Life In Review

In these final days and hours of another year, I sit putting past issues in perspective. Like a nightmare realm I can see them but the feelings have become a dull series of hunger pangs in the pit of my stomach. So many missed opportunities, so many times I failed to recognize my own stupidity and let love pass away as golden treasure lost at sea in a storm of self pity. But faith says something more as these are but times and trials meant to strengthen, not destroy. Life affords many paths and byways to lead us to the truth if we are open to them. And like many who came before us; failure, pride, and passion are all mere factors in a grand equation. Here now, I share my thoughts that until now were but obscure visions of a seemingly troubled pastlife. As I have found, they are what built me up like steel in a human tower of humility before an awesome God who always forgives and leads us to his heavenly bounty. You will note the overtones to Simon and Garfunkles "Sound of Silence" in which this post is dedicated. Take care and have a blessed Christmas and happiest of New Years! Witt


Silent Shadow

No greeting here in shadow
Time for me is short and shallow
No cause more important than my own
To ease the pain in silence grown
From years ago where my father labored
Is revealed
In echoes from my childhood.

In reality I strode alone
On cold and wet cobblestone
After a long night of drinking
Aftermath in a haze got me thinking
Why abuse a youthful life?
This storm and strife
Haunts me like a dream from yesterday.

And in morning light it came
Forgiveness in a flurry, a savior's name
But I could not see past the cold and wind
As I turned my face to hide in shame
Trying to forget what I had done
Play the game
In camouflage tomorrow.

So I sat before the voice of reason
Swallowed hard my act of self treason
Committed in smoke and shadow
Along with comrades who follow
Like sheep before the shearing
In deceit
We remained in shadow.

And today I kneel in search of grace
A father's love, a kind embrace
Sharing a moment like a treasure
Only in a reserved manner
In covert overtones
Our disgrace
In silent shadow.

- D.A. Wittler 15'

Old Magic

More from what I call "Twitterverse." It all occurs or happens with a thought,an image, a dream or encounter, and becomes its own creation.
First, an introduction:
What can be said of a glimpse of old magic returning? It is liberating to enter in with no expectations and to hear that word "trust" mentioned again, albeit perhaps in the wrong context of a past relationship.
One must always see possibility in every situation gone bad in hopes that something better can come from a meeting of mind, heart, and soul.
Perhaps it is not magic at all but a sign of healing in terms of mutual understanding. One can only hope that it is so and not merely an imagined physical response to an outcome of longing. Witt

Old magic and memories of you
What can I do
When flames of old return?
In my heart longing,
In my hand no ring
No bells or "I do's" to sing.

In whose mind
Did wand wave first
Mine or yours?
A silent hunger
We both do thirst
But memories remain
Each person the same;
Is love a game?

No heart of mine
Once blind will shine
In love like that again
But who is to say
We cannot find a way
To find each other
And be enlightened.

Old magic
What can we do
When spark is gone,
Rekindled by time
Life together
Just a memory
I see your face
Hear your voice
A second chance?

Wave to me,
And I to you
A second act
Or something we think we want
Or need because of absence?
And let it up to fate
As so many lovers do.

D.A. Wittler 15'

This Old House

I want to thank a friend for inspiring me to write what was already in my heart, I just needed a little push. Big changes are ahead in my life and I want to thank my folks, Ken And Carol Wittler for all their love and support over the years. This one is for you and my boys.
Thank you Mary Anne

I woke up this morning
American dream of another time
Sixty years behind them
In this old house
Now there's no sound around
Of children...

I shed tears
When no one is around
Sadness is hidden
So I don't bring you down
Pain is a reminder
Of a better place
Where glory is found.

In my own time
We were making
A place all our own
Based on that vision
Now it's gone
Broken home
And children are growing
Without a father.

This old house gets to creaking
Like someone is hurting
Then,
only skinned up knees
Playing in the basement
But I know there is more to it.

All alone praying
Trying to find words
Lost in this twitterverse of confusion
Then,
This old house speaks to me
Like a long lost friend....

You got to get moving
Put it all behind you
Make room for happiness
Because all you have today
Are memories and wishes
When it was better...

So, no more crying
No more wishing
Only doing what's right
By those in my life
And God knows a road to redemption
Away from this old house..

-D.A. Wittler 2015

August End

A working draft of something that ocurred to me while working late at night. I am amazed how the senses can bring about such profound memories and inspire such words to describe them. I hope the reader can envision what I was going for here; a dual purpose that emitts remorse, regrett and the passing of a season.
Enjoy
Witt


Dew hangs on each blade of morning grass
Foretelling of things to pass
Wood smoke permeates atmosphere
Rekindling a memory so familiar
While I labor long past dusk
Immersed in clang and clatter
An industrial matter
Handed down by my father.

Thoughts of a past life
I long not to lose
For scent of a dying campfire
With its glowing plumes
Or gentle caresses of rose petals in full bloom.

A narrative in prose proceeds before me
And I am left alone
It gets into my clothes
Under my skin
And holds
Until a first whisper of winter wind
August end.

D.A. Wittler 15'

Before Dawn

Before Dawn

I awoke before dawn
Dew on the lawn
A pale light rising
Morning horizon
I could picture you lying there
Me in my chair
Up all night again.

Went out alone
In my comfort zone
To forget maybe
I don't know
There was feeling again
Where there once was nothing
And I prayed for you.

Please let there be peace
And angels to watch over you
As I slowly fade from view
May there always be light
Even in the darkest night
Amen.

Thank God for little things
Like puppy dog tails
Tadpoles and snails
And a heart for forgiving
It's not easy forgetting
Those hard times.

Now day has come
I've had my fun
And work is calling
Like a penance
For sins I can't take back
On this dusty road today
Good morning sun.

D.A. Wittler 15'

Somebody Else

When I Was Somebody Else

Back when I was somebody else
My silence filled an empty room
You tried to reach me
But I was too far gone
To realize you were dying inside
While my heart turned cold with dispassion.

Back when I was somebody else
I did not see how the disease inside
Was tearing us apart
You did your part
But I was too far gone
To see the loneliness in your eyes.

Oh, it's so easy
To be somebody else
When the world demands your attention
Hacking into your brain like a virus
Stealing all your secrets
Leaving everything and everyone you love
For the sake of being left alone.

Back when I was somebody else
Silence was my only friend
I turned you out
Turned you off
Like some light switch in my dreams
And how you suffered with your screams.

When I become somebody else
You need to see me for who I am
Alone in a cave of my own making
A place created in my childhood
Safe from all hurt
Like a father's angry rage.

Oh it's so easy
To be somebody else
When the world demands your attention
Hacking into your brain like a virus
Stealing all your secrets
Leaving everything and everyone you love
For the sake of being left alone.

D.A. Wittler 15'

Just Plain Crazy

For all of my countless fans out there. Lol. A new creation born out of my twitterverse.

Just Plain Crazy

Some days I imagine
If things had been different
I would not be here
Maybe I was lazy
And just plain crazy
Goes all through my mind.

Lately I've been dreaming
You lying close to me
Warm in our past life
All the the storm and strife
In your sleeping
You must be thinking too.

In the aftermath of love
Lost souls left in its wake
With angry waves we take
A little more time to heal
With each passing day
Less hurting.

And so I sit here confessing
With complete honesty
My weakness in disguise
No man wants confronting
In the morning
It's like slow suicide.

I know it must get lonely
Worn out from fighting
Me tired of hiding
In this old house
Like years passing
Time and guessing
Is it too late?

D.A Wittler 15'

A Love of Writing

To know this man
Dig deep into his heart
If you can
To uncover his art
A bigger part
Of a greater plan
This is who I am
More than mere mortal
A spiritual portal
From trail to rail and beyond
A stronger bond to hold God's hand
Than footprints in the sand.

D.A. Wittler 15'

Twitterverse

Twitterverse


What would you say to me
If only you could?
I spent my life
Dodging truth
Believing lies
And left you behind
In some fit of childish rage.

Inside of me
This anger is silence
And you should know by now
My heart is wounded easily
But my soul lives on in agony
Without you.

Even if I could
It would not change a thing
The storm has passed
The damage done
And spring was yesterday.

And so you see
What we could be
But time has left us wounded
As if we have forgotten how to breath
Beneath a wave of yesterday
God save us.

And so there are no more words
No more admiring glances from afar
Only reality and suffering
And old hopes of what could have been
Goodbye.

Welcome to my twitterverse
Where words are anything but trivial
And life is worn like a warm shirt
Infused with the scent of you
My love.

D.A. Wittler 15'

A Womb Liberation Day Proclamation

It was a simple time and yet controversy and turmoil was brewing all around. Camelot was in full bloom and the knights in shinning armor gathered enforce to proclaim a day of celebration. It was a time of liberation and commemoration as the cutting of the chord of codependence had come at long last; nine months to be exact. It was early morning in the month of July as the birds awoke before sunrise to greet another new life into the world. So named was the "valley dweller" who took residence and drew first breath in a world new and bright to a celestial being earth bound to parents and siblings alike. And so a story began...

The year was 1962 and the era of post war prosperity and boomers drew to a close as the term "Civil Rights Movement" and Vietnam loomed on that golden horizon of destiny. Camelot would soon be replaced with "The Great Society" as administration and politics were the order of the day. What had been a promise to promote the call of freedom and justice still looked feasible to the most scholarly and elite classes. And in the background there stood A Stranger on the Shore and the sweet melody of Roses are Red played as the number one hit on the top forty music charts. The British Invasion had begun as four lads from Liverpool took the beachead as The Greatest Generation had so bravely done on sandy and precarious shores not many years before. It was truly a new beginning for America the Beautiful. What was to pass only God knew of what the terrible two's would bring to an infant crying in a lonesome crib late at night. The cholic of time would prove most trying, triumphant and disapointing to this child perched on the edge of his own humanity. And so the story continued...

The Sixties, as any other dacade, laid claim to its own swansong as a new kind of revolution challenged the traditional views of style, culture and morality. A "do it if it feels good" mentality became the montra of a flower powered and pleasure seeking youth while the hearty and patriotic answered a call of duty and an end to communist aggression as the race to reach for the stars reached its climax with "man on the moon." In the eyes and ears of a seven year old came the vision of an eagle landing and giant leap for mankind. Rock and Roll became the new sensation as the era of the crooner became destined to book shelves and memory lane. But in the unsettled dust of the ages there loomed another decade to prepare a young man for further education and adolescence. And so came the seventies...

Most remembered in war there comes a near forgotten peace to a beleagured populace torn between right and wrong; and there was no peace in the valley for "me" in the seventies. "Tricky Dick" gave us a new political drama to ponder while an Eagle Scout took the riegns of power; albeit by defaualt and not the popular vote. Sex,drugs and disco became the rallying cry for those locked away in closets to proclaim their independence from sodomy laws and discreet indiscretion. But like all new trends comes a plague noone anticipates, and thus the world of men came to know a cry so harsh from deep within that it would infect another generation of the innocent. And so as the decade closed, a nation put away its sweaters and fireside chats to embrace a new kind of "star wars"...

In the Purple Rain we stood face to face with an old ally turned terrible menace; an Evil Empire turned even colder over time during the eighties. Guns and weapons of mass destruction turned up a heated debate over our own security and what it meant to defeat an enemy from within. It was hoped the mighty would fall by their own device, but somehow divine grace won out and a new foe in the form of a country called Afghanistan reared its ugly head and caused our enemy to turn and run with tail between hind legs. Ronny reassured us with jelly beans and tough talk by conservative means while back room deals became public as a lone Marine took the fall.Then there was George who took us triumphantly into a new prosperity only to be derailed by promises that could not be kept. And so passed the eighties for a young man who joined in with adventurous eyes to "Be All He Could Be" and see the world first hand.

The nineties brought forth civility and domestic bliss for a young man approaching his thirties. Bill had Monica in a back room at the Whitehouse while bombing aspirin factories in Iraq became the new outrage. Terrorism began to show a new kind of masked villain in the form of radical religious fervor while remnants of a fallen wall became museum pieces for future generations to ponder. The young man had seen barbed wire fences and the faces of an oppressed people; the oppressed were now Christians caught up in a Muslim crusade. My how a nation lost itself in believing that government could solve all of its problems as wealfare became the new subsistance and illegals did much of the hard work for them. In the mean time a new breed of tech savvy individuals brought video gaming into the main stream and again a generation stood on the precipace of change. All the while new life came into the world and a couple saw the fruits of their labor come to light through opportunity, hard work and the realities of day care. And so came the new millenium with no particular circumstance, computer crashes or end of the world prophesies come true.

Finally, we find ourselves in present days and facing a new crusade to save the family. Torn apart by all manner of deceit and misdirection. Suddenly "anything goes" and bigots are Christians clinging to a cross some call hatred. For the children of a lost generation, what will they face beyond reality television and the new playstation? For a middle aged man facing an uncertain future, life is taken in small parcels as "one day at a time" becomes his new montra. Sons grow to maturity and who knows how high the cost of a "good education" will rise before everything falls apart through economic ruin. Soms still cling to a government solution while others proclaim a new revolution is the only way to go. For this grey haired fellow who longs for the cover of his first novel, hope remains eternal. And so there is no end, only new beginnings and a womb liberation day proclamation. Thank You Jordan for your words of inspiration!

bloom

In A Moment We Percieve

German poet Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (pronounced gurt-tuh) wrote: "Thinking is easy, acting is difficult, and to put one's thoughts into action is the most difficult thing in the world." How profound this statement in life, especially mine in regards to writing. But as I consider what to write today, my mind is suddenly flooded with ideas. And this brings me to my oldest son who recently graduted from high school. For the first time in his life the prospect of "making a living" has emerged as he plans to attend college in the Fall. My hope for him is that he learns the harsh reality we all must face at some juncture and yet envision the rewards of hard work as well. There is a certian satisfaction that comes with a first paycheck; that knowing you have "earned" your way in the world. For there is no greater awakening than to labor in toil and see the results of one's own efforts. To this end I focus my thoughts and prayers on this day.

In a moment we percieve the wonders of the world and feel the sting of reality. Unfortunately,the paradoxes in life teach us opportunity and the cost of applying a thought to an intended outcome. Noone knows for sure if a path taken will produce a favorable result as variables come into play along the way. Sometimes the most well laid plans turn against us and we fail, but it is the prospect of successs that must pick us up and put us back on the path to achieving what we desire. And then again there are sometimes unforeseen circumstances that turn out in favor of someone else and not our own. It is then that humility must bind our wounded ego and we must begin again. I do not know why, but I have been on this road so many times that it seems I fail more than I succeed, but that is part of the cost that must be realized. Many a successful person will tell you that failier comes more than not, but it is that one positive result which makes all the difference.

And so, by what measure do we justify cost and outcome? This my friend is where faith and the virtue of perseverance play a vital role. It is not always balance but imblance which keeps us going. Some would say that it is the stress of pushing forward that motivates us and gets us over the top. A true statement if you consider what would have happened on D-Day seventy-one years ago. On the beaches of Normandy France, sirred by the spill of blood and death, the course of history was altered in favor of world peace. Now, wars have come and gone since then and it continues on today, but consider what the world would look like if no human being came to the rescue of a neighbor in peril or stepped in to preserve a way of life overcome by tyranny? I digress. My point is that anything worth having is worth fighting for which is why earning a living is worth the daily effort it takes to be successful. As time passes we all die a little each day like the hour glass, yet just passing time is a waste. There is true value in vision, action and going the distance to realize a favorable conclusion. The cost may be heavy as the weight of lead upon your shoulders, but there is gold at the end of the rainbow. Peace. Witt

Witt's Dream

For those of you who dwell on past mistakes like I have done so well, forget what is already broken and begin to mend. Seek an inner balance and take care of yourself in every apsect of mind, body and spirit. We were meant for more than mere mimicry, rather, to create a path to our own destiny through hope and a divine mystery. Whatever you choose to call it, if it is faith in which you find direction, then by all means invest all you have in dreams of better days to come... And now it is time to share my dream.

Peace be with you.

Witt

Witt's Dream


While I thought this silence deafening
It became apparent there was a purpose
For all this desperate suffering
Rising in a distant glowing
And I drove on hoping there was more
To life than brokenness.

Through the doors of time I wondered
While a gentle breeze came calling
And I knew there was a presence within
Beckoning a response unspoken
I could not tell from which direction
Like an echo it resonates endlessly.

Then, like a ground swell it reached the surface
A stream of consciousness unfolded
And there emerged a dream not my own
Yet in my heart there was a knowing
It was meant for me
Like a message from a bottle floating on my soul.

Memories and pure emotion
Keep me huddled in pure desperation
And I see an aimless journey unfolding
On a bed of nails its only purpose is hurting
Unless I change the course of sorrow
Deciding I have had enough.

God knows why for all this path
Heaven's highway is paved with good intention
And hell is our own invention
Unless we sound a battle cry
To change this misdirection
Victory comes through his resurrection.

Believe in dreams my son
Do not let hardship hinder
Or break your heart of pure invention
Lest you lose sight of morning's promise
Becoming like a lost generation
Your father knows the way to revelation.

Amen
- D.A. Wittler 15'

Title Me Here Please

Time marches on and I take a few precious moments of what is left to share something that ocurred to me today. I am finding that Twitter is a great untapped platform for ceativity. Many say they do not get it, but like any artful endeavor, you make it what it is. And so here goes another installment of a life hidden on the internet. Enjoy


Title Me Here Please

It begins or ends now or then
Title me here please
A song or poem to decide
By each passer-by
None ever sends a reply.

And now here I am
In this twitter space
Engulfed and pleading my case
To never be alone again
As long as you bend an ear
I am here
A friend.

Like a book you can read cover to cover
Meanings to discover
Or backwards if it pleases
It is a life in misdirection
A hypocritical dream...

So you found me here
Stuck in my muddied mess
Trying so hard not to confess
A role in this worldly shame 
Moves and counter moves
A game...

To a friend in a car in a driving rain
Stuck in traffic trying to ease her pain
Found a voice in a crowd sharing a lane
To Neverland again.

And I fell like a passer-by
From a cloud in a lonesome sky
Finding earth and wondering why
Like a tear from heaven
You came into my life...

D.A. Wittler 15'

I Feel a Need.. A Need to Blog?

I remember a line from a Billy Crystal film from some years ago:”Throw Momma from the Train.” Billy plays a night school writing instructor who tells his adult students: “A writer writes.” It does not get any simpler than that in this age of overactive imaginative journalism and the sensationalism of terrorism and political correctness. It seems like everyone has their own version of the dime store novel waiting to be published or being promoted on the information super highway. But there are other reasons to put thought to pen, or keyboard as it were. Tonight, I listen with my eyes as I read the text messages of my oldest son describe the loss of a friend and how a bad day at school has led him to share in a way his father is so familiar with. And so the moment begs for a rational response that can only be described as a need, a need to blog.

From my earliest days I can remember being a cloud watcher; you know what I mean, either lying on your back on a summer day or having the tendency while driving to look up and find something more in the sky than cumulonimbus or contrails of passing airliners overhead. There is always a story to be told or an adventure to be had just by seeing something more in an ordinary natural phenomena. Even rain contains numerous metaphor to describe the arrival of spring to the melancholy rhythm of drops from the ceiling into a bucket placed strategically on the floor. To life and love and the breaking of a heart before the brain even comprehends what has actually occurred or has accepted the ego wrenching idea of rejection. Ah yes, the writer in me seeks to find a mystery where otherwise most find merely an everyday nonchalance. And what about this coping thing?

I have written lengthy notes on paper napkins, on the backsides of ticket stubs and even on the palm of my hand when the moment has captured me. When life has dealt a changing blow or a sound or sight has caused a stirring from within; and so the writer begins. When tears flow or music inspires the soul to leap from deep inside and proclaim: “I am alive!” It is as if a gift has been unwrapped or a portal opened to express the pent up emotion of my savage soul to point a way towards humanity where man must go if he has any hope of survival. But then even the elephant goes away in secret to a burial ground known only to its kind. So what makes me different? It is that longing for meaning that must be met instead of instinct alone that propels me closer towards the abyss. Coping with a loss, a realization of mortality or the void left behind that calls me to continue to exist, or else I might be urged to simply put an end to it. And so you see I long to express what is not made of flesh but of soul. It is God given and recreated for his ultimate pleasure that I stare upwards, always looking for more than eye can see or ear can hear. I cope because I can and writing is the thing, the device on which I thrive. Good night.

Winter Reminiscence

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.

Where My Story Begins

The following is a sample introduction to what might develope into a book I have dreamed of writing for most of my life. I seem to have gotten started on many occasions only to abandon the effort through some life crisis or another. Your feedback means a great deal to me so feel free to comment. Thank You and God Bless.
-D.A. Wittler 1/4/2015.

It was New Year's eve and I lie on the bed contemplating the past eighteen months or so of my life. If I had wanted to I could have recounted what would have sounded like a version of “A Trail of Tears” with all of its ups and downs, mainly down; from fits of depression to the ecstatic moments when faith had prevailed over thoughts of suicide. On the other hand my story could have gone in a whole new direction such that no mention of divorce or the humiliation of sitting in a court room and relinquishing what was left of human dignity before a county magistrate was ever mentioned. I choose, therefore, to begin where life and death are of no consequence and the innocence of a young boy overshadow any hint of the complexities of adulthood. My story is one of faith, hope, love and the ties of community that bind folks together in a small Midwestern town. My hope then is this: that someone out there can relate to what it means to grow up without ties to Facebook, Twitter or the incessant hum of technology relentlessly buzzing around like some government drone looking for a target to destroy. In this age of terrorism and distrust, my wish is to turn back the clock for a moment and celebrate what used to be what people referred to as “the American Dream.”