Holiday Greetings 2022

 

Kathe and Murphy

In a book titled, “A Dog’s Gift”, author Bob Drury captures the heart-felt story of an organization called “Paws4People.” This organization was founded by a former army officer who joined his daughter on trips to nursing homes to allow residents to play with their family dog, a golden retriever named Riley. 

The book follows the journey of pups bred by the organization from their loving, if rigorous, early training to an emotional event that he and his daughter have since called “the bump.” The “bump” is where each individual service dog chooses its new owner through an almost mystical connection by going up to the trainer and “bumping” their hand.

In the retirement center where my in-laws have lived for the past several years, there is a "companion" dog who resides at the center. His name is Murphy. He strolls the halls and stops whenever and wherever he wants. Generally, it's to be petted or given a treat.
 
I’m not sure Murphy had such rigorous training as Riley, but I know he has certainly had some mystical connections to the residents who live there.
 
Becky’s Mother, Kathe, passed away last December. It was early on a Tuesday evening, and as good fortune would have it, her family and her husband, Allen, were by her side.
 
Kathe passed quietly and peacefully. I watched from a distance as each family member gave her hand one last squeeze and a soft kiss on the cheek.
 
It wasn’t long after, that Murphy came walking his slow pace into that part of the memory care facility. I was sitting on the bench outside of Kathe’s door and I saw Murphy turn and head directly to her room. 
 
I said nothing. Murphy walked to the open door and stopped.
 
He soon let out a soft whimper…a yelp…and then a short howl.
 
His head dropped…he turned and left.
 
I believe it was Murphy’s way of giving a “bump” to Kathe.

Holiday Greetings 2021

 

Rose

 

It was a beautiful Autumn weekend in 2014. Friends of ours had invited us to their trout club. After so many years, it brought our little group of eight together for something other than our monthly Euchre game.
Some of us fished…some of us watched…it was simply too beautiful to not sit back and enjoy the view…and each other. 
As usual, I took pictures. And, as usual, I was more interested in capturing the scenery.

I wish I had done a better job of capturing time.

The past 18 months have kept our group apart. And, just when we thought it was safe to come out of our shells again…we lost something more valuable than time;

We lost one of us.

Today, I turn a year older. And I turn my thoughts to how we measure time. I have been drawn to the wisdom of the people who have been told “what they have” will end their lives before their lives might otherwise have ended. And I have been moved by their strength and their courage. 

Tomorrow, we pay our respects to the woman we lost this past week.

Everything ends, and you carry this knowledge with you inside, until you’re reminded by something like the summer’s fading flowers or the turning leaves that suddenly drift down from the trees in the wind.

Perhaps, the day after, we might rise, choose to take a bit more time, slow our step and make a phone call to a friend. Just be out there in the windy heat of summer…because it’s there. And so are we.

Capture it.

Holiday Greetings 2020

 

Holiday Greetings 2019

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Holiday Greetings 2017

Holiday Greetings 2016

Holiday Greetings 2015

The Sounds of Summer

It was one of those first warm Saturdays when spring slowly works its way into summer. The world heads outdoors, and the sounds ensue.

The landscape behind our house — covered in a morning mist — provided the perfect vista for enjoying birds that had seemingly been quiet for months.

These sounds of summer are the very ones that central Ohioans anticipate during the endless months of winter.

And I knew that, within the hour, other familiar sounds would begin to seep into the day — sounds that would continue until the last waning moments of sunshine and finally diminish a short time after the birds had finished their evening meal.

By then, I would have migrated from the screened-in porch where I started with a morning cup of coffee to the patio and a glass of wine to turn down the day.

The sounds were predictable but never in any particular pattern. Laughter in the distance, then an occasional shout.

As the sounds grew closer, they would become more familiar.

"Fore!" was a common one. 

"It’s over here!" would be another. 

And, finally, as the din drew nearer, the occasional profanity or the echo of "Nice shot!" would distinguish themselves.

Not today, though. 

Today, those particular sounds of summer would not be forthcoming — nor would they be ever again.

Nine years ago, my wife and I became empty-nesters, and the ideal dream of owning a condo overlooking a golf course became a reality.

With real estate at its prime, we paid a premium price to secure a lot with a marvelous view of the course.

Sure, there were the occasional golf balls that ended up scattered in the backyard, expletives from the tee box that would embarrass a sailor, and random "up close and personal" exposure to the golfer who couldn’t quite make it to the turn before having to relieve himself.

It was a golf course; we got that part of it. 

We accepted the "downsides," as they were far outweighed by what we considered one of the best views in the area.

All four seasons presented us with a wonderful tableau of sights and sounds: flora, fauna and human.

When the news began to spread about the impending bankruptcy of the golf course and the potential sale and parceling of its land, my wife and I couldn’t have imagined the city of Dublin allowing such a prominent piece of real estate to slip away.

But one should never underestimate the power of potential property taxes.

And so, today, the golf course lies still. Access to the parking lot is blocked, the clubhouse is closed and the golf carts are idle.

And yet, the occasional golfer stops by on foot trying to get in one last round.

And, later in the day, I’m surprised to see the number of people walking their dogs and families strolling on greens that, in an earlier time, would have been hazardous.

The perfect park with fabulous trees, streams and ponds. The perfect central park for a community that will allow 152 acres of pristine land to be developed for 185 homes.

I used to look forward to the sounds of summer.

But now, I simply wait for the sound of bulldozers.

Holiday Greetings 2014

Holiday Greetings 2013

Holiday Greetings 2012

This Side Of The Mississippi

"From the very beginning..."

Undergraduate Days - Student Teaching

I’m sure many of you have seen the stage presentation of “Our Town,” written by Thornton Wilder. If you have, you might remember a conversation that takes place between Emily Gibbs and her mother.  She quite openly asks her,  "Mama, am I pretty?”  She continues to badger her mother long enough that finally Mrs. Gibbs turns to her 12-year-old daughter and says, “You’re pretty enough.”

My wife, Becky, has been in the school system for more than 35 years. And when you’ve been married to a school psychologist for as many years as I have, you’ve been subjected to every kind of test and utilized as a virtual guinea pig. From the WISC to the Woodcock, and each new test that came out, I took more IQ tests in her early years so that she would not only know how to administer the test, but, at the same time, give her ample practice in scoring.

As I suspect most people might have done, I always asked at the end of each test how well I did?  “So, dear, am I smart?” And without ever divulging numbers or showing me the actual results, she would pretty much look at me and say, “You’re smart enough.”

The tougher role would come later when faced with the reality of sitting down with the anxious parents of a six-year-old child who awaited real test scores.  She would see a generation of children grow up in a world where, all too often, a difficult child is often quickly and incorrectly labeled with ADHD; where learning disabilities are “instantly diagnosed” on the Internet and taken as fact. And, over the course of 35 years, she would eventually see children of students she once worked with, knowing she had their trust and the best interest of their child.

There were moments she treasured – running a social group twice a week for four years at an elementary school with an intervention specialist, a speech therapist and a school counselor. The children they mentored were the social “misfits” that didn’t have many friends and they worked with them on reading facial expressions, developing conversational skills and playing games appropriately.  The children became a support system for each other and eventually became more socially interactive.  One of the fathers wrote how he truly believed this social interaction saved his son’s life.

Over the course of the years, I’ve affectionately called my wife “the best school psychologist this side of the Mississippi.”  It was my way of letting her know that the job she was doing was not going unnoticed.

And during all these years, through all the politics that take place in a suburban school system, she’s kept one, simple mantra: “Keep your eyes intently focused on the child, and you’ll always do the right thing.”

It was usually in the first couple months of every school year or near the end that requests for evaluations poured in, asking for more weeks in the school year than actually existed.  That’s when “the best school psychologist this side of the Mississippi” needed her own advice the most.  “Keep your eyes intently focused…”

The evening chores were usually just a precursor to her late nights of scoring and reports written to parents who needed the cautious guidance of a woman who not only interpreted the scores, but calmed with a soothing voice when under-achievement was confirmed by the reality of a learning disability, or the knowledge that the child of an over-achieving set of parents would never reach their lofty goals.  Or, hearing the elation in a parent’s voice when told their child had qualified for gifted.

While working on her final case presentation in the school neuropsychology program, she tested a student that she had known from the second grade.  They spent 12 hours testing on several Saturdays, which is more than a typical case. The insights gained and the relationship they formed proved invaluable in supporting this young lady. The final report contained significant information that her teachers found useful in helping other students.

And so, tomorrow, “the best school psychologist this side of the Mississippi” is going to retire after 35 years.  A career that began with teaching Special Education students in Northwest Ohio, to earning a Master's degree and further certification as a neuropsychologist, will close a chapter in one of the best school systems in the state.

With that will come some celebrating and best wishes and more than one opportunity for me to bestow that moniker upon her.

And if the occasional questioner comes up to me tonight and asks, “Was she really that good?”

Well, if you’ve listened to the story this far, you might imagine what my response will be.  Certainly the words of Mrs. Gibbs might come to mind.  But tonight, those words simply won't do.

I’ll pause for a brief second and respond with as much pride as I can muster, 

“She wasn’t just good enough…she was the best!”

A Time Capsule

I took a peek at the past the other day and caught a glimpse of the future. While going through boxes of Christmas ornaments, I noticed a gold tin can sitting in the corner of one of the boxes with a tag that said, “Do not open until January 1, 2010.”

Then it dawned on me that in the waning moments of the 20th century we had asked our New Years’ Eve guests to participate in putting together a Ten Year Time Capsule to celebrate the new millennium. Each couple was asked to answer questions about their current status – ranging from their interest in music to movies to television shows. We also asked them what they thought was the most modern convenience they owned.

On the next page we asked them to look into the future and asked them questions about what they thought they would be doing and where they would be in ten years.

It was all prefaced with a look back at the year 1990 and an up-to-minute review of 1999. To help give them perspective we listed some of the news events from the year 1990: George H. Bush was President; East and West Germany were united; Nelson Mandela was freed; Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher resigned; the cost of a first class stamp was 25 cents; the Cincinnati Reds defeated Oakland in the World Series; two new television shows debuted – “The Simpsons” and “Seinfeld;” the Hubble Space Telescope was launched and the world mourned the passing of Jim Henson, Greta Garbo and Sammy Davis, Jr.

As we gathered round with our glasses of champagne that December night in 1999, we looked back on the events of the closing year: Bill Clinton was President; George W. Bush had emerged as a front-runner in the next Presidential race; two Columbine students had killed 12 students, a teacher and themselves; Nelson Mandela was succeeded as President of South Africa; President Boris Yeltsin had resigned; the cost of a first class stamp was 33 cents; the New York Yankees defeated Atlanta in the World Series; two new television shows debuted – “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire” and “Greed;” the Hubble Space Telescope was repaired and the world had mourned the passing of Joe DiMaggio, Payne Stewart, the Lone Ranger and John-John.

It was the year Prince had been singing about since 1982 and now it was time to party as if it truly was 1999. It was the year of Pokémon, dot.coms and “Living la Vida Loca.”

It was also the year of a little thing called Y2K. Why indeed?

The world had yet to be fully exposed to anthrax, the Euro, Hurricane Katrina, Barack Obama, iTunes, and the Columbus Blue Jackets.

And 9/11 was still just another September day.

Included in our time capsule was a Polaroid picture of just the two of us. Oddly enough there was no mention of who else was in attendance. But memory tells me there were several neighbors from the house we moved away from several years later. There were also friends both new and old.

We closed our time capsules with best wishes for the coming year and the hope that “when the New Year dawns in 2010, we’ll once again toast our friendship as we look back and cherish the past ten years.”

As it turns out, we probably won’t be sharing New Year’s Eve with any of the people that we welcomed in the new century. Distance, time and other commitments will preclude us from sharing our answers, laughing at our predictions or looking back at dreams either realized or vanished.

My wife, Becky, had scribbled down one word in answer to the question: “What wish do you have for yourself?” Her response was “Peace.”

To all our friends, both past and present, we share that sentiment and trust you find happiness in your own little time capsule we call life.

Happy New Year!

Holiday Greetings 2009

Turning The Page.  The Year Passes...A Decade Closes.

It’s difficult to capture a moment in time.

As a photographer, I know when the shutter opens for that split second, it merely captures the visual imagery reflected in its mirror.  Limited to its one sensory interpretation, the camera is destined to ignore the sounds, the smells, the touch of what’s embraced in the viewfinder.

As I look back on moments from the past year, I’m forced to rely on my own memories...my own recollection...my own interpretation.

There are some moments that will quickly fade away. 

There are other moments that I’ll put away for future reference...store them in my own personal time capsule and look back on them in years to come. 

And still, there are other moments that will stay with me to call upon on a daily basis...and pull strength from when the day grows dark too soon.

I trust the moments you’ve chosen to capture throughout the year provide you with peace and harmony...a measuring stick, so to speak, of the people and places that make up your visual imagery.  Embrace them.

Happy Holidays.

Bill

Thanksgiving 2009

A Toast

This year, as we sit down to give thanks, it is easy to notice we are fewer in number.

Whether by distance...or by time, we make note of the empty chairs.

But we feel the presence of those we love.

Let our memories be our nourishment.

Let our thirst be quenched by those around us.

Let the hope of days to come be our anthem of thanks.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Summer Stimulus Package

I think I’ve come up with a way to help the economy and, at the same time, improve the golf scores of the average player. In fact, this may be one of the reasons that has kept me from becoming a professional golfer.

OK, I can hear those of you who have seen my golf game and the snide remarks about my handicap, my swing, my age and everything else that deals with my driving, short game and putting. Those are mere details…hear me out.

The only people who stand to lose from my idea are the manufacturers of golf balls. But given the current state of the golfing industry and the scarcity of duffers on most golf courses in the area, I’m sure the Titleists and Nikes of the world would welcome a compromise of having more golfers.

Here’s the idea: what does every pro golfer have that no one this side of Jack Nicklaus has on any public course in the area – someone to watch where their ball lands.

Think about it. From Pebble Beach to Bethpage, the pros have people lined up and down the fairway just waiting to not only point out where their ball has landed, but to encircle it as if they were pointer dogs. And, get this, the better you are, the more people you have looking for your ball! Do you sense a trend here?

How many strokes does the average golfer take on any given round due to lost balls? Four water balls?  Three in the rough? You get the idea.

So here’s my suggestion – in these difficult economic times, instead of having people holding billboards at every intersection advertising the last three days of still another “Everything-Must-Go” mattress sale, let’s have the area golf courses hire them as ball spotters.

They don’t have to line the entire fairway – simply put them at strategic points along the way – say for instance, the 200 yard mark where they just happen to have the first set of bunkers and that overgrown crud known as the rough.

Have another positioned at the edge of the water. Sure, some of the balls will go over their heads and straight into the drink, but the ones that always seem to land and then trickle down and fall into the murky depths – hey, they can stop those. Sure, the golfer has to drop, but at least he’s got the original ball.

I’ve been through rough economic times in my career and I know what it’s like to welcome a part-time job. I’d much rather be out on a golf course doing basically the same job that volunteers at the Memorial Tournament line up in droves to participate in as one of the fairway crew.

Sure, there’s probably a minimal health risk associated with putting yourself in the line of fire of errant tee shots. But just think how many people put themselves in harm’s way by dressing up as giant rabbits and standing along Sawmill Road.

OK, at the end of the day it helps me shave six or seven strokes off my game. No, that’s not going to put me even close to the ranks of a professional. If I’m lucky, it will help me break a hundred. That’s par in my book. With the average cost of a box of balls being $25, I’ve also maybe saved myself $12. Not bad really, when you take in the cost of a round of golf.

It would certainly be enough incentive to bring me back more than once and if you multiply that scenario by 50 or 100 (a rather conservative estimate of the number of golfers who would think the six or seven strokes and the savings were significant), you’d definitely make it worth the golf course’s cost of hiring the ball spotters.

But more important, imagine this. You’re standing on the 1st tee at Raymond Memorial staring at a moderate Par 5. Your tee shot caroms off the cart path and heads towards the huge clump of trees on the right. Just as you’re about to unleash that first “expletive deleted,” you look up and see a man holding an orange flag indicating that he’s found your ball. No penalty stroke. No lost ball.

Of course, there’s no smattering of applause and no huge throngs. Just a gainfully employed person who’s possibly helped you avoid a penalty stroke and saved you a couple of dollars.

Tipping is optional.

Words To My Father - A Eulogy For Mom

Dear Dad,

There are days when it seems impossible that it’s been more than 30 years since you left us.
That it couldn’t possibly have been back in 1978.
Today, however, is not one of those days.

As I look around the room this evening and I see the faces of grandchildren and great grandchildren who never had the opportunity to know you, I realize that several generations have been passed down.

And knowing that both of your children have now surpassed the age that you were, it’s quite clear that our memories simply hide the fact that you left us much too soon.

But yet, there’s another reason that makes it so painfully obvious…and that’s what brings us here today.
The woman you left behind.

I’m quite sure your first concern would have been – how will Ma take care of herself without me?
How will this woman, who never learned to drive, never finished high school, manage to make it on her own?

What we may have all forgotten is that this woman had been taking care of people all her life.

As the youngest of seven children, she was made to quit high school as a junior and go live with her grandparents to care for them out on their farm. Can you imagine that happening now? To have a 16 year old girl quit in the middle of high school and go care for her grandparents for the next two years?

And Dad, I’m sure you would no doubt remember all the years our grandmother lived with us, occupying a hospital bed in your bedroom. And Mom, lifting her in and out of bed, the wheelchair, the bath and everywhere else she had to go. This woman did this for nearly seven years.
And all while raising two kids and working part-time.

Lest it be taken for granted, raising two children in any era is a hard enough chore on its own. And Dad, I know you were there for us as well, but it was always Mom who was there to bandage a knee, help with the homework or write a letter when we were away.

And more than anything else, Dad, she took care of you. More than you ever would have admitted. Yet, deep inside, I’m quite sure you knew how very special she was to you.

And let me add right now, that while Mom did indeed take care of a lot of us in her life, there were some people around her that helped her immensely. Dad, you would have been very proud of how some of your family members kept a continual watch on her and came to her assistance on numerous occasions.

And to the members of Mom’s family that visited and kept in touch over the years, I can tell you that Mom enjoyed the company and the connection you brought with her past. My sister and I are very grateful for the comfort.

Dad, you passed quietly into a warm summer morning. And Mom, who was subjected to a very difficult year and who struggled in her last days, called you the “lucky one.” Lucky, because you didn’t have to endure the pain and suffering that an old body can bring.

Lucky, because we didn’t have to witness the shortness of breath or the loneliness of a mind confused by the darkness or the unfamiliar surroundings of a strange room.

But what she didn’t realize is that we were the lucky ones.

Lucky, because she was there for us long after you were gone.
Lucky, because she was able to witness the grandchildren and great grandchildren you never got to know.
Lucky, because we had her with us all these years.

And Dad, maybe it’s because she had so much time alone after you left us that one of her favorite pastimes was to “remember.”
“Remember to remember” was her favorite saying.
She could always conjure up some memory that most of us had long forgotten.
And in the final months of her life, even as her short term memory was giving way, she struggled to search in the deepest corners of her past to remember every facet of her life…and how happy she was when she shared it with us.

One of the last memories I asked her to share was a poem that she had written and had published when she was 24 years old. The title of the poem was “The Ones He Left Behind” and it was about the husband of her sister who was killed in World War II.

She couldn’t remember what day it was, but she recited each line as if it had been written yesterday.

Another of her favorite sayings that she would always seem to slip in at the end of every conversation was, “Be happy.” And while I’m sure we’ll all refuse to heed that suggestion today, I have a feeling each of us will look back in the next couple of days and smile at her continual wish for all of us.

And so, Dad, the woman you left behind has come home to you. You two can once again continue on your Sentimental Journey.

As for those of us left behind, we will never forget.

We will forever, remember to remember.

Sleep well…both of you.

Love,

Bo

Sentimental Journey - The Lyrics

Gonna take a sentimental journey
Gonna set my heart at ease
Gonna make a sentimental journey
To renew old memories.

Got my bag, got my reservation
Spent each dime I could afford
Like a child in wild anticipation
I long to hear that "All aboard."

Seven, that's the time we leave, at seven
I'll be waitin' up for heaven
Countin' every mile of railroad track
That takes me back.

Never thought my heart could be so yearny
Why did I decide to roam?
Gotta take that sentimental journey
Sentimental journey home.

Remembering Grandma

Photography by Kari Hughes Wint - March 20, 2009

A Poem

The Ones He Left Behind

His wife received a telegram on that Monday afternoon

“Your husband was killed in action, you’ll get a letter soon.”

Now her heart was saddened for she saw the years ahead

She’d have to spend them all alone ‘cause now her husband’s dead.

His little daughter Betty sure had a super dad,

But she’s too young to realize the meaning to be sad.

She’ll soon grow up and forget the things she used to do,

But she’ll still recall her daddy who was killed in World War II.

He’s buried over there somewhere with other soldiers brave,

We’d give the world if we could see the hole that is his grave.

His buddies that he fought with will see him smile and grin,

For they know that he’ll be watching when they take old Berlin.

Written in 1945 by Doris (Coble) Klosterman

Dedicated to Sie Weikert

Images and Essays - The Book

Yes, it's a vanity book...but it is INDEED a book. 
And it's MY book.

Hard cover and premium paper.

It truly exceeded my expectations and I truly wish I could give everyone who's asked about it their own copy. Alas, I still have a day job.

You're more than welcome to sneak a preview of it and if you're so inclined, you can even order it.

Images and Essays

Don't worry...I won't be hurt if you don't. 
But it was a thrill to do.

And I'm glad I did it.

It made for a great Christmas present.

Tat 2 U

I turned 56 years old this year, thereby surpassing the age that my father was when he died.  To commemorate the occasion, I went and did something that I've wanted to do for a very long time.

I got a tattoo.


The reason it took so long was because I didn't know what I wanted.  I wanted one that represented how I felt, so I designed one myself.

The colors represent the rainbow.

The two figures represent the continual and elusive pursuit of our dreams.

The central figure is the sun...or the core of what I hold to be true.

The obvious question is...where?

I had it put on my right shoulder...and yes, it hurt.

(To answer the second obvious question.)