Bob Wittersheim

speaker

239 appearances 7 recordings 1 series first heard Dec 2024 last heard 17 Sep

Bob Wittersheim’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.

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Recordings per month over the last 12 months — 3 in all, peaking in Sep 2026 with 1.

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Nothing much happens: bedtime stories to help you sleep · Snow Day in the Village · 20 Jan 2025 podcast

Snow was heaped over sidewalks, blown into sloping mounds at doors. and standing in thick, unbroken swaths on park benches and bird baths. Today, while not sunny per se, was brighter. The thick, gray clouds that had brought the storm had blown over when wispy white ones replaced them.

I spied them from the window seat at the end of the upstairs hall in my house and thought they looked a bit like the thready, woolly yarn of my scarf.

I leaned closer to the pane, my breath fogging up the glass. There hadn't been much entertainment in the last few days. But watching their little family had given me lots of laughs. They had gotten a new puppy a week or two ago. and their two sons, along with their grown retriever, Clover, had been making the most of the days off.

While many of us had just let the snow pile up, waiting to clear paths and sidewalks,

The boys had been out every hour or two, with their shovels, making paths for the dogs. I imagined the promises they had made about that puppy, that they would walk him every day, that they would be sure to let him out and play with him. And so far, they were doing just that. Well, not walking him, really. It was too cold, and the pup too young for walks.

but they romped in the snow with him through balls which disappeared into snowbanks and kept the path from the door shoveled and clear. I'd baked some biscuits for the dogs and some banana bread

And once my own sidewalk was shoveled, I'd sneak over to their house to visit. I smiled to myself. thinking about the wild puppy kisses I'd be gifted and the happy, excited energy of their household. I shuffled down the long hall, a sweater around my shoulders and thick socks on my feet.

while the snow had finished falling, the temperature hadn't, and my old house had chilly, drafty spots that I dodged in the winter. It also had cozy, warmer corners, and I stepped into one at the top of the stairs. Here another window let me look out at the winter wonderland around me. This time out to the street where a few neighbors were beginning to dig out from the snow.

One was standing, her hands on her hips. knee-deep in the stuff, with a discarded shovel tossed down beside her. She was waving at another neighbor a few houses down, who had a massive snowblower fired up. I smiled when I saw him, He would be our collective hero today. I had no doubt. He loved that snowblower. And he was the type of guy that thrilled at a task like the one now set before him.

He often did everyone's sidewalks and driveways and was known on the block as the person to go to when you needed to borrow a tool or get some advice, possibly too much advice on fence repair,

He taught history at the high school, and his penchant for the ancient world led him to dub his beloved snowblower Clear Opathtra. He looked up from the slow, clear path he was now making and spotted the waving neighbor. He lifted an arm above his head, a thumbs up, signaling he understood the assignment, and went right back to focusing on the snow. The waving neighbor

clapped her hands happily, reached for her discarded shovel, and began trudging back to her garage. Having neighbors who take care of each other, who look out for each other, It is no small thing in this world. And even on this cold day, as I descended the stairs, I felt it warming me through. And it made me think, if shoveling was no longer on my chore list,

How else might I be helpful to my neighbors? In the kitchen, as I packed up the treats for the boys next door, I thought that while our block was checking in on one another, there were folks who lived further out who might need a call. I picked up the phone and dialed the inn on the lake. As I listened to it ring, I imagined the innkeeper racing through the halls.

to reach it in the front office where guests checked in.

that she and her cat Sycamore were camping out in the library in front of the fire, looking through old photo albums and books and eating their way through the well-stocked kitchen pantry. They didn't have any guests right now, Chef was away, working at a ski resort for most of the winter. But they had called to check in as I had. The snowplow was expected today to clear their long drive.

Next, I called a friend who lived in an apartment in downtown. He worked at the bakery, and I realized I had no idea if anything was even open on Main Street. He told me that as far as he could see from his window, nearly everything was closed. He'd gone out just once. at the urging of the baker herself to help himself to any of the cookies or loaves of bread still on their shelves.

while wrapped up in blankets in his favorite chair. He thought today would be the last day of his snowcation, that the roads and sidewalks would be clear tomorrow. that the rest had been lovely, but he was excited to make bagels in the morning. Finally, I called a friend who lived in an old farmhouse in the countryside out of town.

I'd met her when I'd stopped to pick some lilacs from the bushes that ran along the front of her property, where she'd posted signs encouraging folks to take as many blooms as they liked. She'd been fixing up her house for the last few years. And I wondered if, like my own old house, it could be drafty in the winter. She told me it was actually quite snug.

She said she'd been out to feed the birds, and that the forest was full of their calls and songs. When we hung up, I began to bundle into my boots and coat to go next door. I thought of how sweet it was to be connected here on my street through banana bread and snowblowers.

but also to those further away through a thought or a word, that all of it wove together and warmed me like a quilt on this icy winter day. Sweet dreams.

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