I stood there looking out a bedroom window at yet another winter horizon in my life. The tall trees I knew as a child still stood watch over a back yard blanketed with white and the old Miami and Erie Canal still ran its course as a veil between past and present. The changes are apparent as there are no longer fruit trees to gather apples, pears or peaches like my siblings and I had done so many times over those few and precious early years. Blue spruce now grow in tribute to nieces and nephews now grown and I can see rabbits have found a home beneath their hulking frames. Rare and beautiful images flood my mind as Spring, Summer and Fall pass in backward succession to a time when innocence and mischief played their “kick the can” and “fox and goose” games through muddied reflections that accumulate along a curbside and drain away into oblivion. This indeed is where my story begins...
There in the backyard stands that ramshackle shed that replaced the tractor tire sandbox barely broke-in as the Wittler family settled in at 103 East Sixth Street. I remember when they came and placed it there as Dad made plans to raise rabbits in that old chicken coop re-purposed. With a few sheets of tin, some nails and a fresh coat of paint, that shed still stands like some war memorial to long dead rabbits, the chickens that got away and a boyhood clubhouse that nearly burned down because of a mishap with candles; not my doing of course. Today it holds nearly petrified firewood that occasionally gets thrown into a patio fireplace on a cool Summer night. The smell of smoke still comes to me as a kind of incense rekindling my days as a mass server and Boy Scout. You wouldn't think that such things could hold such a fascination unless a twenty year absence brought them back as vividly as a dream.
I remember Saturday afternoons sitting on a bar stool at The Dew Drop Inn as Teddy and Armella cooked greasy hamburgers in a cast iron skillet or tapped beer into glasses while recapping the previous night's affairs on the hardwood. High School basketball remains a staple for small town conversation as gossip hungry folk will tell you a story or two about the night The Big Green went eight overtime periods against the Columbus Grove Bulldogs. To this day my heroes are the ones who go out onto the court and for better or worse put their talents to the test against long time rivals or new found opponents from near and far. You know you are a fan when the urge to stop in and have a cold one after the game hits you at half time. As a kid though, it was more often than not a Mountain Dew in a glass bottle with a straw protruding from the top or a Dr. Pepper to sooth the dryness from cheering from the bleacher seats.
Sunday mornings always brought about the hustle and bustle of six kids all vying for a time slot in the one bathroom in the house. God help you if you were the second to last in line and a big sister got in there first! Most times you could count on Mom slicking down a cow-lick at the last minute or Dad growling about not being late for mass. I used to wonder sometimes why we always had to occupy the first pew center front below the pulpit. Now that I am a parent, I understand the psychology of controlling the behavior of children prone to boredom as the pastor begins a lengthy homily. And God have mercy on your soul if Father Huffman caught sight of you sneaking out at half time just so you could tell a significant other you went to mass. Communion was sort of considered a bonus on Saturday night when there was a home game. The term was often loosely referred to as the moment everybody got up for communion and more than not was used as an excuse to head out the back door with as few people as possible seeing you, including Father Huffman!
With bottle caps and communion wafers bouncing around in my head, not to mention basketballs, I return to snow drifts and stories of sledding down the tile mill hill and onto an ice covered pond. A quick detour through the graveyard meant opening the front door to a warm fireplace to thaw nearly frozen fingers and hot chocolate waiting on the stove. If we were lucky there would be no school the next day and we could camp out on the floor in front of the fireplace.
As I wipe the years away from my eyes and recount the sounds so familiar to my ears, the sight of that old wood shed brings me back to the present time where distance from family and children of my own produce a dull sense of melancholy only comforted with pleasant memories of shared moments away from the distractions of work and circumstance. Years away from home and holidays spent pulling guard duty will haunt me as I continue the journey of telling the story that began here in this small town some five odd decades ago. I will sleep a little sounder tonight knowing I have shared it with you. Pleasant dreams and may God bless.
