Ira Wagler's Blog, page 5

The Last Ride of Devon Gingerich…

Faint, far, and lonely as a dream, it came to him again through that

huge spell of time and silence and the earth, evoking for him, as it

had always done…its wild and secret cry of joy and pain, and its

intolerable promises of new lands, morning, and a shining city.

—Thomas Wolfe

_________________

It didn’t jolt me all that bad, when the news first came trickling through. Probably because there was so little connection. It came from Old Bloomfield, the place I grew up in, and left, a lot of years ago. Nelson and Mary Esther Gingerich, I remember them faintly. The news was about their son, Devon. A son who had left home some time ago. A horseman, and a bull rider. He got stomped on by a bull at a rodeo in Nebraska. He died from his injuries a few days later. He was nineteen years old.

It took almost a week, for all the details to develop. And somehow, that final news hit me in a deep gut blow, even though I never met Devon, and wouldn’t have known him from any other stranger on the street. A clean-cut kid, from everything I’ve been told. He was tall and lithe and handsome. Polite and well-mannered. Quietly focused on pursuing his dream of being a professional bull rider. And just like that, he was gone.

I don’t know the exact details of what happened. And they’re not that important. But it hit me hard, the almost unspeakable tragedy of the loss. A young man, in the prime of his life. With so much before him. And now, his parents would have to bury their son. And that was the other thing that struck me, that I thought of. This was new territory for a lot of people. For a whole Amish community. Because for the first time in its 45-year history, the Amish community of Bloomfield, Iowa, was bringing a wandering son home, to be buried among his people. It was a powerful and brutal and touching thing to witness, even from afar, like I am.

And I thought of his parents. Nelson and Mary Esther. I knew them both, a lifetime ago. Nelson was a bit younger than me. His older brother, Mervin, was one of the original gang of six, in my book. Nelson always tagged along with the boys the next size down. I can’t remember that he ever made any problems for anyone. And Mary Esther. I can still see her as a slim and lovely young girl. The two of them met in grade school, way back, at the Amish school house in the North district, if I remember right. They fell in love then, and they never had eyes for anyone else since.

I can’t remember the last time I saw either of them. It’s been a long time. I do remember hearing it told, when I stopped back in the area, over the years. Nelson was a very good businessman. Some kind of sawmill, I think he started up. He employed a lot of people, over the years. And stored up a good bit of wealth. Which is totally fine. I admire that. You either got it, or you don’t when it comes to running a business, and building it up like Nelson did. And they raised a family, the two of them. Three sons and five daughters. Devon was the youngest son. He had two younger sisters.

And now, now they had lost a son, Nelson and Mary Esther. A son who had left home and the community, to pursue his own life. And it closed in on me like a flood, the emotional devastation of it all. How do you even tell a story such as that? How do you imagine the grief and loss and pain of these parents? From the cultural aspect of the Amish, the whole thing is especially brutal. How do you go and carry back the body of a son and a brother who left? What do you tell the weeping children? And how do I mourn with those who mourn in the world I came from, from so far away?

I don’t know, really. I guess you just tell the story.

The rodeo was in Lincoln, Nebraska, on Monday night of last week. A bit south of the Sand Hills of Valentine, where a young Amish kid struggled on a ranch, way back in another lifetime. And the thing is, I never saw much of Nebraska, other than the area around Valentine. I think the whole state is a lot flatter than the Sand Hills are.

I have few concrete details, because I didn’t really ask for them. You can tell the story, anyway. Devon was an up and coming bull rider in that particular circuit. From my own short stint as a cowboy, decades ago, I know one thing. Bull riders are a special breed. Modern gladiators. Fearless. Tough. Totally willing to take risks. I’ve always thought that maybe on another life track, that is something I might have tried. But I never got it done. Just as well, I guess.

Anyway, something went dreadfully wrong on Devon’s last ride. The bull plunged madly, as bucking bulls do. And he was thrown off. But his hand got stuck, got tangled up in the rope. I’ve seen it live and on TV. Riders getting tangled up when they get bucked off, and flung about like a rag doll. I don’t know the specific details of this particular incident, and I don’t need to. The bull finally shook him off. It was clearly evident that Devon was seriously injured. He was rushed to the hospital.

His parents were notified. Called, late that night. And the family dropped everything and traveled to where he was, in the hospital. Kept a sleepless vigil at his bed side. And there they remained, in shock, day after hopeless day. It could not be. Not their son. Not their brother. Not this young man, entering the prime of his life. It could not be. But it was. Devon never woke up. And last Saturday morning, he quietly passed on from this earth.

The story of the tragedy rippled across the vast expanse of the Amish world. And the ex-Amish world, too. I mean, the horror of it. People recoiled from such tragic loss of a life so young. And the news came then. He would be taken home. Back to Old Bloomfield. Back to where he was born and raised as an Amish child. Back to the land that held his blood. Back to his people.

And as I looked at all the circumstances around Devon’s last bull ride, I couldn’t help but see it. My own journey, so long ago. My own flight from home, from Bloomfield. I was a raw youth, rough and unpolished. And it could just as easily have happened to me, as it happened to Devon. Not that I ever rode a bull. But I did a whole lot of dangerous stuff, in a whole lot of other ways.

I thought, too. Of all those journeys, leaving home, all those years ago. The pain I inflicted on my parents, during my long and desperate struggle for freedom. And how easily that could have been me, coming home in a wooden box. Just as well as not, I could have been killed. But I wasn’t. I don’t know why. Life is random, like that. I do know it is a strange and fascinating thing to ponder. That a deeply troubled youth like me walked through the gauntlet, mostly unscathed. And that a quiet and focused and calm young man like Devon Gingerich got killed, doing what he loved. It’s like looking through a glass, darkly. One day, we shall know more fully, as we are known. This I believe by faith.

The Bloomfield community is a vastly different place than it was when I lived there. It has grown tremendously, exploding to thirteen districts, if I got that number right. It’s the largest Amish community west of the Mississippi. It generates its own economy. And now, after forty-five years of existence, it has generated its own customs, too. But this, this had never happened before, that a wandering son was brought home to be laid to rest.

And they came from all over the Midwest, the people. Friends. Neighbors. Relatives. Amish. English. Ex-Amish. I’ve said it before. An Amish funeral is one of the most unique experiences in the world. At least in the circles I come from. Because you don’t need an invitation. You can just go. And it’s like a truce, for a day. You are accepted, if not necessarily respected for being there.

I have close friends who went. It was a huge event. The viewing, the evening before. Bearded and dark clad men sitting and talking in somber knots. And the women, too, huddled in small groups across the room. You could hear the hum of hundreds of voices speaking in hushed tones.

And the next morning, they gathered, then. The main crowd assembled in a large machinery shed. For the overflow, a big tent had been set up. There would be two separate services. And the traffic clogged the roads. Buggies, by the dozens. Vans, hauling loads of Amish people from other communities. Cars and pickups, from both English and ex-Amish. They came, and they were ushered inside to row after row of hard, backless benches. And then the service. No singing. There never is, at an Amish funeral. Just two relatively short sermons.

They filed past the open coffin, then, all twelve hundred people who had come. Silently, somberly, for one last look. And then the family came and stood there, alone. Devon’s parents, and his siblings. They looked at him for the final time on this earth and wept in bitter sorrow. Men in dark plain suits came then, and lifted the coffin. Carried it outside to the waiting horse-drawn hearse. It would be Devon’s last ride. Then the long convoy of buggies and cars snaked slowly to the graveyard. The dark crowd stood, surrounding the hole in the earth. The coffin was slowly lowered with straps, then the men with shovels stepped forward and set to work. And the Amish community of Bloomfield, Iowa, laid one of its young sons to rest. A man who had wandered the earth, but now was home for good. Such a scene had never unfolded before, not in that place.

And here was the end, then, of the young life of Devon Gingerich. A lot of people will think it, even though they might not say it. It was such a waste. It’s just too bad. It could have been different. It should have been different. It was a life so foolishly spent. But I disagree. It was not.

It’s better to do what you love to do, and die doing it, than it is to trudge through life all fearful and unfulfilled. It is better to live intensely, and really live, than to let your spirit thirst and wither on the vine. Devon Gingerich chose to live. He burned through life, doing what he loved. Now he’s gone. It just is what it is. Life is life, and death is death.

To his parents and his siblings, I have this to say. To Nelson and Mary Esther and all their remaining sons and daughters. Hold your heads high. Do not be ashamed of your son. Do not be ashamed of your brother. I know the code of conduct of your people calls for bowed heads and downcast eyes in a time such as this.

Don’t do it. Hold your heads high. Look people in the eye. Your son was a warrior. Your brother was a warrior. And he died, doing what he loved. He died, following his heart. That’s more than most of us will ever be able to have told about us, after we leave this vale of tears.

And to Devon Gingerich, the gladiator, now resting in silence in the earth, I say this. I never knew you. Never knew of you, except in death. Here, on my blog, I speak your name. I would have loved to meet you. And one day, I figure I will.

I hold my clenched hand to my heart, in salute to all you were in your young life.

And to you, I say. Strength and honor.

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Sons of Daviess…

Of wandering forever, and the earth again…For what?

For what? For the wilderness, the immense and lonely

land. For the unendurable hunger, the unbearable ache,

the incurable loneliness…For a million memories, ten

thousand sights and sounds and shapes and smells and

names of things that only we can know.

—Thomas Wolfe

__________________

I remember how it all came down. Right at nine years ago, I think it was. Not that long after my own world had exploded into dark skies of dust and ashes. And not long after I started writing. The news came trickling through the family grape vine. Joseph was not feeling well. My oldest brother. The Amish preacher. He was tired a lot. Something seemed to be wrong. And soon enough, another message came. There was something seriously wrong. He had a deadly blood disease. Multiple myeloma. It was a harsh and heavy thing.

He staggered with the blow. Took it pretty hard. I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s tough, to face your own mortality. To see death lurking near, stalking close. And he grieved, as it all sank in. Wept quietly and intensely. He had just passed sixty. And he had so looked forward to settling in, when old age came. To take care of his wife, Iva Mae, who had dealt with her own health issues over the years. And now, now all those dreams were threatened. And he told his sons. If he could only last until seventy, that would be enough. It would be a tough slog. People with multiple myeloma usually hold on for a few years. It’s a semi-manageable disease. But nine or ten years would be a stretch.

Still. You can only do what you can do. He got up and washed his face. And turned determinedly forward. He would follow the doctor’s orders to the letter. He would fight for every day. As long as there was life, he would live it. This he purposed firmly in his heart.

It’s been a long journey since that moment, with plenty of hard, tough roads. The disease courses through his blood and saps his strength and weakens his bones. More than once, Joseph came very close to moving on. In November, 2015, as I walked up to the gates of death, well, we didn’t quite meet up with each other there. But we could have. At that very moment, Joseph was also in the hospital with pneumonia. He was barely hanging on. And it almost got him, before he pulled back. When my father was told that two of his sons were at death’s door, that they may not survive, he spoke in heaviness and sorrow. “I feel like Job, in the Bible. My sons are falling all around me.”

We made it back from the edge of the abyss. Both of us did. And now it is today. Joseph is still with us. He’s actually doing pretty well, considering everything. He takes care of himself. Rests a lot. He goes to Florida for the winter. He gets around in a little battery- powered cart. And perhaps most significantly, his seventieth birthday is approaching this winter. He hasn’t quite made it, yet. But the chances are looking pretty good that he will.

And a few months back, the word came from Joseph’s children, his sons and daughters. There would be a celebration. For their father’s seventieth birthday. It would be a few months early, in the summer, when it’s warm. The Yoder Reunion in Daviess is always on the third Saturday in July. The Joseph Wagler celebration would be the evening before, at his son David’s place in Worthington, Indiana. Just north of Daviess, where the Yoder Reunion was held last year. That way, you could come for the celebration on Friday night, and stay for the Reunion the next day. Or the other way around. It didn’t matter. Just come if you can. This will be a very special time for our father. That was the message from Joseph’s sons and daughters a few months back.

Well, I figured to go, back when the invitation came. And I didn’t think much about it as the date approached. And it snuck right up on me. The night before, I strolled into the Enterprise place in New Holland to pick up the car I had reserved. I whistled pleasantly to myself and smiled a secret little smile. I had reserved a compact car. But I had a coupon for a free upgrade in size. I fully figured to drive a Charger or some similar powerhouse car off the lot that evening. Maybe even a black Jeep. Who could tell, what surprises awaited me?

Sadly, things did not go well, right from the first moment. The young Enterprise man looked all harried as I walked up. I greeted him and told him my name. He punched at his iPad. Yes, he had a car for me. A compact. I have a coupon, I said brightly. Free size upgrade. He looked grim, as well as harried. “I have one car on the lot, and that’s the one I saved for you,” he said. My pleasant smile faded real quick, just like that. Ah, come on, I said. I have a coupon. It was no use. He rushed out to bring up the car.

I walked out. The car was a Hyundai Accent. A partial hybrid. It looked exactly like a little red jelly bean. I was just flat out horrified. Look, I said. I can’t go out to attend family events in a car like this. I’ll never hear the end of it. I got an image to protect. The young Enterprise man had lots of things on his mind, apparently. He wasn’t all that interested in any real solution. He told me I could call and stop at any Enterprise dealer, and they would switch me out. Now, go away. He didn’t say that, but he clearly thought it. I wasn’t very happy about any of it, but I squeezed myself into the red jelly bean and took off.

And then I frantically called all the local Enterprise places in the area. I have a compact car, I just picked it up. I have a coupon for a free size upgrade. Do you have anything for me? And every one of those places sang the same sad refrain. They had SUVs. They had pickups. But not a single place had a car I could upgrade to. At least that’s what everyone claimed. I grumbled savagely to myself. Enterprise, I have always been loyal to you. I’ve always written and spoken highly of you. Give me a break, here. If I have to drive a red jelly bean to Indiana, that’s going to make me a grumpy man.

Well, there was nothing else to do the next morning, except load up and hit the road. The jelly bean actually had interior space for my head. It was getting in that was hard. I could not do it without banging my head on the door frame every time. I merged warily into the flow of traffic on Rt. 30, then headed west on 283. The skies lurked in the west, looking sullen and angry. And sure enough, half an hour in, the heavens opened and the rain swept down in sheets. You could not see forty feet ahead. I slowed way down and just followed the tail lights of the car ahead of me. Huge tractor-trailers sloshed by, sweeping cascading waves that washed over the jelly bean like a flood. Around Harrisburg, the rain slowed. And the pavement gradually dried as me and the jelly bean skittered west on the toll road.

And on and on we went. In western Pennsylvania, the sun came out for the first time that day. The car didn’t have a lot of zip, I had to rev it up and slingshot around if I wanted to pass. Kind of like a Nascar driver, I thought. And by the time I reached the halfway point and stopped for fuel, I had figured out a couple of things. If the jelly bean had cruise control, I could not locate it. And the car apparently ran on nothing. I filled up the tank for $18.00, and kept pushing west. Through Ohio, into Indiana, then on through Indianapolis. Then about forty miles west, then south to Worthington, and my nephew David’s place. I pulled in right at six. Eleven hours on the road, riding alone.

The place still looked the same as it did last summer. Except the pond had been pushed in. I remembered David had posted about that. The pond was leaking, so he just got rid of it. Just as well, I guess. David and Barb have small children. No sense tempting the water gods. They are always lurking, looking for an easy sacrifice.

A good-sized crowd was already seated around a large camp fire. I pulled up behind the house to the shop. David’s older brother John met me there. I parked the jelly bean. John glanced at the little car, but refrained from snide comments, at least for the moment. We carried my bags into the shop. David really has that place fixed up. On the one end, there are four or five little rooms, completely self-contained. Complete with bed, a small bathroom and shower, and a tiny kitchenette. The air conditioner hummed from the window. Wow, this sure is nice, I said to John. We chatted as I hung up my shirts and washed up a bit. Then we walked out to the campground to mingle with the other guests.

John told me as we walked out. The whole gathering was a total surprise for Joseph. He and Iva planned to come and stay with Davids, then attend the Yoder Reunion in Daviess the next day. They arrived, and soon the guests started arriving, too. Joseph still wasn’t quite grasping what was going on, that a large event was about to come down in his honor.

We walked out to the large circle of people. Joseph and Iva were seated over close to the pavilion where the food would be served. The seats of honor, I guess. I walked up behind him and put my hand on his shoulder. He looked up. Surprised, I think, to see me. He’s looking pretty good. All gray haired, now. Which is no big deal, I got mostly gray hair, too. We chatted for a few minutes. I greeted Iva, too. She looked better than I’ve seen her in a long time. She lost over a hundred pounds. She took my hand and smiled and smiled. I glanced at the people seated around. Most were unfamiliar. Oh, well. Might as well do the Amish thing and walk around. So I did. Slowly made the circle, shaking each person’s hand. I wasn’t recognized by very many of them. Well, I’ve got gray hair, like I said. And a beard. And I’ve gained a few pounds. I ended up behind Joseph and Iva, seated in a lawn chair.

My sister Maggie and her husband Ray arrived, then. Me and Maggie were the only ones who made it of all the siblings, and from all the extended family. That’s just how things work, sometimes. I greeted my sister, and we hugged. I’m so glad you made it, I told her. She held me tighter.

Supper would be served soon. Grilled chicken by the master griller, Marcus Marner. Turned out we were waiting on a busload of Daviess people. They were running late. David had set up a speaker with a mic, and he started the festivities. All of Joseph’s children who were present were called up. Almost all of them made it. John, David, Reuben, Glen, Laura, Mary, and Samuel. Three were missing, I think.

I can’t recall the exact sequence of events, but at some point all of Iva’s siblings who were present and their spouses came and sang a song. The Monroe Hochstetler family. Monroe and Mary lived in Aylmer for a few years when I was a child. That’s where Joseph and Iva met. Some in that family I had not seen in many, many years. We reconnected that night, and the next day. Anyway, then all of the grandchildren who were present came up and sang songs to their grandpa and grandma. Glen’s wife, Luann, had coached them well. Their eager childish voices rang out. Joseph smiled and smiled.

David had called me that day on the road. And asked. Would I say a few words tonight, just before we eat? Something in honor of my brother. I felt dubious, but didn’t let on. Sure, I said. I’d be honored. If I was going to say a few words, I’m glad he told me when he did. That way, I would mull over things, and figure out what to say. My time with the mic would be brief. I don’t like long-winded speeches.

After the children sang, David spoke again. In the meantime, the bus had arrived from Daviess. A large crowd of friends and relatives emerged and lurked at the back around the edge of things. David introduced me. I walked up and took the mic. And I spoke a few words.

That day, on the road, I thought of a little incident between me and Joseph. Way back when I was eight or nine. I was saving up to buy a BB gun. Nickels, dimes, quarters, any kind of change I could hoard to reach that distant goal of ten bucks. And one day it was discovered. Joseph had a box of candy bars in his closet in his room. It was Titus, I think, who told me. “He’ll sell you one for ten cents.” So that evening, I approached Joseph, clutching a precious dime. Can I buy a candy bar? I asked shyly. Joseph smiled. “Yes. Yes, you may,” he said. I gave him my dime and he gave me a candy bar. A few days later, I went back for another candy bar, splurging another precious dime. And a few days after that, again. Joseph was always patient and kind. Somewhere along about the fourth time, he kindly suggested something. “Do you think if you keep buying candy bars, that you’ll ever get enough saved to buy that BB gun?” I don’t remember much else, but I remember those details.

And that’s what I spoke, there with the mic. And then I told Joseph I have always admired him in many ways. And I wished him health and happiness for many years to come. The whole thing took no more than a few minutes. After I was done, David called on my cousin, Thomas Schrock, to speak the prayer and blessing. Thomas took a minute in the prayer to thank the Lord for Joseph, that he was still with us. And then it was time to eat.

An enormous feast had been spread on the tables under the pavilion. Grilled chicken and all the fixings. I wandered about as the line formed for the food. Iva’s brother Sam Hochstetler walked up to chat a bit. “I read your book four times,” he told me. I was mildly astonished. Well, there must be something in those pages, if you got drawn back to read it four times, I told him. And I thanked him. There are a million other choices out there, when it comes to books. If you choose to read mine, I’m always grateful.

All right. Moving right along, then. Or this blog will get way too long. As I mentioned, a lot of people from Daviess showed up. John and David had invited many relatives and many of Joseph’s friends. One of the more notable things. Mary and Eva Sue Wagler, the spinster daughters of my late Uncle Noah and Aunt Fannie Wagler, were among those who came from Daviess. Those ladies had not crossed the border line out of Daviess County in more than thirty years. Until tonight. They came to honor Joseph. We all greeted them with joy and wonder.

And Aunt Sarah, Mom’s younger sister, held a seat of honor, too. After getting my food, I sat beside her at a table. We chatted. Sarah is as sharp as ever. She recognized me, even with my gray hair and beard. The Daviess people had fetched along three large tubs of homemade ice cream. Few desserts are more tasty than hot fresh cherry cobbler and homemade ice cream.

After supper, I just wandered here and there, visiting. Off to one side, my nephew John was holding an animated conversation with some Daviess people. I walked up and inserted myself. Turns out the Daviess guys were my cousins, from Dad’s side. Kenny Wagler and his brother Loren. The sons of Wallace (Wally) Wagler, the son of Dad’s late sister Magdalena and her late husband, Joe. I think I got that untangled right. Anyway, John and Kenny were deeply immersed in a discussion about Daviess blood and the Daviess people. My ears perked up. John introduced me. And we all sat around and talked.

Kenny knows a lot of people from a lot of places. His passion is genealogy. And I soon realized that I have only one other friend as knowledgeable about such things as Kenny was. My friend, Amos Smucker, the horse dentist, right here in Lancaster. He can give you names, dates, places, what blood crossed what blood, and family lineages that go back generations. He never gets tired of talking about any of it. Some day, I’m going to connect those two guys, and stand aside and listen.

When it comes to Daviess, there’s not much Kenny does not know. Daviess has the most concentrated blood in this country, he claimed. There are only four bloodlines, from which all the Daviess people come. Wagler. Graber. Knepp. And Lengacher. Every single person who was born in Daviess, or has parents who were, like I do, comes from those four surnames. That blood has crossed so many times that Daviess now has its own unique medical problems, just like Lancaster County does.

The Daviess people took off for home before too late. Before they left, John had made arrangements with Kenny and his father, Wally. Tomorrow afternoon we would drive down to Daviess and pick Kenny up. We would then go over to visit the Stoll graveyard, where many of my ancestors rest. That will be exciting, I told them both. I’m sure looking forward to it.

After the crowds had drifted on, we sat around the campfire, just the extended family. I caught up with my sister Maggie. Off to the side, David and half a dozen other people picked guitars and sang. And there was a harmonica in there, too. The setting was calm and peaceful, the kind of thing you remember for a long time.

Saturday morning. Breakfast would be around the campfire around nine. I showered and wandered out for coffee. John had a large black pot hanging over the open fire. I lifted the lid and peeked in. Sausage was simmering. There would be gravy. I looked at John suspiciously. Are you sure you know what you’re doing? John looked indignant. Of course. We sat around and drank coffee and munched on homemade Amish donuts. John soon added flour and milk to the sausage and stirred the whole mess with a great wooden spoon. I was impressed. I didn’t know the boy had it in him, to cook up a batch of gravy like that.

Reuben Wagler and his wife, Barbara, came from the house, then, carrying large pans of fresh biscuits and scrambled eggs. John carried the large black pot over and set it on the table. And we feasted on a good old country campfire breakfast. Crumple the biscuits on your plate, throw some scrambled eggs on the side, and cover the whole thing with rich thick sausage gravy. Spread ketchup liberally over the top, and you got some food seriously worth eating.

We lounged around then, just catching up. Soon after one, David brought his big new bruiser of a van around. We piled in, all the guys. David drove, I rode shotgun. John, Rueben, and Glen sat in the back. The rich southern Indiana corn fields flashed by as we approached it from the north, the land of my father’s blood.

Off onto a small gravel side road, then, to pick up Kenny. The Daviess Amish keep their places neat. Not freakishly clean, like the blue bloods of Lancaster do. But nice and kept up. We pulled in past the big shop where Kenny and his brother manufacture little sheds and barns. Kenny came bounding from the house in a few minutes, clutching a book of some kind. The Amish in Daviess County, Indiana, by Joseph Stoll, my cousin. “The most informative book ever written about Daviess,” Kenny claimed when I asked him about it.

We drove south on Montgomery Road, then east, past K&K Trusses. Then down a side road and over. And there it was, on the right. The Stoll cemetery. I had seen it before, but not for years.

We pulled up and parked just outside the ancient double gates. Metal framed with mesh wire. It was a beautiful, beautiful sunny day. A little over warm, even. I unhooked the chain, and we walked in. And I absorbed the breath and feel of that place. Here. Here they were buried, so many of my ancestors. Here was their final resting place. John S. Wagler, the original migrant from Canada. His sons, including Christian, who died by his own hand. A serious stain on the family name, that was. And Joseph K., my father’s father, who got overheated and died on the threshing wagon, unloading bundles onto the threshing machine. Waglers, Stolls, Grabers, Lengachers, Knepps, and a host of others. All of them slept here, on this hallowed slab of land.

The night before, Kenny had told us a little story. Well, there were many stories. This was one. A long time ago, there was a certain man who lived in Daviess. Kenny spoke his name. Peter Wagler. The son of John S. Anyway, Peter decreed that he and his wife did not want their graves marked. No gravestones at all. He felt too humble to be remembered like that. I stared hard at Kenny, when he spoke the story. That doesn’t make a lot of sense, I said. I think it’s silly, for any man to say such a thing. You should never be ashamed of your identity. Kenny looked grieved. He thought Peter was very humble. Nah, I muttered to John. That was actually a form of pride, if you ask me. Peter was proudly humble.

The man wanted to be obscure and forgotten. So no gravestones were ever set above him and his wife. That of course assured that his story is told and retold today, just like Kenny told it to me. And those plots were among the first ones pointed out that day, out by the fence under a tree. “Here they are buried,” Kenny told us. “Peter and his wife.” And it struck me again how requesting an unmarked grave could well be and probably is a form of pride.

Soon after we arrived, Kenny’s father, Wally came striding over from his farm across the road from the graveyard. Wally carried the same book about Daviess history that Kenny had with him. So we had two copies to consult. Wally is the man who oversees the graveyard. Makes sure it is maintained and mowed. He lives right across the road. He’s been involved in that work for many years.

We wandered about. Here was my great grandfather, Christian Wagler. The man who shot himself in the head at age thirty-six. Wagler blood is brooding blood. And Christian carried the curse of that brooding blood to the ultimate conclusion. I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. I sure wish someone at the time would have taken the time to just simply write the details of Christian’s death. He was a deeply haunted man, that much is clear. Still. What was he like, in the last months? The last weeks? The last days? Who saw and heard him speak in his last hours? No one knows. All of it is lost, the journey of his tortured soul. And here is where they laid him down for the final time. Right here, on this spot.

Wally and Kenny led us here and there. Toward the back of the graveyard. We stood, and listened to them speak. Story after story flowed from them. There was one irritating factor. Directly beside the graveyard, and I mean right on the property line, there was a long, new building. Amish neighbors. The new building was a dog kennel. Little yapping dogs ran in and out of their exercise areas. Barking and barking and barking like demons. The incessant noise was beyond annoying. It was maddening. John and I grumbled pretty savagely at Wally and Kenny. Those dogs should NOT be right beside the graveyard like that. I mean, what are people thinking?

Reuben and Kenny had connected the night before, at the celebration. They both love genealogy. Reuben long ago subscribed to Ancestor.com. And as he and Kenny discussed a certain name on a certain gravestone, Reuben got out his smart phone and did some quick research. I saw him and Kenny hovering over the phone, discussing what they were seeing in lots of detail.

And over here, kind of toward the front, there was a nice new gravestone. Replacing an old worn one. And it connected, when I saw the name. Sarah Lengacher Wagler. My grandmother. Dad’s mom. She died in 1963. And I stood beside the grave and reflected that I had stood close to this spot before, way back when I was two years old. It’s one of my very earliest memories. Not standing right there. But attending Grandma’s funeral.

I don’t remember Dad’s mom as a person. I do remember seeing her lying in a coffin, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. And I remember the train trip to the funeral, from Aylmer to Daviess. We traveled through the night, and there was no water to drink. I cried and cried and begged Mom. I want water. She sliced an apple and gave that to me. It was the closest thing she had to offer as water. And now, here I stood, at the grave that was filled that day so long ago.

We had to be moving on. We had another stop to make, then the Yoder Reunion at five. Still. We walked around, stopping now and again to check out another gravestone and listen to another story from Wally or Kenny. Under an evergreen tree up close to the front, Kenny pointed it out. The gravestone of John S. Wagler, the original Wagler who migrated from Canada to Daviess. It was a tiny, nondescript stone. And Kenny told us a little tale.

When he was a young man, he talked to a 90-year-old woman in the Daviess community. She was still sharp, Kenny claimed. And she told him. When she was young, she saw and knew John S., the Wagler patriarch in Daviess. The original Wagler. She told Kenny. John S. was a small man. Shorter than his wife. It was all just astonishing to me. Here stood Kenny Wagler, my cousin. And he had connected with a woman who knew the original Wagler in Daviess. It’s just fascinating, to think about that.

We could have spent much more time there, seeing our ancestors. And listening to the stories. But we had another stop. The old home place, where Dad was raised. It was about four miles away, right around the corner from Parson’s School. I wanted to stop by the old home place, because of something I had heard was there that I had never seen before.

My brother Stephen told me, a few years back. He had stopped by. And out behind the barn, he had seen it. Way back, an addition had been attached to the original barn. And in the mortar between the blocks, Stephen told me, there were some initials scratched. The addition was attached to the old part of the barn back in 1933. When Dad was twelve years old. He and his brother Abner had scratched their initials in the mortar. It was all inside, all protected from the weather. And you could see it clear as day, Stephen claimed. And that’s what I wanted to see. My father’s initials that he scratched into the mortar between the blocks when he was twelve.

Wally made noises to walk back to his home, but we invited him to come along. We’ll bring you back. It’s not a problem. So he agreed, and got in the van with us. We cruised through the Daviess countryside, and pulled into the old home Joseph K. Wagler place. I had been here before, many times, but not for years.

My cousin Ray Wagler, who now owns the home place, ambled out to greet us. We had seen him the night before, at Joseph’s celebration, and we had told him we were stopping by. I guess we kind of invited ourselves. We all piled out of the van. And the first thing we talked about was the death of Joseph K., on that long-ago day when they were threshing. Wally and Kenny and Ray pointed out the spot in the barnyard where the threshing machine was set up. Joseph K. was working on the straw stack. He got real hot, and wanted to get down. He started walking to the house for some water. His youngest daughter, Rachel, met him in the yard. She was heading to the fields with water for the men working there. Joseph K. took a long drink of the water she had with her. She left. And Joseph K. got up onto the wagon beside the threshing machine, to help unload. Within minutes, he collapsed there on the bundles. His son-in-law, Peter Stoll, grabbed him as he slid off the wagon. He was carried to a little shed nearby. It was too late to do anything. He was gone. It was surreal, to stand on the spot where all of this had come down.

Ray then led us through the barnyard to the addition on the back. And there, in the mortar between the blocks, there they were, clear as the day they were scratched in, 84 years ago. My father’s initials. DW. And his brother, Abner’s. AW. And the date. 1933.

It was time to wind down this part of the day. We loaded up, and headed out to take Kenny home. And I asked him. What’s the most common Amish surname in Daviess? He didn’t hesitate. “The most common blood is Knepp. But the most common surname is Wagler,” he said. “The Waglers had more male children, to carry on their name.” I marveled. Daviess has right at thirty church districts, if I remember right. And Daviess has to have the largest concentration of Waglers anywhere in the world.

I shook Kenny’s hand as he got out. Thanks for the time. This was a fascinating day. And then, back to Wally’s home. We dropped him off. He was telling stories pretty much right up until the time we pulled into his drive. We thanked him, too, for his time. Our Daviess cousins who we never knew. I mean, how does such a thing ever come to be? Better to connect late than never, I guess. It had been a very memorable afternoon.

And then, we drove over a few miles to the church where the Yoder Reunion was fixing to come down. Just before five, we pulled in. I saw many of the people I had met at last year’s Reunion. Aunt Sarah was there, smiling as always. And soon we were feasting on food that could only have come from Daviess County, Indiana. Their cooking is absolutely unique. It’s the food my mother raised us on. Some of the most delicious food in the world.

We left before it got late, then. The Yoders don’t usually hang around long, at their Reunions. By nine, we were back at David’s home in Worthington. With Joseph and Iva, and all their children who made it. And Maggie and Ray. And me. We sat around the campfire and talked. I could feel the tiredness sapping into my bones. I headed for my room and bed by eleven. Tomorrow, the jelly bean and I had a long drive ahead of us.

I slept fitfully that night. Tossed and turned a good bit. The alarm rang right after six. I groaned. I don’t feel like getting up. But I did. No one else was stirring, after I got cleaned up and loaded my car. No one else but one man.

It was my brother, Joseph. I had told him I would leave around seven. And he was out there, puttering around in his little battery-powered cart. Waiting for me. After I got loaded and was pulling out, I stopped close to where he was. He pulled up to my driver’s side window. We faced each other in the fresh morning dew.

He held out his hand. I reached out and grasped it. He thanked me again for making the long trip. Eleven hours. Stay one day. Then eleven hours back. He was still coming to grips with the fact that all those people had assembled on Friday night, just for him. I wanted to come, I told him. I wanted to be here. We chatted for a few minutes. And then it was time to leave.

I pulled out of the drive and pointed my car north, to the interstate, then east. Home is where the heart is. And I was heading home. But now and then, the heart will roam far and free to hang out with family for one day.

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The Child in Town (Sketch #18)

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

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

…back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed

everlasting but which are changing all the time — back home to the

escapes of Time and Memory.

— Thomas Wolfe

______________________

They walked in that morning at work, about a week ago or so. An Amish father and his son. I greeted them cheerfully, just like I try to greet everyone who walks in through those doors. They walked up to where I was, the father and his son. And the man told me. He needed some trim, to cover the sliding door track out by the silo, where he fed his steers. That made him a farmer. And we chatted right along about farming and such as I wrote up his invoice.

The boy hovered close to his Dad. Subconsciously. He wasn’t scared. Just in a strange world. And his eyes were drinking in every detail around him. There was something so symbolic about the two of them, standing there in front of me. And in that instant, it kind of rolled back on me, how it was in my own childhood, when it was my turn to go to town with Dad. I saw it again, in the wonder in the little boy’s eyes. Today it was his turn. He was enjoying every second of his adventure. And he would have all kinds of tales to tell his brothers and sisters, when he got back home.

I couldn’t help but smile at the boy. He was probably six years old, a miniature of his father. Galluses and straw hat, even down to the same color shirt. I smiled to myself about that. That must be a hifalutin’ Lancaster County thing, that any mother had the time or inclination to make sure her husband and son were dressed alike, right down to the same color shirts. Mom was way too busy with other things to ever worry about whether my shirt was the same color as Dad’s, back when I went with him to town. She never worried about anyone’s shirt colors, except on Sundays. That day, she made sure we wore white. Because that’s what she saw the men in her world wear, as she was growing up. It’s Amish tradition.

And it’s kind of funny, why a white shirt on Sunday was a big deal to Mom. She was pretty adamant about it. Because that little issue was a pet peeve of the Stolls of Aylmer. They were always poking and prodding around, trying to dig up ever more strict and strident ways to please the Lord. And somehow, they worked up a grudge against wearing a white shirt to church on Sundays. I suppose they were that way in part so they could separate themselves from some of the traditions they judged useless. Sinful, even, they told themselves. And so it came to be. The Stoll men liked to wear a blue shirt to church.

Mom wasn’t having any of that. White is what her boys wore to church. Always. White.

And I’ve thought about it now and then, over the years. Pondered things in my heart. It never really made any real difference, when it came to pleasing God. Whether you wore a blue shirt or a white shirt to church. It was just the idea, that the Stolls kept stirring around, and stirring around. Nothing was ever quite good enough, and nothing was ever really stable. It was all a lot of shifting sand. I think that’s why Mom reacted as strongly as she did.

Peter Stoll and his sons were among the original settlers of the Aylmer Amish community. And that community would be forever stamped by the wild strange deeds of their wild strange Stoll blood.

Aylmer was a great shining city on a hill, at least in a lot of people’s minds. The Stoll blood was a big part of the pride and passion of that shining city. A preacher and a deacon and more preachers were ordained from that family. Elmo Stoll was ordained to the pinnacle of power in the Amish world. A blue-shirt guy who became a bishop and a powerful leader. He wrote great moral lessons, instructing us all. As did others of the Stoll blood. Sadly, there was no referee there with a whistle, when the Stolls were riding high and strong those many years. I guess the referee was late, getting to the field.

Be that as it may. Back to the father and his son who were dressed alike in Lancaster County one day last week.

The boy hovered close to his father, but his eyes were drinking in every detail around him. And when I say hovered, I don’t mean he was clinging to his father’s shirt tail. He wasn’t. He wandered off the side on his own, there at the counter. To the next space over to my left, where I keep my little model pole barn. I had it built to scale, way back when. And we all use it to sell buildings, to point out construction details. I have a miniature tractor stuck in there, and a small horse stall, with a model horse. The little Amish boy was beyond fascinated by that little model building.

That thing attracted the boy like a magnet, pulled him away from that safe little radius he mostly kept around his father. He stood there and stared up into that little toy barn with wide and radiant eyes. You could tell. He was measuring the setup in his mind. Imagining how it would be, to have this barn at home. And you could tell he could tell it wasn’t going to happen. But, boy, did that kid have some stories to tell his siblings that night at home, I figured later.

And I looked at that little boy, and I watched him. And I saw it again, from the wonder that shone from his eyes. It came back to me, how it was in my own childhood, when it was my turn to go to town with Dad. It was a big, big deal. In more childhood worlds than just mine, apparently.

And I thought to myself. I sure remember how that was, back when I was his age. Just looking at that kid, there are a bunch of bunny trails I could go down, if I had half a mind to.

We took turns, me and my siblings, in the world we grew up in. We took turns at a lot of things. Of course we did. There were eleven children. A small army, when you think about it, that my Mother had to nurse and nurture, and my Father had to feed. And, of course, too, the older ones were meandering on into adulthood, by the time I came along. They knew what turns were. And I got to know, too, from the traditions that were established long before I was born.

I remember exactly how that was, to take turns to go with Dad, when he went to town. It’s a big, big deal, for any little Amish boy or girl to go to town. Dad usually headed out late on a Tuesday afternoon. He’d get his shopping done, then stop at the Aylmer Sales Barn on the way out. It was a huge deal, a great adventure, to go with Dad into the great and glittering world that was the town of Aylmer.

And you go from that world to the world I am in today. From what I see now, the town of Aylmer is practically a hovel. A bedraggled string of small stores lined up on the east and west sides of a crossroad with a stop light. We always heard that crossroad called a “square” when I was growing up. And that’s what I always thought a town square looked like. A crossroad. It wasn’t until we moved to Bloomfield, Iowa, that I ever saw my first real town square. All the stores were lined up around a city block, with the courthouse in the middle. That’s what a classic town square is. I never knew that, when we lived in Aylmer.

And I remember one of the first times I was ever allowed to go to town. It wasn’t with Dad. It was Mom who took me along. I’m talking memory, here. I’m sure Dad took me along before this memory, when I was very small. But on this trip with Mom, I was probably three years old. I’m thinking we went with an English driver. And I don’t remember a lot of the sights and sounds of that little excursion. Except one. The Canadian Tire store, just north of the square. Mom took me to the back of the store. And there, on the south wall, were shelves and shelves of shiny new toys. I remember the big bright plastic dump trucks.

I was a little curly haired Amish boy with large brown eyes. I stood and gaped at those bright new gleaming toys. And Mom smiled and gave me a dollar bill. “You can buy any of those toy trucks you want,” she told me. I remember that a clerk, or someone who worked in the store, came around and stood and talked to Mom. The clerk smiled and smiled as I picked out my toy. And when we got to the checkout, I proudly handed over my dollar bill. I’m not sure it was enough to pay for my truck. But I am sure Mom quietly paid the difference if it wasn’t.

And I took my toy truck home. And told anyone who would listen. Look. Look at what I brought back from town.

And now, back to the counter last week, for a moment. I smiled at the little Amish boy, standing there with his father. He smiled back, hesitantly. Almost, I was tempted. Say something to him in PA Dutch. His home language. That would surprise him, I bet. But I bit my tongue.

I’ve learned long ago not to let an Amish stranger know that I can speak his language. Nothing good comes out of that, usually. Besides, this guy looked like he came from the south end. He’d get all startled and suspicious if I spoke to his son in his native tongue. All kinds of awkward questions would follow. Had I ever been a member of the Amish church? Am I in the bann, excommunicated? It just wasn’t worth the time it takes to say, no, no, no. Yes, I was baptized Amish. No, I am not in the bann. They gape at you like you’re insane. I’m just done, explaining all that.

So I smiled at the little boy again, and turned back to finish my business with his Dad. Speaking all English, of course.

And right back now to the bunny trails. Taking turns was a good way to keep order and to keep life halfway fair, for us children. I see that, from here. And it was a good system. Dad always took one child with him. I rarely, rarely remember going to town with another brother or sister. It was just too much hassle for Dad, probably, to keep track of more than one of us at a time. And it was OK. The system worked.

Before you started school, you didn’t take turns, much. You were home all the time, and you got to slip along with Dad when your older brothers weren’t around. Only after you entered first grade did the real “turn” concept kick in. Near as I can remember, anyway.

And your turn was a sacred thing. I can’t remember that Dad ever denied a trip to town as punishment for the sometimes massive mischief we boys got into. I do remember the bitter disappointment of having a trip to town yanked out from under me. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. It’s just how it happened.

I was in first or second grade. Six or seven years old. And we had just gotten home from school one fine spring Tuesday afternoon. I think it was spring, because the sun was shining, and it wasn’t cold. And Dad was getting ready to head to town. The horse was hitched up to his rattletrap top buggy. And I guess he thought it was my turn. So he told me. “Get ready, you can go along to town.”

It wasn’t my turn, and I knew that. But the glittering vision of a trip to town with Dad made me less than honest. I never said a word. Just got all excited. All right. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here, before anyone can say much of anything. My brother Titus heard all the commotion, and he figured out what was going on. He came around, looking a little grim.

“It’s not your turn,” he told me firmly. “You went to town with Dad two weeks ago. It’s my turn.” And he turned to Dad. “It’s not Ira’s turn. It’s mine.” No, no, I protested. But I could feel the great shining adventure getting yanked right out from beneath my feet.

Dad looked at me, then at Titus. “Well, if it’s Titus’ turn, he can go along,” he said. I looked very sad. I don’t think I cried right there, as Dad and Titus trundled out the lane, and west on the gravel road to town. I did walk out behind the corn crib where no one could see me. And there I sobbed bitterly, wiping my eyes with a grimy fist. I shouldn’t have taken it so hard, probably. Titus was totally right. It was his turn. But that’s just how big a deal it was, to get to go to town with Dad.

And that’s how it went, as time went on. We took turns to go just about anywhere. Rhoda and Nathan entered the rotation when they started school. And eventually we grew out of that mode, too. I was probably twelve or thirteen, when I decided I was a little too big to ride with Dad to town. And by that time, my brother Stephen had turned sixteen and was running around with his own horse and rig. He slipped into town at least once a month, sometimes every few weeks. And it was just a matter of catching a ride with him, now and then. Never asking permission from Dad. Taking turns was for little children. And Dad never made much fuss as we grew out of that tradition. I guess he figured his boys were growing up and he wouldn’t interfere too much.

And back to the counter last week, one more time, for one more moment.

We finished up, then, me and the young father. He paid me, and I handed him his paperwork and told him where to go to load. They walked out the door, the little boy half a step behind his Dad. And no one thought much about any of all that. Except I couldn’t help but go back in my head, back to a little slice of life as it really was. And you see it when you see it. Some things never change.

Fifty years ago, a father and his young curly-haired son walked out into the beautiful sunny day, from some store in town. Fifty years ago, a young boy clung close to his Dad, as they stepped out into the street. His wide and wondering eyes drank in every detail around him. He was on a great adventure. And he was sure going to have some tales to tell his siblings when he got home.

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A Frozen Moment in Time…

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

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

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

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

—Thomas Wolfe

______________________

The photo came from nowhere, earlier this week. From my brother Jesse, from his home down south. He must have been rummaging around some old boxes, digging through some memories. And he posted a few pics on the family page on Facebook. A few pictures of scenes from Old Bloomfield, when Jesse and his family visited in 1986. Yes. Interesting. But then he posted the pic that made me sit bolt upright in my seat.

It’s a picture of my parents, Dad and Mom. David and Ida Mae Wagler. A pastoral scene really, on a sunny summer morning. They’re on the concrete walks, coming out of our old house to the east. Jesse snuck the picture from the kitchen window, on the second floor. With a real camera. There were no cell phones with digital cameras back then, that you could hide easily. So Jesse had to snap the photo with a real camera. And the scene he captured struck me hard in a place deep inside my heart. It was a place I had not seen in such a raw and real way in a long, long time.

(t almost looks like a painting. You can click it to enlarge. Then click again.)

It’s the most casual of moments, frozen forever in time. And yeah, I know. Every photograph ever taken was a frozen second in time. The difference is this. There are no photos of my childhood world, my Amish world. Or very, very few. And there certainly have been no photos of Dad and Mom in the same scene. Such a thing was just an impossibility, where I grew up. I mean, it’s such a simple thing. Yet so far away. And that’s why it hit me so hard. It’s a scene I have lived and seen and felt a thousand times in real life, a long time ago. But I’ve never relived it, not quite like this.

1986. It was a fateful year for me. A brutal year. A year fraught with memories and nightmares. It was a year where so much came down, on one of the final stages of my long and tortured journey to break free from my people.

I thought they were old, then, my parents. And from my perspective at that moment, I guess they were. Both were gray-haired. Dad limped, and was slightly stooped. Mom, well, Mom was just Mom. Her smile always made her seem young, when she wasn’t, anymore. The astonishing thing is, I’ll be where they both were then, if I live another ten years. There is no new thing under the sun, King Solomon wrote. And it is true. He saw his own journey into old age. As did my parents. And I am approaching the door. It’s all pretty astounding, when you think about it.

Back the picture. 1986. That spring, I fled Bloomfield. After the Stud had passed, and I buried him in the brushy hillside by the creek. After I realized there was nothing left to keep me here. Not even my horse. After I broke my solemn promise to Sarah, to love her and protect her all our lives. And after we sat on the banks of the pond and talked, and after she spun that woven ring I still have today.

That was just the beginning of 1986.

And now, here is an old photograph from that year, a picture I saw for the first time early this week. An old shot of film, from an old camera. A mere fraction of a second, frozen in time. Yet that second in time triggers so many vivid scenes in my mind and memory. Scenes of darkness, and scenes of light.

It was a sunny summer morning, in 1986. And sometime that summer, my brother Jesse had made plans. He would pack up his family and go up to Bloomfield to visit Dad and Mom. A fairly rare occurrence, back then. It took fortitude, for the non-Amish children to even make the effort to go home and visit. Bloomfield was full of Amish bears. Dad was among the fiercest of those bears. It seemed like he grumbled and growled a lot when his wayward children came around.

They preached it, in Bloomfield. I can still hear John Yoder as clearly in my head, as when I heard him shout it in a sermon. When your rebellious children send flowers to their mother, that doesn’t mean there’s any kind of love involved at all. It just means they’re trying to soothe their guilty conscience. They know better. The roses should be rejected. Sent back, or dumped out in the trash. That’s a pretty brutal place to come from. It’s where Dad was in 1986.

So home wasn’t all that warm or welcoming to Jesse and his family. Except for Mom. She loved her children, all alike. And she always, always welcomed them to her home. Her heart was open. I guess that’s probably why Jesse even made any kind of effort to go visit his parents, back then.

He and his wife, Lynda, packed up their family. Loaded up the van, and headed north from their home in Abbeville, SC. It was probably a short trip, time-wise. After two days or so, Dad’s face got noticeably darker. And the air around home got increasingly chilly, even on the hottest summer day. So the “wayward” children never hung around that long. Looking back, I marvel that any of us ever made much of an effort to even go back home. That’s how unwelcoming Dad was. It had to be our Mother’s heart that drew us back. It had to be her openness, her smiles of welcome, her unflinching love.

In 1986, Dad was 65 years old. Young enough to be full of and fire and passion. And suppressed rage, never far below the surface. He knew what he knew. And he believed what he believed. It mattered not to him who got wounded along the way.

And looking at this picture, and how it ever came to be, I can’t help but remember, too. How other non-Amish visitors came around, and what happened. Years before, when we lived in Aylmer, Mom’s father and siblings would come to visit her about once a year, during the summer. They were Block Church people, who drove cars. Dad was always like a dark thunderstorm when they came. They didn’t stay long, maybe a day and two nights. I’m surprised, that they kept coming. I guess it was because they loved my Mom.

And one summer day, they showed up to visit. They always arrived unannounced. I figure they couldn’t tell Mom what they were planning, because she’d be forced to write them not to come. It was what it was. That night, there was a school meeting scheduled in the Aylmer community. Dad was going, which was fine. But he insisted that Mom go with him. To the school meeting, when her Dad and brothers and sisters were there for a brief visit. They were Block Church people, from Daviess. They weren’t worth valuing. Not the time they took to get there, or the time it took to be hospitable. Mom went to the school meeting with Dad that night.

Such was the fire and passion and senseless rage of my father in his younger years. The great writer, the great pontificator, telling others all about how it is to live right. It was a cruel thing for him to do. A harsh and bitter thing. And it was a brutal thing for my Mom to endure. She did it, simply because she had no other choice. I believe the Lord looked down and saw her suffering. And I believe He made sure her story would one day be told to all the world.

Dad was so full of the righteousness of his cause. I am often amazed, that he didn’t force himself to stop and think. Surely he could have looked ahead and seen that at least one of his children would write, as he wrote. At least one child would write what he saw in the world around him, growing up.

Surely Dad could have seen that one day, his children would go and seek out their Mother’s family. And make the connection he had worked so stridently to deny for all those years. It just boggles my mind, how shortsighted he was. So intelligent, and yet so obtuse. He sure didn’t take much time to look very far into the future. Or consider that one day, another story might be told.

He was a deeply flawed man.

The thing I’ve realized is, I’m every bit as flawed as he ever was. Just in different ways.

A bit of a bunny trail, there. I don’t apologize. Back, now, to 1986. And back to the picture.

It was a sunny summer morning. Maybe midmorning. The grass is lush and green. My parents lived alone in the big old house where we had all lived together, years before. So they had plenty of room for company. Marvin and Rhoda lived in a trailer house up the hill to the west. The Dawdy house would be built a few years later, in the north end of Mom’s big garden. In 1986, the big old house stood almost forlornly empty, except when company came.

That morning, I’m sure, my parents were up early. There were no morning chores to do, so Mom had breakfast ready when Jesse and his family got up. Eggs and toast and gravy and maybe biscuits. She fed them well. My parents may have already eaten by the time Jesse’s family gathered around. Dad was shunning my brother. No eating on the same table. All a bit awkward, yes, but such was the righteousness of his cause. And so they ate, my brother and his wife and children. Mom served her dark rich coffee and asked if anyone wanted cream. And smiled and smiled and fussed.

After breakfast, then, Dad took up his German Bible, and read a passage out loud. And this was the classic time for some admonition. At least when I went home to visit, it was. He had a captive audience. And he’d get all stern, talking about rebellious children, and how their duty is to come back to the church and be obedient. He might have gone a little easier on Jesse’s family, because Lynda was not raised Amish. There was no conceivable possibility that she would ever live that way. Still, he probably felt obligated to say a few words, at least. Just so he wouldn’t be found wanting on Judgment Day. So he could tell the Lord he had done all he knew to do. Ultimately, I think, it’s only fear that could ever drive such a motive.

And then they all knelt for morning prayer. back in 1986. Dad’s voice was still vibrant and strong. And his rhythm was flawless, the same lulling flow of High German we’d always heard, growing up.

And then the day unfolded. Dad had a little barn out by the west barnyard, for his horse. He parked his buggy there, too. And he went out and harnessed his horse and hitched it up. I’m sure it was Kenny, the bony old plug I drove after the Stud died. He brought the rig around to the fence by the walks, and tied up the horse. Mom wanted to do some laundry that morning. The washhouse is between where they are and the house, out of the picture. Dad started the little Honda engine, and Mom got her first load started. And what she’s carrying in that bucket is anyone’s guess. Maybe she was out feeding the chickens, or maybe those are wash pins in there. Who can tell, from this far out?

She was coming in from somewhere. And he was turning from starting the Honda engine, to walk to his buggy. He had business to do, at the phone by the schoolhouse, two miles away. Hardly a week day passed that he didn’t go to the phone at least once. Often more than once. That’s how busy the man always was, absorbed in his business affairs.

And they passed each other on the walks, there. Mom walking in. Dad walking out. And right that second, Jesse was peeking from the kitchen window, his camera aimed. And he snapped a picture.

And that moment, that morning, is now forever frozen in time.

A few words, about that little act that Jesse did. It was a bold thing to do, to snap a picture anywhere on the old home place. This was back in 1986. There were no cell phones with discreet digital cameras back then. If you wanted to take a photo, you had to do it with a real camera. And if Dad had caught anyone taking a pic with a real camera anywhere on his property, well, it would not have been a good thing. There would have been triple admonishing during the next morning’s devotions, probably.

A few other details from that peaceful sunny morning on the old home place in 1986. On the left, you can see the rear of a manure spreader. Not sure why Marvin would have parked it there, unless he was cleaning out the old raggedy barn, further to the left, out of the pic. The barn where I kept the Stud, and where my horse had died. We used to load that spreader by hand, with manure forks, pile it high. And the horses strained into the harness as the machine cut and scattered the manure onto the rich black bottom fields to the south.

And if you look behind the buggy, almost hidden, there sits an old battered Dodge pickup. Henry Egbert was on the farm that morning, for some reason. Maybe Marvin had some hay to haul, or maybe he was going to an auction somewhere. That old pickup had an old trailer attached. That rig right there is how I got my brand-new buggy hauled home from Mr. Mullet’s shop in Milton, a few years before that. It seems so strange, seeing that. Back then, three or four years seemed like a long time. Today, it’s barely a blip in the relentless march of time and history.

And I look at the picture, and I realize. Where I was during the summer of 1986. Out west, on the wheat harvest. Far away, out on the wild buttes of Montana, and then up into Alberta, Canada, driving a gigantic John Deere combine, harvesting acre after waving golden acre of wheat. Under the surface of the scenic calmness of the picture, a lot of troubled water flowed.

And I realize, too. Now. How brutal it must have been, for both Dad and Mom. To keep on walking forward through life, after their sons fled from home like I did so many times.

To face the people they knew were talking behind their backs. David Wagler. He has wild sons. They can’t seem to get settled down. Something is not right, there in that home. It had to be hard to smile at people they knew were thinking and saying such things as that.

Despite his flaws, Dad wanted what was best for his children. And he was willing to sacrifice for what he thought was best. Certainly he would never have left Aylmer for Bloomfield, had that not been the case.

And Mom, heaven only knows how much grief I caused her. I could do penance every day for the rest of my life, and it would never be enough. Ditto for penance for Sarah.

And just thinking, here. It had to be hard for anyone in my family who stayed behind every time I fled. I was running frantically into distant horizons with dark and dangerous skies. Into new lands, new places. Seeing and living new things every day. I left behind me a long and shameful trail of broken promises and shattered dreams.

Someone had to stay behind and pick up all those broken pieces. I look back on it all now, and it’s just unfathomable to me, how selfish so many of my choices were back then. And how I wronged so many people.

And no, I’m not beating myself up. I’m walking back, completely alert, to take a look. To grasp to myself a glimpse. And I’m reflecting on how it was, and how it went, from where I am today.

And today, I am at peace with who I am. And I am at peace with who I was back then.

That’s what the frozen moment from 1986 evokes from the shifting mists of memory and time.

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My Father’s Keeper…

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

—Thomas Wolfe

________________

I knew the day was coming. It had been decreed, for some time. It’s Ira’s turn to go down to Florida, to Pinecraft, for a week, to take care of Dad. So it was spoken. Let it never be unspoken. So let it never be unsaid. And early on, I had told my sisters. I’ll go. I’ll take my turn. But it sure would be nice if I could get down there while it’s cold up here. I mean, if you’re taking a trip to Florida, the folks back home might as well be feeling bad about the winter weather they’re stuck in. But I guess I wasn’t needed, then. Now, as the first day of April approached, I was.

I figured to drive down, make a nice little road trip out of it. I detest all those security goons at airports enough that I’ll drive most times. Even two days. So I called Enterprise a few days before I planned to leave. Save me something like a Ford Focus, I said. That car had worked real well, going up to Canada for that funeral a month back. And the day I was leaving came sliding in at me. The tenant had been notified, here at home. Get my mail, and look after things. Keep an eye out, when I’m gone. I’ll be back a week from Sunday. He wished me a safe trip, like he always does.

And I gotta say. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Dad is 95 years old. And more than half cranky most of the time, from what I had heard. I mean, at that age, I guess a man has a right to get cranky just about any time he’s got a mind to. But still. It would get real tiring, real quick, if we just fussed around all week. That was the last thing I wanted. I didn’t sweat it much, though, walking toward it. I’ll figure it out when I get down there, I thought to myself. Just let life flow at you. Just walk. And rest, as you can. But keep walking. And I packed my bags that Thursday evening. Tomorrow, I’d head on south. Way south. I slept fitfully that night.

The next morning I was waiting outside the Enterprise office when it opened. The skies were spitting rain, as predicted. It was coming hard, all morning. The young Enterprise man greeted me as I walked up to his desk. I got a car reserved, I told him. A Focus, or something like that. What do you have? He glanced at the gaggle of keys spread on the counter. “I have a Hyundai Elantra,” he said, all bright and happy. I looked at him. He instantly sensed there was a problem. That will not work, I said. I won’t drive a Hyundai. They ain’t got no headroom. I’m going to Florida. A Hyundai simply will not work. What else you got? Any Chargers on the lot?

He shook his head, and flash of irritation shot through me. Come on, I said. You guys have always taken care of me. I will not drive a Hyundai. There has to be another option that will work. “Well,” he said. “I have a Jeep Wrangler, here.” And he told me the upcharge price. It was more than I wanted to pay, but I shrugged. OK, I said. Bring it up. I guess I’ll run with that. He brought it up. Shining, black as coal, a real Jeep. I had no clue of how fateful that moment was. No clue at all. I guess I’ll be a Wrangler man for a week, I told the guy. He grinned. “A lot of people really like them,” he said. I headed home to load.

And shortly before eight, I was loaded up and heading out. When you drive somewhere, you can just throw in the kitchen sink, if you want to. I packed my big suitcase, and a couple of smaller bags. My shirts, I just laid them out, there in the back of the Jeep. I wasn’t sure what to think of my black beast, right at first. But it didn’t take me long to figure it all out. It was primitive, no question about that. Manual locks. You had to crank the windows up and down by hand, for crying out loud. I was a little dubious. But not for long.

The Lord was sure looking out for me, when that Jeep came at me that morning. That’s about all I can say. The forecast had called for heavy rains, all that morning, all through the region. And this time, the weather people got it right. Rain came down at me in heavy sheets. Wave after wave after wave. For three hours. Most times, visibility was less than an eighth of a mile, I figured. The Jeep rolled right through it all like a freakin’ tank. I was simply amazed. I don’t think it ever realized it was raining that hard, at any time. And I looked to the heavens in gratitude. Thank you, Lord, I said. Thank you for looking out for me, in even such a small thing as this. After three hours down 81 South, I finally drove into clear skies.

I pushed hard, and fast. The Wrangler bucketed along, down through Virginia, then over to South Carolina. I wanted to get about three quarters of the way down, before stopping for the night. So I pushed and drove and drove. I was increasingly impressed with the Jeep. It rode as smooth as Big Blue. It handled real nice. And it felt like I was driving a mean machine of some kind. I could really get used to this, I thought to myself.

And by 7:30 or so, I pulled off on an exit along I-64. Not far from I-95, which would take me right on down to Florida. I picked an exit that had all the signs for a dozen motels, or more. And all kinds of good restaurants. I would check in. Relax. And tomorrow, I’d head on down to Dad in good time. I pulled into my first choice for a motel, five stories high, right across the street from a TGI Friday’s. I’d check in, then walk over for some food. The place was packed and hopping. And the clerk told me, when I finally got to her. No rooms. They were booked solid. Wow, I said. That seems strange, on a random Friday night.

I drove a block down, and walked into another high rise place. This time, the clerk just shook her head. No rooms. Why? I asked. “There’s a Jehovah’s Witness convention, and every room is booked, in every motel here,” she said. And a flash of irritation swept through me. Not at her. At the JWs. They bother me at my home front door, now and again. And now, they were keeping me from getting a room. Good grief. Oh, well. I guess they have the right to assemble, just like any other group has. I’ll head on down the road.

I slept in a trashy $50 a night motel, down south a bit on 95. A nice Indian lady checked me in. And surprisingly, the place was clean, the bed was firm. I went out to get some food, then crashed in my room. It had been a long day. I slumbered well that night, inside that trashy motel.

I need to get to Pinecraft, or this blog will never get done. Talking about the pace of the narrative, I mean. I have no idea of how it will shake out, but it looks like it might be long.

The next morning, I gassed up the Jeep and headed south. Traffic was fairly light. I cruised right along at 80. And driving along that morning, along a fifty-mile stretch, I saw it in my mirror. A black Jeep Wrangler, carbon copy of what I was driving, swung in behind me. He lurked back there, and we traveled together for a while. Our own little convoy. It felt wicked cool. I could get used to this Jeep world, I thought to myself.

Around Jacksonville, I left the interstate, to connect on 301 to I-75 in Tampa. And I should have known better. I was following some SUV into a small town. The speed limit abruptly dropped to 45. The SUV kept right on cruising. I followed. And a road bandit was waiting. A thug cop. He yanked us both over. And half an hour later, he let me go, along with a ticket for $191.00. It’s a racket, all of that crap is. I had harmed no person. But because a road bandit was watching, I got robbed. It all just makes me crazy. As a general principle, I don’t like or trust cops. This is part of the reason why.

The interstate around Tampa was totally clogged. Traffic stopped abruptly, in the middle of nowhere, for no reason. I seethed and fussed. And eventually I got around, and headed south. And by four or so, I took the exit for Sarasota. Pinecraft. Twenty minutes later, I pulled in to the house where Dad was staying on Hines Street. I parked the Jeep under the canopy and got out and stretched. It had been a long and frustrating day of driving. Dad was sitting out by the little shed in the sun, reading The Budget. He is by far the oldest Budget scribe. I walked up to him. Hello, Dad, I said, holding out my hand. He looked up, and took it. “Ira,” he said. “You made it.” Yep, I said. I’m here.

For 95, Dad doesn’t look that bad. He sits in his wheelchair, mostly, these days, to get around. He can still walk with a walker, though. But the wheelchair is just easier. And he’s a little thin, now, too, I thought. I guess he doesn’t eat that much, anymore. When you’re 95, I figure you can do about what you feel like doing. Eat what you want, too, when you want it. Just my thinking.

Well, I said to myself. I’m here. I’ll be here for a week. Might as well get settled in. I asked Dad. Where’s Jonas? “Oh, he left to run some errands,” Dad said. You’re here all alone? I asked. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I’m fine.” Jonas Miller is the Amish widower who somehow connected with my family in Pinecraft. He comes around every day to be with Dad, and he sleeps in the corner bedroom most nights, so he’s there to help Dad get dressed in the mornings. I had not met him, yet, but was fixing to, pretty soon, now. The man was just simply a Godsend, as far as I’m concerned.

I chatted with Dad a few more minutes, then walked to the Jeep to unload my bags. I carried my stuff in to the northeast corner bedroom in the back. Dad rents a whole house from his friend, Glen Graber. It’s an old house, kind of worn, but still. It’s roomy. And a palace, for Pinecraft. Some of the little huts you see down there are barely big enough to turn around in. I unpacked, hung up my shirts. Changed immediately into shorts and flip flops. The Florida weather was so warm and inviting. After a while, I walked out to bring Dad back up the ramp to the house. Soon it would be time for supper.

I had come to stay with my father for a full week. And I wasn’t sure what was expected of me. I mean, when your Dad’s 95, you can’t be too surprised by anything, I don’t think. We sat and visited, there in the kitchen. And soon the door opened, and a wiry Amish man strolled in. Jonas. He looked to be in his seventies. I stood and we shook hands and introduced ourselves. He knew my name. Dad had told him I was coming. He was tall, wiry, active, and seemed extremely capable. “I don’t like to cook,” he told me. “You get the meals ready, and I’ll take care of everything else.” Well, I said. I’m no chef, but I figure I can whip up some meals as we need them.

I checked out the fridge. It was loaded with lots of stuff, but much of it wasn’t good, I figured. Tomorrow I would clean it out, and restock with food from the grocery store. Tonight, I’d get some soup at a nearby deli. I asked Dad for his credit card. I’m going to get supper, I told him. He handed over his Visa, and I put it in my wallet. It would stay there all week. I soon returned with a tub of hot soup, and set the table. Dad likes to eat supper around six or so. And we sat down, the three of us, for the first of many meals together. We sat and bowed our heads. And then Dad spoke it, his voice cracked and faltering a bit now. That old-time German blessing for a meal.

After the meal, I cleared the table and washed the dishes. That would be my function during my time with Dad. Cook, serve the food, then clean the table and wash the dishes. After supper, we just sat around and visited for a while. And I don’t know where the question came from. Dad looked at me. Then he asked. “How many hours do you work on each blog, before posting it?” I was startled.

Uh, twenty-five hours, at least, on each one, I told him. And then I said. The hardest thing to do in writing is to write something that reads so easy, the reader thinks it was easy to write.

He grappled with that. Looked blank. He wasn’t getting it. What I’m saying is, writing is hard work, I said. You know that. He chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “I know that. I know writing is hard work.” And I marveled a little bit at that conversation. Me and my Dad, talking about what it is to write. That’s a day I probably never figured I’d see. Thank you, Lord, I said silently in my heart.

Sunday morning. The first day. I slept in. I heard Dad and Jonas clumping around out in the living room. And then they were off to church. There’s a real Amish church in Pinecraft. The only one of its kind in all the world. Dad faithfully attends when he’s there. I had lunch ready when they got back around noon. We sat and ate, and talked. And out of the blue, Dad popped out a strange question. “So,” he said. “What’s your second book going to be about?”

I flinched a little. I couldn’t just say. You. So I hedged. We’ll see, I said. We’ll see if a publisher picks it up. And then we’ll see what that publisher wants the book to be about. He seemed content with that. And I’ve wondered a bit, since that moment. How would he have reacted if I had just told him? The second book will be a lot about you.

I had cleaned out the fridge that morning, while Dad was in church. Whatever was even remotely suspicious, I just threw it out. And that afternoon, while Dad was napping, I took off in my black Jeep. North on Beneva, a little more than a mile. To the large Publix grocery store on the left. I grabbed a cart, and began walking. Anything and everything I thought we might eat that week, I threw into the cart. Bread. All kinds of spreads. Yogurt drinks. Virgin olive oil, to cook with. Bacon. Eggs. Hot dogs. Bologna. Anything and everything.

I settled in, then, there in the house. The week was gonna come at me. And Monday morning arrived soon enough. He had a doctor’s appointment, at a complex a few blocks away. So after breakfast, I pushed him out and down the street, to get there. A blood test. Some other minor things. And after we got out, he wanted to go shopping at the CVS a few blocks south. So I trundled on down, pushing my father in his wheelchair. It was a glorious, sunny morning. Only in Florida. Only in Pinecraft.

I kind of felt my way through, cooking those first few days. My sister Maggie had been there the week before. And she had cooked up some delicious homemade vegetable soup, and stuck it in the freezer, in little containers. She used to feed me like that, years ago when I was a student at Bob Jones. And here, she left her magic again. And that Monday, for lunch, we had soup, Dad and me. I fried up a couple of hot dogs, too. Jonas was gone every day, during the day. So for lunch, it was always just Dad and me.

And that first day, he told me what he wanted for dessert. A root beer float. Of course, I said. You can have all the root beer floats you want, any time you want them. I got a cup and scraped in some ice cream from the freezer. And poured in the root beer. Dad took a spoon and slurped away.

And it was so strange, how the conversation went between us. I mean, it was just me and him. No one else around. All week, the talk just kind of went where it would, like the wind. And I can’t remember if it was that Monday, or the next day, when he got to telling me a story. I think it was Monday.

Anyway, the narrative briefly involved Nebraska. The state. He stopped, and paused a bit. “Nebraska,” he said. “Didn’t you live there once, for a year?”

This, then, is how he remembered my first desperate flight from home at seventeen. I lived there, in Valentine, yes, and worked on a ranch, I told him. But it was only for six months or so. He nodded, and went back to telling his story.

And the week just came at me. It always happens the same, I think, when you walk into a new place like that. You’re not sure of what’s gonna happen. You walk forward. And the days come at you, and pass, as if by magic. Looking back, that week with Dad, down in Pinecraft, was one of the more magical weeks I’ve ever seen.

Every morning, Jonas knocked on my bedroom door as he was helping Dad get dressed and ready for the day. I hopped out of bed, pulled on shorts and a T shirt, and got to the serious business of cooking breakfast. Bacon and eggs, every morning. And toast. And juice, and coffee. By the time Dad came wheeling around, I had the table set, and the food ready. We sat and bowed our heads and he spoke his prayer. And then we ate.

After breakfast, every morning, Jonas and I sat on the two couches in the living room. Dad took the German Bible and read a passage aloud. And then he took that little black prayer book in his hands. He knows the prayers by heart. But these days, I guess he doesn’t trust himself. He reads the prayer aloud from the book. Jonas and I just sat there. No one knelt, like we used to do. I guess the fire of it all dies in you a little bit, when you get to 95, like Dad is. His rhythm and flow is broken now, compared to what it was. But still, I can hear the voice I grew up with, speaking those beautiful morning prayers. And every morning, I sat there and absorbed that. Not a whole lot of people get to hear their father pray aloud when he’s 95.

After devotions, Jonas always took his leave. Will you be here for supper? I always asked him. Yes, he would be. And then it was just Dad and me, for the day. The man gets visitors, every day. His star has receded tremendously, but his name is still well known in a place like Pinecraft. Randomly, at all hours, but usually in the afternoon, the doorbell jangled. Loudly. Dad would look up from what he was doing, anticipation on his face. And I looked out the front window, to see who was knocking. And I always walked out to the front door to invite the people in. There was an endless and fascinating stream, seemed like.

On Wednesday afternoon, my friend Katie Troyer stopped by. Katie is a “little person,” and a very good friend of mine. She will go down in history as the most prolific photographer of the Amish people, anywhere. And especially the Amish people as they lived and looked like in Pinecraft. Katie has the eye, for a great photo. And her shots are always amazing, simply from her perspective, as a short person. Anyway, she dropped by, and I welcomed her. And we caught up. Dad came wheeling in, too. And he and Katie got to talking about the old days at Pathway in Old Aylmer. Katie worked at Pathway, right after we moved to Bloomfield.

And I figured that was about it, for that Wednesday, after Katie left. But no. Very soon, the doorbell jangled again. I looked out the window. A plain man and woman. Not Amish. Maybe Beachy. The man had a long beard. The woman wore a substantial covering and a cape dress. I walked to the door, and invited them in. They were all smiling and friendly. A little startled, maybe, at how I looked. They had stopped before, and knew Dad. And they had to think it was a little strange, me standing there. In my khaki shorts and T-shirt, wearing a black biker’s chain necklace. Long hair. Bearded. Who is this heathen, in David Wagler’s house in Pinecraft?

We walked in, and Dad greeted them. They were leaving for home the next day, and had stopped in to say good-bye. We sat there on the couches. And before Dad came wheeling in from the other room, the woman looked at me. A little sharply, I thought. And she asked me who I was.

I’m David’s boy, Ira, I said. “Are you married?” She asked. I am single, I said. She was persistent. “But were you ever?” She asked. I had to concede. I was. I’m divorced. She looked pityingly sympathetic. But she smiled bravely.

It turned out they were Sleeping Preacher people. They look and dress just a little different than most Plain groups. And they speak the Mother tongue. PA Dutch. We chatted right along. They actually had a copy of my book at home, and she asked me to sign and date a scrap of paper, so she could paste it inside the front cover. I’m glad to, I said. And I did.

I had a lot of questions about the Sleeping Preacher churches. They bristled at that term. It’s spirit-filled preaching. They call themselves Amish-Mennonites. They spoke much of Unsere Leit. Our people.

They have a lot of rules. No internet. Cell phones are blocked, so no one can surf the web. The man told me. “There’s a committee, and every year, everyone has to get their cell phones checked, to make sure they’re in compliance.” He may or may not have seen my look of horror. He added, all wise. “It would be nice if we could build a fence high enough to keep Satan out. But he always finds a way to get over it or through it.”

Yeah, I’ll bet you can’t build a fence high enough to keep Satan out, I thought to myself. I didn’t say that, though.

The week was winding down, faster than I figured could be possible. I kept on cooking, every day, three meals a day. Bacon and eggs for breakfast. Soup and whatever for lunch. And for supper, I usually sliced up some potatoes. Mixed in some meat. And fried it all up in a big pan. During my little shopping spree, I had picked up a pack of yogurt smoothies. And one day, during lunch, I pulled out a bottle and opened it. This is a healthy yogurt drink, I told Dad, as he was finishing up his meal. I gave it to him, and he took a sip. He was impressed. “I like it,” he told me. “I don’t know why I’ve never tasted a drink like this before.” Well, I thought to myself. If you knew how much they cost, you probably wouldn’t wonder why it is that you never bought any.

And every afternoon, Dad wanted to go check the mail. And get some sunshine. I opened the doors, and he wheeled himself out. And on out the drive, to the mailbox. And every day, he just sat there in the sun, looking off into the distance. An old man, alone. Who knows what thoughts were going through his mind? For twenty minutes or so, he sat there, and then he slowly turned and wheeled back to the house. I always watched for him, to go out and help him up the little ramp to the front door.

And Friday came, then. The last full day here. Tomorrow, I would head for home. The week had just shot by, I thought. And that morning, the doorbell jangled again. More visitors. A very nice middle aged Holdeman couple. The Holdemans are a little like the Sleeping Preacher people in that they’ll call themselves all kinds of other fancy names. Like Church of God in Christ Mennonite. And it takes you a while to dig it out. You’re Holdemans.

They’re some of the nicest people you’ll ever meet, the Holdeman Mennonites. So warm. So welcoming. And they are so the One True Church. They smile and smile until you join them. And then the mask comes off. You can never, never leave, not without being excommunicated and condemned to the fires of hell. It’s a brutal thing.

This couple this morning was real nice and friendly. Dad had a great visit with them. They made a few connections. They had read Dad’s writings for years. And he even hawked his books to them, and they bought. They left, then.

And I thought about it, how it all seems so hopeless and so futile. All these little groups like the Sleeping Preacher people and the Holdemans. And the Beachy Amish, too, and the conservative Mennonites. All separated from each other, all walking their own little paths, and all convinced that they are the One True Church. All judging each other relentlessly. I don’t question the right of any group to separate, to make their own rules, and to serve the Lord as they see fit. It’s none of my business, really. And I stridently defend their rights to be who they are. But still. I wonder sometimes. How surprised are a lot of these people going to be when they get to heaven and see all those other unwashed “sinners” up there, too? And maybe even some Amish people. (That’s a joke, but only about half.)

I don’t remember what triggered it. But Dad got to talking that morning about the day his own father died. Back in Daviess in 1940. They were threshing that day. His father, Joseph K., was up on the wagon, throwing bundles into the threshing machine, in the hot sun. And suddenly, he just collapsed from a heat stroke. He fell, and would have slid off the wagon, had his son-in-law not caught him. They carried him to the shade of a nearby tree. He died there a short time later.

“I was nineteen when my father died,” Dad said. His voice was tired and heavy. “He was fifty-nine years old. I thought he was an old man.” He paused, then muttered an afterthought. “You don’t ever forget a thing like that.”

I ran out to do a little shopping that last afternoon. The Publix grocery stores are not bad. Dad needed more ice cream for his root beer floats. And I was out of bacon and eggs. I strolled around the store, just browsing. And then I saw it, in the seafood section. Little trays of sushi. And it just hit me. I bet Dad never tasted sushi. So I bought two little trays, two separate flavors. And a tiny bottle of soy sauce.

Later, I cooked up a small pot of soup, and Dad and Jonas and I sat down to eat. I served him the soup, and showed him the sushi. He was suspicious, when I told him it’s raw fish wrapped in rice and seaweed. But he tried a piece, and claimed it wasn’t bad, even with the wasabi sauce. And then he just chowed down like he’d done it all his life.

That night, I packed my bags and loaded the Jeep. Tomorrow morning, early, I was heading north for home. I hoped to get there before too late on Sunday afternoon. The next morning, before breakfast, I shook my father’s hand and said good-bye. I thanked Jonas, too, for all his help. And then I walked outside, boarded the Jeep, and headed out on the long road north.

It had been a remarkable week. The days just flew right by. And I looked back over the week that was. I wasn’t sure how it would go, being he’s 95 and all. At that age, anyone has earned the right to be cranky now and then. That week, he almost never was. I guess I figured, when I got there. Let the man be as independent as he wants to be. Let him do what he wants, as long as he’s not hurting himself. And let him eat what he wants, when he wants it. That formula seems to have worked.

I am grateful for the time I got to spend with my father. It was a gift, all of it, every minute of every day. And I am grateful for the road that was my life that week.

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

And looking back over that week, it seems a little strange. Or maybe not. What do you expect from a 95-year-old man? He never mentioned Mom, all that week. There was no reason to, I guess. I never brought up her name.

She died three years ago, this morning, at 6:40. It was a brutal thing, to see her suffer, and we were relieved, all her children, that the Lord had finally removed her from all that senseless pain. It was past time, we thought. But we were grateful. We remain grateful. Mom is now in a place of joy, a place where she will never suffer again.

It’s a strange and complex thing, this journey we call life.

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Vagabond Traveler: Ten Years on the Road

You have stumbled on in darkness, you have been

pulled in opposite directions, you have faltered,

you have missed the way, but, child, this is the

chronicle of the earth.

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

I wasn’t sure it would come, this week. You never know, until you sit down and actually see if the words come knocking strong enough in your brain to break through and get told. So I wasn’t sure. I guess I’ll see how it goes, here. Because it’s March. And yeah, I know. Tomorrow it won’t be. But today it is. It’s the last day of that vile and evil month. And I gotta say. I’ve felt it stirring inside me for a while, as March came slouching at me like a beast. That memory. That nod, to a big milestone, way back. Almost exactly ten years ago tonight, I posted my first blog.

March 27, 2007. Ten years. Ten years in blogland. That’s an eternity, almost.

Well. It’s not quite an eternity for me, eternity being what it is and all. But it is a long, long time. Ten years ago, right this minute, I was in a dark and heavy place. A place I had never seen before. And I had always known, all my life, up to that time. You are your father’s son. He writes. You got it in you, to speak to your world as he spoke to his. But I just never got started. And it had never happened, not in any serious manner. Ten years ago this month, ten years ago this week, ten years ago almost to the day, it did happen. I posted my first blog.

It felt like an explosion had rocked my world. And I instinctively recoiled in protest. No. This is not what I bargained for. Not this. This is pain, such as I could never have imagined. This is grief, this is loss, this is rage. And I looked to the bitter skies, and cried out in revolt. No. I won’t just stand here and take it. Not this time. This time, I will write it. And for the first time ever, in all the years of my life, I began to speak my voice and throw it out there for all the world to see.

I’ve said it before. It was a brutal, brutal place to find my writing voice. But it just was what it was, I guess. Anyway, tonight the emotions wash over me from so many different places, and from so many different times. Ten years ago, I had almost no clue of what life was all about. I thought I did. But I didn’t. I thought I knew a lot about a lot of things. I knew very little about anything.

And from where I am, here, tonight, I will say this. I look back on it all with a grateful heart, that I am exactly where I am today. The Lord has showed me who He is in ways I never knew and never expected to know. I know a lot more than I did, back ten years ago. And here, tonight, I pause and look back at that journey. Those ten years. Not every detail, of course. But the places that come to mind as I reflect on what I see and what I feel.

I feel like a weary warrior. I have seen so much, I have lost so much. There were so many hard roads, so many long and brutal miles. So many years. I’ve seen battle after battle, coming at me from any direction at any given time. I’ve got more battle scars than I’ll ever admit. My armor is bruised and dented, my shield is chipped and cracked. The helmet has protected my head more times than I care to count. Only the sword gleams like new, the blade honed to a wicked edge. You treasure your sword, you take care of it, because that’s what you use to fight your way out of hard places.

And now, tonight, I take off the battered armor. Lay aside the chipped shield. Lay down my wickedly honed sword. The battlefield rests, quiet, in the long shadows of the moon. Tonight, I look back through the mists of time. Tonight, let the memories flood in unbidden, through all those months and all those miles.

I remember a couple of sentences in one of my early blogs, after our divorce got finalized. Mine and Ellen’s. “The last two years have been a harsh and bitter trail, now littered with the remains of all we were. And all we were not.” I don’t know where writing like that even came from, that early on. I mean, I’d been writing for six months or so. But I probably could not have summed it up more succinctly, what was actually going on in our world.

And ten years out, I look at who we were, Ellen and me. We were flawed and broken people. We were all optimistic at the start. It seemed like a match made in heaven. On paper, it did, and in reason. I came from the Amish world. That’s where her parents came from, too. But Ellen was raised in the hard core Plain Mennonite world. A much harder world than I ever saw. I broke free from my people. She broke free from hers. Totally independently. And when two such people meet, you can’t argue with the magic that’s going on. It’s like, we’re finishing each other’s sentences. How wild is that?

It didn’t help my resistance, of course, that she was stunningly beautiful. And much younger than me. I had never fretted much, about getting married. Yeah, there was a fling or two, and one broken relationship from long ago that I thought would kill me, when it happened. The pain of that loss haunted me for years. And now, maybe I could be healed completely, by loving this beautiful young woman who claimed she loved me intensely. It was kind of a crazy world to be in, looking back.

I was pretty set in my ways, back then. I guess I still am. Anyway, I was in my upper thirties. I had battled along alone for so long, I just got tired of looking for someone who would walk with me. I drank lots of scotch whiskey, to dull the pain of all I had seen in the past. And all I had lost. And I wasn’t really looking for Ellen, when we met. It was over at my brother Steve’s house, on Christmas Day, 1998. We connected, there. Talked. It went really well. And I did something that I had rarely done before. I asked her out, for that New Year’s Eve. She smiled and told me she’d love to go. My head was spinning.

We got married on August 4th, 2000. That’s a pretty simple anchor date, for me to remember as I get older and things that once were important aren’t, anymore. It was an exciting time in both our lives. Neither of us could ever have imagined how short this world would be, that we were in. We were young and free. Ellen beamed, on my arm. I stood proud and tall, beside her. Nothing would ever shake this world from what it was. Except death, of course. After we got old.

There was no doubt in my mind that Ellen and I were going to be together for as long as we both lived. I don’t have any clue how English couples feel when they get married, the ones born English, I mean. Ellen and I both came from worlds where divorce was simply not an option, although it should have been. Well, maybe that’s a little radical. Still. It’s a fallen world, and every system gets abused. Divorce gets abused. So does no option of divorce. In any world where divorce is strictly forbidden, the women usually get suppressed pretty severely. A lot of “Plain” women (and English women in hard religious settings) out there just shut down emotionally. They have to, to survive. Not all of them, by any stretch. Not anywhere close to most of them. But a lot. There is simply no denying that.

We never saw divorce, in the world we grew up in. So we figured we were pretty safe, thinking like we always thought. And you don’t figure to ever change your thinking about all that, when you’re walking along all easy and fat and comfortable and smug. Most people don’t. And then, life just comes along and smacks you right upside the head. Don’t get all high and holy on me, life says. I got a few things to show you. Look at this. I bet you never thought you’d see such a thing as that. Did you?

Nope. I did not. Wow. That’s crazy. And it hurts like crazy. But the funny thing is, when I look back over the seven years of our marriage, I have as many good memories as bad. It took ten years to get me to see that. It’s because when all the crap comes down, that’s all you see, or think of. The pain is real and harsh. The brutal reality of it all. It takes a long time to work through all that. I swore, back then, that I would never heal or walk whole again. That’s what it felt like, what I saw, back in that moment.

I was wrong. There is healing from deep wounds. Even the deep wound of divorce.

I look back at who we were, Ellen and me, and I see so many things that I did wrong. And, nah. I’m not beating myself up, for all that. I am more at peace today with who I am than I have ever been in my life. So I can look back and see. Look back and say. I was wrong, there, as a man. Real wrong. I drank hard. What shelter I offered was cold. I didn’t stand and protect what was mine. It’s no wonder my marriage failed.

Our world blew up, soon enough. And it came, the dust and ashes and fog and noise, such as I had never seen before. I recoiled, then did what I instinctively knew to do. Just kept walking. It was a dark and brutal place. I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything quite like it, before or since. The battles were harsh and real and raw. Every day, a new fresh one rose to greet me, seemed like. I kept right on, walking and fighting, slashing and thrusting. One of these days, the fog of war will lift, I figured. One of these days, it’ll all make sense. The fog lifted eventually, that much is true. Whether or not any of it made any sense, well, I guess maybe one day it will.

Looking back at the world we lived in, Ellen and me, that’s not a world I would willingly walk back to. Not even to get undivorced. There was nothing there to build on. I just wouldn’t return. I mean, I knew so little. And no, I don’t blame Ellen for anything, any more than I blame myself. Not that the marriage failed, I mean. I was so far from the man I should have been that I can’t point any fingers of blame at anyone but myself.

That said, her choices were what they were, of course. And some of those choices were very bad. Like I said, we were both flawed and broken people. Still, there’s no reason to go back and look at what happened in any detail. It does no good, from here. It was a dark and evil place, that time in both our lives. That’s about all that needs to be said.

From such a desolate place, then, my writing voice was born. Ten years ago, almost to the day. And it all seems a little surreal, looking back. It was an explosion of rage and pain and grief, the birth of my voice. And my writing. From the start, I held fast to one hard rule. I will speak it as I see it. I will speak honest. Not hurtful, at least not if I can help it. (Well, after I got past my initial rage at a few people, that is.) But honest. And that right there is the main reason I ever got any readers at all on this blog.

Life as a Christian is not all peaches and cream and roses. It’s harsh and rough and brutal and raw, much of the time. At least that’s how I’ve found it. There is no magic wand, just because you know who Jesus is. And trust and love Him. Life is not all victorious and triumphant. Only fools talk like that. Life is still life, and it will always be. You living with your flaws. Made perfect in Him, despite your flaws, because of love. That right there is the true gospel, that a lot of Christians miss. They think they have to be perfect, on their own. They don’t. No one does.

No human can ever carry the burden of perfection, on his or her own. It’s bondage, to believe you can. I think a lot of people were just so astounded to see a Christian talk and write so raw and honest, that they couldn’t help themselves. They read my stuff. And kept on reading it.

The first year was intense. Well, the first few years. I look back on it all now, and marvel that I got a blog posted every Friday night for two plus years. I guess it was cathartic for me, all that writing. It had been piling up inside me all my life. I never had got any of it told. And now, well, now the floodgates opened. And that was pretty much the focus of my life, outside work. Writing, writing, working on the next blog.

I guess I could post a few links, to a few past blogs. The ones that told of who I was and what I saw, the ones that defined me. I’ll just link my Index of Posts instead. Every blog I ever wrote is on there. Go find the best ones yourselves.

A few hints. Nicholas. Levi and Noah. All three Elmo bogs. Look Homeward, Angel. Angels in the Skies. The Lion in Winter. Death be not Proud. Mom’s final journey. Abby. And everything in between.

This blog has always been my voice. I mean, even while I was “writing my book,” this is where I spoke to the people I was comfortable speaking to. They knew who I was, before any book ever came out. They knew who I was, after my book came out, too.

And, of course, the book came, then. It is flat out amazing, when I look back on all that. I was just writing, right here. From me sitting at my old Army desk in the corner of my living room, that’s how my voice ever got out, to where anyone in the publishing world would be even remotely told. Look. Check out this guy. That’s what happened. And that’s how my agent, Chip MacGregor, got hold of some of my raw stuff, and started shopping it around. He had read it, and loved it. He figured he could get at least one publisher to see the same thing.

Almost, he didn’t. The publishing world is a brutal place. He got all kinds of rejections from just about everybody all around. Except one place. Tyndale House. Carol Traver. She was a premier force in the publishing world at that time, for memoirs. She was intrigued enough by my raw writing to inquire a bit farther. Who is this guy? Could he write a memoir? Let me talk to him.

We talked. I was pretty intimidated. But relaxed. Here’s a bribe, I told her. You let me write a book for you. And I’ll give you a real honest-to-God Amish quilt. (Which I did, after she did.) And Chip got me a contract, soon after that. It was the dream of my lifetime. I got a chance to tell my story to the world. Ever since I had read Thomas Wolfe, way back in the early 1990s, I always knew deep inside this moment would come. It was one of the few things I ever really knew and held on to. And it happened, like I knew it would. It did. I had no idea, of the price. What it would take to make me find my writing voice, and speak it. It didn’t really matter, when the voice came. The price was what it was, and that can never be changed. And now, here I was, all freaked out. I’m supposed to “write a book.”

Well, I wrote it, all right. It was like blood spilling out, all over. I cannot give enough credit to Carol and her team. Especially to my “real” editor, Susan Taylor. It was all one big mess, what I sent them. They fused the book from that vast jumble of words. Susan got my voice from the first second she read it. And she kept it, all the way through the book. She has retired, since then. I don’t care. If my second book ever gets locked in, from any publisher, I figure Susan is gonna have the last word in things. I’ll figure out a way to lure her out of “retirement,” when it comes to editing my stuff.

The book took off, then, and did what it did. In 2011, four short years after I started writing. I remember telling the Lord, back about the second year. Around 2008, or so. I want to be published by the time I’m 50. I had no clue how it would happen. But I knew the writing was good enough, if only someone would see.

Someone did. I turned 50 in August, 2011. Growing Up Amish got released on June 28th of that year. It was close. But the Lord heard the desire of my heart. It wouldn’t have mattered, if He didn’t. I mean, I work for Him. He doesn’t work for me. So whatever happened, it was good. He chose to honor my desire. I am grateful.

And after that, well, life kind of returned to the way it was before. Except the book was there. That’s a huge deal. The book has connected me with so many people. It brought me an honorary Doctorate. Took me to Germany, twice, to speak. They come walking to see me, some of my readers. And some of them write. It’s been an important part of who I am and what I’ve seen, the book has, ever since it got published. It was a big deal, and still is.

After that big success, though, I just went back to writing, right here. Well, I tinkered with a sequel that first winter, because that’s the normal formula in the publishing world. Get that second book cranked out, while the first one’s hot. And that’s the reason that about 90 percent of sequels flop on the market. The writer gets pressured to produce something before it comes on its own. So when it didn’t come, I told Tyndale, and I told Chip. I’m going back to my blog. That’s my home. When I got something worth showing you, I’ll let you know.

And I’ve been plugging along, since. Writing from where I am, telling you what I’m seeing and feeling. I almost died, a year or so back. Walked right up to the gates of death, and looked over to the other side. But I came back to tell even that story. I guess this blog is what the professionals call my “platform.” I never did like that term, but it just is what it is. This is where I live. All of what I say flows from here. Gets started here. This is my home.

I will always speak my voice. And I will always speak my heart. You just walk free, and say it as you see it. And don’t get me wrong. I’ll take every penny I can get, from my writing. And love every penny I can get, and want more. But if it never brings me another penny, I’ll write anyway.

And now, the battlefield beckons in the breaking dawn.

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David and Mary…

Who will tell the stories of the people who told the stories?

—Ira Wagler

_____________

I don’t have a whole lot of specific recorded details, because I don’t think anyone wrote them at the time. But I remember when the man first came striding into my childhood world. I was probably six or seven. He came from the west. And to a child of that age, he looked like a warrior, standing tall and noble, with a long and glorious beard. And I remember hearing him talk, I remember his clipped accent. You could tell the PA Dutch was not his native tongue. It wasn’t, because he had joined the Amish from the outside. One of those rare guys who comes along occasionally and actually makes it work. He was such a man as that. His name was David Luthy.

And I remember the story as it was told back then. David Luthy came from the mid-west, down in the states somewhere. He was in his mid-twenties, probably, at that time. He had been raised Catholic, and he went to that most Catholic of universities. Notre Dame. There he had earned a Master’s in something or other. I remember hearing murmurs that he was studying to be a priest. I have no idea if that particular detail is true or not.

This was back in the late 1960s. And David’s life took a fairly radical turn after he discovered the Amish in northern Indiana, the same general area I left when I left for the final time. Somehow, he went out there. And somehow, he connected. And next thing anyone knew, he had decided to join them. This is far from the norm. Early on, there, I doubt that anyone had any idea of what was coming. Had any idea of how this wild-eyed convert would affect the Amish world he would claim as his own. No one knew, and no one could have known.

I don’t know how long he hung around northern Indiana. Probably a year or two, long enough to learn the Amish language. But the place would not hold him long. Because soon enough, he heard about a ragtag group of intellectuals in a place called Aylmer. Up in southern Ontario. David Wagler. Joseph Stoll. Elmo Stoll. Calvin Anderson. These guys were launching a publishing venture.

And David was pulled up to Aylmer as if by some magnetic force. Here. This was the place where he might find the intellectual stimulation he could not shake off, just because he had joined the Amish. He traveled up to visit. He was well received. Better yet, he was actually impressed. These guys had something going here, something that he figured he could join. And David Luthy made the decision that would affect the rest of his life, certainly. It would also affect the Amish culture in ways that neither he nor the Amish could possibly have imagined.

He moved up to Aylmer. This was right about the time Peter Stoll and his group were leaving for Honduras. One of Peter’s sons, Elmo, did not move with the group. He stayed behind and bought the farm formerly owned by Joe Either, a half mile east of Dad’s home farm. There, David joined Elmo. The two single men lived together in that house. Like two peas in a pod, those two were. Elmo Stoll and David Luthy. In the decades that followed, those two men would make their mark in the Amish world.

I don’t know the exact sequence of events, here. I just know the basic details. So that’s what I’ll stick with. Elmo soon began courting the young woman who would become his wife. Elizabeth, or Lisbet, Miller. David Luthy cast his eyes about, and they fell on a beautiful young eligible lady. Elmo’s younger sister, Mary Stoll. I don’t remember if Mary moved down to Honduras for a time, or not. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I do know that David Luthy never went to Honduras, and he sought her hand in courtship. And somewhere in the early 1970s, both couples got married. Elmo and Lisbet. And David and Mary. Elmo bought the old LeRoy Marner farm, pretty much right in the heart of the community. And David Luthy bought a five-acre lot from Elmo, from that farm. He built a new house for his bride. And the two couples settled in, right close as neighbors.

They were young, then. I look back, and I marvel, how young those two men were. I don’t have their exact ages, but I would guess they were both under thirty. Both wrote for Pathway Publishers. After a few years, Elmo was ordained as a minister, and he began his meteoric ascent to a pinnacle of power and influence such as the Amish world has rarely seen, before or since. David Luthy soon found his niche as a staff writer at Pathway, and he had an essay in Family Life every month.

He was a hard core Amish man, back in those days. More Amish than the Amish, as I like to say about those who join from outside. Somehow, those guys always seem to be the ones peering about suspiciously for the slightest whiff of unorthodoxy around them. David Luthy was very much like that in his early years in Aylmer. He published a good many essays and articles that ended up with a nice little moral lesson. About what it is to be truly Amish. There was even a short period of time when he decided to change his name from David to Titus. Not sure what was going on, there. I do remember seeing his name under his articles in Family Life. By Titus. Somehow, that little venture fell by the wayside before too many years had passed. Again, I have no idea what triggered it, or why it happened. It was just one of those quirky little things.

They raised families, David Luthys and Elmo Stolls. And here, I’ll have Elmo bow out of the narrative, at least for now. This is about David and Mary Luthy, and their lives as they lived in Old Aylmer. They were probably about as normal an Amish couple as they could have been, seeing where David came from, and all. They had seven children, eventually. Three boys and four girls. David was the grim, stern father. Mary was the loving mother.

And a few words here, about my cousin, Mary Stoll Luthy. I remember her from my earliest days, as a person in the community. She was a hard, hard worker. And she had only one speed. As fast as she could walk, her hands moving so rapidly it hurt your eyes to watch. She made the work disappear. And did she ever work. She had a true servant’s heart, Mary did. Always, always, she was helping out some person or other. Taking food, visiting the sick, smiling, always smiling, spreading good cheer wherever she went. That’s just who she was. I saw it as a child, some, that I remember. But I would see it much closer up, many years later when Mom was slowly sinking into the final twilight of Alzheimer’s.

David soon found his niche, writing. He wrote fewer stories with didactic little lessons at the end. Instead, he focused or real, respectable research. His favorite subject: extinct Amish communities. Every month, or almost every month, his contribution recorded the details of the people and places where the Amish had settled throughout the centuries. And he recorded his conclusions as to why each settlement failed, when it did.

In 1986, Pathway published what will probably be considered David Luthy’s Magnum Opus, the most direct result of his life’s work, at least up until that time. “The Amish in America: Settlements that Failed, 1840-1960.” And here is the irony of the man and his work. David was what I would consider a hard core Amish man. Very Amish. And yet, he would not have been able to accomplish what he did without his education. It would not have happened. He took his Notre Dame education and used it in a way that would have been impossible had he been born Amish. And let me say, too. I have no opinion about all this, one way or the other. Good or bad. Well, I’d lean toward good. I just find the entire thing highly interesting.

I was a surly fifteen-year-old when my family moved to Bloomfield in 1976. At that time, me and my peers considered David Luthy to be a “bear,” the term we reserved for hard, humorless Amish men. We labeled just about everyone back then. And “bear” was about as kind a term as we could come up with for the Aylmer leaders. I don’t recall that I ever had any personal run-ins with David. He was just a young firebrand I didn’t have much use for.

I never saw much of David or Mary during the turmoil of my long and tortured journey to break away from my people. But after the dust settled and I got a grip on things, I enrolled as a student at Vincennes University. Started college. And I never had much reason to travel up to Aylmer, there, for a good many years. So I rarely got to see those dark men of my youth. They kind of faded off into the mists, they and their great noble proclamations about what it is to live a true Amish life.

Still, there were connections, now and then. During the 1990s, the Aylmer Amish community was rocked with scandal after scandal. Some of it was really bad. And those who had walked in pride and arrogance tore their clothes, and put on sackcloth and ashes and wept in repentance. Figuratively, I mean. A strong and cleansing wind swept through what always before was that great perfect shining city on a hill.

I remember in the late 1990s, after I graduated from law school. I was living in a little apartment in downtown Lancaster, working for a local law firm. Dressing in suit and tie every day. I never did get used to that, I gotta say. Anyway, one day there was a letter in my mailbox when I got home. I stared, curious. From Canada. From Aylmer.

It was from David Luthy. I had not really thought of the man for years. And here came a letter. It wasn’t that long. But he was writing to tell me. Back years ago, when I was a boy in Aylmer, he had been judgmental of me and my friends. And later, too, during my years of turmoil and frantic running. He had said things he shouldn’t have. He had judged me. His heart was not in the right place. And now, he was writing to tell me he was sorry. He asked my forgiveness.

Well. You could have knocked me over with a feather. Looking back, I couldn’t remember any specific instances he mentioned. Still, he knew. And he was writing to tell me he was sorry. I mean, if I ever had anything against the man, it went out the window, whoosh, just like that. I was touched. I wrote back. Of course. I forgive you. I can’t remember what there was to forgive, but I’ll accept your message. After that, we slowly developed a friendship, a relationship, David Luthy and me. I think, deep down, he always respected the fact that I had gone to college, too.

And here, I will say this. He might have hurt a lot of other people, and probably did. None of that is any of my business. That’s between him and God. And between the people he hurt and God. None of my business.

Other than his research, the man had one more major accomplishment, from the work of his hands. He founded a library. An Amish historical library. Way back, in the 1980s, I think it was. And he methodically set out to find and preserve heirlooms from Amish households all across the land. He traveled to different communities. Met with people. Crawled up into the attics of old homes to inspect what the people told him they had. Old books. Old German Bibles. And in time, the man amassed what is probably the greatest collection in the world of books and artifacts from Amish lineage. He cataloged everything he gathered, and stored it in his library. It truly is an astonishing place, and a stunning accomplishment.

And that is where I connected with the man, when I started going back up to Aylmer to see my parents in the past five years or so. When I went to see Mom after she had drifted off into the darkness. More than once, on my way to my motel of an evening, I pulled into the Luthy place. David and Mary always met me on the porch. Smiling and welcoming. I just stopped by to see if I can come and tour your library tomorrow, I told him. He was always, always eager to show me around.

They raised a family. Seven children. I never knew any of them that well. I don’t know if the children felt different, growing up as the sons and daughters of a man who had joined from the outside. He was different, his habits were a little different. I don’t know what effect this all had on his children. But I do remember hearing, now and then. David’s son or David’s daughter was moving to such and such a place. New Order Amish, mostly. Some left for the car world. Eventually, it happened that every single one of their children moved out of Aylmer. There had to be a lot of pain, there, somewhere. But no judgment at all from me toward anyone involved, here. Just an observation of the facts.

Mary missed her children. As a mother, she longed to stay connected to them all. And she did. In the meantime, she stayed busy doing what Mary Luthy did. Helping others with her willing and capable hands.

She always had a reputation for unselfishly helping others. I saw it firsthand, the times I traveled up to Aylmer to see Mom. My mother took a lot of care, every day. She had to be fed like a baby, clothed, lifted in and out of bed with a winch a number of times, every day. And the Aylmer people came in and helped, every day. Among those people was Mary Luthy. I can’t remember a single time that I was there that Mary did not show up. Always smiling, always helpful, always busy with her hands. And when Mom passed, Mary wept and mourned her. It was an honor, she told us, to come and help take care of Ida Mae. She would miss that.

And it didn’t stop, after Mom left us. Mary still came over faithfully to see Dad. Not every day, like she did with Mom. But often. And once a week, usually on a Friday or Saturday, she trundled over with her buggy to take Dad to the schoolhouse to make his phone calls. Dad was always mysteriously absorbed in his own business affairs. Mary never asked any questions. She just came and took him where he wanted to go.

And so things stood. Life went on, for David and Mary. That’s how it always goes, I guess. Life goes on, until it doesn’t. Last year, the news trickled out. Mary Luthy was not feeling well. She claims there is nothing wrong. But there was something wrong. And last November, she was diagnosed with an aggressive form of liver cancer. It was far advanced. There was nothing to be done. She was sent home to die. From a distance, like I was, you just kind of absorb such a thing. Well. One more person from my Aylmer world will soon leave.

The people who had known her since childhood traveled up to see her and say good-bye. My brother Joseph, in ill health himself, trekked up from his winter stay in Florida to see Mary. They were in the Aylmer youth group together, years back.

He was there for a little over a day. Stopped to see her that afternoon, and returned the next morning. I’m not sure if she was still able to sit up. But she was coherent. She could visit. And during a lull in the conversation, she spoke his name. “Joseph.”

“Yes, Mary?” He answered.

“Will you preach at my funeral?” she asked. A simple question. Unafraid. Direct.

He jolted, startled. And he spoke, softly. “Yes, Mary,” he said. “If I’m able to come, I will preach. I’ll be glad to.” And they parted soon after that. It was the last time they would see each other on this earth.

She suffered terribly at the end. Wasted away. Her children all gathered around her that final week. Every day, she sank lower. But still, she hung on. Clung to life. She wanted to let go, I think. She just couldn’t, quite. There was so much, here. Her husband. Her children. One day, as the last week slowly passed, she looked into the distance and cried out. “There. I see Jesus. Why can’t I go to him?”

Those around her assured her that Jesus was coming to take her with Him very soon. A few days later, in the early hours of the morning, He did.

Mary Luthy’s suffering was over.

And it all closed in, the things that happen in the Amish world when a person passes on. It soon became clear, from conversations in my family. Not a lot of us would make it to the funeral. Dad was in Florida. He was simply not able to make the journey. Too far, too fast. After Joseph had returned to Florida from his visit with Mary a few weeks before, he sank into some sort of flu for a week. So he wasn’t able to go. A couple of my sisters were sick, and others were traveling elsewhere. And it soon became clear. The consensus. Ira would be the one to go to the funeral to represent the David Wagler family.

Well, I wanted to go. It’s not like I was drafted. Problem was, I was just coming off the worst cold I’ve had in years. And I was coughing. Hard. Every time I tried to talk, the spasms came. If I stayed quiet, it was mostly OK. But still. Someone had to go to Mary’s funeral, and it looked like I was about the closest one. All right, I told my sisters. Unless I get real sick, I’ll plan on leaving for Aylmer on Monday morning. The funeral was to be on Tuesday, the last day of last month.

On Monday morning, I was waiting outside the Enterprise office when they opened. The young man was quite cordial. A Ford Focus, I said. I’ll take one, unless you got a Charger. He punched his keyboard. “No Charger on the lot,” he said. OK, I said. Bring up the Focus. It was a tiny little car. Still, amazingly roomy when I got in. Plenty of headroom, even for a big guy like me. The little car darted along. Drove nice. I stopped at home, loaded my bags, and off we went. Me and the Focus.

The drive up was uneventful, and I arrived at the Comfort Inn in St. Thomas a little before five that afternoon. Very clean little motel. I asked the clerk. Are others here for the Amish funeral? “Oh, yes,” she said. “We have quite a few guests checked in for that.” Can I get a funeral discount? I asked. “Hmm,” she said. “Yes, you’re the first one who asked. I can give you a discount.” And she did.

I headed east then, out through the main drag of the community. As I neared David Luthy’s place, I saw there wasn’t much going on. I pulled up. A large sign was posted, out by the road. Mary Luthy Viewing at Wagler Mini Barns. The arrow pointed east. Well. I wasn’t sure where that place was, but I could just follow the traffic. I pulled over, and let a large passenger van pass. I followed. East to the crossroad, then south. On the left, the western edge of the farm I grew up on. On south, past the woods. And there the place was, on the right. A large mini barn manufacturing place, with a huge warehouse. That’s where the viewing was. That’s where the funeral service would be.

I pulled up and parked in a long line of cars and vans. Five-thirty. It would be dark soon. I walked up to the front door of the little apartment at the end of the warehouse. There, an Amish attendant met me. I spoke to him in PA Dutch. Is this where I can see Mary? He nodded, and led me into a small back room. And there the plain wooden coffin sat on two wooden saw horses. The lid was open, up at the front. I walked up. The attendant hovered respectfully off to the side. Gave me my privacy.

And there she was. Mary Luthy. I gazed silently on the person I had known all my life. She was so thin and emaciated, a frail wisp of the energetic Mary I remembered. She looks so thin, so wasted, I said softly to the man. He agreed, and told me her final days and final hours had been excruciatingly painful.

He showed me the door that led out to the main space, then. A huge, huge room. And a huge crowd of people. I walked in, and right there were the tables with food. They were finishing up supper. I loaded a plate and walked around the edge of the room. Sat and ate. A few people who recognized me as a Wagler came and talked. After eating, I went and mingled and visited. Most people there didn’t know me, but I heard more than a few buzzing whispers. “That’s Ira Wagler. That’s Ira Wagler.”

I approached the row of chairs where the family was. David Luthy sat there, bent and old. I stooped and took his hand. He smiled. I’m not quite sure he recognized me. I think he did. We talked, chatted for a few minutes. He seemed happy to see me. His daughter, Ruthie Cain, came up, smiling and introduced herself. “Are you really Ira Wagler?” she asked. Yes, I said. I am. “Thank you so much for coming to Mom’s funeral,” she told me. I wouldn’t have missed it, I said. We visited for a while, me and Ruthie. Her smile, her actions, and her mannerisms reminded me a lot of her mother. I could see the beautiful heart that David saw in Mary when he first met her.

Before late, I left. I wanted to go see my sister Rosemary at her home, a mile or so north. She figured someone would be coming, she just didn’t know who. I parked and walked in and knocked. Rosemary and her husband Joe welcomed me. A few of their other children were there as well. We sat around and talked for a while. I coughed and coughed, just right along. Seemed like anytime I spoke, that annoyed my throat. Rosemary looked alarmed. I’ve had this cold for a while, I told her. I just can’t shake this cough. And I hacked away some more.

And we talked about Mary Luthy, and her life. She and Rosemary were close friends, and I could see my sister was deeply affected. Not that she let on, much. The Amish are pretty stoic, in the face of death. But I could tell, from how Rosemary talked. Of how Mary used to come and help take care of Mom. That was a big deal. I knew it was, and I listened respectfully. And Rosemary told me something more, about the next day.

“You knew that Esther Herrfort lives around here, now,” she told me. Yes, I had heard that, I said. “She’s Joe’s older sister, you know,” Rosemary continued. “We are taking her with us to the funeral tomorrow.” I stared at her. You are taking Esther Herrfort to the funeral? I asked. Can you make sure I meet her? Esther Herrfort is the widowed mother of Nicholas, the bullied boy I wrote about in my book, the boy who eventually took his own life. Here was a tangible connection to my memories of that story. I most definitely wanted to meet her again.

The next morning, well before nine, I arrived at the mini barn place. Rosemary had warned me. Don’t be late. Get there early. So I got there with twenty minutes to spare. I huddled in the London Fog trench coat I picked up last year off the clearance rack for just exactly such a time as this. I never thought much of the fact that the coat was brown, not black, like the Amish wear. In my world, it was professional and subdued. In the Amish world, the brown stuck out like a camel, or something. Didn’t matter, though. I don’t let such things bug me anymore. I walked around the back, where people were entering the warehouse.

I walked in, in line with the young married men. The place was almost full. We were seated toward the back of it all, on hard backless benches. The benches were spaced close together, so you could barely stumble through. I guess they were looking for a pretty big crowd. I looked out over the vast crowd of people. A thousand people, they told me later. Half the room was a sea of bobbing white head coverings, where the women sat. The other half, dark somberly clad men with great long beards. I was surrounded by grim-looking young bearded men who know what an iPhone is, so I didn’t dare try to sneak any pics. I didn’t want to get hauled out of there.

And a few minutes before nine, the service started. Three short sermons. The preachers stood off to one side in the middle of the room and hollered both ways. The first preacher was an older guy I could barely hear. He did his best, but he just didn’t have it. He preached from fear, mumbling about how death was coming for us all, and we’d better be ready. He sat down after twenty minutes. Let the next preacher speak louder, I prayed.

I was startled when the second preacher stood. Caleb Stoll, oldest son of the late great orator, Elmo Stoll. He is not his father, but he spoke in a clear voice that reached us all. In English. He preached his entire sermon in English. I have never seen such a thing at an Amish funeral before. I figured it had to be for David Luthy’s extended family. They didn’t speak or understand PA Dutch. So the Aylmer people were accommodating for that. Caleb, too, sat down after a short twenty minutes or so.

The third preacher was Peter Stoll, a local bishop, and he stood with bowed head. I felt a little sorry for him. Mary was his beloved aunt. How do you preach at your aunt’s funeral? Peter did not mess around. He turned this way and that, and his powerful booming voice reached every crevice of the vast warehouse. For the first ten minutes, he simply proclaimed praise by quoting Psalms. In Old High German. It sent shivers up and down my spine. His rhythm and cadence took me back to the days when I heard his uncle Elmo preach.

We all filed past the coffin then, and it took a while. There is no other culture that faces death as honestly as the Amish do, at least not in the western world. Everyone files past and pays respect. Even the children. Small children who aren’t tall enough are held up so they too can view the deceased. It’s a somber time, it’s a time when the people of that culture stop and reflect on the fate that is coming for us all, eventually. Death will come for all of us. It is also a time when wayward sons like me are welcomed and respected. Or at least we are not reviled.

At the end of the viewing, the most powerful scene. The family gathering around the coffin. They came in couples, first. And then, just the family. David Luthy stood at the head. His children gathered around him. He spread his arms wide to envelop as many as he could reach. Old and stooped now, he stood there and wept for his beloved Mary.

At the burial, it’s all respectful, too. I’ve written that before, how it’s done. The coffin is lowered by hand, with straps. Then the wooden lid that covers the box that holds the coffin. Then two men step down, and shovels full of dirt are handed down and carefully placed until the lid is covered with a layer. Then the men step out, and the grave is fully covered, by hand, with shovels. That day, Mary’s sons and sons-in-law stepped up and took a turn in covering the matriarch of the clan.

Back to the warehouse, then, for the noon meal. And to visit. Good simple food. Somehow, it seems like the Aylmer Amish don’t believe in adding any kind of meat to the noodles they serve. Don’t know why. They sure do make a delicious potato salad, though. Then it’s mingling and visiting and catching up. It’s all so exhilarating, and it’s all so exhausting.

I watched where the women sat, and soon tracked down my sister Rosemary. I want to meet Esther Herrfort, I told her. Rosemary scanned the place. “There she is, over there,” she said. “Come with me.” I followed her to where Esther sat. I think I would still have recognized her. The mother of Nicholas Herrfort. Rosemary took a chair close to Esther. Esther smiled at her. And Rosemary spoke.

“This is my brother, Ira,” she said. Esther looked at me, a totally English man, bearded and gray-haired. And she smiled. I held out my hand, and she took it. She remembered my name, she told me. And I asked about her surviving children by name. She told me where they all lived. And then I told her. I went to school with Nicholas. It was the only time his name was mentioned. She smiled softly, but did not respond. And soon the moment passed.

An Amish funeral is one of the most unique social experiences in the world. It’s unique, because you don’t have to be invited, to go. Not in the world I come from. They can’t invite you to their weddings. They’re not allowed to. But you can go to their funerals. And that’s how you connect with people from that world, and people who have left that world, like you have.

It was time to wind down, then, that afternoon. Head on over to the motel, and rest a bit. That night, I would go out to my sister’s place. Tomorrow I would head for home. Mary’s daughter, Ruthie, sought me out as things were winding down. She and her pilot husband and children were leaving right then for their home in Tennessee. Wait, I told her. I went out to the Focus, and grabbed a copy of my book. Signed it to Ruthie and her family. My condolences on this day of your Mother’s funeral. She smiled and thanked me, and thanked me again for coming. It means a lot, she told me.

And that was the end, then, of that funeral. And the end of the road for David and Mary Luthy, and their long and fruitful life together. They were a remarkable couple. Different and remarkable. Their journey was unique, but it was their journey.

And I’ve thought about it, over the years. About that little group of writers, that little band of warriors (of whom David Luthy was one), that assembled in Aylmer around my father, way back in the years of my childhood.

Those people told the stories of their people. And yes, they were flawed, as were their voices. But they spoke those stories as they saw them. And I’ve wondered, through the years. Will all this be lost? Who will tell the stories of the people who told the stories?

Now and then, I suppose, that’s what I try to do in my own flawed voice.

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My Father’s Staff…

…He heard the spectre moan of the wind, he was entombed

in loss and darkness, and his soul plunged downward into the

pit of night, for he saw that he must die a stranger… And like

a man who is perishing in the polar night, he thought of the rich

meadows of his youth: the corn, the plum tree, and ripe grain.

Why here? O lost!

—Thomas Wolfe

_________________

I remember the day very well. An ordinary Sunday, a regular church service, there at Chestnut Street. I don’t always notice when visitors show up, or pay that much attention to them when they do. That day, I noticed a stranger and his wife. A gray-haired guy, maybe a few years older than me. I can’t remember even vaguely wondering what had brought them to that place.

After the service, we had a fellowship meal downstairs, which happens roughly once a month. I always pay attention to when those meals are, because a guy living alone is always grateful for a good free meal. That day, at that meal, the stranger and his wife sat across the table from me. I was introduced by the friend they had come to visit. The stranger took my proffered hand in a firm grip, and looked at me sharply with piercing eyes.

I forget his name, and it’s not important. He was a missionary preacher man from South Africa, and he worked with Hindu people there. Interesting, I thought. I bet he’s seen some real spiritual warfare. He smiled as if he knew me. Which, it turned out, he kind of did. He told me. They had arrived earlier that week, and his friend had given him my book to read. This was in 2012 or so, the book had not been out that long. He had read it in two days. He thought it was very interesting. But he had something to tell me. And he leaned across the table, close, and those intense eyes looked right through me.

“The part of the book early on,” he said. “Where you wrote about your father being a dowser, how he could find water with a stick. The power to do that comes from a divining spirit. It is not a good thing. It is evil. I have seen so much in my lifetime, with the kind of work I do.”

Well. What do you say to such a thing? Yeah, my father was a dowser. He walked around holding a forked stick. A staff of sorts, I would say. He found water with a little stick, kind of like Moses found water with his staff. Not exactly the same, I realize. But still. Wood and water.

The preacher man was nowhere close to done talking about it, either. He went right on, in that clipped South African accent. “When I read that, early in the book, about the dowsing, I knew one thing,” he said. “I knew some bad things were going to happen before the story ended in your book. And I was right. Your brother, Titus. When he dived into that pond, and broke his neck. It seemed like a freak accident. But it wasn’t an accident. That power that pulled him down was a divining spirit. And that spirit was looking for a sacrifice. That close, it got your brother. Had the wind been blowing out, instead of in, the spirit would have taken him.”

I stared at the man. Across the table, as we were eating a fellowship meal together. Not because I thought he’d lost his marbles. But because I was intrigued. Here sat a preacher man, telling me that the harmless thing I saw my father doing was actually demonic. I mean, I wasn’t going to just embrace what he was saying as truth. But I sure was going to listen to what he had to tell me.

Dowsing is not unique to just the Amish, but it sure has been a part of the lore and legend of the culture. There are lots of dark tales out there, about a lot of dark things. Some of that stuff comes from an evil place, no doubt about that. But does it all? And if so, how is a bloodline affected? Are there curses? If so, are those curses generational? I’ve heard it from about every side. And I don’t take a hard position on most such things. It all just depends on where you came from, and what you’ve seen. Near as I can tell, anyway.

There are Amish tales of many dark things. I’ll never forget the story Mom told me one time when she and Dad were admonishing me after I got caught smoking. I was probably twelve. It was a tale of a rebellious Amish youth who bought a car. Big sin, there. One night, as he was driving home alone around midnight, there was a tap on his shoulder from the back seat. Slowly, almost frozen with fear, he pulled off to the side of the road and parked. Then he turned around slowly. And there the monster sat, horned and grinning. Satan himself. “Welcome to my kingdom,” Satan said. “I’m so happy that you will be helping to fill hell, after you die.” Then, poof, he was gone. The boy, terrified, drove home. He could not sleep that night. The next day, he sold his car. That was the moral of the whole thing. The car was bad, because disobedience was bad. I had to figure out that connection for myself, years later. I listened, wide eyed. That tale scared me for years.

And there are sermons, too, based on raw fear. It’s not just for parents to speak to young children. Of demons hovering over “beer joints,” visible only to eyes that are open to see. And somewhere in some graveyard, there is a tomb stone that glows eerily at night with unearthly fire. I’ve never seen it. But that’s what they say. Tales of dark men walking in to the wake of a rebellious young Amish girl (In Illinois somewhere, probably Arthur) who had been tragically killed. The two men walked in late to the wake, they were blackened and singed, still reeking of smoke and fumes. They looked at the dead girl, then at each other and nodded. And then they turned and walked back outside and disappeared into the darkness, back to hell where they had come from.

You preach that, you’re preaching fear. And fear can never be the basis of salvation.

Since the book came out, back in 2011, I have heard from many readers about many topics. One message came from a woman who came from Amish blood. And she told me of how her great-grandfather had been a dowser. He was an Amish minister. He practiced water witching, and used Ouija boards. It was whispered that he at one time had cursed God, challenging God to show Himself if He is real. He never heard any response, not when he was living. But after he died, as they were lowering his casket into the hole, large black snakes came up and slithered away. That’s the story that is told.

A good friend of mine who lives in the Midwest told me. He’s a builder. And one day, years ago, he was working for a guy who lived right across the road from an old church, and a large, mostly empty graveyard. And the guy told him. He used the same method as my father did, but it was with wires over a grave. He could tell you if a male or female was buried there and which end the head was when the body was placed in the grave.

Stories like that are just too wild to make up. Well, they’re not, but you can tell if you’re talking to someone who is credible. These are cultural stories, that science has always scorned. We hear those stories, and we instinctively know when they are true.

My friend told me. “I asked the guy. I said, are you [a witch]? He said, No, I’m not into witchcraft, I’m a Christian! He lived across the road from a large cemetery with only a dozen stones or so. Him and his dad-in-law learned how to do it from the internet. He said there were over 200 unmarked graves.”

I’ve never heard of such a thing, that a man has the power to locate and speak of some pretty intimate details about bodies in unmarked graves. But I don’t doubt even a smidgen of the story my friend told me. I don’t know where power like that comes from. I don’t really care to know. I would never dabble in such an activity as that. But I will talk face to face with any person who would. And I would talk to such a person without condemnation, and without fear.

And fear is really behind the reactions, when people recoil, I think. The reactions to dowsing and other ancient practices. Most of the stories, too, are based in a deep underlying current of fear. Satan is a roaring lion, and he’s out there stalking about, looking to devour the unwary. And the stories are told, passed down by word of mouth from generation to generation. I think it’s time somebody wrote them down. At least some of them.

Another reader wrote me years ago, of the fear that is used to control the Amish youth. He came from a hard place, and heard all the stories as a child. This is a little bit of what he wrote to me: “…Fear and torment as a way to control. Fear of the occult, power of darkness, fire from graves, spirits groaning in the hay loft, nooses hanging from rafters, stories, tales and threats of terror to demonize any young person. Harsh severe judgement on sin, no hope…a way of life.” He was speaking truth, from the world he came from. And the better one he was in.

When we were young, we played a game. It took five or six people. One person in the group would leave the room. The others in the room would pick one person from among them. Then the person was called back from outside the room. We all stood around him, put one hand on his shoulders, and thought about the person we had chosen to think about. The person who had left the room always, always was pulled by some magical force to the person all the rest of us were thinking about. And I don’t mean a little tug, either. It was a powerful force that actually would have pulled a person over to the ground. I can’t quite remember where this game came from, or who taught us. I do remember playing the game in Aylmer, before we moved. So it probably came from Daviess roots.

Would I play this game today? Probably not. (There are lots of ancient practices I would not get close to. I would never touch a Ouija board.) There is no question the power we saw and felt was real. I have no idea how it all worked. But it did. Just like Dad’s dowsing worked. And none of it was anything that I ever was afraid of. It didn’t seem based on fear. It just was what it was.

Science has never verified that any of it works, any of those strange cultural things. Not the dowsing, not the Ouija Board, not the game we played. I guess science can’t explain everything. I respect real science. The provable experiments, the medicine, the surgery techniques. I’d be dead, if it weren’t for science, from my heart procedures in the past few years. I respect and appreciate it a lot. But that doesn’t mean I worship it.

It’s the “consensus” politicized “science” that I abhor and detest. They have become the new priesthood, such scientists have. And they will cast out and ostracize anyone who dares to question their grave noble proclamations about how the universe was born, or their shrill screeching about manmade destruction of this planet. When an arrogant, condescending hack like Bill Nye can pronounce that Christian parents should not be allowed to homeschool their own children because faith has no place in the classroom, and be taken seriously, when that happens, the priesthood needs to be resisted at every turn. In every way possible. These high priests are frauds. Just like the religious Christian ones were, a long time ago.

An idol is an idol. It don’t matter who’s worshiping it.

The sorcerer’s gifts, and his deeds, are always based in fear. At least in my culture, they are. I never, never sensed any fear in Dad, that way. Don’t get me wrong. He was deeply flawed, in a lot of ways. But not ways that I ever saw connected to this.

And yeah. I know all about God’s curses, and such. But I’ve always wondered. If “witching” is such an evil thing, why do the people who have the gift have so little clue as to why they have it?? Seems to me, if it’s evil and cursed in the Old Testament, then the people who are cursed should be aware that they are, and why.

I don’t know. I guess I feel a little defensive. Like a child of a person like my father was would be. I saw what I saw. And it didn’t seem all that harmful, any of it. Actually, it all seemed downright calm and peaceable. Dad never talked about it, much, his gift. He never advertised it. He just went and dowsed when he was called on to do so. Looking back, there was something so orderly about it that I just can’t bring myself to get all harsh and biblically judgmental about it. I just can’t. It’s who I am, and where I came from, what I saw and lived. You can’t slog through life on a foundation of fear.

Well. I guess you can. But it’s not healthy. Fear never is.

Circling back around, then, to the preacher man from South Africa, with the piercing eyes. We chatted through the meal that day in church. And then I asked him. Will you be around for a few more days? Can we do lunch one day this week? He told me. They would be around for a week, so that would work.

We met for lunch, down at Dutchway, a few days later. I carried a small gift, a copy of my book. He had read it, but I figured he might like one to take back home with him. And we had a great time that day. I had been right, in my thinking. He told me war story after war story of the spiritual battles he had seen and waged back in his home country. I listened and asked a lot of questions. I did not doubt any story he spoke to me that day. And we talked about it, too, the divining spirit he claimed my father used when he dowsed. I just listened. I did not scoff, and I did not fall over myself to agree with him. It was a respectful conversation.

Soon enough, it was time to wind down. We walked outside. And I thought about it, and then I asked him. Would you say a prayer for me? We may never see each other again. He agreed instantly. He would be happy to.

We sat there in my truck. The man placed his hand on me. And he spoke to God in a way that I trust. Simply talking man to man. And he told God. “We pray for Ira, in the name of Jesus. We don’t know if there is a generational curse that passed on down to him from his father, with the divining power. But if there is, we rebuke it, today, here. And we tell it to depart forever from having any effect on Ira or his extended family.” Not an exact quote, there. But words to that effect.

I thanked him. We shook hands and parted ways. I have often wondered if there was any particular reason he came striding ever so briefly through my world, the preacher man from South Africa who knew what it was to do battle in the spiritual world.

I’ve wondered, too, about that curse thing. You won’t be able to tell, from my life. It’s been in shambles, often as not. But I have never sensed a generational curse over me. I mean, that would leave me pretty hopeless, walking around under a curse I never had anything to do with.

Jesus died for the hopeless. That’s what the gospel is all about.

Still, I come from where I came from, and I saw what I saw. And I have often pondered them in my heart, the things the preacher man told me that day.

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

The motorcycle journey rumbles on. Well, maybe I should say, it stumbles on. I’ve kept the grooming going, the long hair look. About once a month, I stroll into the barber shop in downtown New Holland. It’s a classic little man cave place. My buddy Michael is usually working his way through the line of customers. I sit and wait, like you do in a barber shop. When my turn comes, he always welcomes me, and chats about his latest woman troubles. I nod and smile and agree. Yeah, it’s best to stay away from’em. They never brought me a thing but trouble.

Last time I was in, he told me. “Your hair is sure filling out, nice and long, like you want it. Soon it’ll be down to your shoulders. Your kind of hair, it’s hard to get long, because it just curls up.”

Yep, I said. And then I told him. Let it grow, let it grow. I want to look all mean, so the little children shrink in fear behind their mothers when they see me. I thought I had told him that before. Apparently, I hadn’t, because he stopped what he was doing. Stood there for a second. Then he threw back his head and laughed as long and hard as I’ve ever seen him laugh.

“No,” he said it matter-of-factly. “That, my friend, is not going to happen.”

Ah, come on, I chided. Don’t shoot down my goal.

I’ve been keeping an eye out for a cheap motorcycle. Something small, like the one I took the classes on. Not too small, but still. Small enough so that I can ride the back roads until I know what the heck I’m doing. Confidence, and all that.

Earlier this very week, a good friend told me. “That little car dealer in Gap is going out of business. My daughter just drove by, and they have a really sharp little bike sitting out there. For sale. You should go check it out.”

And that how things get started. The next morning, on the way to work, I stopped at Waltz’s Sales. It’s a small, very old fashioned place, straight out of the 1950s. I walked into the office. Greeted the father and son sitting there. I hear you have a bike for sale.

Yes, they did. And the son took me out to where the bike was in the small garage. A Yamaha 650, with lots of after-market chrome. 2010 model, low slung, very sharp. White, not black. Which is OK for the first bike. The next one, I’ll get black. The most amazing thing of all: this little bike had only 1600 miles on it. I mean, that’s practically brand new. The price. Very low, but still at the top of the range I had set for myself.

It was a cold morning. We pushed the bike outside and he started it. I didn’t feel comfortable test driving it in Gap, because of the traffic. I sat on it, and rolled the throttle. It rumbled magnificently.

If you’re gonna do something, you might as well get it done, I thought to myself. And I wrote out a check for the full amount. I got it licensed and insured, and my friend Lewis is driving it home for me tomorrow. I have notified the tenant. We got a new thing coming, that needs some garage space. He parks his car in there, but I’m sure he’ll find me a spot. I guess we’ll see how it goes.

I don’t think a scabbard is going to fit on this bike. It’s a little small for that. So the coach gun will have to stay at home for now. Until a new black steed shows up on its own, kind of like this bike did.

I’m excited. There’s a new road rising.

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“Selling” Jesus…

Talkin’ to a preacher, said God was on his side.

Talkin’ to a pusher, they both were selling highs.

Well, I gotta tell the story, boys,

I don’t know the reason why.

—Waylon, lyrics

_______________________________________________

It’s funny, how things work sometimes. The other day was just an ordinary January day, there at the office. If there is such a thing as an ordinary day in January. It’s a depressing month, all around. (Well, not as dark as March is. But dark enough.) That day, it was late morning. The door opened, the doorbell jangled. I looked up from my desk, and automatically got up to take care of the customer.

He walked toward me, smiling. Then he spoke my name. “Ira.” He was all loud and jovial. I looked at him, tried to place him. His face was familiar. A youngish guy. Then I recognized him and spoke his name back, not quite as loud. He walked up to the counter, and we shook hands. It’s been a while, I said. “Yes, it has,” he answered. “I’m here to pick up some of that wood siding you sell.” Good, I said. I got plenty in stock. He was a local guy, from over close to Philly. I’d sold to him off and on, many times over the years. He’s young, driven, hard-working, and very successful with his own business. And he’s usually all business. On this day, though, he was a little more relaxed than usual.

This time, he asked me, right off. “How’s that book of yours doing out there?” I grinned, surprised. Not sure how he heard about the book. Maybe I’d told him before. Or maybe he just saw the poster on my computer screen. I grinned again. I might as well brag a little. Oh, it did pretty well, I told him. Seventh printing. Close to 200,000 copies sold. It made my publisher a lot of money. He looked impressed. That’s the kind of language he understands and respects. Making a lot of money. I never mentioned the book was a NY Times bestseller. That kind of thing wasn’t going to impress him like making a lot of money did.

The small talk was over, then. We stood at the counter, and he got to telling me about a garage he wants to build at his home. He figured I could provide the materials, and maybe even build it for him. And I don’t know exactly why I did what I did, then. As we were talking, I turned to my desk and picked up a copy of my book from the box, there. Back at the counter, I set the book off to one side, out of the way. I never said a word about it. Just set it there. In the back of my mind, I figured. If I can get a word in edgewise, I’ll see if I can sell him my book.

He was all business. And we talked for fifteen minutes about the garage he wanted. I showed him pictures of what we had done and what we could do. The book sat there, looking forlorn. I never mentioned it, never even glanced at it. We wrapped things up, then. I wrote up the invoice for his siding, and he wrote me a check. I handed him the paperwork and told him where to go to load. I thanked him for the business. And that was that, I figured.

But no. As he was turning to leave, he stopped and motioned. “How much for the book?” he asked. I didn’t act surprised. Fifteen bucks, signed, I said. He laughed. “How about if it’s not signed?” he asked. And I laughed, too. Still fifteen bucks, I said. He got out his wallet and handed me the cash. I signed the book and handed it to him. He thanked me.

And I thought to myself as he turned and walked out. The book just sold itself, right there. I didn’t do anything. Sometimes you sell by not selling.

I’ve thought a lot about the little scene that came down at the counter that day. I think it was just instinctive on my part, to let things go and let everything play out naturally without a lot of fuss. Had the guy not glanced at the book again, I would never have thought twice about it. I never pushed it on him, and so he took it upon himself. It was all pretty amazing, when you think about it.

I’ve never considered myself that much of a salesman. But looking back, I saw it from my earliest days and my earliest memories, what a good salesman is. My father was a natural born salesman. The man lived and breathed sales pretty much every day of his life, at least the part of his life that I saw and remember.

I’ve mentioned it before. Dad loved the art of the deal. Growing up, I saw it all around me every day. Dad plunged about madly, here and there, pursuing his far-flung ideas to wherever they would lead. The thing is, it never fazed him when he failed. Over the years, he wore a lot of different sales hats, with some varied success. And when one little business idea faltered or sputtered to a halt, he was soon busily engaged in launching the next big thing. As long as he was selling, his world was about where he figured it should be. That, and when he was writing, of course. But that’s a form of selling, too, getting people to read what you wrote.

In Dad’s vast and varied career, he sold just about anything you can imagine, from purebred Landrace hogs to grape seedlings to metal roofing and siding. And he had a lot of other little side businesses scattered about, here and there, all throughout my childhood years.

Dad sold fruit. Well, mostly he sold black sweet cherries and peaches in season. And he raised acres of strawberries and sold them, too, in season. The strawberries, we peddled door to door, in Aylmer and Tillsonburg. The cherries and peaches, well, he brokered those. Was simply the middleman who moved and shook things, and made them work. It’s all part of Dad’s legend, how he got into the cherry business. Early on, after moving to Aylmer, he was traveling to the east one day, over close to Niagara Falls. He saw the rich fertile ground, he saw the mile after mile of vast orchards with bowing trees. And randomly, he stopped in to talk to one of those orchard owners. That man’s name was Alfred C. High. And Dad and Mr. High struck up a deal that day. Mr. High would bring Dad a flatbed truck load of cherries, all packed in four-quart wooden baskets. And Dad would sell them to the people in the community. I think they started small, that first year.

Dad soon had the community saturated with fresh, delicious sweet cherries. He needed a bigger market. And that’s when he went to the Aylmer Sales Barn and set up a stand. When Alfred C. High came around with his little flatbed truck, we unloaded all the baskets the Amish people around us had ordered. Then it was off to the Sales Barn vendor’s lot. By mid-afternoon, usually, Dad’s table was loaded and ready for business. And he developed quite a reputation as a seller of quality fruit. At the stand, he didn’t just sit around. Not Dad. He got all active. “Fresh, delicious cherries,” he hollered to anyone who would listen. He poured a basket of cherries over into an empty basket, to show that the cherries were good, all the way down to the bottom. And he usually sold out well before dark, when the market shut down.

I can’t remember that he ever sold peaches at the Sales Barn. For those, he simply took orders from people in the community. And Alfred C. High brought the amounts Dad ordered. Those black sweet cherries and those peaches were the most luscious fruits that I have ever tasted. Maybe it’s a childhood thing, the vividness of those early memories. But I think all my siblings would agree with me. Alfred C. High raised the most delicious, mouth-watering cherries and peaches we ever ate.

The strawberries were another story. At dawn, we were out in the strawberry patch, on our knees in a vast sea of dew-soaked plants, picking box after box of the ripe red berries. And we had a different way of selling. We peddled those strawberries door to door, mostly in Aylmer. I peddled my first fruit when I was probably ten years old. I look back on it all now, and just marvel at how audacious it all was. We walked through the back streets of town, lugging a crate of strawberries. I can still feel how to was to walk cold to a door and knock or ring the doorbell. You wait, then, for some kind of noise from within. If all is silent, you knock or ring again. Back in those days, the early 1970s, more women stayed at home, I think. Someone was apt to be home, about any hour of the day. And when the housewife came to the door, you asked her as politely as any little Amish boy could. Would you like to buy some strawberries today?

I can’t remember many people being rude, although I’m sure some were. We were focused on getting that buggy load of berries sold, so we could go downtown. After a hard afternoon of selling, we would walk into Clarke’s Restaurant, there on main street. A cheeseburger and French fries, those were the reward. I remember that Clarke’s had a juke box, with a song selector at every table, a little glass cabinet. In that place, that’s where I first heard Sammy Davis, Jr.’s classic. The Candy Man Can. The place was a mecca to us, so cutting edge and worldly.

Dad sold nursery stock. Again, how that ever came to be is lost to me now. I never heard how he got the idea. He loved shrubs and bushes, loved to plant a nice blue spruce here and there around the yard. And somehow, he got the idea that he could sell shrubs and trees. So he sent off for thousands and thousands of infant seedlings of every describable type, breed, and nature. Blue spruces. Evergreen shrubs. Oak and maple saplings. We planted the seedlings on the sandy hill east of the pond. It was the only sandy spot on the whole farm. And it was the perfect spot to sprout Dad’s inventory of nursery stock.

And for the nursery stock, Dad had to bring the customers out to our farm. Along the gravel road, seven miles east of Aylmer. And somehow, the man did it. He placed a small ad in the weekly Aylmer Express. I don’t know, he might have advertised in the daily St. Thomas Times-Journal, too. And in the summer, especially on a Saturday, the people came. Car after car cruised slowly down from the west, and pulled into our drive. Sometimes there were four or five cars stacked up. The place got full. Usually it was a husband and wife. Sometimes the wife was alone. And they all came to buy the bushes and shrubs Dad had for sale.

We were just kids, my brothers and me. I was ten, probably. We kept a few bushes and shrubs in the shop, there, in the yard. But often, the customer wanted something fresher. And we would grab a shovel and escort the customer right out to the sandy hill east of the pond. And there we would dig up the shrub the customer chose. Those were busy days.

I remember a couple of things about it all. Me and my brothers, Stephen and Titus, took in a lot of cash from those sales. We often walked around with a pocket full of assorted cash bills, including twenties. Our system of writing up sales was extremely lackadaisical. We handed over a lot of cash to Dad, when he came home for lunch from his office at Pathway. And always, a little bit of that cash stuck to our fingers. A five here, a ten there, a twenty there. We didn’t really consider it stealing, but I guess it was. We were just storing up funds we needed to buy hockey sticks and comic books and other goodies. Titus even saved up enough to buy a shotgun. An Ithaca twelve-gauge that kicked the empty shells straight down, not out to the side like all other brands of pump guns. I feel no guilt from here, looking back at that syphoned cash. Maybe we shouldn’t have done it. But that’s what boys are gonna do, right across the board, normally, if they get a chance. It just was what it was.

The second thing I remember is a small thing, but it stayed with me all my life. I was just a kid, a raggedy, snot-nosed, barefoot, dirty kid. But that was the time of my life I learned to hold the car door open for a lady. I’d sell a few shrubs to a man and his wife. We’d load them in the trunk of the car, and the man would pay me. And as they walked forward to get in the car, I darted forward, too, on the lady’s side. Opened the door. And every single lady I ever opened the door for acted all surprised and delighted. Always, they smiled at me, real smiles. And always, they said, in a pleased voice. “Why, thank you.” (On the other side of the car, the husband sat, looking glum that a little Amish kid had outclassed him.) You’re welcome, I mumbled, rubbing my shirt sleeve across my nose. It was all quite wild and wonderful.

Back to the opening scene on this blog. I come from a place where selling was what we did from our earliest memories. So maybe I kept silent instinctively, because of how I had seen my father sell all those years ago. I can’t say for sure. In sales, there is a time for silence, and there is a time to speak. I do know I have never come close to matching Dad’s selling skills.

And perhaps his most lasting sale of all came from the true calling of his heart. His writing. When he founded and launched Family Life, he put all his many sales skills to work, honed to their finest edge. He produced a quality inaugural issue of the magazine. He mailed it out to thousands and thousands of people, for free. And he included his sales pitch, in that first offer. This is our vision, here at Pathway. This is an example of what we can produce here. Please subscribe if you want to read more such material in the future. It was my father’s greatest sales triumph. And he will leave behind the work of his hands when he passes on. No one can ever take that accomplishment from him.

And sliding off on one more little bunny trail, here. The last one, I promise. It made me think of one other thing, that little incident with my customer friend. He asked about the book. I told him. We chatted about it. Then he got down to the business he had come for. And I just quietly set the book off to one side, there. Didn’t call any attention to it. Not one word. There it was. If he wanted it, he could ask. He knew it was there for the taking.

And I thought about it. Isn’t that how we should treat the gospel? You walk through life as a Christian. You don’t have to wear it on your sleeve, the fact that you are a child of God. You don’t have to tell the people you meet in the wilderness. If you meet them where they are, if you reflect the true love of Christ, they’ll see and know that on their own.

I come from a quiet people who are not expressive at all about their lifestyle or their faith. I was taught from my youth. Live your faith. Don’t worry so much about speaking it. It’s OK to speak it, if someone asks. But don’t go around harassing people, don’t go around preaching. Anyone can claim anything.

I want to be careful here. The vineyards of the Lord are vast and varied. As are the numbers and types of laborers in those vineyards. I’m not knocking the wild-eyed preacher on the street corner. I’m not talking down on people who knock on doors to spread the good news. I’m just saying. That’s not who I am. And no, I don’t feel even slightly guilty about any of that. I just walk. I figure that’s what I’m called to do.

And yeah, I’ll tell you, here. I’m a Christian. No, I don’t make a big fuss about it. I might tell you in person, if I figure it’ll make any difference. I might not, too. But if you ask, I’ll never, never be shy about it. I’ll never flinch. Yes. Jesus is real to me. Yes, life is still hard, as often as not. Yes, I am flawed, just like anyone else. Yes, I get pissed and sometimes lose my temper. Yes, I’m human. I always will be. And my heart will always be as depraved as the heart of the vilest sinner out there you can imagine. It’s only God’s grace that makes any difference. And you can have that grace, too.

These things I’ll tell you, if you want to know. If you don’t want to know, I’ll just keep walking. My words won’t make any difference, anyway. I won’t try to “sell” Jesus by telling you life gets easier if you speak the “sinner’s prayer” and believe. It doesn’t. It gets harder. It gets messier. Still. Either the gospel will reach you, or it won’t.

There is no “bargain basement” pricing, either. Because it’s all free, that grace is. It always was, and it always will be. You can drink deep from that fountain whenever you choose to believe. And then you can walk in calmness and in peace through any hard and messy place that life slings at you. Take it from a guy who’s seen lots and lots of hard and messy places. A guy who’s still walking.

And that right there is about the only “selling” of Jesus you’ll ever hear from me.

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The Bishop and the Coach Gun…

As the present now

Will later be past.

The order is rapidly fading

And the first one now will later be last.

Cause the times, they are a-changing.

—Bob Dylan, lyrics

______________________

I don’t know why or how these things happen to me. I mean, it’s not like I’m out looking for anything unusual. And this week, it’s the end of the year. So I had planned to meander around a bit on this post, reflecting on the past twelve months. And I still will. But when life comes at you in ways you weren’t looking for, you write about life first, I reckon. So here goes.

It’s been kind of slow at work, the last few weeks. Pretty much like it always is, over the holidays like that. Still, we keep regular hours, as much as we can. And this week, we were open Tuesday through Friday, like most of the businesses around us.

Wednesday. Late morning. An Amish guy walked into the door, and up to my counter. A local small time contractor. Probably a few years older than me, maybe sixty. I don’t know. A nice guy. I’d seen him a few times before. He was always cheerful and friendly. I greeted him, and he told me what he needed. A bag of screws, to attach metal siding. No problem, I said. I asked for his business name, and he told me. I wrote up the invoice.

I’ve mentioned it before, a few times on my blog. I have a little poster taped to the back of my computer screen. The screen sits on the counter, at about eye level. The poster faces out, toward anyone standing across the counter from me. Most people never notice the poster. I’d say 80% or so. They never see and never ask. A few people notice, but don’t ask. And then there’s a very select few people who notice the poster, then ask about it. This Amish contractor on the Wednesday after Christmas was one of the very few select people who both saw and asked.

I saw him glance at the poster, then jolt a bit, startled. He peered sharply, right up close. We had been chatting along, quite amiably. He looked at me, then asked. “Is this you?” It is, I said. “Did you write this book?” I did, I said.

He chuckled, then spoke to me in his native tongue. “I guess you can speak Deutsch.” Yah, I said. Ich konn gute Deutsch. Not quite the same PA Dutch as yours. You people talk real funny, from where I come from. He threw back his head and laughed hard, then wagged his finger at me. “Now, now,” he admonished. “Now, now. Let’s be careful, here.”

I moved in for the sale, then. I have the book, right here, I said. I’ll sell you a copy. I’ll even sign it. You really should buy it. You’ll find it very interesting. I think you’ll enjoy it. Only fifteen bucks.

He chuckled again, and ignored my pitch. “I need some information on a sliding door,” he said. “One of my customers needs one. I need to see what you have, and how your system works.”

Not a problem at all, I told him. I walked out to where he was and led him over to the model display. And for the next ten minutes, we discussed sliding door hardware, and how to put it all together. He seemed satisfied, and told me he would come and buy the stuff when the time came. I handed him his loading slip for the screws he had bought and told him to take it out to the warehouse people. They would get him what he needed. And we came just that close to winding down. But no. He wasn’t quite ready to go out to the warehouse, not just yet.

“Do you have a copy of that book around?” He asked, all conversational. Of course, I said. I fell over myself to get a copy of the book from the box by my desk. I asked for his name and his wife’s name, and signed the book to them both. He handed me my fifteen bucks. I handed him the book.

Let me know what you think of it, I said. And he hedged a little. He sure didn’t seem to be in any hurry to get anywhere. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t have a lot of time to read.” And then he slid it right on in, the thing he had found hard to tell me.

“When I do have time to read in the evenings, I usually try to read my Bible,” he said. Well, that seemed a little odd. An Amish man telling me he reads his Bible of an evening, when he has time. But he went on. “I need to read up for my sermons.”

It struck me, then. The man was telling me he was a preacher. He wouldn’t come right out and just say that. “I’m an Amish preacher.” But he was telling me, in his own way, in his own code. Duh. How dense am I, here? Still, I just couldn’t help but speak the obvious. Are you a preacher? I asked.

“I am,” he said. “Well, actually, I was ordained a bishop a little over a year ago.” Again, I couldn’t help myself. I gaped openly at him. Here I had been applying my hardcore sales pressure, to sell my book to an Amish bishop. I don’t get fazed by a lot, that way. But even to me, that seemed a little audacious. But I didn’t know what I was doing when I did it. I would have been way more reserved, had I known who he was. Ah, well. It all was what it was, I guess.

I looked at him. He was smiling, just like he had smiled before he told me. And it flashed through me, the realization. He was still the same guy he was before. I leaned against the counter, comfortable now. And ready to chat. Instinctively, I knew this was a rare moment, what was happening. A rare moment in my life. This was not a place I knew, growing up. It just wouldn’t have happened. Dad would never have stood there, chuckling and visiting with a guy who wrote a NY Times bestseller about how he grew up Amish. None of Dad’s peers would have, either. It was just too hard a place, where they were coming from. All these thoughts flashed through my subconscious mind as I stood there and settled in to talk to a Lancaster County Amish bishop about my book. And about his people. And mine.

And he told me a little bit about who he was. His father was killed in an accident when the bishop was a boy. Somehow, the details of how it all happened were important for him to tell me. He told how it was, to grow up without a father.

I asked him all kinds of questions. And he spoke freely about what he thinks of the Amish culture, and the dangers facing it. Will it survive? I asked. He agreed with me that the outside pressures are now bigger than any the Amish have ever faced before. And he agreed with one of my pet theories. The iPhone is affecting Amish culture like few things ever have before. And he told me when I asked. He didn’t really have much of an opinion about how and where it all will end up. He just didn’t know.

It was time to wind down, then, after another twenty minutes or so. I would really be interested in hearing what you think about my book, if you get it read, I told him. “We’ll see,” he said. “We’ll see if I get it read.”

We smiled at each other and shook hands. He turned, then, and walked out, clutching his book. And I stood there and marveled that such a thing as this had happened. Right when I wasn’t even remotely looking for it.

And I thought to myself, as he walked out the door. I’ll bet Lancaster County is one of the very few places in the world where you’ll find an Amish Bishop as open as this guy was.

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

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.

The man crouched there in the bushes, off to the side of the road. Well, I guess you could call it a road, back in the day. It was a rough path, really, marked by the tracks of the wagons that passed over it. And the stagecoaches. And on this day, late in the afternoon, there was a coach coming along that road. The man in the bushes cupped his hand to his ear. And he heard it. The jangling of the horses, and the rattle of the coach wheels.

They’d get to where he was in another minute, there by a sharp turn in the road. Where the coach would have to slow way down. The man waited, hidden, tense. He pulled his bandanna up to cover the lower half of his face. Then he pulled his six gun from its holster by his side. The jangling and the clatter of wheels grew louder. And then the coach came swaying around the sharp bend, real slow, like it had to.

The bandit stepped from the bushes, right about then. In his right hand, he held his pistol. He waved his left hand high. Stop. The coach was loaded and sagging, he could see. The driver sat high on the seat up front, to the left. And for the first time since the bandit had done business this way, he saw there was another man seated beside the driver. Way up high, to the right of the coach.

The horses weren’t going fast, around that curve. And the driver tugged hard at the reins, when he saw the waving man ahead of him. “Whoa,” he shouted. “Easy now.” The coach slowed, then stopped. The steaming horses stood there, quivering and sweating. The bandit smiled a secret smile. Now, to reap the harvest of loot from the passengers. Maybe there would even be a pay chest. He would take what wasn’t his, just because he could. He stepped forward, and spoke to the driver and the man beside him. “Hands up!” The driver complied. The man beside him did not.

Things happened real fast, then. The bandit swiveled his pistol, to threaten the man beside the driver. But that man turned to him, and pointed something at the bandit. And he never heard the roar of the coach gun, because the buckshot reached his chest before the sound of the shotgun reached his ears. He collapsed there on that dirt road like an empty sack. He would never rob another stage coach again.

The driver slapped the reins and shouted at the horses. Get out of here. Might be other bad guys, hiding in the bushes. The horses strained into the harness, and the coach rocked as it picked up speed. The passengers peered curiously at the motionless heap on the ground. Someone’s plans had sure gone wrong, looked like.

The man sitting beside the driver looked back as the coach pulled away. They would tell the sheriff in the next town what had happened. He’d send a posse out, to fetch the dead man. The journey would continue, regardless of what happened. That’s what the man beside the driver thought to himself as he reloaded his smoking gun. It was a brutal thing, killing a man. Even a man who was threatening to kill you. But the journey would move on. The stagecoach rocked and swayed as the horses broke into a run.

Well. It’s been a crazy kind of year. Not a walk to the gates of death, like last year was. Not that you’d notice, not that anyone knew, anyway. But still. It was a shotgun kind of year. There were all kinds of bandits skulking about. Ready and waiting to step out from the underbrush and rob me of whatever they could rob me from. I got a few choice things to call them. Thugs. Goons. Monsters of the mind.

The year was what it was, I guess. Looking back, there was some crap going on. But lots of good stuff, too.

Last year this time, I was in a shaky place, physically and emotionally. I’d just got home from the hospital. The Doctor Gods were screaming at me. You are an old, old man, when it comes to your heart. It will never be what it was. Never, it will never reach 100% strength again. And I did what I always do, when that kind of noise gets overwhelming. Just walk. Do what you’re told to do. Be quiet. But walk, walk, walk. Oh. And prove them wrong.

And so I walked. And I walked the line. Oh, yes. Yes, I did. No salt or low salt on my food. Not a drop of alcohol, not for months and months. Then came March, and the heart ablation. Where they went right up my vein and snipped and seared the muscles that weren’t behaving. I remember the “wilderness” I entered when they put me under. And the hard bright yellow skies of that world. I remember coming back up out of that world, back into this one, and how I felt no fear. And how the doctors told me, the next morning. My heart was back to one hundred percent strength. It had happened, the thing that they had told me never would.

I remember absorbing the news. And I remember the deep, deep gratitude that washed through me in waves. Thank you, Lord. You know where I’ve been. You know what I have seen and felt. And You know what my future will be. I don’t, but I’m good with that. I’m very happy, just walking. Just show me the road you want me on.

And no, I still don’t have my motorcycle. There were all kinds of issues, just getting my license. I had about reached the point where I figured the Lord was telling me to let go of that little dream. Then, right when all seemed lost, right after I had flunked the skills test on my first try, right then the doors finally opened. A very kind instructor held a special makeup class for all who had flunked the test the first time. Me and five other forlorn people met him on the course early the next Sunday morning. It was October, and it was cold. For the next four hours, we practiced intensely, doing only the five exercises we needed to pass. And by the time we were done, the man was going to pass us all, unless we dropped our bikes. None of us did. And he did. Pass us all, I mean. I walked out of there proudly, with my stamped permit.

Like I said, I still haven’t bought a bike. Now it’s winter, and I can’t ride anyway. I figure to pick up a small one, maybe a 500, any brand, and ride the back roads around here until I get comfortable and familiar. Then work my way up to a bigger size, then maybe a Harley. We’ll see. I’m looking a little rough, with my beard and long hair. Still not long enough for a pony tail, though. It’s hard, to grow a real pony tail when you got curly hair. I run my fingers through it, now and then, to draw out the length. Down to my shoulder blades. But it just curls back up. It would make a pigtail pony tail. Who wants such a thing? I want to look rough and mean. And speaking of looking rough, I haven’t seen any small children shrinking in fear behind their mothers when I come clanking around. By springtime, maybe, I’ll look fierce enough for that. We’ll see.

A brief update on the writing, and how it’s going. I’ve been working on the opening fifty pages, very sporadically. That’s what Chip, my agent, wants. Fifty pages or so, to shop around. It’s been a bit of a challenge, ever since I got started. I would plunge in, crank out a thousand words, then walk away and not look at anything for a week. Or two weeks. Or heck. A month. And as I produced and procrastinated, I got to thinking, too.

It took me back, the writing. Took me back to the time and place of when I was working on my first book. I thought of the people who were around me then. I have pretty much lost touch with every single one of them, except Chip. I need some help, here, I thought to myself. This draft is pretty rough.

I have been Facebook friends with Susan Taylor, the lady who actually edited my book. Susan got my “voice” from the first instant. I give her a lot of credit that the book is what it is. She’s a true professional, and we always got along beautifully. She was always so bubbly and idealistic. “You’re part of the Tyndale family, now,” she gushed. “Welcome.” And I always grumped at her. Oh, stop it. I’m a country hick. You Chicago people are way too hifalutin’ for me. We both laughed, then. That’s how it went with us.

I knew she had retired from Tyndale. One day, I messaged her. Susan. Ira here. I’m working on my next book. I need your help, to get it right. A few days later, Susan called me at work. She sounded as bubbly and idealistic as ever. She lives in Ohio now, and she does freelance editing. I want you to edit my next book here, I told her. She would be delighted, she told me. But to freelance edit for Tyndale, you have to live in the same state they’re in, for tax reasons. She now lived in Ohio, not Illinois.

I don’t know that Tyndale will get this next book, I told Susan. Chip is going to shop it around, to anyone who wants to see it. I got no contacts at Tyndale anymore, anyway. I think the contacts I had moved on. But if they do get it, they’ll just have to change that little policy. Because you will be the editor of whatever I write. That’s going to be one of my conditions. And it’s non-negotiable. “I’m ready,” Susan told me.

I got the fifty pages written. It’s rough. I sat there and fretted and poked around listlessly at the screen. Then I called Susan again. Would you take a quick look at what I have, before I send it off? I’ll pay you whatever you charge for freelance work. I got some good stuff, here, but the scenes are not connected like they should be. Susan was delighted to oblige. So earlier this week, I sent her what I had. And now, I wait for her feedback. Then, it’s rewriting, then hopefully getting my stuff to Chip. Then, we’ll see what happens. It’ll either fly, or it won’t. I feel relatively ambivalent about it all.

I don’t know. It just seems strange, to be working on another book. Somehow, it doesn’t seem as urgent, this time. Last time, I kind of waltzed through the publishing world, unscathed. I don’t look for that again. It’s a brutal, brutal jungle out there. There are very few people in that world that I trust. I bite my tongue now. I will always be grateful for the guidance that was there for my first journey through that jungle. But I will never be a babe in the woods again.

And Christmas snuck right up on us, and now it’s gone. And this year, I did things a little different, too. This year, the new me bought myself a few gifts. Which is odd. I usually pretty much ignore Christmas.

I’ve always wanted a coach gun. It’s been on my bucket wish list for decades. One of those shotguns you see in westerns. Double barreled, with stubby 20 inch barrels and open hammers and double triggers. The real, raw thing.

Well. I got a little Christmas bonus this year, so I ordered one. A twelve-gauge coach gun with stubby barrels and open hammers and double triggers. A cheap knockoff from China. Still. A coach gun. And still. Great for home protection.

A few days before Christmas, here comes the call. My gun was in. The next day, over lunch, I drove to The Village Arms in Gap. Nice little gun shop. The nice man went into the back room and returned with a short box. It looked heavy. He sliced the tape that bound the box, and slid it open. And there it was. My coach gun.

After the background check, I paid the man and rushed back to the office. There, I assembled my new treasure. The gun was short, like I had envisioned. But it was way heavier than I ever figured it would be. That was OK. Heavy is good. Helps keep the recoil down.

–Photo by Lewis Zook (a very brave man)

On Christmas Day, after a great feast at my brother Steve’s house, a few of us walked down the hill through the woods to the field below. I was carrying my gun. And there, we test fired it. The recoil wasn’t bad. I had figured it would kick like a mule. It didn’t. Heaven help any road bandit who tries to hold up my stagecoach, I thought to myself. Or any thug who tries to rob my house at night.

And now, I look forward to what the New Year might bring. I got my coach gun. By summer, maybe I’ll have my Harley. And by next year this time, who knows? Maybe I’ll be riding shotgun with the Pagans.

Happy New Year to all my readers.

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