Ira Wagler's Blog, page 2

Vagabond Traveler; Songs of Autumn…

All things belonging to the earth will never change–the leaf,

the blade, the flower, the wind that cries and sleeps and wakes

again, the trees whose stiff arms clash and tremble in the dark,

and the dust of lovers long since buried in the earth…

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

It’s that time of year again. Fall, drifting into winter. The clocks turned back an hour the other Sunday. I don’t know where it all goes, the days, the weeks, and then the months. The circle of the seasons. And every year it comes sweeping in at this time, a deep and abiding sense of foreboding and loss. Fall is the season of death, as the earth settles in and prepares for winter. In the spring comes new life. But not now. Now comes the darkness, the fruits of harvest on the farm, and the plow.

It always takes me back, this time of year does. Back to the escapes of time and memory, as Thomas Wolfe would say. Back to my days of childhood on my father’s farm. All things come from the earth, and all things must return to the earth again. The first frosts came sweeping in, cold and biting. The nights chilling down, the brown leaves raining from the maple trees, the first thin ice forming over the puddles and then the pond. The sun rising, clear and brilliant, in the east.

After chores, and after breakfast, we trundled off to school, swinging our plastic lunch boxes, hunched against the bitter northwestern winds. Above us in the cloven skies, great rafts of geese and ducks flew south in gigantic Vs, the geese sprawling sideways in the wind. Their high wild calls stirred a longing deep inside, an intense and quiet desire for a thing I could not speak. It was a yearning undefined that pulsed strong through my blood.

We had a mile to the west school. Half a mile to the east school, where all the children went through third grade. And one cold fall morning, we were walking along to school. Me and my little sister Rhoda and little brother Nathan. I’m thinking Nathan would have been attending the east school, the closer one. Anyway, it was fall, and it was cold. The ice had frozen over the mud puddles along the road. Rhoda, ever energetic and adventurous, decided to check the strength of the ice over a little puddle. She stomped on it, to see if it would hold her. And just that quick, the ice broke. It was a deep puddle, and her foot plunged in, all the way down. Her shoe was completely submerged and soaked with freezing water. Startled from the shock of it, she burst into tears.

Ah, Rhoda, I groaned gently. Not too harsh, she was upset. What to do? What to do? I was the older brother. I needed to look after my sister. Rhoda sobbed and sobbed and shivered. If I sent her back home to change socks, she’d be late for school. Plus, she’d be walking alone. After a few seconds of quick calculating, I told her to sit down on the side of the road and take off her shoe and sock. I sat down beside her and did the same. And right there in that bitterly cold morning, we switched. I pulled on the sopping freezing wet sock she had worn and gave her my dry one. And we got up and walked on toward school. That day, the cold wet sock dried in the warm schoolhouse. I thought about it, now and then, since that long-ago morning. I was the big brother. I was responsible to look out for my younger siblings. I didn’t always get that done later, in my running around years. That morning, I reckon I did.

This year, the brooding days of fall brought death. Just last month, it hit pretty close there at work. I’ve worked with Rosita Martin ever since I came to Graber. Almost twenty years. She’s actually the one who runs things there. And last month, one Sunday evening, here came a text. About her father, Kenneth Beiler. A well-respected man in the Beachy Amish circles, he had not been feeling well. That evening, they went in to the hospital to get him checked out, he and his wife. The news came, brutal and shocking. He was filled with a highly aggressive form of cancer. He didn’t have long.

I didn’t know the man well. Met him probably a few dozen times over the years when he stopped in to see his daughter, there at work. We usually smiled and chatted briefly. The family brought him home and prepared to walk with him through the final months. Except there weren’t months. Three weeks later, Kenneth Beiler passed away in hospice, where he had been taken the night before because of intense and unbearable pain. The funeral was at Mine Road Beachy Amish Church, which Mr. Beiler had helped found many years ago when he was a young man. And so he was respectfully laid to rest. The extended family grieves the loss of its patriarch.

And last week, death came calling fairly close to me. Well, it was close at one time, years ago. My ex-wife Ellen’s older sister Sue Brunk. She was married to a Plain Mennonite man, Tony. I never knew Sue that well. She was always kind, back when I was married to her sister, the few times I was around her. She never made any fuss, when our world exploded later. I’m sure she felt for us deeply, because that’s the kind of heart she had. Anyway, she was diagnosed some years ago with cancer, too. What kind, I don’t know. She gradually declined and wasted away, clinging on, getting better, then worse, then better, then worse. Like a roller coaster. It got so I almost forgot she was sick. Last Friday morning, I got the message on my phone. Sue passed away. The family gathered in the little Ohio community where she had lived and buried her. Grieved the loss of the first sibling to go, like my family did with Joseph last March. I sent my condolences.

Death came knocking, for those two families. It will come knocking again, for others. Soon. That’s just a fact of life.

And off on a little bunny trail, here, about the whiskey. Or the lack thereof, might be more accurate. I don’t talk about it all the time, but I’m still walking dry through life. It’s the norm, now. I can’t accurately express what a difference it has made in my life. How good I feel. I think it was mentioned before. There’s a whole chapter in the book about it. Whiskey and Me. Unplanned, that little narrative had been. It just came on its own. The dry life is a good life, I can say. I feel free, which is saying a lot for me.

So, anyway. The other Saturday morning, I stopped at the local bank to make a deposit and pick up some cash for pocket money. I strolled in. A beautiful, sunny day. I do most of my banking in the Christiana branch, there close to work. This was New Holland. I smiled at the teller and presented my signed checks to cash and deposit. She was real nice, she smiled back at me. And she was a little apologetic. She didn’t know me. Could she see some ID? Of course, I said. I dug into my wallet and extracted my driver’s license. Here you go.

She looked at the picture. My face is bloated like a fatted hog. And then she looked at me. “My,” she said. “You’ve lost a little weight.” Well. What do you do with that? Yep, I told her. I quit drinking two years ago. The weight just washed off, after that. She smiled. “And all that sugar you’re not taking in anymore,” she said. “Alcohol is loaded with sugar.” Yep, that too, I said. Whatever it was, I’m in a good place now.

It made me smile, that little incident. I hope to smile again, like that. The blessings of life flow strong.

Four or five years ago, I used to meet with a little group at Vinola’s every Tuesday after Bible Study. We took a break from those Tuesday night meetings this summer, still haven’t started back up. I’d like to again. Anyway, there was this eclectic group that got together at the pub. Had a few drinks. Sometimes someone ordered food. Greasy, late night stuff, there. A few of the guys who met us there at Vinola’s never made it to the Bible Study. They had an aversion to such things. They’d socialize with us later, though.

One of those regulars who would only come to Vinola’s was an atheist. Nice enough guy, a little younger than me. He wore his atheism on his sleeve. I took to calling him the atheist evangelist. If I talked to others about Jesus as much as he talked about his atheism, well, I’d be an irritating pest. Which is exactly what he turned into. A tiresome bore. He’d get all vitriolic and sneering at how stupid Christians are. I mean, a little bit of that is fine, if that’s how you feel. A steady dose of such poison gets old, though. Real old. Back in those days, my drinking days, I got all hot at the guy more than a few times. He was hard to like.

In time, the little Vinola’s group disbanded. The atheist went his way, and I went mine. At some point in there, we got disconnected on Facebook, too. I think he unfriended me about the time Trump got elected president. Which I was fine with. I got tired of seeing tirade after tirade with link after link, scorning and mocking all things Christian.

I was fine with not being friends. I mean, at some point, you just accept it like it is. The atheist was not a pleasant person, and I didn’t particularly like him much. What do you owe a person like that? Do you have to pretend to like someone who is so deliberately obnoxious? Why? We are commanded to love the unloveable. What is love, in this situation? To me, it was disconnecting and walking away.

The atheist stayed out of sight and out of mind. Until very recently. I got a private message from the man. I was startled to see his name. This could not possibly bode well. And in his message, he had a very explicit thing to tell me. It was about Kanye West, the singer. I know very little about Kanye and have never been a particular fan of his singing. He made a huge splash recently when he came out as a full bore Christian. His runaway hit album is titled, “Jesus is King.” I was glad to see Kanye’s conversion. The power of the gospel can reach anyone at any level. That’s what the atheist was writing to me about. He sneered about how stupid Kanye is, to pretend to be a Christian. Obviously a fraud. All for the money.

Back in the old days, I would have risen to the bait and responded in rage. The whiskey always triggered a strong reaction. The atheist knew that. He expected the old me to get riled up. It didn’t happen. I messaged back. What’s it to you? It’s absolutely none of your business, what Kanye does. And he came back with a string of sneering vitriol directed at Kanye. He’s a mental case who produces bad art. I don’t know what he was expecting me to say. I do know it wasn’t even tempting, to reply in kind. I shrugged and asked again. What’s it to you? Why do you care?

In other words, go away, and stop wasting my time with your silliness. I got better things to do. That’s how you can respond if you’re dry, and it’s real. I’m good, here.

Not long ago, I got a call from a young Amish man, a foreman in a local shed-building shop. I’ve worked with this guy for a few years. He’s young-married, with a young family. Three children, I think. So far. He and I have had many interesting and in-depth conversations about what it is to be Amish. I’ve wondered sometimes if he stays because he wants to, or because he’s scared to leave. It didn’t matter. I mean, I didn’t try to change him. He read my book and told me he enjoyed it a lot.

So anyway, that day he was calling to check on some invoices, and he had something else he wanted to tell me. Today was his last day at this job. Ah, I said. Sorry to hear that. I’ve really enjoyed working with you, and I have enjoyed our little chats. What are you going to be doing? He told me he was moving to a farm halfway across the county. That’s the traditional but increasingly rare dream for young Amish couples in Lancaster County. Farming. Most of them can’t. Price of land is too high. I’m happy for you, I said. I’m sure your children are going to love having their Daddy home more. Still, it’s gonna be different here, not talking to you now and then.

He agreed, he enjoyed our chats, too. I thought about something, then. And I told him. I know I promised you a copy of the new book when it gets published next spring. And I’ll still give you one. But I ain’t hunting you down. You have to come over here and pick it up yourself. Maybe we can catch up, then. He chuckled and allowed that he could probably do that. We said good-bye, and I wished him well on the farm. And I thought about it. People come and people go. Everyone keeps moving on. That’s life, I guess.

The other day, I did something at work that I had not done in quite a few years. I ordered a guy to leave and never come back. The man was basically a fringe lunatic. Last time he was there, several years ago, we had a knock-down, drag-out fight to get him to pay taxes on his purchases. He fought me for twenty minutes and kept waving a little card around, claiming he’s not a US citizen, and the Constitution entitles him not to pay taxes. He wasn’t convincing. His spiel fell on deaf ears. He paid.

I mean, the man was absolutely right about the foundational issue of his gripe. Taxes are immoral and they are theft. One hundred percent of the time, that is true. But I told the man back then, and I told him again that day. I do what it takes to stay out of a cage. That’s the extent of my respect for any human law. I obey, but I seethe, doing it. The state is a vile monstrosity of an idol that gorges on innocent blood. But if I gotta pay tax on what you buy, you are going to pay that tax. Period.

I was on the phone when he walked in this time. I recognized him and wondered. Did he remember how it went the last time? Apparently not. He laid his little card on the counter and was starting down that same tired old road with Mark, my coworker. I got off the phone and inserted myself. We got things to do, I told him. We don’t have time to argue. You will pay the tax. If you want the trim, pay Mark and go out and load. We ain’t going to fight you. Not this time. Take it or leave it.

Somehow, he got the idea I was being disrespectful. He got pretty livid. Launched into me. Verbally, I mean. Wagging his finger and talking real loud. “Don’t you dare disrespect me,” he hollered. I listened for a few seconds, then interrupted. Get out, I said flatly, pointing to the door. Now. Don’t ever come back. He wasn’t expecting that. He fussed and groaned and got all pissy. I was firm. Go. Get out. Now. Don’t ever walk into this place again, or I’ll call the cops. (I would have to be half dead before I’d ever call the cops for any reason, shades of my father. But he didn’t know that.) He muttered and grumbled. Then he left.

It wasn’t fun. And I never got angry at him. Wasn’t worth it. I don’t go looking for trouble. It usually takes a little time to get me worked up. But when I get yanked around like that, I just figure a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

A while ago, I sent an advance copy of Broken Roads to Dr. Donald Kraybill, the eminent and respected historian of all things Amish. I’ve always said. If Dr. Kraybill says that such and such a community has this many districts and that many families, you can take that information to the bank. I’ve always respected his research. He knows what he’s talking about. He retired a few years back, although he’s still active as a Senior Fellow at E-Town College.

I’m not all that tuned in to the hallowed halls of higher learning, but lately I’ve heard some mutterings that Dr. Kraybill’s work is under assault from at least one other professor in the Midwest. It looks to me like the classic scene, where the young lion attacks the old lion to make a name for himself. I don’t pretend to understand the insular world of academia. I met the main man attacking Dr. Kraybill a few years ago and wasn’t impressed. To be fair, he didn’t like me much, either.

Whatever criticisms one might have for Dr. Kraybill, he has always treated me fairly and with respect. I consider him a friend. A few weeks ago, he sent his feedback in a little blurb, with full permission to use his words anywhere I want to, verbatim or edited. I don’t know if the blurb will be on the back cover of the book, but I am grateful for his kindness and support. He didn’t have to do that. It’s a big deal to me.

“In this wonderful sequel to Growing up Amish, Wagler repairs the broken roads—the endless rifts with his father and others.

With audacious candor, Wagler reveals the darkest crevice of his heart, the sensitive soul of his people, the yearning of the human spirit. He fearlessly tells the unfettered truth. Raw truth about love, empathy, sin, salvation and reconciliation. His honesty refreshes. His brilliance informs. His courage offers hope.”

—Donald B. Kraybill, author The Riddle of Amish Culture

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Sons of my People…

What is it that a young man wants? Where is the central source

of that wild fury that boils up in him, that goads and drives and

lashes him, that explodes his energies and strews his purpose to

the wind of a thousand instant and chaotic impulses?

—Thomas Wolfe

___________________

He walked in at work late one afternoon a few weeks back to pick up the order his father had called in earlier that day. A young Amish man, maybe twenty years old or so. He smiled at me shyly. We chatted as I pulled up the invoice and got his paperwork. I asked about the project they were building. At some point, his eyes focused on the book sign taped on the back of my computer screen, facing him. Most people who buy from me across the counter never see the sign. He did. I saw him locking in. And so, I asked. Have you heard of my book? Growing Up Amish?

He had. He looked at me and smiled again, an honest, open smile. “Are you Ira?” he asked. Yep, I said. Did you hear of the book before? “Yes,” he said. “I read it, years ago, when I was in the eighth grade.” And now, I gaped. His father was from the south end, that much I knew, just from talking to the guy when he called in the order. South-enders overwhelmingly tend to be plain and very conservative. How in the world did this boy get hold of my book when he was that young? Eighth grade. You have to have some nerve, to sneak around absorbing such contraband at that age.

You read the book? I asked, astounded. I am surprised. And he told me a little bit how it went. His older brother bought the book behind their father’s back, a year or so after it came out. What, seven, eight years ago, probably. And when the older brother got done with it, he shared the book with this young man. I’m a little astonished, when I think of it. Or maybe not. Boys will be boys. We used to hide many books my father would have burned, had he found them. This day, at the counter, the young Amish man kept smiling shyly. He liked the book, that was pretty clear. We chatted about the highlights of the story from the parts he remembered. We got along real well. He was a sharp young man.

We wrapped it up, then. I handed him his paperwork, and he walked outside to his English driver. They pulled back out to the warehouse to load. A few minutes later, the phone rang again. It was the Amishman, the young man’s Dad. He needed a few more pieces of trim. I took the details, wrote up the order, and walked out to the warehouse to track down the boy. He was checking out our warehouse, drinking everything in. He seemed young and eager, like a child fresh from the country. Which he was, I guess.

I handed him the new paperwork, and we stood and chatted some more, taking up where we had left off a few moments before. I came right out and asked him. Are you content being Amish? He grinned. You can tell when a smile is real. This one was. And he told me. He is completely satisfied as an Amish person. He’s dating and plans to get married soon. And he looked at me, smiling shyly again.

It struck me in that moment. This young Amish man was living in a world such as I had never known. He was content. Amish. That thought went against everything I had fought so hard for, searched for so relentlessly in my youth. He was content among the Amish. He was settling in and sinking his roots, right there close to his home place. You just can’t be against such a thing, I don’t think. Not if that’s the choice someone made. I guess I don’t have to understand everything, I think at such a time. At such a time as this.

You know what? I said. You are choosing to stay Amish. That’s completely OK. You found something I never could. I’m happy for you. I will say, I’m amazed that you boys got that book snuck past your Dad, but it didn’t seem to influence you in a way he wouldn’t approve of. I appreciate that you read my stuff. The boy smiled again. He thanked me. We shook hands. And that was it, for that little incident.

I thought about the young man a lot, that day and that evening. Mulled over things. It sure is strange, how some things are. You think you’ve seen about everything there is to see, and then something comes along that you hadn’t seen before. And I thought, too. The boy grew up in an Amish world that is a lot different from the one I knew in my youth. The world around here seems a lot more tolerant, not in all ways, but in many. And even in the south end, I’m sure, there are pockets of progressive thinking. I’ve often wondered how it would have been to have been raised in the Lancaster County Amish world. I think my breaking free wouldn’t have been near as frantic in this setting. Not that any of it makes any difference from here, I guess. Still. Such were the thoughts that were triggered by my encounter with the young man.

And then one day later, it came at me from the other direction, the thing that holds an Amish son to his roots. Around midmorning, probably, on a lovely, sunny day. An Amish contractor walked in to pay for the building package we had dropped at his job site a few weeks before. I’ve known the guy for years, he’s a farmer who builds on the side. We’ve always got along well. He’s from down south a ways. Middle-aged, I’d say. His beard is broad and wild and untrimmed, like Amish men do when they let loose. When they don’t care anymore. Down south, where they raise lots of tobacco. And if you feel led to go proselytizing in those parts, you won’t get far. So, I don’t. I meet people where they are and deal with them. That just works better. I smiled at my friend and spoke pleasantly. Good morning. Great to see you. Did you bring me some money? He nodded as he reached into the barn door pockets of his pants and pulled out his checkbook.

I pulled up his invoice. We chatted as I printed out his paperwork, and he wrote me a check. Talked about how the job went. It was the biggest project I had ever supplied for this particular builder. And somewhere in there, I told him, offhand like. I talked to your son a few times on this job, when he called in with measurements and such. He was real nice. I enjoyed working with him. He seems alert and capable.

The Amish man looked pleased. He got that “ah, shucks” grin, like they do when you compliment their children. He stopped writing and leaned into the counter and told me a little bit about his son. “He’s nineteen. That’s a big reason I even mess with building pole barns, is because he likes that work. He likes to build. The younger children stay busy on the farm.” His pride for his son shone through, but it was a modest pride. I understood completely. I come from that world. I nodded and smiled.

And I was impressed, I gotta say. Here was a father, connected to his son. Doing what he could to get the boy started in a trade he liked. And no, that doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot of problems with Amish culture. I do. It will never be right, all that pressure that’s applied to Amish children not to leave. Still. Just because it ain’t right don’t mean it’s not real. That’s what that world is like, you think. But here was an Amish father, tuned in to his son in a way I could not have imagined in my youth. And I thought to myself, as I looked at him. Whatever your flaws, if you get that done, I respect you.

We wrapped it up, then. He reckoned there would be another building or two coming my way this fall, yet. So maybe I’ll get to work with his son some more. I’d like that, I said. He smiled and walked out.

And I’ve thought about it a lot, both of those little incidents. The young Amish man who seemed genuinely content to stay there. And now, the Amish father telling me how he is nurturing his oldest son. Well, he didn’t call it nurturing, and likely would be embarrassed at such a phrase, but that’s what he was doing. And I look at it all in some wonder. How can such a thing be, in such a restrictive setting? How is it even possible, that level of communication, in a culture where so many of the heavy things remain unspoken? Where there are no words to describe, I guess, sometimes there are deeds that do.

It struck me, though, what the bottom line had to be in both those families. Somehow, the parents in those families latched onto a basic, simple truth. They made their homes a safe haven for their children, a place the children wanted to come back to. How you get that done in the Amish culture without coercion is beyond me. But they did it. The son who was dating, fixing to get married soon, somehow he chose to walk in the footsteps of his fathers. And he wasn’t dull or stupid. In fact, he seemed quite alert and intelligent.

I’ve known a few people over the years who stayed Amish because it would have been more of a bother to break away than it was to just stay. Or that’s how it looked like to me. I’ve known Amish people who were so extremely laid back, it seemed like they could have just as well chosen to leave, but somehow didn’t get it done. I’ve seen people like that.

No separated group like the Amish will long survive the pressures of the modern age unless some good measure of the children choose to stay. Or can be coerced to. Each generation, or at least a portion of it, must keep walking in the way its fathers walked. Cultural survival is just not possible otherwise.

And it’s all OK. I’m not criticizing, here. Just leading up to the thought that I have not often met a young single Amish man who seemed so exuberantly sure of the road ahead. His feet were firmly planted on the ground. He would not wander, he would not stray from the old ways. It’s hard to grasp a road that was so unfamiliar to me, growing up. It’s hard to compute such a journey in my head.

It is what it is, I guess. As life mostly is.

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

Moving along, then. The book is rolling along quite nicely, thank you. Last month, a nice little package arrived at the Wagler household in New Holland. From Hachette. It was the page proofs. The book is typed up in proper format, and I get a stack of pages to edit with a pencil. Other than an inordinate amount of section breaks, the narrative seemed to be in good shape. I caught and corrected a few minor errors.

Earlier this month, I wrapped up the stack of pages and sent them back to New York City. And now, I wait. May, 2020, seems far away. Still. The journey rolls on at its own meandering pace. I’m trying to grasp the moments to my memory as they pass. I will say. I am tired.

Seasons come and seasons go. The tides of life roll on. And the blood lineage rolls on, too. I marvel at the beauty and timelessness of it. My nephew, Mervin Wagler (one of my brother Joseph’s younger sons), and his wife Marlene live in upstate New York in a small New Order Amish community. This past Monday, they were blessed with a hearty nine-pound son. He is welcomed by two brothers and two sisters. They named him David Wagler. The boy will carry my father’s name into future generations.

Mervin stated that young David Wagler is “stout as a bull.” Which is a good thing, if the boy is going to shake up the world like his namesake and great-grandfather did.

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Broken Roads: Cover Me…

He saw now that you can’t go home again–not ever.

There was no road back.

—Thomas Wolfe

_________________

OK, then. The time has come, that thing I promised last time. The book cover. It’s here. I’ll get to it in good time. But first, a little tale about some things that have been going on. And where I am this week. I’m at Beach Week. I am writing by the sea. It’s hard to stay focused in such surroundings. It’s peaceful, don’t get me wrong. But it’s hard to stay focused for long when I can hear the dull roar of the ocean and see the waves when I glance up, a few hundred feet away.

And yes, I’m meandering. If I can’t write as I got a mind to when at the beach, well, I just figure I can. I’m at the beach. Why am I fussing about any of this at all? One might certainly be excused for wondering. And asking, even.

I saw it coming, my respite at the beach, way out there as the summer came and flowed on by. And I thought to myself. It’s sure been a different kind of year. A good year. Just different. We lost Dad right after Christmas, and my oldest brother Joseph left in March. Two final good-byes, right there. It wasn’t really a surprise, seeing them leave. We knew it was coming. We saw it approaching, slowly, relentlessly, and so, so final when it got here. You think you’re ready in a time like that, and you are, I guess, as ready as you can be. Still. A loss is a loss. A good-bye is a good-bye. And death brings a curtain between this life and the next. That’s how it went with Dad and Joseph. They are gone.

The thing was, after Dad’s passing, I finally got the closure to finish my book. The thread of it, I mean. It was a big deal. To me, it was. A big deal, just to be able to scratch up a real narrative. I was working on the manuscript, off and on, all this year. It was always a force in my awareness and my existence, the book was. I never got all freaked about it, but the journey was stressful enough, I will concede. You don’t realize how much stress you were under until you look back, sometimes. After it’s gone. Or at least in remission. It’s always gonna creep back into my life again, one way or the other. Right now, it’s receding. I like that.

It felt decently together, my story, after I sent in the last edit of the book. I was fairly calm. We were going to get it all worked out. The summer passed. I saw the date of Beach Week creeping up. It would be here soon. I sent a text to my friend Linford Berry. The man who owns Mountain Valley Motors. Hey, I said. I’d like you to look for a black Jeep, same as the one I got or newer. Only this time, I want four doors. More room. I just need more room. Linford allowed that he’d keep an eye out. I said, no hurry, but I hoped he’d round one up by early September. It was my turn to drive to Beach Week, this year. Me and my friend Wilma take turns. It sure would be nice not to have to bounce all the way down there in my small Jeep, I thought to myself. And sure enough, about three weeks ago, here came an email from Linford. He’d found a four door black Jeep, 2016, with just under 34000 miles on it. It seemed like a sign.

I told him I figured to take it, and we agreed on a trade-in price for the first Jeep I’d bought from him early last year. The man is fair to deal with, which is nice. And early last week, I took a day off and drove down to Harrisonburg, Virginia. Linford’s car lot is in nearby Dayton. It didn’t take us long to get the paperwork done. I wrote out a check for the difference and thanked my friend and proudly drove north with Amish Black II. The Jeep is about as loaded as a Jeep gets, I’d say. It’s even got heated leather seats. A real “Jeep man” would probably scoff. Not me. I’ll take what comforts I can along the cold and often lonely path of life. Even heated seats in a Jeep.

Then came the night before Beach Week. Time to pack up. Tomorrow morning, I thought to myself. Tomorrow morning, me and Amish Black II head for the Outer Banks. For a whole week, unless another hurricane chases us out. Looking back over all the years, I couldn’t recall a time when I was more ready for this break. The pressures of telling your story, those came pushing in hard. So much life had to be relived in the telling. Relived, refelt, and reseen. That gets tough.

I was tired. Exhausted. It never quite sank in, my state of mind as this Beach Week approached. It never quite sank in until the time got here. And then I realized. I need a break. I really do. And I was ready to vedge without guilt. I wanted to hear the roar of the sea and the crashing of the waves. I wanted to breathe the salty air. I wanted to wash my soul clean.

Meanwhile. Over on the other front, things were going on. The book cover. They came out with it a few months back. I immediately wrote back. It looks fantastic. It’s great. I’ve always thought, after the first book. That cover was one in a million. That kind of thing will likely not be seen again, at least not by me. And it was last spring, I think, when we discussed it, me and Virginia. My editor. I told her. I got one request. Maybe it’s a requirement, but we’ll call it a request for now. The title. I want the words, Broken Roads, in the title. The rest of it, the subtitle, the picture and layout for the cover, hey, I’m open to whatever. But I want those words, because my life has been one long journey of broken roads. It’s easy to see if you stop and think about it. Those words will make a fit title. I even asked you, my readers, for your suggestions. More comments came rolling in from that request than I had seen in a long time, maybe ever.

Still. It was Virginia, or someone else there at Hachette who came up with the words to finish out the title. Returning to my Amish Father. It fit, perfectly, I thought. That’s exactly what the journey has been, both literally and figuratively. A return to my father on his death bed. I had fought for his blessing for many years. Decades. Now. I simply wanted closure. The book is about all that. And all the little bunny trails that flow naturally from such a story.

So they sent the cover, months ago. I looked at it and simply marveled. Broken Roads: Returning to my Amish Father. Right there. That’s it. The cover was about as professionally designed as you could imagine. It clearly feeds off the first book. The graphics people designed it with an eye to that. Make it compatible. A pair. They did good. Real good. Better by far than I had ever dared to hope.

I wanted to post the cover way back then. I was chomping at the bit in discontent. The Hachette people instructed me to hold off. Not now. I knew, though, that the Advance Review Copies were coming out in early September. Complete with a real cover. So from that, the world would know, anyway, what the cover was. I chomped at the bit some more. Come on. Let me post it. And around two weeks ago, I finally got the go ahead. OK. Post the cover. Post this pre-order link with it. That was the holdup, I guess. The pre-order link.

So I threw it out on Facebook. Provided the link, publicly. This is small potatoes to someone more astute, I’m sure. But last time I looked, the book cover and link were approaching 200 shares. I mean, people actually took the time to do that. I was awed. This is wild. This could be a new road rising, here. Social media such as I’ve not experienced before. I don’t know. I figure there’s gonna be some adventures, dead ahead, before long. We’ll see, I guess.

And back to my down time at the beach. The week had arrived. I loaded my new black steed with whatever might remotely be needed for the next seven days, then got my coffee at Sheetz and texted Wilma. I’m on my way. Soon after seven, we had her stuff loaded and were heading south. The new Jeep drove much better, more steady than the short one had. Smoother ride, too. I’m liking my Jeep, I think. By three, we had connected with much of the crowd in a seaside pub in Duck, NC. We sat around, just making lots of noise and catching up. The house would be ready at four. Soon after 3:30, Janice got the text. We’re good to go. And on up north we drove, almost to Corolla. Then a right turn into a development, to the same big beach house we had last year.

The group this year.

It’s simply impossible to describe the feelings of sweet freedom and relief that wash over you in such a moment as that. When you’re dragging your stuff into the huge mansion, up to the second floor, then a front corner bedroom. The years have taught me to seek out the spot that will be the least affected by loud late night noises the next floor up. I usually grump off to bed before anyone else. I mean, I’m relaxed and all. Just ready for bed. So I go.

And we all just walked into the weekend, then into the next week. The days flow by in some sort of mesmerized rhythm, each day building from the day that has passed, an easy, natural flow of many beautiful things that life can be. I brought along four copies of my new book, the ARCs. I figured if you share Beach Week with me, you got an early shot at reading my new stuff. Of course, Janice and my nephew John Wagler both claimed a signed copy. And my nephew, Steven Marner. He got a signed copy, too. The other one I gave away at random.

The days flowed by. The guys got some fishing done. I mostly just lazed around, reading and pecking away at this blog a little bit every day. We sang songs around the fire ring at night. And talked. The guys all admired my Jeep, although the consensus was that it needs a four-inch lift. And larger tires. Just the next size up. You want to stand out, they told me coaxingly. You want to make a little statement. Nothing too loud. Four inches higher isn’t loud. It’s confident. Oh, good grief, I said. I just spent a nice little chunk of change, buying this thing. I can’t just throw five more grand at it, just for anyhow. I mean, I have to plan my way around such things. I’ll think about it. Maybe, if the book does well. The boys seemed satisfied with that. Well, they had little choice.

Wednesday. We got a little storm early on. Or maybe the storm was out there, away from us. We caught the winds of it. That morning, the sea was angry and loud. The waves crashed high onto the foaming shores of sand. No fishing today, we figured, right off. We considered other options. And that day, a small adventure came. I’d often heard of the wild horses somewhere on the Outer Banks. I never saw them. They seemed mythical, like the unicorn. It would be cool to go hunt some down. See firsthand.

So later that day we traveled in a small convoy over the 4-wheel-drive beach. The only way back to this area was to drive along the beach. Which means at high tide, the place is inaccessible. We roared along the soft sand in 4-wheel-drive, me in my new Jeep, loaded with riders. We let the air out of our tires, down to about 25 lbs. Driving on the beach felt a lot like driving in snow. You just kind of swooshed along in the previous tracks. I’d say a driver was maybe 90 percent in control. That’s how it felt to me, anyway. Mostly, the trip out went well.

Wild horse.

There are houses out there on that godforsaken stretch of sand. We cruised around, keeping a sharp eye out. And then the people in the lead vehicle saw them. We turned and drove slowly past, right close. I can tell you as of that day. The fabled wild horses of Corolla are for real. (I still don’t like horses much. I most likely never will.)

Thursday. The week was winding down, here at the beach. It was cold and windy and sunny. I lazed around most of the day, then opened my eating window with a snack at four o’clock. An hour earlier than I do at home, but hey, this was the beach. Live a little. Supper would be fresh seafood gumbo and jalapeno mac and cheese with scallops. It’s been nothing but a vast and plentiful feast all week. I reckon Saturday will feel like it’s about time for home.

That morning, I went on a coffee run a few miles down the road. It’s a shopping center with many stores, including a Dunkin Donuts and a grocery store. Across the lot, I saw the small bus parked there. Amish people were spilling out all around. Hmm. I thought. I haven’t seen Amish down here at OBX before. Check it out. I looked a little closer.

There were two families, looked like. Two youngish bearded men with straw hats like they wear in very plain communities. I didn’t think the women looked all that extra plain, though. A host of young children churned about, almost bursting with excitement. A young man walked from the group to the grocery store. Probably eighteenish. He puffed freely and openly on a cigarette. Which was totally fine and none of my business. But it told me he comes from a fairly plain place. An Amish teenager won’t smoke openly in front of his father unless he comes from a real plain place. Chances are his father smokes as well. That was my musing as I observed.

Anyway, the whole lot of them was down in the area, getting ready for a big day at the beach, looked like.

And now it’s Friday night. Post time. Also, the end of Beach Week, until next year. And now, as promised, the link to my new book. Get on there and pre-order. The release date is May, 2020. <!- Help me out, here. And thanks to all in advance.



The Book Cover. Perfection, right there. Click to enlarge, then click to enlarge again.

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Dog Days of August…

He stood upon the ramparts of his soul, before the lost land of

himself; heard inland murmurs of lost seas, the far interior music

of the horns. The last voyage, the longest, the best.

—Thomas Wolfe

______________________

Well, it’s August. Late summer. The dog days is what we called this time of year when I was a child. That phrase can mean one of any number of things, I reckon. But to me, it always meant that it’s too hot to fish. It was never a good month, August wasn’t, for the fish to bite. The ponds languished in murky and muddy despondence. Nothing moved. You could cast out the most attractive lure, and you’d drag it right back in. Nothing bit. Except at night, sometimes. It cooled off enough at night for the fish to bite.

It’s been a different summer. Not difficult, really. Just different. Mostly because I’ve been trying to get a book written. The book. Everything in my life comes in second to that reality. The book. It’s been taking up a good bit of my energy, this year. It’s just there, constantly, hovering close and at a distance, always lurking, always present in some form. I wasn’t sure about trying to blog about it. Still. A status update is a good thing, I think. Write from where you are. That’s what I’ve always claimed to do. Preacher, preach to yourself.

It’s been a long old slog, the book has. For a while there, last year, I despaired that the story would ever come. I remember soon after the first book came out, back in 2011. The Tyndale people were all like, hey, want to try another book, while the iron’s hot? Get out the second one while people are excited about the first? I grumbled around. Good grief. I had just come through a hard door, getting my story told. Now, they wanted me to keep going through that hard door. Still. This was rare air. I’ll try, I said.

And I did. Tried in early 2012. Tried to write a sequel. It did not work. I poked around suspiciously at the 20 or so pages of forced and unnatural words that came. No. Don’t do it. Now is not the time. And I told the Tyndale people. I’m going back to write on my blog. That’s my home, where my voice was born. That’s where I always return to, where my voice is always real. When I got something worth showing you, I’ll let you know. The Tyndale people looked resigned.

And life went on. This was during my heavy drinking days. In early 2014, I had a little fallout with my main Tyndale contact. I got yanked around pretty bad, no question about it. But I was also drinking hard, so my hair-trigger reaction of raw rage was not all that rational. It was real enough, though. I was livid. I swore to never write for Tyndale again. That’s what the whiskey did to my brain.

Life was hard, right then, mostly because of my choices. I seethed and bubbled and wrote and drank and wrote. And drank. And then my heart started acting up. A-flutter. I’d had it for years. Now it came knocking, encroaching, insistent. And now, I checked in at a hospital for the first time, ever, in my life. The doctors shook their heads. Man, you have issues. You’ve got to quit drinking. I hunkered down and made whatever promises it took to get out of that place in two days.

I got back home and went back to drinking. I look on those days now and shake my head. I wrote sporadically for this blog, through that time. But no book. No sequel. It was just not a thing that spoke to me as the next year passed. 2015. Late that year, my heart went haywire again. A-fib, this time. First came the flutter, then the fibrillation. This time, I was not in a good place in any way. I sank low and almost died. Swing low, sweet chariot, I could have sang, then. Because my chariot went swinging real low. Then, somehow, I battled my way back again. Back to life, and back to the whiskey.

I’ve written all this before. Just not for a while. In late 2016, I reached out to Chip MacGregor, my agent. I think I’m ready, I told him. I didn’t know that I was ready. I just figured to see if it could be made to happen. Chip was agreeable. I cobbled together around a hundred pages of stories and sent them in. Chip took my stuff and went off to shop his wares in the market. Would there be any nibbles?

The publishing world is a strange and brutal place. It just is. It’s easy to get chewed up and spit out, and you will be for sure, remorselessly, unless your mind is relaxed. And even then, you might be. I still think it’s true that a lot of writers are so busy telling you they’re writers that they forget to write. I mean, they don’t write as well as they could. My game plan was always about as basic as you could make it. If you just walk calmly with no expectations, you’ll be fine. You’ve been here before. Act like it. But no expectations. And so, I waited nervously as Chip went off to shop my stuff around. I wrote sporadically on this blog.

This was in 2017. Two years ago. And by the year’s end, I had a contract. With Virginia, and Hachette. And yes, I did reach out to Tyndale. Can we bury the hatchet? Do you want to try again, together? It didn’t work out. And that was fine. Keep walking forward. Don’t look back. I had a contract with Hachette. A Big Five publisher. That was a big deal, and still is. Last year, I got a lot of writing done. Still. I wasn’t wrapping it up. I was stuck. I spun my wheels in frustration for a while. Then I told Chip and Virginia. My story will never get told until I go home and bury my father. It just is what it is. That possibility seemed remote last summer. Dad was old, in his nineties, but he was in stellar health. The man was going to hang on until well past a hundred years, of that there was little doubt. There was also little doubt that if that happened, the book would languish. Or I’d have to find another direction to take.

Well. Late last year, Dad took sick. And I got to his bedside the day after Christmas last year just in time to see him pass from this world to the next. The ugliness of death. That’s what it was. A day of sorrow and a day of relief. I witnessed a lot, seeing the man die. The Waglers gathered from all around. And in the time-honored traditions of our forefathers, we buried the patriarch of our clan. In the proper sequence of events, we respectfully laid him to rest. I absorbed the experience. And then I came home to finish up my book.

And the writing came. This time, it did. Virginia and I agreed on a new date, to get the manuscript in. This summer. In June. This time, my face was set. This time, it would happen. That’s what I figured. And this time, it did.

It was strange, kind of. But not really. I remember getting home from Dad’s funeral on the last day of last year. Drove all day, I did, from Aylmer to my home. That night was New Year’s Eve. I didn’t go anywhere, just stayed home. And it didn’t take me long the next day to get started. Writing. The funeral of my father. The end of the road. The words poured from me in torrents.

A few weeks later, I posted the longest blog of all my blogs, ever, anywhere. Twenty-two pages, single-spaced. And it came to me even before the blog was finished. This is the missing part for the book. This blog. I thought it over, pondered the thing in my head. There seemed only one clear path to take. Make the blog about Dad’s funeral the outline for the book. The flood and flow of the overall narrative would fit right in. That’s what I figured.

And it did. I was astonished, except I wasn’t. This was what it should have been like all along. You need a nudge, sometimes, to make the words release. I hammered away at my writing forge, fitting and shaping and molding the manuscript. I emailed Virginia once in a while. This time, the deadline would be met. I told her that. As June slid in at me, I applied the final touches. And then one day, I sent it in. This is it. The book. Virginia was silent for a few days. Then she emailed back. She liked it. She was working her way through.

I latched onto those words. She liked it. That was just huge. As big as it gets, for an author. If she liked it, the narrative would work. You just never know if your offering will be pleasing. And I waited then, for a few weeks as Virginia edited the manuscript. The first edits. She shot it all back to me in due time. I scanned a few pages quickly. Felt relieved. She had “kept my voice.” Which means, she wasn’t into making any major changes. Just peripheral stuff. Clean it up here, clarify over there. It was almost a pleasant experience, to rework my words.

I sent my book back in the second time. And just got it back again. It’s down to the nitty gritty, now, for the final draft. And just last weekend, it was discovered that my family had not read the manuscript, yet. I was instructed to take a clean hard copy and get it printed up at Staples, or some such place. Last Sunday, after church, I meandered into the Staples over along the tourist trap row along Route 30. I talked to the nice attendant there at the publishing desk. Yes. She could do it, have it done by late that afternoon. I ordered ten copies, at fifteen bucks a crack. Stopped by later that afternoon and picked them up. The next morning, I mailed a bunch of them off to my brothers and sisters. And now, I wait.

A few housekeeping notes, here. The book cover. I’ve wanted to post it ever since I got it a few months ago. So far, I haven’t been able to get permission to. Next month, I will. I promise. It’s an astounding cover that portrays the mood and tenor of the book. They got real pros, there at Hachette, I must say. Next month. Promise.

Tyndale. I’ve got to hand it to them. They trundled out the eighth, (yes, that would be the 8th), printing of Growing Up Amish this summer. The book has sold over 200,000 copies. It’s major, that the original will be in print, ready to ship, when the next book comes out. I’m hoping the gamble will pay for Tyndale. I’m hoping the two books might perhaps churn each other. If you read one and you haven’t read the other, well, it’s available on the market. Fingers crossed, here, for my old publisher. I will always be grateful for all they did to make Growing Up Amish happen.

This blog. I had a little chat with my very capable webmaster. He did a facelift. Changed the pic at the top and got rid of that enormous list of links to earlier posts that clogged up the right side. The title is a new font, and a little louder. Or “more noticeable” might be the polite term. I don’t know. I just figured it was time. I had not changed that photo at the top since, well, since my first book came out. That picture made me look way younger than I am. I thought it would be good to tighten up the site a bit. Maybe there will be a new crop of readers soon. They have a right to know how I look, all dressed in black with a bright orange tie. That’s my thinking.

And speaking of the blog, it turned out that my friend Jerry Eicher pretty much nailed it, back at Dad’s funeral. He told me to write a book from my blogs. I was dubious. Still. That’s kind of what happened with the second book. I mean, I went back, way back to the early days, when my marriage blew up. I pulled over a lot of scenarios and adapted them to the flow of the narrative. And it works, I think. There are hundreds and hundreds of blog posts. I tapped less than two dozen. Don’t know if that’s what Jerry had in mind. Bottom line is, if you’re a faithful reader of my blog, you’ll see writing that you’ve read before. It’ll be strung together and connected and maybe just a little bit altered. But you’ll recognize some of it. That’s just how it is.

And I sigh dramatically, here. Tomorrow is my birthday. I’ll be fifty-eight. That’s astounding to me. When Dad was fifty-eight, he looked gray and distinguished. He’d been around a good deal, a veteran of the shifting political minefields of the Amish world. The man navigated that world with some skill and finesse. He left his mark on it. Now. Well. I’ve been around a good deal, too, just in a different place than Dad was. I can tell you a lot about a world he never knew because he didn’t want to. It’s kind of strange, when you think about it. Anyway, fifty-eight is just a number, I reckon. I’m feeling better than I have for years. I passed on the Garage Party again, this year. No big whiskey bash at my place. Too much going on with the book and all. I told my friends. Next year. Next summer, I’ll throw the biggest garage party you ever saw. I’ll invite half the people I know. So that’s where it’s at for now.

Next week, it will be two years since I’ve tasted a drop of whiskey. I never would’ve thought it, back in those days, that such a thing could be. I won’t pretend it’s always been easy. But I think less and less about it. It’s just not in the formula of my life at this time. And this year, it seems more like the norm. Not as big a deal as the first-year anniversary was, I don’t think. It’s my lifestyle, now. I don’t need to keep yakking about it. Life is life. Dry is dry. I feel good. And that’s about all I got to say about that.

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Battlefields of Summer…

They rarely come alone. They march single file through miniscule cracks

around windows or under doors, looking for crumbs, water or a warm place

to make a new home. Often you’ll see them trooping up your walls or across

your counter, organized and on a mission.

You have an ant invasion.

—Mary Jo Dilonardo

_______________________

It’s been a running battle every year since the first year me and Ellen lived here. Every spring the armies came marching. Usually in the kitchen, where the food crumbs fell. That’s where the vermin showed up. Well, maybe “showed up” isn’t quite an accurate term. Invaded is more like it. The house got invaded by great hordes of tiny black ants. Such was the reality of our world. And later, my world.

They were always a presence of some sort in the kitchen, the ants were, during the years Ellen and I were together. But only in the summers. They quietly vanished when it got cold. I don’t know. I think those things hibernate, somewhere far below the surface of the earth until the spring thaw warms the air. Then they wake up and get about the serious business of invading the nearest house. Which, to a great many ants over a long period of time, happened to be the house I live in.

I didn’t get all that perturbed about anything. We discussed our options. Should we get an exterminator? Those guys have some magic poisons that they set around. Ellen didn’t think it was necessary, though, to spend that kind of money. And she went and bought some Terro ant killer. Sweet stuff, that you set out as bait. We set it all around, on those little cardboard strips. It was very satisfying to see swarms of ants congregating and devouring the Terro. Thousands of ants met their doom that way. The problem was, what are thousands of ant deaths when there are hundreds of thousands of ants around? When one fell, ten took its place. Near as I can tell, that’s how it went. The Terro never did make a noticeable dent in the ant swarms. And I never was all that impressed with the stuff.

And that’s how it went, there for years. We’d get fed up with it all, and then the summer would end. Fall came. Cooler air. The ants went away, then. And we thought, oh, how nice. We got used to not having any ants around. Until the next spring. That’s how the circle went, until Ellen left. And then the problem was mine to deal with.

I don’t remember much about any invasion of ants that first year I lived alone. Probably because there were a whole lot of other more pressing things on my mind. And when I got around to paying some attention, I went out and bought a can of wasp spray. The kind that fogs up. It killed ants on contact. So, when the great marching armies of ants got to be a bit much, I just unleashed my spray bomb. Whole regiments of ants froze on contact, instantly petrified. Often, I left them right there for a while as a warning to any other invaders. Look. We can exist, if you just watch out a bit. Don’t get in my face. Stay away from my food. If I catch you on my counter, you will die.

It’s been kind of funny. Every spring, about the time the ants start stirring, the tenant gives me a text or a call. He always comes up with two or three of those vile smoke bombs that supposedly kill every living insect in the house. He always asks me to leave the basement door unlocked the next day, so he can set up the smoke bombs and get out for the day. You can’t be in the house when you set those things off. The chemicals make your eyes water. Can’t be healthy. I always allowed the tenant to carry out his campaign against the ants. The problem was, those silly little bombs never did much. Oh, the ants got scarce for a few days, but then they swarmed right back in, more numerous than before. I think that poison smoke actually made them breed more.

Which brings us to this year. This spring. This invasion of ants. Small and black and everywhere. They never bit anyone. They just got in the way. The tenant duly unleashed his bombs back in April or May. Didn’t seem to do a lick of good. And the ants came in extra fierce this spring. My first mistake was when I bought a different brand of spray. If it killed any ants, it did so by drowning them, because I covered whole divisions of them with the liquid spray. The ants just looked surprised at the deluge. Near as I could tell, the spray didn’t harm the ants at all. I was distraught.

And that’s how it went. Me and the ants coexisted uneasily. They were trespassing. We both knew that. But what was I going to do about it? That was the issue. I may never have gotten anything done about any of it until the cool fall weather came and the ants would leave on their own. That is, until the cleaning lady got involved.

I like my cleaning lady. I think I’ve seen her twice in about five years. She comes around once a month and cleans my house. That’s often enough for a bachelor, I think. She gets on her hands and knees and scrubs the kitchen floor. She’s quite indispensable. She’s generally quite content and happy, too, as long as I remember to leave the check for payment. Still. Once in a while, she’ll pipe up. Leave a note or send a text. A few years ago she persistently reminded me to get a new kitchen rug, there by the sink. I thought the old rug had a good bit of use in it, yet, and ignored the suggestions for a while. She persisted. She even offered to go and buy a rug for me. I think that’s how we solved it, then. I left her some cash and told her to buy a rug and keep the change. She came back the next month with a nice new rug. I made a fuss about how lovely it was. The cleaning lady beamed. I smiled. Everyone was happy.

And there was another time when the cleaning lady pestered me firmly. Get rid of some of these shoes around here that no one wears. She could tell, from one month to the next, if the shoes had been moved at all. Mostly, they weren’t. And so, here came a stream of nagging notes. Every month, she left another one. These shoes were making her work harder than she’d have to if I just got them out of her way. And so on and on. And one Saturday, I had enough. I ransacked the house. More than two dozen pairs of shoes were dropped at the donation box over by Grocery Outlet. What I’m saying is, when the cleaning lady leaves a note or makes any other kind of noises about anything, I’ve learned to pay attention. Yes, ma’am. Whatever you think. I’ll see to it right away.

And sure enough, early this month, she left a note. I always shudder when I see one of those things on the kitchen table. What’s wrong now? I’m always afraid she’s gonna tell me to get rid of my old 70’s vintage yellow linoleum on the kitchen floor. I’ve been petrified of that for a while. I’m determined to stand firm on that one. There’s nothing wrong whatsoever with that linoleum. I quickly scanned the words. You have lots of ants by the kitchen sink, was the message. Get rid of them, was the unwritten message. I sighed. Ah, well. My floor was safe. I had a month to figure something out about the ants. I didn’t know what. I figured the Terro bait would probably be my best bet. That stuff Ellen had used, way back. It’s still out there on the market. Still as insipid and useless as ever, too, I’m sure. I just didn’t see a lot of other viable options.

The next Saturday morning arrived. The ants and I had maintained an uneasy truce during that week. I was out and about that morning, running errands. Dropped some shirts at the dry cleaners. Stopped by some Amish friends for coffee. The goodwife greeted me cheerfully. How was my week? I sighed. I got problems, I told her. Ants. The cleaning lady is grumbling. I have to do something about it. Got any ideas I can go with? I’m about ready to go buy me some Terro. I don’t want to. That stuff is worthless.

Amazingly, she did have an idea. “Of course,” she told me. “I have just the thing for you. It will kill all your ants.” And she got busy mixing two ingredients, half and half. Refined white sugar and Borax. She found a plastic pint container and mixed it in that. And she told me. “Take this home and sprinkle it all around your house, on the outside. Tomorrow morning, there will be no ants.” That was an astounding statement. I looked dubious.

But I smiled, of course. How quaint, that she thought sugar and Borax would kill my ants. Still. Be polite, I told myself. We drank coffee and talked about other things. I took it all home later. It was a bright, sunny day. I sprinkled the white mixture around my house, right close to the foundation. I could see the ground moving with little black ants. Take this, my beauties, I said, as I worked my way around the house.

I ran out of the sugar/Borax mix before I got all the way back to my starting point. Still. Let’s see what that does, I thought. Come, my beautiful ants, come. A great feast is spread for you. Come and eat. And I noticed that afternoon. The ant traffic in the kitchen had diminished greatly. I mean, could they have eaten the Borax that fast? Apparently, yes. The Amish goodwife was totally right. The next morning, there were zero ants on my kitchen counter. None. Nada. Not one. I was astonished. And delighted. Oh, yes, indeed. I was delighted. I still am.

It’s been three weeks, now. In that time, I have seen exactly two ants in my kitchen, on the counter. Both were alone, probably mutant scouts sent out from decimated colonies to explore the terrain. Both were smashed instantly, so neither of them returned to report back. It rained hard the night after I spread the mixture. The goodwife claims that will make no difference. The sugar/Borax will stay and last the rest of the summer. I’m dubious about that. But I went and bought my own supply. Next time I see an ant inside, or any swarm of them, the house will be treated again. I have the answer, now.

And there you have it. My contribution to polite society this summer. Just pretend we’re standing around at a garden party, making small talk. If you got ants in the house, don’t call an exterminator. Don’t buy Terro. Simply mix up refined white sugar and Borax, half and half. Mix thoroughly, as the goodwife told me. It has to be stirred, mixed hard and right. Then sprinkle the stuff lightly all around the outside of your house, right by the base of the foundation. If you live in an apartment complex, just set some of the mixture inside, where the ants are. They will eat the sugar and the Borax. They will carry the sweet feast to their queen. And they will die. All of them will die.

I know. Where has this information been, all my life? You are welcome. Thank the goodwife.

The other day at work I got a call from a good old country boy contractor from down south a bit. He needed a quote on a metal roof. I’ve dealt with the guy for years and consider him a friend. We chatted about this and that as I punched in the materials and gave him a number. And then he thought about what else he wanted to ask me.

“Ahra,” he said. (He calls me Ahra, that’s how he talks.) “Ahra, how’s the book coming along?” This guy was a huge fan of the first book. He even bought signed copies for some of his friends. I had told him when the contract came for the second one. That’s why he even knew anything about it. Well, I said. I’m working on wrapping up the first round of edits. My editor seems to like it OK. It’s coming out next spring. He made appropriate noises and told me he’s sure looking forward to reading the book.

And I thought to myself after we hung up. This is exactly how I’d choose it to be. It’s not primarily the intellectuals who ask about the book. Some do, of course, and that’s fine. I welcome that. Still, I guess I’m just not around them that much. Most often, it’s blue-collar workers like my friend, making a living with their hands, out there, slogging along. They’re the ones keeping an eye on the sequel, nudging me for an update now and then.

And I’m honored. Always. These are my people.

The tenant was out puttering around when I got home one night earlier this week. We chatted a bit. Talked about how the ants have disappeared lately. I told him how I spread that mixture the goodwife gave me. I don’t see any ants downstairs.

And the talk came around, then, to a question the tenant had. Am I having a garage party this summer? I think not, I told him. Next year, the book will be done. Then I’ll throw the biggest garage party you ever saw. It’ll be time to celebrate. He asked a bit about the book. You’re in it, I told him. He looked startled until I explained. The stone angel, I told him. You uncovered it. That’s going to be in the book.

And one day at work this week, an old-time local builder stopped in for a few items. I used to deal with him a lot, but he’s been retired for about the last five years, so I haven’t seen him much. We chatted and caught up. As we were winding down, I told him. I got another book coming out next year. Wanna see the cover? And I showed it to him.

He looked doubtful and a little bit impressed. Then he admitted. He never even got the first book. Hasn’t read it at all. Oh my, I said, closing in for an easy sale. I got those right here. Let me sell you one at a discount. Nothing like a captive audience, I figured.

He wasn’t having any of it. “Nope,” he said, holding out his hand to stop me. “I’m too lazy to read. I’ll wait for the movie.” I had to laugh at that. Well, I said. That’s the first time I heard such a thing. It’s fine. You might be waiting a while, unless the second book stirs some things up. One can always hope, I guess.

Seasons come and seasons go. The tides of life roll on. This has been a time of loss for my extended family. We lost Dad in December, and in March, we lost my oldest brother, Joseph. Next Saturday, August 3rd, will be the wedding of Joseph and Iva’s youngest son, Samuel Wagler. He will marry his lovely fiancé, Keila Grace Slack. She has not a drop of “Plain” blood in her. Which I think is just fantastic. It would have been fantastic either way, of course. Still. New blood is new blood. I cheer that heartily. Welcome to the family, Keila, from one of Samuel’s eccentric old uncles.

Joseph met his future daughter-in-law before he died. She and he got along real well. He approved of the relationship and pronounced his blessing upon it. At the time, there were some shimmers of hope that he might even be around to attend the ceremony. Sadly, that was not to be. And so, we carry on without him. That’s how it is, now.

Samuel has always been the quietest in a long row of strong and silent sons. I’ve never heard him say much in any setting. He’s content to stay quiet, I guess, unless he got something important enough to make some noise. The wedding will be in Kokomo, Indiana. I’m looking forward to renting a car and heading out next Friday. I wish every blessing to my oldest brother’s youngest son and his bride.

Samuel and Keila

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The Dust of Life…

“Come to us Father, in the watches of the night. Come to us as you always came,

bringing to us the invincible sustenance of your strength, the limitless treasure

of your bounty, the tremendous structure of your life that will shape all lost and

broken things on earth again…”

—Thomas Wolfe

__________________

We had planned the day back in January. The family, the extended clan of David and Ida Mae Wagler. There were some conference calls soon after we buried Dad. The brothers and sisters all agreed. We’d get together in June sometime. In Kentucky, at my brother Joseph’s home. All the children would come, and all the grandchildren who wanted to. We would gather at the farm where my parents had lived before the Alzheimer’s slipped in and took Mom out. And we would have an auction, to dispose of all the earthly goods my parents had owned before their passing.

It was the best place, the most central location, Joseph’s farm in May’s Lick. That’s where most of Dad and Mom’s stuff actually was. They moved with Joseph and Iva Mae from Bloomfield to Kentucky, way back in 2008. And later, when my parents landed up in Aylmer to live out their remaining days after Mom got weak, most of their belongings stayed right there on the farm. It was all stored in a little mini barn, the type that you buy prefabbed and gets dropped off. I checked out the little barn a few times. Didn’t seem like all that much in there. Dad made noises in the last few years, to hold a public auction. He was convinced there were enough items in the little barn to keep a crowd entertained for a while. And he had some unrealistic visions as to how much it might all be worth, too.

It went pretty well after Dad died. I mean, there were eleven children. From Amish to English, and every shade between. And we all agreed. It would be share and share alike. Years ago, that was one of Dad’s favorite threats. You won’t get any inheritance. He told me that a dozen times, at least. I just shrugged. OK. If that’s the way it is, then so be it. I will walk free even if I never get a penny of inheritance. It seems so futile, looking back. Threats and force. To be fair to the man, that’s all he knew. His own father disinherited at least one son. Ezra. That did not go well. It created a curse that follows Ezra’s bloodline to this day. He cut off one of his own sons. And that son would not allow his one daughter who had left the Amish to attend her own mother’s funeral. They turned her, weeping, from the door. Brutal stuff, right there.

In the end, a similar curse was deflected from my family for a couple of reasons. Dad mellowed. His last Will wasn’t near as harsh as his first one was. Mom always hammered him hard for not including all the children. Eventually, he saw things her way a little more. Not that it would have mattered, anyway. Because after he died, the children decided on their own how things would be divided. Even, across the board. From Nathan, the youngest, to Rosemary, the oldest. If everyone agrees, you can divide any inheritance any way you want, regardless of what the Will says. That’s what we did. Not that Dad had a huge fortune or anything. Still. What he had was evenly divided. That’s how family should work.

We had a conference call one sunny day in January, soon after we buried Dad. And we hashed it all out. Different people had different opinions. Which was completely fine. We talked it through. And we decided to have the family dispersal auction in June. Joseph was particularly eager to plan the auction. We didn’t know how long he’d be around. At that moment, it seemed entirely reasonable to assume that he’s still be here in June. That assumption was wrong.

Joseph died in March. Never hung on long enough for the sale. When death comes calling, nothing else matters. We mourned our brother. He had so looked forward to the auction. Now, he’d never see it. The clans gathered and buried him. And then we all returned home. And soon enough, June came knocking.

It kind of snuck up on us, the noise of it. My sisters got all bossy a few months before the sale date. Everyone needed to get there a day early, to help get ready. That was the decree. I rebelled at the thought. I was already taking a vacation day off work on Friday. I didn’t want to burn two. Besides, I didn’t remember that the little barn with Dad’s things had seemed all that full. Those living a little closer could get there early, I said to myself. I ain’t gonna go a day early. If they need help on Friday afternoon when I get there, I’ll be happy to pitch in. Otherwise, not so much.

And I thought about it, soon after Dad passed. His stuff. I really had little use for much of it. I mean, I have no children. No sons or daughters to carry on my legacy or my name. I told the others. I’ll bid stuff up. I don’t really want much of anything. That was, until I got to thinking over things a little more. And it came to me. His typewriters. Dad’s typewriters. Someone needed to preserve those. And I wondered if the local Mennonite historian, Amos Hoover, would be interested in something like that. I nudged the word out there to my family. Any old typewriters Dad had, make sure those get to the auction. I sent word to Amos through a mutual friend. Do you want a typewriter that David Wagler actually used? The answer came back. Yes. Yes. Amos would like that very much. He would be delighted and grateful.

And the plan was, whoever had anything my parents had owned would bring it. Rhoda had an old mixing bowl that was gifted to Mom soon after she and Dad got married. From an aunt in Daviess, the bowl came. It was newfangled, a new kind of steel. Stainless steel. Up in Aylmer, they had the small items Dad had when he died. My sister Rosemary called me one day, after I had left a message about the typewriters. And she told me. They had at least one up there, maybe two. And no, nobody had any of Dad’s old style, heavy manual typewriters. From talking about it later, we figured out that Dad had switched to an electric model before they moved from Bloomfield to May’s Lick in 2008. They adapted the power to hook to a big 12-volt battery. That’s how Dad ran, in the last few decades. And way back then, when he made that switch, no one paid any attention. Someone should have saved those old typewriters. For history. It’s so, so typical of the Amish, to overlook the importance of such things until years later, when it’s way too late. Oh, well. At this sale, there would be at least two of Dad’s old typewriters, maybe three. I figured to latch onto all of them.

From Bloomfield, Titus would bring some items, as well. When Dad was in service as a conscientious objector during WWII, he worked on a farm in Boonsboro, MD. At some point, then, he went to visit Gettysburg. And there, he bought an old cannonball from a vendor for a little bit of next to nothing. A dollar, maybe. And from plowing the fields of that farm in Boonsboro, Dad found a couple of rifle bullets. They were huge, at least .50 caliber. One was flattened by impact, the other probably fell out of a soldier’s pouch, never fired. We grew up with these items in the kitchen “Shonk,” the hutch where Mom kept her fancy dishes. The old cannonball, the bullets, and a little old worn leather pouch with old coins, those things were all stuck up there on the top shelf of the Shonk. I handled them all as a child. From those days, these things were forever stamped into our memories, the smell and feel of them.

And June came at us. Time doesn’t stop, I like to say. It didn’t then. And soon enough, it was time to pack up for the trip. Nothing too elaborate this time. Just a duffle bag for a few days. I figured to take Amish Black. It’s kind of strange. I used to always, always rent a car for a trip like this. The Jeep doesn’t drive that comfortable, long distance. Still. I like to take it places. It’s part of the image. And also, deep down, I’m thinking. If I get some miles on my Jeep, I’ll be able to trade it off for a four-door. That’s the vision, in this moment. It’ll take another year or two, I figure. You just keep working toward the goal. And then Friday morning was here. I got up early, cleaned up, threw my bags into the back seat, and was off. After picking up my coffee at Sheetz, I glanced at the time. 5:30. Good. I’d be there nice and early that afternoon.

We bucketed along through the sparse early traffic. My GPS always takes me on the PA Turnpike, heading west. Which is fine, except for the cost. Every year, the price goes up. Right now, that road will cost you at least fifteen cents a mile, more for the shorter runs. It’s madness. The vile false idol that is the state can’t even run a toll road efficiently. So, anyway. On west, then south toward Cumberland. A hundred miles on the toll road cost me exactly fifteen bucks. Why am I paying taxes on every gallon of gas I buy, again? West, then south, then west again. I had driven this exact same route only months ago to my brother’s funeral. And I thought about him as Amish Black and I pushed west and south.

I remembered the last time I saw him there at The James at Ohio State. Hope lived in him then, it would live in him until it couldn’t, anymore. He told me, mentioned it a few times that weekend. The sale. The family sale, there at his home in May’s Lick. He sure was looking forward to that event. And there was reason enough to think that it might actually be. Until there wasn’t. Now he was gone. He would never attend his heart’s desire that weekend. He would only be present in our minds and memories.

After numerous detours, I finally pulled into the Maysville Hampton. Same place we all stayed before. A clean little three-story motel with nicely furnished rooms with a fridge. I always remembered that, from the first time I stayed there a decade ago. I had a reservation. The Wagler Family group. We had a special rate. Of course, we did. I unloaded my luggage and settled in my third-floor room with king bed, then headed on south to the farm. Joseph’s farm. A fifteen-minute drive or so. It’s beautiful country, out through there.

The place was packed out, I saw as I got close. Lots of vehicles parked about. A large tent had been erected in the yard. I parked under a shade tree and got out. People were walking around, milling about. I walked out to the large tent and peered in, gaping. Then I walked in. There were rows and rows of tables loaded with, well, some of it was junk, I guess. A lot of it would have been junk to anyone outside our family. And there was a lot of antique glassware, too, some of it passed down through generations. The typewriters. Where are the typewriters? I asked. Someone pointed me the right way, and I walked over. Looked like two old electric typewriters that Dad had actually used. I poked around some more. Wandered about, just absorbing and looking. There was a lot of stuff. Dad had been right. There was enough here for a real auction. Enough to last a good long morning, anyway. Maybe longer.

My sisters had arrived, already. Rosemary and Joe Gascho from Canada. Maggie and Ray Marner from South Carolina. Naomi and Alvin Yutzy from Arkansas. Rachel and Lester Yuty and Rhoda and Marvin Yutzy, all from Kansas. And my brothers, too, all except Nathan, who couldn’t make it at the last moment. Jesse and Lynda from South Carolina. Stephen and Wilma from Lancaster County. Titus and Ruth from Bloomfield. And me. Nine out of eleven wasn’t bad. I walked around, greeting everyone. Hugs all around. Iva Mae, Joseph’s widow, smiled and smiled in welcome. Almost all her children would be here for the auction. And a good many other grandchildren, too, from all around. Not everyone showed up. But a lot did. There had never been a day like this before, in all my family’s history. There would never be a day like this again.

And somewhere about right in here, the strange thing came at me. Right out of way out in left field somewhere. Rosemary handed me a bag filled with letters. A clear plastic bag. I’d say maybe two or three dozen. Some I had written and sent home. Most strangely, though, a number of them were letters both Dad and Mom had sent to me the first time I ran away. To Valentine, Nebraska, when I was seventeen. I opened a letter Dad had sent. I remembered how those were. Always a downer. Then I rummaged around and found a smaller envelope, hand addressed to me. Star Rt. 1, Valentine, Nebraska. Mom’s letter to me. I slipped it out of the envelope and glanced at the writing. The greeting. The first line. What a shock that you have left us! That was the first line. This was the first letter I ever got from her after I left home. The first one. Ever. I sat there, intrigued and horrified. The pain I put that woman through, it’s simply beyond comprehension, from where I am today. She had a rough life, my mother did. From pretty much all of the men in her life. Her husband and her sons. Well, most of her sons.

And I remembered how it was, holding that letter in my hand for the first time, back when I was a skinny kid. Standing there in the bleak and desolate landscape that is Valentine, Nebraska. I remembered how Dad’s letters always made me feel a little down and guilty. Mom’s letters just made me feel sad. And there weren’t that many, maybe half a dozen in all. This one was the first one. I marveled at how such a relic as that ever got preserved. I must have dragged all those letters home, and Mom must have faithfully saved them all after I left. And they lugged them around with them, too, when they moved. I am grateful to Mom for that simple act of kindness.

At some point before we ate, we all chose an item to keep as our own. From oldest to youngest. We had heard that’s how people do it. Let the children get in and pick one item as their own, before the auction. A few things were off limits. The cannonball, the bullets, any coins, and the large arrowhead collection Dad had purchased at another auction way back. I knew nothing of the arrowheads, as that all happened after I had fled Bloomfield. I guess it was kind of a big deal to many of the grandchildren, though. They all knew the tales of how Dad got all excited after he bought some fake arrowheads at a junk auction. When he got them home and realized they were fake, he got all stirred up. And he traveled out here to PA for an auction and bought a very respectable collection of artifacts. Some of the grandsons had traveled in from far away to get a whack at Dad’s arrowheads. I wasn’t interested in those at all, since I knew nothing of them. Anyway, they were off limits, when we made our choices.

Siblings and treasures

Rosemary chose first. The old John Yoder clock. The wind-up wall clock that Mom grew up with. It hasn’t worked in years. But still. After Rosemary, it was Magdalena’s turn. And then Iva Mae took Joseph’s turn. And down the row we went, from oldest to youngest. Naomi. Jesse. Rachel. Stephen. I can’t remember what all everyone chose. Titus got the big old dinner bell, the one we heard as children on the farm. I kept an eye out for that stainless steel bowl Mom had gotten as a wedding gift. And when my turn came, I picked it. That was a big mistake, apparently. Rhoda had her name on that thing. The sisters scowled darkly. Oh, my, I said, when I realized what was going on. By all means, let Rhoda have it. I looked around and chose something else, instead.

From my earliest memories, Dad had an aluminum sign hanging out over our mailbox. Kind of a bar, with his name in raised, stamped letters. David L. Wagler, the sign proclaimed. Titus had preserved the sign, and now it was there for the taking. I hastily grabbed it. This is what I actually want, I said, after the sisters started apologizing for scolding me for choosing the bowl. In the end, it all worked out. We all got something that we wanted.

They had two tents set up. Might as well make it comfortable. The estate was paying all the expenses and the food. The big tent was where the sale would be. And another tent between the house and the shop, all set up with tables. This was the dining tent. A great meal had been prepared for Friday evening. I was getting hungry for my One Meal when five o’clock rolled around. We all gathered in the dining tent. Joseph’s son, Mervin, welcomed us and prayed the meal blessing. I didn’t mess around after that. Get through the line and get food. There was much conversation and laughter as we all settled in for the delicious feast. This was family. The David and Ida Mae Wagler family, such as we were. Tomorrow would be the big day.

But first, it was tonight. And there were things planned. After supper, we all headed over to visit Joseph’s grave. I boarded Amish Black with my brother-in-law, Marvin Yutzy. The ride over and back would be our time together. We chatted about many things as we rolled along in the convoy of mini vans and SUVs, over to the graveyard. There, we parked and got out. A crowd soon gathered. We waited until the van arrived with Titus and his family. They got out and joined us. The sun was sinking into the western skies as we all stood around my brother’s resting place in a large semicircle. It’s in a peaceful spot, the grave. Reuben Wagler, Joseph’s son, stood and spoke for a few minutes. He remembered and recognized the choices his father had made to love and accept all his children, wherever they were, however they lived. After Reuben wrapped up with a brief prayer, we sang Precious Memories. Some of the siblings shared their memories of Joseph’s last days. It was over, for him. He could never rejoin us here in this life. But we could go to where he was. We all headed back to the farm as darkness drifted in.

A gathering around Joseph’s grave. Reuben eulogizing his father.

We would gather around the fire ring in the yard, there by the tent. That was the plan. And we did, sitting in a large circle. Many conversations were going on at the same time. Off in the corner, some guitars were tuning up. I sat around and visited with Simon Gascho, Rosemary’s oldest son, and a few others. We feasted on Smores, melted to soft, moist deliciousness over the open fire. I’m not really fond of Smores, but that night I ate more than my share, I will say. Soon after ten, we meandered to town and our motel rooms, those who were staying there.

Saturday morning. The big day. Unlike any day before or since. It dawned clear and beautiful. I got to the farm in good time and parked my Jeep off to the side, under a tree. I strolled into the dining tent, where coffee and donuts were being served. Black coffee only, I said. And water, of course. Someone had been dispatched to Walmart for several hundred bottles of water. And ice. This was all poured into a vast cooler.

We wanted to get started by 8:30. People wanted to head out for home after the sale, so it was critical to get done on time. 8:30 came and went. We milled about. I’ve mentioned before. Titus Aden Yutzy, Rachel’s second son, is a talented auctioneer, in high demand in his local area in Kansas. He got his sound system all hooked up, then called us to order. Titus and Ruth’s oldest son, Robert, was the main ring man. He took bids and handed out the wares. We were starting at the back side, by the books. Tables and tables of books. I had little use for any of that, at least early on. We all stood, then, as my brother Jesse spoke a few words. Welcoming everyone to this historic event on this historic day. Titus Aden then explained how the system would work. We got numbers, all the bidders. I didn’t get number one, so I asked for number thirteen. I wanted something easy to remember, a number that stuck out. And just about then, Titus Aden called the auction to order. The first lot. A stack of books on the book table. And we walked into the morning, all of us as a family.

Titus Aden pounded out the first sale, and we settled down. Books and books and more books, seemed to be the agenda. And then on down the row on the far wall. At some point there early, I bought a bunch of Dad’s two most famous efforts. The Mighty Whirlwind was his first ever book. Through Deep Waters was perhaps his best known. Both of those titles have fetched high prices on Amazon and on eBay. I figured, what the heck? Might as well load up with a few copies for a few bucks apiece. Down the far side the crowd moved right along, Titus Aden egging us on. Up the first row in the middle, then. My two typewriters came up, and I bought them both. Well, that was easy enough. Then, minutes later, here was another typewriter, one I had not seen. By now, my nephew Andrew Yutzy decided he wanted this model. We whacked away, bidding against each other. It got knocked off to me for over a hundred dollars. Oh, well. Can’t wait around. Keep moving. And the sale rolled merrily along.

Titus Aden selling Indian artifacts.

From Left: Naomi, Ira, Roesmary, Lester and Tina Gascho, Titus, Wilma, Magdalena, Rhoda, half of Rachel

There were a lot of things I simply never knew existed. Old records. An old Yoder Family wall hanging. No one had ever seen it before. Jason Yutzy, Naomi’s oldest son, snatched it up. It was good to see people bid in even the tiniest little thing. Sentimental value is whatever you’re willing to spend. I picked up a few more things, mostly stuff Dad wore or used. A couple of old stem battery lamps. And I ended up with a dozen pairs of his old spectacles, too. His latest pair, all the way back to those round lens wire-rimmed glasses he wore when I was a child.

The high sale of the day? That would have been the kitchen table Mom had at home. It pulled out to some massive length, and all the leaves were there, neatly stored in the original wooden rack. A beautiful and functional memory of my parents, I guess that table would be. And two of my nephews got it in their heads that the table might be worth taking home to use. Andrew Yutzy and Stephen Gascho. Almost, the table got knocked off to Andrew for a measly $150.00. But then Stephen jumped in and the two were off to the races. Some breathless minutes later, the table went to Andrew for the princely sum of $1500.00. We all clapped when Titus said sold.

The cannonball sold, too. Kind of funny, how it all happened. My brother Titus had the high bid at $300.00. Titus Aden hollered around, looking for another bid. I figured I’d bid once. So I did. $325.00. And Titus wouldn’t bid again. The cannonball got knocked off to me. I was fine with that. I set the cannonball off to the side, by my other purchases. A few minutes later, Thomas approached me. Titus and Ruth’s youngest son. He told me. If I ever want to get rid of that cannonball, he wanted it. And then I realized. He had planned on buying it. Titus had quit bidding, just so I could have it. I felt bad.

So, I slipped over to where Titus sat. Thomas wanted that cannonball pretty bad, I told him. I don’t really need it. I’ll go and change the buyer on the chart. You can have it for what I bid. Titus was agreeable. So I went and told the clerk. Move the cannonball over to Titus’s number. I found Thomas, then, and told him. This is yours. Your Dad bought it from me. You’ll take better care of it than I ever will. I handed him the treasure. He smiled and smiled.

Things moved right along. Some old quilts came up. I had not known there was even such a thing. Two were owned by Mom when she was a girl. And there was one owned by Dad when he was a teenager, too. I never knew there was such a thing, either. Mom’s two sold first. The girls wanted those. I watched the one Dad owned, and jumped in at the start. I had the high bid at $50.00, which I thought was quite reasonable. I dropped it at the dry cleaners the other day. Some day it might be a gift. I don’t know. We’ll see.

I watched the glass ware sell with interest. I think I bought one bowl that had been owned by Aunt Martha, Bishop Pete Yoder’s wife, Dad’s older sister. I probably saw that very dish in her hutch when they had church back in Aylmer. I got it for a few dollars. Some of the sets of glass ware brought substantially more. It was interesting, to see what was important and what was less so. Titus Aden kept selling furiously, there toward the end. His father Lester spelled him for a bit somewhere in the middle. Titus Aden started things and finished things.

Around one o’clock, we sat under the food tent and ate the large meal that had been catered in, courtesy of Dad’s estate. Some of the Amish people there set up a chicken meal with all the fixings. I moved up my One Meal to this time, of course. You can only feast once at the estate auction of your father. And it’s not a big deal. When I feast sooner one day, I fast longer the next day, to make up for it. It works for me.

After the large meal, people made moves to load up and get out. I had made a pile of my purchases off to one end. I scavenged a bit, too, through the castoffs and left behind junk. I ended up with a suitcase full of Dad’s barn door pants and shirts. The everyday clothes, or some of them. I had bought one of Dad’s old felt hats at the auction. And Andrew gave me a pair of Dad’s shoes that he had purchased in a pile. So I had it all, I felt like. Dad’s clothes, his hat, his spectacles, and his typewriter. That’s about all I came for, I thought to myself. Right there, that’s what I came for. Pieces of my father.

People started loading up. My brother Jesse and his son Ronald had driven up in a rented SUV, a little thing. Jesse has an eye for good bargains at any sale, so he was a frequent bidder that morning. They got it all packed in there, somehow, he and Ronald. I ambled out and saw them off as they were leaving, Ronald at the wheel. I think they both drive fairly leisurely. Others loaded up, too. Rachel and Lester threw their items into the back of their pickup truck and headed out. They had a long old drive. Andrew had rushed out that morning and rented a real nice sized U Haul trailer, which he hooked up behind his van. He backed the whole contraption right up to the tent. He got some help, loading up his bigger items.

Later, after most people had left, I drove Amish Black over to the back side of the large tent. Close to my pile of stuff. I whipped around and parked and got out. And I slowly and methodically loaded my little Jeep to the gills, pretty much. Boxes of books. A small wooden trunk with Uncle Pete Yoder’s name scrawled on it. That little trunk was almost filled with some old toys I bought, toys I had played with as a child, toys I had not seen in decades and decades. These are the kinds of things I loaded in my Jeep. Things that evoke such memories as no other things can.

I got it all packed in and parked Amish Black out back under the shade tree once again. Most of the siblings had gone. I had stayed. And my sister Magdalena and her husband, Ray. They stayed, too. Most of Joseph’s children hung around that night. They ate again, of course. I drank black coffee only. I had a real good time catching up with everyone who was there. We chilled and chatted and just hung out. By eleven, I was back at my room.

The next morning I was on the road by eight. A hard rain storm had swept through minutes before, scattering small limbs and other debris loosely about the highway. And me and Amish Black headed east and north for home. I had one more thing to get done when I got there.

And last Saturday morning, that one more thing got done. I loaded up my Jeep with the best of the typewriters, the biggest battery lamp Dad used, and a pair of his old round spectacles. I drove the few miles to the home of my Amish friends, David and Esther Smucker. Esther was the one who had called the Mennonite historian, Amos Hoover. And after I got home, I called her. See if you can get us in to see Amos this Saturday. I’ll come around and pick you up. Esther called back a day or so later. She had contacted Amos. He was eager and excited to have us stop by.

We sat at their kitchen table and drank coffee, catching up on things. Soon it was time to leave. Esther fussed and scolded. She wanted to take a copy of my blog about Dad’s funeral along for Amos. That’s fine, I said. Take it. I’ll get you a new copy. We all got loaded into Amish Black. It’s moments like this when I think. I really need a four-door. It’s hard to pack my Amish friends in the back seat of my Jeep. We headed across the back roads, over to Fairmount Homes. We were meeting Amos at his home, a mile or so away from Fairmount.

After stumbling around some, looking for the place, we finally pulled in. I knocked. Amos answered the door. Smiling. Yes. He was home. He was looking for us. David and Esther then emerged from the Jeep. I reached into the back seat and extracted Dad’s old typewriter. I slipped the reading lamp out the back door, and grabbed the old round spectacles. We all walked into the cluttered kitchen. Amos had been working on some research. He moved his notepads over and made room on the end of the table for the typewriter. I set it down. We stood around, just visiting.

Amos Hoover, Esther and David Smucker

Amos realized what it all was. A typewriter, a reading lamp, and an old pair of glasses, all the personal property of David Wagler. Stuff he had actually used, to write. That’s what struck Amos, I think. The beauty and the mystery of that. They’re so down to earth, though, the Amish and the Mennonites. These items had historical value to Amos. As well they should have. Still. He never wanted to praise Dad too much. You admire a man’s work without holding the man too high. That’s the humble Mennonite way.

I told Amos. I wrote up a little letter of authenticity, here. I have it with me. He handed me a pen, and I filled in the date and signed it. He’ll keep it with the typewriter, I’m sure. He’s old and a little frail. I mean, he could be around for years. But even years fly by fast. Sometime before long, my letter will be the only connection identifying the gifts I gave to Amos that day.

He took us on a tour, then, of the Muddy Creek Museum. Over in Fairmount Homes. They have several rooms with displays set up in the basement. Then a large side room with items that are not on display. They have a lot of old stuff there. Amos got a vast selection of tools, machines, coffins, furniture, and just about anything else you can imagine. He knows every piece, what it is and where it came from. Our time was limited that day. An hour or so, is what we had. It flew by fast.

And that was it, then. The end of an extraordinary week. An estate auction one Saturday, and going to see Amos Hoover, the Mennonite historian, the next. It was a good thing, I thought, that we got Dad’s typewriter over to a place where it will be preserved.

My father walked through life with long and mighty strides. He was a visionary, a giant among his people. Soon enough, the memory of him will fade into nothing. Some remnant of who he was will remain with a man like Amos, who will pass it on to others like him, on down through the mists of time. That will be a fitting legacy for Dad when all else has been stripped away and forgotten.

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

Some housekeeping notes. First, I got my manuscript back this week. Virginia is optimistic that the book will turn out well. This weekend, I plunge into my edits. We’ll see, I reckon, how it all goes. And speaking of the book, that cover is still as cool as ever. I can’t share it until sometime later. Probably this fall.

I gave the typewriter and lamp and reading glasses to Amos to preserve. I have another set almost like it. I have two more of Dad’s typewriters. A bunch of his old reading glasses. And that second lamp is still here, too. I would give one of each to some group or institution that has an interest in preserving a bit of Amish history. Let me know if that’s you.

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Motorcycle Dreams; Rock Me Gentle…

The only thing worse than starting something and

failing … is not starting something.

— Seth Godin

______________________

It was a big dream and a bold one. I remember exactly when and where it came knocking. Back in early 2016, when I was working my way back from some serious heart issues. A-Fib. I slogged my way through that bleak wilderness, back to health. After I got home and got my head cleared, I thought about a few things. Well, two. I’d learn to ride a motorcycle. And I’d get me a tattoo. I’d be hard and mean and tough. Like you have to be, if you’re gonna preach the gospel to the pagans. That was the original plan, kind of tongue in cheek. But still. I figure you proclaim the gospel wherever you go, as you go. Even to the rough and rowdy biker crowd. Maybe especially to that crowd.

I remember how it felt, when the dream first came. Here. A new door beckoned. I told myself. You just walked through some hard places. You stared death in the face and survived. Now. Do something that you’ve never done before, something far out that you have never seriously considered. Like, oh, maybe learning to ride. Not a horse. I strongly dislike horses. So, no horse. A motorcycle. That’s it. Two wheels. Learn to ride. Live. Take some risks. Maybe you’ll die sooner than you would have, but you’ll die living. It’s freedom. It’s risk. It’s life. Maybe in the end, all that leads to death. If so, that’s fine.

I remember mentioning my little plan to Pastor Mark at church. He smiled and nodded. And he talked about it a few times in his sermons. Ira almost died. But he didn’t. Now, he’s looking at the things he’s never done. He’s going to ride a motorcycle. If I die, I die. “That,” said Pastor Mark, “is Christian freedom. Ira is free to dream wild dreams and go pursue them.” And, of course, that put the pressure on, too. I couldn’t back out now, not if I wanted to. Not after the pastor had proclaimed my plans to the whole church. I don’t know what the congregation thought. Probably that I had finally lost it. Most people smiled, though.

And then came a Saturday afternoon in early November of that year. I had signed up for one of the last sessions to get my motorcycle license. The state has a program where they train you. You had to sign up long before. I told the instructors, when I got there. I’ve never driven a bike before. They just smiled. It won’t be a problem, they said. I was dubious. And that first day, it was nippy and cold. I had signed up for the second course, after lunch. There were more than a dozen of us, all newbies. All completely untrained. Well, maybe a few of those people had been on bikes before. A handful of us hadn’t. Raw recruits is what we were.

It was tough. The head instructor bellowed and barked like some marine drill sergeant at boot camp. He seemed awful full of himself. I mean, come on. We didn’t enlist for service. Just teach us how to ride. We want training. Fortunately, the other three or four instructors were all quite calm and nice. They started us off basic. This is a bike. This is a helmet. Fit one of these on your head. Choose a bike. This is the brake, this is the clutch. Eventually we got to actually start the engines. Then we walked the bikes back and forth. Then we rode. Information overload, for all the novices. It was dark when we wrapped up the final exercise. The loud mean officer took our papers and disappeared into the little shack. He would either pass or fail us. He stomped out and handed us our verdicts. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, or maybe I just imagined that in the darkness. I glanced at my paper. It wasn’t stamped. I had failed.

Well, now. This was a fine kettle of soup. I was discouraged. I’m not used to failing something so blatantly. Just like that, boom. You don’t pass. Almost, I would have given up. Still. The dream beckoned. Dream and ride. A week later, on a Sunday morning, I joined a ragtag group who met with a kindly instructor who had volunteered to teach us again. We’d try one more time, one last gasp before winter set in. All of us had failed. And that day, we simply practiced the harder stuff that had tripped us up before. And the kindly instructor passed us, every single one. I walked back out to my truck, proudly clutching the piece of paper that made it official. Look out, world. The rumble of my ride was ramping up, out there in the distance. You could hear it if you listened close.

And the dream rolled on. I kept an eye out, and late that winter, I bought my very own bike for the first time, ever. A small 2010 Yamaha 650, white, with under 2000 miles. The little car dealer over in Gap, that’s where I saw it. A friend pointed it out to me. And I slipped in and bought the bike. The thing was loud, and totally chromed up with extras. I would definitely make a statement, coming at you on those wheels. I poked around at different places and finally found a nice helmet that fit. You could put the visor up or pull it down. And even in the hot summer, the mean marine instructor had hollered loud. Long pants, no shorts. Chaps would be good. I never got that far. Long sleeved shirt, and gloves. And the helmet, of course. I got everything together in my garage and waited for the summer sun to shine. Bike wheels, keep on rolling, was my song.

There was a song in my heart that summer for other reasons. I was stepping out, reaching out, and connecting a bit. Still drinking, though. The whiskey eventually destroyed that particular connection. I look back sometimes at a stark and brutal truth that has become very plain to me. The whiskey cost me a lot over the years, when it came to broken relationships. You don’t really think about it much, not until your head gets clear. And when that happens, it hits you. Wow. How could you have been so stupid and so blind? Anyway, late that summer, that song died. It was what it was, I guess. And life went on. My bike riding didn’t.

Somehow, I simply could not get motivated to go riding much. Oh, sure, I drove the backroads, over toward Farmersville and Ephrata. One fine Saturday afternoon, I rode over to my Amish friends, David and Esther Smucker. I roared in and parked, and rolled the throttle. The bike rumbled deep and loud. Inside the house, Esther scolded. “Is that Ira Wagler on his motorcycle?” It was. Oh, yes, it was. The problem with riding a bike over there was, there never was a lot of room to pack any of the extra food Esther generally had around that I could beg or steal. It’s a lot easier to haul a plate loaded with food in a Jeep than on a bike. This I can tell you without equivocation.

I never got real good at riding. Looking back from here, I can kind of see what faded and why. I never got off the ground, really. Never graduated from the back roads. It was fun, always. Just awfully hot in the summer sun, to put on all those heavy clothes, and then seal in all that heat with the helmet. It was always a production. That was the problem. You had to plan any little trip you took. I’m not used to planning. I’m used to jumping into my Jeep and going. And I wasn’t about to go riding without proper protection. The mean marine instructor had hammered the point home hard. I always rode dressed safe, because I didn’t feel confident enough not to.

I learned a little bit about motorcycle maintenance along the way. Well, I learned what the tenant taught me. The first winter, it got pretty cold. The bike was parked out in the garage and the battery exploded. I had no idea any such thing would or could happen. The tenant looked all wise and allowed that he should have thought of it. So the next spring, I handed him a hundred dollar bill and told him to get me a new battery and install it. And keep the change. He happily went his way and I went mine. He got the bike fired up and running, with fresh gas. This would have been last summer, 2018. He rode it some. I took it out a few times, never for long. And the bike just sat there in the garage, all silent and sedate, not getting many miles racked up at all. I tried to get excited about it. You can’t make yourself excited about something unless it comes natural on its own. So, it just didn’t happen.

I look back now, and it’s clear. My brain was preoccupied with a few other things last year. I had signed a contract for my second book. So that was always on my mind, somewhere. And I went up to Aylmer to see my father, too. Last June. A lot of life was jumbling around in my head. And I was writing dry for the first time since I started writing. Dry, as in not drinking whiskey. I wasn’t sure what would come or how it would get told. It was a bit of an adventure, there, getting that all figured out, I gotta say. I guess we’ll see what the market does with it.

And yes, that little bunny trail does have a connection to my main thread, here. The motorcycle, and why I didn’t bond with my mean machine. Last summer it sat almost entirely unused. And the tenant made noises, there at the end as the days got shorter. Maybe I was taking too much room out in the shop, there, where he keeps his car. He asked. Why didn’t I just sell it, if I wasn’t gonna ride it? You know what? I asked. That makes sense. Get that battery stored inside for the winter, and I’ll figure it out by next spring. The book will be done by then, at least the first draft. I’ll see if the pressure of the writing affected anything. Maybe it’ll come, I’ll want to ride, and I’ll like it. If not, if I don’t ride next spring, we’ll sell the bike. The tenant nodded. I think he knew full well what was coming.

A lot has happened since that day the tenant unhooked my bike’s battery and carried it upstairs to his apartment to keep it warm for the winter. Dad got real sick and real low, late last year. He died the day after Christmas. We all gathered and buried the man, the family did. I got back home from the funeral, and the writing gods smiled and the floodgates opened. I had been stuck with no closure. Since we went and buried my father, the words have flowed in torrents.

I got the rough manuscript sent off on the 8th of May, just like Virginia asked me to. And around that time, the tenant coughed politely one day. The motorcycle. Would I want him to place an ad on the Facebook marketplace? This time I never hesitated. Yes, I said. Yes. Get that bike out there. Let’s get it sold if we can. It was a casual comment. And it didn’t take long for me to face whether or not I really meant it. The next morning, already, here came a text from the tenant. A guy in York, the next county west, had made a lowball cash offer. He would come the day after tomorrow in the morning. The tenant wrote the figure. It was low, alright. Still. Might as well get what I can while the getting’s good. Tell him to be here Thursday morning, I texted back. Bring me Benjamins. I got the title ready to sign over. The tenant soon replied that it was all arranged.

Thursday morning. I slept in. Just before eight, I ran down to Sheetz for my coffee. The tenant was stirring out in the shop when I got back. He pushed the bike outside and fired it up. The engine rumbled and roared, same as always. And around 8:30, the guy showed up with his pickup and trailer. We got him backed in. An older guy. Turned out he and his son dabbled in motorcycles. He was going to resell the thing. Didn’t bother me at all. He checked out everything, revved the throttle, and then drove the bike around and onto his trailer. The tenant and I helped strap it down. Then the man handed me a fistful of Benjamins. I counted them out carefully, then peeled off two of them and handed them to the tenant. There you are, I said. For all the work you did to get this done. Then I followed the man into downtown New Holland, where we transferred the title at an insurance office. The Notary, and all. I signed where I needed to, then shook the man’s hand and walked out of there. I got to work a little late that day.

And that’s how the dream died, right there. It got led gently from the room. No fuss. No hassles. The preacher to the pagans never got far, at least not on his bike. Still, I guess you’re either reflecting the gospel, or you’re not. Motorcycle or not. It’s true. The rumble on the road never made it far. I guess I’m OK with that. Some dreams die. Some dreams don’t. This one did. The best I can say is that I leaned a skill I never had before. I can ride and shift a bike. That’s something, I guess.

And now, that leaves me with the second dream that never got anywhere. I never got a tattoo. And yeah, I know. That verse in Leviticus, where it talks about how the Lord don’t want you to make marks on your body for the dead. Been there. Heard that. It’s not for the dead. And besides, there’s another verse in Corinthians, written much later, about how all things are lawful. Maybe not edifying. But lawful. It’s a little like I wrote before about not wearing a tie to an Amish funeral. I can wear a tie, I got nothing against them. I just choose not to in that setting, to be respectful. In this setting, I am completely fine with getting some ink in me. And it’s looking more and more like I will.

And yeah, I know, too. Tattoos are foreign to the Amish culture. Somewhere, I’m sure, there is a bearded Amish man who always wears long sleeves because he got inked back in his wilder days. What would he tell his children? It’s a rare rash decision that is hard to erase, should regrets ever come calling. So, I know. Consider it all carefully before stepping through that door. It’s a lot more complicated than buying a motorcycle that you end up selling because your dream never got off the ground. I know that. Still, I’m tempted and leaning hard.

When the book comes out next year, maybe I’ll celebrate with a tattoo. That’s the road I’m looking at. It won’t be a cross, with any slogan. I’ve thought about it. Near as I can tell, there’s only one image that might make it worth the hassle of getting threaded with a needle gun for the first time in my life. And that would be the image of a breaking chain. A breaking chain around my upper arm. OK. Upper left arm, if you want to get all specific about the details.

And that breaking chain will speak a message more powerful than words ever could. There will be no freedom until the chains are broken, the chains of whatever is binding you. Those chains can only be torn asunder by a force stronger than any addiction known to any human. The gospel, proclaimed to all the pagans in the world.

Such will be the meaning of my tattoo.

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

The word just got here, but not in time for this blog. Next month on the next blog, I will unveil my book cover to my readers and to all the world. It’s wild, and I’m excited about it. I hope you will be, too.

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Motorcycle Dreams: Rock Me Gentle…

The only thing worse than starting something and

failing … is not starting something.

— Seth Godin

______________________

It was a big dream and a bold one. I remember exactly when and where it came knocking. Back in early 2016, when I was working my way back from some serious heart issues. A-Fib. I slogged my way through that bleak wilderness, back to health. After I got home and got my head cleared, I thought about a few things. Well, two. I’d learn to ride a motorcycle. And I’d get me a tattoo. I’d be hard and mean and tough. Like you have to be, if you’re gonna preach the gospel to the pagans. That was the original plan, kind of tongue in cheek. But still. I figure you proclaim the gospel wherever you go, as you go. Even to the rough and rowdy biker crowd. Maybe especially to that crowd.

I remember how it felt, when the dream first came. Here. A new door beckoned. I told myself. You just walked through some hard places. You stared death in the face and survived. Now. Do something that you’ve never done before, something far out that you have never seriously considered. Like, oh, maybe learning to ride. Not a horse. I strongly dislike horses. So, no horse. A motorcycle. That’s it. Two wheels. Learn to ride. Live. Take some risks. Maybe you’ll die sooner than you would have, but you’ll die living. It’s freedom. It’s risk. It’s life. Maybe in the end, all that leads to death. If so, that’s fine.

I remember mentioning my little plan to Pastor Mark at church. He smiled and nodded. And he talked about it a few times in his sermons. Ira almost died. But he didn’t. Now, he’s looking at the things he’s never done. He’s going to ride a motorcycle. If I die, I die. “That,” said Pastor Mark, “is Christian freedom. Ira is free to dream wild dreams and go pursue them.” And, of course, that put the pressure on, too. I couldn’t back out now, not if I wanted to. Not after the pastor had proclaimed my plans to the whole church. I don’t know what the congregation thought. Probably that I had finally lost it. Most people smiled, though.

And then came a Saturday afternoon in early November of that year. I had signed up for one of the last sessions to get my motorcycle license. The state has a program where they train you. You had to sign up long before. I told the instructors, when I got there. I’ve never driven a bike before. They just smiled. It won’t be a problem, they said. I was dubious. And that first day, it was nippy and cold. I had signed up for the second course, after lunch. There were more than a dozen of us, all newbies. All completely untrained. Well, maybe a few of those people had been on bikes before. A handful of us hadn’t. Raw recruits is what we were.

It was tough. The head instructor bellowed and barked like some marine drill sergeant at boot camp. He seemed awful full of himself. I mean, come on. We didn’t enlist for service. Just teach us how to ride. We want training. Fortunately, the other three or four instructors were all quite calm and nice. They started us off basic. This is a bike. This is a helmet. Fit one of these on your head. Choose a bike. This is the brake, this is the clutch. Eventually we got to actually start the engines. Then we walked the bikes back and forth. Then we rode. Information overload, for all the novices. It was dark when we wrapped up the final exercise. The loud mean officer took our papers and disappeared into the little shack. He would either pass or fail us. He stomped out and handed us our verdicts. He wouldn’t look me in the eye, or maybe I just imagined that in the darkness. I glanced at my paper. It wasn’t stamped. I had failed.

Well, now. This was a fine kettle of soup. I was discouraged. I’m not used to failing something so blatantly. Just like that, boom. You don’t pass. Almost, I would have given up. Still. The dream beckoned. Dream and ride. A week later, on a Sunday morning, I joined a ragtag group who met with a kindly instructor who had volunteered to teach us again. We’d try one more time, one last gasp before winter set in. All of us had failed. And that day, we simply practiced the harder stuff that had tripped us up before. And the kindly instructor passed us, every single one. I walked back out to my truck, proudly clutching the piece of paper that made it official. Look out, world. The rumble of my ride was ramping up, out there in the distance. You could hear it if you listened close.

And the dream rolled on. I kept an eye out, and late that winter, I bought my very own bike for the first time, ever. A small 2010 Yamaha 650, white, with under 2000 miles. The little car dealer over in Gap, that’s where I saw it. A friend pointed it out to me. And I slipped in and bought the bike. The thing was loud, and totally chromed up with extras. I would definitely make a statement, coming at you on those wheels. I poked around at different places and finally found a nice helmet that fit. You could put the visor up or pull it down. And even in the hot summer, the mean marine instructor had hollered loud. Long pants, no shorts. Chaps would be good. I never got that far. Long sleeved shirt, and gloves. And the helmet, of course. I got everything together in my garage and waited for the summer sun to shine. Bike wheels, keep on rolling, was my song.

There was a song in my heart that summer for other reasons. I was stepping out, reaching out, and connecting a bit. Still drinking, though. The whiskey eventually destroyed that particular connection. I look back sometimes at a stark and brutal truth that has become very plain to me. The whiskey cost me a lot over the years, when it came to broken relationships. You don’t really think about it much, not until your head gets clear. And when that happens, it hits you. Wow. How could you have been so stupid and so blind? Anyway, late that summer, that song died. It was what it was, I guess. And life went on. My bike riding didn’t.

Somehow, I simply could not get motivated to go riding much. Oh, sure, I drove the backroads, over toward Farmersville and Ephrata. One fine Saturday afternoon, I rode over to my Amish friends, David and Esther Smucker. I roared in and parked, and rolled the throttle. The bike rumbled deep and loud. Inside the house, Esther scolded. “Is that Ira Wagler on his motorcycle?” It was. Oh, yes, it was. The problem with riding a bike over there was, there never was a lot of room to pack any of the extra food Esther generally had around that I could beg or steal. It’s a lot easier to haul a plate loaded with food in a Jeep than on a bike. This I can tell you without equivocation.

I never got real good at riding. Looking back from here, I can kind of see what faded and why. I never got off the ground, really. Never graduated from the back roads. It was fun, always. Just awfully hot in the summer sun, to put on all those heavy clothes, and then seal in all that heat with the helmet. It was always a production. That was the problem. You had to plan any little trip you took. I’m not used to planning. I’m used to jumping into my Jeep and going. And I wasn’t about to go riding without proper protection. The mean marine instructor had hammered the point home hard. I always rode dressed safe, because I didn’t feel confident enough not to.

I learned a little bit about motorcycle maintenance along the way. Well, I learned what the tenant taught me. The first winter, it got pretty cold. The bike was parked out in the garage and the battery exploded. I had no idea any such thing would or could happen. The tenant looked all wise and allowed that he should have thought of it. So the next spring, I handed him a hundred dollar bill and told him to get me a new battery and install it. And keep the change. He happily went his way and I went mine. He got the bike fired up and running, with fresh gas. This would have been last summer, 2018. He rode it some. I took it out a few times, never for long. And the bike just sat there in the garage, all silent and sedate, not getting many miles racked up at all. I tried to get excited about it. You can’t make yourself excited about something unless it comes natural on its own. So, it just didn’t happen.

I look back now, and it’s clear. My brain was preoccupied with a few other things last year. I had signed a contract for my second book. So that was always on my mind, somewhere. And I went up to Aylmer to see my father, too. Last June. A lot of life was jumbling around in my head. And I was writing dry for the first time since I started writing. Dry, as in not drinking whiskey. I wasn’t sure what would come or how it would get told. It was a bit of an adventure, there, getting that all figured out, I gotta say. I guess we’ll see what the market does with it.

And yes, that little bunny trail does have a connection to my main thread, here. The motorcycle, and why I didn’t bond with my mean machine. Last summer it sat almost entirely unused. And the tenant made noises, there at the end as the days got shorter. Maybe I was taking too much room out in the shop, there, where he keeps his car. He asked. Why didn’t I just sell it, if I wasn’t gonna ride it? You know what? I asked. That makes sense. Get that battery stored inside for the winter, and I’ll figure it out by next spring. The book will be done by then, at least the first draft. I’ll see if the pressure of the writing affected anything. Maybe it’ll come, I’ll want to ride, and I’ll like it. If not, if I don’t ride next spring, we’ll sell the bike. The tenant nodded. I think he knew full well what was coming.

A lot has happened since that day the tenant unhooked my bike’s battery and carried it upstairs to his apartment to keep it warm for the winter. Dad got real sick and real low, late last year. He died the day after Christmas. We all gathered and buried the man, the family did. I got back home from the funeral, and the writing gods smiled and the floodgates opened. I had been stuck with no closure. Since we went and buried my father, the words have flowed in torrents.

I got the rough manuscript sent off on the 8th of May, just like Virginia asked me to. And around that time, the tenant coughed politely one day. The motorcycle. Would I want him to place an ad on the Facebook marketplace? This time I never hesitated. Yes, I said. Yes. Get that bike out there. Let’s get it sold if we can. It was a casual comment. And it didn’t take long for me to face whether or not I really meant it. The next morning, already, here came a text from the tenant. A guy in York, the next county west, had made a lowball cash offer. He would come the day after tomorrow in the morning. The tenant wrote the figure. It was low, alright. Still. Might as well get what I can while the getting’s good. Tell him to be here Thursday morning, I texted back. Bring me Benjamins. I got the title ready to sign over. The tenant soon replied that it was all arranged.

Thursday morning. I slept in. Just before eight, I ran down to Sheetz for my coffee. The tenant was stirring out in the shop when I got back. He pushed the bike outside and fired it up. The engine rumbled and roared, same as always. And around 8:30, the guy showed up with his pickup and trailer. We got him backed in. An older guy. Turned out he and his son dabbled in motorcycles. He was going to resell the thing. Didn’t bother me at all. He checked out everything, revved the throttle, and then drove the bike around and onto his trailer. The tenant and I helped strap it down. Then the man handed me a fistful of Benjamins. I counted them out carefully, then peeled off two of them and handed them to the tenant. There you are, I said. For all the work you did to get this done. Then I followed the man into downtown New Holland, where we transferred the title at an insurance office. The Notary, and all. I signed where I needed to, then shook the man’s hand and walked out of there. I got to work a little late that day.

And that’s how the dream died, right there. It got led gently from the room. No fuss. No hassles. The preacher to the pagans never got far, at least not on his bike. Still, I guess you’re either reflecting the gospel, or you’re not. Motorcycle or not. It’s true. The rumble on the road never made it far. I guess I’m OK with that. Some dreams die. Some dreams don’t. This one did. The best I can say is that I leaned a skill I never had before. I can ride and shift a bike. That’s something, I guess.

And now, that leaves me with the second dream that never got anywhere. I never got a tattoo. And yeah, I know. That verse in Leviticus, where it talks about how the Lord don’t want you to make marks on your body for the dead. Been there. Heard that. It’s not for the dead. And besides, there’s another verse in Corinthians, written much later, about how all things are lawful. Maybe not edifying. But lawful. It’s a little like I wrote before about not wearing a tie to an Amish funeral. I can wear a tie, I got nothing against them. I just choose not to in that setting, to be respectful. In this setting, I am completely fine with getting some ink in me. And it’s looking more and more like I will.

And yeah, I know, too. Tattoos are foreign to the Amish culture. Somewhere, I’m sure, there is a bearded Amish man who always wears long sleeves because he got inked back in his wilder days. What would he tell his children? It’s a rare rash decision that is hard to erase, should regrets ever come calling. So, I know. Consider it all carefully before stepping through that door. It’s a lot more complicated than buying a motorcycle that you end up selling because your dream never got off the ground. I know that. Still, I’m tempted and leaning hard.

When the book comes out next year, maybe I’ll celebrate with a tattoo. That’s the road I’m looking at. It won’t be a cross, with any slogan. I’ve thought about it. Near as I can tell, there’s only one image that might make it worth the hassle of getting threaded with a needle gun for the first time in my life. And that would be the image of a breaking chain. A breaking chain around my upper arm. OK. Upper left arm, if you want to get all specific about the details.

And that breaking chain will speak a message more powerful than words ever could. There will be no freedom until the chains are broken, the chains of whatever is binding you. Those chains can only be torn asunder by a force stronger than any addiction known to any human. The gospel, proclaimed to all the pagans in the world.

Such will be the meaning of my tattoo.

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

The word just got here, but not in time for this blog. Next month on the next blog, I will unveil my book cover to my readers and to all the world. It’s wild, and I’m excited about it. I hope you will be, too.

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Last Call in Leola…

It’s a cruel, cruel summer.

Leaving me here on my own.

It’s a cruel, cruel summer.

Now you’re gone.

— Bananarama; Lyrics

_____________________

It was my daily hangout for a good many years, back there. And then not so much the last while. Still, I stayed connected enough to hear the news when it first pulsed out a couple of months ago. Vinola’s was closing. It had been sold. My bar, the last bar I ever hung out at. It had been sold to some Mennonite ice cream people. Fox’s Ice Cream. That’s a good thing for anyone who likes ice cream, which includes most of us, I reckon. But I figure it’s just not that good a thing when the ice cream shop is replacing the neighborhood bar. Even the bar I quit going to.

I have a lot of really fond memories of Vinola’s. And, sure, the whiskey played a good part of making those memories. You go to where your heart takes you. And, mixed in there with all those years of drinking, there was a void of some kind. A void that I was trying to either fill or get lost in. That’s how I see it from where I am right now. It makes sense, I think. When you’re trying to fill a void inside you, you gravitate naturally to the spot where others might be doing the same thing. The bar. I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. The bar is one of the most honest places in the world. You can shake your head and argue all you want, it’s still true. The bar is a safe place where the human condition meets itself, unflinchingly, without judgment. It would behoove the church to take notice.

And I was in such a season back when I discovered Vinola’s. A time in my life when I was stumbling along. And if there was going to be a whiskey journey anyway, well, Vinola’s made stretches of that road a whole lot more easy to walk. You could take it, you can always take what life throws at you, if you have friends around you. And the whiskey always greases the skids. If you hang out at the bar often enough, you get to be a regular. Your name is known, you are welcomed and loved like family. It’s all about belonging.

Not to rehash the details of what happened when. At some point back there, I decided that the whiskey was detrimental to me and how I felt. Healthwise, I wasn’t going to get much lower than I did. Twice, my heart almost gave out. Both times, I took a break. But then, I went right back, full swing. Back to the whiskey, and back to Vinola’s. I talked about it with a few close friends. My good buddy, Amos, the horse dentist, I told him. Amos is a good man and a good friend. He never made much noise, just quietly supported me. I told him. I’m quitting. It’s just too much.

And Amos told me later. “You were drinking yourself to death. That’s what was going to happen, if you didn’t do something about it.” Yeah, yeah, I thought. I know that. But it was a little startling to hear it spoken so boldly. Amos. If you knew I was doing that, why didn’t you say something? Amos shrugged. “For the same reason you don’t say something to anyone else who’s doing the same thing. No one can make you quit any bad habit until you decide to do it on your own.” Made sense, I thought. Well, I told Amos. I’ve decided to quit. I guess we’ll see how it goes.

I wrote about it, when it happened, as it happened. And some version of those events will make it into the book. It’s a given. The hardest thing about quitting drinking is quitting drinking. To stop, cold. Boom. Give it up. The next hardest thing, well, that’s debatable. A few things stand out in my mind. Every afternoon, as I was heading home from work, those were the moments of truth. The ideal time for the body to relax with a drink. After a long day at work. And it hit me every day as me and my truck got close to home. I need a drink. All else in life paled in comparison to that one gnawing, desperate desire. Whiskey. I need whiskey. It was a persistent, running battle, not to turn Big Blue to the left and Vinola’s. NO. I told myself. Over and over, day after day. NO. Turn right. Go home. And once I had trained my truck to turn the right way, everything else just kind of fell into place. The weeks slipped by, then the months. At some point, I figured it out. Hey. I’m dry. I’ve changed some habits. I’ve lost forty pounds. I can do this. I feel good. I want to do this. And slowly, my desires changed. That’s what happened. Not saying they won’t change back. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Today, though, I’m good. Right now.

It took a while to work up the nerve to walk back through the doors of my bar. Early last year, in 2018, I was chatting with Amos. We talked about it. And that week, I walked into Vinola’s to meet Amos and to get some good food. It was the same place. Some of the same people. Ola, of course, was there in all her stunning beauty. The woman is and will be forever young. Even before I had left, she and Vince (Vince and Ola = Vinola’s. That’s where the name comes from.) weren’t together anymore, as a couple. She connected with a fine young man. None of us had ever seen the guy before. Matt. Ola and Matt and Vince and Nichole. The four of them were usually around the bar the last few years. Amos and I stopped in to eat, too, now and then. There were long stretches between the times we went. A few months, sometimes. When a place like that is open and accessible anytime, you don’t think much about how it would be if it wasn’t there.

I remember that Monday morning when Amos texted me. He had been at Vinola’s over the weekend, and he heard the place had sold. They were closing in a couple of months, sometime by May or so. I wasn’t that surprised at the news. There had been rumors, here and there. And now those rumors had come to pass. Vinola’s was closing. That’s too bad. We need to get over there a few times before that happens, I texted back to Amos. He agreed.

And we met regularly at the bar after work, me and Amos. A couple of times a week. Happy hour specials, for food and drink. I never paid the drinks any mind. The menu had changed a little from back in the old days. We sat at our usual seats at the center of Vinola’s long and unique and beautiful bar. I always kept an eye on whatever game was on the closest large screen TV. We chatted about a lot of things, me and Amos. We chatted with the other regulars, too. The place was still as comfortable and welcoming as it had always been.

Five years ago this week, we buried Mom up in Aylmer. On a Wednesday. I remember how it was. And how it went, the next time I walked into Vinola’s. That next Friday night, after getting home. I took a seat at the bar at my normal spot. Amy was working. Vinola’s always had the most stunningly beautiful barmaids. They fussed over you and treated you nice. Amy was special to me. My favorite, pretty much. When she flashed her dazzling smile, you felt as if you were the only man in the whole world. Well, the only man in the whole bar, at least. And that night, Amy and Rachel were working. They both offered their condolences. “I’m sorry to hear about your Mom.” Thank you, I said. I had a drink, and then some food. The bar was buzzing. Lots of people. Soon it was time to settle up. I asked for my check.

Amy smiled that dazzling smile. She flitted about the cash register, then came to me with a long face. “I can’t find any check for you, Ira,” she said, mournfully. I looked at her. “You have no bill here,” she went on. It finally sank in. I was getting comped, because I had lost my Mom. Ah, Amy, I said. You don’t have to do that. She looked blank. “Do what?” She asked innocently. I laughed and thanked her. That was one of the nicest gestures anyone did for me after Mom died. Right there at Vinola’s, at the bar. I never forgot. Down the road, the time came that I said good-bye to Amy. I haven’t seen her for a couple of years. She was a single mom, studying pre-med. One day, it’ll happen, probably. I’ll walk into a doctor’s office, and there she’ll be.

The book was a good part of my identity at Vinola’s, too. Growing Up Amish had been on the market for a few years when I first started hanging around. I never made a fuss about it, just casually mentioned the fact when I could slip it in without seeming uppity. I gave away a good many copies to the servers, there. And to Vince and Ola, too, of course. Ola looked astounded and pleased. Vince bragged in a great loud voice to many of his other customers. “Let me introduce you to Ira, our NY Times bestselling author.” He seemed proud of that fact. And it was funny, too. I brought a copy of the book in, signed it to the bar, and asked Ola to place it on a shelf, surrounded by many colorful bottles of hard liquor. She set it up on a little stand I bought just for that reason. The book glinted in the lighting, and I beamed with pride. I figured that was a special privilege.

My book at the bar.

I traded copies of my book for drinks, for a few years there. More than a few strangers agreed to buy me a drink for a signed copy. I had many interesting conversations with people who seemed startled to find a real author sitting and drinking at a bar.

The closing countdown plugged along. Ola put the date on the sign outside. April 25th. Thursday. That was the last day, ever, for Vinola’s as we knew it. I flirted with the idea of not showing up that night. But I couldn’t stay away. I ate at home, then sat at my desk and worked on some editing. And then, around 7:00, I headed out. Amish Black and me drove the two miles to Vinola’s one last time. The place looked full. I found a parking spot and walked up the steps into the back door, which is technically the front door. The place was always strange, like that.

The bar was full. People sat, nursing their drinks. A great many others milled about. Old time regulars. And looking around, I recognized a lot of faces from the past. A lot of servers that I had not seen for months and years. I strolled about, greeting people and snagging as many hugs as possible from the beautiful girls I knew. I had not contacted Amos. Tonight, I was alone. I found a seat at the bar close to the middle. My usual spot. I sat here hundreds of times before. From here, I have watched the ebb and flow, the tides of life. And I remembered a thing that happened years ago. It was a Saturday night. I usually hung around Vinola’s at five or six. Early. I never was a late owl at the bar. Maybe that’s why I never got nailed, driving home. The cops weren’t out, yet. I always drove real careful, but when it gets late, the cops will harass you and wreck your life for no reason.

Anyway, that evening I had a few drinks and some food. I remember sitting there, mulling over things. Looking serious, I guess. And somehow, I must have nodded off a bit. I wasn’t sleepy. I don’t know why it happened. I paid and got ready to head out. I noticed that one of the barmaids hovered close. And then there were a couple of people standing behind me. “We’re taking you home,” one of them said. I looked startled. What’s up with that? No one knew, really, except they saw me swaying as I was sitting. Vince walked out with me. We boarded Big Blue. Vince drove. Another regular, John the Wise, followed us, to bring Vince back. And the two of them took me home. I guess I should have been ashamed. I was, a little. Mostly, I was grateful that the people at Vinola’s were looking out for me. I felt pretty mortified, though. And I vowed in my heart that such a thing would never, never happen again. It never did.

Back in mid-April, just a few weeks ago, a funny thing happened. I was sitting at the bar, minding my own business, chatting with Amos. Matt was tending bar. Ola stood a little way down, chatting with some friends. Somewhere in there, I beckoned Matt over. That lovely lady standing down there. Isn’t she the owner of Vinola’s? I asked, feigning ignorance. I’d like to buy her a drink. Matt grinned and allowed he could take care of that. Some time later, he served the drink to Ola. She smiled down the bar, in thanks. And a few minutes later, she came over to thank me in person.

A kiss from the Queen. Ola and Ira.

(And no, she’s not rolling her eyes. It just looks that way.)

I always sneak a hug from any beautiful woman when I can. Ola and I chatted a bit, she hugged me, and we talked. Then she introduced me to another lovely lady sitting there. The second lady, I didn’t know. I’d never met her. She was quite stunning. Ola dragged me over and made introductions. “This is Ira. He’s a book writer.” The lovely woman turned to me with a huge smile. She was almost swooning, which puzzled me a little. And pleased me. I’m not used to any woman swooning when I come around.

She smiled again, a big bright smile. And she gushed. “What kind of bulls do you ride?” She heard “bull rider” when Ola said “book writer.” Oh, my. If a smile could melt you, I’d be a puddle. No, no, I protested. Book writer. Not bull rider. She had to absorb the brutal truth. We all laughed and laughed. It was too funny. Turns out she came from Texas a few years ago. I guess you hear what your ears are tuned to hear.

On this last night, Ola and Matt were scurrying around frantically, serving food and drinks. Ola smiled and welcomed me. Water with lemon, I told her. She brought it and I thanked her. And I sat there and sipped from my glass and surveyed the scene. Then I took my lemon water and walked around. Mingled. Vince was working the room, and I chatted a bit with him. Thanked him for all he’s done over the years to keep such a place running. Some of the customers were old timers that I had not seen since I quit drinking. I laughed, I chatted, I shook hands, I sipped water, I talked real loud. Just an ordinary scene at an extraordinary bar on a special Thursday night.

I mingled and socialized until around 9:00. That’s late, for me. Always was, at any bar. And I thought about it, then. Do I go and formally taking my leave, or do I just walk out quietly, with no fuss? I looked around at many familiar faces. The place was getting loud. I approached a small knot of friends. Shook their hands. I’m leaving, I said. And that was it. I turned and walked out of the bar that had been like a second home to me in one season of my life. Some of the people there that last night, some of them I will probably never see again. I walked out of there, out to my Jeep in the crowded parking lot. Inside, the music and the laughter thumped and rocked. I drove to the highway and turned left into the darkness toward home.

And now, Vinola’s is no more. Such is life.

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

Mostly, I write about what I have a mind to write. Don’t matter if my views are heretical to people who rattle on and on about the law. There are a few subjects that I have shied away from, historically. Tar baby stuff. The stuff that can’t get resolved and never will. For instance, I have always steered clear of the head covering debate. I guess there’s actually a group out there, called the Head Covering Movement, proclaiming the great news of a great “truth.” Women must cover their heads. It’s the law. I’ve seen their posts. Not so much, lately. But in past years, it’s been out there, the apologetics of a fledgling movement trying to break into the mainstream. It ain’t gonna happen. Sorry to tell you guys that. You seem sincere, just vastly misguided.

I guess there’s no reason to hold back how I feel about it. I have no use for head coverings on anyone. It’s bondage. It’s legalism. It’s idol worship. I will not walk in chains. And in my opinion, the headcovering tends to make the woman wearing one feel superior to the woman who isn’t. Not saying it always does. But I bet if you could look deep down in the crevices of the heart, you’d see a good bit of smug satisfaction from women who feel they are more pure because their heads are covered. I bet you’d be surprised how prevalent it is. Not saying it has to be that way, and not accusing anyone, here. This is how I see it. That’s all. Nothing personal at anyone.

It was a long hard slog, to break free from that world. And now, I have very little patience for anyone pontificating about the law to me. The whole thing has always made me weary. If you choose to wear a covering, fine. People have deeply held beliefs, and I try to respect that. But. There’s always a “but,” and this is a big one. BUT if you believe that failing to do so will cause you to lose your salvation, you are in bondage to the shackles of the law. Period.

It always makes me shiver to hear the hoarse, rasping voice of any man insisting that the woman is responsible to dress “modest” and wear a large bag over her hair, so the man doesn’t have lustful thoughts. Many years ago, I heard a visiting Amish preacher go off like that. On and on about the Reine Jungfrau, the pure young virgins who had oil for their lamps at midnight when the bridegroom came. The preacher man roared around like a hoarse and rasping bear. I was highly suspicious of him. Later, it came out that he had sexually abused his own daughters for years and was doing it right at the time I heard him. You don’t forget a thing like that.

The scriptures are often used as a club to berate and suppress the “weaker vessel.” I have a few words for such men as that. You alone are responsible for the darkness in your own heart. Stop blaming women. Repent from your wicked ways. Seek forgiveness. Walk in the light.

Anyway. This whole headcovering thing came up because I came across a link last week. It’s the most sensible exegesis I’ve ever seen on the subject. Written from a good old Reformed Presbyterian (that would be Calvinist) perspective. At last, a rational explanation to counter the incessant clamor of the Anabaptist headcover legalists. I think it’s quite refreshing.

And the first of the month came around again, this week. May 1st. The due date for my manuscript. I communicated with Virginia a few times, and she told me the other day. She’s still finishing up her current project, so she didn’t need my stuff for another week. May 8th. That’ll be the big day now, I guess. I’ll definitely be working hard all weekend, to wrap up a few things. It seems like my mind splices out into a thousand different threads as I’m writing. Well, how about this? And over here, what about that? It just never stops.

I won’t say I feel good about it. But I feel calm. Virginia sent me a sample cover layout the other week. Broken Roads: Returning to my Amish Father. That’s the title. I can’t remember that anyone came up with precisely that suggestion. If you did, point me to your post, and I’ll get you a free copy of the book.

From what I’ve seen, the cover of my second book will rival the cover of my first. It’s that good. I never expected such a thing. The art and design people are total professionals, there at Hachette. I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I’ll share the cover layout the second I have permission, and after they get it tweaked just right. I’m excited.

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Vagabond Traveler: Me and Sam…

The possession of all things, even the air we breathe, is held

from us, and the river of life and time flows through the grasp

of our hands, and, for all our hunger and desire, we hold nothing

except the trembling moments, one by one.

—Thomas Wolfe

___________________

The news came knocking hard, early that Monday morning. I first saw it on social media and gaped in disbelief. It spread across the land and settled in our minds and in our hearts like a black and pestilent cloud. One more loss of life, one more journey snuffed out long before it should have, by any measurement our finite human minds can comprehend. I pondered the heavy thing. The memories came washing through like a flood. And back I went, in my head, to a time and place that happened long ago.

Ellen and I separated for the first time, way back in 2004, I think it was. Might have been 2003-04. The exact dates escape me, which seems a little odd. When you’re in the moment, it’s the heaviest thing in the world, and you swear every second of it will be seared forever in your brain. Then the months go by, and the years roll into a decade and beyond. And it all kind of shrinks back, recedes into the fog, the intensity of it. And the years start mingling together, until you’re not sure exactly when what happened, happened. This is like that, kind of.

I remember many things from those days, if not the exact dates. We ended up going to counseling at Life Ministries, down in the south end, close to Conestoga. Somehow, a close friend got me connected to Sam Gingerich, there at Life. I had never, never been to a counselor before. That was for sissies, where I came from. But this was a new and frightful place that called for things that had never been done before, so I decided to get counseling for the first time in my life. Sam was always in high demand, so I had to have an inside track to even reach him. At that point, I didn’t know if getting to Sam was a blessing or a curse. It didn’t take long to figure out. It was a major blessing.

I walked in for my first appointment, a little nervous. Filled out the forms that Norma, the receptionist, gave me. Then I sat and waited on one of those nice spindled wooden chairs they have lined against the wall, there in the lobby. I could see up the long stairs to the second floor. And right at 8:30, a man stepped out and came zipping down. He wasn’t real tall, but fit, with an intelligent face. He got down to the bottom and walked toward me and looked at me through thick glasses and smiled.

“Ira?” His voice was kind and sincere. Well, here we go, I thought to myself. I smiled back and nodded, then stood and reached and met his extended hand. Yep. You must be Sam. We chatted for a moment, then he turned and led me up the stairs and to the right a few doors to his office. It was nicely set up with a desk, a couple of cushy, comfortable chairs, and a big bay window you could look out of, to see the earth and skies. I didn’t know it that first day, but I would be spending a good many hours sitting in that cushy chair there in the corner. Over a few different stretches of time.

Sam and I talked. He had a way about him that made me trust him. Slowly, of course. That first morning, we got to know each other a bit. It was kind of funny, later, looking back. He asked me about something, some details of why we were having marriage troubles. I don’t remember the specific question. I responded quite vigorously. I will never, never trust anyone like that again. Never, ever. Sam looked mildly grieved. He cautioned me, gently. “I don’t like to hear the word, never. It’s defensive. And it takes a lot of energy to always guard against not ever doing something again or allowing your heart to trust again.” I looked at Sam. Nodded. OK. I can see that.

And that was the first little lesson he taught me about how to deal with the things in your life you can’t control. Guard your heart. Let go of the burdens that aren’t yours. Walk. Heal. Learn to enjoy, to laugh again. Forgive. Trust. Love, even if you get burned again. Take the risks. Live. That was the bottom line. Sam showed me that I could live again. And slowly, ever so slowly, I started clawing my way back out the rabbit hole. I was drinking hard in those days, and Sam accepted that. I was stunned. He didn’t judge me. He simply walked beside me, like a mythical cloaked wise man, waving his staff. “Here. This is the way. I can point it out to you. But you have to walk it. I can’t do that for you. I can walk with you, for a ways, just to make sure we get you on the right road.” And a weary, wounded traveler walked through the door into a new place and looked around in wonder.

That’s how it went, with me and Sam. He was such a man as that.

I went to see Sam regularly, every other week or so. It was a new thing for me. His quiet, probing questions made me go to places I had never been. And when Ellen and I talked, she could soon tell that I had been counseling with someone real. She asked, and I told her. I’m seeing Sam Gingerich, down at Life. You need to meet him sometime. And she was intrigued by the changes she saw in me, intrigued enough that she came. She met Sam. And she started going regularly to see him, too. Sam worked hard, counseling us both. He talked to us like he meant exactly what he said. Sometimes individually. And sometimes together. We worked hard, too, on our way back to each other. And by some miracle, we were reconciled after about six months. On the first day of spring, in whatever year it was, we officially reestablished our own little household with all the hesitant hope and faith in the future that Sam the Counselor had quietly guided us to see and feel. I opened my heart to the new dawn that would come, and I know that Ellen did the same.

It didn’t last. I guess there was no way it could. There were too many wounds in both our pasts, I think. A few years later, everything blew up again. For good, this time. All that time and energy Sam had invested went whoosh, out the window, just like that. I wrote about all of it before, way back in the early years of this blog. I’ve mentioned Sam a good many times. But I never considered things from his perspective. I don’t know what he thought and how he felt, to see all his efforts washed away like so much mud and muck. He’d seen it all before, many times, I’m sure. Still. I’m sure, too, that he hurt with those who were hurting like we were.

I huddled, shell-shocked in the center of the storm. There was lots of noise coming from lots of places. Sam stood with me, did what he could to guide me through the turbulent terrain. That very first day, the day me and Ellen separated for the last time, Sam met me out by the reservoir lake not far from his office. It was March, a milder March than this one is. We walked out to the waters, on the dam. Stood there hunched against the winds. I don’t remember a lot of the words we spoke that day, or that many words were spoken at all. I just remember that Sam was there. As a friend. A friend I trusted completely.

I went to see him regularly in the following weeks and months. Time slid on into years, then. With Sam’s patient guidance and counsel, I learned not only to face my fears, but to walk right up and confront them. He led me up to some hard doors, and I walked through them. And I will say. Life calmed down a good deal, over time. That’s when I started writing for real. Sam was always supporting and encouraging. (The only negative I could ever pin on him was that he was an Ohio State fan. When we chatted about college football, his eyes gleamed and he turned all frenzied like those people do. I tried to extend grace for this particular flaw.) I went to see him regularly for a few years, gradually increasing the span of time between each visit. I was working for the day that I felt strong enough not to go see Sam at all. That day came. Sam blessed me and wished me well.

We lost touch when I stopped getting counseling. Still. I knew where he was when I needed him. I went back to chat a few times around the time my book was coming out in 2011. Just to make sure I kept my head straight. It was maintenance, mostly, and Sam blessed me again when we parted. And we didn’t see much of each other outside counseling. I just never was where he was, socially. But I always knew where he was when I needed him. A few years ago, I was mired in some serious emotional issues. I was stuck in unforgiveness and a load of hurt. And it wasn’t getting better on its own. Didn’t matter how much I told God I wanted to let it go. The thing drug on, like some millstone around my life. Until it finally hit me. Go see Sam. So, I did.

We shook hands like two battered old warriors who had seen a lot since we’d last seen each other. I came, I said, because you are safe. I sat there in the same corner spot I always had before. I think there was a brand-new cushy chair by then. We spent a good bit of time, that first session, just catching up. Then I settled in and went to see Sam once a month. After six months, I had worked free of the load that had been dragging me down. Sam walked along beside me, gently pointing out the way. I knew what had to be done, I just wasn’t sure how to do it. Or if there was the strength to. Sam thought there was. He was right. I let go of the unforgiveness and embraced healing. Got some of that noise cleared out of my head. I felt truly free for the first time in a long time.

Then I said good-bye to Sam. We hugged. I walked out. This was in late 2016. I haven’t seen him since. Well, up until last week, I hadn’t. And therein lies the thread that got me started in the first place. I just took the long way around, getting here, I guess. A lot of things go through your head when you see a good friend walking through a hard door.

Sam and his wife, Cathie, have a lovely family. He always spoke highly of his wife and children. He deeply values family. I guess that’s why he fought so hard, early on, for Ellen and me. He hated to see a family torn apart. In our case, at least there were no children to make our separation more complicated. Sam and Cathie had children, three sons and two daughters. I was around them all a time or two when the children were younger. I never got to know them well, but I knew who they were.

And there’s where the darkness came from, that Monday morning last week. The night before, Sam’s twenty-four-year-old son, Ian Michael Gingerich, was instantly killed in a traffic accident less than a mile from their home. The news was staggering, it took your breath away, the tragedy of it. I thought of Sam right away, and what the man was walking through, right that second. My heart was heavy for my friend. It’s a brutal thing, for parents to bury a son.

The details came out, about Ian’s accident. A car came over the hill on his side on one of those narrow roads they have down there. I don’t know how fast either car was going. I just know that Ian didn’t have time to say good-bye to anyone. Not to his family, not to those closest to him, not to those he loved the most. He was gone before he could. Like I said, the tragedy of it just takes your breath away.

The viewing was on Thursday afternoon and evening, in two shifts, at the church Ian attended. Life Mennonite Fellowship, over close to Willow Street. I would go, I figured, to show my respect and offer condolences. There were a lot of people around Sam’s family, people much closer to them than I was. I didn’t want to intrude, but I wanted to show up. After work, I changed into a clean white shirt and a dress jacket. I got to the church early, because I don’t particularly care to sit around in such a place by myself. I was in the third or fourth row of people seated in the sanctuary. The air was quiet and somber. A screen up front flashed a rolling collage of Ian’s life from childhood, with many photos of him with his family and friends.

Soon the usher waved to my row. We got up and walked through a door in the back, into the large room where the family stood. The line snaked slowly, slowly, up to the coffin. Ian looked so young and natural. Like he was asleep, almost. I had not seen him since he was probably a young teenager. I lingered back, so as not to interfere with the couple ahead of me. And then I stepped up to Cathie, standing there, close to her son, where she could stroke his hair and face. She looked at me with tear-stained eyes, regal in her grief. I took her hand and spoke a few words. She recognized my voice and spoke my name. “Ira.” Yes, I said. We hugged. I murmured the only words that came to mind. I am so, so sorry.

I stepped to Sam, then. He took my hand. We embraced and the tears came unbidden. We wept openly. I told him. I am so sorry. I bring condolences and sympathies and prayers from all my extended Wagler family, the ones you knew. They all are mourning with you. And Ellen sends her love, too. I texted her, and she told me to tell you. We grieve with you in your loss.

He smiled his thanks. He remembers us all. We stood and talked for a moment. I don’t like to hold up the line at a viewing. It makes me crazy when people stand and talk and talk, oblivious to those stirring impatiently behind them. But a moment was fine. It makes no sense, I said. Still. The Lord is the Lord. That’s all I can think to say. Sam nodded. We embraced again, and the tears ran free. Thank you, I said. Thank you for all you’ve done for me over all those years. Down the line, then, to murmur brief condolences to each of Ian’s grieving siblings. They were all poised and gracious.

And I thought about it as I walked out to my Jeep. Sam Gingerich has poured his heart into the lives of hundreds, no, thousands of people over many years. For decades, he invested a lot of who he was into people like me, people he had no reason to really care for. Not to the extent that he would get involved in the messy details of the wreckage in our lives. Except that’s what the Lord called him to do.

We know who we are, the people who came knocking on Sam’s door. The wounded, the rejected, the unloved, the broken. And greatly healed, too, now, a good many of us. (As I’ve said more than a few times over the years, Sam is the reason I’m even half sane.) We remember how he cared for each one of us deeply. We know that he did his best to teach the healing truths he knew, to walk beside us on the right road. We remember how he spoke calmly and pointed to the light when darkness was closing in all around. That’s what a real counselor does.

And now he has lost a son. That’s a hard road. I hope all those people he cared for, I hope all those people care back for him.

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

Well. That was interesting, the last blog. I didn’t know what kind of response there would be. There are currently 74 comments, mostly with title suggestions. That’s the most comments, ever, on any one post on this blog. The second most comments happened when I asked for title suggestions for the first book, back in October, 2010. That post was child’s play, netting a measly 65 comments. I hope this bodes well for the future. Y’all rock, my readers, I gotta say. Thanks to every one who came up with a suggestion or ten. I loved it.

I wasn’t sure, how engaged people are. Fairly engaged, it turns out. I deleted a few redundant suggestions. And one comment from a flamer made me laugh out loud. Broken Roads; Unbroken BS. Except he didn’t say BS, he said the real word. Almost all memoir writing, well, almost all writing, can and will be classified as bullshit by some readers. You can’t please everybody, so you got to please yourself, as the song goes. That’s what I figure.

So, anyway. I chatted with Virginia, my editor, the other week. We needed to come up with the next step, the game plan. She was impressed with all the comments and all the suggestions. Right now, my own suggestion is leading by a nose. Broken Roads: Journeys with my Amish Father. Nothing is carved in stone, yet, but that’s how it seems to be shaking out. We’ll see.

We settled on a date, too, Virginia and me. The deadline for the manuscript has been moved back a couple of times. We talked about it and agreed that the first draft would be due on May 1st. That’s less than two months away. When I look at it from here, it seems like a big field to cross, like the Amish preachers say. I’m not freaking out, though. I’m plugging away, editing, editing, writing, writing, and rewriting, rewriting. There are a lot of gaps to fill in. The book will be scheduled for release in the spring of 2020. It seems weird, writing that number. 2020.

I’m excited. Not a lot of people get the chance to be where I am. Still. In the next six weeks, I’m going to a few places in my mind that will be hard to navigate. Right back to the raw footage. That’s the only way to get it told right, is to walk back through some hard places and look real close at what happened. Don’t get too tangled up in the why of it. Just tell the story.

Life is a gift. All of it. Every moment of every hour of every day. Even the hard parts. Maybe especially the hard parts. The Lord is the Lord. And that’s about all I know to say.

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