To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill and a time to heal; a time to breakdown and a time to build up; a time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get and a time to lose; a time to keep and a time to cast away; a time to rend and a time to sew; a time to keep silence and a time to speak; a time to love and a time to hate; a time of war and a time of peace. Ecclesiastes
Steve Wickert was a gentle, broad-minded, hard-working, multi-talented, disciplined, intellectually curious, cheerful, thoughtful, charming, and utterly unselfish man, beloved by all whose lives he touched. I know he inspired and touched my life in a profound way. He was my friend.
I first met Steve in 1991 when I was asked to join a weekly chamber music group. We played quartets and quintets every week until I moved away in 2003. There is something about the intimacy of playing chamber music that creates an unusual bond that goes beyond normal friendship. It is a bond that, with the ethereal quality of the music, moves the soul and could be characterized as a spiritual experience. Because of that, my moving away and Steve’s death have not carried with it the usual pain of distance or loss. We are bonded in spirit.
Early on, there were times when we played music that I found Steve frustrating. He would always pass out the music and I was always given either the 2nd violin or 2nd viola part. I realized all the voices were equally important in such a small group, but I missed playing the beautiful solos of the 1st parts. As time went on I began to be given the 1st parts occasionally. I guess I had proven myself and he was more willing to share.
In later years Steve’s hearing began to go. We still continued to play, even though at times we all joined in Steve’s version of the music so that we could all play together. It didn’t matter though, because each member of the group understood the importance of playing with elder members in hopes that someday younger people would be willing to continue to let us play and express our passion for music, even with limitations.
The last time I saw Steve was in February last year on a visit. I had arranged with the other musicians to surprise him at their musical get together at his home. When he saw me his face lit up into a beautiful smile and I went over to him and gave him an enormous hug. Our cellist, another dear friend, told me after he died that she had never seen him give or receive any physical expressions of affection in all her years of knowing him. I am glad that my spontaneity and feelings allowed me to hug him and that he so opening and gracefully received it.
I am looking at Steve’s obituary notice, which has given me more insight into his long life. Steve was born in Germany and was the sixth of fourteen children. His father was an organist and parish hall director. His parents had plans for him to become a priest, but when he showed early promise as an artist, they allowed him to study art and art education. He used these skills both in Germany and later in the United States and was well known for his amusing posters that he continued to draw his entire life. All through his life, he exhibited as a painter, sculptor, illustrator and caricaturist.
Over the years, he also issued a series of over a dozen self-published books as gifts to family and friends, anthologizing more than a thousand German and other European folk songs in his own piano arrangements, with his own English verse translations, and accompanied by his own illustrations. At his death he was at work on a new volume, consisting of American folk songs. I treasure the volumes I received that are now in my library.
Toward the end of World War II, he was drafted and served as forward observer for the German artillery in Italy. His unit, however, retreated soon after his arrival and surrendered to the American forces upon re-crossing the Alps. After his release from an American POW camp, he rejoined his family, who had been relocated following a bombing raid. In 1952, he came to the USA with his family and became a naturalized citizen in 1957.
In addition to his professional talents as an artist, Steve was a passionate lover of music throughout his life. He played piano, violin, viola and cello with local orchestras in Rochester, New York and regularly met with friends to play chamber music. He was scheduled to perform a two piano concert two days after his death.
In 2006 I received a letter from him that touched me deeply. I am going to share it with you because I think it will help you understand what a wonderful man and friend Steve was.
12/13/06
Dear Paula,
Was it a bolt of lightning or was it the soft wing of an angel that touched me, when I read your account of your travel through the year.
It’s the least I can say: I was touched. To be included, an old man that I am, into what you accept and tolerate in the sheer battle of yourself, it felt like an honor.
Of course, I am still here, or am I? It’s the quaint but articulated indifference to what real age makes of a man. Plainly: Nobody knows except the old one himself. He doesn’t know, he just is condemned to live it. He is the “Unicum”, the oddity, the lover, the inaccessible one except for the vain scrutiny of trying to make him “act like all the others”.
Oh yea, I still stick out my antennas, actions that come with learning to walk and to eat, and even stroking a bow over a fiddle. That’s my conversation with the world I grew up with, though that has dramatically changed. I know it’s there, I can’t deny it, but I don’t have to agree with it. I don’t care whether anybody likes me. Most of them just take a step backwards in front of a confession like that.
Do I feel rightly seeing you sitting there calmly while I am blabbering away? You’d justly remind me of how much help I am enjoying with my children. And you are so right there. But even that is like rightness limited when one of my 4 favorite girls is befallen from a sneaky “Poliomyelitis” and will have to relearn moving like a baby, probably over the next 6+ months. She is God’s reminder for me that physical short comings are not reserved for old age.
Should I take hope from a turn like this? You bet I do. When you see your life elixir, your children, strangled in their youthful normality, then my age doesn’t matter a bit. There will be no miracle, but suddenly: oddity is normality.
Will we see each other at all, before it is too late? Christmas is such a wonderful God-given chance to join hands and cry out while you still can.
I know your courage has grown to face the oncoming year. I return your love in full measure.
Stephan Wickert
In Jeff Michaels’s article entitled “Endings and Beginnings” in the January issue of Sedona Magazine he expresses some of my beliefs and feelings about my relationship with Steve. Excerpted from this article:
“The ending of life is called “death,” and for many, death is a finality; death is an ending, a stopping, a ceasing—no more. There are faiths that describe death as the end and then they tell you what will happen afterward. They make something up: “You will go to heaven or you will go to hell. You will cross a river.” These are observation; these are glimpses, and they are all attempts to describe what you know is true. Death is not a stopping. Birth is not a beginning. Your energy does not cease.”
I will treasure the wonderfully fulfilling memories of many hours playing music and knowing Steve as a person in my heart forever. I also know, deep in my being, his spirit is soaring free and will be with me whenever I play music now or whenever I think of him. He continues to be a deeply loved and dear friend.
Steve Wickert was a gentle, broad-minded, hard-working, multi-talented, disciplined, intellectually curious, cheerful, thoughtful, charming, and utterly unselfish man, beloved by all whose lives he touched. I know he inspired and touched my life in a profound way. He was my friend.I first met Steve in 1991 when I was asked to join a weekly chamber music group. We played quartets and quintets every week until I moved away in 2003. There is something about the intimacy of playing chamber music that creates an unusual bond that goes beyond normal friendship. It is a bond that, with the ethereal quality of the music, moves the soul and could be characterized as a spiritual experience. Because of that, my moving away and Steve’s death have not carried with it the usual pain of distance or loss. We are bonded in spirit.
Early on, there were times when we played music that I found Steve frustrating. He would always pass out the music and I was always given either the 2nd violin or 2nd viola part. I realized all the voices were equally important in such a small group, but I missed playing the beautiful solos of the 1st parts. As time went on I began to be given the 1st parts occasionally. I guess I had proven myself and he was more willing to share.
In later years Steve’s hearing began to go. We still continued to play, even though at times we all joined in Steve’s version of the music so that we could all play together. It didn’t matter though, because each member of the group understood the importance of playing with elder members in hopes that someday younger people would be willing to continue to let us play and express our passion for music, even with limitations.
The last time I saw Steve was in February last year on a visit. I had arranged with the other musicians to surprise him at their musical get together at his home. When he saw me his face lit up into a beautiful smile and I went over to him and gave him an enormous hug. Our cellist, another dear friend, told me after he died that she had never seen him give or receive any physical expressions of affection in all her years of knowing him. I am glad that my spontaneity and feelings allowed me to hug him and that he so opening and gracefully received it.
I am looking at Steve’s obituary notice, which has given me more insight into his long life. Steve was born in Germany and was the sixth of fourteen children. His father was an organist and parish hall director. His parents had plans for him to become a priest, but when he showed early promise as an artist, they allowed him to study art and art education. He used these skills both in Germany and later in the United States and was well known for his amusing posters that he continued to draw his entire life. All through his life, he exhibited as a painter, sculptor, illustrator and caricaturist.
Over the years, he also issued a series of over a dozen self-published books as gifts to family and friends, anthologizing more than a thousand German and other European folk songs in his own piano arrangements, with his own English verse translations, and accompanied by his own illustrations. At his death he was at work on a new volume, consisting of American folk songs. I treasure the volumes I received that are now in my library.
Toward the end of World War II, he was drafted and served as forward observer for the German artillery in Italy. His unit, however, retreated soon after his arrival and surrendered to the American forces upon re-crossing the Alps. After his release from an American POW camp, he rejoined his family, who had been relocated following a bombing raid. In 1952, he came to the USA with his family and became a naturalized citizen in 1957.
In addition to his professional talents as an artist, Steve was a passionate lover of music throughout his life. He played piano, violin, viola and cello with local orchestras in Rochester, New York and regularly met with friends to play chamber music. He was scheduled to perform a two piano concert two days after his death.
In 2006 I received a letter from him that touched me deeply. I am going to share it with you because I think it will help you understand what a wonderful man and friend Steve was.
12/13/06
Dear Paula,
Was it a bolt of lightning or was it the soft wing of an angel that touched me, when I read your account of your travel through the year.
It’s the least I can say: I was touched. To be included, an old man that I am, into what you accept and tolerate in the sheer battle of yourself, it felt like an honor.
Of course, I am still here, or am I? It’s the quaint but articulated indifference to what real age makes of a man. Plainly: Nobody knows except the old one himself. He doesn’t know, he just is condemned to live it. He is the “Unicum”, the oddity, the lover, the inaccessible one except for the vain scrutiny of trying to make him “act like all the others”.
Oh yea, I still stick out my antennas, actions that come with learning to walk and to eat, and even stroking a bow over a fiddle. That’s my conversation with the world I grew up with, though that has dramatically changed. I know it’s there, I can’t deny it, but I don’t have to agree with it. I don’t care whether anybody likes me. Most of them just take a step backwards in front of a confession like that.
Do I feel rightly seeing you sitting there calmly while I am blabbering away? You’d justly remind me of how much help I am enjoying with my children. And you are so right there. But even that is like rightness limited when one of my 4 favorite girls is befallen from a sneaky “Poliomyelitis” and will have to relearn moving like a baby, probably over the next 6+ months. She is God’s reminder for me that physical short comings are not reserved for old age.
Should I take hope from a turn like this? You bet I do. When you see your life elixir, your children, strangled in their youthful normality, then my age doesn’t matter a bit. There will be no miracle, but suddenly: oddity is normality.
Will we see each other at all, before it is too late? Christmas is such a wonderful God-given chance to join hands and cry out while you still can.
I know your courage has grown to face the oncoming year. I return your love in full measure.
Stephan Wickert
In Jeff Michaels’s article entitled “Endings and Beginnings” in the January issue of Sedona Magazine he expresses some of my beliefs and feelings about my relationship with Steve. Excerpted from this article:
“The ending of life is called “death,” and for many, death is a finality; death is an ending, a stopping, a ceasing—no more. There are faiths that describe death as the end and then they tell you what will happen afterward. They make something up: “You will go to heaven or you will go to hell. You will cross a river.” These are observation; these are glimpses, and they are all attempts to describe what you know is true. Death is not a stopping. Birth is not a beginning. Your energy does not cease.”
I will treasure the wonderfully fulfilling memories of many hours playing music and knowing Steve as a person in my heart forever. I also know, deep in my being, his spirit is soaring free and will be with me whenever I play music now or whenever I think of him. He continues to be a deeply loved and dear friend.
