Ira Wagler's Blog

Vagabond Traveler: Of Age and Time…

Loneliness is and always has been the central and inevitable experience of every man.

—Thomas Wolfe

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Well, it’s been a while. More than a while since I posted my last blog. It wasn’t random. There were reasons. And I had no clue back then, of what all was coming at me like a freight train. Guess it’s just as well I didn’t know. It would have made me fret. What, Lord? I’m going to be out of order for how long? Ah, come on. Let’s talk about it. Surely we can do better than that. Let’s make a deal. But there was no dealing going on, because I didn’t know. And it’s just as well, I guess, that I didn’t.

Warneke’s, they called it, after my brain woke up from the fog. Some kind of brain condition. I had almost died. Walked right up to the gates. I remember it clearly, the light that shone from within. But I didn’t pass through. I forgot to knock. And next thing I knew, I was back home in my house. Wow, I thought. That was wild.

So here I am. Rubbing my eyes. Wiping the cobwebs from my brain. I’m alive. I’m here. I look around. Poke around. And think about things a little bit.

First thing that comes to mind. I just turned sixty, well, back in August, I did. Sixty. During all those years of turmoil and frantic running, that little number was so far out there that it never entered my mind. I never thought of it. Sixty. That’s getting old, any way you look at it. And I never thought about it much, if at all. Sixty was for old people. That’s not me. It never coalesced in my mind, how fast it was getting here. The years rolled on. I’ve walked through a lot of crap in life, and a lot of good stuff, too. Just walking along. And now, here comes sixty. It’s here. Any way you look at it, that’s just plain wild.

But it is what it is. And so, today, at sixty, I’m thinking to look back a little bit. Feel things again. Remember. Reflect.

And I have to say. There were a few times along the way when I figured my chances to get here were pretty slim. I have walked some hard roads. Stumbled through some deep valleys. The path was rocky and rough. I kept walking. It was all I knew to do. Walk. The wild beasts swooped and howled real close at night. Keep walking, keep plugging on. The light will come. And now, here I stand on that small mountain peak. Sixty. Whatever else happens, I have reached this place. In the passing of time into eternity, it means almost nothing. But at this moment, it seems like there might be a little bit to it. It might even be a big thing.

And so, I stop for a moment and look back. I’m relaxed, but I remember. The hard times, the good times. They all blend together, kind of. And I gotta say. I am humbled and grateful to reach this milestone. And I’m not just saying that. I really am. Because chances were better than not, a few times, that I never would. When I was young, I lived wild and hard and dangerous. In later years, it was my heart that almost gave out. I put a lot of stress on my heart during those early years, from all that hard running. I can see that now. And during that adventure when it almost gave out, I walked right up to a big, bright light. Heaven’s gate, I figured later. And I figured, too. Maybe the reason I didn’t get in was because I didn’t knock. Made sense, when I thought about it. Next time, knock. This time, the realization came too late. It came after I wandered back. And now, here I stand, feet firmly planted on this earth. Keep walking. So I do. It’s a mystery and a marvel, is what it is.

And I can’t help but remember that troubled youth of long ago. How I raged at my father in those years. Raged and swore. And I remember how the troubled youth got up one night and slipped out of the house, clutching a little black duffle bag. How he slipped away before the sun came up. Gone, is what he was. And here I pause a little. Stop and think. See it from today.

It was probably the most brutal thing I ever pulled off. Running away at night when I was a mere child of seventeen. How did that make my parents feel? Especially my Mom. How did she ever cope with that pain, that loss? Her young son had just fled for a new world. Left the warmth of her house, the comfort of her kitchen. Who can ever grasp such a thing? Who can know the pain and the loss? No Mom should ever have to go through such a thing as that. A universal truth, right there. No Mom should ever have to go through such a thing as that. No Mom, Amish or English. No Mom, ever.

Well. My Mom did. And I regret today, looking back. It’s so plain to see. I regret that I tore her heart to splinters. That was a brutal thing to do. Unhuman, if that’s even a word. I know that now. And I bear the burden of that knowledge in my heart.

But a seventeen-year-old boy doesn’t just do such a thing in a vacuum. Stuff is stirring and stumbling around him, somewhere. And I remember how desolate the landscape looked when I returned. It was bleak and rocky and hard. There was little joy anywhere that I could see. There were bears, and they grizzled and growled. Ira is half crazy, is what they thought. Maybe I was. I simmered and chafed. Before many months had passed, I left again. Not at night, sneaking out. This time, it was openly, in the broad light of day.

And that’s how it went.

Today, at 60, I reflect. The strains of an old Conway Twitty song drift through my head:

I can hear my Momma calling.
Look a-yonder, y’all, who’s coming.
Down the road, he’s coming home.
But they know I never will.

I never did. And I feel it deep inside, the sorrow and sadness of those lines. I keep walking. I’m on the road I chose a long time ago. At sixty, I’m on this road. I keep walking. And I wonder sometimes how I ever survived it all.

It was a rough road, high and wild and winding and rocky. Through real wilderness, that road went. I got on it and I walked. And I survived. And here I am. Walking through the gate of sixty. I think it hit me when I got here. A hard little truth. Another decade, maybe sooner, maybe later, and the death angel will come knocking again. This time, he will have his way. I think about that sometimes. I shrug. I am not afraid. It will be what it will be. No memory will remain of me, except for the words I left. And even those words will fade out fast. Before long, no one will know I ever was. That’s just what happens in the flow of life and time.

So here I stand. The prime and passion of youth, both are gone. All of it has run its course.

I know what I know. I know the Lord loves His children. I am His child. I know He will see to His own. And I grasp that knowledge and hold it close in my heart.

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Love and Loss in Lancaster County…

The family is a haven in a heartless world.

—Christopher Lasch

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I speak now of many things, of fear and sorrow and loss. And joy, too, mingled in, if you strain hard enough to hear it. A tale of how to walk free, near as I can tell it. The heart can never be chained, nor can the mind. Not if we don’t let it. Life is mostly about choices and their aftereffects, right or wrong. However innocent those choices, sometimes the road is stained with blood and fire. Such is the reality of our world.

The weekend came up, a few weeks back, and I remember how it felt. There was some excitement in the air because the big wedding was coming right up. My nephew, Clifford Wagler, was getting married to his lovely fiancé, Esther King. I was wishing them well, of course, and ready to celebrate. It’s a beautiful thing to see a young couple starting off in life together, all eager and excited. But I was also anticipating a meeting of two distinct and forceful clans. Proud, too, both of them. The Waglers and the Yutzys. Five of my siblings are married to five from that blood. I used to be married to that blood. And a bunch of them were coming in to attend the wedding service and then celebrate with a great feast. That’s what I was really looking forward to, to mingle and mix with family and friends like that. To reconnect and catch up. To speak of events that happened long ago, and of new things, too. Even as we walk through troubled times, we assemble, we gather as family. Because that’s what families do where I come from.

After months and months of insane and arbitrary and deliberately destructive lockdowns, we were ready. We were ready to assemble, we were ready to worship and sing, we were ready to make much noise and celebration at a great wedding feast. Let the bells ring, let the bells ring, as Thomas Wolfe wrote. Let there be exuberance and songs and shouts of great joy. Let the bells ring, let there be life.

And the feeling just shivered through me that Sunday morning. It was a privilege to be alive. I felt grateful. And I felt great. The sun shone bright. At midday, no one imagined that an odd and tragic thing was unfolding right in our community, close to our back yards. Just a few miles from my home. A young Amish girl, Linda Stoltzfoos, vanished as she was walking home from church alone. She disappeared into the daylight. Eighteen years old. The horror of it, the worst nightmare of any parent. It happened to Linda’s parents. They wait for news of their daughter. There has been no news. They are surrounded by their people. Neighbors. Extended family. Friends. From my own sources, I hear that someone is always waiting by the phone shack at Linda’s home, just in case she calls. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, someone sits there at that phone. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting for Linda to call home if she can.

Within days, the story of her disappearance exploded into the national consciousness. Headline news, not that I watch any news. The FBI got involved. So far, nothing. From what we’re told, Linda has simply vanished. They’re hoping the publicity might make her recognizable, somewhere, to someone. So far, no. And now the world waits, too, right along with Linda’s parents and her people.

The reverberations of this tragic incident have deeply shaken the Amish world. There will be new procedures, new protocols. There is talk of holding instructional meetings, to train their people, especially the youth, and especially the young women. Don’t walk alone. If something doesn’t seem right, run to the nearest house. In general, for everyone, always keep a close eye on the children around you. Teach the children to shout and scream and run if someone tries to grab them. Stuff like that is being talked about a lot right now among the Amish at every level all across the spectrum.

The week drifted on, and the first of my family arrived on Thursday morning. I remember seeing schedules, who was coming when and such. I just couldn’t keep it all straight. I figured to take it as it comes. Walk. Enjoy the moment. Live it. Laugh. Love. Anyway, that morning they came walking in at my work office, my sister Naomi and her husband, Alvin Yutzy. They were the first Wagler/Yutzy connection, Alvin and Naomi. They got married a long time ago when Bloomfield was still struggling for identity, and maybe survival. Their wedding wasn’t the first one in the young, upstart settlement. But it wasn’t too far from it.

I looked up and saw them coming through the door and got up to greet them. We shook hands and hugged. The normal small talk. How was the trip? They had flown into Harrisburg from their home in Arkansas. I heard of more people coming into Harrisburg. It’s a nice little airport, you can get in and out a lot faster than you can ever fight your way through a massive behemoth like, say, Baltimore. I took them out into the warehouse for a little tour of the place. Alvin worked construction for many years before retiring, so he knows the field. I showed them the yard, and the scales. We are proud to have our own scales at Graber. Our drivers are never overweight on loads. The local cops know that, and they leave our trucks alone, pretty much.

We chatted and I caught up with family news with Naomi. She recently had a birthday. She turned 70. Seems unreal, that my siblings are crossing such a threshold, but I’m right there, not far behind. Alvin wanted to run down to Delaware that day, to look around. I guess he had never been in that state before. I told them. Let’s meet for supper tonight. Let me know when you get back around. And off they went.

I can’t remember when I last invited people to my house. It just does not happen. And no, it’s not because everything’s a mess. I got a cleaning lady who comes once a month and shines things up. The place is at least respectable, just a bit cluttered, maybe. I don’t invite people much because I don’t feel a need to. No reason, particularly, except I just don’t want to. I figure that’s plenty reason enough.

That evening, that Thursday evening, I got to thinking. The restaurants are still closed around here, or were still closed that night. Our pipsqueak tyrant governor kept inflicting all the damage he could, to crash his state’s economy. A vile, evil little man, Wolf is. Marvin and Rhoda were arriving in the area around six, I think it was. And I thought to myself. Invite them all over to your house, the ones who were around. Alvin and Naomi, and Marvin and Rhoda. I texted Alvin to come over when they could and to give me some warning so I could get some pizza ordered. Well, they arrived then, a little bit later. The warning I had requested never did. I walked outside to greet my guests. Hugs and handshakes all around. Marvin and Rhoda were accompanied by Michael, one of their sturdy sons. We stood around in the yard, and I proudly pointed out my new shiny black metal house roof, recently installed by my Amish contractor friend, Levi, and his crew.

I didn’t get the pizza ordered, I grumbled at Alvin. You never let me know when you’re coming. And right there, I called my friends at Sal’s Pizza, just down the road on the edge of New Holland. I’ve been a regular at Sal’s for a few years, since I went to one meal a day. We’ve formed a relationship over the years, me and the two Italian owners. At some point a few years back, I gave them a copy of Growing Up Amish. Then a while back I snuck in a copy of Broken Roads when no other customers were around. I signed both books, of course, to my friends at Sal’s. I buy from them regularly, and I always call in my order, usually a cheesesteak sub, or some such thing, on the way home from work. Then I drive right over and pick it up. It’s always top notch, the food from Sal’s. So now I called. Two pizzas, Mexican and meat lover’s. And I told the man. I have family here tonight. Do you have some sort of dessert I can feed my guests? Oh, yes, they had cannolis. He’d wrap some up for me.

After some time, Marvin and I headed over to Sal’s in Amish Black II. Just chatting along. It was good to catch up with my old friend. I parked outside and we walked in. The place was busy, mostly with drive-up takeout. We sat on a bench there in the waiting area. One of the owners rang me up. It didn’t sound like he charged me for more than the pizza. The cannolis, I said. I want to pay for those. He grinned at me. The owners at Sal’s speak in accented English. It’s not their native tongue. He pushed the two large pizzas at me over the counter, then handed me a large paper bag that had the end stapled shut. The cannolis. They were on the house. I was startled. He told me. “You take care of us, we take care of you.” I smiled and thanked him. And we walked out of there, Marvin and me, with two large pizzas and a dozen cannolis.

When we got back, everyone was sitting out on my front porch. I don’t get my porch used near enough. That evening, it got used. We gathered in the kitchen, and Alvin blessed the food. You don’t really think about such a thing in the moment, but this was the first time since my last garage party, back in 2017, that anyone prayed any kind of blessing over food for any number of assembled guests. After the prayer, I shepherded everyone through. Paper plates and cups. Real utensils. Eat outside on my old-time porch. We sat and we feasted. The cannolis were a spectacular hit. Homemade, chilled, rich, and delicious, right down to the last scrap. Around 9:00 or so, my guests headed over to Stephen’s house to hang out for a while. I stayed home and went to bed. First day down.

Friday. Moving right along. A regular work day for me. I was leaving early to go pick up BBQ’d pork for the evening meal. I left around 2:30. Hess’s Barbeque over in Willow Street. I pulled in with my Jeep and walked in. The nice ladies at the restaurant pointed me to a building in the back. There, a man met me. I spoke my name, or my brother’s name, and he lugged out two huge bowls. One with potato salad and one with coleslaw. Real Lancaster County concoctions, right there. And then I pulled over to another spot and we loaded a good-sized cooler loaded with hot pulled pork. There were trays and trays of it. I thanked the nice man and headed back north to Leola and my brother’s place. A large crowd would be gathering by now.

And the evening just came at us. Family. From far around. Connected by blood, connected by a common thread to the past, connected by shared journeys. It’s strange sometimes, to think about. A lot of people in the past, you walked with only a few years, then one of you moved on. The flood and flow of life shifts and shakes and moves around a lot. And your paths don’t cross again for many years, sometimes never. When they do, though, you just pick up where you left off. To me, this time, I was eager to see a lot of people, but especially two old friends from long ago. Marvin Yutzy, my brother-in-law, married to my sister Rhoda. And Rudy Yutzy, an uncle to the groom. We’re blood brothers, the three of us, and we were all seasoned members of the original gang of six. We always automatically reconnect when we meet, me and my blood brothers. There’s just a special bond there. The three of us, me and Marvin and Rudy had not hung out together in a while. So that was a big deal to me.

We all gathered over at Stephen’s place, the whole crowd. That first night, people kept trickling in, getting there when they got there. It was totally fine. A very relaxing night. The great feast was set up outside, and we all sat around long tables with our food. It was a beautiful evening, spectacular and clear. There was much visiting going on all night, all around. I meandered back to my house and my bed around eleven, I think it was. Next day would be the big day. The wedding.

The wedding would be in a little church on the edge of Ephrata. The reception would be at JM Lapp, the old silk mill in New Holland. I had never been to either place. I don’t get out much, I guess. I never even knew there was an old silk mill in New Holland. Let alone one that was all set up for fancy wedding receptions. It was a good thing. I just didn’t know about it.

And another detail I hadn’t mentioned. Soon after announcing their engagement, Clifford and Esther asked me a favor. They asked me to MC their wedding. I have to say, I was a little floored. I had done that kind of thing before, but it had been a lot of years. A lot of years. Still. I said yes. I’d be honored to serve as requested. I am delighted, of course. And I didn’t fret about it much, inside. Stayed pretty calm, actually. Since my first book came out, I have spoken in front of many groups, large and small. I don’t get scared, anymore. Sure, you always stay a bit tense when you’re speaking. It keeps you alert. But not scared. Not afraid. It’s just not worth wasting a lot of energy on, such a thing.

Saturday morning. The big day. The wedding was at 2:00. Early afternoon, which I thought was fine. I did my normal Saturday errands. Drank coffee with friends, picked up dry cleaning, shopped for groceries. By noon, I was sitting at my computer, writing. It was time, then, to get ready. I lathered up a good rich wet shave. I had gotten my hair trimmed a few days before on the black market. Only the second haircut in all the months of shutdown. I have concluded. I don’t look half bad, all shaggy. It doesn’t feel half bad, either. Ah, well. We’ll see, I reckon.

After schmutzing my hair with pomade and spraying it down with olive oil, I felt groomed up about right. I got dressed for the wedding and my forthcoming duties as MC. A long-sleeved white shirt, crisply dry cleaned. Black dress pants, a nice black belt. A new black vest, old west style, with a silver watch chain draping from the front pockets. I like to wear a vest. Topped with a burgundy tie. Black shoes. It wore well, my outfit, and I soaked in the full measure of the moment. All spiffy, I set out in my Jeep for the church. I was ushered up to a bench close to the front, where whispered instructions came at me. Right after the service got dismissed, I would make my first few announcements. I stayed relaxed. It was a glorious day, a beautiful day.

The wedding began. It was a good-sized crowd that assembled. Not massive. But good-sized. Clifford and his attendants walked in and stood in line, then the ladies slowly swept down the aisle. This happened right after two cute little girls walked to the front, spreading flower petals. After everyone stood waiting expectantly, the bride walking down the aisle, accompanied by her father. Esther was lovely, a vision in white.

The service wasn’t long. Not three hours, like the Amish weddings go. I always think, at weddings. We don’t need a 7-point lesson on what a good marriage is. Just get the couple hitched. That’s what we’re all here for. We got started right at 2:00, by 3:00, the guests were filing out. I made a short announcement. Wait to be dismissed. The reception is at JM Lapp in New Holland. We want to start promptly at 4:00. Clifford and Esther and both sets of parents stood in line and greeted everyone on the way out. I got into my Jeep and headed for New Holland. The old silk mill was coming right up.

I pulled in and parked and walked in. Never knew this place was here. Open the door, and right there is a real wide and real high stairs. It just goes up and up. You get there to the top, and it’s real nice. A very classy place. Dozens of tables were all set up in the long and rather narrow room. I found my assigned seat, right beside Alvin and Naomi. I paced around as the room filled up, kind of slowly, as such things go. Then the coordinator gave me the go-ahead. OK, time to get the room’s attention. How in the world do you go about doing such a thing? I wasn’t sure. So I shouted into my wireless mic. Called the room to order. It got quiet. I welcomed everyone and thanked them for sharing such an important day with the bride and groom. Everyone had found their assigned seats. And now, it was time to introduce the wedding party.

Esther had emailed me a very specific list of instructions. What happens, when. It didn’t seem all that daunting. She had clearly spelled out each couple’s name, and the order they were to be called. I had practiced aloud a little bit, at home. The tenant probably thinks I’m talking to myself when that happens. I spoke each line and each name, out loud. Just so it would be familiar when I was speaking to the crowd. Practice a little, so you don’t needlessly stumble. You’ll always stammer and stutter a little bit, but you can at least try to make that part as smooth as possible.

And now I stood, and announced each couple as they stepped into the room. I had plenty of time to focus on the next couple as the crowd cheered each time. And down the line they came. Maid of honor. Best man. And then it was time for the bride and groom to be announced. And now, it is my great privilege and high honor to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Wagler. They walked in, just beaming, as the whole place erupted. This, this was a celebration of our future. Long went the clapping and loud were the cheers. And then everyone was seated.

And then. Well. I had been asked to pray the blessing on the food. The meal. The feast. I was a little startled, because I just figured someone would be chosen to pray. Then I thought. Well. Duh. Someone has been chosen. You have. My prayers are always simple, as mine was that day. And not long. You can touch a good many points in a prayer, you just shouldn’t touch on them for long. I kept it brief but long enough, I think. And after I closed, the people were invited to come and partake of the food. And a great feast followed. A feast not only of food, but also of joy and celebration. Let the bells ring, let the bells ring.

Reception (Click to enlarge)

It was close to seven when I got home. I was tired, but a good tired. I got out of my fancy clothes and dressed in shorts and T-shirt. I took a shirt-jac, too, it felt like it might chill down a bit. And I headed over to Stephen’s place. My Jeep was among the first vehicles to park at his shop across the road. The lot filled up quick. I found a good seat on the back patio of the house. A lot of people gathered in a short time. And you could soon tell. When it came to family and old friends, tonight would be a special night.

I connected with a few nephews I don’t get to see a lot, and nieces, too. Not all the family made it. But a good many did. (It’s hard, outside a funeral, to get everyone to assemble.) And little groups huddled about. Young people, mingling right in with us older folk. That’s pretty rare, in any setting. You could hear the quiet echoes of many conversations, all blending together in a steady hum of voices. You could hear laughter, oh, you could hear laughter. There were times in the past few months when I wondered if I would ever hear the free flow of human voices like that again. Especially the voices of family. Voices free of fear, voices of celebration. It washed over me, the magnitude of such a moment, and what a rare and precious treasure such a moment is.

The next morning, we gathered at Stephen and Wilma’s place again. Well, those who were still around did. A few had trickled out. A lot more would leave that day. But first, we had a little homespun church service, sitting in a large circle under the shade on the paved drive at Stephen’s house. I got there early and sat around and drank black coffee and talked to whoever was around. Around ten, we sang a few songs. Then a short sermon by Gideon Yutzy, Wilma’s youngest brother. He and his wife had flown all the way from Montana. Almost from one end of the country to the other. After Gideon closed down, there was another song. Then Wilma and her daughters served up lunch on a table there in the shade. Cold cuts and cheese and veggies. I don’t know what all else they had, because I didn’t eat any of it. It was outside my window.

I left after lunch, then. A lot of people were leaving, heading out for their homes. And thus ended a weekend such as I had not seen in a long, long time.

Life is a beautiful thing.

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About mid week after the wedding, we got a call at work from a local Amish man. He wanted to let us know that there will be people on our property sometime in the following days. They would be searching for Linda Stolzfoos, the missing 18-year-old Amish woman who disappeared walking home from church.

Ever practical, the Amish came up with a simple plan. The people in each church district would search the woods and fields in that district. They would organize and walk through. No one knew what they would find or if they would find anything. But they would go out and do what they could by searching the areas they live in. My respect for my people increases when I see how they deal with such an unspeakable tragedy. They’ll hang tough and they’ll figure it out. It’s time to find Linda and bring her home.

My road trip is coming up. These days, you don’t know if you’ll get there when you start such a journey. Lots of danger lurking out there. There is violence and strife in the cities. You just keep going, I guess, as best you can. This coming week, I’ll be driving Amish Black II all the way out to Iowa. The book signing is still scheduled for Friday, July 17, from 1:00 PM to 4:00 PM at the Get-Togather Room on the north side of the square. You can buy either of my books there or bring the copy you have for me to sign.

Come if you can. This is the first event for Broken Roads. I’m excited.

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Tales From the Trenches…

…All things that lapse and change and come again upon the earth-

these things will always be the same, for they come up from the

earth that never changes, they go back into the earth that lasts

forever. Only the earth endures, but it endures forever.

—Thomas Wolfe

________________

I don’t quite remember what all went down the first time I met the Amish guy. It was a lot of years ago. He ran a small building crew. He was plain, older, hard core. A South-ender. It was long ago, and I don’t remember exactly what happened or how, the first time he walked in for some pricing there at work. I just remember it left a bad taste in my mouth.

He was small and wiry and grimy. I greeted him with little judgment. You can walk in dressed in rags, or in sackcloth and ashes, and I’ll barely blink. These days, it’s a mask that marks one as a slave to the system. You can walk in wearing one. You’ll notice that I don’t. And if you’re like most people, you’ll peel that silly piece of cloth from your face and be relieved. But if you don’t, I respect that. Do what works best for you. I’ll do the same.

I’ll call the guy Jonas. That’s a good, solid Amish name, but it’s not his real one. Jonas and I didn’t get started on the best of terms, I guess is a polite way to say it. He always looked like he’d just crawled through a nest of cobwebs, and he was always, always in a rush. Yesterday wasn’t soon enough for him. His voice was scratchy and irritating. I’m digging down deep, here, and there just wasn’t a whole lot about Jonas that I was impressed with, early on. I took care of him the best I could, but I never went out of my way, much, to accommodate him. When he called, I was polite but curt. Yes, we had the item he was looking for. This was the price. No, I would not adjust the price down, it was already at builder’s rates. If you want it, I have it. If you don’t, well, I’m not burning much energy to convince you otherwise. That’s how it went, with Jonas and me in the early years.

And it went that way for a long time, between Jonas and me. It’s not like we had all that much contact. He did lots of construction work of all kinds. Residential stuff, where I didn’t stock what he needed. I often didn’t hear from him for months and months. Forgot about him. But not for long, usually. Always, the day came that Rosita would tell me brightly as she got ready to transfer a call. “It’s Jonas.” And I would groan loudly. Then talk politely to the man on the phone. It was more than half draining, getting yanked around like that.

He was deliberately irritating. Or it sure seemed that way. He would call a few minutes before five and demand that a box of trim nails be set outside for him. I finally told him. Look, Jonas. If you want me to set anything outside, you have to call before 4:30. I mean, I can’t just snap my fingers and whoosh, what you want is outside the gate. These are the guidelines. See if you can follow them. And in time, I got him about half trained. Grudgingly, he gimped along. And he still always wanted everything yesterday.

And I had to wonder, now and then, usually right after we had battled to a draw in another contentious exchange. What drives the man? Why is he so abrupt and demanding? So deliberately unlikeable? And I thought about it. Was Jonas bullied as a child? The Amish culture can be brutal if you’re not just like everyone else. And Jonas was small, very slight in stature. Along the way, I got the sense that something is bugging, something is burning in that man. He’s still trying to prove himself to someone. Maybe his father. I don’t know. I wondered about it. If you come from a hard place, it’s next to impossible to shake off the wounds that sliced deep. And I admit, I had no idea, and still don’t, if my musings about Jonas were anywhere close to realistic. I just thought about it, that’s all. Tried to figure it out, what he saw from where he came from.

And then one day, a really strange thing happened. It was a few years ago. Late afternoon, about the time Jonas liked to call. Right when I was wrapping things up for the day. The phone rang. Rosita answered, and then my phone beeped. It was Jonas. I don’t know if my heart was in a better place that day, or what. I greeted Jonas pleasantly. Not just politely. Pleasantly. There’s a difference, and you can usually tell if you think about it when you’re talking to someone on the phone.

And amazingly, Jonas was pleasant, too. Well, for him. We chatted a bit about what he needed and then one of us said something funny. I don’t remember who said it or what it was. But we both laughed. Actually laughed. And I tell you what. You laugh with someone, naturally, in the flow of things, in the moment, you do that because you are enjoying the moment. Jonas and I laughed about something together. And then we hung up. And from that day, things were different between me and that man.

Maybe I was imagining, but it seemed like he got noticeably less demanding. We actually chatted a bit about regular things when we talked on the phone or when he stopped around. He was still a walking dust cloud. But I didn’t judge him so harshly. And it seemed like we both made an effort to get along. He still grumped, now and then, and I still talked back short to him. Neither of us took it personal. And it was great, how peaceably me and Jonas got along. By just about any standard, it was.

And things went a lot better for me and Jonas. Then, a little over a year ago, he stopped in one day to pick up some materials. I forget what. Little bitty stuff, odds and ends, mostly, is what he gets from me. We stood there at the counter and chatted as I wrote up his invoice. And all of a sudden, I thought of something I had never considered before.

My book. The first book, I mean. Growing Up Amish. I had never, ever mentioned to Jonas that I wrote a book. He never seemed to notice the little poster I got taped at the counter on the back of my computer screen. I just never figured he’d be interested. That day, as the idea came to me, I thought, why not? Get your sales pitch going. Sell. Sell. Sell him the book.

So, I stepped back to the box beside my desk and pulled out a copy. Look here, Jonas. Look what I got. I wrote a book, a few years back. I think you’d enjoy reading it. He looked dubious. I forged on. Money talks to these old Amish guys. So I came through that door. And just for today, just for you, I have a real special price. Ten bucks. That barely covers my costs. But for you, today, I’ll make a deal, because I want you to read it. You’ll never get a better price. You really want this book.

Jonas looked at me across the counter, strangely, like I was telling him a tall tale. He hedged. Didn’t seem all that willing. Squeaked around. He didn’t know if he wanted to spend ten whole dollars on a book. But that day, I was determined. I could be stubborn, too. I kept putting on the pressure. Come on. Take a chance. It’s cheap. You’ll never get this book for a better price. It’s a real story. You’ll like it. I know you will.

Jonas muttered to himself. He certainly was less than enthused about this fantastic deal I was offering. I kept plugging away. We had reached a new level of understanding, me and Jonas, and I wasn’t going to let him off the hook unless he just flat out rejected the offer and turned away. He came in from another direction, then. “I don’t have any cash on me today,” he said, half triumphantly. That’s fine, I said, unfazed. You can bring me the cash later. I’ll sell on credit. He grumbled and hedged some more. I kept insisting. I wanted him to read the book. I wanted to see what he thought of it. I mean, the man is a South-ender. His perspective would be unique.

He finally gave in. Grudgingly. “OK,” he said. “I’ll take it. I’ll pay you another time, when I have the money on me.” I’m not worried, I told him. I signed the book with a flourish. To him and his wife. Then I handed it to him. Let me know what you think of it, I told him. He agreed that he would. Then he turned and walked out the door.

And so help me, I did not see that man again, or hear a peep from him, for over a year. I mean, he never even called for pricing of any kind. Well, he never talked to me, if he did. It sure was strange, I thought. Push a book on a guy, on credit, and he just up and disappears on you. And still I heard nothing, saw nothing of the man. It got to where I barely thought about it anymore, that Jonas owed me for a book. Oh, it crossed my mind fleetingly, now and again. What little I thought about it, I did hope that Jonas had read the book. I didn’t know. It just never seemed to me that he had much of an appreciation for book learning.

And then one afternoon, just the other day, he strolled into the office there at work. We were shorthanded, the phones were clattering nonstop, and a steady stream of people traffic flowed through. I had just finished up with a customer when Jonas walked in. And I kind of half hollered across the room. Jonas. My man. Did you bring me money for my book? He walked up to the counter, grinning half sheepishly, extracting his wallet from his barn door pants pocket. He pulled out a handful of small bills. I counted. A dollar short. I snapped it up. Bring me the dollar next time.

We chatted as I wrote up his small order. I figured I might as well plunge right in. So I asked. Did you read the book? He nodded. “Twice,” he said. Twice, what? I asked. You read the book twice? My, my. Do I dare ask what you think?

“I liked you best when you were home,” he said. He wasn’t scolding. Just telling me. He wasn’t quite done. “I think you should go back and marry that girl you left,” he said. I laughed. That’s nice, I said. Problem is, that all happened a lot of years ago. She’s a grandma now. From that, you can conclude that she is already married. He laughed, too.

As he was turning to leave, I quickly showed him a copy of Broken Roads from my stash. He was interested, you could tell. I’m just showing you what else I wrote, I told him. I won’t make a sales pitch until you got some cash on you. He nodded, then turned and walked out.

One of these days, I figure Jonas will be back. And he’ll have some cash on him.

*****************************************

OK. A few words about the book, and life in general. Broken Roads came out of the gate decently strong in a world gone mad. It was available online only for the first few critically important weeks. My agent told me that nonfiction releases in that time period were off by a third. Which seems about right. A friend told me she picked up the book at Walmart. So there’s that. Reviews on Amazon have been decent, although I sure could use some more. I don’t like to beg on social media. The book is what it is, and the market does what it does, all on its own. But I could still use some reviews.

Hachette has lined up a number of decent interviews, online and on air. Most have been prerecorded, so far. Which is fine. This week, I had a real good Zoom interview with Randy Robison of Life Today, an online broadcasting group. Other than the fact that I’m not looking at the camera angle right, it was one of the better interviews I’ve ever done, I think. Mostly because I stayed relaxed. I thank Hachette and I thank Randy. I am grateful for the opportunity and the exposure.

My first book signing is still on. At the Get-Togather Room on the north side of the square in Bloomfield, Iowa. On Friday, July 17th from around 1:00 to 4:00 PM. Bring your book or buy one there. I’ll have copies of Growing Up Amish, as well as Broken Roads. So. I’m looking forward to hitting the road and getting some traveling done. We’ll see how it goes. I’d love to see some of the Amish of Old Bloomfield show up.

Another milestone got here a few days ago. My official one millionth hit on this blog. Not bad for a site that posts every three to four weeks. I saw the other morning on the little counter there at the bottom, one million was coming right up. So I kept a close eye on it and witnessed the milestone when it came. The actual number came a little earlier. Years ago, there was a stretch of time when the counting mechanism quit working. So I figure that elusive hit came a month ago or more without me knowing, or much fanfare. Now it’s official. It’s a big deal to me. I’ve been traveling this blogging road for thirteen years. I’ve said it before. This blog is where it all started, my writing journey, and this blog is where I will always return to. It’s a safe place. It keeps me honest. Thank you for traveling with me, however sporadically.

A few words about the violent societal upheaval going on. We live in a turbulent and dangerous time. It is wise to prepare as best one can. Be a “gray” person. Resist quietly. Don’t make waves, don’t poke the beast. Lay low. Store some water, store some food. A core group of friends is critical. People who got your back, whatever happens, people you can trust if you are ever forced to go underground for any reason. People who will help you and protect you.

I have been very disappointed in a number of figures I had grown to admire and trust, who have seemed clueless and devoid of discernment. No credibility, is what those people now have. I was especially struck at how national Reformed leaders and preachers never stepped up, never made a peep. How they urged the people to bow to the vile false god that is the state. Obey, obey, obey. I won’t ever forget how easily the masses were manipulated and how stridently the frenzied crowds demanded strict obedience to the state’s arbitrary and destructive decrees. And I saw another brutal truth, too, very quickly. Many, if not most of your “friends” will casually betray you. Cut off the ones you can’t trust from any important details of your life.

In the past, I have developed a basic and very simple philosophy of living. A saying with three pillars. Trust God. Walk free. Don’t be afraid. Those are good guidelines to live by.

And now it’s time to refocus and hone those words a bit. Trust God. That stays the same, always and in all circumstances. The next two are the ones I added to. Walk free, but walk wisely. Don’t be afraid, but don’t be stupid.

Safe travels on the journey.

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Tuesday Morning…

You can’t go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, back

home to romantic love, back home to a young man’s dreams of glory and of

fame, back home to exile,…away from all the strife and conflict of the

world, back home to the father you have lost and have been looking for…

—Thomas Wolfe

_____________________

The day came, it trickled in like most days do. The breaking silent dawn, the rising sun. On this day, there were blue skies with rafts of drifting clouds. It was a rare moment. I had seen only one such time before, that came anywhere close to this. It was Tuesday. May 12th, the day Broken Roads got released.

It had been a long time coming. I don’t know what the average time is between first and second books. A year or two, probably, unless the second one gets forced out before. It took me nine years. A good long wait, that is, for a new dawn to come. It didn’t really bother me much, that it took so long. I told myself. If it doesn’t come, it doesn’t come. I figured it would. Eventually. And eventually, it did. The days plodded along, the weeks crawled by. And the release date crept up, closer and closer. Until the big day came. There had been only one day approaching anything like this, ever before, in all my life. That was when Growing Up Amish got released on June 28, 2011. A Tuesday, nine years ago. I don’t know. Maybe Tuesday is a special day to release a book. Seems like it was for me.

I looked back and thought about things a good bit. How it all happened last time. How things went, as the day approached. The second journey would be different than the first. But still. You do what has worked in the past when you can. I thought back to nine years ago and how it was. How I went to see my friend, Sam the Counselor. Just to talk through things, just to keep my head straight. This time, I wasn’t sure any of that was necessary. Until the last full week was winding down, then it came to me. Go see Sam. You can’t go wrong. So I called to see if an appointment might be available. I was not all that sure a slot could open on such short notice, but they made one for me. Monday morning. I could see Sam then. I’ll be there, I promised.

Monday morning. I slept in a bit, then got up. Nice day, a little cloudy. I stuffed a couple of copies of Broken Roads into my messenger bag, and we were off. Amish Black II bucketed along over the backroads. Through Bridgeport, and on south. Down, down, through Willow Street, then on over to Conestoga. My appointment was at 9:30. I usually grab the opening slot at 8;00 or so, but beggars can’t be choosers, not when they call in as late as I had. Norma smiled and welcomed me. I sat in one of the spindled chairs in the waiting area. A few minutes after 9:30, Sam came thumping down the stairs. He smiled and greeted me. We didn’t shake hands, as we usually do. Covid. View every person with suspicion. I swear, that virus is going to make us all insane.

Sam and I settled in, our chairs naturally spaced more than six feet apart. I came, I told him, because you are safe. You always were. I’m here because my book is happening tomorrow. I held out a copy of Broken Roads. This book is releasing tomorrow. I’m ready, I think. Still, it goes better when I run things past you. I signed the book to him and Cathie, his wife. Here, I said. A gift. Thanks for everything you’ve done for me.

And we sat there and chatted, me and Sam. I told him. I remember years back, right when my marriage blew up, a year or so in. I was coming to see you regularly, every couple of weeks or so. You told me that maybe someday I’ll write about what was going on right then. You said it would be quite a story. I scoffed at the idea. Nah. I’ll never get to a place like that. And then I told Sam. I need to tell you, I did get to that place. You were right. I wrote the things you told me I might write one day. That stuff is all in this book. I remember how I scoffed at you. You were right. And we talked a bit about life in general in these strange “pandemic” times. Life has changed, and there ain’t a thing you can do about it. It’s a crazy world out there.

But you don’t have to be afraid, I said to Sam. You can choose not to walk in fear. And we talked about what that might look like. I’m sure it’s different for different people. We wandered far out into other fields as well, as we always do. And soon we had talked well past an hour. I stood, then, and took my leave. Sam thanked me again for the book. He’d let me know what he thought, he promised.

That day passed uneventfully, and night came. And it was heavy on my mind as I grappled for sleep that night. The book. Tomorrow the book would be released to the world. I couldn’t stop it now if I wanted to. It felt more like, what is done is done. Let the heralds proclaim with trumpet fanfare from the rooftops. Here is Ira’s new book. Broken Roads. Stop and check it out. I tossed and turned and pitched about. Then drifted off to sleep. And the dreams came sliding in, then. Broken dreams about a broken past.

I woke up early. Tossed about a bit, then got up. This was the day. It would have been so different in a sane and normal world. There would have been a book signing that evening, over at Plain and Fancy. And probably a little writeup in the paper. Maybe. The paper isn’t what it was last time, back in 2011. Still. It would have been good, to have some notice locally. I’m not sure if that’s going to get done.

I posted early on social media that morning. Today is the day I’ve been waiting for. My book. I posted a link to Amazon and asked my friends to repost. All through that day, I saw posts of my book. And then the messages started coming. Hey. My book got here. Shipped from Amazon.

I was really impressed with how precisely that had to be timed. Somewhere down the chain of responsibility, it was someone’s job to make sure my book got shipped so it would be delivered on the date of actual release. That didn’t happen across the board, I know. But it happened a good bit. I was impressed. And people started posting after they had read it. The feedback was mostly positive. Some of the early reviews on Amazon have been brutal. I glanced at them and didn’t think of them much. And I’ll mention it right here. I could sure use some reviews on Amazon. If you haven’t done it, I’d appreciate if you would. No obligation, of course.

I got a few messages that day from the publishing team. The people I worked with. They congratulated me. It’s a big deal, to get a book published. And it felt good that these people recognized that. And I’ve thought about it a good bit. Of all the “art” you can create, writing is the easiest medium in which to get known. I think it is. It’s almost impossible in music. And painting, well, wait until after you’re dead, then maybe your art’s worth real money. Only a writer can hole up in a “flat,” as the British would call it, and write in the evenings while working full time. A writer has a better shot at actually getting published and heard. Well. Mostly, it’s that way. There’s always exceptions, of course.

It’s been about two weeks, now. A few days more than that. I wasn’t sure how involved the Hachette people would get with the marketing. So far, so good. They got some little outside PR firm lining up some good interviews. I’ve done half a dozen or so. They’ve been fun. Took me back to the old Growing Up Amish days, it did. Take a break at work. Half an hour here, fifteen minutes there. I enjoy the talking, mostly. You let the host lead, go where he or she nudges you.

It looks like one lonely book signing event might still be held. Well, there may be others. But just one for now. This summer, in mid-July, there will be an ex-Amish reunion in Old Bloomfield. Saturday and Sunday, the 18th and 19th. Anyone who was ever Amish in Bloomfield is invited. That was the week of the Davis County Fair. I had planned to rent a booth at the Fair on Friday, July 17th. And then Covid interrupted, of course. The Fair got canceled. It is what it is. Right now, I’m looking at renting the Get-ToGather Room on the north side of the square on Friday, July 17th, from maybe 12:30 to 4:00. Or something like that. Bring your book, or buy one there. I’m planning on it. If anything changes, I’ll note that in my next blog.

A few words about the virus. Not much. It does little good to rant. There will be plenty of time later to dissect what really happened. I am currently most disappointed at pastors who obstinately refuse to reopen their churches. They stand with outstretched arms, not to shepherd their flocks, and not to lead. But to deny entry to the church. Can’t let the church gather without the pastor. That would be disaster. It’s mind-boggling. I never dreamed I’d see the day. Those pastors should start their own little support group. Pastors on a Power Trip. Open your freakin’ churches. Your people are ready to explode from the tension.

Back to a more pleasant present. My book got officially released on Tuesday, May 12th. That’s a big deal for me. I did a few interviews and got a few more coming up. And just this week, I got a real good write-up in two online publications. Both were written interviews. The first was in The Christian Post. The second was my good friend, Erik Wesner’s blog, Amish America.

And through it all, the struggle continues for some semblance of the old traditions. There is Covid, there’s my book release, there are riots in the streets, and there is the terrifying noise you hear when the world is crumpling to ashes on every side. Through the darkness comes a bright little sliver of light. My nephew, Clifford Wagler, is getting married. He’s the youngest son of my brother and his wife, Stephen and Wilma Wagler. Clifford was always a bit shy until he met this one particular, lovely girl. Esther King, that’s her name. The two of them have been inseparable for over a year, now. Their wedding is planned for late June. Less than a month.

A few weeks ago, Clifford and Esther brought me supper one Sunday night. It was nice, that they paid a bit of attention to the crotchety old uncle. Esther had cooked up a delicious meal, and afterward, we went for a ride in Amish Black II. Life rolls on through everything. I mean, so far, it has. It is beautiful to see a young couple walking forward with all the hope and faith and optimism that young couples have. Congratulations from the extended family, Clifford and Esther. We wish you every blessing.

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Bootleg Gospel…

Did they not, as we, cry out at night, along

deserted roads into demented winds?

— Thomas Wolfe

____________________

Well, that went south fast. There’s never a shortage of tyrants, all ready to step in and inflict their will on others by force. At this point, in early May, in the year of our Lord, 2020, a choking dystopian fog has settled on the land. It’s impossible to know or to grasp the harsh winter that is now our spring. The aftermath of this event, whatever you think of it, will affect at least all those who were old enough to remember. The world has changed, more than any of us could hope to grasp. It’s a frightening place of desolation and fear. Not that it has to be. But it is, I think, for a lot of people.

I understand, if you’re afraid. Can’t say I haven’t felt a few shivers of fear myself, slicing through whatever measure of calmness I had managed to grasp, however tentatively. Fear chases everything else out, if you let it. I try not to. You fight it because there is no choice. Not if you want to survive. For the first time in modern history, a civilization has deliberately triggered its own demise. Chopped off its own head. That’s what is happening in the West. That’s what is happening here in Pennsylvania.

It was late March when I realized that the world had changed way more than I had ever figured it could or would. Our governor Tom Wolf had already shut the state down, pretty much. It didn’t affect me all that much, except I was irritated that all restaurants had closed, due to our pipsqueak tyrant’s dictates. A vile little man, Wolf is. Anyway, it was an ordinary weekday morning. I fueled Amish Black II at Sheetz on my way to work. Then I walked inside to grab my cup of coffee, just like I’ve done every morning for the past twenty years. I was unprepared for what greeted me inside.

There was no coffee. The line of large, gleaming urns had been removed, the skeletons of the brewing machines sat on the counter all forlorn. A string of yellow tape stretched taut across the area where I got my coffee every morning. A little sign hung there. Due to the Corona virus, we are no longer selling self-serve coffee. Half in shock, I stood there for a few seconds. What fresh horror was this? No coffee at Sheetz. I turned and walked out the door. I haven’t been back for anything except gas since. McDonald’s is a quarter mile down the road from Sheetz, and these days, the drive-through line is fast and short. I’m a regular there, every morning, now. A large black coffee, please. I try to give exact change. $1.06. I’m irritated at Sheetz for caving to the deliberate and destructive hysteria. Maybe I’ll go back if they ever start selling coffee again from large urns that you can help yourself to. And maybe I won’t.

You could feel the fear around you early on. The vile media spewed a continuous stream of panic and poison every day. I never watched, and only occasionally overheard. At work, we settled into a new routine. Building supply businesses somehow escaped the pipsqueak’s ire. We were open. My office coworkers, Mark and Rosita, go in and open up. I wander in around nine. By 2:30, they are both gone. I stay and close at five. For now, that seems to work well. The market balancing itself. One day, a regular schedule will return. I mean, that’s what we’re planning will happen. Not all plans always work out, of course.

The tyrants are never satisfied after they get a taste of power. Like a vampire tasting blood for the first time. The elixir clouds the head and fogs the mind. For reasons presumably known to himself, Wolf allowed the big box stores to stay open, but shut down most small businesses in PA. Like I said. The man’s policies are destructively suicidal. I’m mostly an introvert, anyway, so it didn’t bother me or my schedule all that much in the beginning. Still. You miss things, when they get taken from you. One of the things I missed most was very simple. Assembling for church. There was no church, because the church obediently bowed to the state at the first whiff of danger.

Trying to keep track of the chain of events, here. I might get a little out of order. Don’t matter, I guess. Easter came rolling in. The most holy of days for Christians. No church, no gathering, not in the vast majority of places. The threats came raining down as the state seemed to take a perverse joy in reminding Christians that they were not allowed to gather. I had never seen such a thing before in my life, and hope to never see such a thing again. It was startling and abrupt, to absorb.

But not everyone listened. The day before Easter, I got a text from a close friend. He was having a gathering the next evening, Easter evening. Grilled brisket. The group he invited would be small, but still too big to be legal. Come around four, and we’ll feed you. And almost an afterthought, a P.S. We will be having communion after we eat. I would have gone anyway. But that communion thing sealed the deal for me. I’ll be there, I texted back.

And I was. I greeted my friends. And we just sat around and talked and then the food was ready and we ate and feasted with much mirth. It was a good evening. We were not gathered in fear, but in fellowship and love. There was a fire outside after we ate, and then people made moves to leave before too late. At some point in there, my friend asked. “Do we want to have communion?” Yes, I said. Yes. Let’s have communion. And we all gathered inside around the kitchen table. The host took his Bible and found the passage where Jesus served the bread and wine. We used what we had. The bread was some kind of cake bar, the wine was real enough. Except for me. I was served a little cup with a mixture of exotic juices. And we ate our cake and drank our wine and juice in solemn remembrance of Christ’s suffering, death, and resurrection. I thanked my hosts, then, and walked out to my Jeep and headed for home.

Scold all you want at my recklessness, it really doesn’t matter. And it wasn’t recklessness, anyway. It was calculated risk. Something about the massive Covid hysteria just didn’t add up, early on, for me. I saw it was serious, and it could kill. What shocked me was when they shut down everything, closed down businesses. You can’t just do such a thing by decree. Only the market should decide when to shut down. People can do their own figuring and take their own risks. Who are these government officials who play god with our lives? What’s their agenda? From the first second of the crisis, I saw the abuse of power. If you ask anyone from an anabaptist background, other than the serious leftists who would make Menno Simons roll over in his grave, you ask them and they’ll tell you. Don’t trust the state. We got long, long ancestral memories, my people do. We know BS when we see it. We call BS when we see it. Governor Wolf, sir, stop oppressing the citizens of the commonwealth. Stop playing god. People are hurting and people are desperate. Very soon, they will be hungry and depressed. A dark wind blows.

It was shortly after Easter when I heard from the editor of The Budget. The Amish weekly newsletter from Ohio that my father wrote for since before he was married, I’m pretty sure. That venerable old newspaper had rejected advertising for my first book, Growing Up Amish. They did not want to offend my father or his readers. I understood and never fussed. This time, I figured it might be different. This time, the book explicitly honors my father. (I think the first one did, too, but I understand if others see that differently.) Some months ago, I mailed a hard copy to the editor of The Budget. I even plotted with my good friend, John Schmid, the folk singer from Ohio that Dad loved to listen to in his last years. I figured John might be able to poke around a bit and put in a good word for me. Ira is not a bad man. Here. Read. It’s honorable stuff. I thought John might have an edge on things. I hoped so, anyway. A few quarter-page ads in The Budget would proclaim my book to the Amish world, if I could nurse things along right.

Well. Right after Easter, here came a text from John. “It’s not looking good, for The Budget.” And sure enough, here came a message from the editor. The official verdict. They would not advertise Broken Roads, because a portion of their readership might be offended by some of my wording. Drat, I thought. Foiled again. Here we’re being deliberately throttled by the state’s response to the virus. And now, The Budget won’t advertise my book. It’s enough to make a man weary and discouraged.

But not for long. I thought about it. So my new book is banned by The Budget. Nothing has changed. I’m right where I’ve always been. I won’t criticize the decision, because it’s not my newspaper and not my business. And I know that the judgment of the plain community can run wide and deep. But I have to say, with all the other racket that’s going on in the world right now, that this is a bit of noise and stress I’d rather do without.

It is what it is, I reckon. Just keep walking. No virus hysteria or Budget boycott will stop my book for long, not if I can help it.

The days of pandemic plod along, slowly, so slowly. All around the world, things were going on. The media ran insane. WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE! The dystopian fog settled, dense and frightening. A hospital ship arrived in NY City, to help with the overflow. And a tent hospital was set up in Central Park, by Franklin Graham’s people. Both setups are gone now, and they treated almost no one. Lord, it’s a mystery, indeed it is. I mean, is that uncouth to mention? At that time, though, we didn’t know. We believed what “science” was telling us. Or at least we were told what to believe and how to think.

A few Sundays back, I connected to a small inhouse church service. The bootleg gospel, I guess you could call it. I felt a small connection to my anabaptist roots that morning. Sneaking to an illegal private service in a home. I remembered what my cousin, Elmo Stoll, said to me when I stopped in to visit his little commune in Tennessee, back in the early 1990s. We were walking along some backwoods trail from one dwelling to another, and Elmo turned to me, his eyes gleaming with his vision. “I always imagine our anabaptist forefathers sneaking along a trail like this, hiding from persecution,” he told me. I could only smile and nod. Inside, I was calculating that the man must have lost his mind. Why would anyone speak of persecution with anything other than horror and revulsion?

That bootleg church service. I went that morning. It was moving and uplifting to me. Most of us sat around a large table. We sang songs, and then there was a short devotional, then more singing and discussion. And then a great meal was served, a feast. I drank black coffee and visited. Against my weak protests, the housewife insisted I take some food with me when I left. I got back home, refreshed, emotionally and spiritually. The bootleg gospel. The word of the Lord will always flow free.

At this point, I realized, along with a lot of other people, that we were in for a long haul. Nothing was coming “back to normal” anytime soon. Maybe normal as we had known it would never return. The day after the bootleg church, there was an event in Harrisburg that I went to. A protest. It was a desperate and angry crowd that gathered to demand an end to the shutdown of small and private businesses. In Harrisburg at noon. That’s when it was planned. I wanted to go. I didn’t want to drive. So, before heading to the office, I posted on Facebook. I need a ride to the protest. Anyone out there? When I fired up my computer at work, a couple of messages were waiting on me, offering a ride.

One was from Arlene, my ex-sister-in-law. Ellen’s older sister, over in the Lebanon area. She made an attractive offer. If I drove over to their house, her husband, LeRoy, would take us to the protest and drop us off. He didn’t want to stay, but he would return whenever we called and pick us up. I messaged Arlene back, and we chatted for a bit. I’m on my way, I told her. And me and my Jeep headed west and north.

I had not been to the little farm owned by LeRoy and Arlene Longenecker for a lot of years. Last time I was there, I think Ellen was with me. So, it’s been a while. A host of old memories nudged at me as I approached their home. It looked about the same when I got there. I walked up and knocked. LeRoy and Arlene emerged from their house, all ready to go. I grabbed my water bottle and the cardboard sign I had fashioned earlier. In stark, black letters, the words: WOLF IS OUR VIRUS. We boarded the white SUV and LeRoy soon had us on the interstate, zooming toward Harrisburg.

Traffic was sparse, and we got to the city in good time. A few blocks from the capital building, we got dropped off. The crowd was small but growing when we walked up. It was a halfway decent day, there were clouds, and the sun shone bright. More people came, and suddenly the place was packed out on both sides of the street. There were loudspeakers and shouts and cheers and jeers and loud horns honking and the waving of signs. I stood right out on the edge of the pavement and held my sign high. There were a few speeches, then, by politicians claiming to be on our side. When I hear a politician speak, at any level, it goes right in one ear and out the other.

By midafternoon, Arlene and I were walking out of the area a few blocks to a place where we could get picked up. LeRoy zipped right in and we were off. And that was the end of that little adventure. I’ve been scolded about how it was stupid to go stand around with so many other people. Maybe it was. It’s a risk that people take when they are desperate and hungry, when their jobs are just yanked right under out of them for no discernible reason, other than some unseen, perceived threat. A threat that is certainly real, but has failed to materialize as the monster we were warned it was. I think back to that hospital tent and that hospital ship in New York City that were neither needed nor used. So, even though I can still go to work, I will stand with the people who are being enslaved, I stand with them. There is no other option.

Mr. governor Wolf, you are always groomed, always trimmed and spotless. I’m looking like Grizzly Adams, here. Because the guy who cuts my hair will be heavily fined if he cuts my hair. Maybe he’ll be caged. Someone is cutting your hair, Mr. Wolf. Why are you allowed to flaunt the chains of the law you inflict on all of us? It’s not about health, and it’s not about safety. It’s about control and enslavement. Free the market. Just free the market. Be warned, sir. Peasants with pitchforks are quietly gathering in the shadows of the castle walls. The tar is bubbling in big pots, the chickens are being slaughtered for their feathers.

How are the Amish dealing with the madness? In some remote places, they probably never really knew much what was going on. I do know that most communities were warned. And that the Amish took the threat seriously. Most of the schools were shut down, at least around where I am. I can’t speak to every place. And they stayed home on Sundays, too, the Amish did. First time church had been canceled like that since the Spanish flu a hundred years ago. The cancellations came smack dab at the time for Ordnungs Church. Over that Easter Sunday when I went sneaking around, the Amish stayed home.

But not for much longer. By the following Sunday, the Amish had counseled among themselves. From what they had seen, well, they see it like I see it. The virus is real, and it can be deadly. But it’s not worth wrecking the economy over. I mean, it has already been massively damaged, and this has quietly outraged the Amish. You can’t tell an Amish person not to work. Or you better have some real good reason if you do tell him that. The Amish had listened to all the real good reasons. And now, they came up with some logic of their own.

They would have church for the districts as originally would have been scheduled. There were three basic rules. If you feel even slightly sick, or cough, or sneeze, don’t come. There would be no handshaking and there would be no noon meal. Those two traditions are pretty important to the culture. It made sense, for the first time or two, to take extra precautions. And that’s how you break back in slowly, I think. The Amish will always come up with a practical blueprint of action. They’ll keep close watch. Cut back on church if they get sick. But keep pressing on if things stay decently balanced. They won’t wait on an OK from any government agency. They will make the choices as they best can. That’s the way it should be. That’s the way the market works. Both secular and religious.

I’ve said it before, about the Amish. I’ll say it again, with some pride. These are my people.

Winding down, then. The book. My world had been pretty silent. No communication at all with my Hachette people since the virus came rolling along. I felt like they might update me. Nope. Nothing. Not a word. So, a few weeks ago, I reached out to them all. Hey. What’s happening with Broken Roads? Are we on schedule? I’m mostly concerned that people will get their hard copies when they order them. Will that be possible? Should the book’s release be backed up?

I didn’t want to back it up. I had chatted via email with Chip, my agent. He wanted to know what I was thinking. Do I want to move the release date up, or back it off? Anything like that? And I thought about it and told him. Nah. Let’s keep the original date. May 12th. I’d consider backing it off if the hard copies can’t be delivered on time as scheduled. That would be the only reason. Otherwise, keep plugging on as originally planned. Keep the date.

There had been big plans for that first day, May 12th. A Tuesday. I guess publishers just pick random days of the week to launch. I don’t know. Anyway, I had a real nice meet and greet all planned out with the good people at Plain and Fancy, a large tourist attraction over along 340. Lots of traffic, lots of people. This would be my first book signing for Broken Roads. It was a big deal to me. It would be fun, to do an event like that. I was planning to invite all my friends to stop by. A grand old time would be had by all.

And now, that’s gone. And a couple of nice big events we had planned for me in the Midwest, well, those are looking pretty shaky, too. I guess I can just go later, if I have to. The venues will always be open. It’s disappointing, of course it is. Not gonna pretend it’s not. I’ve always believed you just keep walking in the arena you’re in. Don’t waste energy grumbling about the path or the journey. And I’ve thought about it, too, lately. If the book doesn’t sell well, I can always blame it on this great global epidemic that was going on. I could always grumble, I guess, about the general unfairness of it all. I just don’t know what good it would do.

So, anyway. After I reached out to the Hachette people, I heard from them quickly. Yes. We were on schedule. All the logistics had been worked out, the book was being printed. There it was. We were on. I felt relieved. Good. Keep walking. Work with whatever obstacles get in the way, get around them.

And soon after that, a week or so, I got word that my shipment of free books was on the way. They come twenty to the box. I can tell you the Corona virus will be used for pretty much any excuse, anywhere. Somehow, because of the virus, they could not break a box. Only full boxes. They’d ship me forty now, then ten later when the virus would allow them to split a box. It was kind of like a lot of things. What has to work will work. So I shrugged. About then, my agent Chip, who was copied on the messages, came along and said they could ship me his half case. I guess he had ten books coming. I was touched by his generous gesture. Right now, I wanted to get my hands on as many of those books that I could grab by hook or by crook.

And the boxes arrived, then, last week, on Wednesday. Three little boxes of twenty copies each. I took the closest box and cut it open. And I held up my first real finished copy of my book. It was a bigger deal in my head than I thought it would be. Ain’t a whole lot of people who get to see the place I’m standing at. Some, sure, and some see much higher places. But not a lot. I was, like, well, in my head, I was like, this is a rare moment. Hold this book and appreciate it.

Grizzly Adams and his book

I haven’t read the book in depth, just scanned it. A few spots that had been a bit bumpy, mostly we got them cleared up. Broken Roads is different than Growing Up Amish was. It’s pretty rough and raw. A few reviews have been cropping up on Amazon. I get a strong sense that there will be harsher criticism than I ever saw with my first book. It’s OK. The market will be what it is.

I have never met my friend, Steven L. Denlinger, in person. I’ve talked to him a few times. He comes from the Plain Mennonites, a place somewhat like where I came from. He understands me well, our journeys were very similar in a lot of ways. Not in all ways, of course, as Mennonites and Amish are distinct. But the cultures are close cousins. Both are hard to break free from.

Steven is an accomplished writer and teacher. I sent him an early copy of Broken Roads, and he offered to write a review. He has done that. This review is superbly crafted, and it’s the most comprehensive and in-depth analysis I have ever read about any of my writings. It’s not all sweetness and light, he criticizes where it’s called for. I was touched by this particularly powerful and moving passage:

“When he’s slogging the dark ravines of his mother’s illness, when he’s pursuing his father’s blessing—Wagler writes with the rhythm of demonic hounds howling, the grace notes of an angelic descant trailing above. The memoir hurtles forward—down this road, around that corner, and over the muddy plains soaked in the ‘delicious amber fire’ of whiskey.

During his bleakest moments, Wagler exposes the true cost of his life’s quest for freedom.”

A new door opens to a new road. The traveler holds firm his staff and walks.

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Vagabond Traveler; Brave New World…

But this is the end,

This is the end of the innocence.

—Don Henley, lyrics

_______________________

The darkness came like a great, pestilent cloud, descending in slow motion right before our disbelieving eyes. We could see it coming, the plague, or what was called a plague. It swept from country to country, you could never be quite sure of what was actually going on. The “news media” went insane, trying to freak everyone out. Vile, vile people, they are. Through all the noise, you could be sure of one thing, pretty much, and one thing only. Something wicked this way comes.

I’ve been a “prepper” for years, sort of. Not hard core, just sensible. Back 20 years ago, Y2K came at us kind of like this latest virus did. You could see and hear and feel the countdown. I remember the last evening of 1999. Ellen and I got engaged that year, we were planning to get married in the summer of 2000. And we kind of held each other as the days counted down to the New Year. First the months, then the weeks, then the days. And that night, the last night of the year, we got together at the house of some good friends, Paul and Anne Marie Zook. They had one or two other young couples there. We sat around and talked all evening. The clock ticked on, and on. And on. Then came midnight.

And nothing happened. All the hype, all the fear, it was all lost energy that was wasted and would never come back. I hadn’t spent a lot on supplies, just a few five-gallon buckets of hard red wheat (I guess you can bake things with hard red wheat), and a bucket of fine ground corn meal. And guns and ammo, of course, but you can never run out of reasons to buy guns and ammo. The long-term food, um, well, it was a bit embarrassing. After a few years, I set that corn meal out when we had a yard sale. The Amish neighbor, Jonas, wandered by with his middling son. I tried talking him into paying the $5 price tag. It’s good corn meal, I told Jonas. Heck, for you, today, I’ll give a discount. How about two bucks? He stroked his beard and looked thoughtful and wise. At last, he turned to his son, who was lurking nearby. “Chon, gey hole da veggli,” he said solemnly. John, go get the (little red) wagon. The boy dashed off, and Jonas handed me two crumpled $1 bills. They trundled the corn meal home. I probably should have kept it for a time like now. I didn’t. I guess it would have gotten old and stale, anyway. But still. I thought later I shouldn’t have sold it so nonchalantly. But I did. And that was the end of that little “crisis.”

Another big event came rumbling at us, not long after Y2K drifted into oblivion, except for its embarrassing memory. September, 2001. We had been married right at a year, me and Ellen. I remember the long and heavy solemnness that descended on the land as we struggled to grasp that the world was about to be irrevocably altered forever, very soon. And the nation marched off on its forever war on terrorism. A futile, costly war that benefits only the blood merchants of death, the military/industrial machine. Lord, open the eyes of your people to see this simple truth, that all war is murder, it’s wicked and wrong. Open the eyes of your people to see and know that the shedding of innocent blood is always abhorrent to You. It doesn’t matter what color the children are, the ones who get chewed up and spit out by the dogs of war. All their blood is innocent, and it all cries out to You.

After 9-11, no big event happened, not that stuck with me much, anyway. Oh, sure, every few years there was another virus scare of some kind. SARS, Swine flu, I can’t remember them all. Oh, and AIDS. That was going to decimate half the population. We were supposed to be scared, every time, according to the breathless media. Run, run, hide, hide, but they can’t tell you where. So just be afraid, instead. It makes me crazy sometimes to see the public emotions so easily whipped into a frenzy.

After going through some personal storms, I was cruising along pretty good in 2008 when that crash came. Well, cruising along as best I could the year after my marriage had blasted sky high. Lots of raw stuff was floating around in my head in 2008. I remember how some friends connected over those days and we got some survival stuff. We made sure we had basic tools. I stocked up on a good store of whiskey. Just regular brands, nothing fancy. I think a few of those bottles might still be stuck around somewhere. Those were never stored with my regular whiskey, so when I cleaned the cabinet out a few years ago, I never hunted down the stuff I had bought for hard times. So it’s still there, for hard times. To trade, I mean. Not to drink.

It always stayed interesting during those years. Somewhere there was a flood or a hurricane, somewhere there was some great snowstorm that really shut things down. And all too often, there was another school shooting. I remember how the private gun market got real busy and how the prices rose, if you could even find what you were looking for. My friends and I were in good shape, mostly, though. We bought when the market was normal. We didn’t really need to rush out and buy anything. It felt pretty good, to be about half prepared when a large event came knocking like that.

And time drifted on. I remember when Ebola was the big monster out there. If you got it, you were dead. I remember how Pastor Mark Potter talked about it in a sermon. He talked about the wilderness. Wilderness is not what we western people have come to view it as. Maybe a range of mountains where you could go hiking or camping. You went in, and you fully expected to return when you planned to. That’s not real wilderness, Pastor Mark said. Real wilderness is when you go to Africa to care for people who are stricken with Ebola. That’s the real place, the hard place. You could easily die.

The Ebola scare came and went. Or maybe we just didn’t hear about it, and it’s still out there same as it was then. It never developed into anything more than a distant horror, not imminent or that threatening. I never forgot how Pastor Mark described it as one version of the wilderness. A hard place. Where you could die.

It seems like a long time ago, when I took a trip to New York City. It was early March. Like I mentioned at the end of the last blog, I was scheduled to go record an intro to my book at Hachette’s headquarters in Manhattan. I got a little tense as Tuesday morning approached. My ex-brother-in-law, Paul, was going to meet me at the station in Lancaster. We were taking the 9:30 train, right through Philly to New York. I tossed about that night and woke up early. And very early on, I was nicely dressed and had packed my messenger bag and was driving Amish Black along 23 into Lancaster. I didn’t know how the traffic would be. I was taking no chances. An hour before departure, I parked Amish Black in the spacious Amtrak parking lot. Paul texted that he’d be there before nine. I walked in and sat on a large bench, waiting for my friend.

He got there right when he said he would. Came up the stairs to where I sat. We shook hands. It had been a while. We walked up to the window and I bought two round trip tickets to New York City. Paul and I caught up as we walked out to the tracks. A short wait, and the train came whooshing in and hissed to a halt. We found seats and soon the train shuddered and smoothly slid into motion. It’s always a thrill, to set out on a trip of any length by train. We talked as the countryside slid by. Paul had brought his laptop and worked remotely on his business matters.

It had been a while since I rode a train. You see the backside of things from the train. The old junk cars, the backyard fences, ramshackle barns, stacks of firewood, all shielded from the world from the front side of the place. The back gives it all away, the real comfortableness of the people who live there, I always thought. I watched the scenery fly by as Paul worked on his laptop and talked on his phone. Just as if he were right at home in his office.

Right on time, the train slid into Penn Station in Manhattan. We shouldered our bags and walked outside into a vast stream of people. We weren’t due at Hachette for a few hours. So Paul led the way to the old New York Public Library. I guess it’s a famous place. It sure was big enough. We wandered through, then back out onto the streets. Paul had everything mapped on his phone, and we headed over to the Avenue of the Americas. Many blocks away. The crowds surged and pressed all around. In all that day, I saw only one instance of awareness of the Corona virus. A group of young Asian people walked past us, wearing protective masks. Otherwise, there was never a hint that anyone was even aware of such a thing as the virus. The people didn’t look anxious, there was no tension whatsoever in the air. None. Nothing.

We found the headquarters soon enough. Hachette is a large French company that bought out Time-Warner a number of years ago. I have to say, I had never heard of them until they came nibbling on my book. The offices were right across the street from Radio City Music Hall. We had more than an hour to kill, so we went looking for some lunch for Paul. We walked into a nearby restaurant. Paul bought soup and I got a bottle of fancy water. We sat at a counter along the window and watched the human and motor traffic flow by outside. I could not get over how calm everyone was. There was absolutely no panic at all.

After an hour or so, we wandered over to Hachette and sat in the gleaming lobby. I texted Stephanie, my contact there. We’re here. She answered. She would meet us at 3:30. In the meantime, she invited us up to the Hachette lobby. We approached the long counter there at street level, gave the attendant our names, and waited on our ID tags. We had to hand over our driver’s licenses for that. They are quite thorough and careful about who they let in. The attendant handed us our tags and told us where to go to get to the elevator. We used our tags as tickets to get through the turnstile. Then onto the elevator and up to the fourth floor. Hachette occupies the fourth and fifth floors of the building. A nice receptionist greeted us. We told her. We’re here to see Stephanie. She pointed us to a waiting area nearby and told us to help ourselves to coffee. We did, then took a seat and looked around.

The walls were lined with shelves and rows and rows of books. New releases, I would imagine, or books that haven’t come to print, yet. I scanned quickly for mine, no such thing in sight. Oh, well. Maybe it’s not important enough. Paul and I sat at a table, sipping our coffee. And soon she strolled in. Stephanie. I had never met her before, and we’d talked only a few times. Young, lovely, and totally professional. She offered her hand and I shook it. Introduced myself, then Paul. This is my ex-brother-in-law. She welcomed him, too. And then we followed her through the maze of cubicles and up to the next floor. Stephanie led us down a hallway, then into the little studio where she records books. A small room with her controls, then an even smaller room, a little closet, really, where the narrator sits and speaks into a microphone.

I had written a rough draft, a few pages. Kind of an intro to the book. Stephanie had done some heavy editing, and the draft came back about cut in half. One page, single spaced. Which was fine with me. That much less for me to stumble through. And now, she instructed me. Put on the headphones. Speak into the mic. Slowly, like you’re just talking. She stepped back into her control room and shut the door. And I heard her, crisp and clear through the headphones. OK. Now. I started to read.

Reading for a recording is not one of my strong points, I decided right there in that little room. I got through the page, and then Stephanie coached a bit. Speak slower. But Waglers talk fast, I thought. Stop at the end of each sentence. Pause. Then read like you’re just talking. A couple of times, she told me. “Ok, the mic’s turned off. Just practice reading.” That relaxed me. Paul told me later that the mic never was actually turned off. And I plowed into the whole thing again, from the start. Stephanie claimed to like some of my reading skills. But, here, can we just try to do this thing this way? She was a great teacher. I was a raw novice, half star-struck, from the country, and she got me calmed down to where I could actually get the words narrated. It took less than an hour. Then we were done. Stephanie thanked me and led us out, back to the lobby. I thanked her for making it happen, and she smiled and wished me well. And that’s how it went.

After catching a cab back to the train station, Paul and I ate sandwiches at a nice deli in there somewhere. I had the corned beef on rye. It came stacked high and wide, a truly authentic New York sandwich. We feasted, and then Paul heard the loudspeaker announcement. I never heard it, I wasn’t paying any mind. Paul turned to me. “The train’s boarding for Lancaster,” he said. Our train was scheduled to leave after six. It was five right then. We got up and chased about, finally running down the right stairs to the right platform. The sign said Harrisburg. Our train, more than an hour early. We snuck on. When the conductor scanned our tickets, he never said a word about being on an early train. His scanner just beeped and scanned. He went right on.

And that’s how it was that I walked into my home more than an hour earlier than I had planned. I had chatted with God that morning as me and Amish Black left home. Lord. Protect me as I go to the great, dangerous, evil city. See me safely back to my home, I pray. Well, He did. I absorbed the day’s events after getting home. Feeling grateful. Such a day as that would not soon come for me again.

Now it might never, regardless. I don’t know. That week was the last week that this country lived in any semblance of its old normalcy. You could see the thing advancing like a dark and encroaching specter. The Corona virus. And by the following weekend, the reality of our world had changed. Then more, then more, and still more. We are now living in times of darkness and tension such as have rarely been seen by anyone alive. A lot of information and misinformation is floating around on social media. You can find something that backs up what you want to believe. And make yourself more anchored in what you believe. I try to look at different angles, even though the core of what I believe will not change. To understand people, it helps sometimes to imagine how they think. How would I see it if I thought like that?

The Amish blood in me wants to downplay the Covid-19, which is what I guess they’re calling the virus, now. Corona virus, Covid-19. Same thing. I have huge issues with just shutting down the economy. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, and all that. You keep working until you get sick. That’s how I was taught, and that’s how I think. It’s the same Amish blood that makes me highly, highly skeptical of almost every claim the government makes about what the virus is, why it is, and what it’s going to do. Any narrative from any government agency, I view with deep and abiding suspicion and hostility. Why is an elected bureaucrat an expert on such things? Across the board, they are not. It might be true, that the restrictions are necessary. But you can’t take any power-hungry bureaucrat’s word for it. The whole shutdown is tainted by lies. Call me a crackpot all you want. It’s true. Watch. Absorb. Analyze.

Covid-19, or the Corona virus, or whatever is the politically correct term to call it, this is a thing not to be taken lightly. It is serious, and it can kill. I remember when the fact hit me, not too far in. This is it. This is that real breakdown, that hard time you always looked for, back when you were younger and full of spirit. Now, after a lot of broken roads, when I’ve reached a fairly respectable age, a time when this battle-hardened wanderer wants to start thinking about settling into a bit of rest and peace, now, here it comes. Now, when I really don’t want to be bothered. Ah, well. It’s like I’ve said more than a few times in my writings. I wrote it in the book. What do you do when the road gets hard? You keep walking. That’s it. That’s all. Keep walking. Still. It’s a challenge to keep your head half straight when you’re walking through a time like this.

The first shudders of the effects of the virus reached my world at the end of the same week Paul and I went to the big city. That Friday evening, the 13th day of the month, governor Tom Wolf of Pennsylvania unveiled his startling decree. All nonessential businesses will close in PA for the duration of the plague.

I thought his act was drastic and I still think that. Sadly, what I think has nothing to do with the reality of what happened. In the days and weeks that followed, the governor firmed up his definition of what was an essential business and what wasn’t. All businesses are essential, of course, or they wouldn’t be supplying the market in any way. And just like that, all the bars and restaurants were shut down, and people were instructed to stay in their houses. A real recipe for an eventual explosion, right there. In my line of work, a lot of builders were shut down, or at least greatly reduced in their capacity to work. As a supplier of materials, Graber stayed open.

From the start, I quarantined myself from all mainstream news. Except on the radio, I might hear the headlines. I haven’t watched any “news” for years. It’s all fraudulent, and it’s all fake and deceptive. Even Drudge, my old online mainstay, has gone wacky left. I used to check that site multiple times a day, now I never do. I do connect with people and events online, and that’s where I get a trusted sense of what’s actually going on out there. I got a few sites I trust a lot. This is one that I check every day of the week. It got dramatic, real quick, here in Pennsylvania. And other places, too, not just here. The state narrative was always the same, from wherever you heard it spoken. Be afraid, be very afraid. A bad thing is coming. We are taking away your rights for your own protection. Trust us. It’s for your own good. Something about that just goes hard against my grain. It’s like a lion telling soothing lies to settle down a flock of nervous sheep.

What’s essential? What’s not? Who decides? The government? I’ve seen a lot of crazy things come and go, but I have never, never witnessed an economy deliberately shut down cold. Just like that. It’s like there were forces that wanted to unleash fear, confusion, blood, and death. Who gets to tell a man that he can’t go to work to feed his family? Who gets to tell a mother that she can’t go to work to buy shoes for her children? Who will pay the mortgage, who will pay the rent? Who will weep for those who give up in despair and take their own lives? That’s coming, big time. Everything was sacrificed on the altar of “safety.”

I guess I was lucky, at least as far as work goes. Graber Supply was considered essential. We sell building materials. People need a place like that to be open. So, I plugged off to work, day after day, as the country death-spiraled into madness. The politicians pretend they got it all taken care of, when they have no idea what’s going on most of the time. All the mainstream news sources have only one thing in mind. Be as scary as possible to as many people as possible. Spew hysteria and panic. Run. We’re all going to die. Vile are the people who dispense fear like that.

And the churches, of course, those were shut down, too. The evil government learned lots of bad lessons, about how easy it is to get the churches to back off and shut up. I didn’t and don’t fight anything. Just observe. Watch. Write. This is the first incident of this magnitude we’ve ever seen, probably. Pastor Mark wrote a lengthy email and sent it to all of us. His reasons were sound, I felt. He seemed slightly more alarmed than I was in my own thoughts. I don’t know. He may be right.

And yes, I know the virus is serious and can be deadly. I saw that when people that I knew died. Or knew of. Joe Diffie, the rollicking country singer from back in the 90s, left us. The virus. He was 61. Just a few years older than me. My favorite song from him is Pickup Man. It’s about pickup trucks, not a man picking up girls. Well, with his truck he is. The song is about pickups, though. Joe left us. And other people I had heard of. So I figure Corona is real, and it can be dangerous.

I may get the virus. I don’t know. It may kill me. I don’t know. Even if it does kill me, that would not diminish one iota the fact that I strongly believe this country’s response to the Corona virus is vastly, vastly overwrought. It’s madness. The state can justify the panic only by stoking our fears. You crash the economy to save, what, a sliver of a percentage of the people? That’s insane, even if I end up becoming one of the stricken ones, and it gets me like it got Joe Diffie. Life has risks, life is risks. One of those risks should not be the deliberate wrecking of an economy that is giving you and your family a living.

I am certainly for precautions, of course. Things like social distancing, washing hands, and whatever else the experts tell us. Self-quarantining, if you get sick. I’m all for that. What I’m not for is an arbitrary shutdown of the market, as has happened in most states, now. You can’t just do that by decree. I mean, they did, but the damage will be massive. If the market is shackled through April as is currently the plan most states have, there will be no economy left to return to. I don’t care how many multi-trillion-dollar bailout packages are passed. The market has to be real, or it won’t work. Bailouts aren’t a real market.

You can sense the fear out there. A lot of people are terrified, probably because they watch mainstream news. I’d be terrified, too, if I listened to all that gloom and hype. Still. People are where they are, and that’s where you have to meet them. Figuratively speaking, of course, what with social distancing and all. I had a spell of fear myself, just the other night. What if it’s as bad as the government is saying? I had heart issues a few years ago. A-fib. Will that make my system weak? What if I’m compromised? All that hit me the other evening, just before bed. I had to calm myself, focus on my faith. Whatever hits me might be hard, and it might be bad. It’s OK, to fret about it a little. But you can’t stay there, and I didn’t. By the next morning, I got a grip, a little. Keep walking. Whatever happens, it will be alright, because with God all things are good.

I am saddened by another thing I see a lot of, mostly on social media. And that is how people love to stick their noses in other peoples’ business. That person should be wearing a mask. I was at the store and someone didn’t stay 6 feet away from me. I see people wanting to call the law, snitching on their neighbors. It’s like a twilight zone out there. In a time like this, a person’s true nature comes out for all to see. I see lots of fussing at certain groups of Amish that are still holding church services. Leave these people be. Don’t concern yourself over other peoples’ business, just make sure you socially distance yourself. That should take care of you not getting it from them. The right to assemble to worship God is among our most sacred. I’m proud that there are remnants of my people who will not bend the knee to the beast that is the state. You go, Swartzys, or whoever you are out there.

Maybe this pandemic is similar to the “Ebola wilderness” Pastor Mark spoke about all those years ago. Maybe this is something like he meant. Probably close, I’d reckon. We’re certainly in a place we’ve never been before, my generation is. And for the younger people, this is probably their first glimpse of the hard, cold reality that there are things in life larger than themselves. We all discover that, sooner or later. I feel bad for young people facing a monster I never saw at their age. We all are where we are, I guess.

A lot of things are going to change in the future in ways that we can’t imagine now. One casualty, I think, will be the universities. They were in trouble anyway, a lot of them. Now, the world has been shown that you can learn online. You don’t need to go to an actual campus unless you want to. It’s a lot cheaper at home. Welcome to the future. Same thing with home schooling. That’s going to expand, too, I think.

My book. A few words. As far as I know, it’s still on schedule to release on May 12th. Online by eBook, if nowhere else. Of course, the book signing I was lining up for Release Day up at Amish Experience over along Rt. 340, that little event was canceled. The evil virus won that one. I just don’t know. I don’t know what will happen between now and then. And I won’t pretend to guess. We’ll wait and see what can be done on May 12th, I reckon. I remain hopeful that the book will ship out on time. No way of knowing, though. That’s just how life is, these days. The truly unfathomable has become the norm.

Winding down, then. It’s kind of funny, how the thought hit me a few times in the last few weeks, right in the stress of things. Man, I’d love a drink. It’s the first time I seriously considered imbibing since getting through the original struggle to quit back in 2017. The old ghosts came lurking, crooning sweet siren songs. Here. See how good it looks? Think how great it would taste, and how fantastic it would make you feel. Think of that soothing amber fire, and how smooth it would go down. It all came back to me in a powerful way.

It wasn’t close, though, that I actually did it. I didn’t. Just saying. It was truly tempting in a real way for the first time in quite a while, is all. One day, when some other large event comes at me again, I may break and give in.

But not this time.

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The Fifth Son…

And who shall say–whatever disenchantment follows–that we ever forget magic;

or that we can ever betray, on this leaden earth, the apple-tree, the singing,

and the gold?

— Thomas Wolfe

________________

It seemed like a safe thing to say, back when the message came. A request from a guy connected to Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online (GAMEO). Soon after Dad died, the guy emailed me. We want to add your father to our database, our encyclopedia. Will you do the short bio for us? We’d like you to. And I thought that would be fine. Sure, I messaged back, relieved that they didn’t need it right that second. I was working on finishing up my book. So I told the man. Let me know when you need it, down the road. I’ll get it done. That’ll get them off my back, I figured. For now, at least. And it passed completely from my mind, that little promise I made.

Until a gentle reminder came floating in, more than a month ago. Greetings, Ira. Are you still up to do that write-up about your father? He didn’t call it a write-up. A bio. He called it a bio. We’d be ready for it, just about any time. No rush. Just when you can get it to us in the next few months. No pressure, or anything. I was busy that week with the blog, so I pushed it onto the back burner, writing Dad’s story in a short biography. The thing kept poking itself into my consciousness in the next few weeks, though. And finally, one night, I sat down to write out a few lines.

Where do you start? How do you start, writing about your father in condensed form? Always before, when I wrote stories about the man, they were mostly just random threads. How I went up to see him, and how we related while I was there. What we talked about, the things he told me. You can meander down all kinds of bunny trails, writing like that. It’s stream of consciousness, almost. I knew the bio would require me to write like I wasn’t used to. Fewer words, not more. Pack every word in there, make it taut. Get it said without emotion. Well, with a minimum of emotion, at least.

I looked at a few sample bios here and there, to get an idea of the structure. Yeah, I’d have to be tight and taut with my words, alright. Say who the man was, give his birth and death dates, and tell a little about what he got done in his life. I thought about it all a good deal, just rolled it around in my mind. And I began to poke around a bit.

His birth and death dates were easy. I knew those. As I knew the date of when he married Mom. February 3, 1942. That stuff I jotted down in my draft. And I got to thinking. His accomplishments. What did he get done? What are the dates of those things? And right there is where I ran into my first issues. When people read about a person in a bio, they trust that the facts therein are true. And here, now, it was my job to make sure they were.

I poked around some more. Checked things in the Wagler book, to see where Dad was in line. The ninth of ten children. And I realized for the first time, made the connection. Dad was a ninth child. I am the ninth child in my family, the ninth in line of my father’s sons and daughters. So that makes me the ninth child of a ninth child. It was a little bit startling. Of course, it’s just coincidence. But so what if it is? I think to myself. It’s still remarkable to carve out a little bit of special lineage.

I grasped early on, probably from the time I was about ten, that I could add forty to my amount of years, and that’s how old Dad was. Well, for most of the year, anyway. My birthday is in August, his in December. He turned forty years older than I was in December. So, I knew of that little link, early on. Just by doing simple math on my own. It took me a while longer, a few more years, to figure out the second remarkable coincidence. Dad was the fifth and final son in a family of ten. I was the fifth of six sons in a family of eleven. I thought it was astonishing. I was the fifth son of a fifth son. I even got that little fact poked into the book, somewhere early on.

Doing my research for Dad’s bio, I gathered information, old and new. He was almost forty years old when I was born. He was the fifth son and the ninth child of his family. As was I. I like the connection, the link back to Dad, a link I can call my own. But I don’t buy the suggestion that the link has anything to do with why I write. Sure, I’m pretty much the only one of Dad’s sons and daughters who followed in his steps, writing wise. That doesn’t mean my brothers and sisters aren’t writers. They are, every single one of them is, if they want to be. They just don’t choose to produce on a regular basis, like this blog. They could, they got Dad’s genes just like I do. It’s their choice, not to. Which is totally fine. To each his or her own. There’s nothing to fuss about at all.

Anyway, that was a bunny trail from what I was talking about. Dad’s bio. I had the basic dates and facts, now what about his accomplishments? In a long and tremendously productive lifetime of accomplishments, which few were the most influential? Which had the most impact? I thought about it, mulled the thing over for a week or two. Just kind of looked at it from every angle that I could. Two things stand out in my mind. The founding of Family Life made David L. Wagler a household name. And his first attempt at writing a book, well, a real book, I mean, other than little pamphlets. He wrote The Mighty Whirlwind. By the mid-1970s, I think, my father’s fame reached its apex. You could go to any Amish community in the world, pretty much, and the people knew his name. I can’t say for sure, but I think even the most stringent Swartzentruber Amish knew who David Wagler was. Or a lot of them did. The Swartzys are barely considered Amish by the Old Order, so that’s saying something.

So, I emphasized Dad’s accomplishments as best I could. The Mighty Whirlwind was published in 1966, when I was five years old. I remember it. And Family Life was launched a few years later, in 1968. Dad published a few other titles, too. Simon and Susie stories. Stories Behind the News. And, of course, the little four-volume set of memoirs he wrote in the last years of his life. These things, these accomplishments, I tracked down and dated. And I listed them in his bio.

Things always come jumbling in at random, seems like. And it happened right about the time I was focusing on writing about Dad. I heard from my publisher, the people at Hachette. They were looking to get my book read aloud for the audio version. And they asked me. Do you want to read it? I thought about it a good bit. Back for the first book, I never had a chance to read it aloud for the recording. Tyndale never gave me a clue it was even happening until it had. I just got a letter in the mail one day. Congratulations. Growing Up Amish is now available on audio. I never really thought about it, until a lot later. It would have been kind of fun to speak the narrative. I think it would have been. Not saying I would have read it. But it would have been nice to be asked.

Now, Hachette was asking. I wasn’t sure what all would be involved. So, I contacted Chip, my agent. Hey. I got a chance to read Broken Roads for the audio. What should I do? Chip talked to the Hachette people and emailed me. “They want you to do it.” So there was that. At least they weren’t actively opposed. I reached out to a couple of other writer friends. What do you think? To a person, everyone told me. “Read your own book. Your fans will expect that.” If I was interested, Hachette needed a sample. So, one day, I read the Prologue aloud into my iPhone. A little over three pages. It went OK. I sent it in to Stephanie, my Hachette corporate contact. A few days later she emailed me. They liked it. Can I come to the Big City and speak the whole book? It would take about three days.

Well. I wasn’t sure. I know New York City is the center of the world for many things, but it’s nowhere close to the center of my world. I could survive very well without cities. They are loud and dirty and unsafe, you can’t even carry anything to protect yourself, thanks to vile, feckless, leftist politicians. I have been most content in small towns and in the country. But I thought about it. Yeah, I could see going to the city. Checking it out. Hachette’s offices, right in downtown Manhattan. That’s about as big time as it gets, I reckon. Plus, I thought. I don’t know if there will ever be another book. Ride this ride for as long as you can.

And about this time, Dad’s bio pushed its way to the forefront again. I had it pretty much done, with the pertinent facts. David Lengacher Wagler was born on such and such a date. He married Ida Mae Yoder in 1942. And he died on such and such a date. The books he wrote, I listed them, near as I could. It was all condensed into part of a page of writing. I tweaked and revised and rewrote. And then I sent it in, along with one of the last photos I ever took of the man, when he was still with it in the summer of 2018. And that was done. I felt relieved.

The GAMEO man seemed to like it OK. He caught one embarrassing error. Somehow, I got Dad’s Mom mixed up with Mom’s Mom. Joseph K. and Mattie, I wrote. The editor, bless his heart, had done some basic research. He asked me. “Mattie? I thought your Dad’s Mom’s name was Sarah.” And I instantly slapped my head. Yes. Of course. Joseph K. and Sarah Wagler were my father’s parents. So we got that hashed out, the editor and me. I told him to correct it, my apologies. I sent along a good photo of Dad, too. I took it that last summer when I went up to see him. A real good thoughtful shot. You don’t have to use this, I told the man. But you can, if you want to. He did.

And bouncing back now to Hachette. One day out of the blue, an email came from Stephanie, my Hachette contact. She was sending me three professional auditions from three professional readers. Just to make sure they covered all the bases. See what you think. I listened to the five-minute reading of each one and marveled. I wouldn’t be able to read that well. No way. Still. I told Stephanie. I’d like to come and read the book for the audio, if the logistics can be worked out.

She emailed back to schedule a phone call, and we connected that afternoon. I had never spoken to Stephanie before. We got along fine, just chatting, and she felt it out, how badly I wanted to come. I didn’t, really, and she instantly sensed that. And she came up with an idea. “Why don’t we get you to read a short introduction, just for the front of the book?” She asked. “It would be a part of the audio version, only.” I jumped at the lifeline. Yes. That’s perfect. I can write something and we’ll fit that in. One day, that’s all I’d need to spend in the Big City. I sagged with relief. I have to say, on the journey of this book, things have just kind of worked themselves out, so far, somehow. I stay grateful.

And so it now stands. Next Tuesday, I will embark on a great adventure into the Big City. That vast and breathing “concrete jungle” Thomas Wolfe often talked about. I figured it would be wise to have someone go with me who knew the lay of the land a little better. I ended up asking my ex-brother-in-law, Paul Yutzy. A good old country boy, Paul is equally at home in the largest city. He’s been to the Big Apple lots of times. He knows the place. He’s fearless. I don’t figure I could ask for a better traveling companion through unfamiliar terrain.

Come Tuesday, we will take up our traveling staffs, me and Paul. (Like Willie sings, We received our education, In the cities of the nation, me and Paul.) I’m leaving the logistics completely up to him. If he wants to go in by train, I’ll get the tickets. If he decides to drive in, I’ll pay for fuel and parking. I think Hachette will pay a little something for my time. Whatever. I’ll take what I can get. What I can’t get, I won’t sweat. The door to this road may never open to me again. Just keep walking, I tell myself. Tell of your journey as your father told of his before you. Keep walking.

The broken road of the second book rolls on.

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Winterset…

Spring, summer, and fall fill us with hope;

winter alone reminds us of the human condition.

—Mignon McLaughlin

_____________________

I remember after we moved to Bloomfield, way back when I was a young teenager, a lot of years ago. We moved in October. I can’t say it was that next spring for sure, but it probably was. Dad was always nosing around, always looking for any little opportunity to make a few bucks. And somehow, he found a hybrid seed corn company up in northern Iowa, a small regional enterprise. He signed up as a dealer. I can’t remember that he ever did such a thing before, being a seed corn dealer. He never did much with it, maybe moved a few dozen bags of seed each season. Plus, what he planted himself. He got a discount, of course, as you would. The thing I that remains firm in my mind about that little seed corn company was its name, from a town of the same name. Winterset.

I’ve wondered, over the years. What kind of bleak and barren snow-swept landscape could ever be so terrible that its inhabitants would call it Winterset? Think of it like sunset. A place where winter sets in and stays a while. What kind of people would even live in such a desolate land? Did the sun ever shine there? Was there summer in the land of Winterset? The town’s most famous son was the actor, John Wayne. He was born there. He didn’t stick around long, though. Which I figure is totally understandable.

The whole Winterset thing came to me in the last few weeks as I was brooding and getting a little mopey about that very thing. It’s winter. We’re smack dab in the middle of that long and dreary stretch of time that comes around every year. Winter. It always comes slinking in. And once it starts, it’s pretty much endless. January seemed about three months long. Then the first week of February then came limping through the door. And here we are, and that’s how it is.

Except for the incessant dreariness of it, I can’t complain much about the winter, so far. I always want to see at least one major snow storm, a storm where things shut down and you slowly creep home from work early along the icy roads. It’s always exciting and fun that way. Once. But this year, so far, at least here in Lancaster County, it’s been zilch. Nada. The ground barely got covered, a few times. It’s rained a lot. And it kind of grinds down on the heaviness of it all, the fact that we can’t even get a respectable snow storm. Almost, one could get cranky.

I can’t remember that I got this down for a few years. In January, I mean. This year, there’s one factor I can think of that would cause that tautness inside, like it is. The book. I’m done. And there’s not much to do now but wait. Back to that a little later. I got a few bunny trails to go down, first.

Last week, the powers that be marked the event, like they do every year. This time, I took a little more notice for some reason. The Challenger disaster. It happened thirty-four years ago, in 1986. You always see the headlines. This year, I saw them, and a lot of memories came washing back.

I remember quite clearly when it happened. It was a bitingly clear Tuesday winter morning. On Tuesdays, in winter, I went to town. Drove the Stud up to West Grove and tied him in Henry Egbert’s old ramshackle barn. Caught a ride to town with the coffee loafers, or stood beside the road and caught a ride with my thumb. There, I hung out at the Bloomfield Sale Barn with my buddies. Bought a lamb or a calf now and then. And that morning, I was sitting there in Chuck’s Café with the regulars, swapping small talk and tall tales. Sipping strong black coffee. And all of a sudden, Chuck came bustling through the front door of the little café. He had been working in his shop, where he had a radio turned on. He was excited, you could tell.

“Turn on the TV, turn on the TV,” his voice was quietly urgent. “The space shuttle just blew up.” I can’t remember that I had even thought of the space shuttle that particular morning. We had read all about it in the paper, about the school teacher who was going on this trip. I have remembered her name through all the years since. Christa McAuliffe. It was a big symbolic deal, her inclusion with the crew. The news of it even reached the Amish world I was in. She was going to come back and tell her classes all about it, and probably talk on TV. America was excited about it.

“Turn on the TV,” Chuck repeated. Mrs. C stepped back into her little kitchen, where she had a small black and white television stuck up in the corner. She turned it on, and we all crowded around, watching, mesmerized. I remember the great clouds of smoke and debris that littered the skies, where the Challenger had blown up. I forget which TV channel it was. The announcers spoke in hushed, shocked tones. We stood around, absorbing, silent.

And suddenly, the screen switched to the White House. And there stood president Reagan, all somber in his suit. His speechwriters had cobbled together a brief statement. I don’t remember much of what he said, except when he wound down. The astronauts, he proclaimed, had reached out and touched the face of God. Chillingly beautiful rhetoric, that was. And that’s all it was, rhetoric to cover the brutal and horrifying fact that the bodies of the crew had been blown to a thousand smithereens. You might as well say they touched the face of God, because in another dimension, perhaps they had.

And I thought about it this year, more than usual, looking back. The year was 1986, when it happened. Right that moment, my life and my mind were in tremendous turmoil. That spring, I would make one of my final, frantic flights from Bloomfield, Iowa. Fleeing the world I had figured to settle in. It had not worked. There was no way it ever could have. From today, I can see that and say that. It all just was what it was. It can never be told any other way.

Twenty years ago, Ellen and I got married. And we moved into this old brick house I still live in. I’ve lived here ever since. Sometime in that first year, we got a new roof installed. Shingles. Twenty-year shingles. And this year, it’s getting right at twenty years. The shingles are getting a little worn and thin.

I mentioned something to Levi, my Amish contractor friend at work. We go way back, Levi and me. I’ve mentioned him a few times before, and he’s in the book on page 203. I had told him about it, but I never thought to show him until one day a few weeks ago. He stopped in for a quote. We were just chilling, there at my desk after we got the quote done. Chatting a bit before he rushed out the door. And I thought of it for the first time. Hey, do you want to read about yourself in my book? I showed him the galley copy, opened to the right page. Levi took the book and stood there reading. A smile crept onto his face. Great, I thought. At least he’s smiling about it. He seemed mildly pleased. I guess it’s not every day you get to read about yourself in a book.

Anyway, I mentioned it to him, about my roof, back last fall already. Next year (which is now) I need a new metal roof on my house. I need you to get me a labor quote. I’ll get the metal, myself. I can get a discount. I need the labor. Levi promised he would come around to measure up the house sometime before spring came.

Well. Last Saturday, I was hanging out with some of my Amish friends, drinking strong black coffee. My phone rang abruptly. I glanced at the screen. Levi. I walked outside to answer. It’s rude, to talk on your phone when you’re with people. Hello, I said. Ira here. And Levi’s voice crackled. “What are you doing this morning?” he asked, somewhat vaguely. Oh, just hanging with friends, I said. What are you up to? Are you coming around to measure my house? He was. And he did. He and his driver showed up about an hour later, after I had run my errands. They stacked a ladder against my porch, then another ladder from the porch roof to the house roof. The driver got up and shouted out numbers as Levi took notes on a large yellow pad.

I chatted with my friend. He’s figuring to get to my house in March sometime. Providing the weather is good, of course. I will buy all the materials at Graber, where I work. Levi will not remove the one layer of 20-year-old shingles. He’ll leave them right where they are. Install lathe over the shingles, spaced at 2 feet on center. Then attach the metal roofing to that. My house roof isn’t that big, but it has lots of hips and a valley or two. And a couple of dormers, too, sticking out. It’s pretty broken up. I told Levi. I’m thinking Shiny Black metal will go well with the red bricks. He agreed wholeheartedly. “Yes. That will go well, the color of it. It’s going to look good.” And that’s how we left it. And now I wait. Until March.

OK. Back now to the book. I remember nine years ago, about this time. The Tyndale people had told me. After the book’s done, and you’re waiting for it to get published, that’s called the waiting game. Or the death march. It’s when most authors go a little bit wacky. At that time, I half shrugged it off. Hey. I was at a place few people ever see. I’d be OK.

Well, I wasn’t, exactly. From the final edits to publication is usually a matter of some months. Five or six. I came very close to cracking up, waiting for the book’s release. The mind wanders, after you produce intensely for a year or so, then just stop cold. After you get through a long old slog, and suddenly you are turned out to pasture. Hurry up and wait, that’s how it felt, back then. The days edged by slowly, oh, so slowly. I fretted and drank. And drank some more. Thank God for the whiskey, I thought to myself.

This time, there is no whiskey. And I’m pretty much in the middle of that la-la land of meaninglessness and nothingness. Just kind of shifting along. May. That’s still out there a good ways. Part of me is stretched into intense tautness. And part of me is as relaxed as, well, as I could hope to be in a place like this. It’s a bit strange, I will say.

Virginia made sure I got my share of galley hard copies of the book. It was great, to hold in my hands for the first time. And I sent some here and there, mostly to my mover-and-shaker friends. The ones who will make some noise. I try to tell my friends who get a copy. This is not the first book. That was then. This is now. This book is its own story. Growing Up Amish was the lost and searching youth, on a hard and turbulent road. That voice was young, inexperienced, impulsive, brash. This book, this is me, talking today. From where I am today. It’s a different voice. More mature. Lots of it is a hard and turbulent road, too, but not as a youth. Broken Roads picks up where the last book left off. And it brings the journey along, all the way to the death and burial of my father.

Anyway, I mailed out a few dozen galley copies. A copy that’s close to done, but still needs some editing. There are mistakes, here and there, that you’ll find. One friend who got a book was my old editor from Tyndale. Susan Taylor, the lady who did the actual editing of my first book. She’s the only one from my old crew that I’m still in contact with today. I reached out to her. Hey, do you want a copy? She did. It was purely out of respect, that I sent her one. And some old memories of another time.

I guess Hachette is sending out galley copies to reviewers, too. That’s what Tyndale did back then, I remember. And strangely enough, a few early reviews have sprouted on Amazon. Mostly good. One review struck me, though, just the wording and detail of it.

“Ira Wagler writes in an unusual way. I wonder if it’s a reflection of his Amish childhood. It’s very understated when it comes to emotion, and sometimes the small details overwhelmed the larger themes. For example, he’ll tell about what chain hotel he stayed at or where he got his coffee, and this is stated and takes up almost as much writing as the events that are the theme of the book—how the old age and eventual death of his parents affected him, as a man who had left their lifestyle behind.

In this style, Wagler tells of his struggles with issues many of us face—the collapse of a marriage, fighting addiction, finding a community to support your faith, forgiving others. While reading, I wished often he would be more direct and clear with his narrative, but when looking back at my reading, I realized he writes much like we experience life, in a flurry of details with the big issues being there among the everyday.”

Umm. Yeah. I thought that’s what writing is. A flurry of details. Just tell the story. Don’t worry about a message. Some will get one thing, some another thing, and some will glean nothing at all. I wasn’t in the least offended by this reviewer. She gave the book four stars. I’ll take it.

And finally. The other day, a small-time builder walked in at work to pick up some trim. He’s probably about my age, I’ve known him for years. As I was writing up his invoice, he asked, all chatty. “Got any more books coming?” You don’t usually have to ask me that question twice. I beamed. Yep, as a matter of fact, I do, I said. It’s coming out in May. I walked back to my desk and picked up a galley copy of Broken Roads and showed it to him. He looked interested. “I bought your first book,” he said. “I gave it to a friend and never saw it again.” I nodded, but didn’t ask if he’d read it. Just in case he hadn’t.

I told him a little bit about the new book. It’s about my parents and their passing. My marriage blowing up. And so forth. He looked at me shyly. And he stammered a little, telling me. He and his wife had some major issues lately, after 30 years of marriage and raising a family. He wasn’t real comfortable talking about it, I could see. I told him. My marriage didn’t make it anywhere close to that long. Seven years. We couldn’t make it past the seven-year itch. If you guys hung in there for 30 years, I’d say it’s worth fighting for.

He told me a little bit about it. They are getting counseling and going to church. I applauded. Great. That’s great. Fight, fight, fight for it. And then I said something I don’t say often, because it usually just sounds trite, and people often spout the words without meaning them. I’m going to pray for you, I said. Both of you. I meant it. His stubbled face broke into a smile. “I appreciate that,” he said quietly. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

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My Father’s Passing; One Year Out…

We are the sons of our father, and we shall follow the print of his foot forever.

—Thomas Wolfe

________________

It came sliding in kind of sideways, I thought. I wasn’t particularly looking for it when December came. And it came rolling in like a flood, the memories and the loss. I was surprised by the intensity. Then again, there is no road map for such things. You absorb it all as it comes. Or try to. The trigger that set off the charge in my head: A little over one year ago, we put my father in the ground.

It was good, the first year without my Dad. And I don’t want to hang on in an unhealthy way. I mean, the man was ninety-seven when he passed. He lived a full life. What he did, he did with all his might. And he sent a few tremors through the foundations of his world, too. He was such a man as that. But, in the first anniversary of his passing, the memories came roaring in pretty strong. One year out, I think, it’s OK to remember a bit. After that, more randomly. But there’s something about a year. Stop. Look back. Reflect. Write.

The memories were powerful and intense, when they came knocking on the door. It’s hit me, since Dad left. I get a little better grasp of how human he was. He was flawed, sure, and he made a splash with those flaws as he made a splash with just about everything around him in his life. Whatever he did, it made noise. That’s the kind of man he was. So his flaws are a given, right up front. Yep, there are plenty of bad things that can be recalled and relived. If that’s what you want. But still. Like I’ve said before, and like I wrote in the book. He was so much more than the sum of his flaws.

He had a real gruff exterior, but he was kind. I’m sure it was all a bit overwhelming at times, to be the father of eleven children. That’s a brood. A crowd. All flesh of his flesh, bone of his bone. There wasn’t a lot of individual attention in him for any of us, but he made sure we all got our turns when they came. When it was my turn to go along with him to town, when it was my turn to do this or that, he generally made sure some semblance of order was followed. And I’ve never really thought about it much. It’s not a question he would even have considered. But did he enjoy his children? Were we special to him, any of us? Or all of us? He came from a place where such things were hardly considered, let alone asked right out in the open. I think the question is fair, though. It’s fair for any child to ask of his father. Do/Did you enjoy your children? If so, how? If not, why not?

I don’t know if Dad did. And now, I can’t ask him. I can only speak of how he treated us. And when I look at that, I got no call to complain. I’m talking for the younger children. Maybe the older ones had it harder, as they often do. The first journeys are tougher. I remember hearing this and hearing that, from the older children. Hard things, a lot of it. Their stories are legitimate, and their stories are their own.

For us younger ones, though, he often heard us when we begged for things. Our family wasn’t rich, by any standard. Compared to a third world existence, we were wealthy, of course. But not by any other. Cash flow was tight, usually. Dad nipped and tucked around and bought ripe, blackening bananas by the bushel to feed his ravenous clan. Mom always had a large, and I mean large, garden. Some of my very earliest memories, when I was probably three, come from being in the garden with Mom. “Helping” her, more of a bother than I was worth, I’m sure. She would never let on, though. That’s how we were taught to work. Starting right there in the garden, getting underfoot, but lovingly taught. We were never, never hungry, except in the ordinary course of things. After a hard day’s work, before a meal. But we were never without food. Never. We never felt that we were poor, either.

I think of it now. Dad often got us things, simply because we asked. When I was twelve, I wanted a new rifle. We were never afraid to make suggestions to Dad. So I’m sure I told him more than a few times. I’d like a rifle. He never made much noise, but one Tuesday evening he came home from the sale barn and town with an oblong cardboard box. We peered at it curiously. “It’s for Ira,” Dad said. I pried it open eagerly. A brand-new Mossberg single shot .22 rifle, that’s what was in that box. I think I hugged it close to me all that first night. I can still see and smell the varnished wooden stock, the shiny black barrel and the oiled bolt. You pulled the bolt back and inserted one shell. Long rifle, usually. That gun and I went on many a great adventure, lurking in the pasture fields and meadows, stalking groundhogs and crows. And shooting sparrows, too. It wasn’t really my gun, but I had more of a claim to it than any of my brothers. Dad didn’t have to buy that thing. But he did. I don’t know where it ever got to. I’d give something to hold that old gun one more time.

It’s all random anecdotes, the memories that I have of Dad’s interactions with his young children. His relationship to us was distant, I guess because he was old school. He provided for us. What more could there be? When I was probably ten or so, he bought us a pony. A dark brown round little tub we named Cricket. I remember he bought the pony at the public auction of Ale and Mandy Hochstetler, when they sold their stuff and moved out of Aylmer. Ale (Eli) and Mandy had moved in from Ohio somewhere, Millersburg, I think, some years before. Mom and Mandy were best friends. We children often played together when we were little. Anyway, the Hochstetlers sold their farm and had a sale and moved out at about the time the mini exodus of other families was leaving, too. In the early 1970s.

I’ve wondered, since then, now and then. What were the tremors that swept through Aylmer, when so many people left over such a short period of time? How did events shift like they did, and how did they settle like they did? I guess it was just a lot of individual people making a lot of individual choices. I don’t know. I was too small to take much notice of such things, then, except I was sad when my friends moved away. I saw that a few times before I was twelve. I did notice, though, when Dad brought home a pony. It was a completely unexpected thing. All the children were delighted.

Cricket was the perfect pony for young children. Fat, slow, lazy, completely, and I mean completely safe, and quite smart. My sister Rhoda, of course, connected with Cricket like she connected with all animals. She soon had Cricket performing all manner of tricks, and she stood on the pony’s back, barefoot, at it went galloping along the farm fields and lanes. When Mom got wind that Rhoda was standing on the pony’s back like that, she immediately enlisted Dad to sternly forbid such a thing. I think Rhoda stopped, mostly, except for the occasional infraction when no one was looking. She was a natural. You can’t quench a natural from doing what she’s going to do.

Cricket was wickedly smart. There were several close shaves when the pony broke his way into a feed bin and almost foundered. He also finagled the pasture gate open now and then, and got out. Early one morning, Cricket nosed the gate open, meandered down the road a ways, then bolted out of the darkness, right in front of an oncoming car. Our beloved pony was instantly killed. I remember waking up at 3 AM to flashing police lights outside. The next morning, it seemed like a bad dream. It wasn’t. The children were very sad. And it wasn’t a sorrow that faded lightly. We got over it in time, as children do. There never was another pony like Cricket. But we always had a few riding horses around, there in Aylmer and later in Bloomfield.

And what about today? What would Dad say today? At first, I thought and wrote mostly about how it was when we were little. And then it hit, after I thought I was done, pretty much, with this little story. What about when we were adults, all around? I think Dad enjoyed all his children at the end, when we came to see him. I know he always asked. What’s going on in your life? He asked my brothers, businessmen all, about how their sales were going. And he talked to me, not about business, I never owned any business. He talked to me about writing.

Before the book even came along, he read my blogs. He talked about what he had read, asked how it went for me. The process, what it means to write. It was super special, all of it was, when it came to me and him chatting about something we both loved. I knew I was talking to a master. I wanted to do what he did, and do it better. The thing was, he was genuinely interested, when he asked. He talked from his heart, when he talked about writing. And for an old man who came from where Dad came from, well, it’s usually pretty tough to talk from the heart about anything.

The day slipped up on me, one year out. Christmas. Last year, things were heavy in the air. Last year, I was packing up to head up to where Dad was lying in a coma. This year, not much was going on. Christmas Day came and went. And then the next day dawned. And the emotions came rolling in strong. I thought about it all day as the minutes passed, then the hours. Now I’m heading out and up to Aylmer. Now I’m reaching the border. Now I’m approaching Aylmer, the place where Dad was dying. Now I’m crossing myself. Now I’m there.

I always marvel when I look back. At how it went, at how Dad settled down and quietly passed away a mere few hours after I got there. I’ve always thought. I think he was waiting for one of his sons to get there to tell him it’s OK to leave. I just happened to be the son that came. It could have been any of the others, I feel. And one year out, I thought about these things from the perspective of that time. A year. When you’ve had a little time to absorb, to feel, and to grieve. To let go of all the pain and loss of so many barren and desolate years, and to hang on to the good things that came toward the end.

And I think of a thing I didn’t know, driving up there. This past summer, after the first draft of my book got done, I chatted with my editor, Virginia. She wanted me to get some copies to all my siblings, so they could check out my story for accuracy. Just to make sure there were no glaring errors or omissions. There were no hard copies at that time, so that Sunday after church I took a draft over to Staples and told the nice lady I needed ten copies. That evening, I stopped and picked them up, all nicely spiral bound. The first hard version of my book, that right there was. It was something, to feel and hold. The next day, I mass-mailed copies to my brothers and sisters. There is a chapter in the book about Mom, how she sank and how she died. How we buried her. After he read the book, my brother Jesse gave me his feedback and reflections. He told me a story of what had happened as Mom’s last hour was fast approaching. It was a detail I had not heard before.

They knew the end was imminent, that night. As the hours slowly passed, they stood around her bedside. No one dies alone in the Amish culture, not if it can be helped. As dawn approached, they sang to her, as we later sang to Dad in his last moments. Jesse told me how it went, as the morning hour came. At some point in there, Dad came stumping in to speak to Mom. He could not walk that well. They gave him room. He went right up to the head of the bed. I imagine that he reached down and gently stroked her tired and wasted face. And Jesse told me. “He spoke tenderly to her.” I don’t know if they gave him space, so they couldn’t hear his words. Or if they stood around close as Dad spoke. But something about that detail, that frozen instant in time, something about it hit me hard. Just seeing that scene in my mind. It hit me hard.

Death brings out what’s real in us, I think. And here stood a 93-year-old man, speaking tenderly to his 90-year-old wife as she was fast approaching that great dark river. She was crossing over. She was leaving him after they had been together for seventy-three years. There would be no return. He had to let her go. And he spoke tenderly to her, the man who could find few tender words to speak in life to anyone. In that moment, though, he could walk that broken road. And he did.

It is a powerful and moving thing to me. To know that.

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Incident on Romans Road…

He roared like a lion and cooed like a dove.

Hellfire and brimstone. Come to Jesus.

–Ira Wagler: Broken Roads

_________________________

It was a nippy December day, last week. Outside, the cold winds whipped and swirled. Winter. It’s here, at the door. At work, we were a little short-handed. Deer season does that. Customers trickled in and out. Builders. A young couple looking for metal roofing. And then the bell rang again, as the front door opened. I got up from my desk to meet the man who walked in. A small-time contractor. English guy. I greeted him. It’s been a while. He walked up to the counter where I stood.

He needed some metal roofing delivered to his job site the next day, he told me as we talked. That’s doable, I said. How much and what color? And we got down to figuring out what he needed. That’s what I do. I knew the guy fairly well. He’d bought from me off and on for a few years. We chatted as I wrote up his order, until he mentioned, almost offhand like. He had been diagnosed recently with cancer. The bad kind. It was riddled all through his body. And he told me. He had less than six months to live.

Well, what do you do with that, when someone tells you such a thing? The man always was a salty talker, and he was talking salty that day. Every other word was a curse. Or it sure seemed like it. I flinched a little, not accustomed to or comfortable with such words. Still. I looked at him. No one is promised any kind of tomorrow. And it flashed through my mind. Here was a dead man walking, basically. The sword was hanging, suspended right over his head by the thinnest of threads. I mean, it’s hanging over us all. But he had a time frame. Six months or less. It was hard to grasp, at that moment. What do you say, what can you say?

He kept talking and swearing, telling me the story of how he had found out about the cancer. Only around a month ago, it was. And it came to my mind as I listened to him talk. What’s he gonna do, when death comes calling? Is he ready? I mean, no one is ready, as in eager to leave. But ready, spiritually, when it’s time to go. I try not to judge such things. I thought. Should I say something? Should I tell him about Jesus? It’s not like he never had the chance to hear about the gospel. It’s all around you, here in this area. At every corner, there is a church. That’s not far from the truth. Here, in Lancaster County, you can’t help but get exposed to the message in your daily walk through life. But what if he hadn’t been? What then?

I come from the Amish. The quiet in the land. They don’t verbalize their faith much, but hold it in their hearts with few words. I never got over that shyness when I left. Never went on the mission field, never went knocking door to door. Never handed out religious tracts on any street corner anywhere. I’ve never proclaimed the message of the gospel, other than maybe in my writings and in my life. Live your faith, is where I come from. Anyone can claim anything. It takes the real thing to live it. That’s where it really counts.

It’s not like that, in a lot of places. Some plain groups, like the Beachy Amish and certain Plain Mennonites, take the whole “witnessing” thing pretty seriously. I remember very well the Plain Mennonite man who stopped by at work one Saturday, years ago. I wrote a blog about him, he made such an impression on me. Not a positive impression, either, I will say. That man was mired in a bog of legalism, and he had no idea. One of the most important requirements of his church was that you had to clean up before you could join. He fancied himself a “watchman at the gate.” Watchmen like that, at least the ones of old, operated under a rather severe rule. If they failed to warn, the blood of those they failed was on their hands. It’s an awful burden of guilt and works, that whole thing is. You think about the freedom of the gospel, what it really is, and how pointless it is to get tangled up in all that drama. It makes me about half crazy to see people bogged down so hopelessly in bondage like that.

And yes, they are in bondage. The bondage of the law. Only the true gospel will ever make those people free.

Moving along, from that. Then there are the Bob Jones types, too. I saw them up close and personal in the two years I attended that school. The Preacher Boys. Near as I could tell, they believe that every person is called to be talking about Jesus, pretty much all the time, every day. It was part of their curriculum, for the Preacher Boys to get so many hours logged in every week, going door to door, confronting total strangers and force-feeding them the beautiful gospel of Jesus. I mean, they went looking for it, the chance to talk about salvation to the lost. And I’m sure they did some good, here and there, now and then. I’m sure some people were led to the Lord through such annoyances as the Preacher Boys going knocking on doors and confronting people with all kinds of scary talk of hell. They used fear, the Preacher Boys did, as a regular tool of persuasion. I looked at it going on around me and wasn’t impressed. And I never participated or emulated. Never.

They had their formulas, to get to where they wanted to go. I heard their talk, laughed at their humor, and generally accepted the Preacher Boys I got to know. Nice enough guys, they had their little inside jokes, spoke a language all their own. And one of their formulas, I heard the name different times, spoken always in hushed tones of respect. Romans Road. I never asked much, but I just figured Romans Road must be a map of the letter Paul wrote to the Romans. A map with step by step instructions on how to get sinners saved. That’s what I figured Romans Road was.

The Preacher Boys would sure have jumped at the chance to ask this man all about whether he knows for sure where he’s going after he dies. Heaven? Or the awful long eternal flaming torment of hell? Where teeth will chatter because of the heat. They would have told me and told me hard. Now. Here’s your chance to tell a lost soul about Jesus. He’ll listen. He’s dying. He’ll be vulnerable. Go for it. Tell him, tell him. Tell him, now.

I heard their voices in my head. And I didn’t discount what they said, necessarily. Because there was another whisper of a voice, out there on the edge of things, persistent in its strength. A voice I have heard consistently for ten years, now. And that was Pastor Mark Potter, preaching the gospel at Chestnut Church. A man with a message on a mission, Pastor Mark was, when he became the leader of the little flock there at Chestnut. I remember that he started in slow with his Reformed teachings. Gave a little taste, way at first. Led us along like a shepherd leads his sheep. After our appetites had been properly whetted, the man swung the hammer hard. He’s been swinging hard ever since.

All of Pastor Mark’s preaching points to Jesus. And Jesus is Love. So all the pastor talks about, pretty much, is love. Love others as Christ has loved you. It all gets a lot clearer, when you hear someone talking about it like he does. You hear that stuff week in and week out, and you listen and learn. Or you don’t. You grow, or you don’t. I don’t know. I think the stuff just permeates in you, when you’re not even quite aware what’s going on. That’s how it went for me, anyway.

Eventually, the realization sank in. It was true, as Pastor Mark claimed. The Great God of the universe wants to have a relationship with me. I mean, you always hear that said. But hearing it and actually realizing it are two different things. And when it gets told like Pastor Mark speaks it, you respond in awe and gratitude and reverence. Or I did. Seemed like the right thing and still does.

And I looked at the man standing before me, across the counter. Looked at him as he swore and used the Lord’s name in vain in a jagged string of profanities. I looked at him, a common man in shabby work clothes, a man who had just told me he didn’t have long to live. Or love. He didn’t have long to do that, either. And I could hear Pastor Mark asking. “How can you best love such a person as that? You owe him nothing. Except love. You owe him that, because of how you have been loved.” That’s what I heard in my head, standing right there on that spot. “You owe him love.”

But what does that look like? What is love? I wasn’t sure. I can’t save anyone. It’s not my job to. It’s God’s. Salvation belongs to Him alone, to do with as He sees fit. But still. It is my job to love. This is the kind of thing that jumbled in my head. Not necessarily that logical or in that order. I knew from having heard Pastor Mark proclaim a certain truth a hundred times through the years. The church is a hospital, not a country club. Care for the wounded, the sick, the broken. That’s what we’re called to do. That’s what Jesus did.

I looked at the man, talking to me, waving his hands as he spoke. And I asked him gently, when the question could be worked in. How does it feel? Are you afraid?

He swore again. His face looked haggard and tired. “I’m in bleeping pain, here,” he said. “Of course, I’m scared.” I nodded. I hear that, I said. We went back to filling out his order. And still, I could not shake it. I asked him. Are you at peace with God? Do you have anyone you can talk to?

He spoke a string of salty words and nodded. “Yeah, I got my priest,” he said. “I trust him. He’s a good man.” That’s good, I said. You gotta have someone you can talk to.

And we finished his order, then. I didn’t know quite what to say. I offered him my hand as he turned to leave. He shook it. I wish you the best, I said. Now, and later. He nodded. “I may see you again,” he said. “And I may not.”

He walked out. I watched him go and felt for him. Sometimes life is hard, like that.

*************************************************************

Well, that came whooshing in. The end of one more year, a year like no other. I guess every year is unique in its own way, in some way. And now, 2019 stumbles to a close. There were things that went on, and there were things that went on. Some were remarkable, and some were not.

Amish wedding season came rolling along, like it always does after Big Church in the fall. Usually it gets here in the last part of October, goes full swing during the whole month of November, then trickles to a stop sometime in December. This year the Roasht harvest was particularly bountiful. I always pester a handful of Amish builders there at work. And a few other social Amish friends. It’s an annual quest I take seriously and pursue with great vigor. Bring me some Roasht. Almost every year, I get a good feast or two. This year, I think I got more than half a dozen servings. I will concede, like I have before. When it comes to delicious home-cooked food, the Lancaster County blue bloods got the rest of the Amish world beat. Roasht takes the prize, as it will every time.

As Thanksgiving approached a few weeks ago, the memory came knocking like it always does. Seems like I don’t always quite remember the exact date. And as the years slide by, the whole incident recedes ever more distant into the fog of the past. Four years ago, back in 2015, in the week leading up to that holiday, I was flat on my back in intensive care at Lancaster General. From complications from A-fib that degenerated into congestive heart failure. It was as close as I ever came to leaving. I looked over to the other side. Can’t say I saw much, but I looked over.

Each year, as that time rolls around, I stop and reflect on the fact that life is a beautiful thing. Every day, every moment, is simply a gift. I’m trying more to live it like that.

The most notable thing that happened this year, in a year of many notable things, was the book. It got finished. A miracle, really. I can’t tell you how stuck I was. And how discouraged. My wheels were sunk in the mud all the way down to the axle. It was not a good place to be. And then Dad got sick, about this time a year ago. Before Christmas. I went up the day after, arriving a few hours before the man took his leave. We buried him in solemn ceremony. The writing came roaring out after I got back home.

This was the first year without Dad. We were ready for it, we thought. Still. When your parents are both gone, what does that make you? I remember years ago, what my friend Alan Stanley told me. One of my closest friends, he passed away after complications from a nonmalignant brain tumor. I met Alan in the early 90s, when he was known as Ralph. We hung out a lot together. Alan came from a poor area in rural Ohio. His father had passed away years before. I met his Mom a few times when she came around to visit.

At some point, then, the mother got sick out there in Ohio. Alan kept me updated as she slowly sank, then died. The next time I saw him, I told him. Sorry about your loss. I guess it wasn’t unexpected. Alan looked at me. Then he spoke half dramatically, as only he could. “You know what I am, Ira? I’m an orphan.” His statement startled me a little bit, but I thought about it. It was true. We all get to be orphans after our parents pass on. So that’s what I am, since Dad left. An orphan. Lost and alone and cold and hungry and tired and destitute on the streets. That’s how we think of orphans. It’s not like that for me, as it isn’t for most of us. I’m comfortable being parentless.

So, anyway, looking out ahead. I’m sure the new year will bring surprises. They always do. I am quietly optimistic and excited. The journey beckons over broken roads. I am ready to move forward, to walk the path that will rise up. The Lord knows what’s coming. I don’t. I’m good with that, though.

It’s a different journey, from the first book. Different terrain, different people. I don’t guess it could be any other way. Nor would I wish it to be. I raise my hand and lift my glass (of water, not whiskey) in salute.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my readers.

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