The Rural Northwestern Ohio Tragedy Tour

My parents, brother, and I were driving around with my grandmother in Ohio over the holiday. Hers being a town of staggering smallness, she knew the inhabitants of every house we passed. Invariably something horrible had happened to all of them. In that house on the right lived a couple who threw a barbecue one summer – their sons got too close to the fire, and the fire “got the boys.” Just down that road a ways was a young woman from Mexico who gave up everything she knew to live on her new husband’s farm – his tractor flipped over on him in a ditch. Next cornfield over belonged to a newly-retired couple who were trying to be more active in their third act – on one of the morning walks they were really starting to love, they were mowed down by three bicyclists from out of town who didn’t slow on their turns and didn’t see them, you know, over the corn.

We began to dread every new story. It was a census of fatal mishaps. Her eyes would catch sight of a house in the lessening distance, and she’d say, “Oh, you know who lives in that house? Ralph Lerner, from church,” and after a while we’d all shout, “No! Stop! Don’t tell us anything else about Ralph Lerner; we don’t want to get attached or start to care about him!”

Later in the trip, my grandmother said to me, “I never wanted to marry your grandfather, you know.” I was standing in her doorway, and we’d been talking about New York. She continued, “I wanted to move to the city and become a journalist. But Grandpa’s love was like God’s love. It took hold of me and my life.” Another night we were dropping her off at her retirement home, and as she got out of the car she said, “Sometimes I shake my fist up at heaven and I say, ’Darn you, Hal; you left me here!’” She hugged my mother and said to her, “I’m ready to go. I’m just ready to go, you know?” and we walked her to her door. I didn’t know what to say. I cannot imagine being ready to go. But there’s time for that, I suppose. It’s a life’s work.