Apple to Apple

One misstep and our summer changes. No more two-mile walks together through town as the stars come out and the lights blink on. No more working together in what we planned would be our best garden ever. No more biking or swimming or disc golf.

Instead, my husband straps an iWalk to his leg or props it on a knee scooter to go everywhere his two feet used to take him. Life changed so quickly. So easily. Without warning.

“It’s a Jones fracture,” his doctor said. “Absolutely no weight on that foot. Not once.”

Doors open to a perfect June evening, but we sit morose.  The breezes and the bird calls tantalize us. Just one walk. That’s all we want. Just one walk down the street and through the park and over the creek. Just a chance to wander through streets where children play hopscotch and zip by on bikes, where we can stop for ice cream and meander back home past the courthouse and down the sidewalk to our front door.

“We’ve got to get hold of this,” my husband says. “Find a way to redeem the summer.”

But we’re stuck. Until we think of a recent vacation to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where we took a GPS-guided audio tour through copper country. It was as if an expert sat in the back seat of our car interpreting what we saw.

“You think they’ve got something for the middle of Ohio?” my husband asks.

We’ve got no mines here, no mountains, and no water to speak of. But does Ohio have stories?

We do!

So we install an audio tour app. And off we go, Steve hobbling to the car on his iWalk. Our first tour takes us to the Grimes Flying Laboratory, where we learn that Warren Grimes is known as the father of aircraft lighting.

“Think of the lights you see on aircraft wing tips,” our guide says. “Grimes invented those to make flying at night safer.”

The laboratory is accessible with an iWalk. Inside, we see a 1940s airplane being restored. And we read about Warren Grimes, a runaway orphan, who ended up working for Ford Motor Company and taught himself engineering. And whose red, green, and white navigation lights are found on the wingtips and tails of almost every plane in the world.

Well, this will change the way I look out at my next airplane wing, the way I’ll watch the next plane fly at night in the sky above our deck.

And to think, a runaway orphan boy, someone given a bad deal in life, did all that!

On the trip home, we’re pleasantly drowsy.

“Let’s take a small nap,” Steve says.

Just ahead is a shaded graveyard. Steve pulls in. We open our windows and recline our seats. The birds sing, the breeze wafts, and we sleep with the rest of them.

People trust me for lots of things—to keep a secret and read a MyChart, to plan a cousin week and apply for long-term health care benefits, and to lead workshops and speak to groups. But there’s something no one trusts me to do. Not my parents or my husband or my grandkids. And not my friends.

All of them know this one thing about me—that I can’t find my way, almost anywhere.

Back in the pre-GPS days, I drove twice a week to graduate school. And each time, a card with directions is what got me there: Take I-70 East. Keep left to continue on I-670 E. Follow signs for airport. Take Exit 2B to merge onto OH-315 N. Take Exit 3 to Cannon Drive. Turn left into the Ohio Union North Garage. By the time I earned my masters diploma, the card was tattered.

One by one, my grandchildren learned to mistrust me, usually around the age of five.

When I was in the driver’s seat, they’d sit up straight, their eyes alert.

“Not that way, Grandma,” one would say. “This other way.”

Even at the zoo and in parking lots and on walks around town, they watched and corrected my path.

And my dad. He just can’t understand this lack in my brain.

“For how organized you are …,” he mutters when I turn the wrong way once again.

Usually this is not on the road, where the GPS now maps my way. It’s me pushing his wheelchair out of Coumadin clinics and doctors’ offices and through hospital hallways.

But he’s known since I was three that the spatial orientation part of my brain is missing. And he’s found a way to get himself where he needs to be. He sticks out his left hand or right, as the need may be, and points.

So I’m set with my dad.

And with my grandkids, who now take the wheel and the lead, no matter where we go.

Besides having my nose in a book too long, too often, and at the wrong times, the main reason I got in trouble as a child was forgetting. In sixth grade I forgot my books. That evening I had to write 500 times: I will not forget my books. The next day I left my boots at school, the rubber kind we pulled over shoes back then. That evening, I was writing sentences again—I will not forget my boots.

In junior high I sat in detention one long afternoon with other rule breakers—those who cheated and fought and smoked and skipped school. Why? I’d forgotten my clarinet on a band day, left it at home, under a stack of library books.

I just couldn’t stop forgetting. Back when I carried purses, I left them on shelves in mall dressing rooms and under chairs in restaurants and on top of my car after buckling babies in car seats. I missed appointments and didn’t renew my license on time. I dreamed that I forgot about a college class until three weeks into the term. Finally, I had enough. And decided to do something about it.

So I set up systems. I slipped notes in the bottom of my shoe and carried my credit card and license in a pocket. I kept scrap paper by my bed so I could write reminders in the night. Then I’d crumple up those notes and throw them into the middle of the floor so I’d trip over them in the morning.

And then came the age of technology with even better ways to keep track of my life and the lives of those in my care. Of all the new tools, my favorite is the snooze feature of Gmail.

Just yesterday, I sent myself an email about my father’s next Coumadin clinic check and then snoozed the email to the day before the appointment. I snooze when I want to remember the week a grandchild goes to camp, the anniversary of a friend’s death, and the month I can renew my passport.

Two emails I keep snoozing over and over. They’re not about what I need to do. They’re about who I want to be.

One email that helps me with my parents reads: As slow as possible, as soft as possible, as sustainable as possible, as sincere as possible, as steady as possible. Allow space and pause.

Another email reminds me of the lyrics of a song, one about peace on earth.

Each month when this email pops up out of its snooze, I plead for peace—that it will come to earth. I make an offer—to have it begin with me, and a vow (which I sometimes manage to  keep) to take each step and live each moment in peace. 

A snoozed email is better than stuffing a paper in the bottom of a shoe, especially when you’re over seventy.  By snoozing and by wearing a crossbody wallet case for my iPhone, I’ve managed to avoid writing 500 sentences or sitting in detention.

It’s not that I’m forgetting less. Not at seventy-one. It’s that I’ve got some fancy tools to help me remember.

The porch swing creaks and pages turn. The air’s gentle and fresh, not hot, not cold, not humid. It’s a perfect late-May afternoon. On Main Street in front of my house, a school bus screeches to a stop. But the door doesn’t open. And no students emerge. Instead, young faces press to the window. A hearse passes by in the other lane. And funeral flags flutter on somber-looking cars driven by sober-looking people.

I close my book.

In a few minutes, I’ll turn my car north on Main toward the Bluebird Retirement Center, where my parents live with eighty-some people who once ran the world: teaching, doctoring, farming,  running businesses, building houses, and conducting scientific experiments. Most, but not all, can look back at their lives and recall what they’ve done. Some continue to work in their interests—writing history, cultivating flowers, encouraging others. Many host grandchildren and great-grandchildren in the retro ice cream shop, trading stories over cones.

In a few days, we’ll point our car south on Main to a grandson’s high school graduation in Kentucky. He’ll cross the stage and turn his tassel with more than 300 people who aim to run the world. Most, but not all, have a next step in mind—college, apprenticeships or entry-level jobs. Some know exactly what they hope to accomplish by the time they retire and enter care in a retirement home. But none know what the ensuing years will hold.

I give the swing a few more pushes. And think about the generations. About our youngest grandchild just finishing grade school, the ones in high school, and those already in college. About our children in the throes of their careers. About my parents, closing up a long-loved home and making a new one at Bluebird.

School buses, graduation stages, hearses and all that happens in between—this makes a life. Not all days are gentle and fresh and spent on porch swings. But some are. And the other days, those that are hard and hot, help us through the next transition and on to the next stage.

I slow the swing. I’ve got to visit my parents. And then I’ve got to pack for a grandson’s graduation.

They’re merging us down to one lane on a Friday afternoon in Michigan, where everyone’s going the same way—Up North to the cabins and lakes and wooded lots with firepits. It’s good to be back in the Wolverine state, where we met and married and welcomed our two children.

Old music comes through our fancy, new Bluetooth speaker. Steve’s got his playlist going. Peter, Paul, and Mary still want a hammer.  Simon and Garfunkel bridge the troubled water. The wind’s still blowin’. And after more than six decades of the song being out in the world, everything keeps on turn, turn, turning. All the sounds of long ago.

Steve rolls down his window and smiles at me.

There are all sorts of good reasons to keep windows shut on the road: to reduce wind noise and air resistance, to increase fuel efficiency, to keep debris from flying in. But at this moment the open window takes us back to the pre-AC days when folks had tans on their driving arms and wind in their hair, when they breathed in the sharp, heady scents of  asphalt and combustion exhaust.

That’s how we rolled down Saginaw Street after a date.

But for me, open windows go even further back—to my childhood. To nine-hour family trips from our city home in Flint to grandparents and cousins in Western Maryland with five or six of us packed into the back seat of a sedan. The baby was lucky, riding in spacious luxury between our parents in one of those small dangle chairs that hooked over the front seat.  

My parents were lucky too. With the roar of the road through the open windows, they missed most of the tattling. Who stepped on whose foot and who was spreading halfway across the seat and who said something that was not at all nice.

But luck ran out for all of us when the baby soiled a diaper. The odor didn’t mix well with asphalt and exhaust. One time the baby wet once too often. Extra diapers were packed deep in the trunk. So my mom closed her window over the end of the damp diaper, where it flapped outside in the wind.

The flapping worked well for my mom, muffling protests of embarrassment from the back seat.

At sixteen I ran into luck—finding something more calming and way more fun than being a big sister in a back seat—open windows and “Turn! Turn! Turn!” on dates with Steve.

But even better is old music through the Bluetooth and a smile that calls back the decades.

A call for the squad, a night in the emergency room, and an admission to the hospital—all this, and my parents’ lives change. They now live in a small apartment in assisted living, only two minutes and two seconds from my house. (Mom asked me to time.)

After only one week in, let me just say that I’m proud of my parents.

“This is like Pennsylvania Dutch cooking,” my dad says during one of his first meals in the dining room. “And with no Mennonites in the kitchen.”

One of their aides seems like a Bender. Another like a Hershberger. Familiar names from their home community.

My nonagenarian parents are handling all the intimate ways they need care with great dignity and humor and gratefulness. And celebrating that now with no grocery pick-ups, bed making, and laundry, they’ve got more time to write.

Mom, who copies the Bible by pencil into notebooks, is moving through the Psalms. My dad’s living back in 1895, researching and writing about the split of the Old Order Amish and the Amish Mennonites.

At the retirement center, my mom’s got lots of new friends. So she keeps giving away Erma’s Story, a collection of childhood memories my dad compiled for her. Her book has become her calling card.

I’m eating lunch with my parents one day when the CEO of the retirement center stops by our table.

“Erma,” he says. “I had the most frightful weekend!”

Concern flies across her face.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I was there when the house burned down,” he says. “And when Raymond fell to the tongue of the runaway wagon and when Papa almost lost the farm in the Depression.”

Awareness dawns for my mom.

“You read my book!” she says.

He nods.

“I felt so sad when your Papa didn’t hear you call and you missed your ride to town.”

You should have seen my mom’s face.

She leans toward me.

“He reminds me of my brother Oren,” she says. “He tells a good story.”

It’s not easy, this transition. You don’t leave an established, loved home without pain. And we’ve still got adjustments to make. But so far, it’s a promising match—my parents leaning into their new lives, finding themselves in the eyes of the new people they meet. And the community around them celebrating who they are.

I overnight with my dad at the ER. And here’s what strikes me—that the night shift goes off duty looking fresher than the morning shift coming on.

I’m not judging. Mornings are tough for me, too. I’d rather not talk until nearly noon. Certainly not about anything cheerful. Not about anything serious, either.

Not everyone’s like this. I’ve lived with morning people: my mother, my college roommate, and now my husband. For them, mornings are as yellow as the sun, as yellow as an egg, sunny-side-up. These people wake up, ready to eat, ready to talk—about cheerful things.

Me? Even though I taught early-morning classes for decades, I’ve always had to arrange my face, to disguise that tired appearance I have when first waking up. Emily Dickinson is with me on this one. In her poem, she ties her hat and tells her fingers to hurry. But what I like most is that she checks the laces of her face, using the metaphor of a corset to hold the muscles of her face into a pleasing expression.

To do this morning after morning, you’ve got to care about the faces in front of you more than your own—leaving behind worries about your children, a leaking roof, and a coming mammogram.

You’ve got to have some stamina, some staying power, and the hope that as the day goes on you can get into the rhythm of the way the hands swing around the clock.

I appreciate the nurses who woke before their alarms full of cheer and who now bounce through the double ER doors. But even more, I appreciate those of the laced-up faces, who go about doing good, not because a great day dawned, but because they’re determined to make it great.

By now, I know the drill. It’s a look. And then another, like they’re trying to figure out a puzzle, trying to see beyond my grey-streaked hair and my wrinkles to catch my essence.

Then the question: Were you a teacher?

And a growing smile.

“Are you Mrs. Swartz?”

But I’m not the only one changing. My former students—those kids who were so exhausting and so much fun, such jerks and so sweet within minutes—have left middle school behind. And high school. And now life has come for them.

They’re looking less carefree, more like they’ve been through something, like they’ve got more than one thing on their minds.

“Help me out,” I say. “You look so grown up now. Tell me your name.”

That’s when I almost always see their middle school faces—the same eyes looking out at me, the same lifts to their chins.

And I ask the question that works—Could you tell me something about your life?

Today a student looks at me for just a fraction longer than most, as if she’s considering.

“I’ve been to prison,” she says.

I nod.

“Tell me about it.”

“It was the best thing that ever happened to me,” she says.

That’s where she got off drugs and went back to school, where she finished high school and then two years of college, learning horticulture.

“The person who got me going in prison was an older woman,” she says. “A lifer, who told me to get involved, to make something of myself, and who wouldn’t let me stop.”

And now she’s out of prison, clean of drugs, and working in her field.

“So glad you went to school in prison,” I tell her. “I taught at a prison once.”

I place my herbs on the counter—rosemary and basil and sweet leaf—and give her my credit card.

She runs my card and hands me my flat, ready for spring planting.

As I walk to my car, a picture’s in my mind—of the way she sashayed down the middle school hallway between classes, young and popular, and full of hope.

Hope that she once again carries, but with a more measured step.

When I was a kid, I took history hard. I’d jerk awake at night, disturbed by visions of slaves lashed to posts and whipped to their deaths by overseers. Or by Nazi soldiers throwing babies in the air and shooting them before they hit the ground.

How could this be?

This question that I asked over and over sent me to an English translation of Mein Kampf. As a junior high kid, I didn’t understand all I read. But my main take was that Hitler viewed pretty much everyone else as a tool to be used or as a problem to be removed.

He thought he was it—at the center. That what he wanted mattered. And that what others wanted didn’t.

Which sounded just a little too close for comfort.

I was a purpose-driven kind of kid, and not above using my six younger sisters and brothers to accomplish my goals.

This sometimes ran afoul of my parents’ teachings. Hard-won understandings that had been passed through generations of Anabaptists, who had been hunted and burned at the stake-to be demütig, humble—to look out for the interests of others. Even my enemies. Even my brothers and sisters.

History gave me nightmares. But it also showed me myself. And made me sympathetic to other groups who also suffered. To Jewish people who’ve been displaced and harassed and mass murdered. To African Americans who were kidnapped by the millions, forced into ships, thrown into slavery, and later marginalized by segregation, economic strictures, and racial injustice.

Years later, when I became a teacher, I remembered how I had grown from this trauma-by-proxy. And I didn’t shy from showing suffering to my students. Photographs from around the world. Stories about kids who soldiered and mined coal and worked in factories. Diagrams of slave ships. My students wrote papers about the Holocaust and read Night by Elie Wiesel.

Did some of them have nightmares? Likely.

But I hope many of them still ask themselves a second question, one I asked myself as a student, and still ask—What would I do if . . .