The Jeffersonian Democrat - Chardon, Ohio

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“Friend, Acquaintance...Or Other?”

c. 2018 Cheryl Kelly

All rights reserved

(6-18)

Throughout life, people come and people go. Some have longevity and hang for awhile, almost morphing into the family zone; others are here for only a short period of time, as if to serve some immediate purpose or need and then they are gone, never to return; and then there are those that flit in and out of your life jumping in here and there for undetermined amounts of time, and then they disappear, only to reappear a bit later to pick up right where they left off. It got me thinking about the people in my own life, and how I view those relationships. Are they friends, acquaintances, persons of interest…? What I have found, with myself, is that it comes down to how much I share of myself with them, not necessarily the amount of time I spend with them, that makes the determination for me.

Let’s start with the “other” category. These are the people that you see on a semi-regular basis. You may or may not remember their name, but there is something about them that draws your attention. It might be the way they smile, or the way they treat others, or the way they hold themselves at a gathering. They could be a coworker that perhaps you only see when you go to the cafeteria for a soda, or see at a company function. They could be someone you see regularly at the grocery store that you have idle conversations with on occasion, or it could be the guy that works on your car when it needs an oil change or a new set of wiper blades. No matter who they are, they play a role. They are the “potential” friend or acquaintance if given enough time. They are someone that you think in your head, “there’s someone who’s nice...someone I’d like to have a cup of coffee with sometime...” or in my case, a beer.

Next we have the acquaintance. This is someone who you have decided is worth your time to get to know better. They have sparked enough interest for you and have the “right” qualities and are on their way to the friend zone, but have been sidelined for one reason or another. You have decided that they are worth extending yourself a bit more to explore the possibility of friendship. On the surface the relationship with an acquaintance resembles friendship, but it has limitations. This is someone you spend time with occasionally, however, this person is not someone you open up to, not someone who is your “go-to” in times of crisis, nor is this someone who has your full trust. Now this isn’t because they have done something wrong, or has been deemed by you to be untrustworthy; it’s simply someone who just doesn’t fit in the friend mold all the way, at least not just yet. I have many acquaintances and I spend time with all of them, and I would think that if you asked them, they would define our relationship as a friendship, but technically, it’s missing some key components for me; components that my friends have been able to zone in on.

Solid friendships are hard to come by, at least for me. Friends are those choice few people in your life who come to mind when you want to share. Whether it be good news about a new job or hot guy that started at work; bad news like those curve balls that life throws your way every once in awhile; or sad news about tragedies in your life or your newly broken heart. When those things hit you, you know exactly who you need to talk to. Before you can even begin to wrap your own head around it, you are already dialing his or her number because you want them to know or you need help – their help, their guidance, their thought process on how to handle it. It matters to you what they think and how they feel. Their advice and opinion is golden and it influences your thoughts and your reactions. Friends are those select few who you have entrusted with the most devastating, hurtful, and embarrassing moments in your life. They are also the ones with whom you have shared the most beautiful, loving and joyful moments.

People who have entered my friend zone are among the most cherished persons in my life. Outside of my family, they are in my thoughts constantly. Even though life has a way of interrupting our time together at times, we always seem to find each other again. They are understanding, caring, compassionate people who I trust with some of the most intimate facts of my life. And even though my numbers are few, I feel incredibly fortunate. They help get me through this thing called life, and I hope I do the same for them. I am privileged to know them, to share their time, and I happily call them “friend”.

"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