Apple to Apple

On Sunday morning, March 8, the day of the changing of time, my husband gave me his biyearly gift—setting the new time on my thirty-nine clocks. Cell phone in hand, to keep the times accurate, he wound his way through the rooms of our house.

He changed them all—the counterclockwise clock, the word clock, and the geometry clock; miniature clocks, like the hand painted one from Delft and a homemade wooden one; the math-problem clock and a clock that shows days of the week; clocks that were gifts from students and friends and my husband.

He sprang all these clocks forward, one hour, ending standard time with its bright mornings and darker evenings, bringing our home into Daylight Saving Time with its darker mornings and brighter evenings, following a century-old system.

Not that he’s a fan of this change.

He’s against all this switching back and forth, in the camp with others who think we should choose one permanent time system—it doesn’t matter which—and just stick with it.

But some folks care which. The sunlight seekers—those who want permanent Daylight-Saving Time—say light in the evening matters. More people will shop and eat out and play golf. And fewer will commit crimes.

Many scientists opt for Standard Time. Morning light gives strength for the day, they say, and evening dark brings sleep. My ninety-three-year-old dad, still sharp in his thinking, sides with these scientists. The sun helps us track time, he says, so go with the sun. It should be straight up in the sky at noon in the middle of each time zone.

Daylight Saving Time? Standard Time? We haven’t agreed. So we keep switching.

Down the street from our house of many clocks stands the courthouse clock tower. It’s a handy way to tell the time when I’m working in my garden. I can hear the chimes and see the hands move.

A hundred years ago, the commissioners in our county just didn’t know what to do. Time wasn’t federally mandated then. Some shop owners operated on Daylight Saving Time, others on Standard Time. Many displayed two clocks in their stores. So what time should the courthouse clock show?

Both, they decided. And they ordered that a second set of eight-foot-long hands be added to the clock.

If I’d been in my garden a hundred years ago, I could have looked at the tower clock and read both times—fast time with the red hands and slow time with the black.

What will happen? Only time—some kind of time—will tell.

But perhaps next year my husband will be able to end this decades-long, twice-a-year gift he’s been giving to me.

You should go to the doctor with my mom. You might be surprised.

Not me. Not anymore. After dozens of visits to urologists, oncologists, podiatrists, primary care, and physical therapy, the pattern is clear.

For my mom, these appointments are not so much about infections or tightened tendons, or high blood pressure. For my mom, it’s story time.

Lately, she’s been slipping a book into her go-to-doctor bag. Erma’s Story, the book my dad compiled for her, about her childhood. Two weeks ago, she gave this book to Dr. Madison, who read it. And last week, they traded stories.

My mom grew up in a family of 13, he in a family of 14. Both walked to school—she across the mountains, and he fifteen miles, from the small Liberian village where he lived to the nearest city school, thumbing a ride when he could.

They talked about now living in a town where most people have no clue what it’s like to grow up in Liberia or in an Amish Mennonite community in the mountains. About how it feels to be different from those around you.

Today, my mom does it again, this time with a physical therapist, who mentions my mom’s strong grip.

“Milking hands,” my mom says.

They trade farm stories, the therapist having spent summers on her grandparents’ farm. And the therapist gets a book.

If I were on the exam table, I’d be wondering. Has my blood pressure soared? Do my lab results show infection? Is the biopsy benign?

These questions flit somewhere in my mom’s mind. But not in the forefront.

At 97, here’s what matters—her stories and theirs.

We sit on leather recliners in front of the fireplace and watch as the Olympic U.S. hockey team competes against Canada. Just the two of us, the house picked up, quiet. No babies cry. No diapers need to be changed. And no need to set an alarm for an early morning college class.

It’s nothing like February 22 forty-six years ago.

“You need some fun,” Steve’s uncle had said one evening. “Come get our black-and-white for the Olympics.”

So on the first day of the Olympics, which happened to be Valentine’s Day, Steve brought home his uncle’s fourteen-inch television and set it on the dresser in our bedroom. At first the picture was fuzzy. But Steve wrapped aluminum foil around the ends of the rabbit ears, and the reception improved.

We put the children to bed early, shook a pan across the gas burner on our stove until we had filled our large green Tupperware bowl with popped corn. And settled on our bed—really a four-inch foam mattress on a piece of plywood. With our backs against the wall, we celebrated Valentine’s Day by watching the XIII Olympic Winter Games.

Friday evening, the U.S. hockey team, full of amateurs and college students, played the Soviets, the favored team that had won four Olympic gold medals in a row.

I felt funny about how much I wanted the U.S. to win. This probably had to do with overhearing my dad, back when I was six, worrying about the Bay of Pigs, saying that the Russians could bring an end to the world as we knew it. It had to do with cowering under my desk during the bomb drills at Yoder School.

It had to do with stories I’d been told about Clayton Kratz, a Mennonite relief worker who disappeared in Soviet Russia while bringing relief to Russians who were starving because of World War I and famine. My great-uncle Alvin Miller had been sent to find him. My uncle was unsuccessful.

God loved the people of the U.S.S.R as much as he loved the people in the U.S.A, my dad often said. And so should we.

Still, as the home crowd waved flags and sang “God Bless America,” as the U.S. tied the game in the third period, and as the teams fought into the last minute, I wanted the U.S. hockey team to crush the U.S.S.R.

Sportscaster Al Michaels ended the game by screaming into the microphone, “Do you believe in miracles? Yes!”

We needed some miracles back then—more money for food, more hours in the day to write those papers and rock those babies, a clear path for getting through college as young parents.

But now, forty-six years later, silver-haired and having seen so much pain in the world, I want to believe in miracles even more. Big miracles, wrought of courage and kindness.

There’s a family story about my mom and the moon. She was two, and the moon was full, and she toddled up the hill to catch the big yellow ball. Her father trailed behind, wondering how far she’d go. And he was there when she gave up.

Except she didn’t. All her life, she’s followed the moon, watching it change from a tiny sliver to a half moon to a full moon and back again. Even now at age 97.

Especially now.

“I can sleep pretty much anytime,” she tells me. “Except at night.”

So she moves from window to window, chasing after the moon as it wanders around in the sky.

“Last night, I found it outside the kitchen window,” she tells me.  “High up in the sky.”

Unlike my mom, I’ve given the moon scant attention, the exception being its cyclical challenge for my classrooms.

“Full moon tonight,” a teacher would say in the lounge at lunch. “Get prepared for tomorrow.”

We all knew what she meant—that students would be less willing to work, more unsettled, and more likely to get unhinged.

And teachers aren’t alone. Nurses expect spikes in admissions, police in arrests, and counselors in suicide attempts. The Lunar Effect, some people call it. Aristotle believed in it, saying that if the gravitational strength of the moon could make tides by pulling oceans of water, surely it could change the flow of blood in the brain.

Modern scientists scoff at this. Study after study has proven Aristotle wrong. This thinking, researchers say, shows a confirmation bias. Teachers and police and counselors are seeing what they expect to see.

And scientists should know. In my mom’s lifetime, they’ve walked on the moon, analyzed 842 pounds of moon rock, and photographed the moon’s “dark,” unseen side. The moon, they’ve found, is a dusty, rocky place, covered with craters and debris from comets and asteroids.

But to my mom, the moon’s a wonder, a sight to behold. It’s beautiful enough to cast a silver glow and strong enough to pull an ocean from shore to shore.

And you never know what it might do—wax or wane, climb high or dip low, hide behind clouds or illumine the night. It peeks through the kitchen window one night and into the living room the next. Sometimes silver; other times, blood red.

My mom couldn’t catch the moon when she was two. And at 97, she knows it’s to be admired, not caught.

As for me—now that I no longer deal with a hundred middle school kids when the moon is full, I might just take a look at what my mom’s been chasing.

I could never have imagined what’s waiting for me in the top row of the Schottenstein Center. We’ve come to hear the world-famous Italian tenor. In the queue outside the venue, people shiver with cold and buzz about Andrea Bocelli.

Just the day before, he performed at the Opening Ceremony of the 2026 Winter Olympics in Milan, then pulled off a legendary trans-Atlantic feat. And now, 24 hours later, nearly 19 thousand of us are about to hear him live in Columbus, Ohio, the first stop of his 30^th Anniversary World Tour.

We breeze through security, manage our electronic tickets as if we know what we are doing, and climb up, up, up—past $900 tickets on the floor, past the club level and the terrace level, up 115 steps to the top row, roughly 90 feet above floor level, where Bocelli will look about the size of a thumb. But where, we are assured, the sound will carry through amazingly well.

We’ve got a bird’s eye view. And some friendly seatmates. There’s something bonding about sharing the nosebleed section. Their names are Bob and Shirley.

They’ve driven five hours to this concert, they tell us. From western Maryland. From Garrett County. And they know all about Grantsville, my hometown. They know the historic Casselman Bridge, once the longest single span stone arch bridge in the United States. And they know the Casselman Inn, once owned by my family.

They know my aunt. When Bob was a boy wearing suspenders and a straw hat, my aunt taught him in an Amish school.

We trade some names. And Bob whips out his phone to open an ancestry app.

“We’re fifth cousins,” he says, just as the house lights go down.

Bocelli’s voice doesn’t boom. It’s sweet, intimate, even humble. He sings about love and faith and home. And overcoming. Born with congenital glaucoma and then completely blinded at age 12 in a soccer accident, he’s an overcomer. His voice shows this resilience. And we like him for it.

Here we are in a city called Cow Town, listening to an Italian who just yesterday sang at San Siro Stadium as the Olympic flame was lit,  who gives us enough opera to make us feel smart, but mixes in enough pop to make it accessible.

His last encore “Nessun Dorma,” also his final on the Olympic stage, brings light to darkness and hope to fear. And we are on our feet, 19,000 of us, including one long-lost fifth cousin.

We’ve got this, my dad and me. We’ve done it before, decades ago, when I was a kid and we ran his office in tandem. At least that’s what I thought then.

Deskwork, we called it. He set me up in a corner with my own desk, a rolling secretary’s chair, a typewriter, and a paper tray marked Inbox.

I typed letters from the Dictaphone machine, filed articles from Christianity Today into his topical filing cabinet, paid the bills, and balanced the family checkbook and the ledger—to the penny.  In those days in our family, each penny mattered.

And we sent each other memos. Once I read an article in the Flint Journal about candy stripers. If you were twelve years old, you could volunteer. I was twelve and wanting something new. So I wrote a memo to my dad. I listed the reasons for being a candy striper, proposed that I walk four blocks to the city bus, and then take it to Hurley, the big city hospital. I attached the article from the Flint Journal and placed the memo on the top of my dad’s inbox.

A week later, I found the memo in my inbox. “Approved,” my dad had written across the memo. He had signed his name and dated it. Neither my mom nor my dad ever discussed the idea with me. But two weeks later, dressed in my candy striper uniform, I filled ice buckets, delivered mail to rooms, straightened sheets, and talked with patients.

At twelve, I had seen the power of the memo.

When I left home, I sometimes wondered how my dad managed his office without me, realizing only gradually that my hours of deskwork in his office were as much for my benefit as his.

 These days, I’m in my dad’s office almost every day. He no longer has an inbox for me. But he might as well. Because there’s a corner of his desk where he piles the papers we need to talk about.

“You’ve got a sense about things,” he said to me the other day.

And if I do, he’s the reason why.

It’s been my lifelong struggle to pay attention to one thing at a time. And now that I’m seventy, I’ve given up. So without guilt, I read five or six books at once—a lunch book, a bubble-bath book, a nightstand book, an audio book, a serious book, and a book on my phone.

Why?

Partly because I like variety. I eat lunch in China with Pearl S. Buck and go to bed in my childhood home of Grantsville, Maryland, reading my aunt’s history of the Casselman Inn. Waiting in a doctor’s office, I pull out my phone to read McCaulley’s The New Testament in Color. Later in my recliner, I push back to explore Weinstein’s premise in Grammar for a Full Life— that  the way we shape sentences can limit or enlarge us.

I’ve got these riches scattered around my house, riches that bring people to me from across time, geography, disciplines, and culture.

In my bubble bath, I read perhaps the plainest sentence I’ve encountered since sounding out words in the Dick and Jane books. (Not counting, of course, the hundreds of middle school essays that crossed my desk.)

A page later, I turn back to read it once more. All day I think about that plain sentence. And in my next bubble bath, I turn back to read it again: Miss Brown got up, tidied her hair, and sat down to darning.

There she is—a refugee of the London Blitz with no home, no family, no income, and among strangers—darning. To be sure, she does more than darn. She cares for two evacuated children and a Jewish refugee.

But her darning! This is what grabs me. It’s an act of resistance, a refusal to give in to chaos, an insistence on maintaining decency and mending what’s torn.

Like O-lan in Buck’s The Good Earth. Forced to flee south during a famine, she meticulously mends rags by night even while she’s reduced to begging by day.

It’s like they’re talking together—O-lan and Miss Brown. And I’m listening in, learning how to keep a balance in this uncivil winter of 2026.

My sister sends me a photo—a beautiful, haunting photo of our childhood home. The day my parents sold this house with its forty acres, I muffled my sobs in a pillow, not wanting to make them feel worse for selling than they already did.

Just inside the lit window on the right, I learned to read. One morning, I sat on a low bench in front of a children’s bookcase. Words from books my parents had read to me began to pop out. And I saw them in a new way. I found them on other pages. And I was reading, really reading.  At that moment, I wanted to know every word in the whole world.

In this house I worked my way through childhood diseases: mumps, measles, chicken pox, and rubella. And living here, I learned about death—watching our dog kill and eat a pup, hearing that my best friend’s papa died, finding a cold, still ball of yellow down while unpacking newly arrived chicks in the hen house.

Under the willow tree, my brothers and I teased the buck sheep my father tied there, dancing out of reach as we poked him with a stick.

“You children stop that!” my dad said. “You’re making him meaner than he already is.”

In the creek that wound through the yard, we waded and caught tadpoles and raced paper boats made from the pattern in a Curious George book.

So I had reason to sob into my pillow the day my parents sold this small farm called Willowbrook. My childhood as I knew it was over.

But not my childhood.

In the three-room school I left behind when my parents moved us from our country home, I’d read about city kids. What would it be like, I’d wonder, to buy treats from ice cream carts and ride a bike on level streets and walk to the library any old day I wanted without having to beg my parents to take me?

In the city, milk in glass bottles came to the milk box by our side door, The Flint Journal with its children’s section to our front door, and travelogues of the Swiss alps and the Sahara Desert and kangaroos in Australia to the IMA auditorium.

In Flint, I learned to play and talk with kids who didn’t look like me or talk like me or eat like me or believe like me. I learned to drive at Safetyville, a miniature village with kid-size cars and streets and traffic lights and even a bridge called Little Mac.

In the city-school band, I learned to play the clarinet and the saxophone and the organ. And In Saturday morning classes sponsored by the Mott Foundation, I learned art and writing and German.

That photo my sister sent—I peer into it again. It’s ethereal, giving me the illusion I could walk up the steps and open the door and find myself sitting on a bench behind the lit window. A longing comes through me for this most innocent part of my life.

And the girl who sobbed into the pillow—if only she could look back with me now. Not at this scene only. But at both halves of her childhood. Each of them rich.

Photo Credit: Oluchi Ekwegh

I sleep on my parents’ dining room floor, between their sick rooms. And between trips to check on breathing and to empty vomit bowls, I find myself in that swirling state of half-sleep, with bits of memories fleeting into my mind and shifting together like a rotating kaleidoscope.

In one of these turnings, our recent four-generation Christmas tumbles into last summer’s walk in the woods. The Christmas people, in their sweaters and scarves, join me on that summer-day hike.

“There we are,” I say, with a wave to the woods.

We pass by seedlings, who poke their shoot leaves up through the soil. Already, they’ve anchored their first root underground and learned to take in sun and water. Bright with promise and tender in leaf and stem, they live at great risk, vulnerable to disease and grazing animals.

The saplings stand proudly tall, with barely a nod toward the seedlings who have so much to learn. Saplings feel their splendid vigor—the strengthening of their trunks, their quickly spreading branches and leaves and root systems. Their barks are smooth, without furrow, and their trunks still flexible enough to have some fun swaying in the wind. But they’re without flower, without fruit, without care.

Mature trees show the decades. They’re furrowed, shedding some bark, and bent by the wind. They’ve been gnawed on, climbed on, challenged by drought and flood and ice and burning sun. But above the younger trees, they form a sheltering canopy. And below ground their root systems hold soil in place. Most of all, they produce flowers and seed-holding fruit.

And then we stop, silent in front of a tree that’s been brought to its knees. It’s a snag, an ancient tree in its final stages, living beyond maturity, beyond its peers. Leafing still, though its canopy is shrunken and bowed, and its trunk hollowed out.

This ancient tree hosts life, so much life. Creatures live in its hollows. Plants grow from its composts. And saplings well-fed from the soil around it, stretch toward the sky where the canopy gaps.

The tree moans. And something shifts. It’s not the tree. It’s my dad in the next room on the couch. And I’m on the dining room floor, no longer peering through the eyehole of a kaleidoscope.