Dan R Fowler
Bio
Dan R. Fowler. 71, writing is more than a hobby, it's a place for me to become anyone I choose to be, visit mystical scenes, or swim deep within my brain. e-book paperback, or audible. type dan r fowler on the search line. Amazon
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Stories (287)
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P. T. A.
The P.T.A. was/is perhaps now called by a different name, but in 1960 it was a formidable organization that included teachers and parents focusing on the needs and attitudes of the children attending elementary school. The small rural outcropping of houses where I lived then was a thriving, bustling small town with one flashing yellow light on the way to a coal camp, and one at the other end of town where the road intersected. If one continued straight on, it led out of town in the direction of Pageton, Gary, and eventually, Welch. But, if you turned left, you'd travel past a barber shop, hardware store, and the theater on the right. On up, there were a small bridge and railroad tracks. It continued up the road toward O'Toole,e passing the Elementary school built upon the hill. For me, the school held fond memories, great friends, and inspiring teachers. The PTA often held meetings and conducted joint efforts to involve the children, to inspire them in some way. And, thus, hope to open up their imaginations to be creative. I'm not exactly sure what the event was that my brother David and I were attending, but the events that preceded the program were far more interesting. Living 'On the Hill', our family only had one vehicle at a time. Therefore, if we went anywhere while dad was working, we either walked or someone gave us a ride. The event at the Elementary school was scheduled and I and my brother were to attend. I don't remember why we needed to go, but it must've been important... Someone was to pick us up on the other side of the valley, but we had to walk off the 'Hill,' down through pastures, through trees, down embankments, across railroad tracks, across a flat valley, and climb up an embankment to the highway where we'd wait for the person to pick us up. We dressed and began the journey just as a misty rain began to drizzle. The dirt paths down the hill were wet, slippery, and dangerous. One was sure to lose their footing if they weren't careful. David, the dutiful older brother, did his best to keep me from falling, but I slid on the muddy path, and down I went. Sliding and slipping, I was unable to keep my balance. Twisting back and forth to regain my footing I finally got back up. Muddy and wet, I knew my pants were nasty. We made our way to the pickup site, to school, and the PTA meeting. My dutiful brother charged with 'looking after me', took me into the boy's restroom to clean my pants off as best he could. I remember him telling me "That it looked alright" and it was okay. The memory remains today as if I were sliding down the hill all over again. Unfortunately, the school has been torn down but it was a gathering of great people and great friends who've traveled with me all of my life.
By Dan R Fowler3 years ago in Motivation
A Simpler Time
Sitting in the quietness of the morning, I drift off into memories of experiences lived long ago that molded me and colored my life. Some experiences were great, others not so wonderful. In the late summer months, July through September, me and my brothers would be caught up in the season habit, our excursion as we called it of going Blackberry picking. We always went with our Mom no matter how much fight we put up. It was a hot and dangerous seasonal harvesting that could bring the picker face to face with copperheads or maybe even a rattlesnake.
By Dan R Fowler3 years ago in Journal
Going Crawdad Hunting
As I remember the late sunny afternoons on the hill where we lived when we were children, a chuckle pushed its way from deep within my soul and spilled over into my conscious mind. I had to laugh, almost uncontrollably, as I remembered one of many tales of discovery that my brothers and I lived through during that time of our lives. There were 6 houses spread spaciously apart along the dirt road cut into the mountainside. None of the houses would meet the standards of today's affluent more architecturally correct structures. The dirt road that led to the houses was only wide enough for one vehicle. And, when riding in our truck, the times that my dad could afford one, I and my brothers bobbed up and down like popcorn in a popcorn popper as we rode in the seat that didn't have seat belts. Seat belts weren't required, perhaps not even thought of at that time in the late 1950s.
By Dan R Fowler3 years ago in Journal
Beyond The Window
Time, the healer of all things, as we're told, will eventually calm my spirit. Indelible memories flood over me, pushing me this way and that. Sorrow unbearable, laughter untamed, and cherished silence all played their roles to mold my world. Lest I slump in my chair and sob uncontrollably, I take deep breaths, gather my emotions, and attempt to put things in perspective. Without a doubt, there are things out of our control. But it doesn't make it any easier. No, this passing year has delivered an indelible blow not just to my soul, but to others as well. Some say that sorrow is common to mankind, a life often filled with woes. Perhaps that's true, but it doesn't make the memories nor the emotions any less real, any less vivid. Some say it's just life and in time the impact will subside, and the trial will be over. And, I guess they're right in some respects. But they haven't walked where you and I have walked. They haven't felt what you and I have felt. And, they haven't loved as you and I have loved. That experience is reserved for the person touched the deepest by this passing year..... Having sipped my coffee, I listen to the stillness of the morning, the ticking of the wall clock, and the push of the wind against my window. Something 'unknown' this way comes. Unpredictable and unstoppable, the new year has begun. It brings decisions accompanied by consequences. Will it be a time that will try men's souls as one author penned? That is yet to be seen, experienced, and, with the tick of the clock, soon forgotten. At all cost, to thine own self be true. Love without condition. Live without regret. I press my face against this foggy window of time and squint hoping to catch a glimpse beyond the barrier but to no avail. Therefore, on my knees, I must pray that the unseen be met with the grace I need, with the mercy I don't deserve.
By Dan R Fowler3 years ago in Motivation
Misty Meadow's Secrets
Misty Meadows’ Secrets Low-lying ground fog being pushed by a gentle evening breeze hugged the lamp posts like old lovers. It wrapped around the base of the posts as if they were old friends remembering their intimate moments of yesteryear. Slowly, swirling at the base of the lamp post, its only vulnerability was the changing wind currents influenced by temperature and moisture content in the air. The two weren’t strangers to the entanglement. It was a familiar dance of seduction, the pulling and pushing by invisible sources.
By Dan R Fowler3 years ago in Fiction
