October Morning Meditation

October Morning Meditation

A chilly October morning is transformed

As blue sky and dawn

Give way to a golden orb of sunlight

Ascending above a neighbor's shady maple

From cross our street.

Squirrels flit about the lawn

Planting acorns

 In subterranean hiding spaces

Birds collect on power lines

In anticipation of a free meal

Hanging from a seed feeder

While a gentle breeze awakens

Wind chimes dangling from a front porch

Like my folks

Who now reside in heaven

Sing in unison

I lament them in my present state

Yet remember them with fondness

For devotions sake

Of love, and hard work

To make my life a blessing.

I take a moment

To post the colors

In appreciation for freedoms

Paid in full

By horrific suffering

Intense determination

Overcoming oppression

To vanquish tyranny.

I look towards bright stars

Red stripes

To breathe in a legacy

Of liberty

For all!

I gravitate to my creative side

A gift given

By my heavenly Father

I contemplate possibility

Brush away negativity

Like a common house fly

Buzzing about my thoughts daily

As if a simple annoyance

They no longer define me

If I so desire.

Millie trots about dew covered grass

Her nose attuned, and twitching

At every trace of passing squirrel

I wonder what it must be like

To be a creature bound to nature

And yet I sit

Conforming to better angels

Whispering to my soul

Sweet nothings

Singing:

"Look up child

See what our Creator has given

Know that you are loved,

And tomorrow 

Is your wedding day!"

D.A. Wittler 10/5/19

The Resilience of Weeds

A few thoughts on family:

The Resilience of Weeds

I remember as a child when school started the week after Labor Day when hot Summer air gave way to a cool near Autumn breeze as fog clung to earth like an early warning sign of things to come. I recall freshly refinished hard wood floors, eraser dust, and new bought clothes fresh off the rack from J.C. Penney. Smoke from burning leaves on small town streets, pumpkin patches full with Fall color, and corn stalks gathered in tripod shaped arrangements. I remember dragging a paper sack along dew covered lawns on Holloween, and losing all the accumulated candy gathered as a beggar on front door steps. There were parades of ghouls, and every kind of costumed character. One year I went as Evel Kneival in a star studded helmet, and boots.

Now, I'm a child of Summer; the only one of my siblings born in July along with my Grandma Bea who baked the best pies ever! I still sit, and enjoy her grandmother clock chime away the hours, and tic-toc the seconds as she used to share stories from her childhood. We are a family of deep roots, and "strong stock" as some people say about their lineage. As resilient as weeds growing up between cracks in sidewalks or among the rockiest landscapes at the base of mountaintops. We endure hard times, and cherish those moments like a wedding or a weekend camping out in some remote neck of the woods. Days, and years pass as the seasons bring every manner of weather imaginable; sunshine, rainfall, fog, and a rare blizzard noone living then will ever forget. The winter of 1978 is one of them. I remember losing a Grandfather then on a frigid January morning; his essence remains deep within me like a campfire on a starry night.

Now, on occasion I may quote a verse from scripture, or take note of a line from an infamous poet, but you will always find an original thought designed to spark a part of your soul that reaches deep inside to draw out the best in you. But I will never suggest an ill conceived notion to put you down, or treat you less than human. I am my father's son, my mother's child, and a brother, but we do not need to share blood to be a neighbor, co-worker, or best friend. I will always be there to lend a helping hand, or provide a shoulder to lean upon.

I am that resilent weed coming back from beneath the concrete to greet you. Though my roots may seems loosely attached at times, my soul runs deep within a  belief

that God is with us no matter what, and family keeps us closer than anything. We just need to learn to love one another each day.

And so, as Fall creeps in on this overcast September morning, I give a piece of my essence to you who may be suffering, or in need of something positive to read apart from all the bad news waiting on your doorstep. Like a pair of humming birds hovering above me this morning on my front porch, I will always be a voice you can count on to reflect the resilience of weeds; even when an Autumn breeze makes you shiver with the thought of dark days, and stormy nights in Winter.

God Bless you all!

D.A. Wittler  9/7/19

Mourning Coffee

Mourning Coffee

You waited for me

As I gazed to see

Stars emerging from daylight

Sunset converging with midnight

Like smoke, and mist conversing

About a cabin in a clearing

I lost myself in Frost

Longing for mourning coffee.

It may seem I stole from you

A precious commodity

A thought, a line, your poetry

But I simply sought you out

Oh kindred spirit

For an opportunity to grow

Like summer grass

Lost in weeds

Who determines which has more worth

Man or earth?

They each draw from fertile soil

And soul alike

Changing with seasoned grace

Withering, dying, then reborn

Leaving me  

With mourning coffee

Healing with a dearest sibling.

D.A. Wittler 8/23/19

You may wonder about the meaning of grief. How it ebbs, and flows through you like tidal forces through a marsh. It rises with the moon, recedes in time, then returns with a treasure all its own; shells, and creatures from a deep blue.

For some, a marsh is a dark mysterious place that serves no other purpose but to remind us of the gloom residing within our hearts, and minds. But grief is like a marsh, it separates us from land, and sea with its murky mystery, and it buffers us from the worst storms nature can muster. And yet, a marsh connects us gently to the greatness of mountain peaks, and valleys of our souls.

As Kya (Where The Crawdads Sing by: Delia Owens) knew from her loneliness, and depravity; life is a series of choices to survive, and live another day, or slowly die as the waters recede in a brackish haze of old age. Therefore, choose whichever, and know the wisdom of the ages lies in being alive each moment knowing full well that inevitable truth is in being born, experiencing, rising, and falling as a sunset bringing forth a universe of twinkling possibility called afterlife!

Amen, and God Bless!

 . 

From Frost to Page

A few thoughts from Frost to page:
I read from In The Clearing by Robert Frost this morning, and it got my thoughts going. I cannot describe the process, but let it suffice to say that when it comes, it flows like a stream of consciousness.

Frost wrote in his final line from Accidentally on Purpose; upon the inauguration of President Kennedy:
"And yet for all this help of head, and brain,
How happily instinctive we remain,
Our best guide upward further to the light
Passionate preference such as love at sight."

And so from head, and brain, and heart comes this refrain...
August Ascending
(A work in progress as I am)
For Mom:

You came, and lit
Upon a morning shade
Tweaked your wings as if to say
"Hello son"
And once done
Flit off about your way
To visit yet another day
And time of your choosing.

Chimes are silent
August ascending
While I muse
My heart lamenting
Like tears of Pele'
Our evening emerald
Lies beside the ashes
Of a long lasting love.

Yet still I mourn
Your last breath lingers
Like a portrait
Upon the walls of my memory
In a tiny gallery of gloom
That became a death room.

But who can say what remains
A twinkling light, a flickering haze?
To remind us of our lost school days
When we thought of nothing
But camp fires, card games, songs,
and plays.

D.A. Wittler 8/3/19

Remembrances

Remembrances: A Final Farewell To Mom.

In the beginning... Once upon a time… two of the most infamous opening lines in literary history, and perhaps of all time. And so, I pause, reflect, and remember the humble beginnings, and storied life of Carol Jean Stepleton-Wittler; otherwise known as Mom to some of us.

For today let us remember a little dark haired child perched upon the back of a pony. She is wearing her finest Annie Oakley hat, and leather chaps with silver buckle, and fringe down the seams. Born into hard times never made her bitter, perhaps a better person because she could always appreciate the good times as blessings, and bad as classrooms of knowledge to teach how to get through anything that life put in her way. She grew up knowing the value of a dollar, and held on to the belief of an innocent child where Roy Rogers always rode along to help her travel the next unknown bend in the trail, or traverse an unseen mountain top ahead. In her own story she could gallop off into the sunset to brave another adventure.

She knew in her adult world that life was like a good book shared with a child at bed time where happy endings were as real as Sleeping Beauty awakening, or Harry Potter riding his thunderbolt for the first time. Where Fast Friends meet, and frenzied haste makes us waste not of the opportunities that God grants us to make the world a better place. She could always make the hurts less powerful, and the bruises less ominous to a tear filled eye. For you see, she was a mother; always there, and always carefully watching over her beloved offspring.

In the intervening years she held many roles, and portrayed many characters familiar to friends, family, and neighbors. She was more than just Mom, her wings covered many more lives than six children, but generations of young inspired minds destined to go in every direction imaginable. She was a babysitter, homemaker, playground monitor, teacher's aid, Girl Scout leader, and responsible town council member. She even went back to school in later years to further her professional career as an elementary school librarian. I remember sitting next to her in an evening psychology class at OSU/Lima. She got an A, of course while I was content with a B. So, not only was she "Mom" but a student as well; always building on her repertoire of many colors like the cross stitch patterns she completed over the years.

Mom had an eye for beautiful things, like the spray of flowers displayed on her casket. She loved to plant all kinds of them in boxes around the outside of the house each Spring, and Dad watered them religiously every day in the heat of Summer; they were a pair those two. On one hand there was a rainbow of colors, and on the other precision, and detail. Some of us remember shined hardwood floors slick enough to slide across in stocking feet, and cleaning registers with a butter knife, and rag making sure every cobweb was cleared away. 

And then there was her Catholic faith. The folks had a permanent pew for us in the very front row beneath the pulpit every Sunday morning as we grew up. Mom made sure we knew our prayers, and Dad would doze off slightly during the homily, but always monitored us for horseplay, or the occasional uncontrollable giggle. And as I wrote this morning out on the front porch,  a brilliant red cardinal perched upon one of the blue bottles on our bottle tree. Perhaps it was Mom stopping by to say "good morning son." Yes, I believe faith comes in many sizes, colors, and instances, and Mom would agree. 

Well," I'm so glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh, or sing a song; seems we just get started, and before you know it, comes a time we have to say so long." For you see I could go on, and on until eternity with memories of Mom, but I guess it will have to suffice to say: "Happy trails Mom, until we meet again."

D.A. Wittler 7/19

It's All In The Details

In tribute to Dad who passed away this last week. Rest in peace Big Ken!

All In The Details:

Dad

Anything worth writing about deserves a good title, and so it goes for the life of Kenneth Wittler, or Dad as the case may be. Something about the written word, even though you can speak to someone, or listen to their voice, sounds will echo in your ears for a years, but they fade in time like old photographs, and lose the lustre they once held. But words on paper last like books on shelves; permanent reminders people, events, and memories of all sorts. And so I share with all of you today in written, and spoken words so that Kenny Wittler will not fade into the past, but last forever like  some grand edifice,or monument reserved for greater human beings. But we all deserve a special place upon the pedestal of greatness within the hearts, and minds of those we love, don't you think? So here is my simple tribute to a man I called Father, or big Ken, brother, neighbor, friend, or simply “Mo” to so many others here today. But how do I cap it all off with a few words to describe the contents of a life now moved on to greener pastures?

As I recall all it took was a text message to get me moving. Looking back over the past six years has helped me gain perspective, and I understand more fully how fate, or faith brought me here today. In the end though I believe faith is the better choice of words as memories came flooding back through a simple sentence from my little sis; “You better come for a visit, things aren't looking good for Dad.” So it came to pass as I drove to work that night about how to speak of Dad when worst came to worse, and his final chapter was at hand.

I began with long time memories, sounds of Red River Valley being played on the “mouth harp” as Dad called it. And there was the beating of a bass drum, tapping of a snare by Sparky Brinkman, brass trumpets, and clarinets resounding in the background. John Phillip Sousa, a polka, or Old Mother Leary takes me back to a little toe headed boy sitting on an old wooden folding chair atop a hay wagon in early September.

But with that there are sounds I would rather not remember, or share; like a snore that could rip the top off a canvas tent. Some of you here can attest to that fact I am sure. And I recall thinking about Army basic training when our drill instructors would yell at us; “My Dad could snore louder than that, I got this.”

And then there are the legendary sounds that probably still echo down East Sixth, and Walnut streets today; “Chico, you rev that engine one more time, you're gonna blow it up!” Yeah, I think we all know about that famous temper, especially at basketball games. Not only was Dad a huge Big Green fan, but a father of ball players, cheerleaders, and a humble manager sitting on the sidelines watching in awe; those were the days I tell ya.

But there were good things too, like the assistant little league coach yelling “run it out, “ and Vic Fischbach calling out the line up. The big man behind home plate calling balls,and strikes as well. And though I seldom saw Dad officiate a basketball game, I knew he kept his cool calling fouls, and traveling too. It had to be his sense of fair play that led him on to other things as well, but he had a voice that could shake you to your soul; that was Dad.

No tribute to Dad would be complete without mentioning my brothers and sisters who would not be here without him. I have been blessed to have grown up with two big brothers. They were my first heroes, and I still look up to them today. I always admired their strength, dexterity, and ability to run swiftly, leap like a deer, and put a ball through a hoop.

I share the same admiration for my three sisters. It was like we had everything covered on a basketball court including players, cheerleaders, and a manager. But what I admire about my sister's most is their artistry, musical ability, and unparalleled compassion for others. When I think of all the potential, talent, and ability, it dawns on me that we couldn't have gotten everything from Mom; Dad had to have a little something to do with it.

With Dad, I think it's all in the details, and I think it would make a fitting title to his story. Though I don't recall many lessons that he taught me directly, he was a detail man, and it has paid off, especially while I was in the service. Lesson 1: Pay attention, follow direction, and do it right the first time. My first platoon sergeant in Germany was especially fond of that one.

Lesson 2: Work hard, show up for work, and put in your time; in other words, pay your dues. Though I have struggled over the years, this one has definitely sunk in.

Lesson 3: The customer is always right. But I still wonder how he took a hot pot of coffee spilled on his back at Pizza Hut in Columbus with as much calm as he did. I think Virgil Hohlbein was there so I have a witness to the fact.

Dad put in many hours at GM to support six kids. I don't remember ever having a Christmas where each of us didn't get at least one thing we really wanted, but I think Mom may have had a little something to do with that too. If there was one thing I could give Dad that he didn't get as a kid it would be his own bicycle. I think that would make him smile I heaven today. Lord knows he assembled a few down at Grandma, and Grandpa Stepleton's over the years on Christmas Eve.

And still there the stories, like those notorious morning  carpool rides to GM. I know Dad took advantage of a few shoulders to rest his head against along the way. But he thought highly of the people he worked with, especially those like Virgil Schnipke.

For many years  Dad would leave his work clothes draped over a kitchen chair. I assumed it was so he didn't wake up Mom, but she had those “Mom ears,”  and would spring into action with every creak of the hardwood floor. She prepared countless lunch buckets for Dad,and us kids before school.

Yes, we all have our favorite, and not so favorite stories about Dad, and I am sure you all will share them today as his final chapter closes, and we say our last goodbyes. I just know that Dad loved, and cared for his family, friends, and neighbors. He, and Mom held public service in the highest regard. I think it is a sense of fairness, and community spirit that resonates most in me today, but love is always just beneath the surface too. Being involved in something greater than self also describes Dad, it is something to share for the greater good of all. Whether it was church, Lion's club, town council, The Brass Notes, or Park Carnival, Dad was always there; and that is Dad in a nutshell.

But I keep coming back to details. The thoughts I began with seem to converge on the fact that he paid attention, always made adjustments, and cared to make things right, if only in his mind's eye. Now I don't want to keep you any longer, and I am no Paul Harvey, but you all know the rest of the story, and I hope to hear more today, because I don't want to remember him as just a name on a polished granite headstone, but as a man I dearly loved, and came to know over the years as Dad. “It's All In The Details. Good day!

March Madness to Small Town Spirit

I wrote this one year ago, but it still applies. In honor of my Dad especially who was not only a Big Green parent, but a basketball official as well. Dad isn't doing so well these days, but the spirit of this little burg is as strong as ever. God bless you all Big Green fans!
A few thoughts:
A beautiful Sunday morning brings forth a humble beginning, and ending to another March madness ritual. To small town folk like me it means putting away the banners, and cleaning up the streets paved with toilet paper from another successful basketball season. I use the term successful in light of defeat, because even though the local high school teams came up a bit short on their quest for a state championship, the energy, and enthusiasm never quite fades from memory. My Mom used to fondly remembered her senior year when the boys team played in the state tournament in 1954, and I also recall my big brother playing on the hardwood at St. John Arena in Columbus, Ohio in 1978. The electricity of it never seems to leave your bloodstream no matter how recent or long ago it has been; basketball will always be king in our home town.
Today, the sun shines again, people gather in song, and praise to the rhythm of a church organ while secretly a little girl's dream becomes a goal for next season. Friendships strengthen, faith begins the healing process once again, and Easter awaits a saving grace won so many centuries ago. The trials of life go on, children grow as the grass beneath the winter snow breaks through, and twilight gathers stars to wish upon once more.
My heart is planted here in these humble surroundings, and you can bet I'll keep my eyes open for a chance to see the reality of all that hard earned practice offered up in sacrifice for one more trip, and my ears will be tuned to the sound of a radio broadcast from the Big Dance come another season on the king's court. Until then I know the memories will go on feeding the hopes of another generation longing for an opportunity to mold a dream into a pot of gold.
God bless.