Ira Wagler's Blog, page 3

The Name of the Broken Road…

What I had to face, the very bitter lesson that everyone who

wants to write has got to learn, was that a thing may in itself

be the finest piece of writing one has ever done, and yet have

absolutely no place in the manuscript one hopes to publish.

—Thomas Wolfe

__________________

There have been a few things on my mind the last while. Things I’ve thought about often before, but just never got around to telling. Just as well, I think. In recent months, the tides of life came rolling in, smashing and waving and pitching all around. And I got sidetracked, what with Dad slipping downhill, then receding, receding until he was gone. It’s all so close in my head, what happened. The New Year comes. And with it, new life and new roads. And now, I’m looking around and thinking. Maybe some sort of force has been unleashed. I’ve been busy lately, doing what I had not done in quite a while. Writing. I’ve been busy writing. Every night.

That in itself is not particularly unusual, I don’t guess. There have been such times before. Just not lately. It’s been a few years since I settled in every night and either poked around and edited or just wrote a page or two of all new stuff. I had been wondering to myself. Is the time ever going to get here? Will the muse ever return? Will the voice ever speak, ever really flow again? And now, with the writing that comes every night, I am slowly, slowly carving out an answer to those questions. I’m walking. We’ll see how it turns out. And I think, too. Sometimes when the right time knocks on the door, it just looks a little different than you had figured it would. It’s all new territory. Take it for what it is instead of trying to make it what you want it to be. I try to do that as much as I can.

In the last blog, I talked a little bit about the Amish preachers of long ago. Generically speaking, of course. Any preacher or any bishop could do it. Stand to preach a sermon at the start of a real long service. And he’d hem and haw and clear his throat. “We have a big field to cross.” We? What do you mean, we? (Makes me think of that scene where the robber thug asks Dirty Harry. “We? What do you mean, we, sucka?” Clint Eastwood says, as he yanks out his massive cannon of a revolver. “Smith – and Wesson – and me.” Blam, blam.) What do you mean, we, preacher man? The field is only as big as you make it. That’s what we thought and would have said, had we dared. We didn’t dare, of course. Little Dirty Harrys we were not. We shivered and hunkered down, resigned to our fates. And then settled in for a long day. There was nothing anyone was going to do about it.

Ironically, or maybe not, that last blog was the longest in all my history of posting on this site. Ever. By far. Well, I tried to warn unsuspecting souls, with that preacher analogy. I thank every single reader who kept slogging through until the end. Now, I’ll make like no Amish preacher ever did, at least none that I remember. I stand and fold my hands across my chest. Look down on the ground. Clear my throat. Others could do this so much better. But I feel like I must say that today, we have a very small patch of ground to cross. It shouldn’t take one bit long. This may be the shortest blog, ever. We’ll be out of here early.

Moving on, then, over that small patch of ground. I haven’t mentioned the book much lately, except briefly in passing, here and there. I wrote about it when the contract came, what a tense time that was, not knowing what was going on for sure. This was roughly when I quit drinking, back in late 2017. More than a year ago. It was a big deal, to land a contract for a book with a big five publisher like Hachette. It seemed like a big deal to quit drinking, too.

I had a couple of real good chats with Virginia, the editor lady who’s making it all happen this time around. We talked about my story, and what I had in mind to write. And we got along real well. I went off and wrote several great long threads of different stories. And that’s about as far along as I got. I just stopped and looked at things for as long as I felt like looking. Always keeping an eye on, always writing out a few more pages, a few more scenes. But they always kind of flowed free on their own, the stories. I had to find a way to weave them together. To me, that right there is what makes it hard to write a book. Weaving it all together.

And as last year unfolded with Dad, a simple truth sank in. There would never be closure to any book before I had gone and buried my father. With my family, I mean, of course. I don’t know if Virginia instinctively realized this and backed off and left me alone, or what. There wasn’t a lot of communication between us for months at a time. The first deadline came and went with nary a peep from anyone. And I may have felt a premonition last summer when I drove up to visit Dad that this was probably it. Whatever words you have to speak to him, get them said. This is your last chance.

It would be the last time I saw him when he was lucid and coherent. He could still communicate. He ate at the table with some of his children who had been shunned for decades. All that fire died, in the end. He was delighted when any of his children from anywhere came around to see him. “Ira is coming to see me,” he’d say for days when they told him I was coming. I was always grateful that we reached such a place, even so dreadfully late along the way. But still. I’ve thought it many times, too. It could always have been like that. Except it couldn’t, I guess, because it wasn’t. Now I’m going in circles. Back to my visit last summer. We had a few nice chats, me and Dad. He welcomed me when I got there. We shook hands when I left. Said good-bye. Those would be our last words to each other on this earth.

I had a lot of time to think on the way up and the way back, on that trip. Had time to mull over things, to get a framework in my mind. And I went back to writing when I got home. Described those moments I was in, on that trip to see my father. I knew as the writing came. This was the winding down part of the stories of our lives with each other, mine and Dad’s. I wrote a lot of it as it happened. I remember a lot more.

And then he passed on when he did, just a few weeks ago, seems like. And I thought about it, as the last blog was coming out. This blog may be the framework of my book. Start out on the journey up to see my dying father. Go off on all the bunny trails you want, get the story of your own journey woven in there. Get back on the road now and then. And back and forth and back and forth like that. I don’t know if that’s how the book will end up structurally or not. They might want to go conventional. Th the narrative I’m using, to get it written. So maybe I’d rather go that way. It would be a lot harder, though, to make it work if you bounce around so much. I don’t know. I guess we’ll figure it out when we get there.

So right now, I am writing. A lot of loose and far flung threads. I remember what the Tyndale people told me, way back when we were laying the groundwork for my first book. “What you leave out is just as important as what you write.” To me, it boils down to keep the story alive and don’t go down too many bunny trails that aren’t important. I’m looking at it all, trying to get a good grasp of the right course to take. What to leave in. What to leave out. Isn’t there a Bob Seger song with lyrics that go something like that? Seems to me there is.

It’s been interesting. I’ve stayed relaxed, mostly. I have been planting seeds on my blog for years. Seeds for the next book, when the stories came poking out. Now, I will go back and pull up some of those narratives. Adapt, edit, and rewrite. Fill in the gaps. And weave it all together. I got it in my head. If my fingers can write what I see in my mind, I’ll be fine. That’s where I am. Standing here, looking over there to where I want to be.

Virginia asked me very kindly, not long ago. She was fairly insistent. She needs a title for the book. We’ve had a working title, now we need the real one. So she can start working on the marketing. We’ve thrown a few suggestions back and forth. I’ll lay it out. Looking back, it simply cannot be denied. So much of my life has been walking on broken roads. I want those words in the title. Broken Roads: Journeys with my Amish Father, or some such thing. There’s one I really like that won’t quite cut it, I don’t think. Amish Black: Broken Roads. That would be the title. Weave that old Jeep right in there. Virginia is very open to the Broken Roads part. I need the next phrase, with the word Amish in it somewhere. Here’s what it might look like.

Amish Black: Broken Roads (This is the one I like.)

This is probably what it will have to be:

Broken Roads: ____________ OR ____________: Broken Roads

Help me out. Post me your suggestions, right down there in the comments. Someone, somewhere, can surely come up with the right combination of words. If you are the first to come up with a title we use, I will pay with signed books, and proper public credit. Help me out.

I think I mentioned it before, at least fleetingly. Last summer, some nice people in a book club invited me to talk at Winterthur, the DuPont estate in Wilmington, Delaware. It was one afternoon during the week. They had asked months in advance, so it was easy to plan ahead and make it work. Around noon that day, I drove over to the home of my friend, Dale Simpkins. Dale was the one who got me into the book club. I parked at his house and rode over to the Winterthur estate with him. I had never been on the place before, never had heard of it, to be honest. It’s vast and breathtaking all around. Both the grounds and the buildings. The book club people had commandeered a nice upstairs room with real old furniture, where we sat around on high-backed chairs in a large circle. Probably about thirty people, or so.

We had a fine old time. It’s fun to go to talk about the book when the people have read it and are actually interested. This group had and was. I think we went a little long. I always offer to sign any copies of the book that anyone has with them. That takes a while, to chat with each person who wants to. Then, as we were wrapping up, a nice older gentleman came up to me. “Will you come and preach at my church?” he asked. I laughed. And almost, I said no. But I stopped myself. I’m not a preacher, I told the nice man. But I will come and speak at your church, if you ask me. A few weeks later, here came the email with the official invitation. Come and speak about your book. We planned it for January 13th, a few weeks ago. There was a snow storm that weekend, so my talk got canceled. It was rescheduled for the last Sunday of last month. And that morning came, too, right along.

I’ve done dozens and dozens of book talks over the years. So, if you ask me to come and speak, I’ll of course smile and say yes. And I’ll start thinking about what to say about the morning the talk is scheduled. I have a very basic, rough outline. It was written in the broadest of strokes, so there are always a hundred bunny trails to meander down, if I want to. That morning, I got up and dressed up in coat and tie. White shirt. Black pants. It was cold enough. I huddled in my trench coat until Amish Black got warmed up on the road. It was about an hour over there from my home. I left plenty early. Drove along into the clear morning winter sun. I located the Lower Brandywine Presbyterian Church with no trouble. The church (not the building) has been in existence since 1730. They have a list of all the ministers who served the church since then. Pretty old stuff, for this country. Not many churches have been in existence on roughly the same spot since 1730.

That’s where I was going to speak, at such a place as that. And on a Sunday morning, yet. There would be no other speaker. I had the sermon time. That all played around in my head a little bit, as the days passed and the time approached. These are learned people you’re going to talk to.

I didn’t fret all that much, as church started. The place seemed decently packed. There were a few hymns and children’s class and then a scripture reading. Somewhere along about here, I got introduced. I walked up to the lectern. Spoke into the mic. I had been told. Speak for twenty minutes, then take a few questions. I stood there and talked about my journey as written in the book. And maybe a little beyond that. There was a bit of gospel sprinkled in, too. It wasn’t a sermon. Just a talk. And I didn’t speak for twenty minutes, I spoke way longer than that. Thirty-six minutes, someone muttered to me later when I asked. Umm. I thought to myself. I went and did what I have always so despised when preachers did it over the years. Preached too long. It’s like I always said in my grumbling. When a preacher does that, goes overlong, it’s because he thinks his time is worth more than everyone else’s combined. It’s rude and inconsiderate. I was pretty hard, in that line of thinking. And here I had gone and violated my own strident rule for others.

I was shocked and a little horrified when that sank in. But then I thought. You know what? Everyone gets one mistake. One free shot. You don’t really know quite what’s going on, the first time. But you better not ever do such a thing again. That’s how I worked it out in my head. I have purposed in my heart to never go overlong again in any public speech anywhere.

Anyway, I enjoyed talking to those people in that church that morning. There was cake after the service, and I sat at a table and sipped black coffee. Some nice lady came over and pushed an enormous slice of cake on me. To take home, she insisted. People came and asked the questions they would have asked, had there been time up in the main service. I thanked the pastor, too, at some point. I told him. The pulpit is valuable real estate, I realize. I appreciate the opportunity to speak at this church. I’m honored to be in such a historical place.

I was honored. It was fun. I’d do it all over again.

I’ve mentioned it before, a few times. Not often. But a few times. My oldest brother, Joseph (the Amish preacher), has been battling multiple myeloma for a long time. It’s a cancerous blood disease. Most people who get it last around five years or less. Joseph has hung on strong for ten.

He has reached the end of the road with standard treatments. The drugs don’t work anymore. Joseph was excited last year to get accepted into an experimental treatment program in Columbus, Ohio. It’s untested. It may work. Or not. But it’s the only hope he has to stay alive. He checked in last month, soon after Dad’s funeral. It was a minor miracle that he could make the trek up to Aylmer to bury our father.

He started the experimental treatment program several weeks ago. He is very ill. His sons and daughters took turns to go and stay with their Dad and Mom, there at the hospital in Columbus. That takes a lot of energy and a lot of effort. You get weary. It’s exhausting.

Family is family, and blood is blood. You go when you’re needed, you help out when you can. This blog is posted from the road. Because this morning, I took off on a little trip to go see Joseph and spend a few days with him.

Voices Calling – The End of Days

The darkness moved there in the house like something silent, palpable —

a spirit breathing… — speaking to him its silent and intolerable prophecy

of flight, of darkness and the storm, moving about him constantly, prowling

about the edges of his life, ever beside him, with him, in him, whispering…

—Thomas Wolfe

___________________

Well, it’s that time of year again. When the end comes rolling around. And you look back on how it was, and how it went. Another day older and deeper in debt, as the old song goes. Maybe not quite like that. But still. The grind of life goes on. And now twilight falls on one more year. The end of days for that year. At such a time, it’s good to stop and reflect on things a bit. I’ve often thought. The tides of everyday life would be mildly astonishing, if not so common. Those tides of life roll on.

I’m alive. Starting at the most basic point, there. If you aren’t alive, nothing else can follow. And at my age, simply staying alive for one more year is worth noting. And cheering a bit. It was only a few years back when I landed in the hospital with a malfunctioning heart. The low spot, health-wise, in pretty much all my life. It was nip and tuck for a while. I could easily have slipped away. I didn’t. I stayed. After that little incident, it means something to me, to simply be alive. All of it means a lot more. The colors, the smells, the tastes, you can never absorb any of them deeply enough. Life is a fragile and beautiful thing.

It’s Christmas. This year, I’m feeling the spirit of the season a little more than usual. It’s OK, I guess. I’m not a grinch. I don’t mind the holiday. But I don’t get too tore up about it. The cold came early this year. And Christmas was always cold. Maybe that’s why it’s even in my head at all.

I remember my brother Nathan telling me, years ago. One of the most vivid memories he had of growing up, in both Aylmer and Bloomfield. “I was always cold,” he said. “In the wintertime, it was always so, so cold.” I thought about it, when he told me. Yeah, it’s true. It was always cold. But you just didn’t think about it, because that’s how it was. You didn’t know anything else. In the winter, you soaked up short bursts of warmth in places like Mom’s kitchen, where the wood-fired cookstove was always hot, the coffeepot always simmering. You were warm right that moment. But then you stepped outside, out to do the chores or go cut wood or do whatever it was that needed to be done. And it got cold at night in the house, too, after the fire died down. Bitterly cold. That’s when you snuggled into your bed under big thick, fluffy feather blankets. Some of that was just plain old hard living, too. Cold and hard.

I’m still dry. Astoundingly enough, I am. That was probably the biggest accomplishment in my world in 2018. The first full calendar year of living free from the alcohol. And it wasn’t that hard, well, not after I got used to it. I never white-knuckled much, except during the first few months, last year. I always tell people how it went. I was driving Big Blue back then. And the hardest thing that happened was when I was going home from work. My truck wanted to turn left, to Vinola’s for a drink. I had to force it to turn right, to go home. That took some white-knuckling, more than a few times, to make the right turn. Seems like that’s about the only time Big Blue was a slow learner in all the ten years I drove that truck. But eventually it sank in, got through. No more socializing at the bar. No more whiskey. These days, I don’t even think about it anymore, that left turn, going home. Of course, I’m driving Amish Black now, and the Jeep never knew anything else. There were no bad habits to break it from.

And speaking of Amish Black, this was the year of the Jeep. Late last year, I spun Big Blue on the ice like a top. There was that little crunching incident with a railroad sign, followed by a nice dent and a tail light that popped out like a cork pops from a champagne bottle. Mere months later, I had ditched Big Blue for another vehicle. Callous and disloyal, that was, to my faithful truck that had never known another owner. I shrug. All roads are broken. It was time. Now I drive the black Jeep. I’m loving it. I get waves from the pretty Amish girls walking along the backcountry roads. It was startling at first, until I realized. The pretty Amish girls are not waving at this gray-haired, bearded man. They’re waving at the black hard top Jeep. But this gray-haired, bearded man will take those waves with great delight and a smile every time. I’m loving the Jeep overall, except if I ever get another one, it will have four doors. A classic Jeep is very small. You can’t haul much in it, and it’s a bit of an issue for my Amish friends to clamor into the back seat. You gotta flip the passenger’s seat forward, then slide it way up. All to make room to get in. Another set of doors back there would be just fine with me, I decided, not long after me and Amish Black were getting acquainted. No hurry, of course. I’m good for now. Just whenever it happens, if it ever does.

I’m still doing OMAD. One Meal a Day. Of all the lifestyle changes I’ve made, this one may be the most significant. More so than giving up the whiskey, even, I think. Not saying it was harder to do. Not at all. I wouldn’t want to do what it took to give up drinking very often. It was hard. And it still hits hard, once in a while, how much I’d love a drink. Still, again. This consistent, day after day OMAD feels great and gives me a lot of energy that had been missing for many years. I’m convinced of it. It’s been almost strange, how easy it is to have one meal a day. It’s way easier than quitting drinking. The long-term benefits are better. Because you can drink, when you’re doing OMAD. For that one meal, in your window, there’s no rule against it. I see it all the time in the online fasting groups, posts with pictures of food and wine and food and whiskey. I don’t do the wine or whiskey, because my best choice is to abstain. It’s not a moral issue for me, and never was. It’s simply a choice.

This was the year of Vincennes University. One of the more beautiful memories of the year, a journey I traveled in my head over and over again since last spring. The VU people were a class act. They treated me like a mini rock star. Not that I’d know what a rock star feels like. I can imagine it might be something like my time at Vincennes. The people I met, the old friends, and the friends I made, all of it was just first class all the way. I’d do a trip like that again, any time.

And then, of course, there was that little excursion up to Aylmer to see Dad, back in June. When I asked the Lord to let me see Dad together with his great-great grandson, Jaylon Eicher. Just for a moment, so I could record it. It needed to be done, I argued. Something told me this was my last and only shot, that there would be no other chance. I knew there was some urgency going on. It was hard to walk calm into a situation like that. There was so much that might go wrong. I remember thinking. God, it’s out of my hands. You do what You want. For whatever reason, events unfolded as I had hoped they would. As I’d prayed for. And I got that picture for future generations to treasure. That whole trip up there seemed half surreal even as it was unfolding. When I left, we shook hands in farewell, me and Dad. Somehow, it seemed that this might be the last time I saw him when he was alert. He was old. I mean, you could tell. He meandered in his speech. But he was there. I didn’t know, of course, that this would be the last time. It had never been before. But I thought about it, that it might well be. It was.

It all came at us abruptly late last summer. I don’t remember exact dates. Not long after my trip up there. They were making the usual plans for Dad, to get him down to Pine Craft later in the fall. But first, they were taking him to Kansas for a while. To the little apartment my sister Rhoda and her husband Marvin fixed up for him. Well, it’s a nice guest quarters for any visitors who show up. But they built it a few summers ago, so Dad could come out and stay. Now, they were ready to host him again. The trip from Aylmer to Kansas was all planned, the driver scheduled. And the day before, the very day before they wanted to leave, Dad spiraled down and got real sick. I don’t think there were any instinctive choices going on with Dad, that he didn’t want to leave. I think it just happened, that it was so close. A few more days, and he would have been bogged down on the road, or stuck in Kansas.

He went downhill pretty fast. Just sank without a sound, right before their eyes. He didn’t know people anymore, much of the time. He didn’t know where he was. He couldn’t hold a coherent conversation. He simply wasn’t well in any sense, mentally. None of it is all that surprising, I guess. That’s what you’d figure would happen at some point when you get real old.

They took him in to see the doctor, of course. Still. What’s any doctor going to do with an old man like that? Poke and prod around a little. Figure out what’s going on. Prescribe some pills. And somewhere in all those checkups, Dad was diagnosed with full blown prostate cancer. There is no treatment, other than making him as comfortable as possible. But at his age, I don’t know if the cancer will affect him much. I don’t think it will. I guess we’ll see.

Early last week was my father’s birthday. The record now shows that David L. Wagler is ninety-seven years old. And that record now stands. Dad is the oldest of any people in his family. He held on longer than anyone else, so far. The last few months have been hard. He sank fast, mentally. He doesn’t know much of what’s going on, anymore. It’s an uneasy new reality for the family in some ways, just to know that he reached that door. He’s a tough man, of strong blood. You don’t get to ninety-seven unless you’re tough.

A strange thing happened one day last summer. After I’d been up there and left. Soon after that. I don’t know all the little details that would be told here had I witnessed this first hand. I didn’t, I couldn’t have. It was a warm day last summer, up in the Aylmer Amish community, there where Dad is. Around mid-morning, a buggy pulled up the long drive leading to the farm where my father lives in his little Daudy house. My cousin, Simon Wagler, son of Dad’s older brother, Abner, slapped the reins and clucked to the horse. Move along, now.

Simon was always a character in my childhood world. About my sister Magdalena’s age, he grew up with my older siblings. He was ordained a preacher there in Aylmer, a year or so after the great orator, Elmo Stoll, got hit by the lot. They were both ordained in our house, right there on the north end of our dining room where the benches were set up. I witnessed them both in those moments. I remember how Simon sobbed hard and deep, but briefly, then went silent as the bishop pronounced him a minister for life. He never was well-known, like Elmo was. An extraordinarily successful businessman, he was content to labor as a preacher in relative obscurity. I have good memories of hearing his sermons. He always stopped on time, a good habit that will make all Amish children everywhere overlook a host of other faults and failures in any preacher who practices it. Thus, I have kindly thoughts of my cousin from the time I heard him in my childhood.

In recent years, Simon has been a faithful companion to my father, Uncle Dave. He comes around and takes Dad to wherever it is he wants to go. On errands and such. Dad always has business at the schoolhouse phone, too. No one knows for sure what that business is, but that’s OK. This particular morning, they had a few stops over on the north side. Simon helped Dad into the buggy and got him settled on the seat. Then he picked up the reins and clucked to the horse again. They were off. My father and his nephew, heading out in the buggy on a sunny summer day.

I’m not sure where all they went that morning. It’s not that important, I guess. They trundled along, they stopped here, and they stopped there. At some point, Simon swung over past the school house on the corner beside the old Herrfort farm. That schoolhouse has been around for a generation, now. It wasn’t there when I lived in Aylmer as a child. It got built a few years after my family moved out. Simon tied up the horse, and they walked slowly inside. It went like it did, I suppose. Dad doesn’t hear well these days. It’s tough, for him to hold a conversation over the phone. After a while, he was done. They headed west a mile, then turned south onto one of the rare gravel roads that’s still around up there. Almost all their roads are paved. This gravel road led past the graveyard.

Rosemary told me why that roads stays graveled. Just randomly, in a conversation, a few years back, she told me. The Township wanted to pave it. But then they discovered. The graves were too close to the road, so they couldn’t make the setback requirements. The inefficiency of government. Just pave the road anyway. But no. The setbacks. They decided to just let that one stretch stay graveled, from crossing corner to crossing corner. And I remember Rosemary telling me. “It’s just alright that the road stays graveled, if that’s what they decided. We don’t need to think we’re too good for graveled roads.” I remember agreeing with her. Yes, it’s certainly OK to have a graveled road around.

The buggy rolled along on silent wheels. Rubber tires. The clopping of the horse is all you hear in an Aylmer buggy, unless it’s a rattletrap. They drove along, Simon and Dad. They didn’t talk a lot. I guess there isn’t much to say, sometimes. On over the old railroad tracks, all overgrown now, where the fast trains screamed as they whistled through, many decades ago. Then past the woods on the east side. They approached the graveyard, the only plot of ground where the Aylmer Amish have ever buried their dead.

I remember hearing how that graveyard got to be where it is. My brother Jesse always told the story. He claims to have seen it firsthand, or at least he was told right after it happened. The community fathers staked out the west schoolhouse, at that time the only schoolhouse, from a corner of the Homer Graber farm, close to the center of the settlement, there on the main drag. This was back in the mid-1950s, probably. Homer would have been willing to part with another half-acre or so, attached to the school grounds. That would have been the graveyard. But then someone asked, all concerned. Won’t that traumatize the schoolchildren, to be out there playing right next to where people are buried? I attended that school, and I don’t think it would have been that big a deal. But I can see the point. Whoever made the objection convinced the others. And so the men of Aylmer went to the next crossroad west, then north a quarter mile. There, they bought an acre of land on the west side of the road from a very accommodating English farmer. And there is where the Aylmer Amish are returned to the earth after they leave this vale of tears. That’s how it happened, why they rest in that particular spot.

Dad and Simon reached the tree line on the north side. The graveyard is rimmed by trees on three sides. Only the east is open, to the road. Simon looked at Dad. My father was stirring in his seat. Looking off to the right. Straining, as if to hear. The graveyard came at them, then they were passing. Simon looked at the silent stones standing guard over the spots where someone lay sleeping below. The buggy rolled quietly on rubber-tired wheels. Simon thought of his own parents, buried there side by side. Abner and Katie. It’s been years. Katie went first. Then Abner, a few years later.

Dad spoke. “There,” he said, motioning toward the graves. “There they are resting.” His voice caught, and he stopped. Tears rolled unchecked down his seamed and wrinkled face. He didn’t sob. But the tears kept coming. “They are calling me. I can hear them,” he said. “I can hear them calling me.”

The moment passed, then. The buggy rolled on. A few minutes later, they arrived at Dad’s little house. His face was still wet with tears. Simon helped him down and walked inside with him. A lot of times, an event like that doesn’t hit you right when it’s happening. It’s later, when you think about it. Simon thought about it, as he drove home alone. Pondered it in his heart, what Uncle Dave had said about hearing the voices calling. It was worth pondering, such a thing as that. And Simon told the story to our family, then.

It’s just that, I suppose. A story. A thing that happened. But I have thought about it a lot since I heard it told. What did Dad mean? What voices did he hear? Was it just an Amish thing? It sure seems like an Amish story. That’s about the only culture where you’ll hear such a thing as that told as truth. Well, maybe in some of the Plain Mennonites, too. It’s fascinating and intriguing to me, at the same time.

The Amish always have stories, as time slips on and death comes calling. Stories. There were stories when Mom passed. Stories of angels singing and dreams and visions and ghostly voices calling. Stories of what others saw and others heard. Not the dying one. But this time, this scene, this came from Dad himself. The man who is making the journey. That’s a little different.

Moving on, then. There have been recent developments. Dad had a major stroke last Friday afternoon, four days after his 97th birthday. I didn’t hear about it until Sunday morning, more than a day later. That’s just how things work, sometimes. And I was told. He is bedridden, he can’t talk plain, and he mostly can’t eat. That was right at first, that he couldn’t eat. He has stabilized some. My brother Jesse and my sisters Rachel and Rhoda traveled up to Aylmer to be there for a few days and to help in any way they can. He is as comfortable as they can make him, there at home in his little Daudy house, resting where Mom passed away four years ago.

I absorbed the news. Told my friends. I called and left a message for Esther, my Amish friend, and her family. She and her husband David met Dad decades ago, when they lived in Indiana. I hang out with them often on Saturday mornings, drinking strong black coffee. When I went up to see Dad last summer, she sent along a few of his books for him to sign. We both figured this would be the last chance for such a thing. It was. Esther called back later that day, after I left the message. We chatted.

She asked me. “Has anyone told your father he can leave? It’s important, when someone’s dying like that, to tell them it’s OK to go. Did anyone?” I shook my head. Not that I’m aware of, no one did. I don’t know. Why would you tell a tough old man it’s alright to leave? She was adamant. “Someone needs to tell him. Often, old people like that hold on for way longer than they should, because no one has taken the time to tell them. You need to make sure someone does.” I don’t know, I grumbled again. You know how tough and cantankerous Dad can be. But I conceded, then. OK. If I get up there before he passes, I’ll tell him myself. It’s alright to let go.

In the last blog, I wrapped up with a little story about Levi, my Amish contractor friend. I guess I’ll close with Levi again. He stopped one afternoon this week and sat down at my desk with me to work on a material list. He’s remodeling a big old barn that the owner wants to convert to a wedding venue. We chatted as we figured out his quote. I thanked him for the Roasht he snuck out from the last wedding he attended last month. He kept it in the freezer at home until he got it over to me one day last week. I’ll probably feast on that this weekend, I told him.

We chatted right along. I poured us some hot coffee. And I told Levi about Dad’s stroke. He’s not in good shape. He’s stabilized some, but he’s barely eating, if at all. We’re praying that he can leave. There’s nothing left for him here. Levi listened, looking sympathetic. His Mom passed a month or two ago, after a long illness. I repeated. I hope Dad can leave in peace very soon. There’s nothing left for him here. But still, life is life. You care for the living as long as they remain.

Levi nodded. “I understand completely,” he said. “It was the same way with Mom. We were praying she could just leave. When she went downhill, she went fast. We buried her and we grieved her. But in reality, it was also a big relief. And I could not believe how the stress just rolled away. You don’t realize the stress of caring for someone like that until you don’t have to anymore.”

I hear that, I said. I know there’s a lot of stress in caring for Dad at home every day. That’s one of the reasons I’m thinking about heading up there soon, to where he is. Me and my Jeep might go on a little trip north and west right after Christmas. To go see my father, or go bury him. Maybe both. I’ll see how things shake out, I guess.

And thus, the year draws to a close at a level of high uncertainty. It looks like there will be one more journey down one more broken road. A murky fog lurks all around. It’s OK, though. You just keep walking through the patches of light that you can see, until you get to where you’re going. And so I will. I am grateful for life, and all that life is. Even for those parts where there is suffering on every side, for no discernible reason. Either the Lord rules, or He doesn’t.

I know He does.

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Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to all my readers.

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Tales of my People…

. . . a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; a stone, a leaf, a door.

And of all the forgotten faces.

Naked and alone we came into exile. In her dark womb we did not know

our mother’s face; from the prison of her flesh have we come into the

unspeakable and incommunicable prison of this earth.

Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his

father’s heart? Which of us has not remained forever prison-pent?

Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?

—Thomas Wolfe

_________________

It was seven years ago, or so. Right about the time my book was coming out, back in 2011. Back when that impossible dream was unfolding around me. I remember the excitement and anticipation, as Tyndale rolled out the big red carpet for me, right here in my home town. They posted a quarter page ad in the local morning paper, back when there were two. Morning and afternoon. Two days in a row, that ad ran. I cut them out and saved them in a box somewhere. I shuddered to think of how much it cost to run that ad two days. I guess it didn’t matter, really. What mattered was the message. Ira’s new book is here. Growing Up Amish. And there will be a book signing at Berean Book Store (It’s changed names at least twice since then.), there across from Park City Mall. The public was invited to come. Meet the author, get your book signed. It was a big deal, in my head, as first things usually are. My first real book signing at a real book store.

I remember many things about that Saturday morning. The sun shone bright from a blue summer sky. A few fluffy clouds drifted aimlessly overhead. My brother Steve met me in the parking lot. He was about as excited as I was. He had a camera, with instructions to take lots of pictures. I remember the little colored signs taped on the sliding glass doors as we walked in. Signs with my book and my picture. The manager greeted us, a nice, smiling man. To him, I was just one more eager, hungry author. Not that he let on, much. He shook my hand and welcomed me. Made me feel important. Then he led me to the table off to the side a bit, a table stacked with my books. I pulled up a chair and set out some pens. My. Hope my hand don’t get cramped from scrawling my name in all those books.

Steve hovered with his camera. Soon, a line had formed. A small line. But a real line of real people. Here. To see me. Well, to see my book, but I was the one who wrote it, so that made me part of the equation. I sat behind the table and smiled at the first two ladies as they walked up. They had purchased fresh new copies and handed them to me. I thanked them, and scrawled my signature inside on the front. That, and the little phrase. “All the best.” We chatted a bit. They were sisters. The tallest one did the talking, mostly. I never forgot her face, because I never forgot what she told me after I signed my first two books in public.

She spoke their names, both of them. Hannah and Rebecca. I smiled. She wanted to tell me. She and her sister came from the Amish, right here in Lancaster County. They were both older, now. Widowed, maybe. I don’t know. They had left way back before I was born. Back in the 1950s. They were completely English, near as I could tell. And I can tell, usually. They had been born and raised Amish in Lancaster County. In the Ronks area. And they had lived most of their adult lives in the outside world, right here in Lancaster County. They never got far from the home where they were born. Well, not physically. In most other ways, they were strangers and exiles, cut off from their people, aliens among their own. It takes a lot of nerve and it takes a lot of strength to live in such a place as that.

We couldn’t talk real long that morning. There were people in line, waiting. But I gave them a few minutes. Asked questions. Heard a few brief details of their lives, and how they broke away, way back. It was a remarkable thing to me, meeting those two ladies. They came from the world I came from, only they had left a long time ago. And another thing was burned into my brain, too, a thing of wonder and some astonishment. They were women. They grew up as Amish girls. It’s a hard road, to break free from the Amish as a girl. That’s not a politically correct thing to say. You ain’t supposed to talk about women that way. As if something is harder for them than it is for men. But it’s true. It’s a lot harder for a girl to break away from the Amish world than it is for a guy. It’s a patriarchal structure, the way the Amish live. The men are in control, or at least they think they are. The women have way more influence behind the scenes than anyone ever acknowledges. This much is true, as well. But still. It’s so, so much harder for a girl to break free. The path is so much more intimidating, the road so much more rocky and steep.

The morning flashed by, then. It was a very respectable book signing, I thought. The store sold out of my books. The nice manager looked a little startled. And I wasn’t done, after leaving that place. That afternoon, I had my second ever book signing across town at Costco. I’m not a member, never have been. But Tyndale made it happen. I walked in, all shy and timid. The Costco people had some real nice posters hanging around. I still have a few, they’re quite faded now. I set up at a table over by their book section. They had a huge stack of my books, hundreds of copies. The traffic came and went. Lots of nice people stopped and got their books signed. By late afternoon, it was over. I packed up and got out of there. I felt like a grizzled old hand, with two book signings under my belt.

Since that day, I have signed thousands and thousands of books for people who asked me to. At formal gatherings here and there, in all sorts of venues both local and far away. The wandering son went back to Old Bloomfield and signed a hundred books, back in the fall of 2011. Twice I went to Germany. And there were all those times over the years when people came walking through the door at work, clutching a copy of Growing Up Amish. It has always been an honor and I have always signed each one cheerfully. I’ve learned a few basic things. It doesn’t matter what your name is, I’ll probably ask how you spell it. (One of the rare exceptions is if your name is Ira. There’s only one way to spell that.) Is it Jane or Jayne? Steven or Stephen? I try to get it right. I usually scrawl “All the best” just above my signature. And I always, always mark the date. You show me a book I have signed, and I can make a decent guess as to where I was, just from the date.

The years have slipped by. And I never forgot those first two ladies who showed up at my first book signing. What were the details of their stories? How hard was that, all those years ago, to walk away from their Amish world? What did they face in life, what all did they endure? Did they stay connected to where they came from? I have wondered about it fleetingly now and then in the days that have passed.

And then a connection came, when I wasn’t looking for it. Out of nowhere, from a most unlikely place, I thought. From the office at work. It wasn’t some stranger walking through the door, though. Not this time. It came from Rosita, my coworker at Graber Supply. Her title is Operational Manager, but she actually runs the place, or much of it. The day to day bookkeeping and such. She looks after all that. And she told me, one day. One of the ladies from her small group at church was reading my book. Their group had hung out for the weekend somewhere, and somehow it came up. It was discovered that Rosita worked with me. I laughed at that thought. I hope you told them, I said. I hope you told them all that you boss me around every day. Rosita looked grieved, or tried to.

And then Rosita told me. Her lady friend had led quite an interesting life. She was widowed some years ago, then remarried. She had lived out west in LA for many years. Now she had returned to her roots. Most importantly, she had been born and raised Amish. And she had broken away as a young single girl. Wow, I said. I sure wouldn’t mind meeting a lady like that. I mean, she would have a lot to tell me. I’m sure we could exchange some battle stories.

The lady’s name was Elizabeth, maiden name Lapp. Her first husband’s last name was Bell. After he passed away, she moved back to Lancaster County. And she connected with a kindly widower, a man named Ezra Stoltzfus. Now she goes by Elizabeth Bell Stoltzfus. And she would be very interested in meeting me, Rosita claimed. We talked about it, how it might come together. Rosita went back and forth, between Elizabeth and me. And we agreed. Rosita and her husband Ken would accompany me to where Elizabeth lived in a nearby retirement complex. And last Saturday, it worked out that we went.

The day dawned cold and windy. I always like to sleep in a bit on Saturdays. And I did that morning. Got up, and cleaned up and ran some errands and got my coffee at Sheetz. Haven’t seen anything of the greasy little weasel man lately. Maybe he’s still coming around and butting in line when I’m not there. Back then, to my house for a bit. Right at 9:45, Ken and Rosita arrived. I walked out with my messenger bag and got into Amish Black and followed them over back roads to where Elizabeth and her husband lived. I stuffed a few books into my bag when we got there. I knew she had a copy of my book, but I’ve learned to drag a few of those with me into any kind of meeting like this. Rosita had told me. Elizabeth had asked if it was OK if her sister would come, too, to meet me. Of course, I said. We parked and walked into the very nice apartment building that made up this wing of the retirement center. Rosita seemed to know where she was going. I followed her and Ken onto the elevator and up to the floor where Elizabeth lived. Through a long hallway, then to the right number. Rosita knocked. The door opened.

She stood there, small and smiling and spry and looking younger than I had figured she would. I took her hand. Spoke my name. She welcomed us and introduced her husband, Ezra, a quiet, beaming man. And back there beside the couch on a chair, that was her older sister, Hannah. I walked over and shook her hand, as well. And I recognized Hannah. I know you, I told her. You were at my first ever book signing. She smiled. “Yes,” she said. “My sister and I were the first in line that day. You signed our books and we talked for a few moments. We couldn’t talk long, because you had a line.”

Wow, I said. I never forgot you. I remember how you told me you had left the Amish many years ago. I always remembered that, and always wondered how your journey was. And they told me, then. Rebecca, the sister who had been with Hannah at the first book signing, had passed away very unexpectedly, not long ago. Within the last year, I think. And they found my signed book in Rebecca’s stuff. The book was marked up some with the notes she had written as she read. Elizabeth had claimed the book and read it. She had never heard of it before. But she read right through, absorbed it. And somehow, she had discovered that Rosita works with the guy who wrote it. She was a little astounded that Rosita could just make it happen, that the guy would come to her home to see her and chat. We all sat, then. And we talked about many things. Me and Elizabeth talking to each other, that’s a lot of what was going on.

Elizabeth spoke freely of her past, her journey. Well, with a little nudge now and then from me, she did. I told her a little about my roads, too, how broken they were and the things that I had seen along the way. She already knew much of my past from reading the book. She showed me the copy I had signed to her sister, Rebecca. I held it in my hands again, the second book I had ever signed at a public event. And it gradually dawned on me as we talked. The reason that she had invited me, and the reason that I had come to see her.

She had done it way before I had, she had fled from an Amish world that was a little different than the one I left. I mean, when you look at the details. It was another place and another time. She was born decades before I was, and in the blue-blooded enclaves of Lancaster County. That alone made her very different from me. But the Amish world we both knew was so similar that there was no denying the connection we made when we met each other. She knew what my journey had been, how brutal and hard the road. And I knew enough about hers to realize that in a real and powerful way, I had walked in this woman’s footsteps. Even though we had never seen each other before.

We talked and talked. Her journey was laced with hardships and a good deal of pain. From all the way back there in 1962, the year after I was born. She was a young girl then of twenty-two, I think she said. She had joined the church. Hannah and a at least one of her other older sisters had already left. Not to any kind of Plain place. They didn’t just step over to the Mennonites, like so many people do and like I did at first. They were completely and unabashedly and gloriously English. Cut hair and all. And one night there came a moment when Elizabeth made a stark and simple decision. She would leave. It was late already, and very dark. She had some sort of house slippers on her feet. In those slippers, with the clothes on her back, she set off for her brother’s place. He was Amish, but he would help her. And she walked eight miles through the darkness. Alone, along rutted gravel roads. An Amish girl of twenty-two. I don’t care what you say, there are not a whole lot of girls today, at least in western society, who could ever dredge up the raw nerve and strength it took to do such a difficult thing. There are some young women out there like that, of course. Some. What few there are very likely come from the Amish or some lesser Plain group. Which reflects a lot of things on a lot of levels, I guess, when you think about it.

She looked at me as she spoke her story. She walked those eight miles in the darkness sometime after midnight, all on back roads. And at one point, she saw the lights of an approaching car in the distance. It was 2 AM. She quickly decided that it was best to not be seen. So she ran out into the field beside the road and lay down on the ground. In a little ditch of some kind, or maybe the ground was sloping just right. You could see her reliving that moment as she told it. The car came roaring right up even with where she was hiding on the ground. And roared right on by. She lay quiet for a few moments, to make sure the car didn’t turn around and come back. Then she got up and continued on her walk into the darkness in her flimsy, light house slippers. When she reached her brother’s house, her sisters came around and moved her to a new place every day. They kept her moving until they could develop a long-term plan. It was pretty intense stuff, for a single Amish girl fresh off the farm.

Her life took many twists and turns down some crazy roads, of course. You don’t come from such a place without that happening. But she always returned to one simple refrain. The Lord guided her steps. Even when she had other plans, even when she really wasn’t quite sure where she was going, He guided her. Quietly, often with little nudges, not hard whacks over the head. There were some of those, too, I’m sure. There always are. But mostly, she can look back and see now, plainly. How God was always there, even during the times when He seemed far away.

She went to work in a mission place in Canada. Red Lake, maybe. I don’t remember exactly where. In her heart, she wanted to be a teacher, there in the mission to the natives. But she couldn’t without a high school diploma, and college, too, I think. She went to classes to get her high school diploma. In Philadelphia somewhere. And somewhere in that time, she met the man she would marry, the guy named Bell. They settled out in LA around his family. She went into nursing, instead of teaching. LPN, at first. She worked at that level for a good many years, then decided to go get more education. She got her RN degree right around her fiftieth birthday. I could tell she enjoyed all that living of life to the fullest, just from the way she told the story. She could not hide the joy of looking back and seeing it again, to tell me. I listened and spoke a few thoughts, too. The conversation flowed between us quite naturally, I thought.

She saw hard things, too, from her family. All the Lapp sisters did, the ones who left. Hannah and Rebecca and Elizabeth. When their mother died, they were forbidden to attend the family disposal sale. They were never invited around to any Amish weddings in the family, either, of course. That’s a given in much of the Amish world, including where I come from. You don’t get invited to the celebrations. Funerals are another matter. In most places, you can show up for funerals. But sometimes not. I saw the pain in Elizabeth’s eyes when she told me about that. They were told to stay away, when a young niece was tragically killed. They were allowed to attend the viewing only. But not the funeral. And a brother-in-law, too, passed on some years ago. They were called, Elizabeth and her sisters. And they were told. You are not welcome to come, not even to the viewing. I can’t imagine that it was their widowed sister, telling them that. It was the men. It’s always the men, grim, bearded, combative, and legalistic. Telling a family member to stay away from a funeral is a brutal and senseless thing. It’s unnatural, unless you got a dead heart of stone in you. That’s the only way you could ever do such a thing. From a dead and stony heart.

It happens more out there in the stricter places. The really hardcore settlements like, oh, a few places up in Wisconsin and elsewhere in the Midwest. And the Swartzentrubers are that way, too, wherever they are. But they are considered half whacked out by most mainstream Amish, anyway. So that’s not a surprise. Whatever level, it’s hard for me to fathom how any human person can be so cold and cruel.

Not long ago, a young mother related to me by blood was barred from attending her own mother’s funeral. I don’t know her, but I know of her. She had left the Amish with her husband and young children. When they showed up for the viewing, they were allowed in, but they had to wear Amish clothes. The next day, at the funeral, the young men met them at the door and rebuked them for showing up and refused to let them in. It’s beyond my descriptive powers to express the horror and repulsion I felt upon hearing what happened. What kind of messed up people could possibly believe they are pleasing God by being so brutally inhumane? They aren’t worshiping God, they are worshiping idols. It’s idolatrous, to cut ties to family blood for pretty much any reason. Such severe shunning is a deep and dark stain among the Amish people who practice it. I call on all such hardcore Amish to repent from their wicked ways. May the Lord rebuke you.

Her eyes shone with tears as Elizabeth spoke softly of the pain of that level of rejection. It was buried deep inside her and it was real. The kind of pain that always bubbles up, fresh and biting. I could only express my sympathy. I know a little bit how that is. Still. I told her. I respect the Amish. They are my people. However flawed they might be. I defend their right to believe as they see fit. Even their right to bar me from coming to a funeral. I know it hurts. It doesn’t have to make sense to me or any of us. They still have that right. I know about the rejection, the hard things, the pain. Life isn’t fair. It never was and never will be. We are who we are and we come from where we come from. We can’t change the hearts of others. Only the Lord can do that. We can pray that He will.

We drank the strong black coffee she brewed and served in heavy coffee cups. She also brought out a large, moist, delicious-looking apple pie and offered us each a slice. I declined and explained my One Meal a Day lifestyle. I told her. I quit drinking whiskey in August of last year. In November, I started OMAD. I love it, and wouldn’t change a thing about it, except I regret having to turn down a good slice of pie like that. She accepted my explanation graciously.

From Left: Ezra, Elizabeth, Ira, Hannah

It was right around noon, I think, when we left. I need a pic before we go, I said. So we posed for a few. And that was my meeting with Elizabeth Lapp Bell Stoltzfus. The lady who left the Amish by walking eight miles through the night. A long time ago, when I was an infant. She saw hard things. She walked on broken roads. I’m glad I got to hear her story. And one day, if I ever reach a similar place, I hope I can reflect the joy of a life well lived as she expressed that joy to me.

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It’s Amish wedding season. We’re right in the thick of things, around here. Every Tuesday and Thursday, the buggies clog the roads. It’s a real hazard, really, but it’s just part of the local scene. I have mentioned it before, about the Amish. They have a special food that’s served at every single one of their weddings in Lancaster County. It’s got a one-word name. Roasht My knees tremble and I start shivering when I get to be around where that food is served. All the vain boastings, all the hifalutin’ airs of the Lancaster blue bloods, all that is entirely justified by this one single mouth-watering dish. Such a claim as that I make.

I got a few contacts around here, people who are Amish and attend Amish weddings. Last month, as I do every fall, I pestered a few of them. I bring up the matter well in advance. Hey. What’s your wedding schedule this season? Any chance you could smuggle me some Roasht? Levi is one such Amish builder friend I’ve worked with closely for more than a decade. And this year, I nagged him like I nagged a few others. Please get me some wedding Roasht sometime this fall. He allowed that he had a couple of nieces getting married, so there’s a decent chance that he might snag some for me. I was almost overjoyed. This was a realistic shot at real authentic Roasht. One of those weddings was this past Tuesday, the other one is coming up. I told Levi I’d call him the day before both, to remind him of our little conversation. Get Roasht for Ira. He agreed to that plan. And that’s how we left it.

Life’s little bunny trails are far more fascinating than any you could make up. So off we go, on a small one. Levi’s elderly Mother has not been well for some time, and late last week we heard that she had passed. I knew she was poorly, but I didn’t figure Levi and his family were expecting something this imminent. Apparently she sank pretty fast when it happened. I didn’t want to bother Levi, so I called another builder, a mutual friend, to confirm that the news was true and that we had made the right connections. It was. And we had. I left a brief message of condolence on Levi’s phone.

Then the day before the wedding, this past Monday, I called as I had promised, to remind him about the Roasht. He answered, and we chatted. I asked about his Mom, and he thanked me for my message. He appreciated that I thought of him. He told me about the funeral. I listened. We only go one Mom, I said. He agreed. That’s right. We do.

And then I hemmed around a bit. Not disrespectful or anything. Just kind of casual like. Are you still going to that wedding tomorrow? How’s it looking for my Roasht? Levi chuckled and assured me that he had not forgotten. So, I got my fingers crossed. Maybe I’ll score some authentic Amish Wedding Roasht at least once this season. I figure to find out next time me and Levi chat.

We got ready to wind down. I asked where the wedding would be, and he told me. It’s on the home farm just down the lane from his home, where his Mom had just passed. “It’s pretty strange, when you think about it,” he said. “On Saturday, we had a funeral on the home place for my Mother. Tomorrow, there will be a wedding at that same place.”

And we talked about it. One generation moves on, the next one comes along and takes its place. Our time is coming, we agreed. We’re not young, anymore. Soon enough, it will happen. And I thought about it as we hung up. The Amish recognize and respect the cycle of the seasons as very few cultures do. They walk calmly through life, just as they step calmly through the door when death comes calling. They live close to the land, and in that land is where they sleep.

These are my people.

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Happy Thanksgiving to all my readers.

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Broken Roads: The Long Way Home…

Many years ago in days of childhood,

I used to play till evening shadows come.

Then winding down an old familiar pathway

I’d hear my mother call at set of sun.

Come home, come home, it’s suppertime.

The shadows lengthen fast.

Come home, come home, it’s suppertime.

We’re going home at last.

—Jim Reeves, lyrics: Suppertime…

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The plan came trickling out this past summer. Or maybe it was earlier, in the spring. I’m not sure who told me or exactly who thought it up. Who saw the vision of what could be. My sisters, probably. Some of them or all of them. I remember hearing about it and feeling a little astounded. It was simple enough, on the face of it. This fall, sometime in September or October, there would be a family reunion. Me and all my brothers and sisters would gather in Bloomfield, Iowa, to celebrate the 60th birthday of our brother, Titus. Well, it would be a pre-celebration, a few weeks before the actual date. We would surprise him at his home and hang out for a day or so. It was a bold plan and a beautiful one. All of us would come, all of us would travel as many miles as it took to get there. To enjoy the company of each other, all of us as one group. One family. A most beautiful thing, indeed.

But there was one persistent little question, at least in my head there was. Could it be done? Could the plan actually work? I come from a large family, by today’s standards. By the standards of most times in history, too, I guess. I have five brothers and five sisters. Dad and Mom had eleven children. Six sons and five daughters. Rosemary is the oldest. She was born in 1943. Nathan is the youngest. He was born in 1966. A span of twenty-three years, that Mom endured the the brutal and biting pangs of childbirth. She was from sturdy stock. She had to be, to make it through life with any semblance of sanity, let alone joy. She came from strong blood. I don’t know how thin you’d have to spread your love to make it stretch over eleven children. She did it, and we were never deprived, at least not that we felt or knew. She loved us all, always, through everything. The sad thing is, she never saw all of her family together since, oh, since I was about twelve or so.

We all did get together, a few years back. In the spring of 2014. We gathered with our father and huddled as a group and wept. Dad wept too. We stood as a family and looked at Mom as she slept peacefully in her coffin. She could only make it happen by leaving this earth. She had to die to make us come together. A tragic and haunting thing, when you stop and think about it. Mom came from strong blood. Her road was hard. Now she sleeps in her dark new house, where the winds are always silent (paraphrasing Thomas Wolfe, there). And now it was time for her children to come traveling in from all over, to assemble again. Not for a funeral, not to mourn this time. But to live. To laugh and to love and to celebrate all that life is. Home is people, not a place. This was as close to “home” as we were ever going to get.

It’s been a funny year. Travel-wise, I mean. I hardly went anywhere, until much of the year had passed. In June, I went up to Aylmer to see Dad. A quick weekend trip. And that was it until last month. The summer flew right by. In late August, I traditionally proclaim the Great Annual Ira Wagler Garage Party. Not this year. Early on, I kind of looked at it. And I didn’t really feel the stirring inside, the usual thrill of throwing a big old summer bash. I thought about it, kicked it around in my head. And it felt OK, not to. I sent word to the regulars. No Garage Party this summer. Just because I don’t feel like it. Actually, I wasn’t all that much into hosting a big party where the whiskey would flow, at least not this soon after going dry. I could have. It would have been no problem. But I just didn’t feel like it. There is no rule that there has to be a Great Annual Garage Party. It’s OK, not to have it. So I didn’t. That weekend came at me, then slipped right by with hardly a murmur. I barely noticed.

Late August. My birthday. One more year. I’m getting to be an old man, or what I used to think was old. This year, that old man had been dry for a year a few days after his birthday. And yes, the old man felt a small stab of pride about that. Fleeting pride, that something so impossible could be. But pride, nonetheless. And then, September came. Beach Week month. We usually go to the Outer Banks the second or third week after Labor Day, when everything is half price. This year, though, Janice couldn’t get the house we wanted until the last week of the month. Which turned out to be a good thing, because the hurricane came roaring in right during our normal week. Had we been there, we would have been chased out. Instead, we headed down on our planned day. And we were there at the beach for the last full week of the month. The seas were a bit roiling and unsettled, but that didn’t spoil anything. It was an extremely relaxed week. We got the fanciest beach house we ever had. Up on the main floor, where you could look out over the ocean, there was a beautiful bar shaped like a boat. The most inviting spot in the whole house, I thought. I sat at that bar a lot and got some serious writing done on the new, cheap laptop I had bought and hauled down for that reason.

I left Beach Week a day early. First time that ever happened. There was a wedding going on over close to Cleveland that Saturday. Good friends of mine, Jonathan Graber and Micaela Carter. I’ve known Jonathan all his life, since he was a baby. On Thursday afternoon, a friend drove me over to Enterprise in Kill Devil Hills. I had reserved a compact, a one-way rental. I’d drive to the wedding, then home the next day, then drop the car off at the Enterprise in New Holland.

We pulled up to the rental place. Inside, I was greeted by a stunningly beautiful lady who turned out to be the manager of the place. I told her who I was, and she punched at her keyboard. Then she flashed a brilliant smile at me. She had my reservation, but they were out of compacts. Was there anything in particular that I’d like to drive? Well. This was an interesting development. I pointed out front to a shiny black Jeep. A big old souped-up four door. I had gazed at it longingly when we pulled onto the lot. I smiled back at the stunningly beautiful lady. I’m a Jeep man, I said. I own one, back home. I’d love to drive that black one parked out front, there.

She looked a little dubious, but her dazzling smile never wavered. I think the Jeep was more of an upgrade than she had in mind. I didn’t fight it. Not at all. We stood and chatted for a bit. I asked about the hurricane that had come through the week before. She told me they had to evacuate. We chatted a bit more. Then, abruptly, she said. “That black Jeep is from Canada. Quebec. We need to get it up there closer to the border. And Pennsylvania is a lot closer than here.”

I cheered heartily at such brilliant wisdom. Enterprise always treats me right, I said. Well, almost always. We did the paperwork, and she gave me the keys to that monster black Jeep. She also gave me her card, just in case there were any problems along the road. I thanked her. And I had to laugh to myself, as I drove off in Big Amish Black. Life can be like that. It isn’t, always. But it can be. Sometimes the Lord blesses you when you ain’t even looking for it. Like He just did right there.

I left early Friday morning for Ohio. It was a long day on the road. I cut through the back roads of West Virginia to get there. New territory, that was. The big old black Jeep drove like a boss. The wedding was fantastic, a thoroughly enjoyable experience. Extremely tastefully done. The next day, Sunday, I got back home for the first time in more than a week. The following day, I returned the big black Jeep. I hope it got back up to Quebec. And I was home, then, for less than a week before it was time to take off again. Bloomfield Wagler Family Reunion or bust. That was the plan. I chatted with the tenant. I’m heading out again for a few days. Watch the place and get the mail. Let me know if you hear Billy the Ghost. I’m thinking it’s about time for him to show up again. He said he’d keep an ear out. And on Saturday morning by nine, I had loaded Amish Black and we were driving to the Harrisburg Airport.

Yeah, I know. I was flying. It’s no secret. I detest flying. I despise the TSA, and generally dislike the fluid schedules that shift with the whims of weather halfway across the country. Things change in a moment, on a dime, when you fly. But there was no rational way to avoid it, not if I wanted to get to the family gathering. It’s a two-day drive out to Bloomfield. And two days back. All for a two-day stay. I just couldn’t make the numbers work, in my head. So, I went online and bought cheap tickets from Expedia. Flying out of Harrisburg, there’s always a layover somewhere. It didn’t matter to me. If I had to run the gauntlet into an airport, Harrisburg is about as nice as it gets. And so close to home. It should be an easy hop, on the way out. Harrisburg to O’Hare. Then Chicago to Des Moines. Then a ninety-minute drive south.

I parked Amish Black in the long-term lot. That’s another thing I like about Harrisburg. Long term parking is $9.50 a day, about half what they charge at the big airports. And I can brag a little bit here, maybe for the first time when it comes to my luggage. A carry-on suitcase on wheels with an extending handle to pull it around behind you. That, and my trusty old messenger bag is all I carried. Just the basics, and only a few of those. There wouldn’t be a whole lot of unworn shirts hanging in the room where I was staying. I checked in for my ticket. American Airlines. That’s who I was flying with. And there at the counter, the lady told me. My flight was delayed at least an hour. A few tremors of unease shivered through me. Oh, well. What is to be will be, and there’s nothing I can do to make it happen any different. Not when it comes to making planes fly on time, there isn’t. I got through the TSA obstacle course with minimal hassles. Take off your shoes, take off your belt. Strip off all your dignity. Do what we tell you without protest. You pretty much have to get dressed all over again, when they finally let you move on.

The flight to Chicago was an hour and a half late. There was a short layover, then a connection to Des Moines. I was a little uptight about it until I got the to the gate to board for Des Moines. That flight was over an hour late, as well. I didn’t fret, much. Stayed calm. The next stop was my destination. I’d get there when I got there. And shortly after six that evening, I loaded my bags into my Enterprise rental. It was a small upgrade from the compact car I had reserved. A Buick SUV. A tiny, tinny little thing with four doors. It drove nice enough.

The Des Moines Airport is easy to get out of. The GPS directed me to Highway 5, where I headed south and east. The weather had been unsettled all day, all across the land. Random drops of rain came spitting from the skies as dusk settled in and darkness fell. It was happening. I was getting close to Bloomfield. Old Bloomfield, in my mind. A place from long ago. And it washed through me, the wonder and the tension of the moment. I thought of things, thought of how and why we had never done this before, me and my family. We had never gotten together, all of us, just to get together. This was a new place. A new road rising. An impossible and miraculous place, is what this new road was.

There were reasons that we never got it done, of course. Reasons that seemed important enough at the time, I suppose. It’s what happens when you’re from a large family, and you break away from the Amish. The ones who don’t leave take it a little hard, often. And if they’re from a hard-core place, well, they can’t invite you to come around. And they aren’t allowed to come around if you invite them to your celebrations. Aylmer and Bloomfield are both hard-core, that way. They can’t invite you, and they can’t come. Here, now, we had kind of invited ourselves to a place where everyone could come. The sisters had figured it out. Make the plans, keep everything quiet, and just show up. We hoped it would work.

We’re not exactly young anymore, me and my brothers and sisters. Rosemary is the oldest. She’s seventy-five. Maggie is a few years behind her. Then comes Joseph. He is seventy. At the other end, Nathan will soon be fifty-two. We have walked hard roads, some of us. In different ways. Health-wise and otherwise. A few years back, Maggie fought off cancer that had riddled her body. She did it naturally. Joseph has not been well, either. He has battled multiple myeloma for ten years. It’s been a long and weary struggle. Most people who get that cancerous blood disease don’t last much more than five years. He fought it off for ten. And Naomi, too, has fought through a couple of rounds of cancer in the last ten years or so. And, of course, Titus is in a wheelchair. He is rail-thin and has always been. He deals with health issues, too, that nobody ever hears much about, because he doesn’t fuss much. And me, well, I had all those heart problems a few years ago. Somehow, I got through that minefield with about as little long-term damage as one could ever hope for in such a place. Knocking on wood, here. We’ve all seen our dark days and hard roads. From Nathan all the way up to Rosemary. And every single one between. And now, now we were walking up to a door such as none of us had ever seen before. This day, this time, this moment was ours to touch and hold in our hands. It was ours to taste and savor, but only if we could actually get it done.

It had been mentioned, early on in the planning. What about Dad? Would he want to come, too? I’m only one voice in the group, but it seemed to me from the start. It should be just the children. All the brothers and sisters, the family. Dad wouldn’t be able to absorb much, anyway. And as the date approached, that little issue took care of itself. A few months ago, we heard from Aylmer. Dad is not well. He can’t remember where he is. He can’t write anymore. He sits and stares at the typewriter. He sleeps all the time. He barely eats. The official diagnosis came from the care nurse. He’s shutting down. He could easily leave us soon. Or it could go for a while, yet. We just don’t know. But we did know it wouldn’t work to try to get him to the family reunion.

The little SUV plinked along, like little SUVs do. It reminded me of a frightened rabbit, dodging in and out of traffic. Rt. 163 into Ottumwa, a real nice four-lane highway. Through the roundabout then, and onto 63 South to Bloomfield. Around the Floris turnoff, left onto the side road that led to my nephew John’s place. Joseph’s oldest son, John and his wife Dort had opened their large house to the uncles and aunts. They had spare bedrooms, and they would be happy to host whoever came. That was the word on the family threads. I texted John when leaving the airport. I’m on my way. Don’t wait on me, to eat. I’ll get there around eight or so. He messaged back. We have a full meal waiting. We’ll eat when you get here. And right at 8 PM, I pulled up to their place and parked. Grabbed my luggage and walked up to the porch and knocked. The door opened, and I walked into a warm and welcoming place.

John has done well for himself. He has run his own construction crew for decades. Reroofing houses, mostly. He and Dort have three lively young daughters, school-age girls. Vanessa. Kara. And Vidalia. The whole crew was scattered about the big log home. Dort smiled from the kitchen. The girls looked at me a little shyly. There were hugs all around. And Janice had arrived, too, earlier. She was working in Kansas City, and drove over. We plotted that she would show up for a while at the reunion on Sunday evening, to take a few pictures. Unobtrusively, of course. So you wouldn’t notice. I sat and unwound for a few minutes, then we were all called out to the vast kitchen table where a great feast had been spread. If my stay in Bloomfield would be judged by the food, this was a good start. A great, classic Amish meal. Chicken, real mashed potatoes, thick rich gravy, corn, salad, it was a feast. All of it was beyond delicious, especially for my One Meal a Day. I had snacked a little right at five when my window opened. And I had lost an hour, coming this far west. So it was nine o’clock, which is a little later than normal for me. Didn’t matter, though. The food tasted so, so good. I topped it off the meal with two kinds of pie and a few dips of ice cream. Oh, and coffee, of course. I leaned back, then, satiated and utterly content. At peace with myself and pretty much everyone in my world that I could think of.

Sunday morning. The day was here. The one that had been so carefully planned and plotted. I already knew that all of the siblings had come or were on the road to getting here. Rosemary and her husband, Joe Gascho, had arrived on Saturday. They were the “triggers,” the reason Ruth could get ready for company without Titus knowing anything special was going on. Rosemary had announced. They were coming to visit for the weekend. And Titus was looking for them, to take them to church over in another district, where Joe would preach the main sermon. So they were there. Over east in Kalona, by the home of their daughter Dorothy and her husband Lowell Miller and their family, Maggie and her husband Ray Marner had arrived. They were driving down to Bloomfield this afternoon. And Joseph had snuck in the day before with his wife, Iva. They brought a driver over from Kentucky and stayed with their daughter Rachel and her husband, Lester Beechy, and their family. Naomi and her husband, Alvin Yutzy, were driving in that day from Arkansas. Jesse and Lynda had arrived from South Carolina the day before. They slept at John’s, where I stayed. Rachel and her husband, Lester, were coming in from Kansas this afternoon. Stephen and Wilma were arriving today as well. I was here. Rhoda and her husband, Marvin, were coming from Kansas, too, from the same place as Rachel. And Nathan had arrived from his home in London, Ontario, a few days earlier. He was staying with friends over in Pulaski. And there it was. All of us were here or getting here. A new road leading to a new and shining dawn.

I started the day slow. Slept in a bit. Got up and cleaned up, then wandered downstairs to drink some black coffee. The others were all up already, in various stages of eating breakfast. We sat around in the living spacious living room in the log cabin part of John’s home. And we kind of shook ourselves awake and talked. We were meeting at Yoder Lumber at four that afternoon to go as a group to surprise Titus. So there was some time to kill. John had told his father Joseph that we were stopping in to see him at around eleven that morning. I didn’t know, so I asked. Did you mean that me and Janice would go along, too? “Absolutely,” John said. “I told Dad you’d be coming.” OK, I said. That sounds like a neat thing to do, go see Joseph.

Janice and I drove out together in her rental car. Over to West Grove, then out north to the old home farm. I talked to Janice as we crept along the muddy, spongy road. I told her about that night I left home when I was seventeen. Here, this road. Right along this stretch. It was so, so dark. I walked right past this graveyard, here. Over the Fox River we drove, then, on the new bridge they built after I left. And left into the drive. Halfway in the lane on the farm where Joseph lived many years ago, that’s where his oldest daughter Rachel lives now with her husband and their family. Lester Beechy. He’s a young up and coming deacon in the Bloomfield world. John had arrived when we got there. We walked in and were welcomed. Joseph sat on a comfortable chair. He smiled and shook hands with us both and spoke our names. Iva sat beside him and smiled, too. He doesn’t look too bad, Joseph doesn’t. He can smile and talk and move around. But he doesn’t look that good, either. He has battled along and struggled for more than ten years, fighting that evil blood disease that is going to get him in the end. It just hasn’t, yet. And I think about it, too, now and then. Joseph has suffered more real pain than any of his brothers and sisters, except maybe Titus, who hasn’t walked a step since 1982. They could both tell us a few things, I suppose, Joseph and Titus. About what it’s like to not have things go your way in a big way.

The afternoon came. The hour drew near. Janice and I drove back to John’s home. We hung out for a bit, then headed out for our next stop. Nathan was staying over in Pulaski with his good friends, LaVern and Karen Yoder and their family. Janice wanted to ride out with me to pick up my brother. She followed me to a parking lot south of Bloomfield, where I parked my tinny little SUV. I got into her car, and we headed east and south for Pulaski. We caught up on a few things. I can tell Janice just about anything, that’s how much I trust her. Sometimes it goes a while before we see each other again, but that old connection always kicks in. The miles flew by, and we were pulling up to the house where Nathan was. We got out. Nathan and LaVern were sitting in the garage, chilling. Nathan joined us then, and we drove back to where my Buick was parked. Janice wished us the best. She grasped the magnitude of the moment. Nathan and I drove off to the west. Then north on Drakesville Road. Then left and into the yard of Yoder Lumber. Two vehicles were already waiting. We pulled in and around and lined up. Other vehicles were now pulling in. Everybody, from everywhere. We got out and greeted each other and hugged. But not for long. The skies were spitting a hard driving rain. And right at four, the first vehicle led us west. Over the little hill, and right onto the drive. We all lined up, and drove in together. I couldn’t imagine what Titus might be thinking, if he happened to look out and see us.

We all parked off the lane in the wet grass around the circle drive. We huddled around in the rain for a moment. Robert and Thomas, Titus and Ruth’s sons, came outside to greet us. We shook hands. Then Ruth came rushing out. “Come in, come in right away,” she said. “We will all walk in together and surprise him.” We still milled around a bit, then followed Ruth inside. Into the porch, then into the open door into the living room. I was probably the third or fourth person behind Ruth. As we walked through the porch, one of my sisters started singing. Happy Birthday to You. We all joined in and walked in, singing hard and loud. I will never forget the sight of my brother, Titus. He was sitting on his wheelchair by the little table in the kitchen, looking our way in astonishment. On the far side of the table sat Rosemary, smiling and smiling. She joined us in our song. And then we were all there together around Titus. Murmuring and milling and talking self-consciously. We all stepped up one by one and grasped the limp and curled hand he held out in greeting. He looked a little pale, I must say. But we greeted him loudly and cheerfully. It sank in slowly, for Titus. We were all here to see him, to surprise him for his birthday.

There was a jumble and clatter of voices, then, as we mingled and greeted and hugged each other. It took a few minutes to settle down. Ruth told us how nerve-wracking it had been these past few weeks, as she fretted about what might or could go wrong. The poor woman actually lost a few pounds from the stress, it turned out. Things didn’t stay quiet for long. The sisters had planned this event right down to the smallest detail. The men dragged in great tubs and pots of food. Soon two different soups were simmering on the kitchen stove. Some kind of clam chowder. And a pot of vegetable soup, like Mom used to make. All the food that day and the next would be prepared like the food we grew up on. Ruth laid out some crackers and snacks to start. Their son Thomas had killed a young deer recently, and they had fresh deer bologna, all sliced up. And my sister Rachel, bless her heart, had fetched along a large container filled with pickled cow tongue. Sour and bitter and covered with onions, it tasted exactly the same as the stuff Mom always made. We snacked until the soup was ready. Then we all stood around to return thanks. The large leaf table in the dining room had been pulled out and extended to an impossible length. We helped ourselves to plates of hot soup and slabs of homemade bread slathered in butter and sat around the vast table and slurped our soup with much noise and great delight.

And the moments flashed right by. I was solidly content after eating two bowls of soup, several slices of buttered bread, and many slices of cold pickled cow tongue. But there would be more. Of course there would. The men were rounded up and herded out to the porch, where two White Mountain Ice Cream freezers needed turning by hand. Joseph’s wife Iva had made the mixtures, and someone had brought bags of ice and salt. That’s how those freezers work. We used to crank homemade ice cream almost every night in winters in Aylmer. I remember one time me and Titus didn’t put salt on the ice. We figured we didn’t need it. The ice cream never got hard, and we couldn’t figure out why. Until one of our sisters, probably Rachel, asked enough questions to discover the error. Much shouting ensued, with detailed instructions. The ice cream will never, never get hard unless there is salt on the ice. So, anyway, some of the men and boys got busy getting the ice cream cranked. I tried to skip out on it, but sadly I was collared and arbitrarily drafted to go help. I will sit on the freezer for weight, I said. I won’t crank. I’m too old for that. So I sat. For weight. It worked.

In the kitchen, sister Naomi was rushing about. She had brought two cherry pies, all ready to bake. Exactly the kind of cherry pies Mom used to make. There is no other pie like it, except maybe you’d find it in some places in Daviess County, where Dad and Mom grew up. After half an hour or so of cranking, the men triumphantly proclaimed that the ice cream was done. About right then, Naomi was extracting her two pies from the oven. The two delicacies met on the kitchen table. We sat around with bowls and simply feasted on this treat. I can’t remember eating authentic “Mom” pie with homemade ice cream like that since maybe back in the 1990s, when Nathan and I went home for Christmas every year. Mom was still active, then. It would have been around twenty-five years ago, I figure. Now, in this rare moment, we savored such a rare treat again.

Titus at the table. To his left: Stephen, Jesse, Marvin Yutzy, Ray Marner

To his right: Nathan, Ira, Rhoda, Maggie, Rachel, Naomi. Thomas lounging at the far end.

Joseph, Rosemary, and Stephen

Proud uncles, lovely nieces: From L, Janice, Nathan, Dorothy, Ira

There was coffee flowing freely all the time, of course. From the second we walked in, fresh pots were brewed without ceasing. I drank it down, strong and black. I’m trying to think, now. Somewhere about the time dessert was being wolfed down, they came walking through the door. Janice, and her older sister, Dorothy. Lowell and Dorothy had driven down from Kalona to John’s house. And now the two sisters, my “little nieces,” had slipped on over to hang out a while. I had told Janice, early on. By all means, come around. The nieces and nephews were not invited, but still, John will stop by. You need to, too. Someone needs to sneak a bunch of pictures, and there’s no one better than you who can do that under the radar, so people don’t notice, so much. We got to have someone like that around, at least for a little bit. And Nathan wants to see you, too, I’m sure. You two haven’t seen each other in a while.

So they came, Dorothy and Janice. They mingled into the moment seamlessly and naturally, just chatting and catching up with everyone. I saw Janice was busy with her phone. And the evening just kind of swirled by. Before long, then, Janice and Dorothy took their leave. They didn’t want to interfere too long. A few minutes later their father, Ray, approached me. He was wondering. Janice had called and asked if they should come back to sing a few songs. My face lit up. Absolutely, I said. Tell them to get back here. They can lead us in a little singing. And soon they walked in. Janice announced to the room that she and Dorothy would sing a few songs and lead a few more. She asked for requests.

And they stood there at the end of the long table, the two of them. Like I’ve seen and heard them a hundred times back when they were teenagers. Dorothy always strummed a guitar, then. That couldn’t happen, here. But they could sing in harmony, and they sang us a song or two. The requests came pouring in. First, from my brother Joseph. He asked for Amazing Grace. The girls led and we all joined from all around the rooms. As fast as one song ended, another began. We sang them all. We Have This Moment. Today We Call it Heaven, Tomorrow We’ll Call it Home. Fill Up My Cup. And a few others. Our voices rose and swelled and echoed through the house. Pure joy from the heart is what that singing was. Tears streamed freely from more eyes than just mine.

We wound down, then, with a farewell tune. Janice and Dorothy left one more time. This time, Nathan left with them for his ride over to his friends in Pulaski. It was a little after eight, probably, and the rest of us were winding down, too. Titus can’t stay up too late. He has to get his rest. By 8:30 or so, I was making noises to leave. But there was a thing I had in mind to say to the others. I asked Titus. Where is your German prayer book? Let’s have evening prayer before we go. Joseph can lead us. Titus rolled out the kitchen table, then came back and handed me a worn little black book patched together with tape on a good part of the cover. I stood off to the side. Held up the worn black prayer book. And I got everyone’s attention.

One thing I remember vividly from growing up is Dad praying the morning and evening prayer, I said. I thought it would be nice if we had an evening prayer tonight. Joseph can lead us. Everyone seemed agreeable. I walked over to where Joseph sat in the recliner and handed him the book. I took a seat on a nearby couch beside Rosemary’s husband, Joe Gascho. We all sat somber and silent as Joseph paged through the prayer book to find the right one. He found it, then cleared his throat. “I will remain sitting, and Iva will, too,” he said. “But those who can and want to may kneel at this time.” And there was a rustle and bustle as all the other people in the house rose to their feet, then knelt. It was silent for an instant all through the house.

And Joseph read that prayer aloud in a steady but very quiet voice. A man who has seen much and suffered much, a man just speaking from his heart to God. I remembered in that moment how my brother had always prayed the German prayers aloud in church after a sermon. His voice was never overpowering, but it always throbbed as a vibrant and living thing. Life. His voice had life back then. Now, that quiet voice reflected the immense calmness of a man who has stood face to face with death again and again and is not afraid. He read the familiar prayer, haltingly now and then. He spoke the blessing at the end. And then the prayer was done. Another bustle and stir as we all scrambled to our feet.

We talked a about that prayer, discussed it a bit. And Joseph said. “Those prayers have a tremendous impact on a child. They did on me. You just hear them spoken, day in and day out, morning after morning, and evening after evening. The effect wears off on a child. It has to.” I had never thought of it in those specific terms. But I agreed. Yes. These prayers have a big impact on a child. One of my very fond memories is hearing the comforting rhythm and cadence of Dad’s voice praying. I can close my eyes and hear him exactly as he spoke it back then.

John and Dort had a full house that night. They were more than gracious. We sat around late and talked, all those who were there. I was in bed soon after eleven. Of all my recent nights away from home, the beach, the wedding, and now here, that night was the only one where I tossed and turned incessantly until dawn. I had slept well the night before in that same bed. I slept well again, the night after. Just that one stretch, there, I think the tension and nerves of the moment just kind of washed in over me. And kept me restless.

The next morning, I was on the road before nine to go pick up Nathan in Pulaski. The sisters had asked me to provide fruit for breakfast. Grapes, they decided. There at John’s, I gave my sister Rhoda some money and told her to buy what they wanted on her way out. I don’t eat any breakfast. Just black coffee. Nathan was ready to go when I got over there. I chatted with his friend LaVern for a few minutes. It was awful nice of him and Karen to offer Nathan a place to stay like that. He assured me that they were honored to have an old friend as a guest for a few days. And I thought to myself. It’s a beautiful thing to see old friends connect like that.

The day came at us. All our brothers and sisters were clustered around the long kitchen table when we got to the house. Lots of things were scattered haphazardly on the table. Many of my siblings had brought gifts for Titus. I had been told, too, but it completely slipped my mind, I must say. I brought nothing but myself. Nobody seemed to mind or look twice. We talked about our childhood memories, and then Jesse pulled out an old song book from our days at the Aylmer School. The songs were compiled, typed up, and printed by the Aylmer people. It’s a thin little song book in a full-sized folder. I paged through and saw lyrics I had not even thought of since, well, I don’t know since when. A long time. Decades, for sure. Stephen sat beside me, and we checked it out. Oh, look. Only Two Little Rosebuds Were Taken From Their Home. We started with the first line. And me and Stephen led each of the four verses and the chorus. All the others sang the words as they came to mind. It’s amazing how they did. After that, we paged through and sang a few more. When Mothers of Salem Their Children Brought to Jesus. Once I had a Tattler’s Wagon. And a few more.

We all gathered round in the living room, then. Kind of in a circle and just talked. Someone came up with an idea. Let’s all share a memory we have of Titus. And from oldest to youngest, we did. Some of the stories I knew, some I remembered, and some I didn’t. Some were from before my time. We laughed and laughed at the tales of how things went, sometimes. As you can only laugh with those who were there in that world way back when. The most famous story was retold, a story that I never saw happen. It was when Titus was three or so, when I would have been the baby. The family was over at Jake Eicher’s to visit. Kindly old Jake, the fiery preacher man of my childhood. Jake smiled at young Titus. “What’s your name?” He asked, very kindly. I’m sure he knew. He was just making polite conversation with a child. Titus never answered, but abruptly threw himself on the floor and started rolling around. Around and around he rolled, in a circle, as fast as he could propel himself. His embarrassed older sisters finally got control and held the boy and stopped the rolling. Later, they asked Titus. “What in the world did you think you were doing?” The little boy wiped his shirt sleeve across his runny nose. He never hesitated. “Showing off,” he said.

Noon came. Time to eat soon. At one o’clock, my nephew John came around with a great pot of chicken for lunch. He is a skilled cook and had been requested to prepare the meat. Shake and Bake. A full meal was laid out on the counter in the kitchen. The kind of food Mom used to feed us every day. Mashed potatoes. Mom’s gravy, as only Rosemary can make it. Chicken. Corn. All the fixings. We walked through and filled our plates and feasted again. It was a great and merry time. For the first time since last November, I ate a meal for lunch instead of supper. I moved up my eating window, from evening to midday. That was my one meal for that day.

After lunch, Titus took us on a tour of his truss shop. His business, where they manufacture framing trusses. Titus and his brother-in-law, Elmer Yutzy, own the great majority of the shares. They have done quite well. Expanded the original little shop a few times. Now they have several large buildings where they cut the lumber and assemble the components. We watched. The place runs like a well oiled machine. They were stacking a new sixty-foot truss onto the pile about every three to four minutes, I’d say. They have some fairly complex presses and machinery, all powered by hydraulics. Amish businesses will always be extremely competitive, because the Amish know how to work. That’s what they’ve been taught, since they could walk as toddlers. To work. And you could see all that production in full force and effect at the Midwest Truss factory that afternoon.

Titus and Ruth in the truss shop

By late afternoon, you could feel it. Things were winding down. I ran some errands around the neighborhood. Nathan wanted to get back to his lodging for a nap. LaVern would bring him back out to the house for supper. When I returned, my sister Naomi and her husband Alvin had left for their home in Arkansas. Joseph and Iva left soon for their daughter Rachel’s house over on the old home place. They would leave the next day. As would we all, those who remained.

John had hung around that afternoon, and he was dispatched to Bloomfield to fetch half a dozen pizzas for supper. He returned, and people gathered and ate. Kind of half-heartedly, I thought. I ate nothing. We sat around outside on the deck, then, and watched some wild weather in the northern skies. They had tornado warnings up there. But the storm never made it south to where we were. Robert and Thomas, Titus and Ruth’s sons, bustled about mysteriously, then lit and launched two Chinese floating lanterns. Those things where you light a candle inside a big transparent paper balloon, and the whole thing lifts and floats away in the wind like some UFO. There was much laughing and shouting and cheering. It was a production, to get the lanterns airborne, but the boys got it done.

It was time to go, then. To take Nathan back to his lodging, and to get back to John’s house. I started the process of saying good-bye. It seemed surreal that it was all pretty much over already. That’s how it goes, though. Every time, it’s like that. The fleeting moments slip away before you really get a grasp of what’s happening. That’s how I felt. I gave Ruth a little hug. And Titus, too. Their two sons met my extended hand with a strong, firm grip. I said so long to the others, and Nathan and I walked out to my SUV and got in. The day before, a small triumphant convoy had entered the drive with great joy and much boisterous shouting. Now, we drove out alone in silence.

It was over. All the special moments were engraved in our minds, to hold and to relive at our leisure. Let come what may, now. Let death come stalking when it will. No one can ever take this away from us. Let the story be chiseled in stone, let it be proclaimed from the rooftops. It’s a big deal. The sons and daughters of David and Ida Mae Wagler got together, every single one of them, together as a family. They went home, in their hearts, because they loved each other. They conquered every barrier, they walked the broken roads, they did what it took to get it done. They gathered in love, and they parted in love.

I turned to Nathan and told him. It was a gift from the Lord, every moment we all shared yesterday and today. A gift to be grateful for.

He nodded. “It sure was.”

We drove south and east into the night.

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The Weasel, the Maiden, & the Prophet…

…It is not the slow, the punctual sanded drip of the unnumbered days…

the unswerving schedules of the lost life and the well-known faces, that

we remember best. It is a face seen once and lost forever in a crowd, an

eye that looked, a face that smiled and vanished on a passing train…

—Thomas Wolfe

__________________

It was the start of an ordinary day, one morning the other week. Near as I could tell, it was, anyway. I pulled out in Amish Black, heading for work. First, a quick stop at Sheetz for my morning wakeup coffee. And yeah, I know. Lots of hipster afficionados sneer at Sheetz, and those giant urns of flat, tasteless black brew they sell, claiming it’s coffee. Still. It’s force of habit. I go to Sheetz. I parked my Jeep in a usual spot. Walked in. And I saw right away, through the glass before I even reached the door. There was a long, long line waiting to pay up. And it sure looked like that line was moving mighty slow.

There was one lone clerk. One of the managers. He’s been around for years. He’s efficient, and he’s good, but there’s only so fast one guy can move when there’s a long line of glum looking customers waiting to pay up. I grabbed a Styrofoam cup, medium size. The Breakfast Blend urn looked full and fresh. That’s my usual. I filled the cup, then fitted on a lid. Dark and black. No cream. That’s the rule for my OMAD. Water and black coffee only, until my eating window opens. Then I walked halfway around to the place where all the food screens are. That’s how far the line snaked back. I took my place there at the end. Waiting to pay the buck sixty-nine that Sheetz charges for a medium cup of hot black water.

Things are usually pretty quiet, in a long line like that. You got all the construction workers, with an occasional woman mixed in. It’s right before seven in the morning. People are waking up. The world is going to work. And there is a quiet intensity in that line. Not impatience. Just, well, intensity. You know you have to get to that place, way up there in the front, to pay your money. Then you can leave. And this morning, the line stayed stuck in one spot for way too long before it inched forward, then stopped again and stayed stopped. It was going that way because there was only one clerk.

Another clerk stood there in the back room, ready to clock in. I could see him through the open door behind the counter, at the end. A teenage kid, a regular up front. He sure was taking his time, getting ready. I saw him put his things in a little locker against the wall. And I saw him poking around, moving some stuff around. He had his hat on, he was dressed and ready. And after an eternally long few minutes, he stepped out and stood behind one of the screens. Greeted the next person in the line. Could he help? Yes. Now there were two clerks, ringing up. The line moved twice as fast. And it was only a few minutes, then, and I was the next one up, waiting to pay. I had stood in line for probably five minutes. I waited for a customer to move away. And the one on the right did. Gathered his purchases slowly and turned to walk toward the door. OK. Finally. It was my turn. I started to step forward.

And it all happened so fast and so seamlessly that you figure it was plotted out to be that way. It was like whoosh. Out of nowhere from behind, a little old weasel of a man walked in from outside. Just as I was stepping forward, the weasel whipped in right ahead of me. Not so much as a by your leave, the man didn’t make. He was small, and he was old. Well, relatively speaking, old. Probably upper sixties or so. His clothes weren’t tattered or particularly raggedy, but you could tell he came from the hills. A bill cap was pulled low over his eyes, covering a shaggy head of gray hair. His beard was scruffy, his face was scuzzy with the unchecked growth one would expect to see on an unshaven lout. He walked right up to the young clerk on the right. My clerk, my spot. He was pulling out his wallet at he moved in.

I didn’t hear any protests from anyone in the long line behind me. But you can bet everyone back there was tensing up a good bit. Here they had stood in line, waiting their turn. And here, a little old weasel of a man without manners was burning up their time, time that wasn’t his to burn. I didn’t hesitate, looking back. After a brief second of shocked surprise, I mean. I never stopped to consider what was best to do, but just instantly spoke up. I walked up behind the weasel. Excuse me, I said. You just butted in line. You need to take your turn.

The weasel did not react well. I have no idea what he was expecting. I figure he pulled off this stunt regularly, and got away with it most of the time. He turned to face me. His ugly weasel face twisted into a contorted snarl. He swore. !!!&&^%$#@!! “I’m here to get gas. See? There is the sign for gas. Right there.” He pointed to the sign beside the clerk. That’s bullshit, I said. And yes, I said the word loud enough so everyone around could hear. Bullshit. Don’t make any difference what the sign says. You take your turn, just like everyone else.

The weasel swore again. He was getting way too loud and belligerent. The clerks stayed very calm. Neither made any move to interfere or insert himself. I don’t know if they get trained to deal with loud unhandy people nonconfrontationally like that, or what. The weasel turned to the head clerk, to our left. “The sign says, gas,” he said, pointing, his voice raised. Behind me, everyone in line watched, frozen, intent. The head clerk glanced over. I spoke up, then. I raised my voice, too, to match the weasel’s. He needs to take his turn, just like everyone else, I said. Doesn’t matter what the sign says. The head clerk glanced at the weasel sternly. And he backed me up as he kept right on ringing up the next person who stepped up. “The line is for all purchases. Including gas.” See? I was triumphant. You need to take your turn. You butted in front of me.

The weasel looked deflated and a little crestfallen. He stood there, silent. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of something like compassion for him. Not sure where that came from. He turned, then, to trudge all the way back to the end of the line. A vile little man. He deserved no sympathy, not after the way he acted. But then my common sense kicked in. Ah, good grief, I said. You’re here, now, anyway. Just give the man your money. He stopped and half gaped at me. I motioned. You’re wasting everyone’s time. Give him your money.

The weasel turned back to the counter. Behind me, everyone watched, silent. The weasel handed over a crumpled $20 bill for gas. He then turned back toward me to leave, looking grimly straight ahead. It was pretty clear we were both upset. But I had one more thing to say. Don’t do that again, I told him.

And looking back at it all, I wonder how often the weasel got away with those actions before he was challenged. Bad habits beget bad habits. I remember that he strode right up to the front of the line, on the side, probably like he had done dozens of times before. Without incident. This time, there was a scene. And this time, he got warned. I was upset, mostly, about one thing. Well, other than his sheer rudeness, I mean. And I wasn’t full of rage, not like I would have been back in my whiskey days. I was irritated, of course. But not enraged. And I was upset because of all the negative energy it took to confront the man. I had to dredge it up. I don’t like to go to those places, and I don’t unless something like this comes at me when I’m not looking. Then I do, because you pretty much got no choice. That’s what I figure, anyway. (I’ll gladly give up my way of thinking if someone can show me a better one, like the Amish preachers used to claim. As if anyone’s ever going to speak up. Nobody ever did, that I remember. That claim always sounded rote and hollow to me.) Still. I’m betting the weasel won’t butt in line at Sheetz in New Holland any time soon again. Just a hunch. I could be wrong.

Moving along, then. A few days after my run-in with the weasel, the same week. A Saturday morning. A laid back time, usually. I meander about, run my errands, and I always stop at Grocery Outlet to do a bit of weekly shopping. That place is pretty much across the road from Sheetz, all of it less than a mile from where I live. It’s handy, to have stores like that close. And that Saturday morning, I pulled in with Amish Black. The parking lot wasn’t as full as it often is. I zipped up and parked and walked up to the front of the store to get a cart. They have the old style grocery carts there, the big, clunky, clattery ones that often have at least one wheel that doesn’t work. I trundled along, right up to the automatic door. The door swung open as it sensed me, but just then I glanced off to the right, down the sidewalk. And she was walking toward me to enter the store as well. A young Plain Mennonite girl.

She was probably sixteen or so. She might have been from the Joe Wengers, or maybe the Thirty-Fivers. Definitely horse and buggy, I’d say. You can tell the Plain cultures apart simply from the bone structures of their faces. The Amish and the Plain Mennonites, I mean. They both have features unique to their blood. And many of the women are astonishingly beautiful in both cultures. The Plain Mennonite girls are especially distinct and striking. There’s something regal and reserved about them, and they never really lose that. It’s when they’re young, though, that they look so vibrant and alive. Before they get married, before their faces and bodies reflect the long and weary aftermath of incessant daily toil and the slicing pangs of multiple childbirths.

Such a girl was walking toward me now. Naturally blond and beautiful without a shred of makeup. She wore a medium covering with strings that flowed out back over her shoulders. From that little detail, I figured she wasn’t a Piker Mennonite. All the Piker girls I’ve seen laced their covering strings up tight. Her dress was patterned like the Plain Mennonite women wear, with a hundred red flowers spread throughout. I don’t remember if the background color was black, or what. I think so, but I can’t say for sure. I just remember the red flowers.

It was a beautiful sunny day. And the sun shone down bright when I looked and saw her coming at me. And without thinking, I held back and waited on her, so she could get through the door first. She smiled her thanks and walked past me to the entrance. And I thought to myself. What the heck? Say something. I had a split second to speak or not. So I said it. Well, I kind of stammered. I like your dress. And the red flowers. It looks like Christmas. I mean, what kind of guy says such a thing? By now she was stepping through the door. But she turned her face and flashed back a smile. No words, just a smile. And for the life of me, I didn’t know if my compliment was a proper thing to say or not. I had never done such a thing before. Never spoken out of the blue that way to a total stranger who also happened to be a Plain woman.

If I think it was a bit strange to speak up like that, the odds are pretty good that the girl thought so, too. I mean, we both come from Plain blood. I shuddered later, to imagine what she might be telling her friends. Watch out for that gray bearded old man at Grocery Outlet. He’s kind of weird. He’ll smile and say funny things. I shuddered again. Still. I had never seen this girl before, in all the years I’ve shopped at that store. And I figure there’s a pretty good chance that I’ll never see her again.

The maiden and the weasel. The beautiful and the damned. Two people with nothing in common, except they were people. They have no names, but their faces are imprinted in my memory. And it sure is strange, when you stop and think about it. Such is the ebb and flow, such are the tides of life on the long and winding journey down this broken road.

In a recent conversation, I made an offhand comment. Not sure what triggered it. I don’t trust modern day prophets. Self-proclaimed “prophets” are charlatans and frauds, pretty much across the board, in my opinion. Anyone can claim anything. I am especially contemptuous of “end time” prophets. Those guys are toxic frauds, always returning to that bottomless well, always fleecing willing sheep who desperately want to believe that Jesus is coming soon so they won’t have to die. That’s where the whole rapture heresy comes from. The roots of it. A deep and desperate desire to cheat death. It’s not gonna happen. We will all die. And when I die, that’s going to be the “end of the world” for me. Same is true for anyone else.

Still. Those “end time” preachers, you don’t forget what they said. The memory of it. Like I never forgot a little incident that happened many years ago, about the time I graduated from Bob Jones University. That place was an infested swamp of rah, rah, rapture hoopla. We’re all gonna be swept into the skies to meet Jesus. All the sinners will get left behind. Satan will take over the whole world. It’s going to happen any day, now. This was back in the early 1990s. I always thought the hyper premillennialist eschatology was self-defeating for the BJU brass. If we’re all going to get raptured out, why put out the time and expense to come to BJU to get educated? I mean, none of it will matter after time ends. I guess they figured the students wouldn’t think very far. Still, there was one detail from those days that I kept stored on a little cobwebbed shelf in the remote corners of my mind. And that detail came sneaking back into my consciousness just the other day, for the first time in a long time.

I was close friends with a fellow BJU student. A girl. I got to know her and her family quite well. And I remember something she told me many years ago, talking about “end times.” She said, “When you ever hear a perfect red heifer was born in Israel, look out. Weird stuff will happen right after that.” I never forgot her words. And I was very startled to see last weekend on The Drudge Report, of all mainstream sources. A perfect red heifer has been born in Israel, the first such heifer to come along in more than 2,000 years. Well. What does one make of that? I’m not sure. I’m keeping a sharp eye out. We’ll see, I guess, if weird things follow. At this point, not much would surprise me. Except if these days we’re in actually turned out to be the “end times.” I would be surprised at that.

Back to that random conversation where I said I don’t trust modern day “prophets.” I don’t. It’s too easy to make stuff up. I said this online. And a few days later, I got a private message from a close friend from another state. He told me of an incident where a prophet told him some very specific details of an event that happened the next day. Details that could not possibly have been manipulated. Things unfolded exactly as the prophet had predicted. Exactly.

And I told my friend. Yeah. It happens. I’ve seen it, too. A guy who didn’t even know me sent me a handwritten note last year. It was delivered by a mutual friend. I still don’t know the guy, I’ve never met him, and I don’t so much as remember his name. I took the note he sent, but I wasn’t quite sure how to take the message. This is what he wrote: “What has been locked inside for so long shall be called forth for release. The mask for the pain shall be removed.”

So what, exactly, did those words mean? Were they simply the noble vacant platitudes of a self-proclaimed seer? Or were they something more than that? I can’t say for sure. But I have a pretty good idea. I saved that handwritten note. It’s taped on a shelf above my desk at work. It’s dated August 29, 2017. That little slip of paper had nothing to do with my decision, but later that night, I didn’t have a drink for the first time in a long time. I haven’t had one since. And a month or so after that note was passed to me, I got the offer from Hachette for my second book. So, yeah. I agree with my friend. There are prophets. All kinds of prophets, so called. The real, authentic ones are few and far between.

And speaking of that evening of August 29th, last year. This year on that evening, I looked back on how it went one year ago. How I had made an almost offhand decision. Well, I had been thinking about it a lot. But thinkin’ ain’t doin’. And that night, I decided, just for anyhow. Tonight, I won’t have a drink. I can make it without one. And that’s how it’s been ever since. I can make it tonight without a drink.

For the first month or so, the raw craving for whiskey raged like a relentless wildfire in my brain. The battle was in my head, more than anywhere else. Since then, it hasn’t really been that hard. I am amazed at how fast the days and weeks and months have rolled right by. And now, it’s been a year. That’s a big deal to me. One year. I mean, who’da thunk it?

I am amazed, too, at how good it feels to be dry. Each morning is a new high, some mildly less grumpy than others. Still, I try to take nothing for granted. I’ll just get back up and get back on, if I ever fall off the wagon. That’s my game plan, and I’m stickin’ to it. So far, well, it seems to be working. At least up to this moment.

God bless every person who knows what it is to walk this broken road. Today, this moment, is all any of us have. And it’s all we’re ever gonna have on this earth.

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Ghosts of August…

Return. Oh, lost and by the wind grieved ghost, come back again.

—Thomas Wolfe

_________________

The voices always call from the shadows of the past in early August. And this year was no different. There were two major events that happened a day apart, plus eighteen years. August third and fourth. And this year I thought about them both, as my mind went down the path of each memory. But I only journeyed back to one. In detail, in my head, I mean. Went back and saw it again, one of those two days. It’s too much, it’s too intense, to try to go down both roads that close together. So you go down the one that beckons most. And you stay on that road until you get to where it’s going.

Of the two big things that happened a day and eighteen years apart, the telling of the last one comes first, I guess. This time, it does. On August 4th, 2000, there was a wedding ceremony down in the beautiful hills and hollows around Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The Smoky Mountains. And that day, an excited young (well, relatively speaking, young) couple had invited a handful of family and friends to join them. In a little chapel there, out in the mountains, it happened. Ellen and I got married. One of those short, pre-packaged wedding ceremonies, but it was still beautiful and special to us. The rented preacher intoned a brief rote sermon from the Love Chapter in the Bible, like he’d done a thousand times before for eager and excited couples he never saw again. He made it sound like he meant it, and I’m sure he did. The sun shone bright around the rough-hewn little chapel that afternoon. The world was ours, made for us alone, in that moment. It was our day, it was our time.

August 4th, eighteen years ago. It used to be a dark and fearful date that I saw coming like an approaching thundercloud, with a lot of heaviness and dread. Early on, after we split up, that’s how it was. You felt the sadness seeping in, a little bit ahead of time. And you tried to calm your heart to absorb it. Then there was less and less darkness and fear, as the years flowed on and the day came at me. And in the last few years, it barely blipped on my radar. There were a couple of times, there, when I never even thought about the date until a week after it had passed. And then it hit me. Oh, my. I was supposed to feel bad, back there on the fourth. I guess I’ll have to wait until next year and see how it goes by then.

This year, for reasons that may or may not be what I think they are, the memory of that day came poking at me well ahead of time. And this year, I looked at it, walked right up to it. And poked right back. Oh, yeah? You think that’s gonna freak me out? How about you give me all you got? I can take it. And I saw and felt that day and all that it was in a new way. There were no flashbacks, and no stark and haunting memories came knocking on the door. It had long been a settled thing in my head, and now that calmness settled cleanly in my heart.

The thought echoed like a silent whisper in my subconscious mind. It’s OK. This is the date it happened, a long time ago. Look at all it was, look at it clearly in the face. And then speak, if it needs to be spoken. Maybe in a future blog. Or maybe save it for the book. Next August, next year, it’ll come poking back at me. But it will never again be anything other than a reality that once was and now is no more. My heart is calm, and my head is clear. I am at peace with all that August 4th ever was in the past. And yeah, I remind myself. No one can know what dreams may come. No one can know the loneliness and bitter sorrow I saw, getting here. Whatever those dreams are, I will walk through them. And I figure to be at peace with all the ghosts from that day that might come knocking in the future, too.

So there’s that. The one day, of the two. And this year, it was the other event that played out a lot harder in my head, the thing that happened on August third, half a lifetime ago. On a sultry summer night, back in Bloomfield, the Old Bloomfield of my youth. A Tuesday at dusk, close to sundown. That’s when the dark thing came. And this year, the specter of that night came calling strong.

Thirty-six years ago on that early August evening, my brother Titus walked across a field with friends to go swimming in a farm pond. It was the last time he ever walked anywhere. In an instant, normal life changed dramatically for him and for those of us who were in his world at that time. The fateful dive, the crushed vertebrae, and the resulting brutal and almost incomprehensible reality. At just shy of twenty-four years old, Titus was felled like a sturdy oak tree in its prime. He would never walk another step on this earth.

I remember that night very well. I wrote about it in the book, how it went. It was a quiet, normal evening at home. But out there on the banks of that farm pond, five miles to the east, things were going on. The vivid scenes are seared forever in the minds and memories of the people who were there. They can tell you exactly what they saw and exactly how they felt, all these years later. I remember some of the events as they were told and written at the time.

Titus was pulled from the pond by his good friends, Marvin and Rudy. He had been under water for almost two minutes. Another thirty seconds, I always figured, and he would have been gone. Still. There he was, stretched on the banks of the pond, on his back. He choked and coughed and gulped in great draughts of fresh, life-giving air. Water gushed from his mouth and lungs. He coughed and sputtered and coughed some more. And he gasped the desperate question. “What took you so long to pull me out?”

The boys instantly saw that something was dreadfully wrong with Titus. He could not move his legs. He could not feel them. Marvin’s little brother, Elmer, was the one who raced up through the fields back to the house. He was so overwhelmed and excited that he could barely get it told, what had happened. The men all rose and dashed out to the pond. Someone rushed to the schoolhouse phone to call the ambulance. Soon, approaching sirens wailed in the distance. On the banks of the pond, a tight knot of people had gathered round.

In all the days and years since that fateful evening, I have always been grateful that I was not present, not there that night when my brother got hurt. I don’t know how I would have reacted, what I would have said, or what I would have done. I just don’t know. It would have been intense.

From all the stories that were told, one scene stayed burned deep in my memory. Ruth. She came running through the field, up to the banks of the pond. The men who were huddled around Titus separated like the parting of the sea. It seemed like time had stopped as she walked the open path to where her betrothed lay, stretched motionless on the ground. She knelt beside him. And she calmly spoke his name. “Titus.”

They were so young then, Titus and Ruth. In their early twenties. And there, that night, beside a farm pond in a pasture field in southern Iowa, there unfolded one of the defining moments in all their lives. She spoke to him, calmly. She hovered close always, as the medics arrived and transported her man onto a stretcher, then into the waiting ambulance. She rode by his side to the hospital and stayed by his side all through that eternally long first night. It was the most terrifying moment of the entire journey, there early on, when no one knew what was or what was to come. And Ruth stayed there by his side, that night and the days and nights that followed. For better or for worse.

It’s been written before, in my father’s book and later in my own. The blur of days and weeks that slowly stretched into months and years. Titus and Ruth married a few years after his accident. He would live the rest of his days on a wheelchair. All of life, and all that life was for Titus, was viewed from a wheelchair. They settled into their little new house there south of my parents’ homestead, well within the parameters of the region north of West Grove that was the Wagler empire in Bloomfield. I did not share much of that time with them, or see their uninterrupted lives, because I was running hard, pushing out into far boundaries such as I had never seen before.

Titus and Ruth settled into the Bloomfield Amish world as a young married couple. The timeline of events is a bit foggy in my memory, but at some point they moved from their little nest of a house. Moved over east about five miles, to a forty-acre tract of land just down and across the road from Ruth’s parents. And just down the road from the little farm pond where both their lives had changed so drastically, back in 1982. There, Titus built a nice new house. And he started a business with a couple of Ruth’s brothers. A little truss manufacturing shop, they started. And Titus and Ruth dreamed of one day raising a family of their own.

That dream was realized in 2002 when they came out to Pennsylvania, close to where I live in Lancaster, and adopted an infant child. A boy they named Robert. A few years later, Robert’s birth mother had another child, another son. Tragically, the mother then died. Titus and Ruth were notified. Your son’s full brother is also available for adoption. They traveled to Pennsylvania again. And this time they returned home with another baby, a son they named Thomas. They settled into the Amish world of Bloomfield, just another normal couple with two children. Two sons. And all was about as well as it could have been, I suppose. Considering everything.

Life is life for everyone, and into every life some sadness must fall. And for Titus, some of that sadness was watching his family pack up and move away. Throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, all of his married siblings who lived in Bloomfield moved out with their families. All except Joseph. My parents lived in the Daudy house on the farm where Joseph and Iva lived along Drakesville Road. It seemed like this was where my parents would be laid to rest after their journeys on this earth were over. But that was not to be. Early in 2008, Joseph resettled his family to May’s Lick, Kentucky. Dad and Mom moved with him. They had little choice in the matter. It just was what it was. And Titus remained in Bloomfield, the lone stalwart Wagler from what once was a vast and proud and far-flung clan. Those had to be some sad days for my brother.

And life went on, then. Over the years, I stopped by to see my brother when I came around anywhere close. I was always welcomed into their home, now ever lively with their two young sons. Like my father, Titus had a natural knack for business, and the little truss plant he founded with his brothers-in-law, that little business prospered greatly. The community there in Bloomfield grew and prospered, too. Until it became the largest Amish settlement west of the Mississippi, a distinction that remains today. Currently, there are thirteen districts in Bloomfield, and the settlement generates its own economy. It’s certainly a vastly different world than the one I knew decades ago, when people scratched and clawed to extract a meager and hardscrabble living from the land.

All that to say. Titus and his family were an integral part of the world I knew in all the time since I left the Amish long ago. They were just there. Titus stayed in regular contact. He still does. He has to make that effort, because we can only contact him in his phone shack. We never know when he’ll be there. So he just calls us, all his siblings, when he’s at his phone. And I don’t get out to that part of the world much these days. But if I get anywhere close to Bloomfield, I’ll stop by to see my brother. I am always welcomed. I have always been welcomed.

We’re just little boys again, my brother and me, when I stop by. For a few brief and fleeting moments, we are. Little boys, playing barefoot in the creek. We relive the old memories and we page through some of the old books from our childhood that the man has preserved. The actual books, from our actual childhoods. You hold such a thing in your hands and you talk about it with someone who held that same thing, way back, well, that’s just a special connection. Not a lot of words are necessary, and not a lot are spoken.

And there was another place where not a lot of words were spoken, too. We went there only a few times, in all the years since the night of that fateful dive. I brought it up, those times, during my infrequent visits at my brother’s home. I brought it up, kind of shyly. And I told him. I still can’t believe, sometimes, when I stop and really think about it. I still can’t believe that you can’t walk. Titus leaned forward in his wheelchair, hooking his arm around one of the handles on the back, like he always does. He looked at me and smiled back, kind of shyly, too. And he told me, those few times we went there. “Not a single day goes by that I don’t think about how it would be to get up from this chair and walk. I think about it. Every single day.” And there, in that brief sliver of time, we absorbed the pain of the reality that was his world, we absorbed it together in silence.

Titus has been concerned about certain stretches of the road I chose to walk over the years. This I know without him telling me. He never said much, really. I just knew. But he always respected where I was, and he always let me know in subtle ways how proud he was of the positive things I somehow got accomplished. Going to college. He was proud of me for that. And then law school. No one saw that coming. And there were some really, really rocky patches, then, after law school. My life was a huge mess, seemed like, way more than it wasn’t. And things just went the way they did. But Titus quietly offered his support, always, and he let me know how proud he was that I was writing. After that got triggered, I mean, by all the crap that was going on around me. He let me know. He reads my blogs faithfully. He’s read every single one that was ever posted. That doesn’t mean he always agrees with me, of course. He’s Amish, so he sees things a little different than I do. He’s had some issues with some of the stuff I’ve written over the years. Which is fine. But he has never, never told me to stop writing or asked me to change my voice.

It was kind of funny. The day after the anniversary of his accident, Titus called me. That Saturday. And I told him. I sure thought of you this year, when yesterday came. And now, today it’s eighteen years since Ellen and I got married. I mean, that’s the kind of thing that used to mess with my head. But it doesn’t, anymore. Now, it’s just a thing that was. So, anyway, how did it go for you, yesterday? Were you OK?

He chuckled. And I knew he had been OK. “Yes, I thought about it yesterday. And today, it’s eighteen years since you and Ellen got married. I got hurt thirty-six years ago. Eighteen is halfway to where I am.” And I chuckled, too. Wow, I said. That is kind of a wild realization, right there. And we chatted, then, about other things. He asked how the book is coming along.

I don’t know, really, I said. It’s definitely going to be delayed a little, because the first tentative deadline was this summer. Well, it ain’t happening, partly because some of the stuff that has to be in the book keeps happening around me right now. Like that trip up to see Dad. I’ve got a lot of writing to get done, yet. I figure to know a bit more about the schedule, soon. And we wrapped it up, then. Said so long and hung up.

And I thought of that night way back there in the past when a young man brimming with hope and confidence and the simple dreams of his fathers, when a man such as that went walking across a field to go swimming with his friends. That night, when the bright future of youth was so cruelly and senselessly shattered, by any human standard that made a lick of sense. That night, when the end of the innocence came for the way so much of life had always been. That night. That night…

And now, thirty-six years have passed. That’s a long, long time. And there is no question. Titus has lived a productive and fruitful life in his wheelchair. He has seen an abundance of the joy and sorrow and pain that life brings, with maybe a little bit of emphasis on the sorrow and pain. But joy was present, too, on his journey. Today, he is a respected Amish elder, a patriarch in his community, with a long and noble beard. A very successful businessman with a loving wife and family. I deeply admire his faith and courage and strength and persistent good cheer.

Still. Over the years, I have often thought of how Jesus spoke to the blind beggar who kept calling his name as he was passing by. “What do you want from me?” Jesus asked. The beggar cried out from the darkness with all the deep and hopeless longing that had burned in his heart for decades. “Lord, that I may see.”

The blind man got his wish. His eyes were healed. He could behold his world. And I have often imagined a similar scene if Jesus strolled by today and asked Titus that same question. “My child, what do you want from me?”

And I can hear my brother’s voice, echoing the yearning and sorrow and fear and loss and heartbreak that he has seen and felt and lived on the long, hard road that was the last thirty-six years. “Lord, that I may walk.”

It won’t be on this earth, but one day that scene will happen.

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Notes From The Broken Road…

I wish Mom could see me now,

And how I’ve turned it all around.

Lately I’ve been going down

The right road.

Life’s a picture that you paint,

With blues and grays, and cans of canvas.

Heaven knows I’m not a saint,

But I know.

Jesus and Mama always loved me.

Even when the devil took control.

Jesus and Mama always loved me.

This I know.

–Confederate Railroad: Jesus and Mama

____________________________

An ordinary morning at work, the other week. Things were going on, about like they always do. I engaged a customer at the front counter, and then another. The phone rang. And a call came from a guy who asked for me. Well, I was on the line when he called, so I got a note to call him back. I glanced at the number, then the name. Jack, a hard-bitten old farmer from south Jersey. I’ve known him for a few years. Well, more than ten. I guess that’s a few, when you’re talking about random people who wander through your life. That’s how it was with Jack. We’ve done business. We know each other pretty well. I just hadn’t thought about the man in a while, because I hadn’t seen him in a while.

That morning, I figured. Jack’s probably looking for some materials, maybe some metal roofing. He’s always fixing something on his farm. Might as well get back to him right away, before I get hung up somewhere else and forget. I dialed the number he had left to call him back. In my headset, I heard the clatter of the ringing on the other end. Come on, Jack. Answer. The phone rang again. And again. He’s probably on his tractor and can’t hear. Soon it’ll go to voicemail. Come on, Jack. Answer.

About right then, he did. “Hello.” Jack. Ira here. Returning your call. “Oh, hi, Ira. Thanks for calling back. How you been?” I’m good. And you? And back and forth, like that. Just your normal interaction when doing business. And it was about what I figured, when we got to his reason for calling. He needed some advice about how to fix a big sliding door on his barn. I listened as he told me the problem. And as we talked it through, my mind drifted to another place. I was about half there, at my desk, chatting with Jack about his sliding door, and what I reckoned would take care of his problem. And I was about half out there, remembering the last time we had seen each other.

It was last summer. And it was a strange time in a lot of ways, last summer was. I mentioned that little fact as it was coming down. Or right after it came down. A major stressor was draining a lot of energy from my life. The whiskey. It all hinged back to the whiskey. I had reached a place where a decision had to be made, where something different had to be done. Well. I was reaching that place, late last summer. I’m on the wrong road, here. I’m not young, anymore. Looking back, a few things are clear in retrospect. I was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. I was overweight, bloated like a fatted hog. My face was swollen, my eyes were puffy. It was a hard and relentless slog, every day. There had to be a better way.

And I was hedging around, looking at the situation from every angle. Near as I could, anyway. Kind of poking at it with a sharp stick, to see if any sleeping monsters would wake up. You calculate the cost, you make a choice. And this was a new door. That’s what it was. A new door to a new road. And I could turn from it or walk through. It takes a while, to get to what you know is the right choice when you’re standing in a place like that. At least, it does for me.

It was just so hard, to think about giving it all up. I had been close friends with the whiskey for a lot of years. Twenty-five, at least. It’s in my blood, it’s in my genes, to crave that soothing amber fire. To strain to hear, to absorb all the whiskey lullabies that amber fire can sing. Much of my genetic attraction to alcohol comes from Mom’s side of the family, that I always knew. We heard the stories about uncle Joe and how hard he drank. And I remember when he died, at about my age. He drank himself to death. That was pretty much the accepted narrative. The Yoder blood was strong in a lot of ways, but it was flawed and weak in others. This I always knew, because it never was a closely guarded secret.

But it wasn’t only from the Yoders that the insatiable drive to drink came from. There was a strong pull from the Wagler side, too. Just not out in the open. The Yoders were honest about who they were. They had few pretensions. The Waglers, not so much. We never knew it, growing up, but there was a time when Dad nipped at the bottle, too. Way back in his younger days there in Daviess, he did. His older brother, Ezra, was always saddled with the burden and the shame of being the wild child, the renegade drinker in the family. Dad told me once that when Ezra came home from the singing late on Sunday nights, he always threw his empty whiskey bottle onto a little threshold above the barn door when he took his horse in. (I can only imagine what kind of terrible rotgut it was that Ezra bought and drank. I’m sure it wasn’t the single malt scotch I got used to, a generation later. I always thought it would be fun to knock back a few with the young Ezra of long ago. He could tell me lots of things I never knew.) There was a big pile of those empty bottles up there on that ledge, Dad told me. And I never thought to ask. What about you? Were some of those bottles yours? He’d tell you yay or nay if you asked in the right spirit. He’d also sense it in a second if you were asking, trying to nail him, trying to trap him. And he wouldn’t tell you, then.

We heard the furtive, whispered stories somewhere along the way. Long after we were adults and had left home, the first such whispers came. At least the first such whispers that I remember. And we poked and prodded and dug around a bit. Were the stories true? Looking back from where I am today, there is little question in my mind that there was a time when Dad was no stranger to the bottle. Way back, in his younger years. The thing is, back in those days, I don’t think it was all that big a deal if you drank a little. I think it was more of an accepted thing in the Amish church, at least the Amish church in Daviess County, for there to be whiskey in the house. So it wouldn’t have been all that uncommon, for a man like Dad to imbibe. He sure would have been predisposed to, if the whiskey sang to him even remotely like it sings to me.

Waglers and whiskey. It’s a little startling for me to recognize that I’m not the first one of my blood to reach this door, to give it up. Because there is also no question that my father quit drinking, cold, long before I was ever born. He always talked against alcohol. Always wrote about how bad it was. Bad for your health, and bad for your soul, too. That’s what Dad would have believed. Maybe he was writing to himself as much as he was writing to his readers. I look at his life and his life’s work, and I get some small grasp of the man’s astonishing drive and strength. What he believed, he proclaimed boldly to his people, as no one had ever done before. He strode forward, confident and forceful and unafraid. What his hand found to do, he did with all his might. Such a man as that is who my father was.

That’s where I come from, a place like that. None of it is any excuse for how far I went with the whiskey, of course. And I’m not making any. It’s all about choices, whether you drink or don’t. I don’t judge it as a moral issue, even. It’s simply a choice. As it was always a choice for me during those last twenty-five years when I hit the bottle hard. A choice I never felt much inclined to change. Sure. There were a few dry blurps in there, but those were aberrations. Mostly, I was content to hold it close, to embrace my good friend. To invite the brooding spirits in. I pretty much had to, I believed, after I started writing. I had to keep the bottle close, or the writing wouldn’t come. Way down, I sure used that as an excuse to drink. And it didn’t take much to fool myself into believing it was actually true.

And so it went. Until last summer. I talked to a few close friends about it. That was the first step, looking back. Opening up to one or two friends I trusted enough to confide in. But I still don’t know where the drive came from to go there in my head, to consider seriously what it might take to walk away. Maybe I was getting old and tired. Or maybe the Lord was nudging me along. He moves in mysterious ways, like the hymn says, His wonders to perform. I don’t know why the resolve came to approach that door, let alone walk right up and step through. I just know it did.

It’s always hard, when you’re addicted to anything, to even think about giving it up. Doesn’t matter what it is. Food. Cigarettes. Whiskey. Work. (Oh, and drugs, of course. Still. Real addictions are about so much more than just drugs.) It’s scary and unnerving to force your mind to consider an alternative universe that doesn’t include the thing you treasure so deeply in your heart. That idol you can’t quite let go. And this wasn’t the first time for me, to quit a habit that seemed impossible to break. I remember years and years ago, when I was in a similar place. Only it was cigarettes I was trying to shake off, back then.

I remember the monsters of fear that snarled from the darkness. Don’t even try. You’re not strong enough. It wasn’t the thought of not smoking for a day, or a week, or even a month. That’s wasn’t what seemed so hopeless and overwhelming. It was the thought of not ever smoking again. Of giving it up forever. That’s what was so brutally hard to look at in the face. Of never again waking up and sipping that first hot cup of strong black coffee, and lighting a moist cigarette, dragging great draughts of delicious smoke deep into your lungs. Don Williams immortalized the ritual in his signature song. Coffee, black. Cigarette. Start this day, like all the rest…

The nice thing about bunny trails is, they’re all connected, and you can always circle around to where you started. So back to last summer, when I saw Jack last. I was in a strange place, in my head. A strange road. Unfamiliar. I don’t remember being scared, much. Quietly desperate, I’d say, would be more like it. It was a strange place. Large and fearful shadows loomed on every side, close and closing in. A jungle. That’s what it was like walking through. Or maybe wilderness would be a better word. It was a desolate place, and dark, in my head.

It seemed like I was out there, stumbling through unfamiliar terrain. There was a new door, up there ahead. Beckoning. Calling. Beckoning. I knew a choice had to be made soon. And I knew the right one would be hard. Still. I was drawn to the new door by some magnetic force. Come. Step through. Make this choice. Do it. There had to be a resting place, there had to be. I could shield my eyes from the sun with my hand and see. Way out there on that other mountain, there it was. That place of peace I was looking for. I could see it. Out there, over the valley. Which could mean only one thing. That valley had to be walked through. I could see it and sense it. But still. What you know has to be done is the hardest thing to do. Often, that’s how it is. And there I stood in the wilderness, in the jungle. Alone. Well, I sure felt alone.

And I thought about the last time we had seen each other, me and Jack, as we talked on the phone that day. A Saturday, when I was working. It was always sporadic, on a Saturday. Feast or famine. And right when they got there, Jack and his lady friend, not much was going on. I greeted them cheerfully. Jack. Pauline. What’s up today? It’s great to see you. Been a while. I hugged her. Jack’s handshake was firm and steady, like it always is. It’s so great to see you, I said. And we stood there and caught up. I think they’re officially just dating. They both were married before, and they had connected later in life. Salt of the earth people. They really are. They always tell me. When we’re going past on a Saturday, we look for your blue truck. Big Blue. If it’s not there, we don’t stop. This was back before the days of Amish Black, of course.

Over the years, since my book came out, they have bought at least a dozen copies to give as gifts to friends. I always made a big fuss, signing the books. Jack is an old ex-marine who saw action in the Korean war, I think it was. Or the Korean conflict. Whatever it’s called. He can tell you stories that make your blood run cold, of things he has seen. Over the years, we got to be good friends, me and Jack and Pauline.

And that morning, we connected like we always do. It’s so good to see you. What can I get for you today? And we talked about Pauline’s work at the township office and Jack’s work on the farm and my work at Graber. They told me. From here, they were heading to Gid King’s Farm Store over on the other side of White Horse. You can find tools and stuff there for better prices than you’ll ever see at any English store. I had told Jack about the place years ago, and now he’s a regular when he gets up here. I should hit old Gid up for a commission, I guess, for all the business I’ve sent his way.

They asked how the writing is going. I had told them I was fixing to work on the second book. I didn’t have a contract, yet. I was working on getting one. So they knew to ask. It’s really sporadic, I said. I got some good stuff coming, but it’s not real connected, yet. And then Pauline looked at me sharply. “How are you doing?” She asked. I guess she wouldn’t have had to ask. She could tell. I was swollen and heavy, my face was bloated, my eyes were puffy. Maybe she was just being polite. Or maybe she genuinely wanted to know. I figure she did. I’m not doing all that great, I told them. And I didn’t shrink from why. The whiskey. It’s getting to me. I love my scotch. And my vodka. Not an evening goes by that I don’t drink. And yeah, I’m still taking my Superfood vitamins. That’s probably one reason I’m still standing. But I’m kind of lost, here. I have to do something about the whiskey. I’m not sure what or how. I’ve tried quitting before. Nothing has ever worked. You asked, so I’m telling you. That’s how I am, right now.

They stood there and looked at me, and something lit up in their eyes. And then they told me their stories. They had both been exactly where I was, way back when. Hard-drinking bar hounds. And they had both quit, cold, decades and decades ago. Independently, before they even knew each other. Neither of them had touched a drop of alcohol since the time they swore it off. And standing there talking to me that morning, they didn’t spout wise, trite things like people do when they’re preaching at you. They just spoke the stories of what they had seen and lived. What had happened and how. I listened and I heard. Even at that moment, I sensed it was pretty amazing that two people such as this would show up in my life and tell me what they were telling me. These people had actually done what I knew I needed to do. Still. It sounded scary and a little hopeless. It would be a hard road. I listened as they talked. And I pondered their words in my heart.

It wasn’t magic, the things my friends told me that day about how they quit drinking. It didn’t go like it always does in those nice stories that end with a sweet little moral lesson. I didn’t swear anything by my Mother’s grave, and I didn’t go home that night and never touch another drop. I simply absorbed their stories and thought over what they said. Processed. Calculated. They had done a hard thing and made it stick. I wondered if I could do that hard thing, too.

That little incident made such an impression that I couldn’t shake it from my mind. In the next week or so, I mentioned it to a few close friends. And at some point, I told the guys at Bible Study. It was just wild to me, that Jack and Pauline showed up out of nowhere and told me their stories when they did. I mean, I had known them both for years. And I had never heard these things before. We had never gone there, in our talk. I guess there wasn’t really any reason to.

And I’ve spoken it before, how it all fell into place, kind of on its own. Late next month, it will be one year since I have touched a drop of whiskey. I’m astounded at how fast the time has whooshed by. And right now, this moment, I am focused on that milestone. One year. It’s a big deal. One year on this broken new road. I have seen strange and beautiful things in that time. One year. And then, who knows? I’ll head on out for two. We’ll see how it goes, I reckon. Today is all I got, it’s all I ever had, and it’s all I will ever have.

And looking back over the long and lonely slabs of years that made up my journey to where I am today, I stand amazed at how many times it happened. How many times I have despaired because of the hard road that stretched before me as far as the eye could see. How many times I felt lost, how many times I have strayed far afield and could not find the way. And then, when it seemed like there was no door to open, here came a stranger or a friend, stepping from the shifting shadows. Here. This is the way. The right road. Walk this path. It has happened over and over. I don’t know why I even get surprised anymore. But I do, because my faith is weak. Still. Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

And life flows on, as life does. I’m working on getting some writing done. Now and then, I have to go back in my head to see and relive things that would rather be left alone, if you just did what you felt like doing. I’m seeing and feeling the pain of much of the past in a new way, when my head is actually clear. And sometimes a dark memory comes knocking on the door. It’s almost impossible to describe how free it feels to open the door and meet that dark thing face to face. Oh, you got a story, too? OK, come on in. I’ll see what it looks like and we’ll go from there. If you got no reason to come knocking, I’ll kick you out. I’m just saying. You better be real.

Once in a while, as the day ends and night flows in, once in a while there comes a time when you feel pensive and your mind wanders to places it doesn’t often go because it’s just too hard. But you go there anyway and you see the blurred face of someone you cared for more than anything and you wonder why life went the way it did. And you feel it again like you mostly don’t these days because you won’t let your heart go down that path, not often, because, well, just because. Still, you sit there and absorb it one more time, the bitter sorrow of a loss so deep, you can’t express it, you can’t write it, you can’t possibly speak it like it was. And you feel it all the way down, how alone you are.

Once in a while comes such a night as that. Now that I have a clear head.

This next thing may be connected to the other bunny trails, or it may not. Either way, it’s a little story on its own. Last week, I had a rare book talk. Well, rare in that such a thing hasn’t happened all that much, lately. A good friend of mine is connected to a little group that meets at the DuPont estate, down in Wilmington, Delaware. Winterthur, it’s called. I’ve heard of it, but I never got down there until that afternoon. We met in the Charleston Room on the third floor of the big house. The people who came were mostly retired. But they were sure engaged. All of them had read the book. We sat around in a large circle on stately chairs and it was all informal and relaxed. I opened with a brief statement of my history.

And then I just took their questions as they came. They came from all over, so there was lots of meandering down lots of bunny trails. And it came out then, the story of how I started writing on my blog way back when my marriage blew up. I gave a brief sketch of what happened without a lot of specific details. It was a failure on both sides, I said. It was as much my fault as my ex-wife’s that the marriage wasn’t what it should have been. Maybe more my fault. At this point, I can only say. It was what it was.

Off to the side, an elderly woman raised her hand. I acknowledged her. “You were so sensitive to Sarah (my Amish fiance’) in the book,” she said. “I wondered how you got there, when I read that. How you could be so sensitive to her loss. Now I see. It’s because you’ve been divorced since that all happened. You know what it is, you understand now what she went through.”

I nodded. Well, ma’am, I never really made that connection. But it makes sense, what you’re saying. You are certainly right about one thing. I know what it is to have loved and lost. Maybe that’s why I could write Sarah’s story like I did.

And back to that phone call with Jack. That morning, we talked for the first time since that day last summer when they stopped by the office. And I told my friend after we got done with business. I want to tell you. I’ve been dry since late August. I’m feeling pretty good. I’ll never forget how you and Pauline stood here and told me your stories. That helped me a lot. I have thought about it many times. It seemed like God just brought the right people into my life to point out the right way, right when I needed them.

Those hard-bitten old south Jersey farmers don’t get emotional and religious, much. But I’ve come to realize. A lot of them have a deep reserve of quiet faith such as I can only aspire to. My friend paused a bit, there on the phone, when I spoke about the right people showing up at the right time. And then he said, “Yep. That’s how God always does it. I’m glad to hear you’re doing good. I’ll tell Pauline. She’ll be glad, too. She’s mentioned you half a dozen times, since that time we talked. She was concerned about you.”

You do that, I said. And tell her I said hi. I love you guys a lot. Thanks for being there.

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Vagabond Traveler: Fortunate Son…

Something immensely bright and beautiful was converging in a flare of light,

and at that instant, the whole room blurred around him, his sight was fixed

upon that focal image in the door, and suddenly the child was standing there

and looking towards him.

—Thomas Wolfe

__________________

It was just the way things turned out. I didn’t make it down to see the man last winter, in Florida. I meant to and would have. But then it just didn’t seem to be working out to go. And I told my sisters at the time. If I’m needed down in Pine Craft to help care for Dad, I’ll take my turn. Be glad to. But if I’m not needed, I won’t come. It’s a long old way down there, and it would take up more than a week of my time. And as the winter dragged aimlessly on, it turned out I wasn’t needed. That’s fine, I said. I got stuff going on, here. And it was fine. I didn’t go. I assured my family, instead. I’ll visit my father this summer, up in Aylmer. Sometime in June. It seemed like a safe thing to say. A safe thing to plan. And yes, June seemed far away.

It’s been a strange year in a lot of ways. I got some intense latent pressures going on inside me and around me. No, those pressures have nothing whatsoever to do with alcohol. It’s other things, like “writing a book” and not knowing for sure what’s going on. It’s a new and different road. But even so, time moves right along. I was amazed at how soon June came rolling through the door. And a week or so in, I got to thinking. Father’s Day is coming up. Why don’t I go see Dad then? Not that the visit on that day would mean any more to him than any other visit on any other day. Still. If I’m going anyhow, I might as well go on that symbolic weekend. It was as good as any other. My plans formed and firmed up in my head.

And I thought about how I should maybe line up a rental with my old buddies over at Enterprise. I couldn’t decide for sure. I’m still irritated at them for that silly PC stunt they pulled off last winter. I don’t forget grudges like that very quick. And besides, I now drive a nice black Jeep. Why not take a road trip with Amish Black? Up to see Dad for Father’s Day. I mulled the thing over in my head, took and turned it every which way in my mind. I’m still mad at Enterprise vs. all those miles on my Jeep. But it would just be fun, to drive up there with Amish Black. Worth those miles. And that would show Enterprise. Back and forth and back and forth, I bounced it like a rubber ball. A few more days rolled by.

And sometime there in early June, the message came. Trickling through the family grapevine. Dad had some serious issues with the blood flow in his legs. And there was one night, there, when they had to rush him to the emergency room because of it. I’m not sure for what, I mean, why it was an emergency. For the pain, maybe. Anyway, the news sounded a little grim. And the message was silently conveyed, too. If you want to see Dad, you better get up there soon. It all fit, for me. I had planned to go, around now, anyhow.

My trip firmed up, then, with a little nudge from another source. I got a call from my sister, Magdalena, down in South Carolina. When was I going up? I told her. I was thinking the weekend of Father’s Day. Maybe heading up Friday, coming back Sunday. Same schedule I always have, pretty much, driving up there and back. And Maggie asked. Would I care if she and Ray came up as well, over that time? Of course not, I said. I’d love that a lot. Absolutely. Come. Let’s figure on seeing each other that weekend in Aylmer. And that became our plan.

It all became clear in my mind as the week arrived and the day approached. When I had to either make the rental reservation, or not. I would drive Amish Black. Our first road trip together. I like my Jeep a lot. And I drive it a lot. Locally, at home. I do that two-fingered wave at other Jeeps, now, all casual like. Just like a pro. You’d think I’ve been driving a Jeep all my life. But me and my first Jeep had never ventured out very far together. Not for overnight, anywhere. Now it was time. The miles would just be what they’d be. The decision wasn’t all that close, in the end. Because in my subconscious mind, I was going to drive Amish Black up to see Dad, ever since I bought it.

I don’t know what it is, with me and road trips. I’m a guy. You’d think I’d learn. Travel light. Just take what you need. But no. When the time comes to pack, I throw in everything I might remotely need. Always have done that. And that always includes way too many clothes. Thursday night. I’d be gone three days. One day up, one day there, and one day back. To any sensible person, that would mean I take along three shirts. Maybe two, plus the one I’m wearing the first day, to travel up. That’s all I’d need, really. This is what I thought to myself as I started packing that night.

At least I wasn’t taking that big old suitcase that always got dragged along on just about any trip in the past. This time, I figured, my camo duffle bag and a garment bag would do. I picked out a few short-sleeved shirts to take along. But then it went like it always goes. I poked around on the closet rack. It wouldn’t hurt to throw in a few long-sleeved shirts, too. It’s June. Summer was officially knocking at the door. But what if it’s cold, up there in Aylmer? It could easily be. I don’t want to sit around, all chilled and shivering. There’s room for more, here in the garment bag. I grabbed a few long sleeves. Six shirts in all. For three days. I mean, that’s just how it goes. The thing is, I always think. When I’m driving somewhere, why not throw in everything you might need? It won’t hurt.

And that’s how I packed for this little trip. Everything I might need, I threw in. And a small box of books, of course. I always take along a few copies of those to give away as gifts. And maybe to serve as a bribe, if I got stopped for speeding. Oh, my, officer. I sure didn’t realize I was going so fast. I’m just on my way to a book signing. What book? Here, let me show you, here. See? It’s the real thing. I’d be happy to give you a signed copy, if we can forget you ever stopped me. To be clear, here. This has never happened. I just always figured it might, if I ever get stopped for any reason. We’ll see. I probably would never write it, if it did, anyway. At least not until the statute of limitations ran out for bribing a cop. Back to the books in a box. I packed some up. And I loaded that box and a few other things on Amish Black that night, yet. Tomorrow morning, I would hit the road early.

And by a little after six the next morning, I was heading north and west. A quick stop at Sheetz first. I had gassed up the night before. This morning, a cup of hot black coffee and a bottle of Voss water. I don’t often buy bottled water, but when I do, it’s Voss. That smooth round bottle is the definition of cool. I always set one somewhere close to me when I give the rare book talk, these days. Amish Black was loaded, but the baggage didn’t make much difference, in the feel of driving. The skies were clear, the sun shone bright. Another perfect day to head on up to see my father. One more trip, one more time.

It’s been a couple of years, since I drove up to Aylmer to see Dad. I went up there for a funeral early last year. Dad was in Florida, so I didn’t get to see him then. And this time, this morning, something was heavy on my mind. Well, not heavy, as in hard. But heavy, as in persistent. I was relaxed inside, but deep down, well, some stress rippled through. Barely palpable, most times. But there. There was a little mission that had to get accomplished on this trip. It just had to. And I figured I had one shot to get it done. Pass or fail. I pondered the matter all that day on the road, off and on. Looked at it from every angle I could think of. And here’s what was going on inside me. And why.

Dad is old, now. I’ve mentioned that little fact before, many times. He’s ninety-six. Not many people get to where he is. My parents had eleven children. From those eleven children came fifty-nine grandchildren. And to those fifty-nine grandchildren were born around a hundred great-grandchildren. My father was the patriarch of such a vast and far-flung clan as that. And so things stood until a few years ago. A little baby boy was born in the Aylmer Amish community. Noting all that unusual about that. Except this little boy was special. His lineage is as follows: My oldest sister Rosemary’s oldest daughter Eunice got married and had a family. Her oldest daughter Loretta grew up and married Jonas Eicher, the son of Jacob Eicher, Jr., the son of Jake Eicher, the fiery preacher of my childhood days, mentioned in the book. Jonas and Loretta Eicher had a son, a little boy. Jaylon, they named him. Jaylon Eicher is my father’s first and to date his only great-great grandchild. That’s five generations. All living, and all in the same community. That’s a rare thing in any setting, although maybe not so uncommon among the Amish as in the outside world. But even among the Amish, five generations in the same place, that’s not seen very often. It’s there, don’t get me wrong. But it’s always a big thing, and it’s always duly talked about.

And it’s there in Aylmer around my father. Five generations. I have fussed and fussed at my siblings, ever since little Jaylon was born. Well. I’ve fussed at anyone who will listen. We heard the stories. Dad is so proud of his great-great grandson. He loves to hold the baby. And I fretted and fussed some more. Somewhere, somehow, someone has GOT to get a picture of those two people together. To preserve it for history. Our family’s history. It has to be done. And time flowed on, then. The boy grew. No longer a little baby. He could walk. And it never was done, what I had fussed so much about. No picture from anyone, anywhere. Well, that’s pretty much what you’d expect, I guess. It’s easy to see how such a thing might never get done at all. The Amish don’t allow cameras, not in the Aylmer world, they don’t. And it’s really hard for anyone to slip in and sneak a pic. I mean, little Jaylon doesn’t just go hang out with his great-great grandpa all the time. They live clear across the community from each other, Dad and Jaylon. I doubt that they see each other often. The little boy probably barely knows who the old man is.

There has to be some way to make it happen, I thought to myself that morning, cruising along in Amish Black. There has to be. And I was calm, in my thinking. One thing I knew. You can’t force such an event. You can’t. You can only invite it in and wait. And I got to chatting with the Lord, there on the road that morning. Informally, like I always do. Just talking to a friend. God. You know how important this is to me, to get a picture of Dad and that little boy. I really, really think it needs to be done. Still. I’m good, either way, if it’s not supposed to happen. I’m calm in my heart. I won’t look for anything, much. But I gotta say. It sure would be nice if some of those impossible doors would open on this trip. Because if those doors don’t open for me now, they most likely never will. Which is fine, if that’s how it’s meant to be. I’ll keep walking, either way.

And that was about it, for that conversation. That’s kind of how I signed off. Sometimes I get formal and close our little chats with an “Amen.” Mostly, I don’t. Often as not, I’ll cross myself, winding down and signing out. I didn’t do that here. I just cranked the music up and kept focused on the road ahead as Amish Black bumped along. A short Jeep rides a little rough on the open road. This much is true. I guess that’s part of the “Jeep thing.”

North and north I drove. Then west and west. Sipping my black coffee and my Voss water. No food. It’s real simple to travel, when you don’t have to fret about where you’re going to stop and eat. Or what you’re going to eat. You stop for gas and to use the restrooms. That’s about it. On and on, west through New York. Then Buffalo, the Peace Bridge, and the border. The young guard was professional and polite. Going up is always easy. I just hand over my passport and my birth certificate. I was born up there. They can’t keep me out. The guy asked the usual rote questions. Anything to declare? Any alcohol or weapons in the vehicle? I usually declare that I got a bottle of scotch along, for my own use up there. Which was never any problem with them. Not this time, though. No alcohol, I told him. I got a few books along to give as gifts. He handed back my documents and waved me through. And back into the land of my birth I drove, in Amish Black. The sun shone bright in a clear blue sky.

Highway 3 West. That’s the road I always take after crossing the border. It’s two-lane, but it’s the most direct route. The traffic flowed right along, through small town after small town and light after traffic light. I was making good time. Magdalena had called the day before. She had checked out the Comfort Inn where I usually stay, over on the eastern edge of St. Thomas. The nice lady there told her. There was an air show, so all the rooms were full. And so Maggie had found a nice little B&B, right on the eastern edge of the Aylmer square. She asked me and I told her to reserve a room for me. Check-in was at 4 PM. So I was still in good time. A few minutes before four, I pulled in and parked at the Sweet Magnolia House. It looked to be a sweet little clean place. I knocked on the door. The nice lady innkeeper came and welcomed me. She had three guest rooms. Mine was at the very top, the third floor. A very nice little suite with a full bath and a king-sized bed. That will suit me fine, I told the lady. I dragged up my bags and hung my clothes in the closet. All those shirts. I’d use two of them. The other four would ride home in exactly the same shape they came. Just more wrinkled, I guess.

I chatted with the inn lady a bit and logged my phone into the wireless internet. My text messages came pinging in from the day. I don’t have cell phone service in Canada. Well, not for under $1.00 a minute, I don’t, so I consider that the same as no service. But I can communicate with texts, as long as my phone is connected to the internet. A message came from Ray, Maggie’s husband. What time was I planning on coming out to where Dad lived? She was cooking supper for around 5:30. I’ll be there, I texted back. After getting the combination for the front door lock from the inn lady, I boarded Amish Black and drove east. Then north a mile or so. Then left into the drive of my nephew, Simon Gascho. That’s where Dad lives, when he’s up there. They even moved the little Daudy house they built for him and Mom, over at Rosemary’s home. It was portable, on skids. So they just up and moved it. And now Dad lives in the same little house where Mom died, back in 2014. It’s just in a different location.

Simon lives at the very end of a long drive that accesses three households. I pulled in spewing great clouds of dust behind me and parked under a shade tree beside the minivan Ray and Maggie had driven up from South Carolina. It sure seemed dry around this place, I thought. I walked into the little house. And there he sat on his wheelchair. Dad. Maggie was bustling about, getting ready for supper. I hugged her and walked over to Dad. We shook hands.

“Ira,” he said. Yep, I said. And the usual, back and forth. “Did you have a good trip?” Yes. “How long was your drive?” Nine hours or so. “You must be tired.” Oh, some. Not too bad. His legs were wrapped in bandages, from under his knees down. And he was wearing some kind of Velcro booties. Otherwise, the man looked and talked exactly as he had the last time I saw him in Florida in February of last year. Over a year ago. I always hear. Dad is this and Dad is that. He’s sick and not doing well. But when I see him, he looks pretty much the same as he did the last time I saw him.

Ray came in from somewhere, and we shook hands and hugged. My brother-in-law. He’s a good man, the quietest of all my in-laws. The men, I mean. He’s quiet and steady. We sat with Dad and visited as Maggie bustled about. She was cooking supper over in the main house, on the kitchen stove. Fried tomatoes, she was making. I drooled. I grew up on fried tomatoes. It was a staple of my childhood world. I could not remember the last time I had a meal of fried tomatoes. Had to be decades. I can’t wait, I told Maggie. I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten all day. This will be my one meal. I ‘m still doing one meal a day.

And then it was time. Maggie set the small table, there in Dad’s kitchen. Dad sat at one end, in his wheelchair. Then me, then Maggie. Ray sat at the other end. The table was loaded with food. We bowed our heads. Dad prayed aloud, that old German meal blessing prayer in his cracked and faltering voice. And I thought about it, right then. It wasn’t that big a deal, at least not lately. But it was still remarkable. Dad was sitting at the same table as Maggie and me. And Ray. He had steadfastly refused to eat with any of us, not that many years ago. For Ray and Maggie, it had been a lot of years. Decades. Since the early 1970s. For me, well, he shunned me for a few decades, as well. And now, now all that was over. Washed like water, under the bridge and into the past. Now, we all sat together and ate supper together in harmony and peace.

I have always said. There are two ways of looking at such a scene as that. One, you can fret and stew about all those wasted years. We could have been eating together like this, always. Shunning is brutal and silly. As it was, when Dad shunned us. It is also painful and so wrong. Or, two. You can be grateful that you get to experience this at all, at any time. That’s what I try to do. Even this late in life, for Dad. Some hard core old Amish men never reach such a place as that. Dad has. You got to give credit where credit is due. Old age mellows all, I guess. It does, or my father would never have eaten at the same table as me and Maggie and Ray.

We chatted right along as we filled our plates. We slathered butter on thick slices of homemade bread and piled the fried tomatoes high on the bread in our plates. Maggie even had the classic pot of hot milk on the table. After we ate about half the bread and fried tomatoes, we poured the hot milk over the whole mess in our plates. Well, me and Dad did. Ray looked startled and Maggie passed. Just like magic, we had instant soup. It tasted exactly as I remembered it from all those years ago. After eating, we all paused and bowed our heads again. And Dad returned thanks again. We helped Maggie clear the table. Then Dad and Ray and I sat around, visiting. Dad peered out the front door, out to where Amish Black was parked under the tree. “What are you driving?” he asked. “What kind of funny looking car is that?” I laughed. It’s a Jeep, I said. It’s nice and black. Like a buggy. He chuckled. And he got real close. “Is it an Amish Jeep?” he asked. Yep, I said. Yep, it’s an Amish Jeep.

Soon after supper, I told Dad good night and left. I wanted to head over to my sister Rosemary’s place, yet, to say hi and visit a bit. My time here was very limited. Every minute counted with every person. Out the long drive, then north to the crossroads, where the blacksmith Levi Slabaugh lived decades ago. The place is sure built up from what it used to be. Even the house. Then east on the main drag through the community. I was surprised. The roads were gravel. They had been paved for decades, I thought. Something’s going on, I grumbled to myself as me and my Jeep bumped over to the next crossroads, then turned north again. My sister’s place loomed on the left. My niece Edna’s little bake shop first, then left into the drive. I parked in the lawn beside the house. The door opened, and Rosemary walked out. She smiled and we greeted each other with a hug. She asked how my trip up was. Great, I said. I just came from seeing Dad. We had supper. She was on her way out to feed and water her baby chicks. I walked out with her as we talked. She takes the chicks inside the house every night in a box. The rodents will get them if she doesn’t.

We walked inside then, where Joe had just come in from helping with the chores. I sat at the table and we talked. They’ve seen a few changes around there since I was up last. And Rosemary asked, all of a sudden. Would I like some fresh strawberries and cream? Fresh strawberries like we used to eat, way back. Mashed up and mixed with sugar. Of course, I said. I’d love some. I’m still in my eating window. I can have food until nine. She fetched a bowl and gave it to me. Then a fresh brownie, then the strawberries, then the thick rich cream. I simply feasted on that simple dish. I chatted with Joe as I gulped down the food. He’s not doing so much produce peddling in Tillsonburg, anymore. Now and then, he goes on his regular route. Mostly, though, he’s helping his grandson, Jonathan, who took over the home farm since I was last there. And that was a big part of the big changes. Jonathan is young and single, and he has about more work than he can handle. So Joe helps out with the chores and the milking every morning and evening. It all sounded like a very busy life. Just like it always is, I guess, if you’re an Amish person.

I made some noises, then, before leaving. I’d like to go see Dad’s great-great grandson, sometime when I’m up here. I’d sure like to see him with Dad. Rosemary looked suspicious about that. Just so I can see it, I said. I want to write about it. She wasn’t fooled, though. Not that anyone let on, much. I asked Joe about the chores he helps with every day. He told me. Jonathan changed the cow herd to mostly Jerseys. My eyes lit up. Jerseys. That’s the richest milk of all, right there. Oh, yes, yes, they both chimed in. The herd was just milked. The cows were out in the barnyard, ready to amble back to the pasture. Would I like to walk out and look? Of course, I said. So we traipsed out, the three of us, back behind the barn. And there, they milled about leisurely. About a dozen small Jersey cows, dark brown and light brown. Joe pointed out where Jonathan was fixing to add a new wing to the west side of the vast old barn. And we talked about what it is to farm and milk.

Moving along, then. Saturday morning. There was a whole lot to get done on this day. I had people to see, maybe more than I could fit in. And I was mulling over how would be the best way to get people together that night, so maybe Jaylon would be there. It seemed like a long shot. Oh, well. I’ll just walk into the day and see what develops. And unfolds. God. You know my heart. Help me this day to live fully, as You intend life to be lived. The nice inn lady came around when I clumped down the stairs. Would I like my coffee? I had told her when checking in that I don’t eat food but once a day. And nothing for breakfast but black coffee. People always look at you a little horrified when you tell them you eat once a day. Most simply can’t fathom such a thing, or how simple it is to live that way. I try not to preach at anyone. I just say I like it a lot.

The night before, I had told the nice lady I wrote a book. So there on the breakfast table, I got a copy from my messenger bag. And she made the proper noises of thanks when I signed and dated the book and handed it to her. This is where I come from, I told her. Here, in this Amish community out east of town. Here I was born. These are my people. I took a bottle of water from her fridge, then. Some Canadian brand. Not Voss. Good enough for what I had to have today. That Voss bottle ain’t gonna help my image any, where I’m going, anyway. I pulled into my father’s place about the time he had finished breakfast with Maggie and Ray. I sat on the small couch in the tiny living room. And we just talked, all of us, about whatever it was that came to mind.

I walked into the day, then. As I was getting ready to leave, Simon’s wife Kathleen came over from the main house. It’s right beside Dad’s little shack and connected with a deck. And she asked us. Would we like her to cook supper tonight for us and anyone else who might want to come? Maggie and I looked at each other. Shook our heads, almost in unison. No, we don’t want you to go to that kind of bother, I said. And the idea just slid right in, from somewhere. I told them. I will get pizza tonight for anyone who wants to come. I’ll buy the food, and Maggie can make salad. That way, we provide the meal. Why don’t we plan on that? And just like that, it fell into place. Supper tonight, here. Pizza, for anyone in the family who wants to come. Ira’s buying.

I told Dad I was heading out for a bit, then. “In your Amish Jeep?” he asked. Yep, I said. In my Amish Jeep. I drove over to Rosemary’s place, then, stopping first at Edna’s bake shop to order the pizzas I needed for that evening. Flavour-Rites, her shop is called. She is doing very, very well. The place keeps her frantically busy. Every morning, real early, she gets up to go bake what she figures to sell that day. Well, not every morning. But every morning she’s open. And she got licensed to sell meat, too, not long ago. Now she has a cooler in her store with natural organic sausages, wieners, and summer sausage. She makes ready-to-bake pizzas and ready-to-heat soups. And that’s where I figured to buy my pizzas for the great feast I had proclaimed. I told Edna what I wanted. How many pizzas did she figure I’d need? Six large, we settled on. Four fully loaded with everything. And two pepperonis. OK, I said. What’s my bill? I don’t want a discount. You worked hard, to make those pizzas. Charge me what you’d charge any old English man off the street. I got an American check, here, if you’ll take that. She nodded and said she would. I wrote the check and paid her. I got a bunch of running to do today, I said. I’ll come back for these late this afternoon, so I can take them back to Simons in time to get them baked for supper.

Over, then, to Rosemary’s house. She had coffee ready. And I sat there in the living room with my oldest sister, and we talked. Just the two of us. Joe had left real early to peddle strawberries in Tillsonburg. It had been a while, and he figured his regulars were wondering what’s going on. So we sat there and talked, me and Rosemary. About a lot of things. She told me stories of her life. And I told her stories of mine. It was a pretty rare moment for both of us. You never quite realize what it really is, such a moment, until you look back on it. I invited her over to Simons for pizza that night. And just as I was getting up to leave, our sister Maggie showed up. She had stopped by to spend some time with her sister. We all chatted for a few minutes as I finished up my coffee. Then I was on out of there.

Over east next, over to where my niece Eunice lives with her family. She married David Swartzentruber. I wanted to invite her to the pizza feast that night. I pulled in, and we greeted each other. I told her why I was there. Would they be able to come? She looked a little crestfallen. The men were just too busy, to get it made over there. Too much work lined up for the day. Well, I wish you would come, I said. And I asked her where her daughter Loretta lives. I knew it was real close. Loretta, married to Jonas, the parents of little Jaylon. I wanted to tell them I was expecting them over at Simons for supper tonight. Eunice laughed and told me where they lived. Just a few places down, on the same side of the road as she was. I want to see that little boy with his great-great grandfather, I told her. I want to see that.

I drove out and down the gravel road then, a few places down. And there was the pole building shop, like Eunice had told me. I pulled in and parked and strolled into the open doors of the shop. A handsome young bearded man came up from the back. Jonas. I wouldn’t have known him from anyone else. I don’t know if I saw him before. Probably did, somewhere. I smiled at him and spoke my name as we shook hands. He smiled back in welcome. I asked him about his shop, a one-man cabinet operation. He shyly pointed out a few things and nodded when I asked if he’s busy. Yep. And then I asked if his wife was home. And his son. I wanted to meet them. He led the way into the porch and into the little house they bought. Lovely little tidy place. And she stood smiling in the kitchen. Loretta. We shook hands and chatted for a few minutes. And then I asked. Is your son around?

They both smiled and nodded and pointed to a little side room. And there he was. A cute little boy, in a shirt and tiny barn door pants with galluses, playing with a toy wagon or horse or some such thing. I could see Eicher in his features. “Jaylon,” they called to him. The boy looked at me quizzically, as in, what’s this stranger doing here? He came to his momma, then, and she stooped to pick him up. And I told them. We’re having pizza tonight, over at Simons. Would you come? I really, really would like to see Jaylon with my Dad.

They looked at each other, like Amish husbands and wives do. They talk without talking. And Loretta let me know. It had been a long week. She was really tired. I understand completely, I said. If you can’t come, you can’t come. But I sure would like to see that boy with his great-great grandpa. You know I don’t come around often. Pressuring with a little guilt, there. I would use whatever means I had, as long as it wasn’t dishonest. And I simply told them. I’d really appreciate it if you could make it tonight. The food is on me. I’d be honored if you would come and partake. I don’t know what did it. Maybe they sensed that I would accept whatever came, maybe that relaxed them to where they didn’t feel pressured. They told me they would come for pizza. I wanted to pump my fist. Yes. But I didn’t. I smiled very calmly and thanked them. I’ll look for you, I said. And then I got into my Jeep and left.

And the next stop came. My old friend David Luthy. I had stopped briefly the night before and told him. I want to come visit tomorrow. He seemed receptive. I had heard through the Amish grapevine. The man wasn’t doing well since his beloved Mary had passed on early last year. There were whispers. He’s losing it. He just sits around. He’s not himself. He’s in the early stages of dementia. I thought it all sounded like a hard road. And I wanted to stop in and chat with my old friend. Me and Amish Black were running a little late as I pulled into his place and parked. Right around eleven. I walked over to the door of his historical library. I figured he’d be out there. I knocked, the door opened. And there he was. We shook hands as I stepped inside.

He’s aged a good bit since I saw him last at his wife’s funeral. He has the somber eyes, the full shock of gray hair, and the long magnificent gray beard of a full-fledged Amish patriarch. We’ve always gotten along well, which is a little strange, considering how our paths diverged. Still. The man is my friend. And I was there to see him, to see how he’s doing. We immediately began talking and catching up, pretty much where we had left off the last time we talked like this.

A brief tour of his library. That’s his natural setting. That’s how he visits best, when he’s showing you around his place. I had heard, from my contacts in Lancaster. David was shipping much of his collection down to his buddy, Amos Hoover, the Black Bumper Mennonite. Amos lives here in Lancaster County, and he stores his vast archives of historical documents up on the hill at Fairmount Library, over at Fairmount Homes. And David told me. Amos Hoover had been there just a few days before. They had boxed and loaded several tons of historical documents and shipped it all back east to Lancaster County. David still had a lot of good stuff there, though. We walked into the darkened room, there on the north side of the library. It’s where he stores old Bibles, old Ausbunds, and many reproductions of the famous Dirk Willems scene. The classic Anabaptist nonresistant hero who turned back and showed true Christian love to the guy who was hunting him down to kill him. Dirk rescued his pursuer, who had broken through the ice and was drowning.

A little bunny trail, here. I’ve always been a little skeptical of that Dirk Willems tale. Well, ever since I discarded the errors of Anabaptist theology, I have. I’m sure there’s something to it. But how did Dirk escape over the same ice that broke through when his pursuer followed? And when he turned back and pulled the poor guy out, how could that happen? Why didn’t the ice break under the weight of both men, when it had just broken under the weight of one? I don’t know. That’s one of the most famous scenes in all Anabaptist lore and legend. I heard that story from the time I could understand what was being preached in a sermon. David had probably close to a dozen reproductions and original pencil drawings hanging on the wall in that north room. I just looked and admired, of course. Didn’t express any doubts or skepticism whatsoever. Didn’t seem like the proper time or place.

David was in fine form that morning. The details of history rolled from him in a continuous stream as he expounded on this piece and this item and that book. After the north room, we walked through several other rooms with rows and rows of empty shelves. His life’s work is being transferred to another place, where it will be kept safe. I nodded and listened as he talked and talked. We circled around to the front door of the library, then. It was time to head on, I told him. I have a few other stops to make. We sat there on a bench, and I sensed that he wasn’t finished. And he wasn’t. Right then, as I was fixing to walk out the door, right then he began talking of his memories of his beloved Mary. And when that window to his past was opened to me, I stayed back and settled in to listen.

I won’t share a lot of the details, because what he told me was spoken in private. He told me of the journey from the beginning, when Mary was diagnosed with an aggressive form of liver cancer in the fall of 2016. The doctor’s verdict to them both, addressing Mary. You have months to live. There is nothing we can do. We can alleviate the pain, but that’s about all. David spoke then, of how she quickly sank lower and lower. And he told me her final words to him. A day or so before she died. He was wiping her brow when she woke up from her coma and whispered to his ears alone. It was a beautiful and powerful moment when it happened and it was deeply moving to hear the account firsthand. As we were winding down one more time, I made noises to leave one more time. But he wasn’t quite ready to let me go.

“Come inside, to the house,” he said. “I want to show you her things, and the last card she wrote to me.” Of course, I said. So I followed him across the drive into the big old two story house he had built for his bride, way back when they got married. I can’t remember that I was ever in your house before, I told him. Always before, when I stopped in, you and Mary met me on the porch. I never got invited in. I’m sure it wasn’t planned that way. It’s just how it happened.

It was a simple house, and simply furnished. He led me over to the far wall in the kitchen. On the china hutch, that’s where he had laid out some of Mary’s favorite things. A special cup and saucer she had treasured. A few other items. And the card she had written to him soon after the cancer came. David told me. He had never, never imagined that she would leave this earth before he did. And when she left, he figured he didn’t need to grieve. That’s what got him. When he finally went to the doctor to see why he wasn’t sleeping, he was told. You are suffering from suppressed grief. It’s OK to let it out. It’s OK to cry.

He showed me the corner bedroom, where Mary had spent her final days. This was the room, but not the bed she died on. He moved that out. And we talked about it and chuckled a little, of what it is for a man to live alone and cook for himself. I know a little bit about that, I told him. He knows my story. And there was one hilarious and embarrassing moment. He was showing me something there in the kitchen. I bent over, and my butt hit the glass chimney of a kerosene wick lamp sitting there on a stand. I had not seen it. The glass chimney crashed to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces with a great clatter. I was horrified. Mortified. Embarrassed. Here the man had invited me into his house for the first time ever, and now I go and clumsily break his lamp. He waved it off, though, and laughed. I went and got the broom and dustpan and we swept it all up. “I’ll have a lot of fun, telling this story,” David said. I groaned, then laughed. I’m sure you will.

And with that, it was time to leave. On to the next stop. I was running a little behind, but that’s how it goes. It all worked out great, and the day rolled on. Jumping right over to late afternoon. By four, I was racing back from town to go pick up my pizzas from Edna’s bake shop. Country Flavour-Rites. I want to get that name out there. It’s well worth your time to get there if you’re anywhere close. Edna smiled and greeted me. She looked a little tired. She had just closed up at four. She and her helpers had fixed fresh new pizzas to fill my order. AND she had sold all the other pizzas in the cooler. The woman is a busy bee worker, I’ll say that. She fetched my six flat boxes from the back cooler and set them on the counter. And she added a few trays of tarts to the stack. “On the house,” she said. “This is my contribution to supper tonight.” Wow. I appreciate that a lot, I said. Thanks. And I set the flat boxes in the passenger’s seat of my Jeep and headed west and south across the community. Over to Simon’s place. Over to where Dad was. Over to where the others were coming tonight to eat. I felt it stirring inside me. The little man-child was coming, too. The moment was approaching. Something would happen. Or it wouldn’t.

I pulled up and parked outside the door of Simon’s house. Opened the passenger’s door and carried in the six large flat boxes. Kathleen smiled and smiled. She was mixing up a large salad to serve for supper, too. “I’m not sure how much to bake these,” she told me. “I’ve never heated prepared pizzas before, like this.” Maggie was bustling about, too. Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, I said. And I thought about it, then. Do you have some place to keep ice cream, if I run to town and get it? I asked Simon, who was sipping some coffee before heading to the barn to do the chores. He shook his head. No freezer. They had an ice box. Well, that won’t work, I said. That’s not cold enough. I guess I’ll have to run and get the ice cream after we eat pizza. You can have a little break between the first course and dessert.

I wandered over to Dad’s little house, then, and sat on the couch. Dad was puttering about, not particularly doing anything. I can’t recall that I saw him writing at all on this trip. Of course, I wasn’t out there all that much, either. We visited, me and Ray and Dad. Maggie was in and out. Dad had requested fried potatoes and eggs for supper, so she was busy fixing that. At five, I took my multivitamin, to break my fast. And I snuck over to the big house and swiped one of those tarts Edna had donated for supper. Delicious, those things are. Just totally loaded with sugar. Soon it would be time for people to get here. On the couch, there, talking to Dad, I was strangely calm. I had done what I knew to do, to make things happen. It was out of my hands, now. I could do no more, except be ready.

And soon a buggy came in the lane, stirring a small cloud of dust behind. I watched. Was this Jonas and Loretta? The buggy pulled up. It was Edna and her mother, my sister Rosemary. They had arrived. Turned out Joe had gotten back from his peddling route in Tillsonburg. But he was just too tired to go away for supper. So Rosemary came with her daughter. That’s fine, I said. I’m happy you could make it. We sat around on chairs on the deck, talking. Inside, the six large pizzas were baking in the kitchen stove. Soon the food would be ready. I scanned the lane to the north. Just checking. And sure enough, there came another horse and buggy.

It was Jonas and Loretta and their son, Jaylon. And my niece, Eunice, Loretta’s Mom. They had arrived. They were here. They tied up the horse and came strolling up to the deck. I greeted them. Hey. I’m really glad you made it. Before you sit down, here, do you want to go see Dad? He’s inside his little house. They smiled and shook my hand. Sure. Might as well get in there and see if Jaylon still knows his great-great grandfather. And here was the moment, coming at me. I led the way into Dad’s little house. Jonas and Loretta followed with their son.

The scene is surreal in my mind. I suppose it will always be. Here it was. The thing I had talked to God about. The thing I had asked Him for. It was here. Now. In this little room, in this little house. Dad was sitting at his table. Dad, I said. He looked up. Look who’s here to see you. Your great-great grandson. Jaylon Eicher. They came for supper. He smiled and backed his chair away from the table a few feet. He smiled again. “Hello, little boy,” he said, in his most jovial voice.

They were ninety-four years apart, this man and his offspring. The boy was blood of my father’s blood, five generations removed. And Dad made a motion to his lap. I watched. Would the boy be held? His mother moved in and asked softly in PA Dutch. “May he hold you?” He squeaked in protest and clung tighter to his Mom. No. He did not want to be held. Not by this old man. Loretta paused. And then she set her son on the floor, a few feet from Dad’s chair. Jaylon stood there, lingering close to his Mother for a moment. Then he pattered with tiny steps to the back of Dad’s chair. Around and around. I slid over to the opposite side and slipped my iPhone from my shirt pocket. I had turned it on outside. Now I held it discreetly at the ready.

Jaylon toddled around the chair in a half circle, glancing furtively at Dad as he came. And Dad looked down at him. I saw the boy was going to do it, by the smile on his little round face. I lined up my phone and clicked as Jaylon Eicher smiled and waved at his great-great grandfather. Dad smiled and waved back. I glanced quickly at the screen and saw that I had caught a real slice of the moment. I wouldn’t check it out much closer until later. But I knew I had captured something special.

Back into my shirt pocket went the iPhone. And right that moment, the air kind of whooshed out of me, too, like a basketball deflating. I felt exhausted, all at once, as the realization sank in. It had actually worked. The Lord had honored the desire of my heart. God. Thank you. You opened an impossible door. I am grateful. And I am a fortunate son, to get to witness and preserve such a moment in my father’s life. History will judge that this picture was the reason for my trip. I have no children to carry on my name. I never will have. Still. If I get nothing else accomplished in life, two things will survive long after I am gone. Two things will speak to the fact that I lived and walked this earth. My book. And this photo.

The evening rolled along, then. And it was all beautiful and good. Simon and his sons carried out a table to a picnic spot west of the house, under some trees. And chairs. Lots of chairs and benches. The pizza was served piping hot and devoured with much acclaim. After eating a couple of slices and salad, I told the family. I’m running in to Aylmer to buy ice cream. Does anyone have a favorite flavor? And I was told. Just get what you want. So I did. Those tarts were delicious with ice cream, I gotta say. Sugar and all.

In the west, the sun sank into crisp and glowing skies as we sat around the fire and just talked. Yes, they had a fire. It wasn’t that chilly, but a fire seemed right. I nudged Dad with a few stories, or the start of them, and he finished the telling. Most of the details were just as I had remembered. You get Dad started, he’ll go back in time and relive all kinds of things. Sure, I’ve heard the stories before, but it’s always good to hear them again. Rosemary and Magdalena chimed in, too, with tales of the old “Halloweeners.” Back in the day, you hid your buggy behind the barn on Halloween Eve so the evil young local English toughs wouldn’t drag it off. The younger generations in Aylmer have no concept of how that was and how it went.

It gets dark late in summer, up there in Aylmer. They’re further north than most places in this country. And people made noises soon to go home. Rosemary and Edna left. And soon I saw Jonas and Loretta gathering their little son. They were ready to go home, too. I walked out to the deck with them and thanked them for coming. They smiled. They had enjoyed the evening. I said good-bye to little Jaylon, too. For as small as he is, he sure had been an important part of my day.

I pushed Dad back across bumpy the yard to his little house. And by 9:30, I was ready to head back to my room at the Sweet Magnolia. Get some sleep. I had a long drive tomorrow. I chatted with Dad a bit as he settled there in his little house. We shook hands, and I hugged Maggie and Ray good-bye. They would head out late this evening, starting for home. And then it was back to town for one more night.

Promptly at six the next morning, my iPhone alarm buzzed. I was half awake by then, anyway. I got up, showered, and dressed in a fresh shirt. The third one on this trip. That’s all I would have needed. Maybe next time I’ll bring less stuff. (That’s a joke.) I packed my bags and checked one last time to make sure nothing was left behind. Then I walked down the two flights of stairs. Grabbed another bottle of Canadian water from the fridge. No one stirred as I quietly stepped out onto the porch and softly pulled the door shut behind me. The Sweet Magnolia. Maybe I’ll see you again.

I loaded my bags on the back seat of Amish Black. My Jeep was gassed up and ready to go. The June skies were clear and blue as I pulled out to the road and turned east into the morning sun.

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A Resting Place…

Now I lay me down to sleep.

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take…

—Children’s bedtime prayer

_________________________

An ordinary Monday morning at work. I was rubbing the sleep from my eyes, from the weekend. Not that my weekends are wild or anything. Not anymore. And not that I was up late and running around the night before. I wasn’t. I’m about as meek and mild as a lamb these days. Still. It takes a little time to get unlimbered, to get in the flow of things on a Monday. And you just never know, what the first day of the work week will bring at you.

I had just got off the phone when the doorbell jangled. I got up to take care of the customer who clumped up to my counter. An old friend, who has bought from me sporadically over the years. I smiled and greeted him. Good morning. I don’t know if the man ever was a cowboy, but he could have been. He’s tall and lean and bald with a long and majestic gray beard. He’s impeccably polite, neatly dressed in jeans and lumberjack shirt and cowboy boots. He stands ramrod straight, no slumping. And that morning, he was after the usual. Some white pine siding. That’s pretty much what he always buys from me. A few dozen pieces at a time. That’s all I’ve ever sold him, I think, those white pine boards.

I knew he had retired a few years back. He had told me when it happened. And now, this morning, I asked him a little bit about how that’s going. How’s life treating you? Staying busy? He chuckled. “You know,” he said. “I wasn’t sure how it was going to go, back when I retired. But I got more to do now than I ever did before. All kinds of projects to fix up at home. And you know what? That’s the way I like it.” I agreed. Yes. You gotta have something to work on, something to stay focused on. Otherwise, you’ll just wither up. And that’s no good. You’ll waste into nothing.

I don’t remember if I ever told the man about my book. I might have. Might have sold him a copy, even. I just don’t remember. But I must have talked to him about going up to Canada to see my parents, over the years. I’m sure I mentioned to him when Mom died. And I’m sure he was genuinely sympathetic. He remembers what I told him a little better than I remember the telling, I think. And he asked, right there, just kind of out of the blue. “How’s your Dad doing?”

And I told him. Dad’s doing pretty well, considering he’s ninety-six. He’s staying with family, up there in Canada. I’m fixing to head up to see him, later this month or sometime in the next. But to your question. He takes a lot of care. Every day. A lot of attention and a lot of work. When you’re as old as he is, everything takes time, to get done. Everything takes effort, and it takes energy. I’ve wondered sometimes. I respect the Amish for the way they take care of their elderly. Well. The way they take care of their own across the board. Including the elderly. In that culture, you live at home and you die at home. As much as possible, anyway, you do. Still. I’ve wondered sometimes if it wouldn’t be just as good when you get really old, to go stay in a retirement home where you get professional care and attention. I don’t know. I just don’t know, anymore.

The man nodded and leaned in on the counter. Something I had said stirred something down inside him. And he told me. His Mom is ninety-four. She has full blown Alzheimer’s. Sounds familiar, I said. He went on telling me. It got to where he just couldn’t give her the care she needed every day. She lived at home, and she wanted to stay there. But a few years ago, he had made the decision. And he had placed her in a “home” where they were staffed with professional help. And she was pretty comfortable there. He drove by every day, to see her. She’s getting bad, and can’t remember things. It’s hard, when she doesn’t know him. Still. He was grateful that she was at a place where she could be cared for by trained people. She was in a resting place. And she was as comfortable at this stage in life as he could make her.

And we stood there, he and I, face to face across the counter. Most real talk comes down in a place like that, in the natural flow of ordinary lives. And I told my friend. I know how that is. That’s how it was with Mom, too. She died back in 2014. She was completely out of it when she passed. And at the end, she took a tremendous amount of care, of time and effort from my sister and her family. And the community, too. I wondered back then. Would she have been as well off in some nursing home? I don’t know. I sure don’t judge any family who makes that decision. I just don’t. It’s too personal. People do the best they can with the options they have. Life has way different circumstances for you than it does for me. That’s just how it works.

My friend paid up and left, then. And that little conversation triggered a few other things that were stirring around in my head. I’ve thought about it often, in the past few years. Well, I think a lot of things, watching my father grow old. I’ve seen how hard it is, to walk that road. I’ve felt for the man. Used to be he could do pretty much what he wanted to, when he wanted to do it. Back through most of his life, that was how it was for him. Now he’s old. And now he can’t. It’s like the Scripture says. When you are old, a child will lead you by the hand and take you to a place you do not want to go. Now, today, the simple things in life aren’t that simple anymore. Everything is a production, everything has to be planned out. From getting up to cleaning up to sitting at the table and eating a meal. It all takes a lot of time. And it all takes the care and attention of someone else. That’s life, when you’re old. This I can say, from watching my father.

And I’ve wondered. Would Dad be better off in a nursing home of some kind? A place that is geared to taking care of you when you’re ninety-six? Why would one not at least consider such a thing? Can it really be that wrong?

Such a thought is anathema to the people I come from, of course. The Amish. One of the very few groups in the western world who have hung on to the traditional concept of what family is, going way back before there was any government “assistance” for anyone. It’s simply ingrained into their thinking from the way things always were. We take care of our own. Family is the first line of defense. Backing that up, that line of defense, is the church community. Culture and religion mix. And the bottom line when it comes to taking care of family is this. You don’t stick your old people in some antiseptic nursing home where they’ll be ignored. You don’t take someone from old familiar surroundings and put them in a place where they will wither and waste away. It’s just not done. Not in our world.

We are people of the land, the Amish say. The earth sustains us. We know we are but dust, and to dust we shall return. The land is our home on this earth. We live at home. And if there’s any means possible, if there’s any way to make it happen, we choose to die at home, too. That is where we lived. That is where we will lay down to rest. And that’s our resting place. And when all that is all you ever saw or knew from the time of your youth, it’s hard to grasp the thought that there might be another way. Another path that is just as right.

When you get out of the Amish culture, when you get around the Plain Mennonites, there they do it. There, it’s pretty much accepted, to place old people into a retirement home. It’s not always done, not by a long shot. But it is done. Their youth often go into “service” working at such homes. Way back after I left the Amish and moved down to Daviess, it was a pretty common thing. People I knew, good friends of mine, went away to work a year or two at Mountain View Home in Virginia. And there’s Hillcrest, in Arkansas, too. Both those places served as a “meet market” for Beachy and Mennonite youth, almost on par with Bible School. I’d say they still do, although I have been away from those circles for decades. Such things generally don’t change much.

Years ago, back in 1990s, I visited Mountain View Home over a weekend to see some friends who were working there. I was fairly impressed with the place. It was clean, well run, and the old people who lived there seemed about as content as an old person in a retirement home could be. I had just started college at Vincennes. I remember attending the Beachy church service that Sunday morning in the Mountain View community. And how the bearded Beachy “bears” looked at me a little grim and suspicious, I thought. Might have been my imagination. I never hung around that world long enough to really tell. Of course, those grim Beachy bears would not have been surprised at all that I didn’t stick around. They could tell I was being drawn out into the “world,” what with me going off to college and all. You don’t do that when you’re on the proper humble Beachy path. Not in those days, you didn’t, anyway. It’s probably a lot more accepted now in Beachy circles, to go to college.

A little side road, here. Well, it might end up a detour. The other week, I got to texting my old friend, Amos Smucker, the horse dentist. We don’t see each other that much since I quit drinking. I used to hang out at Vinola’s all the time, and he’d come over to meet me there. And we got together and talked a lot. Just to be clear. He hung out at the bar because I was there. Not because he hangs out at bars, much. Don’t want him to get in trouble here with his lovely wife.

Anyway, we try to stay connected in other places now, too. Me and Amos. I mean, I still eat at Vinola’s once in a great while, and we usually meet up for that. A few months ago, I wrote about going to the gun show with him. And he told me the other week, in his text. He was going to see his father-in-law the next Saturday morning. He thought I might be interested in going along. Of course, I said. I knew about his father-in-law. I couldn’t remember his name, but I knew the man was over a hundred years old. And I remembered how Amos had told me a few years ago at the bar. They were placing the man into a retirement home over in Ephrata, right around his hundredth birthday. I had listened to the story at the time, but it never really sank in. Not until that day, when Amos asked me if I wanted to go with him to visit. And I didn’t hesitate. Sure. I’ll go talk to a hundred-year-old man just about any time, I told him.

Saturday morning. A beautiful sunny day. Amos was stopping by around ten. I drifted out and about, ran some errands. Picked up some shirts at the dry cleaners. This and that. And by 9:30, I was back home, waiting for my friend. Just before ten, I saw his old car pull in. Amos waved as I walked out. We took off and were busy talking until about a mile down the road. Then he asked, abruptly. “Did you bring a book, for my Dad in law?” Well, no, I hadn’t. Never crossed my mind. But I definitely think I should take him one. Let’s go back and get one. And back we went, to my home. I threw a couple of books into my trusty messenger bag, and we took off again. North and east. Around Ephrata, then off on a side road. And Amos pulled in and parked. It was a Mennonite Rest Home. A spacious low flung place with different wings, looked like. We got out. I shouldered my bag and followed Amos across the parking lot and into the front doors.

It’s been a while since I walked into a place where old people live. The lobby was bright enough, and the place smelled clean. Still. There they sat, willy-nilly, in a rough half circle. And scattered about randomly. Old men and old women, hunched and scrunched over on their chairs and wheelchairs. Bent over and leaning on canes. I thought of a scene from Thomas Wolfe, where he vividly described the dust and ashes of old age. “They had been young and full of pain and combat, and now all this was dead in them: they smiled mildly, feebly, gently, they spoke in thin voices, and they looked at one another with eyes dead to desire, hostility, and passion.”

And that’s exactly how these people looked. They had been young once, all of them, and filled with passion and desire. Now their eyes were dead. Some of them seemed alert enough. Some glanced at us. Some stared into the distance. Others stared blankly at nothing. A few attendants flitted about. Plain girls in flowery cape dresses, wearing head coverings, smiling cheerfully. A shiver sliced through me, a premonition of something cold and lonely and dark. Lord. Please don’t ever let me live long enough to end up in a place like this. Or if I do, please make sure I got access to lots of whiskey. It won’t matter much either way at that point, I don’t reckon. This I pray from my heart.

Amos strode through the lobby like he’d been there before. I tagged close behind, clutching my McDonald’s coffee. Black and hot, it was. Off into a hallway, then, and down the hall. Not far. A door stood ajar, and Amos stopped outside. Knocked. Called out. “Hey, anyone home?” Someone shuffled about inside. A voice called to us, high and thin. We walked in.

The place was small, but roomy enough, I guess. Like a motel room, really. A bathroom walled off in the corner. A bed, desk, and some chairs. A table against the wall. And the man who lived there stood from his easy chair in the corner. He walked to greet us. He sure looked spry enough. Aaron K. Martin. That was his name. Mennonite stock. Old Order and Black Bumper. Clean shaven, like almost all old blood Plain Mennonites are. Somehow, Amos had connected with Aaron’s daughter, Velma. Amos comes from pure Amish blood, over in the Conestoga area. Velma is pure Black Bumper Mennonite. It’s extremely rare, that the two cultures mix in marriage. Amos turned to me and spoke my name. “This is my friend, Ira Wagler. He’s one of David Wagler’s boys.” The old man looked a little blank about that. Then he smiled and shook my hand. He seemed wiry and alert. He was also 102 years old. That right there was astonishing to me.

I took a seat, there at the end of the bed, beside the table. And we sat and talked, me and the old man. Aaron K. Martin. Here he lived, in this old people’s home. He looked to be in fantastic shape for having been around over a hundred years. And it wasn’t planned, any of it. But somehow, he spoke a few words in his native tongue. Pennsylvania Dutch. I talked back the same way. Comfortably and fluently. I’ve kept the mother tongue. Made a conscious effort to keep it over the years, by speaking it when I’m with my siblings or with people from my background. It greased the skids with Aaron. His eyes lit up. And we got to visiting about a lot of things.

He’d heard of my Dad, he claimed, when I asked him. Well, I had to nudge him a little. You know, the David Wagler who started Family Life. The magazine. Oh, yes. I saw in his eyes, that he had heard the name. And I asked him a lot of questions, then. About his memories of his youth. He was born in 1916. That was during the first World War. A long, long time ago.

And he told me, when I asked. He was born into the horse and buggy Mennonites. Back then, pretty much everyone drove a horse and buggy. And some people in his church decided it was OK to have a car, back when he was a boy. It didn’t seem like that big a deal, that he remembered. But then some people had a problem with the car. And the church split, right there. His parents went with the car faction that would later be known as Black Bumpers. His father was a businessman. And he was fairly well off during the Depression, when a lot of people weren’t.

We chatted right along. In a moment like that, you never quite realize how rare it is, what you’re seeing. And that’s fine. You have to walk naturally into every situation. So we just talked. I asked of how it was, when he was young and running around. And he told me. Just before his eighteenth birthday, his father bought him a car. Back then, Ford started off with the Model T. Then came the Model A, and after that, they made the Model B. I had never heard of the Model B, but I took the man’s word for it. His father bought him a Model B Touring car with a curtain top. For the grand price of $185.00. It was used, over a year old. And I don’t know if I heard the old man right, but I think I did. When it rained, he had to stop and snap the curtains over the side windows, too. That seemed strange to me. But I just nodded. And he told me, too. The car had no heater. The roads were mostly dirt, except for Rt. 322, which was paved pretty early on.

We talked about church things, too. Still in our native tongue. And along at some point, the old man asked me. He was making small talk, is all. “Are you married?” Well. What was I going to say to that? No, was my first response. He looked surprised, until I told him. I’m divorced. I wouldn’t have had to tell him that. He looked a little shocked at how lackadaisical I was about it. The thing is, I made up my mind long ago. I will never flinch from who I am. I won’t pretend to be someone I’m not. Would that have to mean that I tell an old man I’m divorced? No, it would not. But we were getting along just fine, and I felt comfortable telling him. He looked like he could handle it. So I said. I’m divorced. His eyes widened a little. And the conversation rolled on.

“Oh, well,” he soothed himself. “You’re not remarried, then?” I shook my head. He looked pleased. And again. I could have let it go and probably should have. But I didn’t. I piped up. I would get married again to the right woman, I said bravely. Or maybe it was a little foolishly. I should have let it go. Quit tormenting the old man. But something in me bristled a little, that he just assumed I’d never remarry. That’s the black and white world I came from. The Amish and the Plain Mennonites got all the answers, got all the marriage rules pretty much perfect and inflexible. Doesn’t matter who does what or who says what or who’s abusing who. You stay married. That’s why some (not all, but way too many) Amish and Plain Mennonite women stare at life somberly with hard, sad, stern faces that look like they’re set in stone. They are trapped. They have no options.

And I told the old man. It wasn’t me, that filed for divorce. I got served the papers. So I signed on the line and didn’t fight it. He smiled at me. Got a little conciliatory. “Oh, I see,” he said, relieved. “You were wronged in your marriage. You were the innocent one.” And one more time, I had to disagree. One more time, I had to shake up his worldview a little. No, I said. When there is a divorce, there are no innocent parties. Well, other than children. We didn’t have any children. I’m talking husband and wife. Sure, one might have made worse choices than the other. But neither one is innocent, regardless of how it looks from the outside. We’re all flawed. There is no innocence. He looked at me, astounded, as if he had never heard such an analysis about divorce in all his years.

We meandered off, then, down happier roads. I asked him how it was, way back when the Black Bumpers split off from the horse and buggy Mennonites. This man had seen the birth of all the Plain car churches. Everywhere. That is an astonishing thing. He saw them all because he was born before there were any. And I asked him. Where are your church houses? Are they still the same as they always were?

We meandered down a lot of bunny trails, too. Assurance of salvation was one of the man’s pet issues. And he was a little dubious at the plainer buggy people, that they shied away from the subject. The Amish and the OOMs don’t like to talk about “assurance of salvation.” They will generally make noises about having “hope” of salvation. And it seemed to be an issue with the old man, that they couldn’t see what was so clear to him. Still, when I asked about the split, about how the Black Bumpers broke off from the Old Order Mennonites, his eyes gleamed. And he told me. “There was a split, yes. But we worked it out, to where one group used the church house on one Sunday, and the other group used it the next. We have church every two weeks. So even though there were disagreements, we could still work together. That much, we could do.” I agreed. Yes, that was very peaceful and brotherly, to work out a schedule where two groups could use the same church house like that. I cheer for such unity.

I asked him a little bit about how that was, to move into a communal home like this after a lifetime of living free on the outside like he had. He smiled wryly and admitted. It had been a struggle for him to adapt, early on. But he had done it. And he liked it well enough, the lifestyle here. That’s what he told me, and I believed him.

It was getting time to wind down. Soon lunch would be served in the dining room. Amos and I made noises to leave. I reached into my bag and pulled out a copy of my book. I want to give you this before I go, I told Aaron. He smiled in thanks. I signed the book and handed it to him. He allowed that he’s not much of a reader, but he’ll look over what I wrote. I’d be honored, I said. As I was, that he accepted my gift.

Amos and I left then, walked back outside into the beautiful sunny day. And I couldn’t help thinking of the old man and my father, in the same thoughts. Aaron K. Martin and David L. Wagler. They are both in a place that very few people ever see. Dad was very much in the limelight in his journey among his people. Aaron labored in obscurity in his. One lived with the “hope” of salvation. The other lived with “assurance.” I bet they’d get along pretty well, now, anyway. Without a lot of fuss and argument.

Age has a resting place. Well, I guess it does. Dad lives with members of his family in their homes. Aaron lives in a retirement home. Both seem about as content as one could expect. Both are functioning decently well. Aaron is in better shape than Dad, physically and mentally, even though he’s six years older. Which is a lot, when you’re 102. Life is really random, like that.

And the logistics would probably be impossible, but I can’t help but think to myself. I sure wish those two men could meet.

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

A brief update, here. Some of you may remember when I wrote back in 2015 about my sister, Magdalena. Early that year, she was diagnosed with stage four cancer. It had riddled her body, all through. She was in really bad shape. She bravely told us. She would not do chemo or radiation. She would leave this life with integrity if she had to go.

We trekked down, all of us, to take our leave and say good-bye. Even Dad insisted that he wanted to make the trip, the thousand miles down to see his daughter. We all went, at one time or another. There was little question in any of our minds that Magdalena would not remain long on this earth.

She went on an intensive natural treatment regimen with essential oils. She sank pretty low. And then a strange thing happened. She started improving. And by late that year, the cancer had left. She was healed. Cancer free. We all marveled and shook our heads in amazement. Miracles still do happen, we saw for ourselves. Magdalena has remained healthy since that time. She is entirely cancer free, which, again, is just astonishing.

And sometime along the way since then, she was interviewed about her journey. The story was professionally produced. It’s short, only six minutes or so. And I know how that is, when you speak on camera for hours, and the final result is edited to a few soundbites. Many of the details you spoke get left out. But still. It’s a powerful story, in my sister’s own voice and in her own words. Here’s the link. I’m proud of her honesty and her unabashed gratitude to the Lord for the miracle of healing and the blessing of life.

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Skipping Church & Other Sins…

Such had been the history of the old man. His life had come up from the

wilderness, the buried past…The potent mystery of old events had passed

around him, and the magic light of dark time fell across him.

Like all men in this land, he had been a wanderer, an exile on the immortal

earth. Like all of us he had no home.

—Thomas Wolfe

___________________

The question seemed innocuous enough, when I first saw it. Posted on an online forum as I was scrolling by. I barely gave it a passing glance. But then I stopped. Scrolled back up. I saw the words again, absorbed them. Read them again, slowly, to make sure I wasn’t missing something. It was a simple question. And it simply asked, exactly as follows: Staying home from church when you could otherwise go is a sin: Yes or No.

I don’t usually get ensnared by little polls like that. It’s just not worth the hassle or the energy it takes to get involved. People get all fired up. Not that my opinion means or matters much, I guess, except to myself. Lately, though, I’ve engaged a bit more. And that day, I stopped and looked at the responses. And I was shocked to see that the vote was about 60/40, leaning the wrong way. Those sixty percent, they said, yes. Yes. It is a sin. It was a Reformed site, so I don’t know if they were talking venial sin, or mortal. Venial, probably. Or maybe that’s just a Catholic thing. But still, bottom line. Most people in the poll said it was a sin not to go to church when you could otherwise go.

And I thought about it. And I thought to myself. What’s wrong with you people? What kind of bondage are you in? Why do you insist on dragging such chains around? Why do you burden yourself with all that legal jargon? It’s like that big pack Christian lugged around on his back in Pilgrim’s Progress. You don’t have to carry it. Let it go, let it fall from you. And I just couldn’t help myself. I staked out my territory, big and bold, in my response. And short, too. I spoke it like I saw it, like I’d speak it again, about anywhere it could be spoken. Just a few words: It is most definitely NOT a sin not to go to church.

Well. My little assertion did not go over so nice. The responses were polite and good-humored, mostly. They just disagreed or went off on little bunny trails. Maybe it’s just a fault and not a sin, one commenter suggested cheerfully. Would I agree? Nope, I would not. And I kept insisting. I never said you shouldn’t go to church. I’m saying it’s not a sin not to go. We are free to go, or not. A few responses weren’t very polite. They were harsh and dismissive. If I chose not to attend church, then my heart wasn’t where it needed to be. I wasn’t right with God, I was resisting the spirit, by not assembling with believers. Whatever that means. And back and forth we went, me and one surly guy who seemed particularly perturbed at my obstinance. He didn’t change my mind. And I can say with some certainty that I didn’t change his.

We didn’t get much done that day, I don’t think, to convince each other of anything. Me and the surly one. Still. I’ve mulled over the issue a lot, since it came at me. My mind goes to all sorts of cobwebbed places. And those places are all connected by one thing. Almost all my adult life has been one long struggle, one lonely and weary slog through all sorts of rocky and harsh terrain. A protracted and relentless quest in pursuit of one simple goal. To break the shackles of legalism and walk free. Mine wasn’t a relentless pursuit of perfection, like the old Lexus commercials used to say. It was a relentless pursuit of freedom. And if you think it’s a sin not to go to church when you otherwise could, well, I have a few things to tell you.

If it’s a sin to skip your church, or any church service, anywhere, for any reason or none, if that’s a sin, I might as well pack up my things. I might as well sell my Jeep, Amish Black, for what the market will cough up on short notice. And I might as well sell all my English clothes and gather up a goodly supply of those awful barn door pants. And galluses. And shirts without pockets. I might as well go buy a Beaver brand black Sunday hat and a new Mutza suit. I might as well move back to Bloomfield, Iowa, and rejoin the Amish. Or Goshen, Indiana. I guess it don’t matter where. The Amish would still take me back, providing I was properly penitent, with downcast eyes and sorrowful face.

If it’s a sin not to go to any church on any given Sunday for any reason or none, I might as well go back to living under the law. Because that’s exactly what you’re doing, if you ever, ever go to church because it would be a sin not to. You’re living in fear of negative sanctions. Punishment. If you don’t walk right, the Lord will smack you down. He’s just waiting for you to fall, to fail. And you’ll pay when you do. Maybe you’ll even lose your salvation, if you’re not more careful. The horror is real. That’s how it feels when you’re living under bondage and in despair. That’s how it feels to be chained and shackled to the law.

You may or may not attend a church for many reasons, including no reason. Whether those reasons are actually valid is between you and God. Look to your own heart. Your reasons for attending might be as wrong as you figure mine are for not. I know how it is, not to go to church. I’ll never forget those dark and brutal days back in 2007, right after Ellen and I blew up our marriage. I quit going to the church we were attending, the early version of Chestnut Street Chapel, there in Gap behind the clock tower. I told my friends there. I’m leaving. I’ll be around, but I won’t be back until I’m ready, when and if that ever happens. And to a person, every one of my friends at Chestnut Street accepted what I told them. They didn’t preach or tell me I was sinning. Every single one of them respected my wish to be left alone. I hunkered down at home. Home and work. That was my world in those days.

I’ve thought about it many times, since. How many churches would have been that understanding? How many groups would have extended the grace I saw and felt from my “family” at Chestnut Street? Not a lot, I don’t think. There are protocols to follow, formulas to plug in. If a brother strays, go admonish him. Do this, say that, and tell him how it is. Show him the Scripture where it tells you to do what you’re doing, admonishing him. All in love, of course. Chestnut Street was young enough and raw enough that there weren’t any established procedures for running after and pestering a backsliding brother who wouldn’t “come to church.” I wanted to be left alone. They left me alone. I knew they were there, if and when I was ever ready to return. They stood aside in silence. That’s one of the hardest things to do. They gave me my space without judgment and without condemnation. Sometimes real Christian love is such a simple thing as that.

I didn’t walk away from church entirely. Just Chestnut Street. Somehow, I eventually wandered into the structured magnitude of space that is Westminster Presbyterian Church, over on Oregon Pike. A huge sanctuary with lots of seating, and a balcony on three sides. I got to going to that place about half regular. I always walked in just a moment before the service started. Walked up the stairs and way back to a far corner of the loft. And there I sat, alone, and listened to the worship. The people there sure liked to sing, seemed like. And I sat in that back corner and listened to the preacher preach. Dr. Michael Rogers was a plump and learned man, dressed in a formal black robe. High Church, compared to where I was from. And Dr. Rogers was a faithful servant of God. He simply preached the gospel. He never had any idea of who I was or that I was even there. I soaked in his words, took them with me and absorbed them in the daily grind I was slogging through. And I never let anyone near me in that place, there at Westminster. I always got up as they were singing the last song and walked out of there.

I can’t remember that I got to know more than a handful of people’s names in that congregation during all that time, during all those days when I was wandering pretty far out there in the wilderness of life and all that life can be sometimes. I expected nothing from those people at Westminster. Still, during that time in the wilderness, I heard one lone voice as I heard no other. And that was the voice of Dr. Rogers, standing up there in his black robe, faithfully proclaiming the gospel. That right there was a powerful and significant thing, in retrospect. Much more so than I could possibly grasp in the moment.

I was about as unsupervised and unaccountable as I could have been. You always hear wise trite things about accountability. How you got to have it, to walk right with God. Well, I didn’t have it. I’m not saying accountability is wrong. I’m all for it. But I am saying there are times when most of us slog along without it. As I was walking in that moment. I didn’t go to the services at Westminster when I didn’t feel like it. Sometimes, the day was too hard, the road too long to get there. Sometimes, I didn’t see the inside of that church or any other for weeks on end.

My world was bleak and desolate. And when you’re stuck in such a world, you simply absorb the desolation around you. You feel it, taste it, hold it close to you. Trace it all the way down to its roots, and then you slowly start pushing it back. Working your way out. And that was me, in those days. When I didn’t feel like going to church, I didn’t go. When I didn’t feel like hearing Dr. Rogers preach, I didn’t. As Thomas Wolfe would say. Was all this lost? Or to rephrase Wolfe. Was all that a sin? To stay away from church, when I otherwise could have gone? If you are sitting under preaching or teaching that such a thing is a sin, you are in bondage. I don’t know of any clearer way to speak it. That right there is bondage. Get out. Walk free.

I go to church regularly. Chestnut Church, out on Vintage Road. We moved from behind the Gap clock tower out into the country, to a real nice church house that got gifted to us. There, I “assemble with believers” because I want to, not because it would be a sin if I didn’t. And there at Chestnut Church, Pastor Mark Potter faithfully proclaims the gospel every Sunday. Patiently, persistently, joyfully, he proclaims. He keeps insisting that the church is a hospital, not a country club. And there is one particular refrain the man has hammered hard over the years, like a blacksmith at his forge. About addictions. Pastor Mark preaches like he always has. And he says. When you are a child of God, nothing can ever make you not be. Nothing. And so it’s safe to bring your problems to God. Tell Him. He’s your father. He’ll never get tired of listening. And if there are things in life too hard to face, if the pain is too intense, if you drown reality in alcohol or drugs, well, bring that to Him, too. Try to stop. Tell Him you want to. And try. If you fail, try again. Talk to Him again. And try again. And again. And again, and again.

What does what Pastor Mark preached have to do with going to church or not? Not a whole lot, I guess. Still, it triggered something in my memory. And thus a little bunny trail back to last summer, when I was drinking as heavy as I had in a long time. Hard. Every day. And there were a few Sundays when I woke up and the last thing I wanted to do was go face anyone at church. I didn’t feel guilty or anything. I just didn’t feel good. Well, as you don’t, when you’re all bloated and sluggish. And so I just stayed home, those Sundays. Slept in a bit, even though my sleep was extremely broken in those days. And by late afternoon, I was ready to head out and start the process all over again, to dull some of that intense inner pain. And I did, like clockwork. Every day.

And I often thought about it back then, hearing the good Pastor’s words about talking to God and trying again and again. Yeah. A fat lot of good that’s done me. Talking. Or trying. Over the years, I have tried and tried and tried to quit drinking. I even stopped, cold, a few times. The longest I ever quit was just over two years, back in 2006-07. It was one of the last-ditch things I did, to “save my marriage.” Quit drinking. It saved nothing. And after my world blew up, the lure of the whiskey, those shades of delicious amber fire, drew me right back to the bottle.

It’s all so easy to rationalize, the reasons why. I have seen hard and broken roads and so much sorrow and loss. Plus, I write. Writers drink to dull the pain of what they have seen and lived. And relived, in the writing. The real ones do, anyway, the ones I like to read. (Or they did, back when they were alive. Wolfe drank heavily, right up to his extremely unfortunate and untimely end.) That’s the crutch I used. And I settled in my cups, pouring vodka and scotch on the rocks from bottle after bottle, day after day, year after weary year.

The thing is, Pastor Mark never told me I was “sinning.” He told me I was God’s child, and that nothing could make me not be. And he told me to try again. Not directly, as in getting in my face. But in his sermons, he told me. Try again. And again, after that. And again. And again. It got so that I barely heard him when he spoke those repetitious words. Yes. It was nice that he thought God could or would help. But it just was what it was, with the whiskey and me. We were connected for life, I figured. And sure, it was a choice. I never claimed or thought anything else. But it was a choice I didn’t feel much motivated to change.

Until it all changed, kind of on its own. I wrote about it after it happened. I decided, one Tuesday evening back in late August. After I talked to the guys about it, at our Bible Study. I need to do something about the whiskey. I’m not sure how or what. Later that night, I decided. Tonight, I won’t have a drink. And the next day, that day I didn’t have one, either. And things just took off from there. It’s approaching nine months, now. It’s still for today, for tonight, and maybe tomorrow. Not much further out than that. Just enough to keep walking without a lot of inner noise or stress. So, nine months it’s been, this new stretch of road. Which means very little, statistically. I mean, it was over two years, before, that I was dry. And the day came, after those two years had passed, when I went out one night and bought a bottle of single malt scotch and took it home.

The past may be prelude to the future. I don’t know. Still, you gotta start somewhere. I have no idea what sweet whiskey lullaby the sirens will sing at me, down the road. I guess I’ll see, down the road. I’m OK with that. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. I never made any promises or vows to anyone. Not to any person. Not to God. I’m kind of whistling along, here. Right now, today, I’m feeling pretty good. And right now, today, I’ll keep walking.

Bunny trails are always so tempting and inviting. The point I’m trying to get to. All through that time last summer when the whiskey flowed hard and heavy, all through that time I felt totally free not to go to church. I knew there would be no committee meetings, no vote on who is going to see Ira and admonish him about not coming around to assemble and worship with true believers. I knew that no growling deacon was coming to poke around and smoke me out. I was free to go to church, when I went. And I was free not to go, when I didn’t. If anyone ever tells you it’s a sin to skip church, any church, anywhere, at any time for pretty much any reason, don’t listen to that person. Walk away. Don’t accept the heavy burden of false guilt that others want to load on you. You are free. Walk free.

Circling back to that Saturday morning when I saw the poll question online. It was a little ironic, what happened later that day. The comments simmered down, by afternoon. Most were good-natured. It was interesting, to see what people thought. The grim ones remained grim. It’s a sin, not to go to church if you can. I felt sorry for anyone who felt that way. And that afternoon, I was running errands here and there, when a text came pinging in. From my friend, Steve Beiler, over close to the goat path west of Leola. Stop by if you get a chance. OK, I texted back. I’ll do that.

Steve and Ada Beiler are old friends, from way back. I’ve known them for decades. They attend my church, there at Chestnut. And I have one particular memory, from back in those harsh and heavy days, right after Ellen and I split up in 2007. She had left, moved way out to Phoenix. And I hunkered down alone, at the home we had shared for seven years. I hadn’t shown up in church for a while. I wasn’t looking to hang out with much of anyone. Sometimes you feel like being alone, and all you want is to be left alone. That’s where I was.

And I remember. After a few weeks or so had passed, I got a call from Steve one day. He didn’t say a lot. Guys don’t speak a lot of words to each other in times like that. But that day, Steve called, and I answered. We chatted a bit, and he told me. He figured it was about time to connect. Would I like to meet for coffee? Um, sure, I guess, I said. I felt pretty ambivalent about it. And we agreed on a time, a few nights later.

We met at a little coffee shop in the shopping center just off 501, beside Rt. 30. Of an evening. I’m not sure if it’s still there or not. I hardly go to that area at all. I remember some of the specific things we talked about, sitting at a table, drinking coffee. It was dark when we walked back out to the parking lot. And I remember how we gripped hands just before I got into my truck to drive back to my home. Not a lot of words were spoken. But a lot of things were silently expressed. That’s where Steve and I have been together, a place like that.

I pulled in and parked my Jeep outside Steve and Ada’s house. They were sitting in the office. They have a bunch of beautiful daughters and one sturdy son. I’ve watched all the children grow from the time they were babies. I walked in and took a chair. We chatted. And after a while, Steve looked at me. “Come along with us to Dover tomorrow,” he said. I half gaped at him. Dover. The Monster Mile. They are big, big Nascar fans, Steve and Ada. I used to be, much more than I am now. Nascar isn’t all that exciting to watch, anymore. I mean, it’s three races in one. Stage one, stage two, stage three. It all seems a little watered down. Anyway, here I was invited to skip church the next day and go watch the race.

I thought about it. I haven’t been to a Nascar race since camping with friends inside the oval at the Poconos, back in 2010. That’s been a few years. It’s about time to go again, I thought. Especially when I can go with such good friends and hang out for a day. The old me would have flinched a little, hedged back. Made introverted excuses. Not the new me. Sure, I said. I’ll go. And they both smiled. Noises were made, then. Could I drive my Jeep? Gaaah, I thought. Those crowds are going to be crazy, getting in and out. But still. What’s a new black Jeep for, if you can’t take it to Dover to watch the race with friends on a Sunday? And I said, sure. Again. I can drive. I guess I was on a roll, there.

And they told me, before I left. Pack a few things. Snack bars and such. You can take a backpack in, and a water jug. No glass bottles, though. Well, there went the whiskey I figured to sneak in. Just kidding. I headed home and just putzed around that night. By nine, I had retired. I figured to get up earlier than usual, for a Sunday. I planned to pick up my friends by 7:30 for the two-hour trip south to Dover.

Sunday morning. Early. My alarm clamored. I got up and rubbed my eyes. Good grief. I usually sleep in until 8:00 or so, on a Sunday. This was more like getting up to go to work on a weekday. I got showered and cleaned up. Dug out an old camo rain jacket. That’s what I’d wear, if it got chilly. Outside, the day broke. Cloudy. I noticed the grass was wet, as was the drive. Just before seven, I sat down to put on a pair of tough leather hikers. Comfortable, since we’d park a half hour walk from the track. That’s what Steve figured. They had been to Dover before. I’ve never seen the Monster Mile, except on TV.

And right then, I heard my phone buzz. What now? I walked into the other room and picked it up. Glanced at the screen for the name. Steve. What now? I answered. Hello. Steve greeted me. And he told me. He had not purchased the tickets, yet. Those were easily available, he had told me. But he was just looking at the weather. It was raining outside, here at home. And according to the forecast he was checking online, there would be rain down at Dover, too. There was a better than even chance the race would get rained out.

Well. What do you say in a moment like that? It was going to be a long day, down there at the track. I knew that. Still. I was mentally ready to go. And still, again. The last thing I wanted was to sit huddled in the rain at any Nascar race. That just wouldn’t be any fun. So I told Steve. I’m fine, with whatever. Yesterday, I had no plans to go to the race before I stopped by your place. I can just as easily plan not to go. I’m fine, going to church. We got a fellowship meal today, anyway. (Not that I’d partake in the church meal. But I figured to sneak home a big plate of food for my one meal, that evening.) And Steve made the decision, right there. The trip to the Monster Mile was canceled. We’d go hear the preaching at our church, instead.

And there it was. Whiplash, one might suppose. Except it wasn’t. It all came and went very calmly, as things usually do when you don’t try to manipulate events. When you’re free enough to just let life flow. It was totally OK to go to the race instead of church. And it was totally OK to go to church instead of the race. It was OK, either way, whatever happened. We took all that liberty and simply walked through the door that opened. It did not matter to me, which door that was. And I couldn’t help thinking later that morning, as me and Amish Black drove through the rain to Chestnut Church.

It’s kind of fun, to be free like that.

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