Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [51]
Then came August.
20
My brother Titus was working the home farm that summer. A tall, lanky young man of twenty-three, he was in a serious relationship with Ruth Yutzy, Marvin’s older sister. The two of them had dated a few years earlier, broken up for a couple of years, and now had gotten back together. And when that happens, it usually doesn’t take long—any astute observer could see that their wedding was not too far off. Probably the next spring.
On August 3, 1982, a warm, muggy summer evening, Titus hitched up his powerful stallion and headed out the drive. He was going to Ruth’s place for supper. Some of the Yutzy clan was gathering for a wiener roast. I remember seeing the open buggy, hitched to the stallion, as they clattered away. He arrived at Ruth’s house, and they all had a loud, jolly time, laughing and feasting on hot dogs. After supper, the boys, my friends Marvin and Rudy among them, decided to go swimming in the pond out in the field west of the house. They splashed and swam. Frolicked and laughed. Since there was no diving board, they took turns pitching one another into the air and out across the water.
Then it was Titus’s turn. A boy stood on each side, cupping his hands. Titus stepped into their hands, balanced himself by placing his hands on their shoulders, and shouted, “Go!” They launched him up and out. He sliced cleanly through the air, then bent and dove straight down into the water. So clean was his dive that he created hardly a ripple on the water’s surface.
The others stood about. “What a beaut!” they said. A perfect dive. Seconds passed, but Titus did not resurface. Then more time passed, and the boys grew restless. One of them, wading out from shore, suddenly bumped into Titus just below the surface. He had drifted back in. Marvin and Rudy grabbed him and pulled him onto shore, where he coughed and sputtered. He had almost drowned.
On his beautiful dive, Titus had hit the bottom headfirst, crushing his fifth vertebra.
When the news reached us at home, it was dark, and I had already gone to bed, although I was not asleep. A vehicle came barreling into our lane. Through the open window I could hear the engine roar and tires crunching on the gravel. Shadows bounced and pitched on my bedroom walls. Then the vehicle slid to a halt in our driveway. I heard a truck door slam, followed by a staccato of footsteps up the walks and a great clattering up the steps.
I was annoyed. Doesn’t whoever it is know that it’s bedtime? People are trying to sleep here. Then I heard my sister Rachel’s voice, speaking a rush of words so fast I could not grasp what she was saying. “A terrible accident . . . Titus . . . dive . . . pond . . . hospital . . . bad . . . can’t feel anything.” Then came my dad’s voice, calm and disbelieving. Then hurrying steps in the house as he and Mom prepared to leave with Dick Hutchins, the English man who had brought Rachel to our house. I got up and was quickly told what had happened. After they left, I returned to bed, but I did not sleep that night.
The next morning we learned that Titus had been flown to Iowa City in a helicopter. A helicopter? I thought. It must be bad.
Mom stayed at the hospital, but Dad returned later that day, looking drained. He tried to put on a good face, but I could tell he was shaken. The doctors’ diagnosis had been grim. Titus was paralyzed. They would do what they could. Some feeling might return. But they thought not. We listened in a haze of disbelief. The words were clear, but we could not grasp them. The first full day passed in slow motion.
When the second morning dawned, we got up and did the chores, then ate a somber breakfast. No one was really hungry. As was the custom in our home, after breakfast Dad took his