Ira Wagler's Blog, page 10

The Great Moonshine Plot…

Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart.

—Confucius

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I don’t exactly consider myself a connoisseur. But I like to have a jar of moonshine around, now and then. I’m fascinated by the history of the drink. Farmers, getting the best possible price for their corn. And I’m especially respectful of the drink, because it’s illegal. That makes any moonshine worth drinking, all on its own, that little fact right there. The guys who make it are thumbing their noses at the evil, invasive nanny state. Yeah, it’s against your laws. But I’ll make it, and I’ll sell it anyway. Do what you can to stop me. You gotta respect a man who does that.

Like I said, I’m no expert. I’ve got a contact, here and there, where I can pick up a jar now and then. The clear stuff, usually. And about 95% of clear moonshine leaves you gasping, when you take a shot. And it tastes like kerosene, most times. I’ve had only one jar, ever, that came out of West Virginia, that didn’t make you gasp. That stuff was smooth as silk, with no aftertaste whatsoever. I shared it joyfully with my friends. I drink alone, because I drink when I write. But I never drink moonshine alone. That stuff’s made to be shared. And it’s made so you only take one shot. Much more than that, and you’ll soon be sitting on your butt, your head spinning.

The seeds of this little tale go back, oh, I’d say six weeks or so. I got a call at work from a redneck builder down south in Maryland. (To me, “redneck” is a fond term.) The guy’s been buying metal roofing from me for years. And we’ve developed a real friendship. Anyway, that day he was on the road. He wanted to place an order for metal roofing for a house, a job he’d just landed. And he told me all the lengths, all the trim and accessories he needed. I’ll order the metal in, I told him as we were wrapping up. And I’ll put you on for delivery for next Thursday. “That’ll work,” he said. “But I’m heading out of town. So call me the day before you deliver, just to make sure I’m ready for the stuff.” I’ll do that, I said. And then I asked him. Out of town? Where are you heading?

“I’m goin’ to Tennessee,” he told me. “And I figure to be back next Tuesday. That’s why I want you to call, just to make sure I’m ready for the metal.” I locked in. Tennessee? I asked him. Well, you know what you can bring me. I’ll sure take a jar of ‘shine from down there, if you can find a still. He rolled right with it. “That’s what I’m plannin’ to do. I figured I’d bring you a jar.” Hey, thanks, I said. I’ll look forward to it.

I called him, the next week, on Wednesday. The day before his delivery was scheduled. Yes, he was back. And yes, bring the load. He added a few more small items he’d thought of. All right, we’ll be out there first thing, I told him. And then I asked him. Did you get me some ‘shine? “Yup,” he said. “I got the clear, and I got the Apple Pie. Which do you want?” I’d rather have the clear, I said. I’m suspicious of Apple Pie. I got a few jars of that once, and it slushed up on me, when I put it in the freezer. That’s the way you test it, to see if it’s real ‘shine. It better stay all liquid, when you put it in the freezer.

“OK,” he said. “I got a jar of clear for you. Shall I send it back with the driver?” Nah, I said. I don’t want any Graber trucks stopped for running ‘shine. Just drop it off, sometime when you’re around. I’ll pay you for it. “I will,” he said. “And I don’t want paid for it. I want a signed copy of your book.” I’ll be happy to trade, that way, I said. But I’ll sure be getting the best deal, of the two of us. I mean, my book ain’t worth what you paid for that ‘shine. “I don’t care,” he said. “I just want a signed copy of your book. And I’ll trade, straight across.” Sounds good to me, I said. I’ll look for you, one of these days.

And he walked in, a couple of Fridays back. I saw him coming. He was carrying a little brown paper bag. I got up to greet him, and we stood there and talked across the counter. You’ll all dressed up, man, I said. Pretty slicked up. What’s up with that? “Yeah, today’s my birthday,” he said. “So I’m going out to celebrate a bit.” We chatted a bit more. And then I asked him. I see your bag. Did you bring my moonshine?

“Yup,” he said, handing it over. I opened the bag. Inside was a little plastic bag, wrapped around a cold jar. “I’ve kept it in the freezer,” he told me. I took the jar out. Unscrewed the lid. Sure smelled like the real stuff. We might as well have a taste, I said. I handed him the jar. You go first, you brought it here for me. He took it from my hands, and took a sip. Then he solemnly handed it back to me. I took a sip. We had moonshine communion, right there. That’s pretty good stuff, I said. Very smooth. Don’t taste like kerosene at all. “I told you it was good,” he said. He seemed pretty proud of his contacts, down in Tennessee.

He likes to stand and talk a while when he comes, so we stood and talked about things. Then I reached under my desk and got out a copy of my book. I opened the front cover, and signed the book over to my friend. “You know, I’m gonna try to get it read,” he said, as he took it from me. “I always fall asleep when I sit down to read something. Even when it’s a hunting magazine, something I’m interested in. I just fall asleep. But I’m sure gonna try hard to get this read.” Don’t worry about it, if you don’t, I told him. I never ask anyone if they’ve read it, after I give them a copy. I figure if they want to tell me they did, that’s fine. But I don’t ask. I won’t ask you, either.

He picked up a few tubes of caulk for that roofing job, then. Thanks again for the ‘shine, I said. We shook hands, and he walked out. A real good guy, right there, I told Andrew. Look. He brought me some ‘shine from Tennessee, for a copy of my book. Andrew seemed pretty impressed.

And right here, I might as well insert this. I don’t know any better place to say it. Things have changed a bit, lately, at Graber. Reuben wanted to get away, be less involved in the day to day business of things. So he hired a guy to be “him,” a guy who oversees every detail of every aspect of the business. He came along about a month ago. His name is Rodney. We were all kind of freaked out, those of us who’ve been there a long time. What’s this? Change? We don’t like change. Who is this guy, and what’s he gonna do around here?

Well, I must say it’s all been rolling along pretty smoothly, so far. Rodney didn’t come in and throw his weight around, right off. We just didn’t know, how it would be. He met with each employee, individually. And he just talked to each one. He’s upbeat, to a fault, almost. He’s a guy who ran a large nonprofit, before he came to Graber. Actually, I think he was overqualified for the job. But he took it. And he came right in there, and stamped his nonthreatening personality all over the place. Slowly, but relentlessly.

He likes to talk about “teamwork” a lot. Beyond anything any of us had ever heard before. And he was all cheery, as the Christmas season came down at us. Christmas cheer. Let’s hear it. I grumbled at him. I’m a grinch. Leave me alone, when it comes to Christmas. And one day, Rosita cranked up the one Christmas song she knew I despised. Dominick the Donkey. It’s a silly little senseless tune. She tortures me with it every year, and has for years. And I grumbled loudly at her. Shut that song off. I don’t want to hear it.

Rodney overheard us fussing. And he stepped right out, and inserted himself. “Why don’t you like that song, and why don’t you like Christmas?” He asked. It’s a silly song, and I don’t have to like Christmas if I don’t want to, I said. Just let me fuss at Rosita. Well. That was certainly the wrong thing to say. Because the man decreed that Dominick the Donkey will be played loudly every afternoon, right up through Christmas. I grumbled savagely. You’re inflicting pain on me, here. And every afternoon, right around 2 PM, they rolled out the song. I hunched in my chair, as they all made snide remarks at me.

And somehow, I managed to negotiate some terms. Look. I don’t feel like I have a voice, here. Let’s make a window. Say, between 1:30 and 2:15. The song has to be played in that window. If we get all busy, or if you all forget, I get to have peace that day. Rosita and Andrew scoffed. But Rodney listened. “OK, that’s negotiating. That’s a better place than you were before. So it has to happen, in that forty-five minutes. Or the song won’t be played.” I can accept that, I said. And believe me, I won’t be reminding anyone about anything in those forty-five minutes.

Back to that Friday afternoon. I forget if the abominable song was played, but I’m pretty sure it was. I didn’t care much, that day. I was excited, because Janice was coming around. She was working in Philly, and had reserved rooms at Cork Factory Hotel. One room for me, and one for her and Wilm. It’s been a while, well, back at the beach in September, since we’d hung out together, the three of us. And I was looking forward a lot, to seeing her again. I set the jar of ‘shine on the floor behind the counter, so I wouldn’t forget it when I left. And at some point, I invited the others. Let’s all have a sip. I even poked my head around the corner and asked Rodney, if he’d like some. “Sure,” he said. And we all huddled together.

We held out our little pointy white paper water cups, and I poured us all a little shot. Even Rosita came and participated. We saluted. Cheers. They probably said “to Christmas.” I didn’t. And then we gulped it down. The second moonshine communion I had that day. You’d think you could trust about any group you just drank moonshine with, especially if you supplied it.

I left a little early, then, around four. I had to run home, finish and post the blog about Bear Stoll, and then head on over to Cork Factory Hotel. I was winding my way through Gap, when I looked, and realized something. The ‘shine. I’d forgotten the ‘shine. Drat. Oh, well. After getting through town, I called Andrew’s cell. He didn’t answer, so I left a message. Hey, Ira here. I forgot my moonshine. It’s sitting there, behind the counter. Save the paper and plastic bags it’s in, but put the jar in the freezer. I’ll take it home on Monday. Andrew texted me back, when I got home. “Thanks. We’ll have a real big party over the weekend.” I know exactly how much ‘shine is in that jar, I texted back. And it better be right where it is right now.

Somewhere in the Old Testament, there is a verse that speaks of how desperately wicked the human heart is. I suppose my own heart is as depraved as anyone’s. Actually, I know it is. But for the crew at the office there at Graber, I’ll tweak that verse just a bit. They, at least the ones who were present that Friday afternoon, their hearts are desperately devious. That’s all I can say. And I’ll tell you why a little bit later.

The evening rolled right in at me. And the weekend. I posted my blog, then headed on in to meet Janice and Wilm, at Cork and Cap for dinner. Janice had been all busy. And we were joined by Reuben, and a few other local friends. We all sat around a large table, and just had a real good time. Later, we sat at the bar, in a long line, and just caught up. It was family and friends time.

The next morning, we got up late. Just lounged around. After coffee, Janice headed out with me, back to my home turf, to run some errands. It’s so rare, that she and I just get to drive around and talk. And we just chatted about things. How the year went, how hard it was, a lot of it. I’m in a pretty good place, when you think about how it all went, I said. But as Christmas is coming up, I’m a little sad. I think back to last year this time, and how I was all excited about a special gift I was getting together. You were with me, when I went to pick it up. It was the first time we stayed at Cork Factory. We picked it up that Saturday afternoon. And you remember how proudly I showed it to you, the gift. I look back at how excited I was about it, what a surprise it would be. And I look back now at what all has happened since then. This year, there is no special gift to send to anyone. And it just waves through me. Not heavy sadness. But still, the memories flood in, and this year, this Christmas, I’m a little sad. Janice nodded. She knew what I was talking about. She’s been a rock of support from the instant that particular world crumpled around me. “It’s real, how a season can do that to you. Even a season like Christmas,” she said.

We stopped by an Amish farmer’s place to pick up a gallon of fresh Jersey milk. Every other Saturday, I stop and buy a gallon from the guy. A big old glass jar, sitting there in the ice cold water in the tank. I take it on over to my friends, David and Esther’s place. Esther takes that raw fresh Jersey milk and makes four quarts of totally natural yogurt. I stop back, usually on Sunday afternoon, and pick up two of those quarts of delicious natural yogurt. And she keeps two. It’s a real nice little deal we’ve had going for a while, now. Esther smiled and welcomed Janice. Her married daughter, Emma was home, with her two-year-old daughter. The girl was just a little live wire, and Janice connected immediately with her. The two of them talked in PA Dutch. The little girl was all proud that her hair was long enough to make a bun. “Look, a bun,” she said to Janice, turning around and pointing to her bun of hair. Janice made much fuss about that bun. I watched the two of them connect, and it pierced my heart a bit. Because I knew Janice was seeing little Abby in that little girl.

All right. Meandering here. But I guess I can do that, because this is my blog. We headed back to the city, then, and met Wilm at the Hotel. Janice drove us over to Central Market. The oldest continuously open Farmer’s Market in the country. Right in the middle of downtown Lancaster. It’s a teeming place, with all sorts of every imaginable goody. Food, fresh food. Fruits, fresh fruits. And all kinds of delicious things to eat, from the lunch stands. We puttered around for an hour, as the place was winding down. As full as it was, even then, I’d hate to be around when it opened on a Saturday morning.

Janice and I bought some food at a Cuban stand. And Wilm bought some Thai pasta of some kind. It was time to leave, then. Janice told me. “Wilm and I want to go shopping at TJ Maxx. Do you want to come along, or should we drop you off at the Hotel?” Oh, I’ll go along, I said, all innocently. I need a few things. She looked a little dubious, but I insisted. I’ll go along. So off we went, to TJ Maxx. I was about to learn a few things, I must say.

I puttered and putzed around, over in the men’s section. For about twenty minutes. And then I went to hunt up the girls. I’m going over to Ollie’s, for a while, I said. Text me when you’re ready to leave. “OK, we will,” they said. And off I wandered, to Ollie’s, a quarter mile away. A big discount warehouse, that’s what Ollie’s is. I wandered through the place. For a long time, probably half an hour. I checked out their book section. One of these days, my book is gonna hit the discount section. But it wasn’t there, at Ollie’s, not that day. I kept checking my phone, for a text. Nothing. Finally, I gave up. Walked the quarter mile back to TJ Maxx. Surely the girls would be checking out, by the time I got there.

I walked back into the store, and looked and looked for Janice’s dark red hair. I mean, I scanned the place. Walked all over, looking and looking. No mane of dark red hair to be seen anywhere. So I parked out, close to the exit. Just stood there, and lounged. And lounged. Wandered in circles. I noticed, that the clerks close by were eying me strangely. A tall guy, standing and wandering. What’s he doing here? I figured they thought I was about to rob the place. So I finally texted Janice, in desperation. Where are you? I’m back, in the store. She texted right back. “We’re in the dressing room.” A few minutes later, they emerged, Janice and Wilm. Chattering about the jeans they’d tried on, and all about how much more stuff they wanted to look at. It was pretty clear that they had only begun shopping.

I stood and faced them both. Look, I said. I’m done. Here’s my offer. If you take me back to the Hotel, I promise that I will never, never go shopping with you again. They took up my offer. Half somberly. Janice couldn’t stop laughing, all the way back, though. “You poor man. Going shopping with me and Wilm.” And they dropped me off, at Cork and Cap. And went back to their shopping. I nursed my wounds, at the bar, with a drink. And then I went back to my room, until the girls came back to take me out for dinner. At a very nice little French restaurant. I never knew such a place existed in Lancaster. But then, why should I? I abhor the evil city. But that night, it was a good place. And later we hung out with Joe and Moe, the bartenders at Cork and Cap.

The next morning, we woke up late. And we had brunch, at the restaurant. If you ever get to Lancaster, look up two places. Vinola’s, my bar in Leola. And Cork and Cap, in Lancaster. I’d stack those two places against any place you suggest to me. They’re real. The people are real. And they both got real good food and drinks. After brunch, we all got a little sad. Janice had to head right to the airport, to catch her plane west. We all hugged. And parted again, one more time. Until the next time.

OK. I’m done meandering, now. Back to the moonshine. I got to work, that Monday, after all that fun. And I was feeling pretty good. I asked Andrew, sometime that morning. Did you put my moonshine in the freezer? “No,” he said. “I just put it in the fridge.” I thought I told you to put it in the freezer, I said. Oh, well. We’ll have a taste again, before I take it home tonight. He looked all eager, to have a taste.

And right here, I’ll repeat myself. I’ve never done this before. But this time, I will. I will repeat myself. Somewhere in the Old Testament, there is a verse that speaks of how desperately wicked the human heart is. I suppose my own heart is as depraved as anyone’s. Actually, I know it is. But for the crew at the office there at Graber, I’ll tweak that verse just a bit. They, at least the ones who were present that Monday after lunch, and maybe at least one other person who wasn’t present, their hearts are desperately devious. Or at least those hearts were desperately devious, that day.

Andrew had to leave at two that day, for some appointment. So about fifteen minutes before he left, I got all generous again. I would share what I had with my friends. Let’s have another shot of ‘shine before you go. They both seemed all eager, Rosita and Andrew. Rodney wasn’t around right then. I’m sure he would have been all eager, too.

I had walked out a bit earlier, and stuck the ‘shine up in the freezer, so it would get real cold. That’s the best way to sip it. Ice cold, straight from the freezer. When I went back to fetch it, little icicles were forming on the inside of the jar. What the heck was that all about? I wondered. My redneck friend had told me he kept it in the freezer. Maybe it’s not as pure as he thought it was. I carried it out, to where the others were waiting.

I opened the jar. The moonshine smell whooshed right out. This is real good stuff, I said as I poured us each a shot. Cheers, we said to each other. Then we all tossed it back. That’s pretty smooth, I must say, I said. “Yes, yes,” they both agreed, although I think Rosita coughed a bit, pretending to choke. “It’s real smooth.” And I sat back in my chair, all satisfied at having shared my ‘shine with such good, true friends. Nothing like a little shot of good ‘shine, after a meal, I told Andrew. He agreed, as he was rushing out to his appointment.

I carefully placed my jar of moonshine back into the fridge. Not the freezer. It had slushed up, earlier. And I was perturbed about that. Maybe the stuff was diluted. As I left work, I carried my precious jar of ‘shine out to my truck with me. David, Andrew’s older brother, was walking out to his car, too. “Oh, what do you have there?” he asked, all interested. I got some real good, smooth ‘shine, I said. Do you want a taste? “Sure,” he said. I unscrewed the lid, and again shared my ‘shine with a friend. He took a small sip. “That’s pretty smooth,” he told me. Yeah, it sure is, I said. I got it from a redneck friend. He traded it for a copy of my book. I took that jar home, and put in the fridge. I’m not trusting it not to freeze, I thought to myself. I’ll just keep it down here, until I figure out what’s going on.

And the next day at work, Andrew and Rosita told Rodney. “We had a shot of Ira’s ‘shine yesterday, again. It was real smooth.” Rodney looked all grieved, that he’d missed it. But he told me. “I’ve got a jar of ‘shine, here. Do you want to try it?” Sure, I said, all eager. It was after lunch, I think. Not real clear on some specific details. So he brought the jar down, from the fridge upstairs. A nice cold jar, looked like. We stepped into a back room, and poured out shots into those little pointy white cups again. Saluted each other. And drank the ‘shine.

It’s was a little rough, I thought. That’s not the quality of my ‘shine, I told Rodney. You need better sources. He looked all sad, like he was all disappointed. “It’s not as good as yours?” he asked it plaintively, over and over again. Nope, I said. It’s definitely not as smooth as mine. We all settled back to our stations again, then. But Rodney hovered. He had something to say, yet, seemed like. Maybe he was going to make that awful Dominick the Donkey song play, again.

“This is your moonshine,” he said, handing me the jar. I figured he was being gracious and giving me a gift of inferior stuff. Well, thank you, I said. I appreciate that. “No,” he said. “This is your moonshine.” Yes, I know that, I said. You just gave it to me. “This is your moonshine,” he repeated again. And then it finally sank through my brain. He was handing me my own jar of ‘shine, the jar my redneck friend had brought me. The jar at home in my fridge, that stuff was icing up, because it was water.

I don’t trust people, real easy. But when I do, I trust them pretty much completely. If I trust you, and you tell me you’re gonna be somewhere, I figure you will be there. If you’re not, well, I probably won’t ever trust you again. And if you tell me you saved my ‘shine in the fridge, and you trot it out, and we have a sip, I figure you’re telling me the truth. And when it’s not the truth, well, water will taste like moonshine.

Because that’s what they did, that Friday afternoon, after I forgot my jar of ‘shine. They switched it out, for water. I’m not quite sure who’s idea it was, who came up with it. I tried to get them to go back and remember the details. They were all vague, all of a sudden. But there was a whole lot of teamwork going on, all of a sudden, too. A whole lot of plotting. And when I opened that jar, when we had that sip, Andrew and Rosita and me, it still smelled just like moonshine. And because that’s what I was totally expecting, my brain told me that’s what I was drinking. I kept exclaiming how smooth it was. Of course it was smooth. It was water. I would never have believed such a thing could be, had it not happened to me.

At least one person claims my face paled, when the truth hit me. I don’t think it did. I was had, and I was had real good. I can’t believe this, I kept saying over and over again. And I laughed, too, because it was all so ridiculous. Y’all are a bunch of thugs, I said. Just because I’m a grinch, you do this to me when my back is turned? I’ll get you back, I will. And it came to me, right about then. Tell the story. That’s how you get back at a devious prank like that. Just tell the story.

And I told them. You think I’m gonna slink down, and hide my face about this? Do you really think that? This story’s gonna haunt me all my life, if I run from it. Tell you what. I’m going to write it in my next blog. And right there, I think, I got back at them a little bit. I’m sure that was the last thing they were expecting.

And really, it all is pretty funny, when you think about it. It’s a classic. They turned ‘shine into water on me. And they turned water back to ‘shine. I don’t know that such a thing has ever happened before. That’s the kind of world I live in, I guess. A world of miracles.

And that right there is the story of the Great Moonshine Plot in this the year of our Lord, 2014. Are there any lessons in there anywhere? I don’t write to preach, to tell you what to learn. I just write, to tell the story. I’m sure the first lesson a lot of people would tell me is this. Don’t drink moonshine. Then such a thing wouldn’t happen to you. OK, then. Other than that, I ain’t got a whole lot of specific lessons to tell. If there’s any life lessons to be learned from the Great Moonshine Plot, figure them out yourself.

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The Deacon (Sketch #17)

And forever the river runs, deep as the tides

of time and memory, deep as the tides of sleep,

the river runs…

Thomas Wolfe

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It’s been one of those weeks, when nothing was coming, writing-wise. And by Wednesday, I was pretty resigned. There would be no blog post this Friday. I can’t force this stuff, and I won’t. So if nothing comes, nothing gets written. Then, that afternoon, my iPhone pinged. A text message. I was on the office phone with a customer. A few minutes later, I hung up. Then I looked at the message that had come. It was from my sister, Rachel. One line. Stephen Stoll died this morning. And right there, it all slid right in, the tale to tell.

Stephen Stoll. A dark man, a dark legend in my childhood world in Aylmer. He was the deacon, the enforcer of the rules. Many a strong man paled and trembled when he came knocking on the door. He wasn’t there to socialize, usually. And he wasn’t all that good at small talk. He was real good, though, at carrying out the job he was ordained for. Keeping people in line, making sure the church “Ordnung” was enforced.

I can’t remember seeing him ordained, although I probably did. I was just too young, to grasp what I was seeing. He’s among my earliest memories of church, though. Getting up between the sermons to do his job, read the Scripture of the day. He was kind of clean-cut back then, as I recall. As a real young child, I liked the man. He seemed pretty nice, to me.

I suppose it took him a few years, to reach his stride. And then, in the early 1970s, he moved with his father, Peter Stoll. All the way down to Honduras, to convert the natives. I was always kind of fascinated, that Stephen went. I guess he had that Stoll heart of his father, deep down. He wanted to spread the gospel to those who were lost. That’s why Peter went, that was his vision. And Stephen and his brother Joe and their families moved with their father.

He was out of my life, for a few years, then. But the Honduras venture was doomed to fail, as it did. And within a few short years, although they didn’t seem all that short back then, the Stoll brothers were trickling back up to Aylmer. They moved back. And when you’re a deacon, you’re a deacon, wherever you are. Stephen Stoll stepped right back into his old role in Aylmer.

I remember how startled I was, when he first stood up to read Scripture in church. He was not the man I had remembered, from back when they left. He looked all different. Dark, somehow. His beard was a huge, untrimmed jumble. He had stubble for a mustache, one of the Stolls’ pet peeves. They believed in mustaches. And Stephen, I would say, had a clearly distinct one. I was startled, too, by his voice. It wasn’t mellow, like I’d remembered. It was fuzzy, somehow, kind of gruff. And he read the Scripture that day. I don’t remember where church was. But I can still see him, standing up there, with that big old German Bible in his hands.

And I told my brothers that afternoon, after we got home from church. The man looks like a bear. He sounds like a bear, too. Grizzle, grizzle, growl, growl. That’s how he sounded. And Stephen and Titus agreed. He looked and sounded like a bear. And from that day forward, right or wrong, Stephen Stoll was known as “Bear” Stoll in our world. It just fit, the name. And, yeah, we were derisive, speaking it, labeling him like that. Yes. We were. I’m not here to make any excuses about who we were or what we did. Just trying to tell a story of a man.

He was Elmo Stoll’s older brother, Bear Stoll was. And I’ve often marveled, that those two men were born of the same mother. At least when you heard them speak. Elmo had the golden, gifted tongue. He could make you like him, even as he was taking away your rights to please his furious, frowning God. Stephen couldn’t speak publicly, to save his life. He stumbled and muttered and growled. But they made the perfect team, when you think about it. The gifted leader always needs an enforcer, to carry out his strident decrees. Stephen was Elmo’s enforcer. And he was real good at what he did.

They were just human, the two of them. And I want to keep that in mind. But they also hurt a lot of people, hurt them deeply. There’s simply no denying that. All because of the vision of righteousness that Elmo saw and Stephen enforced. Probably because he saw that vision, too. Aylmer would be pure. Aylmer would be perfect. That’s what they believed as they strode through life, all bold and confident.

He had one redeeming factor, Bear Stoll did. Talking through a child’s eyes, here. And that was this. He never, never preached a sermon. A deacon’s job is to get up, and read the Scripture. Way too many Amish deacons seize that moment in the sun. Here’s their chance, to get their voice in. Here’s their chance, to say something profound. It’s probably a big temptation, and I don’t judge them like I used to, back when I had to sit quietly on a hard bench and listen to a third sermon in church, when there were only supposed to be two. And to an Amish child, it’s a big deal, that a deacon sits down on time. And that a preacher does, too, come to think of it. You respect a deacon when he pretty much just does his job, at least when it comes to reading Scripture.

Bear Stoll always, always spoke his favorite Bible verse, leading up to the reading. “Ich habe Meine Augen auf zu denn Bergen…” “I hold my eyes up to the hills, from whence cometh my help…” He also had a few short stories, that he liked to share. He took only a minute or two, telling them. And the one he told over and over was this. He was born in Daviess, where his father was born. And he grew up there, before Peter moved out. And he and his brothers loved basketball. They loved to play it and watch it. And there was some big rivalry game going on one night, at the local high school. Probably Barre-Reeve. And Stephen and his brothers wanted very badly to go watch that game. After school, they approached their father. If we work fast, and get our chores done early, can we go watch the basketball game? His father looked real grieved, Stephen said. And he didn’t say anything for a little while. And then he asked his sons. “Is that where you would like to be, if Jesus came back tonight?” By this time, tears were always trickling down Bear’s dark and bearded face. And he always sobbed a little, in the telling of it. His closing line was always the same. “That was enough of an answer for us.”

That’s where the Stolls come from, from a world like that. Where a father asks his sons if they’d want to be watching a basketball game, if Jesus came back right when they were doing that. It’s a messed-up place, such a world. And that’s the world I came from, too, now that I think of it. Actually, Stephen and his brothers were far bolder and far freer with their father, than me and my brothers could ever hope to be with Dad. We would never have dreamed, never have dared, to even ask such a thing of him. Can we go to a basketball game? We would never have asked, because such a question was never even a remote possibility in our world.

I never was a church member in Aylmer, so I never had to experience the terror of a visit from the man. Still, what he pulled off now and then affected me. And I remember one particular incident. Some youth were visiting from another Amish community in Indiana. And they got the grand idea, my brothers and sisters, and their friends from Indiana. Let’s all go to the Sand Hills, one evening. We can hire a bus to take us. We’ll have a big picnic. And we’ll play softball, on the diamond, there. We figured to spread the word around, to all the other youth. Well, I wasn’t sixteen, but I was old enough to go along to a place like this. And we sent Titus out on the road, the day before, spreading the news. We’re going to the Sand Hills with our Indiana friends, tomorrow evening. And Titus made one big, innocent mistake. He told people, including Bear Stoll’s sons. Bring your softball gloves. We’ll have a good game, playing together.

The next day came, and we were all looking forward to it, eagerly. The Sand Hills. A big old cookout. And a softball game. Stephen Stoll was greatly perturbed, when he heard the news from his sons. And that day, he took his horse and buggy on the road. He stopped to see people, the leaders of the church. He grizzled and growled. And by late that afternoon, late on the afternoon of the very day we had planned our picnic, he had triumphed. He had called it off. Boys and girls should not be playing softball together. It might lead to lust. I remember vividly how shocked and disappointed I was, hearing the news. I was probably fourteen years old, right then. And the bitter thoughts and bitter words that flowed from me had pretty much the reverse effect that Bear Stoll had expected from his holy stand. I despised the man, deeply. Right there, at that young age, if you despise the deacon in your church for pulling off a stunt like that, someone’s in trouble. Either me, or the deacon.

That’s where the Stolls come from, a place like that. And no, this time I can’t identify. I think even my father was perturbed, that the picnic had been canceled on such a flimsy pretense. You think about it. There is no way you’re not serving a furious, frowning God, when you pull off something like Bear Stoll pulled off, that time.

And time flowed on, and brought what time usually brings. We moved out of Aylmer, my family. Dad did what he thought he needed to do, to keep his sons Amish. And I didn’t see much of Bear Stoll, after that. Not for years. I held the bitterness of who he was in my heart, though. They all became “Bears,” the Aylmer leaders. Anyone in my circles knows exactly what I mean, when I mention that term. Bears. Dark men, dark people, with dark hearts, pretending to live in light, up there on that shining city on a hill.

When you pretend to live all perfect like that, it’ll catch up with you. It just will, when you proclaim your purity like the Aylmer Bears did. And it caught up to them, back in the 1990s. I don’t remember the exact dates. But there were scandals, up there. Big, big sandals. I won’t go into detail. Let’s just say it was all pretty humiliating, for people who had projected all the answers before, to their world. And there was lots of humility, going on. I was pretty bitter, when it all came down. I ignored their humility, and smirked. Yeah. Take that. You deserve it.

Time has a funny way of changing how you look at the past, though. And it’s been pretty strange, looking back. The Bears of Old Aylmer are no longer what they once were, when I look back. They are human, and they are people. They always were, I suppose. I just couldn’t see it. They were people trying to live their lives before the Lord, as best they knew how. Sure, they were flawed, deeply flawed. But then, who isn’t? And from where I am today, I can see that so clearly. It’s all so plain. It doesn’t mean people don’t hurt people. They do. It just means you can let it go. And in the last decade or more, it’s been almost a fond term, to those of us who came out of that world. Bears. Aylmer Bears. It’s a connection. If you understand the term, you came from where I was.

He moved out of Aylmer for the second and final time. I don’t remember exactly when that happened. Early 1990s, maybe. A group of Aylmer people wanted to be more plain, live a more holy life. So they moved up north a ways, to Lindsay, Ontario. To set up an even more perfect place than Aylmer was. It was a disaster from day one, Lindsay was. The place has been plagued with dissension since the day of its inception. That’s neither here nor there, I guess. It’s just the place where Stephen Stoll lived out his final days.

I remember the first time I faced those men, and they looked at me without judgment. It was after the scandals. In the late 1990s. Reuben and me, and my nephew, John Wagler, snuck up there for my nephew Ivan Gascho’s wedding, on Reuben’s plane. We weren’t invited, because they’re not allowed to invite you. Somehow, I had let them know. We’re coming. And when we got there, they had a bench for us. And later, they had food, too, on a table, waiting for us. Everyone was very welcoming.

The thing I remember about that day, though, is this. They came and spoke to us, the Bears of Aylmer. And they spoke to us with no judgment on their faces. This was way before I had a writing voice, so it wasn’t fear that made them act that way. It was their hearts. They meant it, it was real. I remember especially that Stephen Stoll, and his brother, Joe, made a special effort to come to where we stood. And they just smiled and talked. Visited. I don’t remember what we talked about, much. Just that we talked.

And since that day, I saw Stephen Stoll probably three or four times. I was always increasingly shocked, when I saw him. He was gray and bent and feeble. Just an old man, struggling along. And I wondered. How could such a man as this ever strike terror in anyone’s heart? It’s the passing of time, I guess, that changes things. For both sides. For those who instill fear with force. And for those who felt that fear and force.

The original “Bear” of Old Aylmer mellowed tremendously in his old age. And I’ve heard he spoke it. He would do some things different, if he had them to do over again. He would do some things different. He realized what he’d done, the people he’d hurt. He regretted it. And he spoke that regret.

He was old and gray and frail, the last time I saw him. At a funeral. And he usually made it a point, to come over and speak to me when he saw me. And I never sensed any judgment in the man. Only kindness, and perhaps some sprinkling of regret. He smiled and talked to me. And I smiled back and talked to him.

I had heard his health was bad. And now he has passed away after a long struggle with cancer. He was seventy-seven years old.

Stephen Stoll, Rest in Peace.

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At Dusk in Winter…

To lose the earth you know, for greater knowing;

to lose the life you have, for greater life; to

leave the friends you loved, for greater loving;

to find a land more kind than home, more large

than earth—-

—Thomas Wolfe

_____________

We almost lost him, back last summer, when I was on that road trip. From that serious infection he got in his leg, right after Abby’s funeral. And just that close, he was gone. But the doctors managed to bring him back, calm down the raging infection. And within a week or so, he was released. He gained some strength back. And they went up to see him, many of my siblings, from wherever they lived all around this country. And always, the question came dribbling back. Mixed with scolding, from my sisters. When is Ira coming? Ira, you need to go see your Dad. And that’s why I hit the road last weekend for Aylmer, to go and visit my father.

I had to go, at some point, I knew. And I wanted to go, too. But still, it was easy to kind of push it off, push it back. He’s improved, in his health, since July. When he got out of the hospital, he was totally bedridden. He couldn’t get up, or walk. He could barely sit up in bed. And then he had a stroke, to top it all off. That almost did him in. But he survived. And that close, I went up to see him, back when all that was coming down. But as each day passed, the news came. He’s getting stronger. He’s going home. And it wasn’t really something I wanted to see, my father as helpless as a baby.

My brother Steve stopped by to see him, when he was helpless like that. And it shook him up a bit. He told me, when he got back. “He’s weak. I fed him. Fed him with a spoon. It’s a pretty shocking thing, to see your Dad in such a state as that. It’s a shocking thing, to feed your father with a spoon.” And I couldn’t imagine what that would have been like, to do that. That’s why I shrank from going up, right then.

I figured to make it up there, maybe in late September. But that month just swept right by, what with Beach Week and all. And then I said, October. And that month slipped right by, too. And Dad kept right on improving, from what I heard. Well, improving from where he’d been. Still, he was real weak, they said. It was all he could do to make a loop around the house, with a walker. But still, that was a lot better than lying flat on your back, in bed, all the time. And getting spoon-fed by your children and grandchildren.

The nice Enterprise man let me down a bit, when I stopped by to pick up my car, on Thursday after work. “No Charger on the lot,” he told me when I asked. All right, then, I said. I’ll just take the car I reserved. He went out and brought up a little white Ford Focus. Good grief, that’s a tiny thing, I thought. The car would surprise me very nicely on the road, though. It had plenty of zip, and to my amazement, plenty of head room for a guy like me. I’ll hand it to the Enterprise guy behind the counter in the New Holland office. He’s pretty smooth. He always slips it in, when we’re out there, and he’s handing over the keys. “We have some very good insurance options, here,” he always just kind of slides it in. I always laugh and tell him he’s good. But nah, I got insurance from my truck. It transfers over. He shrugs and looks sheepish. And he always does the same thing the next time.

I hit the road the next morning around eight. Like I said, the little car had some kick. It’s always a struggle, for me, to figure out two things on a new rental car. The radio, and the cruise control. The radio panel looks like the control panel of a rocket ship. No dials, all buttons. I punched and poked around, trying to figure out how it all worked. And the cruise control took about fifty miles to figure out. Yeah, I guess I could just have looked at the instruction book in the glove box. But I never do that. I figure it out on my own, or I don’t, right while I’m driving.

It’s a long old drag, up there to Aylmer. Right at nine hours, usually. Depends on how long you get held up at the border. And I thought about it, as the Focus slipped along. I was going to see Dad. He was in way better shape than he had been, a few weeks back. Every day, he takes a few turns around the house with his walker. So he had improved, some. And I thought, how do you look at it all? How do you deal with it, what your father was or was not to you? Who actually speaks honestly of such a thing, at such a time as this? When it’s dusk in winter, like this? How do you look back? What do you hold on to and what do you let go? Because it’s a pretty heavy thing to speak of, if you’re honest. It’s a pretty heavy thing.

My father was a giant among his people. A man with a vision, striding through life, proclaiming his message of righteousness as he saw it. Boldly, he went where no one had ever gone before, from his people. A giant on the land. The thing about giants, though, is that they leave a lot of damage behind them, as they’re striding along, proclaiming their visions. That’s just how it works, with giants. And my father left a lot of damage in his wake. A lot of wounds, buried in the dust and rubble, back there. The wounds of his family. His wife. And the wounds of all his children.

What do you say at the dusk of your father’s life, looking back? I wasn’t sure. But I was heading up to see the man whose blessing I have craved more than any other’s. And I thought of the times I had approached him, asking for a blessing. Over and over, throughout the years. Especially that one time, only a few years after I left. And how he had turned away, cold. Come home, and be the person you should be, and then I’ll bless you. Not his exact words. But still, his answer. I thought of how devastated I had been, over and over. And how I had finally given up. Given up, asking.

Through upstate New York the little Focus zipped, then, approaching Buffalo. Then, the border. I’ve never had that many problems with Canadian border guards. They always seem pretty cool. But what with those false flag “terrorist” attacks they just had up there, I didn’t know. They might be a little jittery, I figured. The guy was courteous enough. Nope, I got nothing to declare, I said. I have a few books along, to give as gifts. I always take a dozen copies of my book with me when I travel. “What’s the value of those books?” he asked. Ah, come on, I thought. Next thing, I’ll have to show them to you. Oh, well, if he made me show him, I might be able to bribe him with a copy. Oh, a hundred dollars’ worth, or so, I said. He waved me through, and I never got a chance to tell him I wrote a book. Which was all just fine by me.

The second I crossed into Canada, here came the rain. Seems like it’s always dreary when I get up here, I thought. I drove along, and the rain came down, intermittently. And by late afternoon, I was pulling into the Comfort Inn, in St. Thomas. I checked in. The place is getting downright familiar. It’s where we all stayed last April, for Mom’s funeral. I dropped my bag in the room, and made sure I had a connection with my iPad, on the internet. Then I headed out, for my sister Rosemary’s place. Drove right down the main drag of Old Aylmer. The main road, where all the important people lived, way back. And it was strange, driving along. The landscape, all of it, barely registers as the place of my childhood, anymore.

Rosemary’s husband, Joe Gascho, was working outside in the rain when I pulled in. He walked over, smiling, and greeted me. He was surprised. Didn’t you get the message that I’m coming? I asked. He shook his head. “No one told us, but that’s alright.” Edna came strolling by about right then. And they told me. Rosemary was up in Maine, visiting her daughter, Laura, and her husband, Raymond Eicher and their family. A van load of people had gone up for the week. She would be home late the next day. Well. I was a little perturbed. But it was what it was. And I asked. Is it OK if I stop in and see Dad, yet, tonight? Or doesn’t he take company this late? “No, that should be alright,” Joe told me. “He’s staying over at Simons.” I chatted a bit more, than headed over to Simon’s home on the southwest edge of the Aylmer settlement.

I pulled into the long drive that led back to my nephew Simon Gascho’s farm. He’s Joe and Rosemary’s oldest son. He and his wife, Kathleen, have a nice large family. And a house that isn’t all that big, either. But somehow, they offered to take Dad in for a while. He had been staying over at the home of my niece, Eunice, and her husband, David Swartzentruber. Over at the east end. And they kept him, when he was all helpless. Lying there in bed. For a few months, they did. And then Simon took some of that pressure off. He asked Dad if he’d like to come and stay with his family. This kind of thing doesn’t happen much, in today’s world, outside the Amish. There’s no question that you’ll be cared for. And you have people asking you to come stay with them in their home, when you can offer nothing. Nothing but continuous and daily care. And still, they’ll ask you. Come stay with us.

I parked the car on the gravel drive. A dog barked savagely as I got out of the car. Over by the house, little children hovered, whispering to each other. I got out. Ah, calm down, I said to the dog. And I asked the children. Is your Dad home? I’m here to see my Dad. They fluttered into the house. And by the time I got to the inner door, Kathleen met me, smiling. I’m Ira, I said. I’m here to see Dad. Didn’t you get the message?

They had not gotten the message. But she welcomed me in. I walked into the kitchen. And over around the left, there was the room Dad was staying in. I walked in. And there he sat, on a wheelchair. Dad. On a wheelchair, his legs stretched out, on the leg rests. An old man, a shrunken man, a weak man, with a tired and broken face. I walked up to him. He peered at me. Dad, I said. I reached out my hand. He smiled. And he took my hand. “Ira,” he said. “Is that you?”

Yes. It’s me, I said. I thought I had sent a message, that I was coming. He welcomed me joyfully. And I pulled up a chair, and we sat there and talked. Me and Dad.

He’s been doing pretty well, he told me when I asked. They moved him over here from Eunice’s place, just this week. And he got to telling me, all of what he had going on. He was all busy, writing. The second volume of his memoirs, that was just published this past week. “My Stretch in the Service.” And no, he didn’t have a hard copy to give me. He didn’t have any, yet. But he’d send me one. And we talked. Are you typing again? I asked. “Oh, yes,” he said, proudly. Can you show me? I asked. And he pulled his wheelchair right up into the table. Set his fingers on the typewriter. And he typed it out. Slowly, it was a far cry from all that frantic typing I heard, growing up as a child. But he did it. Proudly pulled out the paper, and showed me. “Ira is here and asking me to type.” Not an exact quote, there. But he wrote something like that. Lucidly.

I was pretty impressed, and I told him so. We sat there, and talked. He filled me in, about how he had just moved over here to Simon’s home. Over Thanksgiving, he told me, was when they asked him. Canada’s Thanksgiving was way last month. The family gathered, over where he was staying, at Eunice’s house. And Simon asked him. Would you consider coming over to our house for a while? David and Eunice are going to need to get ready to have church, in their home. You could come and stay with us, over that time. And the big question from Dad was this. “Did they ask you to ask me?” “No, no,” Simon said. “We just thought we’d ask you on our own, to come, and stay a while.” That was a big deal, to Dad, right there, that no one asked him to leave from where he was.

Kathleen asked me to stay for supper. Sure, I said, if you have enough to go around. “It won’t take much, to make more soup for one more person,” she said, smiling. So I agreed. And soon Simon came in, from doing his chores. I thought I had sent a message, I told him, just like I had told all the others. Apparently it didn’t get through. I’m sorry. It was no problem with anyone, though. They were just glad to see me. Dad beamed and beamed and smiled.

The table was set, and they made room for me. Dad was trundled in, on his wheelchair, at the end of the table. I sat beside Simon and his children. After silent prayer, the soup was passed around. I ladled out a full plate full. And it was all good. We sat there, and ate and talked. After supper was over, I sat with Dad again, back in his little space. We talked. And I told him. I’ll come back around tomorrow, probably in the afternoon.

The next morning dawned, and it was a different feel, in the wind. November. I walked out to my car, to drive out to the family. And I haven’t felt it that strong, not since I was fifteen years old. The feel and smell of the fall. The November winds were blowing in, pretty hard, from the northwest. And I felt it, what I felt in the cornfields, as a young man. We husked corn by hand, in a wind such as this. We smelled the fall, the winter coming in. It took me back, that morning, and those winds.

And the day just came at me, and I walked into it. First, it was out to the Gascho farm. My niece, Edna, opened a little bakery, there, earlier this year. After she waded through unbelievable amounts of red tape. It’s a beautiful little place, just south of the house, with a retail store on the front. Country Flavour-Rites, it’s called. There’s a nice big sign out by the road. She’s open on Fridays and Saturdays, only. I mean, a little bakery, right out there in the country. And she’s making it work. Her first-year sales exceeded her business plan by a good bit. I got there, and she proudly showed me around. In the back, where they do the baking, it’s all set up with commercial equipment, and a big multi-level baking stove. And the stuff she sells up front, well, it’s mouth-watering, all of it. And not that healthy for you, I’m sure. She’s got the old Wagler entrepreneurial spirit, that’s what she has. I hung around for an hour or so. A steady stream of customers came and went.

On over east, then, to Eunice’s home. She smiled and smiled in welcome. They had heard that I was around, the night before, at the school meeting. I’m telling you, word gets around, in an Amish community, simply by word of mouth. Nothing goes on, that doesn’t get told. It’s pretty interesting, that little fact. I sat and drank coffee. They were doing the Saturday cleaning. The men trickled in, too, from the work outside. Eunice invited me to come back for dinner (lunch), and I agreed. Now, for a little run around the community.

For the noon meal, we all sat around a large table. It was quite a table full of people. We ate and laughed and talked and chattered. Just caught up. I left, then, to drive around a bit. Simon had told me. After dinner, Dad always takes a little nap. He usually gets up around 2:00 or 2:30. I still had some time. So I headed over to town, and walked into the little flower shop on the west side of the square. The place smelled just as lovely as I’d remembered. I want a single red rose, I told the nice lady. She smiled and wrapped it for me. I paid her, and headed out to visit Mom.

It was cold and cloudy, that day. But the rain had stopped. I climbed over the wooden fence and walked to where Mom now lives. The soft earth that had been piled above her was flattened out, now. It was wet and cold and hard. I stooped, and placed the rose on the ground. I didn’t speak to her. Just stood there with my back hunched to the bitter northwest November winds. And remembered how it was that day when we brought her to this place.

It was shortly after 2:00 when I pulled in to the place where Dad was. The dog barked savagely at me again. Ah, shut up, dog, I said good-naturedly. I walked in. Dad had just gotten up. He was sitting at his desk, typing. And I sat there on a chair beside him. And for the next three hours, we just sat and talked, me and my father.

They had told me. He tends to repeat himself, circle back to the same old stories. He must have been well-rested that day, because he didn’t do much of that at all. And we talked about a lot of things. The stuff he had seen, in his lifetime. His writing. “I have to stay busy, doing something,” he said. “I’m sure thankful that I can write, yet.” The second book was just published. He’s about halfway through the third book. That’s when he moved his family up to Aylmer. I sure hope he gets that book done. He has every intention of doing so, of course. But he told me. “I’m ninety-three. My time won’t be long, here.” Yes, I said. Just keep right on writing, for as long as you can.

We talked about what it was, to care for him. Make sure you appreciate the family you’re staying with, I said. There’s a lot of time and effort, every day, to care for you. He looked off into the distance. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I know that.”

We talked about a lot of other things, too, most of which will stay between me and him. But I brought it up, there toward the end. I had heard. He kept telling others. He had some issues with my book. I can’t understand why Ira treated me like that. And I asked him. What hurt you in the book? He smiled a little shyly, and tried to change the subject. But I persisted. I want to talk about it. Tell me.

And he told me, and his issues will stay between me and him, too. But I told him. I was just trying to tell the story honestly. No one’s perfect. We’re all flawed. And I asked him. Who in the book did I treat the worst? He didn’t say anything. It was myself, I said. I treated myself the worst of anyone. I took the blame, for all the wrong I did. I don’t know if he understood what I was saying, or if he’d ever considered that point of view. But he seemed to accept it.

I had thought about it, the night before. Something was different about the way he looked. And that afternoon, it came to me. He was on a wheelchair. And he was dressed in some kind of pajama bottom, with a regular shirt. And he wasn’t wearing galluses. I had never, never seen my father like that before. Not wearing galluses. Small little point there, I know. But still, it seemed so odd to me. That’s what age brings, I guess, to a man like my father. All his life, he’d judge you, if you weren’t wearing galluses. Now, he’s too old to care.

And I asked him. Have you been to visit Mom, yet? He shook his head. “She’s not here, anymore,” he said simply. I know, but someone needs to take you to visit her, I said. And he agreed. We talked about the tombstone, too. It’ll be set up next spring, he thought. “I want it to be made of something that will last,” he said. “Something that won’t just fade in a few years.” Yes, I said. That’s a good idea. Make sure you get something of good quality.

Simon and Kathleen fixed a little snack for coffee break. We all sat around the table, drinking coffee and eating cookies. That was about the only time I got any real visiting done with Simon. And he told me. He had gone to Solomon Herrfort’s funeral, last year when he died. I was all interested in that. Sollie lived in a real poor community in Hillsboro, Wisconsin. He was a known oddity there, too. Simon claimed the man would never ride in any vehicle, not even in a buggy. He walked everywhere, didn’t matter how far it was. And when he got old and too weak to get anywhere, they hired a driver to take him to his other son’s home, to stay a while. When they got there, Sollie realized he had forgotten something, back at the house he had just moved from. Maybe his wallet, I don’t know. And the man turned and walked the five miles back to where he had just come from, to fetch what he had forgotten. You can’t make up a story like that.

I visited with Dad a while, then. He was all excited. The next day, Sunday, they were having Big Church over in the district where Eunice lives. And Simon was taking Dad over, after lunch. So he could participate in communion. Yes, that’s great, I said. I’m glad you can go. It was time to head on, soon. And Simon told me. I was welcome to stop by tomorrow morning, on the way out. To just see Dad for a few minutes, and drink some coffee. I’ll do that, I said.

Rosemary was getting back home late that afternoon, so I planned to head over there for supper. And that’s where I went. She had just arrived. An eighteen hour trip, that’s how long it takes to get to northeastern Maine from Aylmer. And back from Maine. You must be real tired, I told her as we hugged. She would have none of that. “Come in, come in, so we can visit,” she said. And I sat there on the couch as she flitted about, unpacking and making supper. It’s a welcome place, her house. And after a fine meal, we just sat around and visited. They don’t get all my blogs, she told me when I asked. Just one here and there. They got the one about Mom, of course. And the one about Abby. And she asked if I could send her the one about Uncle Ezra, from last spring. She had heard that one of Ezra’s children had made a comment about it to someone. “Ira didn’t quite get everything told right.” I gaped. How in the world did those people ever get hold of my blog? I asked. They’re hard core plain. How in the world would they even find out about it? “I don’t know,” Rosemary said. “I guess someone gave them a copy. You could think that someone would.” I was pretty stunned. Sure, I’ll mail you a copy when I get home, I told her.

And I got scolded a little bit, too, sitting there. I wrote something that wasn’t true, in the blog about Mom’s funeral. Edna made sure to track me down for that. Good-naturedly, of course. I wrote that there had never been any graveside singing in Aylmer before they sang for Mom, that day. That wasn’t true. It had happened before, at least twice. Right here, in Aylmer. Oh, my, I said, trying to look ashamed. I didn’t know. I try to be as accurate as I can, in my writings. I’ll make that right, with my readers. So that’s what I’m doing right here.

The next morning, I stopped by to see Dad again, as I was heading out. He was all excited about going to church that afternoon. We sat and visited, there in his room. Simon brought me a cup of coffee, and some tarts from Edna’s bakery. Dad and I just chatted. “Do you want a copy of my book?” He asked, almost shyly. “I’ll sign it for you.” He had already mailed me a signed copy, back when it came out. But I didn’t let on. Of course, of course I want a signed copy, I said. I would be very honored. He showed me where they were, and I dug out a copy. He picked up a pen with his stiff and gnarled fingers and laboriously scrawled his name. And a little Bible verse in German. I thanked him sincerely. And after half an hour or so, I made noises to leave. I’m going now, I said. “Well, thanks for coming,” he told me. We shook hands. “Come back and see me again,” he told me. I will, I said. And then I left him.

And I thought things over, as I headed for home. My father is in the winter of his life. And he’s at the dusk of that winter. I look at where he is, and where all he’s been, in his life. And I don’t ever want to get to where he is right now. I don’t ever want to reach the shrouded, foggy fields of that dusk in winter. I hope the Lord calls me home, long before I ever reach those fields. And I think He will. I’ve always felt it, sensed it, deep down. I will never grow old. Got no rhyme or reason to believe that, except I’ve lived a pretty hard and intense life. I’ve seen things, felt things. I have absorbed the savage tides of life, all the way, inside. There is a cost for all that, I think. It wears the body down. Whatever. I don’t want to be clinging to life, not when there’s no one there to care for me. I don’t want to live until I’m a hundred years old. Or anywhere close to that. I want to be gone. I want to be called home to a better place.

It all is what it is, I guess. For all of us. We’ll stay, until we are called home. Because life is a rare and precious and beautiful thing. And that means all of life. It was for Mom, right up to her lingering last days, and those final brutal hours. Maybe those weren’t beautiful, at least not from where we are, or how we see it. But still. Those last brutal hours were life.

And life is a rare and beautiful thing for my father, too, I think, as dusk settles and the darkness closes in around him.

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The Grave-Worker’s Tale…

“Ah, Lord!” he muttered, shaking his head sadly,

thinly, wearily in the dark. “I have seen them all…

I have seen them come and go….” And for a moment,

he was silent. “It’s pretty strange when you think

of it,” he muttered….And he was silent, and

darkness, mystery, and night were all about us.

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

It was just an ordinary late afternoon, last Saturday. Big Blue and I were cruising around, running some errands. And it was a little early to be stopping by, when I came to Vinola’s. But I pulled in. Rosita had told me. She and a few friends were checking out the place tonight, soon before six. The restaurant part, I mean. I love Vinola’s. I think I might have mentioned that before, on this blog. I’m always raving about the place on Facebook. I brag about how great it is, wherever I go. The food is just fantastic. If you’re ever in the area, you really should stop by and check it out. There’s a restaurant, there, for all you people who won’t sit at the bar. If you stop by, tell them Ira sent you. And spend lots of money. I’m figuring to work up a few comp drinks, here. Anyway, I had told Rosita often, at work. You and Ken should check it out sometime. And tonight, she was there, with a few friends. So that’s why I pulled in early, to see them.

They were sitting at a table right close to the door, when I walked in. I sat with them and chatted for a while. Rosita had ordered an “Ira,” a real sweet drink Amy the barmaid named after me a few months back. (Nah, the story of how that all happened would take too much time, so I’ll skip it. I’m pretty proud to have a drink named after me, though.) They were waiting on their food. How’s the drink? I asked. They all beamed. “It’s really sweet and good,” Rosita said. Well, I said. If you’re not used to alcohol, I’d suggest that the three of you just share that one. It’s got a lot of different stuff in it. We chatted along. Outside, in the parking lot, a pickup with a cattle trailer was backing in under the big old oak tree. I looked. It’s not often you see a rig like that pulling into Vinola’s. The driver got out, walked around to the other side, opened the rear door, and pulled out a wheelchair. The guy in the passenger’s side lifted himself over, and they trundled in. I watched. Right up to the bar, they went. It was a little high for the guy in the wheelchair, but he made it work.

I walked over to the bar, then. It was pretty full, for it being so early. I took a seat at the far right end, behind the beer taps. Amy smiled in welcome and mixed up my Rob Roy. She brought it over with my usual glass of water. I hear someone ordered an “Ira” tonight, I told her. She laughed. “Yeah, when she (the server) first asked for it, she said someone wants an ‘Ora.’ I told her to go back and ask again, and she came back and said ‘Ira.’ I knew what to mix up, then,” she said. I laughed, too.

I just relaxed, then, and watched some football. I chatted a bit to the guy next to me. Kind of lean and wiry, he was, with a little blond mustache. He didn’t seem all that talkative, so I didn’t push anything. A few minutes later, I asked him, though. You get here often? I really like this place. I call it my bar. I live only a few miles away, so it’s real handy for me to get to.

“I’m here a lot,” he said. “Just earlier in the day. I got a forty-five minute drive, to get home. But I work two minutes from here. So it’s pretty nice for me, when I’m leaving work, to have a drink before that long drive home. But it’s usually around mid-afternoon, when I stop by. So I’m here late, for me.”

We chatted a bit more. And then I asked what guys ask each other. What do you work? He told me. “I work for (I forget the name), a burial vault company. That’s what I do. I go out and install burial vaults.”

I looked at him, extremely interested. A guy who worked in the death industry. I’ve often seen those trucks going down the road, pulling those funny little trailers. I’ve often wondered how it would be, to work for a place like that. Where you’re out at someone’s grave, almost every day. Not that there’s anything wrong with such work. Someone has to do it. Still, it’s the kind of thing I’ve always kind of shrank from. Working in graveyards. I never figured I’d ever experience anything like actually doing such a thing. Now, here was the next best thing. A guy who did.

Wow, I told him. You mean you go out and install vaults that will hold the coffins? That’s pretty wild. And I asked a lot of questions, rat-a-tat. Do you dig the graves, too? How about covering it, after you put that lid on the vault? What’s a vault made of? How do you deal with being around death, so much? Practically every day like that?

When you ask people what they do for a living, they can tell if you’re genuinely interested with your questions. They can tell, if you’re being fake or real. And he opened right up, and talked and talked. We sat there, sipping our drinks, just like old friends.

And he told me a bit about his work. It’s an industry, of itself. People who work in it know each other, are connected, a lot. He used to manage a smaller vault company, west of here. But he got tired of that, and came over to this much larger company in Leola. He liked not having the pressures that come from management. He liked just working in the shop, and going out to the field. “It’s good pay,” he said. “And I’ll never run out of work. Whatever happens, I’ll always have work.” Yeah, I said. I can sure see that.

And he told me a bit about his world. Most vaults are made of concrete, although you can buy cheaper wooden ones. The concrete vaults are warrantied to remain sealed for a hundred years. What kind of sense does that make? I asked. I mean, who’s gonna dig down and check, say, in fifty or sixty years, whether the lid’s still sealed or not? “It’s just a marketing gimmick,” he said. Well, I said. It’s probably for the living, that warranty. It’s sure not gonna make any difference to the person in the ground. He agreed. “It’s for the living.”

I asked how it all comes down, to take a vault out and put it in the ground. And he told me. He goes out to the graveyard an hour or two before the burial. He backs up to the hole, and that pole and winch system on his little trailer goes to work. He sets the vault down, and makes sure it’s right. Then he pulls off to the side a bit, and waits for the coffin to get there. The vault lid is still on his truck. Often, the deceased’s name is inscribed on the lid. And mourners can come around and check it out, if they want to. After the coffin goes down and the crowd leaves, he lowers the lid onto the vault. He’s the last guy to see the coffin before it disappears forever into the earth.

I kept asking questions. Do you cover up the hole? No, there are companies who contract to dig and cover up. All he does is go put in the vault and lower the coffin and cover it up. Then he leaves. That’s why he’s at Vinola’s earlier, most days. But that day, that Saturday afternoon, he had a late burial, at four o’clock. And that’s why he was there, and that’s why we were talking.

And I told him a little bit about Mom’s passing, last April. I come from the Amish, up in Canada. They bury their dead by hand, I said. It’s all done by hand, and the coffin is lowered by hand. And it’s covered up by hand, too, with shovels. And I told him how, up there in Aylmer, the pallbearers actually get down into the hole, and stand on the lid. And how the dirt is carefully handed down, and carefully placed. Until the lid is covered. Then they throw the dirt in, I said.

He was impressed. “That’s pretty respectful,” he said. “There’s an old guy over in such-and-such township (I don’t remember which one. I wasn’t taking notes.). He’s dug graves by hand, all his life. He’s seventy-two years old, and his hands are unbelievably thick and strong. He’ll dig a grave and cover it up for four hundred bucks. That’s way cheaper than the other contractors charge, with their machines. I told him he needs to raise his prices a bit. I mean, he’s out there, digging and hacking at rocks, in every kind of weather.”

That’s pretty amazing, I said. And then I asked him. Are you ever at a burial where no one shows up? He looked at me. “Yes,” he said. “Two or three a year. But you multiply that by all the workers who are doing what I’m doing, and it adds up.”

That’s awful, I said. How would that be, if no one shows up at your funeral? Not that it would that much difference after you’re gone, I guess. But still, I feel bad for anyone like that.

“I buried a millionaire, once,” he told me. “And there wasn’t a single person there, except me and the undertaker. A millionaire.” Someone had to have lived a pretty lonely life, I said. He looked at me. “His family bought the cheapest coffin they could buy. Do you know what the cheapest coffin is made of?

Oh, probably some kind of pressed wood, I said. He shook his head. Paused a little dramatically. “It’s made of cardboard,” he said. “That millionaire was buried in a cardboard box, and no one came to his funeral.” Ah, man, I said. I feel bad for the guy. “Well,” he said. “The undertaker told me the guy’s brother came in and said they want the cheapest coffin there was. His brother was always cheap, the guy said. So they wanted to treat him how he’d treated them.”

Any way you look at it, that’s pretty sad, I said. It’s sad that anyone would have to be buried alone, buried by strangers. And it’s even sadder that anyone would be buried in a cardboard box. And we talked some more. I asked him. Do you ever sense any spiritual stuff going on, in your work? He looked at me, startled. Well, it has to be there, I said. It has to be.

“Not so much, with what I’m doing, and where I am,” he said. I bet the funeral home people see that stuff, I said. The undertakers. He nodded. “Now there’s one strange bunch of people,” he said. “But in all the years I’ve done this, I’ve ever seen only one body.” And he told me the story.

“There’s this one undertaker who didn’t like me, when I first came around,” he said. “I don’t know why. But he didn’t. And one afternoon, it was only me and him, out there doing the burying. And he claimed that another person had to witness that there was actually a body in that coffin. So he opened it up, and I looked.” He stopped talking and looked at me, and grappled for words. “Then the guy said, ‘Oh, the body slipped down. I have to pull it up and straighten it.’ He stood there, and grabbed the body under each arm, and yanked it around. The head was just flopping all around. I tell you, I can see that as clearly, sitting here telling you about it, as I saw it when it happened.”

Wow, I said. That’s pretty crazy. Yeah, I’m sure the people who embalm bodies see things the rest of us never see. I’m sure they do. He looked at me again, pretty intently. Then he said, “When it comes to protection from any kind of spiritual evil, or any kind of protection, really, I trust Him.” He pointed straight up. “He has protected me, all my life. He has. And I think He will keep right on doing that.” That’s great, I said. Yeah, I hear that. I trust Him, too.

He had to go, then, soon. It was dark outside, and late, for him. After a trip to the restroom, he walked back to me. He stood there, and extended his hand. I shook it. He spoke his name and I told him mine. “Maybe I’ll see you around here again, sometime,” he said. “Thanks for hanging out.” I enjoyed it, too, I told him. And yeah, maybe we can do this again sometime.

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

A few odds and ends. First, Billy the Ghost. I’m always pretty amazed when people come up and talk about something I wrote. And I’ve heard the question more than a few times. How’s Billy doing? Is he still around? They ask wisely. And I always chuckle and shake my head. Nah, he’s been real quiet, lately. The tenant’s not claiming to be hearing anything. Maybe Billy read what I wrote about him, and decided to lay low for a while. I don’t know. But he’s been real quiet.

And I guess I have a little confession to make. I need to clean up my soul. Confess, and maybe get victory in the future. My book reviews on Amazon, those have been trickling in, off and on, all along. Nothing will show up for weeks and weeks, then all of a sudden, there’s three new ones in two days, or some such thing. And all along, I’ve never, never asked for them, on any public forum. Sure, when I’d give someone a signed copy (and I’ve given away a LOT of copies), I’d suggest that a review would be nice. Some very few people posted one, the vast majority didn’t. And that was OK. I wasn’t going to hound anyone. I gave you a book. Write a review. I wanted it to be a natural thing.

The numbers crawled along, crawled upward, all this past year or two. Four hundred. Then a painstakingly slow climb to that Holy Grail. Five hundred. I wanted that number so bad I could taste it. And a month or two back, one evening I looked and it was at 486. Four hundred and eighty-six reviews on Amazon. And I thought, what the heck? I’m going to ask for some. I want to reach that plateau.

And I did something I had never done before. I went on Facebook and asked for reviews. Here’s what I posted. “Latest review on Amazon. And yeah, I sure keep an eye on it. I want to get to 500. The 484th review had a simple message. ‘It jumps around too much.’ Keep talking, you readers. I don’t care if it’s one star, or five. Just get me to 500.”

And just like that, reviews started popping up. By the next day, it was in the 490s. And a day or two later, I checked the numbers in the morning. And there it was. 500. Five hundred reviews on Amazon. And yeah, I cheated a little. I asked for those last sixteen. Still, when you look at it, that many reviews on Amazon ain’t too bad, no matter how they got there. Especially not for an ex-Amish redneck who just happened to get a book published.

OK. My soul feels cleansed, now. One final thing, about the book. An email came in, way last spring. From some person, at Penn State Dubois. A small, small branch of the original place. Penn State. I’ve always despised that football team. But I have to say, I’ve always respected JoPa. The man was and is a legend. They tore him down, at the end, though. He died, a broken old man, because of all that. It was a public lynching. Everyone piled on hysterically, to deflect from their own sins. All of it made me sick. The way they took his wins away, that’s all just BS, too. If you judge Joe Paterno, you’re judging yourself. You’re judging the dark places in your own depraved heart.

Anyway, I got an email from Penn State DuBois, last spring. It was a “feeler” email. They give a book to all incoming students, to read, before they come. And this year, someone had suggested mine. If they did that, would I consider coming to speak to the incoming class? I almost figured the email was spam. But I answered. Yes. Of course. I’d be delighted to.

I couldn’t figure out, how my book would ever get slipped in like that. To a freshman class, in a secular University. That puzzled me. There has to be something subversive going on, I thought. And we talked, the person at Penn State DuBoise and me. “What’s your speaker’s fee?” She asked.

I don’t even know what a speaker’s fee is. Or I didn’t, back then. I almost said, five hundred dollars. That would cover my cost of fuel. And give me a little, left over. But I didn’t say it. I hedged. What can you offer? And she didn’t hesitate. “How about fifteen hundred dollars?” she asked. Yeah, I said. I think that’ll work for me.

After that happened, I got to thinking. I could have priced myself at twice that, and nobody would have blinked an eye. So now I’m telling the world. If you want me to come speak at any university event, my price is five thousand bucks, plus expenses. Am I worth that? I am, if you’ll pay me. So that’s what I’m charging. I’ll sure consider some pretty hefty discounts, like gas money and food, if you’re contacting me to come speak to your little book club. No discounts for universities, though, unless you fly me to Germany, or some such thing. Then, I’ll take what you give me. Here, in this country, my speaker’s fee is flat. Five grand. Take it or leave it.

And they scheduled me to come speak to the class earlier this month, a few weeks back. It had been a while since I spoke to such a large group. I headed out the day before, and drove all the way up to northwestern PA. Right off Rt. 80, that’s where DuBois is. I checked in at the motel the college had booked for me. I told the clerk my name. He looked at me. “Are you coming to speak about your book?” he asked. Yep, that’s me, I said. “Well, I’ve heard a lot about it,” he told me. Turned out that he was in the freshman class, but he had enrolled only a few days before classes started. So he hadn’t read the book the other freshmen had read earlier in the summer.

The next day, I wandered over to the little campus. Dressed in flannel shirt and jeans. An author can get away with just about anything, when it comes to things like that. We’re expected to be a little eccentric. I checked out the place a bit. Nice little school. At 11:30, I walked in to meet Marly Doty, the person who had contacted me. She showed me the little auditorium, where I’d be speaking. There, I met Tharren Thompson, the Director of Diversity. What a weird title, I thought. I didn’t even know there was such a thing. We hit it right off, he and I. Got along real, real well. Turned out he’s the one who had suggested my book. I thanked him profusely for that.

They had invited the public, too. And the place did not fill up, but a nice little crowd came. Probably sixty-five people, or so. It went about like it always does. I talked for half an hour, then read a passage from the book. The first date scene. And then I opened up for questions. I always enjoy that part. There’s never any shortage of those. And someone always asks. “How is Sarah doing?” I always hang my head in shame. And I tell them what I know.

It was over, then, and I stood in the back, by the piano. Signed the books people brought. And sold and signed a few that I had brought. It was all very enjoyable. I could use a few more events like that. Especially at my current speaker’s fee.

A few words about the Bible Study. The first one had only one person. The second one had three. And we wondered, as the next Tuesday approached. Would anyone new come? Allen Beiler was coming, we knew, and bringing his brother, Andrew. But would anyone else show up?

We hung out upstairs as 6:30 approached. Glancing out the window nervously. And all of a sudden, through the open window. there came a clatter of steel wheels, and the clopping of a horse. There’s a buggy driving in, I hollered at Reuben. The rig pulled up to the hitching rail, and a young man stepped out. Tied up his horse. And we went and welcomed him. A friend of mine, who I’ve known for years. I hadn’t seen him in a while, though. Allen and Andrew arrived, then, and we all had a real good time. The third Bible Study had five people. Not exactly taking the world by storm, here. But still. Increasing numbers.

Then, on Tuesday of this week, I got a call from my friend, Amos Smucker. He’s a horse dentist. I’ve never heard of such a thing. There were no such people around where I grew up. And now, a horse dentist wanted to come to where we are gathering. Could he come that night? He wondered. And could he bring a friend? Of course, I told him. Anyone can come. You don’t have to ask permission. You can come once, and never come back again, if that’s what you want. You can come sporadically, when it suits you. It’s not a continuation, the Bible Study, where you have to be there every week, or you’ll miss something. No particular theme. Just listening to individual sermons. Just come when you can.

And that night, nine people showed up, including the guy driving the horse and buggy. We were kind of a rag-tag group, I guess. But we were all pretty comfortable, I think. The group doesn’t have a name, yet. Maybe we could call ourselves the Rag-Tags.

And I thought about it, later. The most honest place you’ll ever find is at the bar. That’s where people open up, where people speak from the heart. And that’s how safe and comfortable we’d like our Bible Study to be. As safe and comfortable as the bar.

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“Bible Studies” and Me…

But at night, had they not heard the howlings of demented wind,

the sharp, clean, windy raining to earth of acorns? Had all of them

not walked down lonely roads at night in winter and seen a light

and known it was theirs? Had all of them not known the wilderness?

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

OK. I know I’m going to get clobbered, here. At least figuratively, by a lot of you. But I’m going to say it anyway, because it’s triggered by events that have just been coming down around me. And you write from where you are, is what I’ve always claimed. So I’ll just go ahead and say it. I’ve never liked Bible Studies or Prayer Meetings. Never been all that comfortable in or around such places. To me, Prayer Meetings and Bible Studies have always been just flat-out boring, and dreadfully dull.

I’m not talking about your Bible Study, or your prayer group, if you attend such a thing and enjoy it. I’m not saying you don’t get a lot of support from your “small group” people. So don’t go and get all offended. I’m only talking about my own perceptions. My own experiences. I come from the Amish. They don’t do such things. They never meet to openly pray, or study the Bible. Plus, they only have church service every two weeks. You come from a setting like that, and it’s a little different. It’s disconcerting when you suddenly walk into a world where there’s church every Sunday. And some sort of church or Bible Study every Wednesday night. It’s like, oh my, all of this is a bit much. It’s a lot of talk, from a lot of people who don’t have a whole lot of other choices. Do I really have to go? And it all got just a wee bit tiresome, for me.

I remember it so well, when I moved down to Daviess from northern Indiana after I left the Amish. The Wagler family welcomed me. And it was just naturally assumed I’d go to their church. Mount Olive Mennonite. A plain, plain group. Pretty much like the Beachy Amish, maybe even stricter in some ways. And that church welcomed me, too, just like the Waglers had. I was pretty traumatized right at that time. I had broken free, and I knew there would be no return. Ever. But I wasn’t quite sure what it was to walk forward. The people at Mount Olive made me welcome. They were kind, and I will never forget that kindness.

I remember the first Wednesday night service I ever went to, after leaving. Prayer Meeting, I think they called it. Same as a Bible Study, really, except it’s the whole church. Someone had a topic of some sort. “Topics” are usually dry as a bone. There’s lots of admonishing going on, about what it is to live right. And lots of Amens. After the topic that night, we split off into small groups. I tagged along with the little group of youth I was with, as we walked down to the basement. And we sat around, in a little circle. Someone asked for prayer requests. People said things like “We need rain. Crops are real dry.” Or “Let’s pray for so-and-so, that he’ll get saved.” I can’t ever remember a real meaningful deep personal request coming from anyone’s heart. But I digress. Back to that very first night. After the requests were gathered, someone started praying. A short prayer, maybe a minute or two. And then the next person prayed. I stirred, and looked around in panic. It was creeping right around, and soon it would be my turn. I’d never prayed aloud in public, before. I didn’t know how. What do you say? And then it was the guy next to me’s turn. He prayed. And then it was my time. My turn.

The only reason I remember that particular scene is because of that frozen moment. I sat there, silent and paralyzed. I couldn’t speak. After an agonizing ten or twenty seconds, I waved my hand. I pass. And mercifully, the guy on the other side of me didn’t blink or hesitate. He prayed his little prayer. And it went on around the circle, until it was finished. Nobody mentioned anything, about how I had not prayed. But I felt pretty ashamed. And yes, the next time at Prayer Meeting, I did manage to squeak out a few words. It was so hard to force myself. I just didn’t come from a place like that. And in time, I got to be decently fluent, when speaking aloud to the Lord. One thing, though. My spoken prayers were never, never long. They still aren’t. Not anything like the prayers from my heart. Those prayers go on and on, every day, like a preacher who doesn’t know when it’s time to shut up and sit down. I’m OK with that, though. I think the Lord is OK with that, too.

The Mount Olive Church people were pretty plain and strict. And if you didn’t show up at Prayer Meeting for a few weeks in a row, someone would come to investigate. Ahem. Any particular reason we’re not seeing you on Wednesday nights? And you shrivel, before an interrogation like that. You never really had a whole lot of choice. You had to go. A couple of things saved me, in the end. I came out to Lancaster, that first summer, to work for the money that I needed for college. And that fall, I enrolled at Vincennes University. So I wasn’t around, much, on Wednesday nights, anymore. I had a valid excuse, not to go to those Prayer Meetings. No one bugged me about not being there. And that was all just fine with me.

Those were Prayer Meetings. I’ve run into a few Bible Studies, too, in my wanderings. Little groups of adult singles, mostly, years ago. I went sometimes, just to mingle. And to meet people. But I was uneasy, at some of what went on. There was always lots of talk about some “victory” someone was living, right then. Lots of cheering going on, and bland talk about how good God is. Always, at some point, they’d try to get you to share your innermost dark secrets. Your sins. The stuff you were struggling with. The places of the heart that only the Lord knows. And maybe one or two other persons, in all the world, if that. I’m not gonna share that kind of stuff with people at a Bible Study. I’m just not, not when I just walked into the door. Why would I trust what they’re telling me to do? Why would I speak from the dark places in my heart? I wouldn’t. And I didn’t. I didn’t know them well enough, to go there. Not everyone was like that, of course. I met some real nice people at Bible Studies, people who truly cared, and were doing their best to walk a Christian life. It was the nosy ones that irritated me.

And mostly, I remember this, about the nosy ones. They seemed garishly eager, to get you to talk. Come on. Share your struggles. Share your sins. It was, of course, so they could “pray” for you. You won’t get victory unless you confess. And repent. That’s what they told me. And the more they pressured me, the more I shrank from them. From what I’d seen and heard in the Mennonite and Beachy communities, people ask you to share your burdens so they can pray for you, sure. And I’m sure they do. Pray for you, from above. But then they run around and tell others, often. Their “prayer circle” friends, probably. Those that do, their talk is always cloaked with “loving” language, like, the poor boy is struggling and needs prayer. Please pray for Ira. But at its core foundation, stuff like that is nothing but flat-out gossip. That’s something I saw, growing up. Gossip, I mean. Not Prayer Meetings. And I can sense the roots of gossip, no matter what kinds of glossy words it’s coated with.

That’s all real sketchy detail, right there. And I know it’s sketchy, to explain where I’m coming from. It all was what it was, back when it happened. And I may have been a little overly sensitive. But that’s why I’ve always had issues with Prayer Meetings and Bible Studies. And that’s where I am, or was, until real recently. And to tell you why I’m in a different place, there’s a big time bunny trail coming up, right here. But I promise to circle back.

There’s an old friend in my life. His name is Reuben. We’ve known each other all our lives. We were pretty much best friends, in all that time. I mean, from back when we were kids. And a number of years back, he made some very, very bad choices. He chose to walk down some real hard roads. He made some destructive, destructive decisions. And his world blew up. Just blew up into smithereens. He chose to leave his wife and family, for an idol. He did that. Walked away from his family. And from where I was at that time, well, he chose to leave all we had known as old friends, for an idol, too. And we were totally estranged, he and I, for a few years. Oh, yes, we were. If you know the story, you don’t need to hear it told again. If you don’t know the story, then what you’re being told here is enough.

Let’s just say that I wrote savagely at him, right here on this blog. I swore to curse him and his seed forever. Never quite got that done, though. I wanted to, but somehow, it just never happened. And yeah, that writing is all still right where I posted it, back when. It’s a record of a journey, I guess. And no, I won’t point you to any of it. If you want to read it, track it down yourself.

He left, then, and moved to a faraway land for a few years. And then, about three years ago or so, he moved back into the area to reconnect with his broken family. Mostly with his children, his sons and daughters. He wanted to get back into the daily operations of his business at Graber Supply, too. And he reached out to me, to see if some kind of reconciliation could be possible. I was extremely skittish, when he approached me, put out the feelers. But I didn’t discount it. And over time, we got to where we could talk, face to face. And there was a glimmer there, of what once was before. I could see it was all worth repairing, the broken pieces. Time had moved on. It couldn’t be what it was before, I figured. The friendship, I mean. But it could be something. Something worth building back up.

And, yeah, I’m very aware that there are many people out there who have looked very strangely at me in the past few years. What are you thinking? We’re lined up, here, behind you, with our swords drawn. Ready to follow and strike and condemn Reuben for all his sins. What’s wrong with you? You were real mad. Seething mad, bent to destroy all he is or ever was. And then, all of a sudden, you just laid down your sword. Are you weak, or what? How can we hold our swords up, when you won’t hold up your own? How can we follow, when you won’t lead?

And yeah, I hear all that talk. Well, not so much talk as murmurs. I feel those people looking askance, all around me. And that’s OK. I am where I am. I choose to walk where I walk. If you think that’s weak, that’s OK, too. But my response to all such bloodthirsty Christians is this. Thank you. I appreciate your loyal support. But I got a simple thing to ask. Why don’t you live your own lives, and let me live mine? What possible business is it of yours, what choices I make about who I hang out with?

And over time, we relaxed a bit, Reuben and me. There was still some tension there, depending on what might come up, or what might be triggered in my mind. There were a whole lot of moments like that, in my head. But we worked hard at it, he and I, to reach a new dawn. And I have to say, it was all pretty seamless, when he came back into the daily operations of his company.

It’s been tough, for him, outside of my own issues. And no, this is not a sob story about the poor guy. We all pretty much deserve what comes at us, that way. But still, it has been tough. There’s a whole heck of a lot of judgment out there, at him. Totally deserved, I’m sure. But still. At what point does one begin to lower the walls a bit? Even for such a wicked sinner as him?

There’s always a light that comes shining through, at some point, in a story such as this. Or the telling of it probably wouldn’t be happening. And that light came last November. Reuben and I had taken to hanging out, after work, every couple of weeks or so. We sipped scotch, and talked. (When we reconnected, I swore I would never drink with him. It took more than a year, for that little oath to fall by the wayside.) And it was mostly good, always. But one day, after work, he seemed a little excited. He had read some article on some internet site, written by some leftist woman who worked for Fox News. I don’t remember her name, and it doesn’t matter. But she was pretty well known. She came from the high-browed, elitist crowd. She was way too smart, way too educated to believe in such a thing as God. Faith was for hicks. And she wrote about how she came to know Christ. She lived in New York City. The center of the world. And somehow, she got drawn to attend a church there. Redeemer Presbyterian. She heard the sermons of Pastor Tim Keller. And eventually, she wrote, the hound of heaven hunted her down. Jesus stood by her bed, in a dream. And asked her to come to him. And now she knew. Now she believed in Jesus. And she wrote very unashamedly about her journey. And about where she was right then, and how she got there.

Reuben was fascinated by that article. It was so open and so honest, especially coming from a mainstream media personality. And he followed the link the woman posted, to Redeemer Presbyterian. And in less than a week, I saw the change in him. He was listening to those sermons. He told me about it. I’ve never seen the man more excited. He sent me a link or two. And one Sunday, when I couldn’t make it to Chestnut Street Chapel, I pulled up that link and listened. Tim Keller is a very dynamic speaker. And no, I don’t mean he yells and carries on. He doesn’t. He talks very calmly, infusing his message with lots of humor. But it’s always, always grounded in Scripture. And his message was inside out, from all I ever heard, growing up. Not that I hadn’t heard it before. It’s right along the same veins that Pastor Mark Potter has been preaching at Chestnut Street, these past three years or so. The same stuff. Powerful stuff. Life-changing stuff. It doesn’t take you long, to grasp the real truth, what real freedoms is, when you hear Pastor Mark. And it doesn’t take you long, when you hear Tim Keller.

Reuben listened and listened to those Tim Keller sermons. I know that because the man wouldn’t stop talking about what he was hearing. Always, in every conversation, it got woven in, somehow, what he’d heard. And it changed him, too. His personality. He’s always been a driven man, as you’d have to be, to build up a business like he did. And he’s always had a tendency, sometimes, to let the pressures get to him. He’d get all snappy and uptight and loud. That part of him disappeared, almost completely and very soon.

And he told me, early on. “Every morning, when I get up, that’s the first thing I do. I drink coffee and listen to a sermon.” Well, what do you do with that? You cheer the man on, in this case. As I did. I was hearing the same stuff at my church, just at a more entry level. It’s preached for people like me, people who come from a guilt-ridden background like the Amish. Here is the path. It’s upside down, from all you ever heard. That’s what Pastor Mark preaches. So I could connect with what Reuben was telling me about what he was hearing.

I thought the whole thing might fade, for Reuben. He was living pretty loosely, in some areas of his life, back last November. Just like I’ve lived pretty loosely with my scotch for some time, now. And I saw him ponder and reflect on what was or wasn’t right. Not as a lost person. But as a child of God, awaking to the light, struggling to grasp, to see, to accept the gift that was there for him. And the next thing you knew, he was driving to New York City every Sunday morning, to actually attend Redeemer Presbyterian. Right into the big old evil city, he went. Week after week, and Sunday after Sunday. And he wouldn’t stop talking about what he was hearing. The gospel. I marveled. And I told him. When you hear a particularly good sermon that you think I might like, send me the link. He took me up on that. Two or three times a week, here comes another email with a link. I made a separate file, the Keller file, for what he sends me. And when I feel the need, I go and click on one of those sermons. I listen to what he heard. And I completely understand why Reuben is so excited about it all. Tim Keller is a true (and flawed) servant of God.

And no, it didn’t happen as you’d expect it to in any feel-good Christian story. Where everything suddenly gets all cleaned up and everyone is reunited and singing happy praises. And now everything is perfect. It didn’t and it’s not. Life is messy, and it’s just as messy for Christians as it is for anyone else. At least it is, if you’re honest. Which a lot of Christians aren’t, because they think they have to act all happy and bubbly about what Jesus did for them, all the time. That kind of pressure is an awful thing. So this little story doesn’t end like that. Reuben did not return to his wife. They are divorced. They remain divorced. I don’t judge that. How can I? I’m divorced, too.

And time passed on. A month or two ago, he told me one day. He’d love to start a men’s group of some kind. A Bible Study, although he didn’t call it that. He had in mind that a few guys could just hang out, upstairs in the conference room at work. And listen to a Keller sermon. They’re only forty minutes long, right across. And then there would be discussion. Sure, I said. If that’s what your heart’s telling you to do, then just do it. “Ah, I don’t know,” he said. “I’m not sure anyone will come if I invite them.” Well, try it. And he texted a few friends, a few weeks back. “Next Tuesday evening, at 6:30. I’d love to see you here, for a Bible Study.”

I’d come, I told him when he asked. But this is blog week. I don’t go out evenings on blog week, much. But go ahead. And that Tuesday, I asked him. Anyone committed to coming, yet? “No,” he said. “I guess I’ll just go and wait and see if anyone shows up.” And that’s what he did. The next morning, I asked him. Well, who came? “I had a very nice time,” he said bravely. “All by myself.” And I felt bad for the man. Here he was, all excited. Wanting to just get together with a few guys, and share what he had found. And no one came.

Have one again next Tuesday night, I said. I’ll come, if no one else will. And so he scheduled it for Tuesday of last week. As that day came, I asked him. Did anyone commit to come? “No,” he said. “Are you still coming?” I plan to, I said. And I got to thinking. Who could I invite? This is Lancaster County. Everyone’s all busy all the time. It’s tough, to get something like this going. I called one friend. He’d like to, but he had other things planned. That’s totally OK, I said. I just thought I’d check.

Then I thought of my friend, Allen Beiler. He and his family have been coming to my church, now and then. I knew he was a market guy. Late in the week never suits him. He’s at market. But this was Tuesday. So I texted him. Would you like to come to a Bible Study here at the office tonight? I figured he would have something going. But he texted right back. “This is a little weird. I was just going to text you to see if you want to go hang out at Vinola’s tonight. So, sure, I’ll plan on being there.” Great. There will be at least three guys, I thought. That’s better than one, and it’s better than two. I texted Reuben. My friend Allen’s coming. He was going to text me to see if I want to hang out at Vinola’s. He’s coming here, instead. His response: “Amazing.”

I just puttered around at my desk after the others left at five. And right at six, Reuben walked in. He’d brought snacks and bottled water. He trundled everything upstairs, and set it out. Way too much food. And we sat there, talking, the two of us. We kept glancing out toward the road. A few minutes after 6:30, Allen’s big old dually pulled in. He parked, and walked up to join us. I made the introductions, and we sat and visited for a while. And then Reuben pulled up the sermon he had in mind for that first night.

We sat around the table and listened and took a few notes. Keller’s theme. Is God love or is He judgment? One side claims He’s all love. The other side focuses pretty much on judgment. And Keller asked. Does God judge us? Oh, yes, He does. He judges every single thought, every single action, every second of every day. Not that He’s standing there with a big old sledgehammer to whack you with, if you make a mistake (my words, not his). But He definitely judges everyone, all the time. Keller gets a lot said in forty minutes. He had several closing points. The one I remember was this. If God is the judge, that means we have no right to be. Not saying you don’t judge people’s actions. This is me speaking again, not Keller. We have to. In business, for instance. If you’ve given me a bunch of bad checks in the past, I’ll insist that you pay cash for any building materials you buy from me. Things like that. There’s ten thousand more examples.

But we never, never have any right to judge another person’s heart. Never. That’s God’s job. We have no right to be resentful or unforgiving at anyone who’s wronged us, either. No matter how deep that wrong was. And, yeah, I know a little bit about all that. It takes time, often, to get over a wrong, to heal from a wound that sliced deep. Lots of time, sometimes. And it takes Light that can only come from one source. Time. And Light. I guess it can all be broken down into two other things Keller keeps talking about, too. Forgiveness. And love.

And those two terms don’t mean anything close to what I was brought up thinking they mean. Forgiveness isn’t so much consciously forgiving someone else for the wrong they did me. It’s more like trying to get some small, small grasp of how deeply depraved my own heart is (Yes, is. Not was.), and how much I have been forgiven, simply as a gift, by grace. And love? That’s simply loving God.

After the sermon was over, we just sat around and talked. And it was open and honest talk. Good stuff, spoken from our hearts. And no, there was no closing prayer, although there certainly would have been nothing wrong with one. We just didn’t think about it. By soon after 8:00 or so, we were fixing to leave. And we talked about it. This was great. When can we do it again? We checked our schedules. We settled on next Tuesday evening, Oct. 14th. Here at Graber Supply, at 6:30. Allen’s going to pick the sermon we’ll listen to. Let’s try to get a few more people over, we agreed.

And now, for the first time in my life, I guess I can say I’m excited about going to a Bible Study. And if you’re a guy and you’re anywhere close, you are welcome to attend, too. I don’t care who you are, or what you believe. You can be one who sees things just like I do, or close to it. Or you don’t have to believe anything, about whether or not there is a God. You can be an agnostic, or an atheist. You’re still welcome. And I’m not just saying that. You really are. Yeah, you’ll have to listen to a sermon. That might be a negative thing to you. But it’s only forty minutes long, and I think you’ll be intrigued. And no, you won’t get clobbered, or ganged up on. You will be totally accepted. Same thing goes for all you judgmental Christians, too, of course. Come and listen, and speak your voice. You will be heard. I don’t care what your motivations are. You are welcome. And you will be totally accepted, too.

A couple of rules, and I mean, only two. You are expected to be cordial in your speech and conduct, of course. That’s a given. But the only two real rules are this. No drinking at the Bible Study. (You can go to the bar afterward, if you want. But you can’t drink there.) And if you smoke, you must step outside to do so. Those rules seem pretty manageable, I think.

I’m not sure where this thing is going, or if it’ll ever develop into much. For now, it is what it is, I guess. Just a few guys, hanging out. I’m looking forward to what might yet come, though.

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Gifts From The Sea…

We must free ourselves of the hope that the sea will ever rest.

We must learn to sail in high winds.

—Aristotle Onassis

____________________

Beach Week is almost an idol to me. Almost. But not quite. So I make no excuses for raving about it. It happens once a year. For one week. One minute, out of every fifty-two. Problem is, those minutes are condensed. You look forward, to them coming, for a long time. And then they arrive. They speed by at a highly accelerated rate. And then, they’re gone.

I felt it coming, that Friday. One more day, then the beach. It wasn’t so much joyous anticipation. It was more like, man, I need this break. And I kept sighing loudly at work as the hours crept by. I wanna leave. By 3:30, Rosita told me. “Just go. We’re tired of hearing you sighing. You’re not getting a lick of work done, anyway. Just go.” Yes, Ma’am, I said. And I clocked out and headed straight home. No gym. I had things to do. Packing, mostly. I never pack until the day before. Or the evening before. And I texted the tenant as I bustled about. Are you home? He was. And I walked upstairs to see him.

I had told him I would be leaving for Beach Week. And now, I just wanted to fill in all the details for him. We’re leaving tomorrow. And I’ll be back next Saturday. “Ah, man, have a great time,” he said. “Just relax, and chill.” Yeah, I plan to, I said. This has been one tough year. “I know it was, for you,” he said, looking at me. “Your family’s gone through some tough things.” Yes, I said. We have. He nodded wisely.

He’d pick up my mail, every day, he told me. I can’t tell you how handy it is, to have a guy around like that. You know the place is in good hands, when you leave. And I looked at him as I was getting ready to leave. I want to know if you hear any noises, downstairs, when I’m gone. If Billy (we named the ghost Billy) makes any sounds, I want you to tell me when I get back. “Not a problem,” he said. “I will, if I hear anything.” And I looked at him again. Are you afraid? I asked. He shook his head. Dismissively. “No,” he said, simply. “No, I’m not afraid.” I’m not afraid, either, down there, I said. That’s my home. OK, we’ll catch up when I get back. And I left him, and went back downstairs to finish packing.

The next morning, right at seven, I pulled into Wilm’s drive. We take turns, driving to Beach Week. Well, I always drive. But we take turns, taking our vehicles down there. We split the costs for gas and tolls, right down the middle. Last year, I took Big Blue. This year, it was her turn. She has a little Toyota. It gets way better gas mileage than my truck does. But it doesn’t have a lot of room. I pulled up, and unloaded my bags and packed them in, wherever they fit. Wilm flitted about, dragging out trays of tomatoes, and all kinds luggage and other stuff, like large floppy hats. She makes Amish peanut butter for Beach Week every year. We stuffed all our stuff into her car, and it actually fit in without obscuring my rear view mirror view. And by 7:15, we were pulling out. Next up, Nag’s Head, NC. The beach. It all felt different, this year, though.

It was a sunny day, kind of cool. And I felt the stirring inside, to get there. But still, there was a sadness, too, and a deep tiredness. We had seen things, most of us heading to Beach Week. Everybody went through something tough this year, seemed like. Medical issues, and no, I’m not just talking about my heart. Wilm has lost all her hearing in one ear since last year, and the other one’s fading. That’s a tough thing. There’s been loss. There’s been death. Our little group had seen a lot since Beach Week came down last year.

We pushed on, down Rt. 1 to Rt. 13, on south toward the bridge tunnel. Wilm’s little car chugged right along. And a few miles before the bridge tunnel, we stopped at the dumpy little gas station where we always do. I fueled the car. Wilm walked inside. In a minute, she had returned. “The restrooms are out of order,” she said. “Both of them.” What? I hollered. This place was a dump, we knew that. But it was tradition, to stop here. Not anymore, if their restrooms don’t work. We got into the car and headed on south, hoping to find another gas station before the bridge tunnel. Thankfully, there was one, the last one, I think, before the crossing. Next year, we’ll stop a little further up the line, I grumbled. That was a close thing.

Through Virginia Beach, then, and onto the coastal highway toward the Outer Banks. That old familiar run, the anticipation stirring inside. Janice texted Wilm. She and Melony and Brian were half an hour ahead of us. They had already stopped at the fruit stand and stocked up. We’ll meet at Awful Arthur’s for a bite, then head on out to the house. And then came the warning message. We’re in a terrible traffic jam, here. It’s stopped. We sped along, and soon enough, the brake lights flashed on the cars ahead of us. We slowed and stopped. Traffic piled up behind us. I mean, we stopped, right there on that four-lane road.

We sat and sat. I asked Wilm if she’d read my blog, yet. She hadn’t; she’d been packing half the night. So I told her my ghost story, in all the colorful details. The tenant woke up one night, and he knew there was someone looking at him through the cracked open door. She shivered. And still we sat. Janice texted. There’s a disabled car on the bridge ahead. Disabled car? What does that mean? I grumbled. Here we are, so close, less than thirty miles away. And here we sit.

After an hour, the traffic began crawling along. Slowly, slowly. Onto the long, long bridge leading to the Outer Banks. They had one lane open, the fire truck and a cop car sitting where the accident had happened. The disabled car was gone, with nothing but charred pavement where it had sat. “Wow,” Wilm said. “It looks like the thing just blew up.” Unbelievable, I muttered. Of course, it had to happen just ahead of us, on the very day we’re heading for the beach.

We got to Awful Arthur’s, eventually. And found a place to park, that opened up like magic. We walked in. Janice and Melony and Brian had already found a table. They greeted us. And we all hugged each other. This was the classical start of Beach Week. Hanging out, here. We ordered our food. And our drinks. Celebrate this moment. That’s how we felt. And that’s what we did. Laughed and talked, and caught up with each other. It’s always a special thing, the very start of things.

We headed to the house, then. Clouds rolled in, and rain drizzled down. A dreary day, to arrive. None of that mattered, though. It was big and brand new and bright yellow, the house. Built on stilts, three stories high. We pulled in and unpacked our cars. Dragged up all our luggage. I seized the room back in the corner on the second floor. My usual spot, a place where I could get away from late-night noise if I wanted to. The house was laid out just like the one we’ve had the last two years. Kitchen and dining room on the top floor, so everyone could enjoy the scenery. We trundled our supplies up in the little elevator. No big beach house is complete without an elevator.

My nephew, Steven, and his load arrived right shortly after we got there. Him and Fred and Greg and Courtney. Evonda was getting there late Sunday night. They had a few new people with them. Will and Brandon, Steven’s friends. And Malissa, Fred’s friend. It’s one of the most exclusive groups I’ve ever been a part of, the regular beach week crowd. A much harder invite to get than, say, to my garage party. And if new people show up, I’m totally fine with that. They had to pass someone’s screening to get there. We hugged, the old friends, and I shook the hands of the newcomers as Steven introduced us. And we all just kind of settled into the house.

A few people wandered off to the grocery store. That first day, we always spend a few hundred bucks on food and supplies. We moved a few couches out onto the top balcony. That was the meeting place, where everyone settled for late night talk. And it was the spot for the smokers in the group, too. Everything was all snug and comfortable.

The rain stopped, but the dark clouds roiled and brewed out there. And just as dusk was creeping in, I wandered out to the beach. By myself. Just to see and feel the sea. And no, I won’t say all my tension and tiredness washed away like magic in that moment. It didn’t. I just stood there in the wind, absorbing the waves, and the roar of the ocean, for ten or fifteen minutes. And then I turned and walked back inside to join the others.

We just snacked on stuff that night, no formal meal. Afterward, we all sat outside, as the night closed in and settled. And that night, the first night, we talked about death. Mom’s and Abby’s. About our families, and how the clans came from all over. We relived a bit about Mom’s funeral, and then Janice and Steven spoke about that awful week when Abby passed. How eternally long it had seemed. How people came, of an evening, and no one knew quite what to say, how to comfort Dorothy and Lowell. Not that anyone was blaming anyone. They were just telling how it was. How exhausting it all was. How, by week’s end, there were simply no more tears left inside.

“But there was one lady,” Steven said. “She came around one afternoon and didn’t even come into the house. She got busy, weeding the flower beds. And then she disappeared for an hour or so. Then she came back with mulch, and mulched the flower beds. She never said a word to anyone. She just came and saw what needed doing, and she did it.”

Our talk drifted to other things, then. And by midnight or so, it was time for sleep. Our first night at the beach. The one thing about the beach is, you sleep in as long as you want to. Sure, you go to bed late. Very late, sometimes. But you sleep in. I usually get up somewhere around 9:30, and wander up, all bleary-eyed, to drink some coffee and eat something someone fried up. But that didn’t happen that first morning. At exactly 8:00, there was a pounding at the door. Get up. Good grief. This is Beach Week. Why do I have to get up at 8:00?

I remembered, though, from the night before. Steven wanted to get out early, and go get our fishing licenses. We were gonna do some serious fishing, this year. Last year, we stepped out timidly, tentatively. Bought some cheap junk rigs off the clearance rack. And Steven had told me, at Abby’s funeral. He had taken those cheap junk rods and reels home, and cleaned them. The reel gears were made of plastic, and just fell apart. I guess that’s what happens when you buy from the bargain bin. Anyhow, he had discarded all that junk tackle. And he had gone out and bought some real good quality stuff. Mostly used, from Ebay. I had told him. That’s great. I don’t care that my tackle is shot. I’ll look forward to seeing what you got.

And that first morning, that Sunday morning, we were heading out at nine. To the tackle shop, for gear and tags. It was actually a pretty nice day. The sea was calm. When we returned, I checked out Steven’s equipment. The man went all out. He had four spinning rigs, for fishing from the shore. But he had heavier stuff, too. For shark fishing, he told me. Trolling rods, short and stout and stubby, with open reels loaded with 60 pound line. You can’t cast with those rigs. But Steven had all that figured out.

They had fetched along two kayaks, loaded them on top of the trailer he hauled down. The plan was this. Steven had been at the beach last summer, and somehow he got connected with an old shark fisherman. You don’t fish for shark from the shore, by simply casting in your line. You take one of those trolling rigs. You bait it with a large hook, and a drag anchor, so the bait won’t move, once it’s down. You set up that rig on the shore. And then a guy gets into a kayak, and hauls the hook and bait way, way out, beyond the breakers. The guy drops the bait, and heads on back in. And you sit there, and you wait for your drag to scream.

I was pretty intrigued by it all. Steven had even done the research, and gone and bought a little fishing cart. A thing on wheels, with all kinds of slots to stick your rods in. And lots of room for tackle and bait. OK. We had the tackle, to go after shark. And now, all we had to do was go and do it.

That first day, Sunday, the sea was calm. That would change, later in the week. The days all fuse together, at the beach. So I’m not exactly sure when what happened happened. I guess I could go look at the pics. Anyway, either Sunday or Monday, I caught the only fish I caught this year. Three little things, almost too small to celebrate. But I was proud. And it felt good. We pitched our little fish into a tub, to use later for bait. For shark.

And the sea was calm and the air was clear, those first few days. It’s impossible to describe the calming effect the ocean has on who you are. Impossible. The waves keep crashing in, and you stand out in them and watch. Or you sit back in a chair, fishing pole stuck upright in the sand, and watch. You watch, either way. It’s eternal, and it’s unfathomable, the sea.

And it’s all kind of random, the things that came down at Beach Week. Turns out the brand new beach house was painted bright yellow for a reason. It was a lemon. Half the light bulbs were burned out, and didn’t work. Janice was horrified to find mold in the washing machines. And the first morning, a curling iron blew up in the hands of whoever plugged it in. Bad connection. Janice got right on the phone. This is unacceptable. We were at the beach for seven days. I think there was a maintenance man on the property on at least five of those days. I’m not sure if we’re going back to that same house, even though the rental company offered Janice a $600.00 discount next year, and promised to have it in tip top shape. It was shoddily built, the whole place. A brand new house shouldn’t act like this house acted.

On Tuesday night, I think it was, the boys set up their shark rigs. In late afternoon. We ate early that day, at 5:30. And then we walked out to the beach. The kayaks were loaded. The water was calm. And Fred and Brandon paddled way, way out, and dropped the bait. We sat there, in our chairs, and fished from the shore with the spinning outfits. And waited to hear the drags scream on the dropped baits. All stayed quiet. The sea rolled and roared. And we just sat there, and absorbed it. Most of us drifted back to the house, around 10:00 or so. Steven and Brandon stayed out. But there was nothing biting that night, when it came to sharks.

Moving along, then. After Tuesday, at the beach, you might as well wave the week good-bye. That’s how fast it goes. The days whoosh right on in to each other. And you feel it, the end approaching. Last year, and this year, I was fine with all that, though. You feel what you feel. You see what you see. And when the end comes, it’s fine.

Wednesday. It was windy, out there. The sea roiled and rolled. Still, the boys dropped their bait, way out there. And early that morning, Brandon pulled in a large sting ray. A flat fish, ugly and uneatable. I wasn’t there when it happened. A large crowd gathered, Steven told me. The sting ray had swallowed the hook and bait. But the crowd insisted. Release the fish. So they did. No pictures, even. I grumbled at Steven. Good grief. If you pull in a hundred pounds of anything from the sea, at least take a pic. The story wasn’t done, though. Later that morning, when I was out there, fishing, the sting ray washed up to the shore. It had died. Butcher that thing, I told the boys. Let’s cook it and eat it. And they did. Cut it up for frying. And suddenly, right then, the drag on one reel started screaming. Brandon stepped up and hauled it in. Another sting ray. This one was hooked only on the lip, so they guys flipped it on its back. Unhooked the hook. And turned the fish back to where it came from.

Wednesday night. Hymn sing. Many from the group came from the plain Mennonites. Not me. But others. And Wednesday night is church night. We always sit around and sing hymns, after dinner. And that night, it seemed to be dragging, the tradition. But Janice and I insisted. So we all gathered, and someone got out a hymn book. Fred strummed his guitar. And suddenly, we all got into it. We sang a lot of old classics, some of them twice. I think the neighbors probably think we’re bipolar. Every night, so far, we had sat outside on the deck. Drinking and talking and laughing real loud. Smoking, too, those who do. And suddenly, on this night, loud hymn singing erupted. I mean, it was good, it was loud, and it lasted for about an hour. If you’re an English neighbor to something like that, you’ll have to be scratching your head.

The sea was roiling on Thursday morning, too. Janice told us this would be a morning for the pool. It was a bit chilly, out there. But she had gotten our landlords to heat the pool for practically free, because of all the maintenance issues. A pool session is a structured thing. First, you mix up a light drink in a large cup. Last year, we used flower vases. It was claimed that I stored those vases in my garage, for use this year. But for the life of me, I couldn’t find them. So Wilm brought along Mason quart jars, for the pool drinks. That morning, Janice mixed up a bunch of drinks in a bunch of those jars. We each grabbed one, and headed down. I sat off to the side, and just dangled my legs in. Most of the others relaxed on the floats we had bought earlier at a discount store.

A pool session goes like this. Each person takes a turn, being questioned by all the others. And I mean, nothing is really out of bounds. You are questioned. Drilled. Interrogated. I used to never join these sessions, because I didn’t want to talk. Last year was the first time for me. And this year, too, I wouldn’t have missed it. I was the first one up, before everyone was out there. So I got off pretty easy. How was your year? Crappy, I said. What do you see, coming up? Not sure, I said. I’m uneasy, inside. I’m writing on my blog. I traveled the Midwest, this summer. Long term, I think I’m gonna end up there. They drill you about relationships, too. It’s not been good, I said. Well, I said a lot more than that. But I don’t have to drag all that out, here.

We fished the roiling waves, too, when it was all windy on the beach. Steven and Brandon stalked the sea. Fishing, fishing incessantly. I wasn’t quite that committed, but I did join them when I wouldn’t have other years. You cast in your line. And then you sit and watch those foaming waters roiling in the wind.

And late one afternoon, I was inside, all restless. It was windy out there. I finished the book I had brought along to read. P.G. Wodehouse. Summer Moonshine. I hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time. Nobody was going on any runs, so I took a walk down the street. Half a mile or so, to one of those big beach stores, where everything is half off after Labor Day. And I mean, it is. Good quality T-shirts for six or seven bucks. I wandered around, and picked up two or three. And then I started walking back.

There was a little bar, there, on the way back. Well, a restaurant and bar. What the heck? I thought. I’m out here, by myself. I’ll go in and have a beer. I don’t drink beer, much. But it seemed like the right kind of drink for that moment. I wandered in. Can I sit at the bar? I asked the matron.

It was pretty much deserted, the place. Including the bar. Late afternoon, before dinner. A few people way down on the other end were just finishing up. We chatted a bit, and then they left. I ordered a local brew. The barmaid was young and very pretty and smiling. And I got to chatting with her. Is it really true, that everything is 50% off, at these stores, after Labor Day, or is it all a ruse? I asked. She smiled very brightly. In the busy summer months, they have sales. But not half off across the board. So, yeah, it’s true.

I asked her a bit about herself. She had just graduated last year, with a degree in journalism, and some sort of minor degree. Business, maybe. I don’t remember. And we talked about what it is, to write. And she told me. She was heading to Chile next spring, to teach English. I cheered that, quite loudly. Yes. Go. Travel. You don’t have to figure out what you’re doing with your life, right now.

I sipped that beer for probably half an hour, as we talked. And just as I was winding down, fixing to leave, I couldn’t help myself. I told her about my writing on this blog. And my book. She got all excited, and claimed that she’ll definitely go out and buy a copy and read it. I scrawled the title of my book on a scrap of paper, and signed it. And then I walked out, back to our beach house.

And I thought about it. It’s so strange, how the book has affected my life. It’s a connection point, if you want it to be. Not that it often is, in a setting like that. I don’t often tell strangers I’m a writer, especially not in a bar. But in the right setting, in the right moment, where it seems fitting, I do.

The week wrapped up, like lightening, that quick. There’s so much left untold. Like the grease fire on Sunday night, I think it was. The girls were cooking bacon on a flat pan, in the oven. The grease rolled right off, and started a real fire. For a few moments, there was lots of confusion and shouting. Don’t throw water on it. The guys doused the fire with wet towels, while I ran around and opened all the windows, to let out the smoke. It was tricky, there, for a moment. The place could have burned to the ground. But it didn’t.

We feasted on lots of good food, every night. Gourmet burgers, grilled by Brandon. Steak, grilled by Fred. And one night, there were sting ray appetizers, wrapped in bacon. Don’t ever let anyone tell you sting ray ain’t fit to eat. It is fit. And it’s delicious.

And on the very last evening, at almost the last hour, there was a hue and cry from the beach. A shark. Brandon caught a shark. We all rushed out. A small crowd of gawkers milled about, all excited. The boys were still wrestling with the beast. A shark. Probably five or six feet long. Lots of good meat, right there. Let’s butcher that thing, I said. It wasn’t to be, though. There was no time. It was late, already. And people were heading out early, tomorrow morning. Steven unhooked the hook with some kind of tool, careful not to get too close to the shark’s teeth. We snapped a bunch of pics. And then Brandon dragged the fish back into the water by its tail. Set it free. Maybe we’ll get to eat it next year.

Saturday morning. Steven and his crowd left real early, to get Fred back home for a singing gig. The rest of us cleaned up the place. Packed everything out. And loaded our cars. Beach week was over, for one more year. It had come to an end. Just like everything has to.

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

Was I rested? In some ways, yes. In some ways, not. The tenant hadn’t heard anything from Billy, down below, when I got home. I was relieved about that. But still, there was a restlessness, deep down. And I got to talking to a friend about it, the other day. My writing’s not coming, this week. I sit and brood a lot. I think there’s something spiritual going on. And he asked. “Do you have bitterness in your heart? Unforgiveness, at anyone?” And I thought about it, and I looked at him. Yes, I said. Yes. I do.

“Well,” he said. “You can have all kinds of clean rooms in your heart, as a Christian. But if there’s one room that is corrupted, that spirit will settle and stay. That room will bug you. Because you’re allowing darkness in there. You have to clean that room, and get rid of that bitterness. Get rid of that unforgiveness. It doesn’t mean you don’t have reasons to feel that way. It just means you let it go. Cast it out.”

I’m so tired, I told him. Tired of all the unrest. I want to clean it all out. Get rid of all the crap that shouldn’t be there. I want my heart to be free. He offered to pray for me, right there, that that would happen. Yes, I said. I want you to. He placed his hand on my shoulder. And then he spoke to the Lord, as one would speak to a friend.

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The “Visitor”

If a man harbors any sort of fear, it percolates through all his thinking,

damages his personality, makes him landlord to a ghost.

—Lloyd C. Douglas

__________________

It was kind of odd, the thing that came at me just a few weeks back. Over Labor Day weekend, was when it happened. And it was a little unsettling. I’m not sure where to go with it, so I guess I’ll just tell the story.

I live in a fairly old house. Well, not old, as they think old in Europe, or anything. Near as I can tell, my house was built in the 1920s, sometime. It’s made of brick. Two full stories. A full basement. And a full attic. Lots of old wood, to creak and groan around at night in the wind. I’ve lived all alone, too, here in the old house. Tenants came and went, over the years, and most of them were a good riddance when they left. This time, before the current tenant came wandering along, I had lived alone for two-plus years. It never bothered me. Actually, I liked the solitude. No fuss or hassles. No one around, to worry about. No one around but me. But I sure did miss that rent money.

The tenant got here last year, in the spring. The man has been real good for my place. And totally fine, to have around. He doesn’t bother me. We talk, when we see each other. Now and then, we’ll sit out on the front porch, outside his door, and drink a beer or something I mixed up. He knows the territory, he’s been around. If I need a contact of some kind, he usually knows who to talk to. He’s not religious, that I know of. We’ve chatted, now and then, about it. He gave me his sympathies, back when Mom passed away last spring. And told me in detail of how his own Mom had passed. I never told him I write. As far as I know, he still has no idea I ever wrote a book. He never even knew I was an attorney, until I mentioned it offhand, a few weeks back. He about had a fit. I figure when and if he ever finds out about the book, he’ll probably have another fit. And I’ll give him a copy. That day might come, or it might not. So far, it hasn’t.

What I’m saying is, the man is a solid, rational man, who’s been around the block a few times. Not given to telling wild tales. But it was kind of strange, back in July, when I got back from my road trip. I had been gone for ten days. No worries, though, about things at home. I just tell the tenant the dates I’ll be gone. He gathers my mail for me, and keeps an eye on the place. I feel very good about having someone like that around when I’m gone.

When I got back that Saturday afternoon, he was around. He brought my bag of mail to the door, and knocked. I opened it, and we stood there and talked. Thanks, I said, taking the mail. “No problem,” he said. Then: “Man, I’m glad to see you back. This old house makes some very strange noises at night.” I’m sure it does, I said. It’s old, and creaks and groans some. But at least the furnace is turned off, downstairs. It doesn’t clank and rattle, at least not during the summer. “It makes some very strange noises,” he said again. But he didn’t seem all that perturbed about anything. And we left it at that, as far as any strange noises the house makes. But I thought about it later, what he had said. It was just an odd comment, I thought.

Labor Day Saturday, early afternoon. I was fixing to leave to run some errands, see some friends. A beautiful sunny day. The tenant had the big garage door open, his car parked outside, the front wheels up on ramps. He’s always tinkering with that thing. I ambled out to chat a bit. He told me what he was doing, some little repair. He was sipping a cold beer, and offered me a can. Nah, thanks, I’m driving here, shortly, I said. He stood there and took another sip. Then he looked at me very strangely, kind of sideways. And then he spoke.

“Have you ever considered the fact that your house might be haunted?” He asked. A question I sure wasn’t expecting. And as I like to say now and then. Well, what do you do with that? He kept looking at me, half sheepishly. And then he got to telling me a few stories.

“You know,” he said. “I’ve never been one to pay much attention to such stuff. But I’m telling you, there is something in your house. I’ve heard it walking, clear as a bell, when no one else was around. Usually of a morning, after you leave for work. The steps are as heavy as yours, so I figure it has to be a man about your size.”

Ah, are you sure? I was a little dubious. I’ve never felt anything like that, except once. I can tell you a pretty freaky story. But I’ve never sensed any presence around me downstairs, ever. And I’m up late, often, on my computer. You know that, you probably hear me when I go to bed. Are you sure it’s not the cleaning lady, of a morning like that? She comes around once a month, and she has a key to get in.

He shook his head. Dismissively. “No, it’s not her. I hear you walking down there all the time. And I know what footsteps sound like. I know when I hear them. And it’s someone as heavy as you. And I haven’t heard it that often. Maybe ten, a dozen times. But the one morning, it was so clear that I thought it must be you. I actually walked around and looked out all the windows, to make sure your truck wasn’t parked where it usually isn’t. It wasn’t. You were gone. Those footsteps down there were as clear as yours ever are.”

And we talked about it. Strangely, there was one emotion that didn’t come to me. And that was fear. I felt none. This was my home. I won’t be afraid in my own home. The tenant told me he had felt a presence of some kind, upstairs, on different occasions. And once or twice, in his little living room, he caught movement out of the edge of his eye, as if someone were there. I wasn’t sure what to make of it all. The tenant is a calm and steady man, from all I’ve ever seen of him. Not given to hallucinations, he has no habit of excessive drinking that I ever saw, anyway. I drink way more than he does.

I’ve never felt any presence like that, I told him. Never. Never felt any malevolence from anything in that house. But I’ll tell you a little story. I’ve ever only told one person before. A thing that happened about three years ago. He looked at me, very interested. And I told him. I got home from work one day. Normal day. And I noticed the round wall clock, up behind the TV. It was stopped. I forget the exact minute, but sometime earlier that day. No big deal, I figured. The battery had just died. I’d just change it. The clock is hard to get to, up in that corner. I struggled around and finally lifted it from the nail it hung on.

It was a clock Dad had given me, years before. A “bird” clock. Every hour had a picture of a different bird. And if you put two batteries in the lower slot, you’d hear that bird singing or chirping on the hour. I never was interested in hearing those birds. So I never put any batteries in the bottom slot. The clock was just a clock, with a single battery in the top slot, to make it run.

I looked at the clock in my hands. Turned to the back, to remove the battery. And a chill shot through me. The battery had been removed from the top slot, and inserted into the bottom slot, where it took two, to make the birds sing. The battery had been removed from where it was that morning.

That freaked me out pretty bad, I told the tenant. I could find nothing else out of place, in all the house. I mean, I looked. I had stuff lying around, stuff you could easily pick up. Everything was exactly as I’d left it that morning, except for the battery in that clock. And for some reason, I thought of a ghost, a spirit, right then. Something had done that. I was pretty freaked out, at that moment. Oh, yes, I was. And I was a little jumpy for the next week or so. And I wrote a little note, and stuck it on the clock. Whoever you are, whatever you are, stop it. I will come after you if you don’t.

The tenant looked all wise when I finished. “It hasn’t happened often, that I heard something,” he said. “But believe me, I heard it.” I do believe you, I said. And he told me more. He woke up in the middle of the night, once. His bedroom door was cracked open, about a foot. “And as sure as I’m standing here talking to you, I could feel someone behind that door, looking at me,” he said. “I got up with a flashlight and walked over and opened it. Nothing was there. Do you know what the history of your house is? Did anyone ever die in there, in a bad way?”

I don’t know, I said. I know a previous tenant tried to overdose once, with pills, in my bedroom. He didn’t get it done, though.

“Well, it couldn’t be him, then,” the tenant actually chuckled. “If he didn’t get it done, it couldn’t be him.” I agreed. It’s usually a suicide when the spirits stay. Or often, anyway. I don’t know anything about the history of my house. I left then, to see my friends, and run my errands. The tenant was working away, at his car.

I got back around five or so. And I had it on my mind, what he’d told me. I wanted to talk to him some more about it. So I texted him. You got a minute? He came right down, handed me a cold beer, and we sat out on the front porch and talked.

I asked him a lot of specific questions, about what he had heard. And he was adamant. Well, I said. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll mention it to my pastor. See what he thinks about it. Maybe I can have him come over and put that spirit to rest. The tenant looked at me. “I have no problem with that, if he knows what he’s doing,” he said. Oh, I trust my pastor, I said. If he tells me he can do it, he can do it. We sat there and sipped our beers, and got to talking about a lot of other things.

I believe places can be haunted. I totally do. I believe there are ghosts, and such things as spirits, mostly unseen and unheard. I don’t know how you can be a Christian, and not believe in them. They are there, in a spiritual world. Thing is, all my life, I have never, never “tempted the spirits.” I’ve never dabbled in anything even remotely, that would make such entities show up. I’ve never visited a fortune teller, never consulted a medium. I would never play with any Ouija Board. That kind of stuff is not for me. I would never walk into a “haunted house’ at night to see what I can see. I just don’t want to go there, I never have. It’s best to leave alone what you don’t understand. That’s how I’ve always felt, what I’ve always believed.

And now, here’s my tenant, a totally rational man, telling me he’s hearing things in my house. Below him, right where I live. I don’t know. I can’t help but believe him. Or at least I believe he’s telling me what he believes he heard. This is an older house. There are all kinds of pipes running through it. Hot water, cold water. And those pipes make all kinds of noises, when they contract and expand. Rational thought, to me, goes like this. I take a shower, every morning. And then I leave. Who knows, what kinds of noises the water pipes make, after all that hot water just flowed through them? Not saying it’s one way or the other. Just saying, that’s where my mind goes, trying to rationalize what the tenant’s telling me. But on the other hand, he’s telling me he heard those footsteps only ten to a dozen times, in the year and a half he’s lived here. It’s all kind of weird.

Other than that freaky clock battery incident, I have never, never felt any presence down here in my part of the house but my own. Never. I’ve never sensed anything. Never seen any “movement” out of the corner of my eye. And I’ve never been afraid. This is my home. This is where I live. You can’t live in fear in your own home.

The next morning, after church, I didn’t get a chance to chat with Pastor Mark. I had to leave a few minutes early, for a cookout more than an hour away. The next day, Labor Day, I was just lounging around that afternoon. And I decided I’d call him. So I did. He didn’t act all that surprised to hear from me, until I hemmed around a bit. Do you believe a house can be haunted? I asked.

“Yes, I believe that,” he answered. “Why do you ask?” Well, I’d come this far. So I plunged right on in. The tenant swears my house is haunted, I told him. A slight pause. He was still on the line. At least he hadn’t hung up on me. Or called me crazy.

“Well, tell me about it,” he said. And I did. Told him all the stuff the tenant had told me. How he had clearly heard footsteps, right down here where I live. Right here, in my house, when no one’s home.

I give the man a lot of credit. How many pastors get a call like that, from anyone attending their church? My house might be haunted. Pastor Mark didn’t blink an eye. He engaged. First, of course, he went through all the rational things. Old house, creaking timbers, creaking floors, thumping pipes. Things that go “bump” in the night. Combine all that with the human imagination, and it’s very real, what you hear. Yeah, yeah, I said. That’s what I told the tenant. I’ve never sensed any presence here, except once. And I told him about the clock battery. He absorbed that. Someone snuck into your house and did that. He didn’t say it. But I could hear him thinking it.

It all doesn’t matter, I guess, I said. I feel no fear. I’ve never felt any fear, living here. But I’m intrigued by what the tenant’s telling me. He’s a rational man. And he’s not leaving, or anything. But I believe him, when he tells me what he heard.

And Pastor Mark told me. There has to be a portal, somewhere, for a spirit to enter and settle. He took the worst case scenario. “Let’s say there was a mass murderer, down there in the basement. And let’s say he slit a whole bunch of victims’ throats, then committed suicide. Right down there, in your basement. Yes, I could see where evil spirits would enter and stay, and haunt your house. But they have no authority, to physically hurt you. They don’t.”

There’s no record of any such thing in my basement, that I’m aware of, I told him.

“That’s the most extreme example,” he said. “There are lesser ways, lesser portals, for a spirit to enter.” And he mentioned an example. I don’t have a problem with that particular thing, I said.

And then I thought about it, and I asked my pastor. Could that portal be alcohol? I drink. More than I should. (I’m fixing to do something about that real soon, now.) Which he already knew. Because I told him. And now I was asking. Could that be it?

He didn’t hesitate. “No,” he said. “That’s a chemical thing, alcohol. That in and of itself will never open your house to any spirit. What you do when you’re under the influence might. But not the alcohol alone. It’s a chemical thing, by itself.”

We chatted for a few more minutes, then wrapped it up. “It could be something natural, like imagination combined with the house creaking. It could be a spirit, or it could just be a mystery,” he said. “We live free in Christ. And in the end, if you want, we can walk through the house and rebuke whatever it is that’s in your home. In the name of Jesus. I’ll be glad to do it. That is your home. You own it. And you can tell anything that shouldn’t be there to leave, because Jesus is Lord over all.”

His words were calming. But still, I wasn’t quite ready to go that far, right now. Look, I told him. I’m leaving soon for a week. The tenant doesn’t want a lot of hassle. So let’s leave it as it is, for right now. I’ve never felt anything, any malevolent force in my home, except maybe for that clock. And the tenant doesn’t seem all that eager, to get anyone else involved. I’m leaving for a week, for the beach. Let’s just wait until I get back, and we’ll go from there. If the tenant keeps hearing things, I’ll get back to you, and we’ll do the walk-through. “Certainly, that’s no problem,” he said. And that’s how we left it.

And that’s where it all is right now. Just resting. Waiting.

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

And yes, that beautiful magical time is here again. Beach Week. We head out tomorrow, for a full week of relaxation and no drama. And I am beyond ready for it. This has been a tough, tough year. In more ways than one. It’s been a while, since I’ve seen one like it. There have been hard things, there have been sad things, and real joy has been sparse. I have never claimed more than a mustard seed of faith. This year, sometimes, even that tiny little seed seemed to be slipping away. But I grasped it, held on to it, because there was nothing else to do. God is always there, even when He doesn’t seem to be. I know that, and I hold on.

I am so, so tired. Weary, right down to my bones. And I am ready to breathe again the salt air of the sea, to absorb the sound of those crashing, calming waves. Ready to relax and let it all sink in. Ready to rest my heart and cleanse my soul.

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Notes From The Open Road…

Who owns the earth? Did we want the earth, that we should

wander on it? Did we need the earth, that we were never

still upon it?

—Thomas Wolfe

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There’s only one way to take a road trip, the way I see it. Well, there might be more than one way, but there’s only one best way. You take a road trip alone. You travel with no baggage of any kind but your own. That’s how it’s worked for me, anyway. You live alone. You walk alone. And you travel alone.

I was feeling pretty relaxed about life, that Monday morning after the Great Bloomfield Amish Reunion. Well, mostly, anyway. I checked out of the Southfork Motel soon after eight. The nice desk lady smiled and we chatted. I’m heading out, I told her. Heading to points south. She wished me well, and thanked me again for the book. She had asked about it, and I had sold her one the day before. I hope you enjoy it, I told her. She was sure she would. After gassing up the Charger at the Casey’s down the street, I headed west on Highway 2 for Rt. 63 South.

There’s a huge trading post there now, by that intersection where 2 and 63 connect. Dutch Country General Store. And I mean, it’s huge. Someone cranked out a lot of capital to make that happen. It seems strange, to see such a thing in that area. Don’t seem like there’s enough people living around there to support it. Not unless it becomes a tourist destination in and of itself. Which might happen. I hope it does. Anyway, the place is pretty breathtaking. Large signs line the road. Fresh Fruits and Vegetables. Bulk Foods. And the one that pulls in lots of passers-by, I suspect. Free Soft Ice Cream. I had checked out the place, the week before. It’s just amazing what all they have in stock. Everything from groceries and meat to bulk foods to large stuffed animals. Trinkets, signs, you name it. I’m pretty sure you’ll find it there.

And that morning, I stopped in as I was heading out. I wanted to talk to the proprietor, a very friendly young Holdeman Mennonite. I had chatted with him when I stopped in before. He knew my brother, Titus. And he claimed he occasionally checked out my blog.

This morning, I wanted to do a bit of hawking, something I rarely do. I’ve never pushed my book on anyone. Today I would. I walked in shyly, clutching a copy. He smiled when he saw me. And I showed it to him. This book happened right here, in the area, I said. I think you should stock it. I have some in my trunk. I’ll sell you a few, if you want. He took it from me and looked at it curiously. I showed him the back cover. Right there. It happened in Bloomfield, Iowa. Right around you, here. I know they’d sell.

He smiled again. “We have to check out any reading material, before we sell it,” he said. Great, I’ll sign this copy and give it to you then, I replied. And if you decide to sell them, you can order direct from Tyndale. So that’s what I did. He took it from me willingly enough. I’m not sure what he’ll think of it, or thinks of it by now. Or if he’ll stock it. He may not want to offend his Amish customers. So who knows? But hey, I tried. I guarantee that book would sell in his store. Just thinking aloud, here. If any of you happen to pass through there, stop by and ask for it. A little pressure is always a good thing.

And then it was off, down Rt. 63 South. Toward the Missouri line. I can’t remember thinking about it right at that moment, but this was the same stretch of road where three scared and desperate boys rocketed along in an old green Dodge late one long-ago Sunday morning. Same road. Same scenery, just a little more built up.

Into Missouri then, toward Kirksville. I dreaded that little slog, through that city. I remembered it had a hundred stop lights, or so it seemed. When I approached, though, there was a delightful surprise. A bypass, right around the east side of the city. It was pretty new. My GPS kept screaming at me to turn right onto side streets, to the old Rt. 63. I ignored it, and very shortly Kirksville was behind me as I headed on south.

And I thought about it, as I drove along. The news we had heard last night, while I was out at Titus and Ruth’s home for supper. I think my sister Rachel texted me. And I called her, and we talked. It was about Dad. He had attended the funeral of little Abby, the day before. They drove straight through, to get to Kalona from Aylmer. And soon after the funeral was over, that afternoon, they drove all the way back home, straight through. The next morning, Sunday, he was pretty tired. So he told Rosemary he wanted to stay home from church, and rest. Which was fine, but unheard of, such a thing coming from Dad. He used to drag us to church when we were more than half sick, years ago. So something was dreadfully wrong, for him to decide not to go. There had to be. And there was. When they returned that afternoon from church, they found him over there in his little Daudy house. On the floor, incoherent. Of course, everyone’s first thought was that he’d had a stroke. He was rushed to the hospital in Tillsonburg. And the diagnosis came back. I heard it that day, that Monday as I was driving along. No stroke. He has a severe infection in his leg. Good. No stroke. But still, he was in pretty bad shape.

And it was almost more than an exhausted mind can take, to consider the loss of one more person in the family. No. Not now, Lord. Not now. We’re all tired. Weary, beyond words. I’m so weary of death and loss. And I’m so weary of writing about it. Can’t you just hold off, on calling my father home? And yet, I thought of the logistics. I was on the road. And I had my black suit and white shirt right with me. Funeral clothes, if I needed them. Whatever came, I would walk into it. That’s all you can do. But still. Lord, please spare my father for a little while.



The Charger cruised along into the beautiful sunny day. I-70 West for an hour or so, then south toward Springfield. Then off on little two lane highways, over toward Dunnegan. There’s something unique and very calming about the Missouri countryside. You can tell it’s Missouri land. Grass fields, kind of sparse and bleak. But it all seems so very laid back. Little towns sprout up, and you cruise slowly through them. Check out all the little stores on the square, half of which are boarded up. They once pulsed with life, those little towns. They once were worth building. Now they’re barely hanging on, most of them. Barely worth maintaining. I guess it’s some kind of symbol of some kind of cycle of life. But me, I’d rather have been around those towns when they were alive.

And I arrived at the ranch in Dunnegan, right at two o’clock. They welcomed me, Elmer and Naomi. My good friends, from back home. They bought the eight hundred acre ranch a few years back. Their sons, Raymond and Allen live there. Raymond works full time with the cattle and sheep. Elmer and Naomi go out for a few weeks at a time, a few times a year. I had told them when I’d be coming through, and it just happened that they had some business affairs going on about right then, at the ranch. So there they were, my friends from Lancaster, welcoming me to their sons’ home in Missouri.

After unpacking in the large spacious guest house, I went on a tour of the place. Elmer showed me around. Eight hundred acres is a lot of land. Miles of it, practically. There’s lots of lanes and ponds and woods. And everything was so green. Usually the grass is brown in Missouri in July. Not this summer. They had an abnormal amount of rain, always coming down right at the right time. We went first to see the sheep. I have a particular soft spot for sheep; I used to raise a few back on the old home farm in Bloomfield. Raymond runs about four hundred “hair” sheep, total, with the lambs that came this spring. He does the natural grazing thing, with electric fences that he moves every day or every few days. Then on to the cattle. Red Angus and another brand I don’t remember. Cattle that can take the heat. Raymond grazes those the same way, moving the electric fence to new grasses every few days or so.

That night, after supper, I did something I hadn’t done in far too long. I went fishing. There was a pond across the pasture, with a dock. Elmer and I walked up, and we baited our hooks. I cast a line into the water for the first time in probably seven or eight years. And we just sat there and talked, two old friends. I think I caught one. Elmer caught half a dozen or so. We threw them all right back in. And as dusk settled around us, it was all so peaceful and country and quiet. And I thought to myself. It’s been way too many years since I fished a pond at sunset.

The next day, we just putzed around, running errands in town. And checking out the area. I could live in a place like this. I really could. We stopped by a little country flea market. It was so totally Missouri and so totally comfortable. Wandering through, poking at stuff laid out on tables. Chatting with the vendors. The day passed, and that evening a group of friends and family came around. Homemade pizza and salad, is what we had. It was all a good thing.

The week was moving right along. The next morning, I left my friends. On then, to the next stop. My nephew, Andrew Yutzy, lives in the Warsaw, MO, area with his family. They had been at the reunion in Bloomfield. That’s where Andrew was born. I had asked him. Mind if I stop by and see you for a day or so? He was adamant. Absolutely. We don’t get much family company. Stop by, we’ll hang out. And by late that Wednesday morning, I pulled into their little farm out in the country.

I met all the family, and was welcomed. Andrew took me around the place. Lovely little farm, over a hundred acres, I think. That afternoon, we drove around the area, and he showed me around. Land that was for sale, a farm here, a little acreage there. I felt the same as I had back in Dunnegan. I could live here, back in the Midwest. I really could. And one day, I probably will. Thing is, I just don’t know what there is to do for a living. If I could figure that out, I’d be out there a lot sooner than later.

It was pretty warm that afternoon. But Andrew insisted I would catch fish, if I wanted to, out by his pond close to the house. So we took lawn chairs out. The children came too. Andrew hooked up one of his rigs, and I started casting. Like I said, it was a real hot day, when fish don’t usually bite much. His pond must have been swarming with hungry fish, because for over an hour, I pulled them out, one after another. And threw them right back in. Nine, ten inchers, little bass. But it was a lot of fun.

We talked about the latest news about Dad, Andrew’s grandpa. After one night at the hospital, he had insisted on going back home. So he was released, that Monday. It was a very poor decision. That night, he tossed and turned, and called out, delirious. And the next day, they rushed him back in. His leg had swollen to twice its normal size, and was dark red. Cellulitus. The doctors instantly hooked him up to IV medications and oxygen. And there for a day or so, he drifted off right into that gray area between life and death. He was still hanging on, when I was at Andrew’s house. But we figured there was about a fifty/fifty chance he’d make it.

Andrew had fired up the smoker, way earlier in the day. And he proudly served smoked brisket for supper, a delicious feast. His wife, Marnita, and the children all went off to Bible School at their church, then. The children were all excited and eager to go. Andrew and I hooked up his boat to his pickup, and went off to a nearby lake to do some more fishing. It was the first time I’d ever done such a thing, I think. We pushed off, and Andrew headed a few miles to his favorite spots. We sat there and relaxed and cast in our lures. I caught one large Crappy. Andrew caught a bottom feeder of some sort. We just talked and caught up. About life, and how it goes. And how it is, sometimes. Andrew has a very nice little family. I look at that, and feel a twinge, now and then. I will never see, never experience such a thing. After dark, we headed home. The children were just going to bed. We sat around a bit with them. And then Andrew and I walked out to his pond and relaxed on the lawn chairs and just chilled.

The next morning, after a scrumptious breakfast with the family, I was on the road by 9:30. Heading back east now. Next stop, May’s Lick, Kentucky. My brother Joseph’s home. I’ve referred to it, but never explicitly told it, here on this blog. Because Joseph asked me not to. But now, he told me I could. The man has been seriously ill for about five years or so. Multiple Myeloma. A cancerous blood disease. A lot of people afflicted with it live for a good many years. You can manage it, if you’re careful. Joseph has been very careful, but there’s been more than a few times that he came just that close to leaving us. Earlier this spring, or maybe it was late winter, he got pneumonia. And it came within a hair’s breadth of taking him. He barely pulled out. Which made it all the more of a miracle, that all of my family was gathered there in Aylmer when we buried Mom.

And he tires easily, Joseph does. He has seen a lot, and suffered a lot. I had called him before leaving home. Told him I’d like to stop by, on my way back home. He was very welcoming. So now, on this Thursday of my week on the road, I drove the Charger east. All day, around St. Louis and on through Indiana. And by 6:30 or so that night, I checked in at a Holiday Inn in Louisville. I love Holiday Inns, not the Express ones. The real old ones, because they always have a pub attached. You can check in and unpack, and walk down for some food and drink. And that’s what I did that night.

The next morning, I headed on east. Looked like I’d arrive in May’s Lick around eleven. I hadn’t figured on the road construction, though, on those two-lane highways. I puttered and putzed around, through small town after small town. And shortly before noon, I arrived at my brother’s place.

His married daughter, Laura, and her husband and family live in the big home house, now. Joseph and Iva have moved over to the little attached house, where Dad and Mom used to live a few years back. I shook my brother’s hand, and they all welcomed me. Lunch would be served soon. And Joseph and I just sat there and caught up. It’s been a while since we’ve had a real one on one conversation, face to face.

He had a couple of funny stories to tell me. And we laughed together, about them. “I’ve been asked by about five different bishops about your Elmo Stoll stories,” he said. “They ask. Are these stories true? And I tell them. My brother was fifteen years old, when he saw these things. Just a young boy. Reacting to a powerful leader.” I laughed. What were their reactions? I asked. “They smiled and looked real wise,” Joseph answered. I laughed some more. I tell you, I wrote it as it was, I said. Not that you or any of them will ever agree with what I wrote. But I did. I wrote it like it was.

We visited about this and that. And soon, he told me another funny little story. He was talking to some plain Mennonite from right here in PA, recently. And the guy asked him. “Was that your brother who wrote that book?” Joseph shriveled a bit, then admitted that it was. “Well,” the plain Mennonite announced loudly. “I read it, too. And I’m sure never going to let any of my children read it.” I sat there and roared. What did you say, then? I asked. Did you agree with him? Joseph just smiled sheepishly and refused to answer, but I’m pretty sure he did. Which is totally fine. But I told him. You can’t keep your children from reading a book, once they get older. And this guy won’t be able to, either. The more he rages against my book, the more they’ll want to read it. And one day, I think they will, or at least some of them will. But hey, whatever works. If he thinks he can control them like that, more power to him.

We talked about Dad, too, and how it was going up in Aylmer. He was still in the hospital, there in Tillsonburg. The swelling had gone down, in his leg. I think they pulled him back from the edge, I said. And we talked about how close it had come. To us losing him that week. One of these days, and it won’t be long, he’s gonna leave us, I said. Joseph agreed.

Laura and her sister, Rosanna, had prepared the noon meal. And we walked over to eat. It was a haystack meal. Delicious. Corn chips. Cooked ground burger. Shredded cheese, and all the other toppings. We loaded our plates, and sat at the table to eat. Talking and laughing all the while.

And by three o’clock, our visiting was done. Joseph had an appointment somewhere, to go to. And I needed to be moving on. I wanted to get some miles behind me, before stopping for the night. Because I didn’t want that last stretch for home tomorrow to be too long.

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And last Saturday night, it came down. The Great Annual Ira Wagler Garage Party. I had invited more people than ever before. And almost all of them came. A few pulled out at the last minute, but they told me why. And that they’d love to be here next year. I lugged home fifty sausages from Stoltzfus Meats. My friend Paul grilled them over charcoal. Usually, there’s ten or a dozen left over. Not that night. After the last person had left, around midnight, there were five measly sausages in the pot. Almost, I had cut it too close.

A huge feast showed up like magic, as people arrived. Dishes of this and that. Delicious stuff, all of it. We sat around, and ate and talked. Just like usual. Around 7:30, it started drizzling. I couldn’t believe it. Rain hadn’t been in the forecast. It was supposed to be clear. But then a funny thing happened. Everyone crowded inside. The Hi-Lo card game was going on over at the bar. I hovered, keeping an eye on it. And at one point, the pot reached heights never seen before in my garage. One of these years, a SWAT team is gonna raid my party. And because we were all inside, people stood around and sat around, real close to each other. And you had to talk to the person next to you, or it would have been rude. So overall, I think, the rain actually was a good thing. It stopped, after about an hour, and the lawn chairs were soon spread in a half circle outside again.

My friend from Missouri didn’t make it like he’d promised, though. I was pretty disappointed. That’s the one thing that’ll always evoke a visceral reaction from me. If you tell me you’ll be somewhere to get together, and then you back out. I don’t know why. Must be some deep seed down there that triggers it, a seed that recoils at the slightest hint of rejection. If you tell me you’re gonna be there, be there. And if I ever figure out that you never intended to show up, if I sense that you were always just pretending, I get pretty livid. Some of my father’s rage bubbles and boils hard, down deep. Yeah, maybe I could use some counseling. But that’s just the way it is.

I contacted the friend I’d never met, the one who had promised to show up. I thought we had an understanding, I told him. I even wrote on my blog that you were coming, trucking in all the way from Missouri. Bragged about it. He was extremely apologetic. And he had a very valid reason for not showing up. He was haying. All that rain they had out there all summer, all through July, that rain kept him from cutting his crop. He needed four straight days of drying weather when the ground was bone dry. And those four magical days aligned, the very week of my party. He had to make hay when the sun shone. And I fully understood that. I come from the farm. All right, I messaged him. You’re still invited next year. I hope to see you then. But consider yourself on probation. If you don’t make it next time, I’ll have to rethink things.

Dad was released from the hospital about a week after I got home. A very different man than he was when I last saw him only a few short weeks ago. He’s bedridden, and a little befuddled in his mind. He can’t walk. At one point, and maybe even still, they had to feed him. It was too much, for my sister Rosemary to worry about, to have him back in his little house. So her oldest daughter, Eunice, and her husband David, offered to take him in and care for him. They have a row of daughters. Lots of help. And so now, there Dad is, with the family of one of his granddaughters.

And they told me a little story, from when Dad was in the hospital. One evening, as they were there with him, he saw a man across the room that slightly resembled me. And Dad took a notion in his head that it was me. So he told them. “Tell Ira to come over here. I want to talk to him. There he is. Tell him to come over.” They tried to tell him it wasn’t me. But he kept calling out my name. And he did it a time or two in his delirious states, too, when he didn’t even know what he was saying. He called out my name from where he was.

What do you do with that? Where can you take it, in your head and heart? How can you balance that out against all the pain and heartbreak and rejection of the past? I don’t know. The man’s writing days are over, I think. The thing that was dearest to his heart is gone, now. And I’m thinking that one day pretty soon, over a weekend, I’ll be driving up to see him, probably for the last time. I have a clear picture in my head of who he was, and how we spoke to each other the last time I saw him, there at Abby’s funeral. And a clear memory in my heart.

It’s a beautiful picture in my head. And it’s a beautiful memory in my heart. I’m not sure I want to ruin any of it.

I guess I’m in a strange kind of place. And I can’t really explain it. But this is how it is. If he leaves before I get there, then so be it. And if he’s there when I get there, then so be it, too.

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The Roads of Old Bloomfield…

But why had he always felt so strongly the magnetic pull of home?…

He did not know. All that he knew was that the years flow by like

water, and that one day men come home again.

—Thomas Wolfe

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I thought about it, as I headed out south and west in the Charger that Saturday afternoon. It sure is a strange day, all around. In the morning, you attend the funeral of your niece’s little three-year-old daughter. And now, that was over, there in Kalona. And now, it was on to another place. An event I had long looked forward to, because there were a lot of people there I wanted to see and hang out with. The Bloomfield Amish Reunion.

It comes only with time, that a group of misfits gets large enough and confident enough to where there can be such a thing as a reunion. Or a second one, as this one was. Back when I left, in the late 1980s, probably less than a dozen renegades had done something so shockingly wicked as to leave it all behind. And set out on their own roads. The community was small then, only two districts. And when someone drifted off like I did, there was lots of talk. A lot of clucking and shaking of heads. The poor boy. He’s so lost. Let’s hope he finds his way back, even though this is the fifth time he left.

That was then. Now, the roads of Old Bloomfield are gone. At least the world you saw from those roads is. It’s no longer the obscure little Amish community in the sticks it once was. And a lot happened, as it grew during those years after I left. A lot of young people came up through, and some of them created scandals that made any wild thing I ever pulled off seem pretty calm in retrospect. No use going into much detail about any of that. But let’s just say that the Bloomfield Amish community has seen close to everything there is to see, when it comes to rebellious youth. Not everything. Daviess has stories from way back, stories that would make any face turn pale. No one in Bloomfield ever came close to trying to blow up a silo with dynamite, as some crazy wild Amish youth did in Daviess, decades ago. But still. Bloomfield has seen a lot.

The second Great Bloomfield Amish Reunion was the brainchild of one person, mostly. Ed Yoder. My nephew John was also very involved in making it happen. But it was Ed’s idea, originally. I remember him from way back. He was a problem child, an extraordinarily mean little kid. It was his energy, I think, that made him act like that. He was totally out of control. I don’t remember his parents’ names. But they moved in from the troubled settlement of Jamesport, MO.

I don’t know how much younger Ed is than me. Maybe ten years or so. But I remember a thing that happened one Sunday afternoon. Church was at our house. And that afternoon, I was out there, in the barn. Ed and a few of his friends were getting underfoot and making a lot of noise. I’m talking eight to ten-year-olds. And somehow, he mouthed off to me quite insolently. I didn’t hesitate. I just reached out and grabbed that boy. Held him upside down, and dangled him by his ankles, right there in the cow barn. And admonished him a bit about how he needs to learn to respect his elders a little better. I think Ed remembers that particular experience. We’ve laughed about it, since. He mentions it, now and then. We’re good friends now, we see things the same, politically. Which means he’s an anarchist, too. He’s a real good man, with a real nice family.

Anyway, people in Ed’s generation walked away from Bloomfield, after I did. And people after him left, too. They all have their own stories. They all went through their own hard times. I know Ed walked some hard roads. They all did.

This is how it goes, though, when you leave a place like Bloomfield. With the passing of time, you settle in, and settle down. That’s what happened, to all those kids that came after me. They settled down. Moved on with their lives, and with their families. And in time, there came a strong pull for a lot of us to go back to the place we left. Not individually, but as a group. To assemble there. To go back and reconnect. With the place and with each other.

I pulled in at the Southfork Motel around four. Right out along Rt.63. It used to be a dive, Southfork. But John had told me it had all been redone, remodeled lately. So I took a chance and booked a room. The nice lady welcomed me when I walked in and told her my name. I’m here for the reunion, I said. Has anyone else checked in for that?

She smiled. “Yes, there are a few. Your friend Vern has a room here.” She handed me my room key. And yes, I mean a real key. I gaped at it. A key? She laughed. That’s how we do it here,” she said. “I do all the reservations by hand, too, on paper.” I thanked her and unloaded my luggage and checked out my room. John had been right. It was just like new. Big king bed, and real nice furniture. After unpacking, I walked out to head on out to Lake Fisher. That’s where the reunion was. I chatted a bit with the desk lady on the way out.

“So you wrote a book?” she asked. Who told you that? I asked. It was Vern, wasn’t it? That guy. I think he likes to tell people he’s in a book. She laughed again. “Well, he did tell me a little bit about what you all used to do around here,” she said.

Lake Fisher is just west of Bloomfield, less than half a mile. Along a gravel road. I drove in and followed the long, winding lane to the pavilion in the back. A bunch of vehicles were parked there. Small knots of people milled about. A softball game was happening on the diamond. I walked in to the pavilion, where a few people lounged about. I saw my friend, Ed Yoder, and walked up to him. We shook hands. A few others smiled and greeted me as I walked around and shook their hands as well. I can’t remember everyone who was there, and I didn’t know everyone who was there. So if you were, and I don’t mention your name, don’t be offended.

It was a real nice place for a group like this. A large glass electric cooler sat in one corner of the pavilion, lighted and loaded with food. I soon strolled out to watch the ball game, and met my old friend and blood brother. Rudy. He walked up, smiling, and we hugged. He led me around and introduced me to the people I didn’t know. We sat on the dugout bench and talked.

Supper was to be served at 6:30. I had originally been asked to speak a few words at the noon meal, but since I wasn’t there, that didn’t happen. John and Ed asked me if I’d MC the evening meal. I’m not particularly a public speaker or anything, I said. But yeah, I guess I’d be honored. And about then, I saw him out in the parking lot. Vern. He and his lovely wife, Kim, had left earlier for their motel room to rest a bit. I had actually met them on the way in. I walked up and we greeted each other and hugged.

The women bustled about, and soon a large feast was spread on the long picnic tables. Pulled pork, crispy grilled hot dogs (I love crispy grilled hot dogs), and large array of side dishes, beans and salads and such. Ed came and told me to get things rolling, to get people ready to eat. So I stood and hollered loud to get everyone’s attention. Everyone got real quiet and looked at me. Supper is ready real soon, here, I said. But before we start, let’s all introduce ourselves. Starting in the back corner over there, stand up and tell your name and where you live. And introduce your family if they’re with you. I can’t remember how many people were there. I think the rough count later was around 150. And they all stood, one by one, or in groups of families, and told us who they were and where they live now. But not where they came from. We all came from Bloomfield.

After that was over, I had a few announcements. And I’d been asked to speak a few words. They were brief, as my words usually are. It’s really great to be here, I said. It’s also great to see all of you, so many people. A lot of you, I don’t really know. You were here after I left. Our connection is this place, this community. We all had our own journeys, and they were all different. But now, tonight, we are drawn together, here. Bloomfield is no longer the same place it was, but we all have our own special memories. And now we all are here. And I am very glad to be here with you.

I asked Orie Helmuth to bless the meal, then, and he stood and prayed. Then we ate. The food was just outstanding, all of it. It took some real effort, to plan this event, and to assemble all that food. It really did.

Afterward, we lounged around and talked. The youth went out to play volleyball. There was one thing I wanted to get done. So I walked around and bugged the others until I got us all together. And we stood out there by some trees with the lake behind us. Four of the original “Gang of Six.” Marvin, Rudy, Vern, and me. We handed our phones to my sister Rhoda, and Kim, Vern’s wife, and a few others. They took a bunch of pics. The first time in thirty-two years that the four of us had all been together in one place. And the first time in thirty-two years that we had our pictures taken together.

From left: Ira, Vern, Rudy, Marvin

After that was over, I asked them. Do you guys want to go ride around the community together? They all agreed instantly, and we got into Rudy’s big new Ford pickup. Marvin and I sat in the back seat, Vern rode shotgun. And we headed out.

It was dusk when we returned. People were sitting around outside, around a nice big old roaring fire. John had hauled in a bunch of good dry wood. We joined them for dessert. I’m not much of a dessert person. But I was that night. My nephew David had baked several big pans of peach cobbler over the open fire. And there was homemade ice cream, too, dipped from a huge five-gallon freezer John had rented and hauled in from Arthur, Illinois. It was all just flat out delicious.

We sat around in a large circle and just communed with each other. Ed Herschberger, Vern’s younger brother, set up with a loose group of musicians. They had guitars and a banjo of some kind. Ed strummed away at a large stringed instrument as tall as he was, a Double Bass. It made the sound of drumming. And they sang and sang, as we sat around and talked outside. It was peaceful, it was very calm. And very comfortable. By 10:30, I headed back to the motel, about the same time as Vern left with his wife. Their room was right across the hall from mine. I invited them over. They brought a couple of beers, and I sipped some scotch, and we sat in my room and talked and just caught up.

The next morning. Sunday. They had planned that day, too, Ed and John. There would be a church service, out there under the pavilion. Ed Herschberger and the boys played a few real good old-time tunes, including a fast English version of the Lob Song. We all joined the singing. And then the preacher stood to preach.

John had proudly showed me the nice little sturdy podium he got made. A 4×6 pole from one of his pole barn jobs, with a chunk of 2×12 lumber slanted across the top. His brother, Glen, had nailed it together. And now, Gideon Yutzy, Rudy’s younger brother, stood there with his bible and notes. Gideon lives in Montana somewhere, with his family. And John had somehow cajoled him to make that long journey to the reunion. “We need a preacher for Sunday morning,” John told him. And eventually Gideon relented, and they came. I had not seen him in a lot of years. He looked a little grayed and older, like all of us did.

He started in, and he was a good speaker. His message. How do you deal with that big void in your heart? He was talking to a lot of people who came from places where there were big voids in the hearts. And he spoke it, a brief and simple gospel message. After that, a few more songs. And then the MC, my nephew David, asked Rudy and Marvin to say a few words. Rudy spoke first, about how he appreciated being there, and appreciated the message. And he spoke a few memories. And then Marvin stood, too. He spoke along the same lines as Rudy had. He wrapped it up with a little humor, though. “Talking to the younger ones, here,” he said. “Be careful of your actions, because one of your friends might go out years later and write a New York Times Bestseller book about what all you did.” Everyone roared. I laughed, too. “Yeah,” Rudy said. “He never even asked our permission. We want a cut of the money.” Nope, no way, I said. After that, Herman Kuhns prayed the final prayer, and we were dismissed.

But we didn’t leave. There was one more important ritual. The noon church meal. And I marvel here, some more, about all the work that went into getting everything ready. John’s wife, Dort, and the other ladies scurried about. And soon they had all the long tables loaded with the classic Amish church meal. Amish peanut butter. Homemade bread. Pickles. Cold red beets. Tubs of Smear Kase. Plates of sliced bologna. And there was even an extra, that I don’t remember from those meals. Fresh delicious egg salad. You pile all that stuff on a slice of homemade bread slathered with real butter, and you got yourself an authentic Amish church meal. And one big whopper of a sandwich. We sat and ate and feasted. And washed it all down with cups of steaming black coffee.

After the tables were cleared, most of us sat or stood around and visited. I mingled, here and there. John had told me to set out a few copies of my books, at a side table. And for a while, it looked like no one was interested. But as people started trickling out, one or two of them sought me out. I want a copy of your book, signed. So I sold a few. Gideon, the preacher, told me he wanted a copy. He had one, and he had read it and liked it a lot. But it wasn’t signed. So I signed a copy to him and his wife, Anna. He reached for his wallet, but I stopped him. You flew all the way out from Montana to bring us a sermon, I told him. The least I can do is give you a copy of my book.

Vern and Kim took their leave soon, too. They were driving back to their home in Tennessee that afternoon. A good long drive. Marvin and Rhoda headed out, too. And by three or so, I headed back to my motel room to rest a bit. Tonight, I was invited to Titus and Ruth’s home for supper. And tomorrow morning, I planned to meander south into Missouri.

And that was about it for that day, as far as the reunion was concerned. I’ve thought back to it a lot, that bunch of misfits who assembled back there at the Lake Fisher Park in Bloomfield. The memories are all good, and there are so many. A couple of things stand out in my mind, though, a couple of things I want to say.

The current Bloomfield Amish church, or at least its leadership, is extremely hostile to the reunion gathering. They don’t want any of us around. They strictly forbade anyone from the Bloomfield Amish to attend the event. On pain of harsh discipline. That’s a pretty big old hefty club, to keep people in line, people who would have loved to attend and hang out with family. And those people are there, in Bloomfield.

Talking now to the leaders of the Bloomfield Amish. Don’t kid yourself. A whole lot of your wounded members would love to hang out, when us misfits come around. You won’t let them. And that’s fine. It’s understandable, what you decreed, at least from your perspective. I’m not gonna get all high and holy on you. You are who you are. And it’s certainly understandable, that you just want to be left alone.

The thing is, we did leave you alone. You just can’t seem to get it out of your heads, the thought that we are getting together to talk about you and mock you. Somehow, that’s a heavy burden you choose to lug around. Yes, we did talk about our memories. We did talk of how hard the journey was. And some of our talk wasn’t all that flattering. But we have a lot of good memories, too. And we spoke those, too. Somehow, you Bloomfield people, or at least the leaders, have a real flawed concept of what happens at these reunions. I think you think it’s all one big party, one big beer bash. I heard that someone in Bloomfield even dubbed our gathering as “Woodstock, 2014.” What’s that supposed to mean? That we’re all hippies standing out there in the rain, getting stoned? Cheering wildly for whatever band is playing? It’s just totally silly, that comparison. And a little bitter.

If you know who you are, you will not need to be afraid to hang out with anyone. If what you’re living is true, it should be strong enough to mingle with any misfits. No matter where they came from, and no matter where they are. And that little truth applies to anyone, Amish or not.

The second thing I remember vividly from the reunion is this. The ride I took with my friends from the “Gang of Six” that Saturday night in Rudy’s truck. We talked right along as Rudy cruised out on the gravel roads, and turned right onto the highway. Toward the big hill that leads to Drakesville. Thirty-some years ago, we drove that same highway, up that steep old hill, in our steel-wheeled buggies.

We talked about that hill, how small it looked when you’re not in a buggy. And then we pulled into Drakesville. Rudy parked on the south side of the little square. We got out, and stood there and talked. On the north side, Bea Cormeny’s old convenience store sat huddled in beside other decrepit hulks that once were alive with commerce. It’s been boarded up for years. It looked so very small, the place where we’d sneak in of a Sunday afternoon and furtively buy a few six-packs of beer. Bea was an angel to us. I never knew her that well, she seemed old and stern to me. But she did what people did back then, when you could legally drink at eighteen. Back before MADD got all crazy drunk with power, back before all those draconian drinking laws were passed by the nanny state. She wouldn’t do it today, because she wouldn’t dare. But she did it back then. She sold us beer when we were seventeen. It was so long ago. We were so young. And I’m glad I was seventeen when I was.

And Vern stood there and spoke. The Vern of old. He told us of how he left, on that long-ago Sunday morning. He sneaked out of the house at midnight, and walked the three or four miles to town. He arrived way before dawn. He had hours to kill before he could call an English friend to come and fetch him. So he hunkered down in the phone booth, there in the middle of the square. You couldn’t see through the bottom few feet of those old phone booths. He crouched there, hidden from passing prying eyes, until the sun finally rose. Then he fumbled some quarters into the pay slot and called his friend, who came and took him to the bus station in Ottumwa. There, he boarded the bus for Valentine, Nebraska.

The phone booth is gone now. Only a little concrete slab remains where it once was. Vern walked over and stood on that little slab, and I snapped a few pics. The very spot where he had sat, all cold and miserable and scared and alone, way early that Sunday morning. But he sat there for as long as it took to break out of that place, that community. He sat there because he wanted to be free.

And we talked about it, how strange it was. Vern was fifteen years old, when his family moved to Bloomfield from Arthur, Illinois. He was sixteen when he first ran away from home. And after we all returned home to Bloomfield from Valentine, Vern left, soon after that. He might have been seventeen, or close to it. He never returned. We knew him, ran around with him, for only two short years. Which seemed like an eternity, back then. It was a pretty intense and bonding experience for the six of us, that journey we took together. And right now, this moment, four of the six were standing on one spot, remembering. It was a beautiful thing. And it was kind of haunting and sad, too.

Thirty-two years is a long time. Back in the day, none of us could have imagined it would ever go that long. We could not have imagined that we’d ever see the things we’ve seen since, or that we’d ever do the things we’ve done. It was so long ago. We’re getting older now, all of us have reached and passed fifty. About the age some of our fathers were, back when we caused them all that grief.

We talked about it, standing there around the bed of Rudy’s pickup. How deeply we had hurt our parents. Especially our Mothers. It’s not like we were loaded down with tons of regret and guilt. It was just somber talk. Of who we were, and what we did. The choices we made. Of how desperately we wanted to be free, how desperately we grasped for it, no matter the cost. It was what it was, all those years ago. Nothing can ever change any of what happened.

We loaded up and headed west then, along the highway. Cruised slowly past Vern’s old home, on the right. He spoke a lot of old stories. Spoke the old memories.

Then Rudy turned left, onto a gravel road. Toward my old home place. Bloomfield is sure built up, these days. Places that used to be English are now Amish. Plus, a hundred little new homesteads have popped up, where only bare fields lay before. We approached my home place from the south, because the bridge was out from the north. And Rudy turned in. We slowly drove the half mile to the house. This is the lane I walked out of, I told them. That night I left, when I was seventeen. The heavy black bottom fields were spread out around us. The fields I used to plow.

We drove up to the buildings. The family was seated out on the deck, on the south side of the house. Rudy turned the truck around. We waved at the people by the house. They waved back. It’s not that unusual, what they were seeing. A vehicle pulling in, then turning and leaving.

Over the gravel roads, then, through the community. Over Monkey Hill, past Henry D. Yoder’s old homestead. That poor man died destitute and lonely, just like he’d lived all his life. We talked about how it all happened, how he’d moved with his family from Bloomfield to a new settlement he founded, somewhere in some remote place in Missouri. He shook the dust of Bloomfield, and spoke boldly of that shaking. He was heading out, to live right. Bloomfield was too corrupt for him. So he moved. And then he took sick and died, soon after that. A tired, worn-out man with nothing. The Bloomfield people went down to his sad little new “settlement’ and buried him. Because there was no one else to do it.

And then we drove past Bishop Henry’s farmstead. And Jake Beachy’s sawmill, on the right. Jake moved out, years ago. Ervin Mast, I think that’s his name, took over Jake’s operation. But back to Bishop Henry. He passed away from cancer, six or seven years ago. Nathan and I stopped by see him, a few months before he left this earth. He was an emaciated shell of the man I knew, but he smiled in welcome and shook my hand. “The Waglers have been well-represented in coming to visit me,” he said. The old house still stands, his widow lives there now, I think. A new house stands there, too. His son, Paul, has the home place now.

A few more miles, then we approached Marvin’s old home. I looked for it, in the field west of the house. It’s a little mud hole, now. The pond where Titus dived. The place where he took his last steps, ever, on this earth. There it is, I said. And Marvin and Rudy told us their vivid memories of that night. The house loomed, then, and Rudy pulled in. No one seemed to be around. Marvin’s younger brother, Elmer, owns the farm now. And it was at the same place, the old hitching rail where I tied up my horse, when I came around so many times, hanging around with my friend all those years ago. The shop and barn looked about the same, too. Everything in good repair. Rudy slowly edged out of the drive, and we headed east to the Drakesville Highway.

We had one more stop. Rudy’s old home. His father, Dave, used to have a harness shop. A place where we’d all hang out when we could. He sold shoes and boots, a lot of general stuff like that. I bought more than a few pairs of work boots there. The place is built up a bit now, we saw as we pulled in. The old house was torn down years ago, and a new one built. Rudy’s cousin, Harley, bought the place from Rudy’s Dad. Harley died from cancer a few years back. His widow now lives there with their children. Rudy talked his memories. Of all the big old trees in the front yard, only one remains. After a few minutes, we left, down the highway, and off to the right onto the gravel road. We’d made a big circle. And now, back to the park and the reunion.

Dusk was settling into darkness when we got there. People lounged about in little knots in the pavilion and around the crackling fire. Rudy parked the truck, and we walked to join them.

My sister Rhoda met us in the pavilion. “How was your ride?” She asked, smiling.

It was a good ride, the four of us agreed. It was real good, I said. It was a ride we waited thirty-two years to take.

And only later, when I was mulling over things, it came to me, where we had been on that ride. We had traveled the roads of Old Bloomfield again that night.

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

I can’t hardly believe it’s that time of year again. The Great Annual Ira Wagler Garage Party is just around the corner. Once a year, I invite a large group of people to my house, for a cookout. Once a year, I spread wood chips on the floor of the garage. Set up a rickety little bar I picked up years ago at a yard sale. And fire up my charcoal grill, to cook up the finest sausages from Stoltzfus Meats. Guests are instructed, along with their invitations, to bring along salad or dessert. All kinds of wild and delicious food always shows up. It always balances out pretty well, amazingly, what people bring. Well, it has so far, anyway.

And every year, the crowd keeps expanding. This year, I fear there will be a serious parking shortage. A pretty good handful of first-timers claim they will be attending. And one friend I’ve never met, other than on Facebook, plans to truck all the way in from Missouri to be here. I’m very much looking forward to meeting him and hanging out.

I’m looking forward to all of it. It’ll be a big bash. For one night. And then it’ll be over for one more year.

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A Rose Like No Other…

The women weeping at the gate have gone…And

will not come again. And we shall pass, and

shall not come again…And death and dust will

never come again, for death and dust will die.

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

The day slid in like such days mostly do. And the dark and brutal thing came, out of nowhere. Totally unexpected. No one saw it coming. No one was quite prepared to deal with it. And there was nothing else to do, but to face the bitter winds and walk.

It was a bright and beautiful Monday morning. I don’t talk that way about Mondays a lot. I’m a grumpy kind of guy, I guess. But that day, that Monday, I was feeling pretty good. Just a few more days, and I would be on my way. Heading out on my road trip to Bloomfield and points south. Heading out to meander. It’s been way too long, since I’ve done a thing like that. I think I even hummed a tune, now and then. Good things were coming, good times. And I was all busy getting my stuff lined up, getting my projects scheduled for delivery in my absence.

And right after lunch, it all came down. Everything was quiet. I was sitting at my computer, I’d just hung up my office phone. And my cell phone rang. That’s not unusual. My cell phone rings lots of times every day. I glanced at the screen. Janice. That’s a little odd, I thought. We chat now and then, but not often during the day. Mostly evenings and weekends. Oh, well. Maybe she was in the area somewhere close and wanted to hang out sometime soon. I answered. Hey. Janice, dear. What’s up?

And her voice was very strange. Flat and heavy. But somehow, calm. “Uncle Ira. What are you doing?” Just working, I said. What’s up? And she told me, just launched right in. “I just got off the phone with Dorothy. Little Abby drowned. They couldn’t find a pulse, but she hasn’t been declared dead. They’re airlifting her to Iowa City right now. I don’t have any details at all, what happened. Can you let the family know?” Ah, no. I groaned. Then I caught myself. In a time like that, it doesn’t do anyone any good to groan. I’ll contact the family, of course, I said. I’ll take care of it. Keep me updated when you know more. “I will,” she promised. We hung up.

And I stood there behind the counter. The dark cloud descended around me, in me, through me. No. It couldn’t be. Not a death like this. Not in my family. No one has ever died in my immediate extended family, not until Mom passed away a few months back. It can’t be. No. It can’t be true. It always hits you way down deep inside when you hear about the tragic death of any child. There’s something so brutal and so senseless about it all. But Abby wasn’t just any child. She was blood kin, the three-year-old daughter, the youngest daughter, of my niece, Dorothy Miller and her husband, Lowell.

And I thought about Dorothy and her little family. She’s Janice’s older sister. We’ve kind of disconnected in the last number of years, at least when it comes to actually seeing each other. We’re friends on Facebook, of course, and we’ve stayed connected there. She married Lowell Miller, a guy from Kalona, Iowa, back in the late 1990s, I think it was. I just don’t get out that way, much. I saw her at Mom’s funeral, back in April. That was the first time in a few years that we got to hang out together.

They are always little girls in my mind, Dorothy and Janice. They forever will be. Years ago, when I was in college down south, I hung out with my sister Maggie’s family almost every weekend. The girls were teenagers back then, slogging through all the drama and angst of that age. And I was their big old rugged uncle, a guy who protected them. Or tried to, at least. I scolded them around a bit, too. We still talk about those days.

Dorothy and Lowell had four children, I knew. I’d been around the older ones. Kali, Hunter, and Lexi. But Abby? I don’t recall seeing her, except maybe when she was a baby. I have ninety-eight great-nieces and nephews out there, scattered all over creation. It’s impossible, to keep track of them all, to know who they all are. So I had no real clear picture in my mind of how she looked. But she was Dorothy’s youngest daughter, and from what I’ve heard told, the life of that family. The baby. The live wire. The little drama queen. She had everyone wrapped around her fingers. And now, right this instant, she was being airlifted to Iowa City, with no pulse.

But she hadn’t been pronounced dead, yet. That tiny glimmer of hope flashed through my mind as I called my sister, Rachel. She answered. She’d heard. Janice had left a message on her phone. And we talked about it, my sister and me. The heaviness and sorrow of it. A new burden, a huge burden, for our extended family. “I’ll text everyone,” she told me. “You post it on the family Facebook page.” OK, I said. Let’s keep in touch as we hear more news. “And let’s pray,” she said. “She’s not been pronounced dead, yet. Where there’s any life, there’s hope.” I knew in my heart that it was probably too late, for prayer to make much difference. Not that I don’t believe in prayer, and the power of it. I do. But life is life, from what I’ve seen. And death is death. But I answered my sister. Yes, I said. Let’s pray.

Abby Marie Miller. Three years old. Being airlifted to the hospital, even at the moment. And I logged onto Facebook on my work computer. Posted a brief message on the family page. “Just got terrible news from Janice. Dorothy’s little daughter, Abby, is being airlifted to the hospital. She has no pulse, but has not been pronounced dead. She drowned. At this moment, until she is pronounced dead, please pray hard that the Lord will spare this beautiful child.”

The responses were swift and strong. The family, closing in. Such a thing has never happened before, nothing even close to it. Except for Titus, I guess, way back in 1982. But he was always conscious, when they pulled him from the water. My family has been blessed with life, over the years. Death has been very rare. Mom was the first to leave, of all her extended family. And now the thought flashed through my head. She went first. Because she was needed, to welcome those who would come soon after. She was needed to welcome her little three-year-old great-granddaughter to a far better place. I don’t know if that’s actually something that happens, if it’s actually scriptural or true. But in such moments, your heart, your mind, grasps for some small solace in thoughts like that.

It was gone that day at the office, any chance of getting any real work done. I sat and brooded. The calls came in, and I talked to people, family. I called Steve, and told him. And my nephew, Ira Lee. They both responded in solemn shock. I paced about, tried to focus on what I needed to get done. It was pretty much hopeless. And then I thought. I’ll call John, my nephew. He’s lives in Bloomfield, not far from Kalona, and he and Dorothy are close. He’ll know something. I called. He answered, in his calm, deep voice. Yes. He had been called. He was working just about an hour away from Iowa City. And he was on the way to the hospital now. “Look,” he said. “No one quite knows what’s going on. But Abby hasn’t been pronounced dead, yet. Until she is, I will simply hope and pray for the best.” Yes, I said. Well, hey, thanks. Keep us posted on Facebook, when you get there. He said he would.

I told the others around me, at the office. And everyone got all somber. It’s a brutal, brutal thing to contemplate, the loss of such a young child in such a tragic way. I kept checking the messages on the family page. John announced he’d arrived at the hospital. Dorothy’s family was coming, traveling from far away. Her parents, Ray and Maggie, left immediately from their home in South Carolina. Along with Dorothy’s siblings, Steven and Rhoda. Janice and Evonda were flying in from Houston. He would stay until Janice got there, John wrote. From his words, you could tell the situation was pretty grim.

They found a faint pulse, there at the hospital. Abby was immediately hooked up to the breathing machine. Tomorrow morning they would scan for any brain activity. No one said it, but we all knew. The chances of that were pretty slim. If there was none, they would take her off the machine. I could not imagine what Dorothy and Lowell were going through at about that moment. And their children, Abby’s three older siblings.

The next morning, I talked to John. Janice had arrived around 11:00, he said. That’s when he left. The people from South Carolina drove all night, and arrived just before dawn. It doesn’t look good, does it? I asked. “No,” John said. “It’s not good at all.” And we waited that morning, for news on the brain scan.

There was no life there, when they checked. Lowell and Dorothy took turns, lying in bed beside their daughter, holding her in their arms for the last time. The family gathered in the room, as the life machine was turned off. And they saw the heartbeat on the screen, slowly receding, receding. And then it stopped. Little Abby left them, there. She just left. The text came to me from Janice. “She died at 8:30. Let the family know.” I stared at the message I knew was coming. And I knew what it would say. She was gone. Passed from this life. A beautiful, lively, healthy three-year-old girl.

I told the others in the office, then texted Rachel. Let the family know. Then I posted the news on the family site. By noon, the word came. The funeral would be on Saturday morning. The day we had planned the Amish Reunion in Bloomfield. John and I kept the phone lines hot, calling each other. He’s the one who got it all together, the reunion. And he told me. It would go on, there were a lot of people planning to attend. John just delegated his duties to others. The Wagler clan would show up, but we would just be late.

I called my friends at Enterprise. For this trip, I didn’t ask for a Charger. The medical people have been baying on my trail like relentless bloodhounds, the bills have been piling in. So I figured I’d rent something a little smaller, to save money. Just get me a compact, something like a Fusion, I told the guy. I had planned to leave on Thursday. I moved that up a day, to Wednesday. Because of the funeral, I wouldn’t get to see some of my English friends around Bloomfield. So I figured I’d head up a day early, and see them then. On Tuesday morning, on the way to work, I stopped by to pick up my car. What do you have for me? I asked. The nice man peered at his computer screen. “I have a Charger. Will that work?” It absolutely will, I said. It’s my favorite car. He went out and brought it up. Beautiful, gleaming, snow white. How fitting, I thought. I rode a black horse of mourning to Mom’s funeral. Now for Abby, for a little girl, I had a pure white horse. And there was no upcharge, even. Lord, I thought. Thank you for small blessings like this. I never looked for it, never expected it. And now you gave it to me anyway.

I left on Wednesday morning. Packed up two weeks’ worth of clothes. And a black suit for the funeral. I brooded as I drove, the sadness seeped all the way deep down. How do you walk into such a sorrow, such a loss? What do you say? What can you say? I dreaded the next day, when I’d get to Kalona. The Charger cruised and cruised like only Chargers can, that was one nice thing about that day. I-70 was clogged with construction every few miles, it seemed like. I pushed on, making decent time. On and on, through Ohio, then Indiana. Then by early evening, I was in central Illinois. I pulled into a nice Holiday Inn and settled for the night. Tomorrow, a four-hour run would get me to where I was going.

I got to my destination shortly after noon the next day. Janice had told me. The girls were going shopping, so they wouldn’t be home right at that time. The men were there, though. I walked in and greeted my nephew, Steven. We hugged. Then Maggie stepped out of the house. Her face was tired and haggard. Beyond tears, now. It had been three days. We hugged, and I held her tight. I’m so sorry, I said. I’m so, so sorry. We walked into the house. The place was bustling with people, cleaning up and preparing food. I greeted them. Then I walked into the living room where Lowell was. He met me at the door. I’ve never known him that well, never been around him that much. We embraced, and he burst into tears. It’s no one’s fault, I said softly. It’s no one’s fault. And we sat there in that room and talked.

Maggie bustled about, rousting up some food for me to eat. I hung around, chatting with Steven and his father, Ray, who came wandering in. The details of what had happened trickled out. Lowell and Dorothy live in a rented farm house. And out by the barnyard, they had placed some sort of water tank. Dorothy carefully researched on the internet. What was a safe level of water for children? And they put in nineteen inches of water, for the children to play in. Late that Monday morning, the older children were out there, splashing around. Abby came running in and asked for her bathing suit. Her Mom dressed her and sent her out. No one is quite sure how it all happened. The other children thought she was just playing, stretched out there in the water. But the time they realized what was going on, Abby was gone. Her little goggles were there, at the bottom of the tank. They think maybe she was reaching down to pick them up, and slipped and panicked. But she was gone. In nineteen inches of water.

After an hour or so, Janice and Evonda got back from shopping. I hugged them both. Everyone was very calm. Maybe they were still in shock. Or maybe there were no more tears to weep, at least not in that moment. Dorothy was coming soon, Janice said. About half an hour later, the van pulled in. Dorothy and her sister Rhoda, and some of their children. I met them on the back deck. Dorothy walked up to me and I hugged her tight. She wept in my arms. You’re my little niece, I said. You’ll always be my little niece. “I know,” she said, through her tears. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

I left then, soon, and headed the ninety miles southwest to Bloomfield. I checked in at the local motel, and then drove on out west to West Grove. The café. It was closed already, but Linda happened to be puttering around outside. She smiled when she recognized me. We talked for a while, then I followed her the short distance to her Mom’s house. Mrs. C was very surprised to see me. At 82 years old, she’s still as spry and beautiful as ever. We sat in her living room and visited and caught up. They both clucked in sympathy when I told them about little Abby. Then it was on, up north of Bloomfield to John’s house. He has a big place. And over the years, he has built one very large, beautiful home. He welcomed me. The place was already bustling with company. Two of his brothers, David and Glen, and their families had arrived. And Ed Yoder, our mutual friend from Illinois, and his family. Ed was taking over John’s duties at the Reunion, at least on Saturday. We hung out. Dort had prepared a large delicious meal. We ate, then sat around John’s roomy porch and chatted the hours away. We talked about the Reunion, coming up. And we talked about Abby, and the unspeakable sorrow of her loss. John and Dort’s youngest daughter is almost a twin to Abby. They look like twins. They were close friends.

The next day I headed back up to Kalona and the Miller home. The viewing would be from 2:00 to 8:00 PM. That sure seems like a long old drag, I thought. That’s going to be brutal on Dorothy and the family. Jesse and Lynda and a few of their children had arrived from South Carolina, after driving through the night before. I greeted them. And soon before 2:00, we headed over to Fairview Mennonite Church, where Lowell and Dorothy are members. We walked in. A nice big place. It looked like they were ready for large crowds. A podium was set up in the hall, where you could sign the guest book. And there was a big sign as well, on an easel. Abby loved going barefoot, it said. In honor of her memory, please feel free to remove your shoes. And that sign was why there were a lot of barefoot women and children that day at the viewing, and the next day at the funeral.

I walked into the large room where the coffin was set up. Lowell and Dorothy stood at the far end, along with members of both their families. A large table was on the right with pictures and memories of Abby. And down along the wall, there was the little white coffin, with half a dozen huge bouquets of flowers. A few people had already lined up. I joined the line, as it crept slowly toward the coffin. And then I was there. And there she lay. Abby.

She looked like a beautiful little girl asleep. Just lying there, eyes closed, sleeping. On her right arm, she snuggled her favorite doll, Minnie Mouse. Another doll on her left arm. I stood and looked down on her for a moment. It surged through me, the unspeakable sadness and sorrow of it all. Then I turned and embraced my niece and her husband. I’m so sorry, I said. I’m so, so sorry.

I walked down the line, shaking the hands of all the people there. And turned back to the room. Janice was sitting off in one empty corner, by herself. I grabbed a chair and joined her. That spot was where my family would gather, as they came. And they came, from all over. This was a new thing for all of us, a thing we would have given just about anything not to have to face. But it was what it was, and we came. Nieces and nephews and their families. My siblings. All of us made it, except Joseph and Rosemary. Joseph wasn’t well enough to attend, or he would have been there. Rosemary didn’t make it, but some of her children would. That afternoon we got the word.

Dad was coming, too. When the news got up to Aylmer that Tuesday, they told Dad. That day, he decided he would not attend. The next morning, he walked over to Rosemary’s house. His eyes were bloodshot, he had slept very little the night before. And he told Rosemary. “I want to go to this funeral.” Rosemary’s children, Eunice and Lester, and Lester’s wife, Tina, wanted to go, too. So early on Friday morning, they loaded up on a van and headed out for Kalona.

The line flowed through in a steady stream all afternoon. At 4:30, the family was invited downstairs for the evening meal. Around 5:00, Dorothy and Lowell joined us. By then, so many of the family had arrived that the room was pretty much overflowing. They fed us well, the people of that church. They surrounded Dorothy and Lowell with tons and tons of support and love. It was all a bit overwhelming to see.

And right about then, Dad’s load arrived. Someone guided him through the short line, right up to the coffin. He stood there, bent and leaning on his walker, and just looked down on Abby. I don’t know what was going through his mind. He’s seen a lot in his lifetime, but he’d never seen anything like this. His great-granddaughter, lying there in a little white coffin, asleep. He’s ninety-two years old. She was three.

Dad’s sister Rachel, who lives in the Kalona Amish community, was with him. We seated them at the end of the line, where Dorothy and Lowell had stood. We set up a little table for them, and Maggie and I carried up food for my father and his sister. I went downstairs again, but Maggie sought me out. “Dad would like someone to come up and sit with them,” she said. I took my plate of food up to where they were and sat and ate with them.

After supper, the place filled up quickly as the crowds surged in. The line strung out the room and flowed into the foyer. It’s maddening, how slowly funeral viewing lines crawl along. People mean well, but they don’t think. You can’t stop and visit with every person in the bereaved family. It takes up too much time. And by 7:00, the line was through the foyer and out the door. I conferred with Janice. We have to get those people moving along. I’m not from around here, I told her. If people get mad at me for nudging them along, I won’t be around to hear it. Let’s do it. So that’s what I did. Kind of stalked up and down, and policed the line. Once in a while, I tapped some slowpoke on the shoulder. You really have to keep moving, I’d murmur quietly. The line is out the door, back there. You have to move along. And they did.

The most heartrending scene happened right about that time. A family came through with young children. And there was a little daughter, right at Abby’s age. The little girl was Abby’s best friend. I saw the father lift up his daughter, so she could see her friend, lying there. I saw him explaining to her the story of what had happened. That Abby was now sleeping, now up in heaven with Jesus. And then the family approached Dorothy and Lowell. And I saw the poor woman, my poor niece, I saw her body heaving as Abby’s best friend walked up to her. Dorothy sobbed, slow and deep, as the enormity of her loss swept through her, all the way down. She reached out and enveloped the little girl in her arms. The family stood there, half circling her. Tears flowed freely from all standing close by. I stepped up with Janice, and we directed the people in line around the little huddled group.

After she composed herself, Dorothy’s sisters led her outside for some fresh air. A short time later, they returned. But the strain was just too much for Dorothy. Ten minutes later, they brought a wheelchair and took her outside and took her home. She had requested that the family stop by after the viewing. She wanted to have a fire outside, and sit around. So we all assembled there. It had all been taken care of, the wood was chopped and someone had started a nice crackling fire. My nephew David, Joseph’s son, popped popcorn in a large black lidded kettle above the fire, and we feasted on that. And then a bunch of food arrived, food that people had delivered to the church. And we sat around and talked and ate. Soon, a guitar was strumming, and you could hear the accompanying harmonica. And they sang. Songs of heaven, songs for Abby. After Dorothy had recuperated a bit, she came out and joined us. And we just hung out, as a family. It was a good time, a beautiful time, and a very sad time.

The next morning, we gathered at the church to bury one of our own. The place was pretty well packed out. The coffin was set up in the foyer as we arrived. And I looked again, down on a beautiful, sleeping little girl. They seated my family way up in the front rows. And the service began. A short devotional, then the main sermon. After that, a video tribute to Abby, very touching. And then Abby’s aunt and uncle, Janice and Steven, stood at a mic in the back of the church. All was somber and silent as Steven strummed his guitar and they sang with tears streaming down their faces, in perfect, absolutely beautiful harmony. A slow, achingly haunting rendition of “Jesus loves me, this I know…” And then they finished, and all was quiet. And then we were dismissed.

They trundled the little white coffin right out to the graveyard. We stood under the canopy, the crowd flowing all around. Dorothy and Lowell and their children had one last look at Abby. Then the coffin lid was closed. The family stood close to the grave, right at the very edge, as the coffin was slowly lowered. It was some sort of winch system. They didn’t do it by hand, like the Amish do. The coffin slowly sank down, and settled. And thus little Abby Marie Miller was returned to the earth.

They had brought out dozens of red balloons. I guess that was Abby’s favorite color. The balloons were passed out after the coffin went down. The crowd kind of spilled out to an empty part of the graveyard. Dorothy stood there, surrounded by her children and her family. And she told us. “Abby liked to claim she was eleven. So we’re counting down from eleven to zero, then we’ll release the balloons.” She started the count, and we all chanted with her. ”Eleven, ten,” all the way down to zero. And then we let them go, the balloons. A hundred of them, it seemed like. They floated up and the south winds instantly caught them and carried them away. And they drifted out of sight within a few minutes. Abby’s balloons.

And that’s about all I got to say about the funeral. I wasn’t sure I could even write about it, because to write such a thing, you have to walk back through and relive it all again. And that was pretty tough to do. But I’ve always said. You write from where you are. Wherever that is. Even from the hard places, maybe especially from the hard places. So that’s what I tried to do.

Lowell and Dorothy and their surviving children are going to have a long, hard road ahead of them. It will return again and again for a long time, the heavy sorrow of their loss. It’s the cruelest loss of all, of that there is little doubt. I’ve seen a lot of hard losses, in my life. A lot of hard things, stripped away. But I’ve never lost a child. And I’ve never lost a sibling.

I’ve been thinking about things a bit, about Dorothy and Lowell and their family. I’ve never asked for a penny for the twenty-plus hours of labor that go into every blog I post. But now I am asking my readers. If you enjoy my blogs, please consider donating to help defray all the expenses incurred by Abby’s tragic accident and death. There are medical and funeral costs. And loss of work, for Lowell. They will have financial hardships. And no, they didn’t ask me to post this link. If you can’t contribute, I understand, just pray for the family. But if you can, any help you could give would be greatly appreciated. (If you saw this link on Facebook before and responded, just ignore this paragraph.) Or if you’d rather, just send them a card or letter in the mail. Thank you, either way.

Lowell and Dorothy Miller

4808 Sharon Center Road SW

Iowa City, IA 52240

A couple of thoughts in closing. How does one make any sense of it all? It seems so random and so brutal and so wrong. Maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe they don’t. I don’t think that anyone’s ever going to tell Lowell and Dorothy the reason why their little Abby is gone. There are no formulas for that. No wise words, no pat answers.

But still, there can be words of comfort, when you grasp down deep to find them. And speak them from the heart. And now, I think back to that day as it came down. As it was descending around us, the dark thing, that Monday after lunch, my mind flashed back thirty-five years or so. Back to a connection, back to a simple scene in Bloomfield, Iowa. I don’t remember where church was that Sunday. But I remember my brother Joseph, preaching. And in that moment, that dark Monday, I went back to a time and place of long ago. And I heard again the rhythm and flow of my brother’s voice.

Somewhere in his sermon, he told a story. I don’t know what triggered it. But he spoke in detail of a young Amish couple in another community. About Lowell and Dorothy’s age. They had four or five children. The youngest child was a daughter, the baby of the family. Just like Abby. And somehow, that little girl got killed, in some totally senseless and tragic accident. One moment she was there, healthy, bubbling, happy. And the next moment, she was gone. Dead. And they buried her in the graveyard.

Joseph struggled to describe how hard it was for the parents to let their little daughter go. Especially for the mother. She wept and wept and grieved. Her heart was simply broken, she would not be consoled. All she could do was mourn for her little girl. It was beyond Joseph’s comprehension, such a loss, such a heavy sorrow. And he spoke tenderly and compassionately of how brutal life can be sometimes, of how some are called to face hardships that few others ever see. Burdens that few others can even imagine.

And then he spoke of the comfort that can only come from the Lord. He’d heard it said, or maybe he’d read it in a poem somewhere. Children are like flowers in a garden. Blooming there, in innocence. The Lord looks down on His garden every day. And once in a while, Joseph said, He reaches down with His finger and plucks up one of those beautiful little flowers from His garden. And takes that flower home to be with Him.

Somehow, it affected me deeply, that simple sermon and that simple analogy. I never forgot it, and thought of it now and then, over the years. And it applies here, if you think about it. And if you believe, by faith. There is no other way any of it makes any sense. It gives me comfort, the way Joseph told the story in that long-ago time and place. That was then. This is now. But he could just as well have been speaking about little Abby today.

The Lord looked down on His garden, back on that fateful Monday morning. And He saw a beautiful flower blooming there. A beautiful, beautiful rose. A rose like no other. He reached down with His finger, and gently plucked little Abby from this earth. And took her home to be with Him.

Now, here we are, heartbroken, right where we were when she left us. And now, there she is, in that magnificent place no tongue can ever describe. A rose like no other.

And there she’ll live forever, blooming for Him.

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