days.

Oddball.

At home, this has often been a term of endearment. As my esteemed cousin once observed about our brood: “The Ice family. Doing it our own way since 1710.”

When I came back to Ohio in 1983, after the free-fall that followed my television study through Cornell University, the readjustment of my senses took a moment. I had just spent five years in a cultural climate wholly dissimilar to the one of my upbringing. Namely, that of the ‘Empire State’ of New York. I struggled to align the new world I had inherited with that of my parents. The family had always been devotedly Christian, steeped in common two-party political traditions and wedded to the habit of perpetual study. Speaking quietly while walking with careful, deliberate steps, for fear of offending a neighbor. Yet woven into that fabric was a rowdy thread. A color not matched to the rest.

That stripe of contrast appeared once again as my father decided that the family car needed to be replaced. It was a beige, mid-70’s Ford Maverick sedan with many thousands of miles logged in service. The vehicle had developed numerous issues typically associated with road wear and age. In particular, a broken lock had me driving home on one occasion while holding the door shut with my left arm. Each of us had our own thoughts about what sort of wagon would next occupy our driveway. But no one predicted a product of France, in dark green.

Dad bought a 1979 Peugeot 604. Automotive journalists of the era called it a ‘Gallic Mercedes.’

Though highly successful in Europe, with a history begun making coffee, pepper and salt grinders in the 1800’s, this manufacturer barely managed to register in the American consciousness. Even Renault and Citroen were better known, if only slightly, by comparison. The car was more than a head-turner for bystanders. It typically produced facial expressions of befuddlement and disbelief. Few, if any, could recognize it by name or nationality. Instead of the ‘cool’ vibe produced by most rare or vintage automobiles, it simply projected an aura of mystery. As if some foreign spy had stumbled off the beaten path to land in Chardon for the Geauga County Maple Festival.

To be fair, Dad sometimes was inclined to choose out-of-the-ordinary mules for our everyday transportation. So this meant that little brother, sister and myself grew up with a parade of cars that included a Renault (only one family trip before it developed engine trouble), a Corvair Greenbriar van, two versions of the Saab 96 (one with the two-stroke triple motor, one with the V-4), and a Simca 1100 hatchback. But eventually, he succumbed to practicality and steered toward Ford LTD wagons, a Galaxie, and the utilitarian Maverick.

Especially in our county, the Peugeot stood out like a trespassing rogue. It looked a bit stodgy, yet smartly styled. Perhaps more German in appearance than authentically French. The 604 had a brown leather interior that often sent me slipping around in my seat while trying to drive. But a Blaupunkt 8-track stereo was in the dash, offering competent sound on the road. I much preferred its sturdy, 4-speed transmission to the one in my own Chevrolet Chevette. On those occasions when I got to pilot this wheeler with the Lion Crest, it felt liberating. A cut above the bargain-basement feel of my dinky Chevrolet. 

 

But after awhile, Dad began to remember why he had switched to more mundane vehicles. The Peugeot was quirky and sometimes exasperating. Finding parts and service was a challenge. A shop in Chesterland provided his best hope for repairs not suited to being done in the driveway. When the car needed an exhaust system, the designated pipes were valued like gold. Looking to save ready cash, he had a custom fix welded together at Mr. Muffler, in Painesville. When it needed a starter, purchasing a factory replacement proved to be prohibitively pricey. So he cross-referenced the part through old manuals on hand. In a moment of mechanical lucidity, he realized that something roughly equivalent had been used on American Motors products. This light bulb flash of inspiration eventually produced a heated argument at a local parts store. The counter clerk did not want to sell this item, finally agreeing to do so only with the caveat that no return would be accepted. I held my breath while we returned home with the starter. But it worked.

Of course it worked!

Dad knew everything from mechanics to theology, history, math, music, radio & television repair, minor home construction, plumbing, creative writing and how to make an authentic pan of biscuits or cornbread in a cast-iron skillet.

Owning a Peugeot only seemed to enhance his personal mix of unrelated disciplines and experiences.

My own roster of skills was much less impressive, by comparison. But in the 1980’s, I felt gladdened to be back at home where my routine of learning could continue.

Postscript: The Peugeot was finally traded in on a brand-new Volkswagen Golf. That vehicle begat a second Golf with the diesel motor and a 5-speed transmission. Though slightly underpowered, it would return 50 miles-per-gallon while fully loaded with my parents, various grandchildren and yard sale goodies.

Comments or questions about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

“Home Office”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-19)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is another example of life in our household.

Dad always had an office at home.

From my earliest childhood days, it was a tradition literally set in my DNA. The idea of having a workplace at home, fortified with some sort of personal library, a radio, hi-fi system, and a typewriter. Though the technical details of this space would evolve over time, the idea was one very much imprinted on my psyche.

Because my father grew up on a farm outside of Columbus, Ohio, he had a genuine knack for working on mechanical things. This love of machinery, particularly motorcycles and cars, permeated our family. Also, he enjoyed tinkering with vintage radios and tape recorders of various kinds. And, he played music on piano, guitar and banjo. But there was a dual nature at work, because his own sire was a university professor. So while he had been familiar with getting his hands dirty, there remained a bent toward higher learning through continuous study.

I did not need a classroom to learn such things.

As a young kid, I would sneak into Dad’s office when he was busy elsewhere. Such clandestine sessions helped me get an idea of the layout he preferred. I could also use his shortwave radio to hear broadcasts from around the globe. Something valuable in the era before cyberspace. Later, I designed my own ‘office’ with a square of scrap plywood on top of a steel trash barrel. My wordsmithing tool was a plastic typewriter from the most recent Christmas holiday. I was ten years old.

Friends at school liked to make jokes about this odd habit. But the plan would endure long into my adult life. Literally, to the present day.

As a teenager, my home workspace was Mom’s old desk and a $10 Royal KMM typewriter bought from a stash of discarded Cornell University equipment. In my early twenties, while wandering in New York, the Royal did service on top of a green footlocker. Then, on the coffee table in our family living room when I landed back in Ohio. Finally, it took up residence on a low-buck desk bought from Fisher’s Big Wheel, with my first wife. 

 

At every point along my personal journey, there was always a place to work at home.

My platform-of-choice developed over the course of time, from the Royal to a Brother word processor, then an eMachine PC running Windows95, another running Windows98, a Sony Vaio, and three laptops. Each offered its own cache of advantages and flaws. My work continued being tucked away on paper, 1.44 MB floppy disks, CD-Rs and USB drives. Dad’s own progression was similar, yet typically more advanced. He adopted new technology with ease. His published books and online blogs grew in number. Each of us would inspire the other with ideas. Once, he actually rewrote a manuscript from my files. Our ‘voices’ as writers were similar, but distinct from each other. He was ahead on the creative curve. It seemed that I never finished trying to catch his prolific wave.

Then, life happened.

A few weeks ago, my sister visited the family homestead to assess the situation of our parents. Not many days passed before her conclusion became evident – that they could no longer live on their own. Friends and neighbors had been urging us to take a closer look. Yet always, our questions were met with the assurance that more help was not needed. From a distance, real insight was often scarce. We debated for months, even years, over the situation. Then, the truth of their plight became apparent.

I had been too combative. My sister knew the proper approach. Dad finally agreed to the move.

At the nursing home, he took a laptop and notebook to remain active as a writer. But there were still devices left behind, some not used for awhile. My nephew accepted a role in looking through the household store of technical tools. Eventually, he approached me with an offer that was both sweet and sad. He had rescued my father’s old desktop, an HP Compaq Pro 4300.

He offered to drop off the computer during his next visit.

My reaction was purely emotional. I felt duty-bound to cling carefully to anything connected with our family mentor and inspiration. But, the angst of knowing that it had been surrendered along with his independence, and that of my mother, made me bow in reflection.

Still, the circular nature of this gift brightened my mood with old memories. Once again, in a sense, I had taken a seat in Dad’s office. I had begun a new course of study. One of hope and gratitude for life and a place at the keyboard.

Questions or comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024

Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent

“Detour, 1984”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-18)

Note to readers: My parents recently entered a nursing home, after a long battle to retain their independence. Mom is 87, Dad is 88. As I grapple to comprehend this late chapter of their story, memories from bygone days have emerged to give comfort. What follows here is yet another example of life in our household.

Home.

When I came back to my native Ohio, in late 1983, it was with undeniable regrets. Though my belly was grateful for regular meals and my body felt revived by the comfort of our family couch, a desire to revisit old friends lingered. It would take some time before I made the adjustment to accepting what had become of my life.

Chardon was my resurrection. But I could not see that prize waiting to be taken.

During the first full year back on Buckeye soil, I kept in close contact with Paul and Mollie Race, who lived near Corning. They were spiritually my Rock & Roll parents. Paul’s knowledge of vinyl records and vintage guitars had expanded my youthful consciousness. Meanwhile, Mollie’s kind heart soothed the turmoil in my soul. So when a job at the American Seaway Foods warehouse in Cleveland offered gasoline money, I had one persistent goal in mind.

Going back to New York State.

Someone with greater life experience would have pondered such an adventure more carefully. But I was young and focused on leaving the Midwest instead planning for tomorrow. Carrying only a small wad of bills and a Hagstrom electric guitar, I ventured out in my white, 1973 Volkswagen Beetle. The car had already seen many miles of service, so its motor ran on fatigue and its floorboards were rusty. But I did not fear the road. In those days, the highway had not yet been completed across Chautauqua Lake. So a detour around this long body of water was necessary. It meant seeing a bit of rural countryside populated with sleepy, small villages, still safe in the pattern of yesterday.

I made the journey several times.

My Volkswagen sputtered and stammered like an old drunk. Loudly rolling across the Southern Tier like an overgrown lawn mower. Yet always managed reach my friends on Hornby Road and then get us back home again. On Route 17, during one such trip at sunset, I found courage to discover the limit of my old Bug’s endurance. With its gas pedal stomped to the floor, the vehicle wheezed to a velocity of 88 miles per hour. It steered like a go-cart going out of control. A mechanical howl sounded in my ears. Finally, the sight of a Dodge Diplomat in New York State Trooper colors caused me to abandon the quest for speed.

I would not test the ragged VW again.

On my last trip to Corning during the year, in October, I arrived early. Both Paul and Mollie were still at work. So I went back down the hill to their local P & C Supermarket, for snacks and a 12-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon. By the time they arrived, I was nearly exhausted. Later in the evening, we began a jam session which soon stalled as my friends argued in the other room. I sat there plucking away aimlessly at my silver guitar until their spat had finished.

For the first time, I began to wonder about the sanity of wishing to return on a permanent basis.

My mood brightened as we recorded various blues compositions during my stay, improvised and experimental as was Paul’s habit at the time. Afterward, I slept on a long, banana-yellow lawn chair, that folded into a lounge recliner. It had been set up in their kitchen. Boxes of records were strewn throughout the house, even in the bathroom. Filled with vintage Rolling Stones and Beatles bootlegs, and uncatalogued records by groups from the 1950’s up to the then-current era of Heavy Metal. A pervasive odor of unruly pets filled the home, from their many cats and dogs. Something with which I had become familiar over the years. But it only contributed to the counterculture ambiance.

The visit ended too quickly. I lingered on the familiar sight of Paul’s Utica Club Beer sign, hung over the sink, before exiting to the driveway. My Volkswagen rattled to life and we were gone on the path back home, to Ohio. I could only hope for another visit in the near future. 

 

Noisy and slow, my Beetle made it to the eastern side of Chautauqua Lake. Somewhere in the detour off of Route 17, the air-cooled motor overheated. I was literally in front of a deserted motel, next to a bar. Good fortune had placed me at a place of refuge. A peeling, painted sign indicated that the proprietor was in charge of both establishments. So I entered the watering hole with a bit of hopeful trepidation. An old woman with gray curls recited her rates from behind thick glasses. “$15 for a night,” she said with pity. I literally had that much and change in my pocket. Enough to stay in her motel, make a phone call to Chardon pleading my case, and buy a Coke from their vending machine.

The room literally had a black-and-white television set.

With futility, I knob-flipped through the few channels available, finally settling on live coverage of the second presidential debate from that year. Ronald Reagan vs. Walter Mondale. President Reagan, who had looked incoherent in their first encounter, returned to form with cheerful grandpa-smiles and a quick wit. “I will not make an issue of my opponent’s youth and inexperience,” he quipped.

I drank my pop and then refilled the can with tap water from the bathroom sink. Thirst lingered with asphalt dust in my throat.

My father arrived the next day, in his Peugeot 604. He did not scold or lecture me, but instead, busied himself studying the Beetle. After a few minutes, with a strong, farm-borne upbringing on mechanical things, he had it running. I could not wait to get back on the road. The white VW made it to Interstate 90, where the motor overheated once again. In desperation, he pushed the little car forward with his own sedan, along the highway shoulder, as I popped the clutch. That trick got the Bug running again. We made it home to Geauga County without another delay.

I traded the Volkswagen on a late-model Chevrolet Chevette, in the fall, having started a new job at the local Fisher’s Big Wheel department store. My life was changing. Though I could not visualize the future at that distant moment, things were about to get better.

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Published occasionally in the Geauga Independent