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.”

Back Again...

Just got offline talking to a VA crisis counselor. Why I am sharing this is beyond me, but I decided to use one of my better coping skills to help deal with the s--- I have been going through. I don't want to dwell on the past anymore, but it haunts me like a ghost with shackles around my ankles.I mentioned Marley's ghost a while back; I guess it is appropriate with the holidays fast approaching. Some days I feel like even Dickens could not rouse me out of this funk. It feels like clouds on a rainy day that sink so low they almost touch the ground. I do not expect anyone to understand, but all I am saying is I am tired. Good night...

Sunday Morning Reflection

It is no longer early morning, yet the house still sleeps.I rise to sounds of rain on a canopy and insects emerging from the deep woods.The cawing of black birds joins a Sunday morning chorus of nature's mass beneath a late summer cathedral of leaves overhead. My soul laments past sin, my mind a constant buzz of everyday occurrence while close by a gentle whisper of breath brings back a simpler time. When did I begin to get old? Only in gray strained threads upon my head and lines forming at my brow reveal the trials and years of life to date accumulated. But still I revel in morning dew like a child I once knew perhaps not so long ago.

Nobody

Who reads blogs anymore? Apparently nobody!

Today started like any other with the exception that it is my mom's birthday. I got up just as the sun was rising, dressed and grabbed the usual breakfast of apples and a banana which I ate in the car on the way to work. As I drove eastward, I noticed the color of the sky and noted how beautiful the sunrises have been all summer this year. I plugged my smart phone into the car stereo and opend the pandora app which quickly brought the sweet sound of contemporary christian music to my ears. It was good to just listen for a change and absorb the rhythm of praise combine with a glorious sunrise.The morning dew had been wiped away by an old memory as each passing car emerged from a dark grey horizon and faded into past light...and then I remembered that I was a nobody headed toward an unimpotant job seeking nothing but an audience.

Midnight Thunder

Like my life, just another work in progress...

Riding that lonesome road
Weary from my daily journey
Wore out from my worldly woes
The sun began to set before me
and storm clouds began to show.

Rain drops and wind conspiring
I saw god-light shining through
and tear drops fell on shame
as distant memories returned
from a life I hardly knew
On dark nights working unawares
of trouble just ahead.

Then comes midnight thunder rolling
foretelling of heaven's coming
horsemen and trumpets blaring
Sent me into a blank stare
Ears ringing with despair.

Nearing my final destination
Cleansed now as I exclaimed:
“God help me save my soul,
as the nighttime is rising
and I know not where I go.”

Midnight thunder
My delight
Seeking shelter
in morning light
Facing a soulful hunger
when I was so much younger,
finding nothing but anger.
Seeing hope just out of reach
knowing “I'm sorry” does not keep
the soul from wondering far from home
on a lonesome highway in the darkness;
thunder tolling.
Good night.