(Reprinted with permission of the Swarthmorean)

Irma Zimmer, 88, died March 17, 2005 at Taylor Hospital, after suffering a stroke at the Swarthmore home in which she had lived nearly all of her life. A retired high school world history teacher, she was employed by the Swarthmore-Rutledge Union School District, the Wallingford-Swarthmore School District, and, for three years, Swarthmore Academy, a private school on whose board she also served.

Miss Zimmer attended Smith College, West Chester State Teachers College and the University of Pennsylvania.

Throughout her life, she remained intensely interested and active in education, politics and Swarthmore. In addition to co-founding the Swarthmore Senior Citizens Association, she founded ESRA (Educational Systems Research Associates) and SRI (Swarthmore Residents Initiative). She served on Swarthmore Borough Council tor 10 years, chaired the Swarthmore Borough Home Rule Charter Study Commission, and was a member of virtually every group dedicated to the improvement of Swarthmore.

She was preceded in death by her parents, Agnes A. Zimmer and George A. Zimmer, and her older brother, George, who died in a motorcycle accident on Walnut Lane in Swarthmore as a very young man. Survivors include her cousin, Karl Zimmer of Berkeley, Cal., and her companion of more than 10 years, Charles Harbaugh of Swarthmore.

A memorial will be held Saturday, April 9, 2005 at 2 p.m. at Swarthmore Friends Meeting House, where she was a member. In lieu of donations, contributions may be made to the Swarthmore Senior Citizens Association, 121 Park Ave., Swarthmore, PA 19081.

A remembrance by Guy Smith of Swarthmore follows:

'Loveliest of People'
By G. Guy Smith

She sent me the same poem every year for about 45 years. If I knew then what I know now, I would have marked down the date in a diary. The poem is A.E. Housman's "Loveliest of Trees."

She typed it herself every year, on her typewriter. She did upgrade the typewriter about 15 years ago, but there were no computers involved. No photocopiers, either. She loved the poem so much that she enjoyed the process of typing out each word, each line, each stanza, every year.

She sent it to me every spring, which you all know is the perfect time to enjoy its meaning. The first time she sent it to me, it came with a note, stating simply: "This is my favorite poem. I hope you like it, too. Miss Zimmer."

Every year, the same poem arrived around the same time, about the first of April. The note was the only part that changed. Last year's note said: "Dear Guy, It's that time of year again. Love, Irma." As expected, the poem was freshly typed. It has been hanging on the wall at my office for the past eleven and a half months.

I was about 16, the first time she sent the poem to me. At the time, I did not care much about it, one way or the other. I had other, more important issues to deal with in my life, and I wasn't too fond of Miss Zimmer at that time, either.

In addition to sending me her stupid poem, she was also calling my father with some regularity to report on my progress, or lack of progress, as a student. And, if truth be told, she also had some serious complaints about my behavior in class and out of class, as well.

Miss Zimmer was relentless about trying to improve on me in so many ways. However, I was not particularly interested in being improved upon, but that is another story for another time. I will admit that I questioned her motives. What was in it for her? Why didn't she just leave me alone?

So, I continued to act pretty much the same way and I expected her, ultimately, to go away.

What happened next was a real surprise to me. Another one of my teachers was very much of the opinion that my antics in school called for a three-day suspension. I was brought before the entire corps of teachers. The teacher who wanted me removed brought up my most significant shortcomings. There wasn't time to cover all of them, but the ones she covered were enough to keep every other teacher silent when she said she wanted me suspended. Imagine my surprise when, after a very significant silence, Miss Zimmer spoke. "No," she said, "Guy has potential." I was not suspended.

Afterwards, privately, she.offered two comments. She told me the best way to get back at people who did not seem to like me was to be a success, not a failure. She also asked me a question. She wanted to know when I was going to figure out that I was worth something. I told her I would think about it.

My behavior in school improved. So did my grades. Miss Zimmer wrote letters of recommendation for me to get into college. I got into college. She did the same when I applied to law school. Somehow, I got in there, too.

The poem arrived annually. I actually read it. You should read it some day. You might like it, too. Miss Zimmer and I met on an irregular basis during those years. We talked about law and politics and education and life. She told me how to do them better.

We became entangled in each other's lives. I became a lawyer. She became my mentor and advocate and critic. She did not have to call my father anymore. We saw each other regularly, so she was now free to comment on my successes and my shortcomings to my face. I became her lawyer. I gave her advice. Sometimes she agreed.

I was a regular guest speaker in her classroom. We gave each other books and argued about what they meant. She challenged me to get involved in politics. So, I did. We became good friends. We learned each other's secrets. The poem arrived as faithfully as the season. I became borough solicitor. Irma gave me a list of the ways I could improve on the position.

Irma became a member of Borough Council. I was given a list of ways to improve the workings of Borough Council. I became mayor. Irma gave me a list of way s the mayor could do the job better. And always, we talked.

Time passed. The poem stayed. Irma was retired from teaching so she started the Senior Citizens Association and about 20 other groups dedicated to improving Swarthmore. I brought her dinner on special occasions, like Easter, or her birthday, and Thanksgiving. I made soup for her when she was sick, and when she was not sick. She returned empty soup containers with books and lists of ways I could do more to help her improve Swarthmore.

My son, Chris, became her yard boy- one in a long line of yard boys. My children received books about birds and dogs and exchanged little presents for Christmas and birthdays, all accompanied with notes of explanation and endearment, signed: "Love, Irma." My children never knew there was a time when Irma was not part of the framework of my life. Come to think of it, I know there must have been such a time in my life, but I cannot connect with it.

I bought bird seed in 50-pound bags. She fed it to her birds. And, always, we talked. Three Monday's ago, she sent flowers to my office. No poem, yet. It was too early. Two weeks ago, she sent back more soup containers and some books with a list of suggestions on how I could help her deal with some pressing issues she had with the present Borough Council, and a couple of comments on what I could do, personally, to deal with council on her behalf.

The poem will not arrive this year. I will miss it. I love that poem. You really should read it. When I think about the poem's meaning, Irma could have written it.

Irma E. Zimmer. Born, November 7, 1916. Died, March 17, 2005. Never married. But, I think she had many children. I'm pretty sure I am one of them.

When you talk of love, it takes many forms. The Greeks had a word for the most selfless and purest form of love. The word is agape. I learned that word from Miss Zimmer in 10th grade World History. I learned what it meant over the next 45 years from my good friend, Irma. This town was her great love and her passion. How fortunate for us that we were here to share that love for so many years.

Rest in peace, my dear Irma. Your work is done here. As for me, I have to find a typewriter. I have a poem to type.