The war had got in everything: it was in things that moved,
and in things that were still, in the animate red silence of an
old brick wall as well as in all the thronging life and traffic
on the streets. It was in the faces of the people passing, and
in ten thousand familiar moments of man’s daily life and
business…

—Thomas Wolfe
_______________

It had been coming to me, lately. And it has closed in close, how strange and fleeting life is. And how random. And the strangeness and randomness of it all was triggered in me, when two people I knew traveled on from this life, real recently. And no, I can’t say I knew either of them that well. And no, I don’t know all the details of who they were and what they were to the world around them every day. I just know their lives impacted mine in their own time and in their own ways.

And it’s like the Tyndale people told me, way back when I was writing my book. Your story is your story, and the people whose lives touched yours are part of that story. And you can include them in the narrative, as long as you stay within the boundaries of what you saw and lived and felt, and what you know.

Well, this is a little sliver of my story. And I saw and lived and felt every shred of that little sliver.

A brief review, to start. We all know how my heart gave out last November, and how I almost didn’t make it through. Well, if you read my stuff now and then, you know that. If you don’t, there’s no reason you should. I came that close, and I’m holding my thumb a smidgen from my forefinger here, I came that close to passing on along. But somehow, I didn’t. I guess it just wasn’t my time. The doctors got me pulled back, and I returned to my home after ten days, feeling fragile, very alone, and a little frantic.

And the doctors told me, when I left. You will always be weak. Your heart will always be like an old man’s. That’s what they tell anyone who had congestive heart failure. I went home and felt my way along for a few weeks, like a blind man fumbling his way through the night. And then I started working my way back.

In late February, I went back to the hospital for my heart ablation. That’s what they do when you have A-Fib, which is what I had and what caused the congestive failure. I wrote about that little journey back when it happened. It was like taking a hike out into the wilderness, going under for the operation. It all went well, better than I could have hoped for. And Dr. B called Janice right after the operation, before I even came back up, like I had told him to. “Everything went fantastic,” he said to her. And then he added one more thing. “There is significant improvement in his heart strength.” Janice dutifully called me later that afternoon and told me what Dr. B had said. And I thought. Hmm. Significant improvement, eh? I sure wonder what he means by that.

What he meant by that was that my heart had improved back to 100% strength, a thing they had told me would never, never happen. I simply rejoiced. And no, I didn’t make any vows about what I would or wouldn’t do to keep my heart that way. I was simply gonna live, because every day I lived my life was a gift that I should never have seen, not when you look at the odds. I’m still grateful every day. And I realize that my life is just a vapor, that it could end, just like that. My heart could collapse without warning. Or I could walk in front of a truck, or some such thing. Tomorrow is promised to no one. No one. Not for any reason. That’s the bottom line, and that’s the knowledge and perspective I try to keep close to me in my heart.

And I know. This all seems like a bunny trail, if you’re a regular reader. Yeah, yeah, you’re thinking. I know all this. What’s your point? Well, I can tie it all together if you hang in there with me. I think I can, anyway.

I’m not sure if it was just before or just after that operation. It was close to one side or the other. And I was feeling pretty good every day. And one day, here comes a phone call from my sister, Rachel. She texts me now and then, with news. And she calls to chat, now and then, too. This time she was calling. And she told me. “Magdalena Eicher is in serious condition in a hospital in Kansas City. She has serious, serious heart issues, and she has refused any corrective surgery because the chances of success are so low. She plans to return to her home community soon. In the meantime, here’s the number for her hospital room. You need to give her a call, now. Today.” Well, I mean, there were some grunts scattered in there, from me. But that was the gist of what she said.

Well. When my sister Rachel calls and tells me to call someone, I generally listen pretty close. I don’t always do as she tells me. But I always hear what she’s saying.

Magdalena Eicher. I had not seen or spoken to that woman for decades and decades. I thought about her now and then, and kind of kept track of where she was and how she was doing. And she was strong enough in my memory that she came out in my book, in my childhood years. Ms. Eicher, my teacher in first and second grades. I don’t know what it was about her. She was just an ordinary Amish girl, teaching school, totally untrained. But I have always remembered her quite vividly, and her impact on my life. I’ve never really analyzed why. From here, looking at it, I think it’s because she was the one who formally introduced me to the magical world of reading. And writing, too, although that world was one I detested early on. Under her instruction, her tuition, the letters of the alphabet came alive to me. I guess one never forgets the person who opened the door to such a place as that.

I listened as Rachel talked. And the memories from long ago washed over me like a flood. And I heard Magdalena Eicher’s voice and saw her smile again, in that old one-room schoolhouse that was torn down years ago. Yes, I said to Rachel. Yes, I will call her. I’m not sure what I’ll say, but I will call her. Text me the number. And we hung up and Rachel did.

And I stood there and looked at the number. There it was. Right there, I could call. I don’t know. Should I? I mean, I had not seen or spoken to Magdalena Eicher for probably forty-five years or so. Not long after she taught me in second grade, she moved to northern Indiana and taught school there for years. And later, well, later she lived a hard life. Endured a lot, that much I knew. She married a real plain man from a remote little community in Missouri, and he dragged her off to live with him there. His name is not worth telling. He turned out to be mentally unhinged. He did not respect his wife, or much care for her at all. An Amish woman in a position like that doesn’t have many options. She saw hard things, and she lived through many hard days that turned into hard years. They had two children, she and her deranged husband. A daughter, then a son. Her children brought her the only joy she saw in all the remaining years of her life.

And now, now she was lying in a hospital room with a defective heart for which there was no cure. I walked out through the warehouse, then out into the sunlight. And then I called her number.

She answered. Her voice sounded exactly the same as it did all those years ago. I was a child again, in her classroom. Except I wasn’t. Hello, Magdalena, I said, half stammering. My sister Rachel told me you’re in the hospital. And before I could say my name, she told me. “You sound like a Wagler. Is this Joseph?” No, I’m not Joseph, although I’m sure he’ll call you, too, I said. This is Ira. She didn’t hesitate. And her voice sounded pleased. “Ira? Oh, I remember you.” You were my teacher in first and second grade, I said. I’ve always remembered those days. I just wanted to call and wish you well.

“I remember all my pupils from those early years of teaching,” she said. “You were all always special to me.” And we chatted a bit about those old days. And then I asked about her heart, and told her a little bit about my own. I was in pretty bad shape with A-Fib. I almost didn’t make it. But I’m feeling pretty good, now. And after a few minutes, there wasn’t a whole lot more to say. I have to go, now, I told her. I wish you every blessing. She thanked me for calling, and it sounded like she meant it. And then we hung up.

A few weeks after that, I walked into The Heart Group one morning for my 30-day checkup after my heart ablation. The nurses checked me in. All vital signs were optimal. Heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen. Dr. B came bounding into the room a short while later. “Ira,” he said. “You are looking good. And you heart is back to 110%. You really have made remarkable progress.” And he went on. “I never knew you were a NY Times bestselling author. They were talking about it while you were on the operating table. I asked what in the world they’re saying. And they told me. I usually do a little research on my patients I’m operating on. I completely missed that about you.”

I laughed. Yeah, I don’t go around telling people I’m a writer, I said. That’s beautiful, what you said about my heart. Now let’s talk about some of these drugs I’m on. I’d like to get off all the drugs I can. I’m not gonna fight you. But I want to get off.

I was on four drugs at that time. And I knew he planned to take me off the most toxic one. Which he did. Now, what about the other three? I asked. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Most doctors would keep you on those remaining three for the rest of your life. But I’ll tell you what. Come back in three months, and we’ll talk about it. We’ll see.”

I appreciate that, Doctor, I said as we shook hands. Like I said, I’m not gonna fight you. I’ll be back in three months. And tell you what. I’ll drop a signed copy of my book out front for you on my way out. He smiled at me. “I really appreciate that. Thank you,” he said. And that’s what I did.

A month or two passed. I don’t have the exact time line, here. The exact dates of what happened when. Those don’t really matter, not when you’re telling a story. You get bogged down with the details of stuff that’s not important. You have to feel it, to get it told right. And then, one day, another text from Rachel. My sister always knows what’s going on. The text was pretty simple. Magdalena Eicher is very low, not expected to live long. Not even days. And I thought about what I knew. Her sorrow stayed with her right through to the end. Her husband made no effort to care for her, so her nephew and his family took her in. She stayed in a little trailer by the side of their house. There, they loved her and cared for her. That’s what family is for, I guess. And I’m not judging anyone, here. Just telling it like it was.

Her siblings and some childhood friends made the trek to the remote little Missouri community to say good-bye. She could only sit comfortably in a chair. And there she remained, until a few days after Rachel’s message. Early one morning, then, she quietly slipped away.

And no one outside her immediate family will long remember her name or who she was. Just an obscure old Amish woman out there in the middle of nowhere. She passed away, and was mourned by her children. And she was buried with very little fuss or honor from others.

But here, I remember her, and I speak her name.

Magdalena Eicher, you were brave and strong and resolute in the face of so much sorrow and grief and pain in your life. I salute you. May you rest in peace.

I felt a little nervous the day after I got back from my little road trip to see Dad a few weeks back. I had a doctor’s appointment first thing the next morning, a Monday. Dr. B was going to see me, check me out. The week before, I had been hooked up to a Holter monitor for a day, a little electronic thingy that recorded every beat of my heart for twenty-four hours. So that was done. Still, I fidgeted a bit. Who knows what my heart does at night when I’m sleeping? And that morning, I was real tired from the drive home the day before. Stay calm, heart, I told myself as I drove over to The Heart Group.

I was plenty early. I sat and waited and watched all the other heart patients come and go. Wow. Some of them looked like they were having a pretty rough time. The nurse finally stuck her head out and called my name. I got up and followed her. It’s getting to be almost routine with me, such a thing. She took my blood pressure and heart rate. Absolutely optimal. I’m a little overweight, though. No one grumbles much about that. She took me off to another room and left. And a few minutes later, Dr. B came bounding in. I swear, the man doesn’t walk. He bounds.

It went about like before. My heart was back to 110%. Dr. B even said, “It couldn’t be in better shape if we wanted it to be.” Wow, I said. That’s great news. Now, let’s talk about some of these drugs I’m on.

He laughed. “Yeah, I remember you asking about that before,” he said. Look, I said. If my heart’s back the way you say it is, why can’t you take me off some of these drugs? Like the blood thinner? He agreed. He’d take me off the Eliquis. And he told me again. “Ninety percent of doctors would leave you on the other two drugs.” And I told him again. Look. I’m not gonna fight you. But I got three cards on the table. Three drugs. You dealt me one card. Now how many more will you deal?

I think my willingness to talk about it and not fight is what swung the man. We chatted for a while about the Lisinopril. I don’t need my blood pressure regulated, I said. “OK,” he said. “I’ll take you off that one, too. I’m leaving you on the third one, though. I’m thinking you’ll be on Metoprolol for, well, for the duration.” I didn’t flinch. I thanked the man. I’m not fighting you. I’m happy you took me off two drugs. When can we talk again, about the third one? He chuckled. “You’re a pretty good persuader,” he said. “Come back and see me in six months.

I will, I said. We shook hands. And I floated from that place on fluffy white clouds drifting gently under bright blue skies.

And that should be about it for this blog, seems like. Except it’s not. One more little trail to go down, then I’ll be done. Or maybe it’ll be a big trail. I walked out of that doctor’s office with a deeply grateful heart. Walked into life and living, and all that such a thing was. It seemed so strange. It’s all so unpredictable. One day you’re almost dead, and the next day you aren’t. And then you reach out and touch death in the face again. And you go or stay. That’s how things were. Life, just walking along, making plans for the summer, and my garage party. When you live with real gratitude in your heart, all of life seems like a dreamy dance. At least for a little while it does, anyway.

Then last week, at almost exactly this time, here comes a text from an old friend. Gloria. I hadn’t heard from her in a while. And I sensed instantly from her question that something wasn’t right. “Have you heard from Freiman or Tim?” And I texted back. No, I haven’t heard from anyone. What’s wrong?

Her return text was terse and simple. “Linda is leaving us.” And I groaned aloud and then we spoke to each other briefly on the phone, Gloria and me. Linda Beiler was back in the hospital, and fading fast. This time, she wasn’t going to make it. That’s what Gloria told me. I’d heard it before, in the past few years. She’s back in the hospital. And every time, she returned. This time, the feeling swept through me like a cold fog and I knew what Gloria was telling me was true. This time, Linda wasn’t coming back. This time, this time, well, we all knew that one of these times would be the last. Always before, it was just not this time.

It took some soaking in. In my heart and mind, it took some soaking in to really grasp what I had just heard.

Linda Beiler. She was so much to so many. I almost shudder, to even open the door to talking about who she was to me. Except, it’s like the Tyndale people told me. Your story is your story. And the people in it are a part of that story. You can tell of them, from what you saw, and how you knew them.

I don’t remember when or where or how I first met Linda. It was back in the 90s, I think, at some artsy event or other. I don’t recall when I first laid eyes on her. I never was a part of Linda’s inner circle. And if I ever was in her village, I was way out there on the edge of things. I’m an introvert. I don’t like the city or noise or large crowds. So we connected very sporadically, over the years. But when we did, well, that’s what I want to tell you about.

Things are foggy, about when we first made a real connection. We saw each other here and there. After my marriage blew up, and I started writing, we met now and then, mostly through my good friend and one of her closest friends, Freiman.

And somehow, when I launched my first garage party, I invited her. Oh, yes, she bubbled. She’d love to come. I was probably a little suspicious. People tell you they’ll be there all the time, about things like that, when they have no intention of showing up. I didn’t need to fret about Linda, though. She arrived, back at that first party, lugging in some sort of delicious dish or other. Tomato pie, I think it was. She knew most of the other guests, and the ones she didn’t know soon weren’t strangers. And I have a small surge of pride, here. That night, the first time Linda was at my garage party, that night she learned what it was to play Hi-Lo at my bar.

I remember half keeping an eye on things, like a good host should. And I remember much shouting and confusion at the bar. I walked over after a while, to take a look. And there stood Linda, smiling and smiling. And raking in everyone’s cash, just like she had a right to it. The thing was, she smiled and laughed so brightly that all the losers smiled and laughed with her. It was a strange and wondrous thing.

And after that, I saw Linda a bit more frequently. I got invited to her little parties, and to her Sunday lunches now and then at her apartment on North Lime Street. There, I briefly met many of her friends. I saw Linda and her daughter, Sarah, together. If there ever was a mother’s love for her child, and a child’s love for her mother, that’s what I saw when I saw Linda and Sarah.

My book got published in June, 2011. Linda called me one day, soon after that, out of the blue. She had read the book, and she loved it. I blushed and said, aw, shucks, tain’t nothing. But it was something. She knew it and I knew it. And from the book, then, flowed some of my fondest memories of me and Linda, walking through a small slice of life together.

Things moved along, then. Linda came to my garage party that year, as always. That’s when we always connected, most closely. She was just so exuberant and alive and free. And she always scooped up the money from the Hi-Lo games at my bar. And she always held the fan of $20 bills high and wide, with the biggest smile you ever saw. I always tried to take a picture of me and her together, at that moment. I figured I had the right to stand with her, being the host and all.

In the fall of 2011, my friend Joanna Miller King scheduled a book signing for me at her business in Shipshewana, Indiana. Joanna was an old friend I knew from way back in my Florida years. I had not seen her in decades. She wanted me to come out to Davis Mercantile and sign books at her store on a Saturday. I made plans to drive out the day before, a full day’s travel. And then Linda called me. Somehow, she had heard I was going. Turns out she and Joanna were best, best friends for years. And she asked me. “Can I ride out with you? Don’t tell Joanna. It’ll be a surprise.” Of course, I said. Of course. I’m happy to have company on a long road trip like that.

When you travel ten hours one way with someone, you either hit it off or you don’t. We talked and talked. We told our stories of who we were and where we had been and what we had seen. We told each other of our marriages, and how they blew up. She spoke of her hopes and dreams, and I spoke of mine. The hours flowed by as we rolled along the toll road, on and on, north and west.

I’m sure she thought my anarchist views were a little uncouth, but she just smiled and never let on. I’ve never seen a person who smiled so much. And a funny thing happened as we approached our destination late that afternoon.

Linda was driving. I had been grumbling pretty savagely about the toll road and how much it cost to use it. It’s highway robbery. And as we approached the toll booth to pay and get off, I told Linda. Now, these toll people work for the state. They’re robbers. I don’t want you to smile at the toll person who takes our money. I want you to look all grim. “I will,” she promised. And she deliberately pinched her lips together and tried to frown. We slowed and stopped at the booth. Linda rolled down the window and handed over our ticket, and then a wad of cash I had given her. The toll booth guy, obviously smitten by such a lovely woman handing him money, got all smarmy. “Oh, thank you,” he said, smiling at her plaintively.

And Linda just couldn’t stop herself. “No, thank you,” she said, brightly. And she shot him the most dazzling smile you could imagine as we pulled away. The poor toll booth guy looked grateful. I was horrified. Oh, Linda, I groaned, slapping my forehead. No, no. Don’t thank him. He just robbed you. And you smiled at him. You weren’t supposed to smile. Good grief, woman. And she laughed and laughed and I laughed and laughed with her.

And it was very soon after that road trip that the dark night descended. Cancer. She had cancer. I remember the sinking feeling in me when I heard the news. I waited a few days, then called her. I don’t know what to say, I told her. I’m so sorry. What do you need from me? I’m here, for whatever. And she thanked me and told me. “I know how close you walked with Paul and Anne Marie, through all those long years,” she said. “I know how draining it had to be. You don’t need to do that for me. I have a lot of family and friends who will.” Thank you, I said. I’m here, for whatever you need.

And I just kind of stayed out there on the outskirts of her village, where I had always been. We connected sporadically, but when we did, well, we had a blast. Through Facebook, I kept up with her life and how it was going. She went down low, got close to the door of death, that first round. But somehow, she bounced right back. And every August, she came to my garage party. Smiling and smiling and carrying a great plate of some kind of food or other. After dinner, when things had settled a bit, she always rounded up her willing victims at the bar. And there she skinned everyone in Hi-Lo. And it got to where everyone knew. If you play at my bar, Linda is going to walk away with a bunch of your money. People flocked to my bar, anyway.

And every year, she told me as she was leaving. “Thank you so much. I will be back next year. Let me know.” Oh, I will, I always said, as we hugged.

And I’m not sure what year it was, 2013, maybe. I had been contacted by a group in a retirement home in Mechanicsburg. We had scheduled a book talk one Friday afternoon. After that, I planned to head on down to see my friends, Dominic and Jamie Haskin in West Virginia. Linda and Jamie had hit it off pretty well when they met at my garage party, so I called Linda. I’m heading out for a book talk, then down to West Virginia. Would you like to go along? Would she? Of course she would. And so it was set, our second and last road trip together.

She showed up that morning in her convertible. She had bought it not long before, after her first bout with cancer. And she offered to drive. I agreed, of course. I mean, who could turn down such a thing? I threw in my bag, and we were off. It was just a perfect, beautiful sunny day. We passed around Harrisburg and headed south on the Interstate. Linda cruised along at well over seventy, top down, radio blasting. I recognized the moment as the rare and beautiful thing it was. And I reveled in it.

And after that, life just kind of flowed on. A few years ago, she called and asked if I could bring Big Blue to help move some of her stuff from her Lime Street place to Hollinger House, the great, grand old inn she remodeled and opened over in Willow Street. Of course I could, and did. Later, I attended the grand opening of the inn and gave her half a dozen signed copies of my book, so she could gift or sell them to her guests.

I’m not sure when the last time was I saw her. I think it may have been at my garage party last August. I guess it doesn’t matter much. A few months ago, I messaged out my invitations for this year. August 27th. Ira’s Great Annual Garage Party. Come if you can. Linda messaged right back. “I can’t wait. Bring your quarters!” The last three or four years, when I invited her and she came, I thought quietly to myself that this time will likely be the last time. It never was. This year, such a thought never crossed my mind. I had no doubt at all that Linda would be there.

I stood there after Gloria and I had hung up. So this was it. The end of a long, hard road. And the realization settled in, deep inside me. So much of life is a battlefield. You don’t choose your battles. You take them as they come. But you can sure choose how you fight them. Linda was a warrior. She lived intensely. She fought with grace and courage and joy and great anticipation of good things to come.

But mostly, she lived and fought without fear.

We waited, those in her village, for the final news. We knew that this time it would come. She slipped lower and lower. And last Sunday evening, as the sun sank into the fiery hues of the western sky, the great warrior laid down her sword. And now, the battlefield stands, empty and quiet. And now, she rests.

Linda Sue Beiler, you were my friend. It seems so surreal that you’re actually gone. It was an honor to know you. One day, when I get to where you are, we’ll head out together on another road trip again. And this time I won’t scold you when you smile at the toll keeper. Because the passage to where we’re going will be free.

…His life seemed to have revived again out of its grief of
pain, its death of joy, its sorrow of irrevocable memory. For
a moment he seemed to live again in his full prime…

And for a moment we believed that all would be for us again
as it had been, that he could never grow old and die, but that
he must live forever, and that the summertime, the orchard
and bright morning, would be ours again…

—Thomas Wolfe
________________

We had it all set, my father and me. And I had planned on traveling up to Aylmer to see him last fall. For Thanksgiving, I told him. And he was all excited and looking forward to it. Well. Last fall, right over that time, I landed up flat on my back in the ICU, instead. So that little trip got canceled. Dad was disappointed, I think. I know I was. Still, it all was what it was. The bottom line for me, I was just happy to be alive.

Dad calls me now and then. Roughly every month or so, just to visit. And since last fall, he has kept pesking me. “So when are you coming up to see me?” A few weeks ago, he asked again. And this time, I didn’t shrug him off. I looked at my calendar. I can come over the weekend of the 18th, I told him. He claimed he didn’t have any other plans, and I should come on up. Only later did I realize that the date I had picked was Father’s Day weekend.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen my Dad. I didn’t make it to Florida to be with him last winter. I was pretty much hunkered down at home, getting a grip on things like life and living. Trying to find a balance in my new world. And time rolled on. And suddenly I realized I had not seen Dad since February of last year, down in Pine Craft. It seemed like the time was overdue, for me to go and see him again. And that’s why it all came together like it did, and that’s why I drove up to Aylmer to see him last weekend.

The Enterprise man just grinned at me when I told him my name. It was Thursday after work. I always pick up my rental car the night before. I’m not enough of a regular that they actually remember me. I think they keep notes in my account on the computer, maybe. Anyway, the guy just grinned when I asked what kind of car he had for me. It was a little Chevy of some kind, I forget the model. He dug around for the key. And I asked him. You got any Chargers on the lot? My usual question. He glanced at his inventory. “I don’t have a Charger,” he said. “But I got a Chrysler 300. Same car, except it’s the luxury model. Leather seats, and fully loaded. This car will move.” How much? I asked him. And he told me. Basically twice as much as the car I had reserved.

You know what? I’ll have to pass, I said, sadly. I’d love to try that car, but I can’t justify that kind of money. And I let it go, in my heart. And waited for the key to my little Chevy. But the guy wasn’t about to give up that easily. Oh, no. “Well,” he said. “I really want to see you driving that Chrysler. How about if I….” and he named a price about halfway between the Chevy and his original quote for the upcharge. I froze. Here it was. I’d given it up, but here it was.

OK, I said. I’ll take the Chrysler 300. He grinned a huge grin and filled out my paperwork. Then he fetched the car. It was clearly a powerhouse, a rum-running vehicle. Gleaming burgundy, and brand new. “Only 300 miles on it,” the guy told me proudly. I thanked him profusely. After signing off, I parked Big Blue and drove off in my mean machine. This was a good, unexpected start to things, I thought to myself. You don’t look for it, but you sure take it when it comes.

I packed light that night. Well, light for me, anyway. I’m learning not to throw in the kitchen sink when I’m heading out for a short road trip. A week, two weeks, yeah, I’ll load down the car. But only a few days? A duffle bag and a few fresh shirts on hangers. And I’m good. For me, that’s coming a long way.

The next morning, by seven, I was heading west and north. The Chrysler was going to be all the man had claimed, I could feel that pretty quick. Step on the gas, and the car jumps like a jackrabbit.

And the morning swept in at me, and then the day. And I thought about things, like I always do on the open road. I had driven this road many times, in the past. Back when Mom was sinking into darkness, back through all those years and miles I wandered in my head. And now, now, well, now my father is an old, old man. He and his sister Rachel are the only ones who remain from their world from their generation. And yes, my father is well cared for by my family. He has all that an old man could ask for. Comfort, security, and love. And yet. And yet.

He was once a powerful man, a leader, an undisputed force in his world, the Amish world. A man of renown and reputation. A man of passion who fearlessly pursued his dreams, no matter what. He never had much time for his family, his wife and children. And I want to be careful, here. He provided for us all, he always did. Unhesitatingly. Without complaint. But still, when it came to taking time, real time, for his family, and for his wife, he fell sadly short. It was not because of any ill intent in his heart, I’ll give him that. It was life. It just was what it was.

The thing is, now. Now he is old, and all alone. And now, he sits and grieves for his children, his sons and daughters. Now he has all the time, all the monotonous hours of every endless day. And now, his sons and daughters have about as much time for him as he used to have for them. And there is no ill intent in anyone’s heart, that such a thing came to be. It’s just the way it is.

The Chrysler 300 throbbed along, on and on. You could haul a lot of moonshine in a car like that, and it would never flinch or know the difference. On up north into New York, then west toward Buffalo. And as the hills passed alongside me, I saw them again, and flinched and turned my face. Those ugly, ugly giant windmills, those jarring gashes in the skies. There is no thing uglier to mar a beautiful landscape than that. And there is no thing uglier to mar the beautiful open skies.

I am convinced that one day, perhaps hundreds of years from now, sons and daughters will ask their fathers. “Father, up here in these hills, what are these deep foundations, these remnants of a previous people? Why were they here? And what did they build, way up here on high like that?”

And the fathers will tell their children. “What you see, those remnants, these foundations dug deep and poured with ancient concrete, these come from a foolish people who lived here long ago. Those foolish people worshiped the wind god, and these remnants are all that remain from the huge idols they built on the high places all around. The wind god, of course, let them down like all false gods do. And in time, their massive idols fell on their faces and disappeared into the earth, from whence they came. What you see is all that is left of those foolish people and their false and foolish religion.”

One day, these things will happen. One day, they will. That’s what I thought grimly to myself as the ugly giant windmills flashed by on both sides of me.

The border came up, then, right on schedule. I was making decent time. The Canadians are always pretty friendly. It’s coming back, that’s when the American guards are thugs. I pulled up to the guard gate window and gaped a bit, I will concede. The guard was an astonishingly beautiful woman, probably in her thirties. Oh my, I thought. I wouldn’t mind getting questioned out a little more closely by her. Maybe I should mumble my answers and act suspicious. She took my passport and asked a few rote questions. I’m going up to see family, I told her, not even remotely mumbling or suspicious. She looked bored and waved me through. So much for that. I wish the American guards were half that attractive. I’m sure, going back, some guy with a chip on his shoulder will bark at me like I’m some kind of common criminal. That’s how American guards are.

On then, to Highway 3 and west. The lovely Canadian landscape was marred with dozens and dozens of those ghastly giant windmills. The “Green” gospel spreads to all nations. It is a harsh and relentless thing, demanding endless sacrifice to pointless and insatiable idols. The Friday afternoon traffic clogged the road, but I kept pushing on and on. And by five or so, I was pulling into the parking lot of the Comfort Inn on the east edge of St. Thomas. The place where I always stay. I’m generally suspicious of Comfort Inns, but this one is relatively new and clean. I walked in and asked for a room for two nights, like I always do. It’s never been a problem, getting a room there. This time, it almost was.

The nice lady behind the desk was on the phone for a few minutes. I stood there patiently. I need a room, I told her after she hung up. “You’re in luck,” she said. “I got one room left. You can have it.” One room left? I half hollered. I always stay here, and you have never been even close to full. What in the world is going on? “The air show,” she looked at me as if I were dense. “Every motel for miles around is full. The air show is tomorrow and Sunday.” And right there, I learned that St. Thomas has an annual air show, where all kinds of stunt planes show up and do all kinds of dangerous and stunty things. Who knew? It’s certainly not something I remember from back in my childhood. I don’t guess it was going on, then.

Around 5:30, I pulled into the drive of my sister Rosemary’s place. It was very warm outside. I parked the car under a shred of shade from a small tree and walked into my sister’s house. Rosemary stood there in the kitchen, smiling and smiling in welcome. “We’ve been looking for you,” she said as we hugged. “Dad is over at his office, looking for you, too. He’s so excited, he could hardly sleep for his nap. Sit down for a few minutes, here, before going over.” I laughed. OK, I said. I’ll stay here and visit for a bit, before going over. Here, I brought you this. And I reached into my messenger bag. I got Edna’s message last night and printed about ten blogs. It’s good that she called and told me, because otherwise I wouldn’t have. I don’t go around pushing my blog on people. I handed her the hard copies. “Oh, good,” she said. “Thank you. It’s been a long, long time since we got any fresh copies. We’ll enjoy these.”

And we just sat there and caught up, me and my oldest sister. Her husband, Joe Gascho, had still not returned from his daily produce peddling route in Tillsonburg. Right now, the strawberries are coming in full force. Umm, I said. Fresh Canadian strawberries. I would love some. And I’d love some smoked sausages for supper, too. “Oh, I was going to ask,” she said. “I wasn’t sure what your restrictions are, when it comes to food and salt. I don’t want to feed you something you shouldn’t eat.” Don’t worry about it, I told her. I’m eating just about anything I’m hungry for, now. The salt doesn’t bother me. I keep a pretty close watch on everything. But I’d sure love some smoked sausages for supper. “Then that’s what we’ll have,” she smiled. And I got up to go over to see Dad.

I walked out and across the yard to the tiny little house where he and Mom used to live. The house Mom died in. Dad stays and works there during the day, and then goes over to the big house for the night. They have a nice little bedroom in the corner, and that’s where he sleeps. I reached for the door and opened it and walked it. It was cool and dark inside. Back in the back room, I could hear noises. That was Dad’s office, back there. I walked through the tiny kitchen and stood in the doorway to his office. And there the man sat at his desk.

It’s a scene I’ve seen ten thousand times before, but now I always catch my breath. The man who is my father, sitting and doing what he has loved to do all his life. Writing. His typewriter sat off to the right side of his desk, and he was peering at a large open bound volume of The Botschaft from years past. He must have heard me or maybe he saw the shadows shifting around him. He looked up and saw me and smiled. Hello, Dad, I said. “Why hello, hello, Ira,” he replied. “Come in and sit down.” He closed the large bound book and pushed his wheelchair back from his desk.

Doing some writing? I asked. “Yes, I’m doing some research for my writing,” he said. And I told him. Writing is hard work. He pressed his hands together. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, it’s hard work, but I like it. I don’t know what I would be doing if I wasn’t writing.” And he asked, then. “Are you writing? Are you working on your next book?” I was a little surprised that he thought to ask. Yes, I said. I’m writing. Mostly on my blog. But yeah, I’m playing around with the structure of the second book. Mapping it out, and getting a little writing done. I’m getting things cleared, in my head. One of these days, it’s going to get here. Pretty soon, now.

I pulled up a chair and sat down by his desk. And the two of us just sat there and talked. He was pretty excited to see me, I must say. Excited and eager. He asked what I wanted to do the next day. He thought maybe we could hitch up his horse and go and visit the graveyard where Mom is. Of course, I said. I definitely want to go with you to see her new gravestone. He kept saying, “We’ll take the horse and buggy.” I guess he figured I might try to get him to ride with me. I would never dream of such a thing. But he doesn’t know that. Either that, or he keeps forgetting. “Rosemary can go with us, and she can drive. She has a real safe horse that she drives,” he told me two or three times. Yes, yes, I said. I’m good with that. That’s what I want to do.

Dad is old now. He has lived way beyond the lifespan of most people. He’ll be ninety-five this December. And, yes, the family is there, around him. He has people, and he has loving care. But the man is also achingly alone. He has seen so much and lived so much and told so much. Now, he’s not in the present so much anymore. And his stories of the past are all he has left to say.

I prodded him with a few questions about his childhood, about Daviess. How big was the community, back when he was little? It had four districts. There were three when Dad was born, and by the time he remembers anything, they had divided into four. That’s a small community, by today’s standards. Today Daviess has around thirty or thirty-one districts. It’s a big place, Dad told me, compared to what it was when he was a child.

And a name I can’t remember hearing before kept coming up. Somehow, it got stuck in Dad’s mind. John Raber. He was older when Dad was young, and he was the wealthiest man in Daviess. People always came to him to borrow money. He’d tell them. “Come on in, and tell me about what you need the money for. I want to help you out, but I don’t want to help you in.” John always listened carefully, and he freely lent his money if he judged the loan to be a wise investment. His wife died, and he soon sought the hand of my Mom’s aunt, the widow Fanny. She rebuffed him and he went back home. Two years later, he asked again. Again, she said no. And some time after that, he asked again. By this time she got to thinking. This man won’t leave me alone. So maybe I should say yes. She did, and they were married, the two wealthiest people in Daviess. That’s what Dad told me that first evening, a story like that.

Rosemary came walking in, then, to tell us. Supper was ready. Joe still wasn’t home from town, and Edna was busy at her bakery. So it was just me and my Dad and my sister. Dad usually walks over with his walker. It takes some time. Can I push you over in your wheelchair? I asked. “Sure,” he said. And we trundled over. The table was set with delicious food. Homemade, all of it, and home cooked. Vegetable soup, and smoked sausage and bread and mayo. It all smelled and tasted like my childhood home of long ago. We sat around the small table and feasted to our hearts’ content.

The motel was crammed with air show people when I got there later. I retired early and slept fitfully that night. There’s just something about traveling and sleeping in motel rooms. I don’t rest well. The next morning, I got up and meandered out through the main drag of the community. I had cruised past the old home place the night before. Nothing looks the same anymore. And now the old house, the house that was the only home I ever knew as a young child, that house has been torn down, and a new monstrosity built in its place. It was time, I guess. The old house was old, and Rosemary told me. Once, years ago, when the house was full of people for church, there was a loud cracking sound right during the service. And the entire living room floor settled a bit. Everyone felt it. So the old house wasn’t safe to live in, anymore. Still, I felt a surge of sadness as I drove slowly by the old home place. It’s just not recognizable anymore.

The next morning, I arrived out at my sister’s home around nine, sipping my large cup of fresh Tim Horton’s coffee. I had asked timidly, at the counter. Do you take American money? Oh, yes. And it was just outstanding coffee. Tim Horton’s coffee always is. Rosemary was in a bit of a tizzy when I walked in. She and Dad had expected me earlier, and they were ready to go to the graveyard to visit Mom. I’m sorry, I told Rosemary. I thought I told you I’d be here around nine. I’m here. We walked out and hitched up the horse that Joe had harnessed before leaving that morning. Sally was a tame old plug, and the only horse my sister will drive. We chatted as we hitched her up. It’s been a few years for me. Then Rosemary led the horse and buggy over to the front of Dad’s little house, and I walked in to fetch him. He was dressed and ready to go. That coat looks a little warm, I said, holding the door open as he slowly hobbled out with his walker. We’ll take it off after you get loaded. All right. Let’s go.

It was a beautiful cloudless morning. And the day was going to get real warm. They’re having a heat wave, these days, up there in Aylmer. And the fields are dry and thirsty. There’s never been a drought, in all the years the Amish have lived there. This year, there will be, unless the rains come soon. It’s a strange thing. Rosemary and Dad sat up front. We loaded Dad’s wheelchair in the back, and I sat back there with my messenger bag and my faithful iPad. Rosemary slapped the reins and spoke to the horse. And Sally slowly lumbered out the drive and north toward the corner. We were off.

We trundled along. Dad asked. “Why isn’t Ira driving?” Oh, that’s quite alright, I said. I’m good back here. He kept fussing, though. OK, I said. I’ll drive on the way home. Over the old railroad tracks, then, and down toward the corner. There’s a school there, has been for decades. There wasn’t, back in the day. Left then, and west. Past Solomon Herrfort’s old place. It used to be all overgrown and dark and gloomy around there. No more. The place is cleaned up, all spic and span. There’s a strange story they told me again, as we were driving past. Years ago, Solomon sold the place to Nathaniel Stoll, and moved away. And some years after that, Nathaniel was cleaning out the well, for some reason. And he dug up and brought up an old gravestone. It was dated in the mid-1800s, and the young girl’s name was Mathilda. Nathaniel notified the authorities, and the local newspaper did a write-up, complete with pictures. No one knows how the gravestone got down there. Does anyone know where it is now? I asked. Dad and Rosemary didn’t know if anyone knows. Well, someone should be preserving a thing like that, I said.

All the roads around the community used to be gravel, years ago. Now they’re all paved. Except one. The road that goes by the graveyard remains graveled. The township planned to pave that road, too, but the needed setbacks would have disturbed the first row of graves, out close to the road. So they decided just to leave it graveled, Rosemary told me. Nothing wrong with that, I said, as we turned left onto that road and trundled along. The graveyard was almost at the south end of the graveled stretch, on the right. Sally plugged along, and then we pulled up to the graveyard.

It used to be all raggedy and unkempt. Not anymore. The place was neat and mowed. Most noticeably, there was a brand new wooden fence along the road, with a brand new metal gate. Wow, I said. That sure looks good, that new fence. It sure wasn’t that way when we buried Mom. Rosemary smiled, and there was pride in her face. “It was Lester (her son),” she said. “When we came over to place Mommy’s gravestone, Lester was horrified at how bad the place looked. And he got the committee together, and scheduled the frolics. The youth boys came and worked a few evenings. And now, here it is.”

Rosemary guided Sally up to a new fence post, and tied her up. I got Dad’s wheelchair and set it up beside the buggy. Then I helped him step out and sit down. I opened the shiny new green steel gate and pushed him in. We bumped over the short grass, over to the second row of gravestones. There was one long row, out along the front edge. Then there was a second row, the length of a coffin in. And then a third row, or partial row. That was where Mom was, kind of off the one end, alone, by herself. The wheelchair bumped along, through the grass. And we crossed the second row, and approached the newest gravestone in the graveyard. Mom. This was where she lived, now, in her dark new house, where the cold and bitter winds can never reach her.

I pushed Dad right up to the stone. As we got near, he removed his big black hat and placed it on his lap. I removed my hat, too. And we sat and stood there with heads bowed, me and my father, in silence for a moment. Rosemary stood behind us, closer to the fence. There were no words to speak, really, right that moment. Here, on this spot, here is where I last saw my mother’s face on this earth. Here is where Dad last looked upon the woman who had been his wife for seventy-two years.

He spoke, then, and told me. Feel the stone with Mom’s name engraved. The letters are cut in there pretty deep. He wanted something that would last, he wanted her name to be legible for a while. Longer than some of those earlier stones up in the front row. Go and feel that writing on those. It’s almost gone, almost worn away. And you won’t be able to tell, who all is buried in those spots. Not after the names get wiped away.

And we spoke, too, of the names on the stones in the second row. Familiar names to me, all of them. All of those people were alive and vibrant, all were characters in the world I knew as a child. Many of the original founders of Aylmer lived until their eighties, and a few reached the nineties. Two of Dad’s older sisters, Anna Stoll and Martha Yoder, lived the longest of all. Anna was a few days shy of ninety-six. Martha was ninety-five, if I remember right. My figures might be a bit off, but not by much. And now my father is the only one left, of all those original Aylmer settlers. Of them all, he alone remains in Aylmer. His younger sister, Rachel, lives in Iowa. The two of them are all that’s left of the original crowd. And it seemed that he knew and felt the burden of that knowledge, there that morning, sitting on his wheelchair beside my mother’s grave. One day, perhaps soon, perhaps not, he will join his people there in that spot. And one day soon, his generation will be gone. No one will remain.

We wound down, then. And I’ve got to wind down this blog, too. It’s getting way too long. That time, those moments at the graveyard that sunny Saturday morning, that brief span of time was the highlight of my trip. A powerful and moving and symbolic thing that either happens on its own or doesn’t.

I pushed Dad back to the buggy, and he got in. I loaded the wheelchair while Rosemary untied the horse. And then she got in the back, and I got in the driver’s seat and took up the reins. OK, Sally, let’s get going. Sally lurched along slowly. This time we headed south, to the corner. Then left and east, right through the main drag of the community. We got home in plenty of time for dinner (lunch).

I sat with Dad for a while and visited, then. Later that afternoon, Rosemary’s children drifted in. Eunice stopped by for a few hours. Then Phillip and his wife came over. Everyone sat and visited, just like old times. Late in the afternoon, Dad got some company from around the community. Bishop John Martin and his wife came by. We shook hands. I saw you last at Mom’s funeral, I told him. Then Mark Stoll dropped in, too, to visit. I was impressed. The Aylmer people make sure Dad gets his full share of people stopping by to see him. That’s a good thing, and so typical of the strong ties in any Amish community. You respect your elders. You care for their needs. And you go see them and spend time with them.

Rosemary bustled about, making food for supper. Lester and Tina and their family and Naomi and her husband, Peter, were coming. They usually come for supper on a Saturday night, Rosemary told me. And they all eat outside, on the deck. And soon enough, those children trickled in. The food was spread on a table outside, and we all sat around and enjoyed the feast and each other’s company. It was a calm and relaxing time. I hung out until after nine, then took my leave and headed to St. Thomas and my room.

The next morning, it was time to head for home. My Aylmer trips are always brief. I headed out through the main drag of the community one last time. The roads were clogged with horses and buggies and swarms of people walking. There would be church at Bishop Pete Yoder’s old place. My cousin, Ezra Wagler, lives there now, and has for decades. I saw all the buggies packed together and parked as I slowly drove on by. Forty years ago, that was me, walking along the road to church at that farm.

I pulled in and parked under a sliver of shade at Rosemary’s place. I walked into the big house first. My sister sat there with her husband and their youngest daughter, Edna. Their district had Sunday School that afternoon, so they were in no hurry to get anywhere. I sat and drank coffee and visited for a while, then walked over to Dad’s little house to say good-bye.

He was sitting at his desk, as usual. But on a Sunday morning, he wasn’t typing. He was reading. The Bible, I think. I didn’t look that close. I stood there just inside the door, and we chatted for a few minutes. It had crossed my mind before on this trip, but this was the first time I told him. Well, I guess this is Father’s Day, I said, kind of awkwardly. Happy Father’s Day.

“Father’s Day?” he asked, and then he looked a little shy and chuckled. We observed the day, when I was growing up. But nobody made any kind of big fuss. And that’s how he was taking what I said. Without any kind of big fuss. I’m leaving now, I said, offering my hand. He took it and held it for a brief moment.

He is an old man, now. He has seen and lived and felt more than most men will ever see and live and feel. He is surrounded by family and love and communal support. But still. He is more alone now than he has ever been. And he sits and grieves every day for his children, his sons and daughters who live far away.

Good-bye, Dad, I said.

“Good-bye,” he said. “Thanks for coming to visit. I hope you have a safe trip home.”

And then I turned and left him.