Ira Wagler's Blog, page 7

The Pigeon Catchers… (Sketch #18)

And for a moment, it seemed, he saw the visages of time, dark

time, and the million lock-bolts shot back in a man’s memory…

Light fell upon his face and darkness crossed it: -he came up

from the wilderness…from a time that was further off than Saxon

thanes, all of the knights, the spearheads, and the horses.

Was all this lost?

“It was so long ago,” the old man said.

—Thomas Wolfe

_______________

Darkness dropped all around, and the evening chill swept in. I was probably twelve, maybe thirteen. At that age, a year is a big deal. And I was pretty excited. My brothers had decreed that I could go along that night. And after the chores were done, and after supper, Stephen hitched Bonnie, his plump little brown mare, to his top buggy. And the three of us loaded up. Stephen, Titus, and me. The “three little boys,” way back, now not so little anymore. We rattled out the drive, and Stephen turned east. And we were off on a quest not all that uncommon, back in those days. Although this was the first time I remember going along. We had told Dad, and he hadn’t made much of a fuss. It was legit enough, our stated goal. We told him we were going out to catch some pigeons.

And yeah, I know. That sure sounds like some strange activity for Amish youth to be doing. Running around the countryside, climbing around great old barns at night, chasing and catching pigeons. It’s more of an old-time thing, I think. I don’t know if it’s done today any more, anywhere. But it was fairly common in Aylmer, the place where I spent my childhood. There, it wasn’t strange at all.

Pigeons were pests. That was a given. Ugly birds, all around. Rats with wings, I’ve heard them called, and that’s about accurate. And the great red barns of Aylmer were just infested with them, pigeons of every stripe and color. They strutted and preened and cooed and flapped about. And crapped all over the place. I can’t say they really did much harm of any kind. But they weren’t much good for anything, either. They just got in the way and got annoying.

And the Amish boys of Old Aylmer had reasons enough to go scrambling around the large barn lofts and silos at night, hunting pigeons. Because every Tuesday at the Aylmer Sales Barn, the Pigeon Man showed up in his rattletrap truck all stacked with cages on the back. He was a bit of a shyster and a blowhard, the Pigeon Man was. But the bottom line was that he paid good money, he paid cold hard cash for pigeons. And the Amish boys brought him many dozens of pigeons, stuffed in burlap sacks.

The story was always told when I was little, of a thing that happened long ago. It came from my brother Joseph and our cousin, Alvin Graber. Old time pigeon catching was something they did on a regular basis. And one week, they had a particularly good haul of pigeons. I guess the old barns were loaded that week, and the boys were nimble in the dark and caught a few dozen birds. They stuffed three or four burlap bags full, and headed off to the Sales Barn the next afternoon. But then they got to thinking, and then they got to talking. They had way more pigeons than usual. If the Pigeon Man saw all those birds, he’d drop his price, for sure. So the boys crafted a little plan. They parked their buggy, grabbed their flapping burlap sacks, and walked over through the parking lot toward the Pigeon Man’s truck. But when they got close, one of them stayed back among the parked cars with three of the sacks and most of the pigeons. The other one ambled on in to see the Pigeon Man, carrying one lonely sack of pigeons. I don’t know who did what. Let’s just say Alvin Graber stayed back, hidden, and Joseph traipsed on in with the one burlap sack.

The Pigeon Man greeted Joseph loudly. “Well, now,” he shouted. “You brought me some pigeons. Let’s count them out. I need a lot more than that. My price today is fifty cents apiece.” And he and Joseph released the dozen or fifteen pigeons from the sack into one of the cages on the truck. And Joseph asked. “Fifty cents apiece, for all I can bring you?”

“That’s right, young man,” the Pigeon Man roared. He took the flask from his hip pocket, unscrewed the lid, and took a vast swig of whatever was sloshing around inside. (OK, I just made that last line up, but I always figured the man must have been drinking to get so loud and boisterous. Maybe he was, and maybe he wasn’t.) And Joseph turned back to the parking lot where Alvin was crouched, hiding. He waved, then went out to help carry in the three remaining sacks of pigeons. “You wait, I’ll be right back,” he told the Pigeon Man as he darted off.

A few minutes later, the two boys triumphantly returned, carrying three large flopping sacks. “We got a lot more pigeons here,” they announced. “You said you’d pay fifty cents apiece. Let’s unload these sacks and count them out.” The Pigeon Man goggled at them and at the flopping burlap sacks in a most displeased manner. He got all unjolly, all of a sudden. He’d been had, and he knew it. He couldn’t even haggle for a volume discount, here.

The specific details remain a little vague in my memory. But Joseph and Alvin didn’t get full price for all those extra pigeons. The Pigeon Man reneged, backed out of his promise. They settled for a little less, maybe thirty-five cents apiece, for the birds. The Pigeon Man probably thought, these little Amish boys don’t know any better, and they’ll take what I give them, and they won’t grumble. And maybe they didn’t know any better, and maybe they didn’t grumble. But they sure told some stories when they got back home, stories that got passed on down, told and retold over the years. Such is the stuff of family lore and legend.

So it was economics that drove the Amish boys of Old Aylmer to climb and scramble around the great old barns at night, catching pigeons. And it was a social thing, too. You get to hang out with your friends for an evening. And catching pigeons was far from the strangest social thing the boys got into. I remember clearly one evening a long time ago, when I was very young. My older brothers were getting together with their friends. They planned to go up to Ervin Lambright’s little farm, up north a few miles.

Ervin was a reclusive, red-haired, red-bearded bachelor with a perpetually red face. He lived alone, kind of away from everyone else. He had moved in from northern Indiana, somewhere, if I remember right. Or maybe it was Michigan. And he kept pretty much to himself, except on any given Sunday, when he showed up for church. Ervin was so reclusive that he once got his Sundays mixed up. The Amish have church services every two weeks. In Aylmer, they had Sunday School service on the in-between Sunday afternoon. Aylmer was one of the very few Amish communities that believed in Sunday School at that time. It was considered a very progressive thing, almost like the Beachys, people who drove cars. Old-time, hard-core Amish still look very suspiciously at any Amish community where there is Sunday School. It’s scandalous, they claim, and so worldly.

Anyway, Ervin got his Sundays mixed up, and one Sunday he showed up after church services had just been dismissed at Levi Slaubaugh’s place. People were sitting at tables and feasting on peanut butter sandwiches and pickles. Ervin thought it was Sunday School Sunday. When he realized his mistake, he blushed and blushed in shame. Deeply embarrassed, he self-consciously wiped his face with his hands and looked at the ground and muttered. “So dumm, so dumm” (So dumb, so dumb).

My older brothers and their friends planned to go to Ervin’s little farm one night. I guess they had asked him, and he said it was OK. Anyway, they were going to hunt and kill rats, out in his barn. I guess Ervin’s place was pretty infested, from what I heard tell. It makes me shiver a little, from where I am today. Rats have always made my skin crawl. Of all the creatures God created, the rat is the most vile and viscous. I couldn’t imagine getting together in any dark old barn at night just to hunt them. Not like the Amish youth boys of Aylmer got together one weeknight, and killed a bunch of rats at Ervin Lambright’s farm. It was a social event for them. A large time was had by all.

We plugged along through the darkness on the gravel road, heading east. Bonnie the mare trotted right along. She was a plump little horse, not all that fast, but enduring. She made the move to Bloomfield with our family a few years later. And a few years after that, Stephen sold her to Bishop Henry, who was looking for a safe driving horse for his boys. And as far as I know, Bonnie lived out her remaining days in great contentment on Bishop Henry’s farm. The man sure kept his horses gleaming and looking good. After half a mile or so, we turned south and headed over toward Highway 3. Stephen had told us the destination earlier, and that was one reason I wanted to go along so badly. We were heading to Piggy Ray Morse’s place, over in Richmond.

Ray Morse was an older retired guy who came around and made a few extra bucks hauling the Amish around in his great white boat of a car. Content, retired, and vastly overweight, the sagging folds of his face reminded me and my brothers of a hungry, eager hog. There was no fanfare, and we didn’t hesitate. We unceremoniously dubbed him “Piggy” Ray Morse. We kept the name pretty quiet, just among ourselves, and we never called him that to his face. So he never knew. But he was always Piggy Ray to us. He lived over in the small village of Richmond, and that’s where Bonnie was taking us that November night.

Richmond is a tiny little town on the path to nowhere, just a few miles south of Highway 3. When I was very young, maybe three or four, my sister Maggie often took me along on her little shopping trips to the Richmond General Store. The store sold groceries and hardware and toys. I remember the toys. And I remember always heading to the back room and staring in fascination and awe and wonder at the shelves and shelves of sturdy metal Tonka tractors and dump trucks I would have died for, and plastic buckets and shovels and little toy barns and all kinds of colorful plastic horses and cows and pigs. The toys were mine only in my dreams and in the deepest longings of my heart. I never got my hands on a single one of them. Which makes my memories of them all the more intense.

Bonnie clopped along the paved road, and we approached the little village. I don’t remember if any of us had ever been to Piggy Ray’s house before, but we had the number. And soon enough, we arrived. Stephen turned his horse in. Off to the side, by the garage, he tied her up. We all got out and stood around and stretched. And the excitement stirred in us. Well, here we were. But we weren’t here to catch any pigeons. Piggy Ray didn’t even have a barn to catch pigeons in.

We walked over to the house. I tagged along behind my brothers. We stood outside the porch and Stephen rang the doorbell. The porch light flipped on, and a moment later, Piggy Ray came waddling out. He recognized us and opened the door. “Hello, boys,” he said. Stephen did the talking. “Good evening, Ray,” he said. “I mentioned last week that we might want to stop by and watch a hockey game, and you said we could come. So here we are.” I’m not sure what Piggy Ray was thinking, but he kept right on smiling. “Come on in, come on in,” he said, waving us by him. And we stepped into the porch shyly, and then followed the man into his house and on into his living room. Electric lights glowed softly everywhere. And there in the living room was a large, heavy floor model TV, black and white. It was turned on, and it was blaring. And we saw right away. There was a hockey game on. A real, organized hockey game. And we settled in, or at least I settled in, to absorb an experience such as I had never seen before.

Hockey was sacred to us. We were huge fans of the game, even though no one had ever taught us a thing about it. We learned the game on our own, with no guidance at all from anyone, from reading the newspaper and looking at pictures. Our hunger and thirst for the game knew no bounds. We set up rinks and played on our pond night after night in the winter cold. And by that time, by that night at Piggy Ray’s, Stephen had already owned a little transistor radio for a few years. He listened to hockey games, and I got to listen, too, now and then. From such a foundation, we taught ourselves to play.

But we had never watched a game. Not a real game with real uniformed players on a real ice rink with a painted center line and blue lines and face-off circles and a crease in front of the net around the goalie. We had read of these things, and seen pictures. And heard them told. But we had never, never seen them in live action.

Piggy Ray waved us to the couch. He sat back down on his recliner, from where the doorbell had called him. He never offered us anything else, no snacks or pop. It never even crossed our minds that he would. Because what he did offer was way more than almost anything we could imagine. The chance to watch real live hockey on TV.

A few words aside, here. A few thoughts. And no, I’m not dredging down, not beating my breast and bemoaning the lack of morality in what we were doing that night, and how we had blatantly misled Dad, getting there. Obviously, there were some relationship issues, some communication gaps, between a father and his sons. It all was what it was. And it all was a long time ago. This is just a story. That’s all it is. But when I look back at who we were and what we were and what we were pulling off, well, the risks involved were pretty serious.

Not just for us boys, but for Piggy Ray as well. I’m sure he would have preferred that no Amish youth show up at his door like we just had. But when we did show up, he did not hesitate, but invited us into his home. It would not have gone well had word leaked out to the Aylmer Amish community that Ray Morse, the driver, allowed Amish boys to come around and watch hockey on TV at his home. It would have drastically affected his business and his livelihood. I give him credit to this day for recognizing and acknowledging the relentless driving hunger that stirred inside us. He was a good and solid man, and he stood tall and shining in the moment. And here, at this late date, long after he’s gone, I honor him for that. Ray Morse, you were a man.

And as for us, well, the risks were more terrible than anything we wanted to even think about. If Dad found out what we had done, there would be severe repercussions. A whipping for me, for sure. I was young enough. And for Stephen and Titus, there would have been dark looks and endless scolding and all kinds of admonitions for a long, long time. None of it would have been any fun at all. We didn’t analyze those risks all that closely. We just knew we were willing to take them. The immediate rewards gleamed and beckoned like a great shining city right close by, the future risks lurked out there far away like dark thunder clouds hovering over distant mountains. Thunder clouds that with any luck would never reach us.

We sat there on the couch in Piggy Ray’s house, our eyes riveted to the TV. Too shy and polite to make much noise, we just sat there, mesmerized, and watched. Murmuring excitedly to each other at a particularly spectacular play or when a goal was scored. It was a Minor League Hockey game, going on. Only in Canada is hockey enough of a religion for Minor League games to be televised. I think it was the London Knights against Hamilton, both relatively local teams.

We didn’t know the names of any of the players, but there’s one name I remember hearing over and over again that night. Hamilton’s goalie. I always played goalie in our little hockey games on the pond at home, so my eyes were instantly glued to that man. His name was Roley Kimble. The teams were badly mismatched. London’s offense ran all over Hamilton’s defense. There was one balancing factor. One man. Roley Kimble. He flopped around like a madman, and fiercely guarded his net. Peppered with pucks from all over, he single-handedly stood firm. And not one shot got by him. Not one. I watched the man in awe. In my dreams, I would one day play like he did.

It wasn’t all that late when Stephen made noises to go. Maybe a little after ten. Hamilton was leading the game, 3-0 in the third period. Roley kept his shutout intact, we saw later in the newspaper. We stood, then, and thanked Piggy Ray. And then we showed ourselves out. Bonnie plugged along toward home, and we chattered excitedly all through the 25-minute ride. At home, we put the horse away and slipped into the house.

It was probably around 10:30 or 11:00. Dad was in his little office down the hall, pounding away at his typewriter, like he always did every night until midnight or so. We slipped quietly past his doorway, so as not to disturb him. And on upstairs to bed. We were practically on a high from the experience, from where we had been and what we had seen. It never happened again, not an adventure quite like that. And I never did play goalie like Roley Kimble did.

There was one more major hurdle to cross. We didn’t fret, or lose any sleep over it, but it was there. The next morning, we got up and did our chores. Then came back into the house, where Mom had cooked up a large, delicious breakfast of eggs and toast and bacon and biscuits and gravy. We sat around the table like normal, hunched over our plates, wolfing down our food. “The boys eat too fast,” Dad always said.

And Dad always tried to chat a little at the table, to get some sort of conversation going. Although in the mornings that task got a little difficult, because no one felt like talking that early. And this morning, he asked. “Well, boys. How did the pigeon hunting go last night? Did you catch anything?”

Titus and I were hunched over our plates right then, looking down, shoveling in our food. We froze when we heard Dad’s question. For a moment, at least. But then we got back to eating, all nonchalant. We figured to let Stephen do the talking.

And Stephen stopped eating long enough to look right at Dad. And then he answered, very calmly.

“No,” Stephen said. “No, we didn’t get any pigeons caught last night.”

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Seersucker Man…

“Know first who you are, and then adorn yourself accordingly.”

— Epictetus

_______________

I’m not quite sure how it all happened. Like such things tend to, I suppose. They just kind of slide in, out of nowhere. And the next thing you know, you look around, and you’re a long way from where you started from. I certainly wasn’t looking for a lot of drama when I walked into the mall a few weeks back. A vest. A simple vest, half dressy, if they had such a thing. A vest that could be worn to a social event. That’s all I wanted, so help me.

And that’s why I was heading to the mall on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I was feeling good, good vibes all around. There was a wedding reception coming up, that next week. Down in South Carolina. And yes, it was going to be a reception only. Back when my sister Maggie was sick last year, some quick decisions had to be made. She wasn’t expected to be around much longer. And her son and my nephew, Steven, got married to his fiancé, Evonda, in a very private family wedding ceremony. So Maggie could see and partake. That was the thinking, that’s why it happened. Later, there would be a big reception, for friends and extended family. And that later was now.

And to the delight of all of us, Maggie got better, got totally cancer-free. So the reception was going to be a lot more joyful than anyone figured, back last year. I was invited, and I was going. I didn’t plan to get too decked out, or anything. I don’t have much of a reputation for showing up in fancy clothes. But I thought to myself. A new vest would sure be nice. Something you can wear with dress pants or jeans. And so I drove over to the mall that afternoon. I didn’t know if such a thing could be found there or not. But I was fixing to find out.

I parked at the far end, outside Boscov’s. That’s pretty much my favorite store at the mall, Boscov’s. They have a fine men’s clothing section. You watch for it, and you’ll always get great buys on their sales. I purchase all my winter clothes in the spring clearance sales. And I get all my summer clothes every fall as the season changes. You get real quality for less than you pay at Wal Mart, even. Not that I got anything against Wal Mart. I just don’t shop there for clothes, because it’s cheap junk that won’t last. I’ll shop there for just about anything else. Just not clothes.

I strolled into Boscov’s and headed to the far side to the men’s clothing department. Now I sure wonder if they got any decent vests. They’re hard to come by, vests are. I’ve taken to wearing a heavier Outback Aussie vest, almost every day. And I like it. But it wouldn’t work, to go to a wedding reception in. Too heavy, not spiffy enough. I wanted something a little more fine. But I couldn’t remember ever seeing vests in the men’s department. I figured maybe that’s because I wasn’t looking for one. Now I was. I wandered through acres of suits and dress pants and shirts, peering about. No vests around that I could see. Oh, well. I guess I’ll just have to ask someone.

And of course, when you want an attendant in a place like that, there’s not a soul to be found. Not like there is when you want to be left alone. They assault you incessantly, then. But not now. I strolled about aimlessly, looking for some help. Nothing. No one. I walked across the aisle, to where the new spring selections were spread out. And I couldn’t help but notice.

There were a dozen racks or more. All loaded with new spring offerings. Suit separates. The coat. And the pants. Well, well, interesting, I thought to myself. And then I saw the sale signs. Suit Coats: $29.95. Separate dress pants: $24.95. Wow, I thought. A suit for less than $50 bucks. I was planning to spend at least that much on a new spiffy vest. And I looked around a little more. All kinds of spring colors. Tan. Blue. Linen. And then I saw the rack, there in the middle of it all, and it was full of brand new suit coats. And these were gleaming a bright seersucker blue and white.

And all of a sudden, all kinds of wild unruly thoughts surged through my head. I tried to brush them off. But they persisted. Why not? Why not a new seersucker suit? I’ve always wanted one, just never had any really legit place to wear it. Now I do. A wedding reception in the South, where there would be dancing. And it’s springtime. And the new me, well, the new me would wear such a loud thing to a dance in springtime in the South, I thought. Just watch me. And just about then, I looked off to the side, and saw a large rack covered with dozens of sharp little white hats. Straw hats, with wide bands and short brims. I stood and gaped at it all, and saw the vision in my head. The new me, the cool me, dressed like I had never dressed before. I could see it in my head, and the tempting vision whispered low and soft. Come. Touch and taste. And I couldn’t help myself. I reached out and touched. And tasted, in my mind. And so I was lost.

It was a strange place for me to be. I’ve never been much of a suit and tie guy. Well, not so you could tell recently, anyway. Years ago, I had a pretty good selection, back in my attorney years when I had to wear a suit to the office every day. And it was OK. It just got a little wearisome, the pursuit of the next best thing. King Solomon wrote in Proverbs. Of the writing and reading of books there is no end. It wearies the mind, he said. Well, I got one on old Solomon. Of the mixing and matching of suits and shirts and ties and shoes there is no end. It never stops, and you can never have enough. Some new thing is always coming into style, some old thing is always fading out. And that little rat race all got a lot wearisome to me, to where I was happy to walk from that world back when I did.

Where I came from, there wasn’t a lot of suit wearing going on. The Amish are a practical people. You wear a suit only on certain occasions. And it’s a plain suit, of course, straight cut, with no tie. The preachers and the older men wear a suit to church on any given Sunday. The boys and the younger men, well, a suit is pretty much required for Ordnung’s Church and Big Church. Otherwise, there’s only a few special occasions. You wear a suit when you get baptized. You wear a suit to weddings. And funerals. That’s about it. It’s a practical thing. There is no scenario where a man would wear a suit, just going to work every day. At least, not in the world I grew up in, there wasn’t.

And you can kind of see it, and it makes sense, that the Amish would have straight cut plain suits. They’re distinct, they dress all different, anyhow. You look for it in them. It’s the plain Mennonites that make me shake my head. They have some very strange customs. Traditions, I guess. The thing is, the guys look pretty close to English, in their everyday lives. They dress in jeans and bill caps, and can easily be passed off as non-plain. Their women, though, well, they have to wear cape dresses and head coverings. No mistaking the plainness of all that. But then the men wear those awful straight cut suit coats, when they dress up on a Sunday. I don’t know why. They’re English in every other respect. Just not in their suits.

And that’s what I ran into when I moved down to Daviess from Goshen, way back when I left the Amish. The Mount Olive Mennonite Church made me welcome. I’ll always be grateful to those people for that. I was part of that group when I headed off to college a year later. At Vincennes, it was no problem. No dressing up was required. But down in South Carolina, at Bob Jones University, there was a huge problem. There, the men are mandated to wear a suit and tie every day until noon. After noon, you still wear dress clothes. But jacket and tie are not required.

Well. I didn’t have a suit with a tie. I had a plain suit. Straight cut and straight laced with hooks and eyes, just like any plain Amish suit you ever saw. The BJU people were most sympathetic and accommodating, I will say. They respected the dress requirements of my church. So I was given an exception. No tie. But I had to wear that awful straight cut suit coat every day until noon. It was just terrible. I was so self-conscious that first semester that I prayed every day for something bad to happen to me so I could leave. Break a leg, maybe, or an arm. Or get real sick, or something. Anything, so I could leave. I just wanted a way to get out of there with some shred of dignity. And nothing ever happened. And every day, I struggled off to classes dressed different than any other person on the entire campus. It was a heavy burden to bear, especially for a guy who had just broken away from his plain culture a few years before because he couldn’t stand to be different from the people around him.

I will say this, though. By the time I got through my first semester, none of it mattered any more. I got used to being different, I absorbed the classes, and I walked with my head held high. If you have a problem with my plain suit, I figured, that’s your problem. And that’s how I graduated from BJU. Magna Cum Laude, in my plain suit, without a tie. I was pretty proud, and it was quite an accomplishment. And I will stack the academic standards of BJU against any school in this country, Ivy League or otherwise.

It didn’t take me long after I got out of there to leave the plain Mennonites. Very shortly after graduating from BJU, I shook off the last vestiges of plain dress and plain people rules forever. I couldn’t get out of that awful straight-cut suit coat fast enough. I shook it all off, and I have never looked back.

I remember how exciting it was, to get my first real English lapel jacket. Olive green linen, on the clearance rack, for a price even I could afford. I took it home and timidly stepped out wearing it with jeans. And I picked up a few jackets, here and there, and wore them more boldly. I could do this. It was a gradual thing for me. And it would be a few years before I bought my first real “English” suit.

And that happened when I was a student in law school. I looked in wonder at my classmates and the second and third year students. We didn’t need to dress up for classes, or anything, but you needed a suit for the mock trials and moot court arguments. I think that was second year. It’s been a while. Anyway, at some point, I stopped off at Boscov’s at the mall and tried on a dark blue-green suit that was on sale. And I bought it, along with my first tie. It was kind of cool, I thought. I could really get to liking this.

And in time, I graduated from Dickinson Law, and moved on into the legal working world. And in time, I accumulated ten suits or so, and maybe twice that many ties. It was a bit of a strange world to me, to dress up every day like that. Not altogether unpleasant. Still, it seemed like some attorneys looked at it like a competition. I’m dressed sharper than you. My suit cost more. Look, how cool I am. Much of that was imagined, I’m sure, on my part. But still. There was something to it all. And it all got a little wearisome at the end.

After four years or so, I left the legal world. Maybe I should have given it more time, given myself more chances to take to it. But I didn’t. And in 2001, I was looking around outside the law, for something to do. And when the offer came from Graber Supply, I grabbed it, and slid into my new role pretty seamlessly. Since that day, I can count on one hand how many times I have worn a suit and tie. It’s been so rare that it’s almost nonexistent. And I’ve been fine with all of it. I wear my jeans and checkered flannel shirt just about anywhere, even to my book talks to college students. One good thing about being a bestselling author. You can dress just about any way you feel like, and no one blinks an eye. The guy’s a writer, so what do you expect? Of course he’s eccentric. And that red flannel shirt is kind of sweet. That’s what people murmur out there on the edges of my hearing. I’m not quite sure what they’re actually thinking.

All right. That was a bunny trail. Back to Boscov’s and the seersucker suit. I’d never owned one, because attorneys don’t wear seersucker suits to work. At least in Lancaster County, they don’t. But I’ve always been intrigued by those bright blue and white stripes. In a suit like that, you look like you should be selling ice cream off an ice cream truck, mostly. But still. Here I stood. And I fingered and caressed those bright striped threads.

And it all became very clear to me in that instant. Buy the suit coat, buy the pants, buy the white straw hat. A real seersucker outfit. You have a legit place to wear it, a place where no one will bat an eye. A reception party down South. You’ll look sharp, you’ll be all suave, you’ll be a dandy, a man about town. Sure, it’ll take some confidence, to pull it off. But I know the new me can pull it off. I can do it, because it doesn’t really matter to me anymore, what people might or might not think. I can do it, just because I want to.

I tried on a jacket. Perfect fit. Then off to the dressing room with a pair of pants. They fit pretty well, as well. Still, I wasn’t sure about one last little point. Seersucker is for the spring and summer, that I knew. But was it for mornings only? I didn’t know. I waited in line, then, and asked the attendant. An older guy with a limp, he looked all tired and world-weary. I’m going to a wedding reception down South next Saturday, I told him. And I really like this suit. Can I wear it in the evening, or is it for mornings only? He looked wise, which I guess he was. “No,” he shook his head. “It’s not for mornings only. You can wear it to the evening reception.” All right, then, I said. Ring me up. And right there I bought them, blue and white seersucker separates, and a little white straw hat with a wide band and a short brim. And I walked proudly from the store. Look out, world.

Well. Things are never simple, not when you buy a seersucker suit off the rack for under $50 bucks. After I got home, I unwrapped my treasure. Hung it up and admired it. And then I noticed. The seersucker pants were a little different. The coat and pants were separates. I bought them as such. And now, the pants were a little louder, a little brighter, and little harder white and blue. The coat was dull white and dull blue. The pants were bright white and bright blue. I shrugged it off. No big deal, I figured. No one would notice, much. And that nice fine feeling lasted until I got to work bright and early on Monday morning.

We were chatting that morning about how our weekends went. And I mentioned, all casual and offhand like. I got me a seersucker suit. I’m wearing it down at the reception in South Carolina. There was a fairly long, stunned silence. “A seersucker suit?” Someone gulped. I think it was Rosita. “Oh, those things look just awful.” Awful or not, I said, I got me one and I’m wearing it. And somewhere about then, I mentioned that the pants were a slightly different shade of white and blue than the coat. This caused great consternation and much conferring among my coworkers. And eventually it was decreed. “You have to bring the coat and pants in, so we can check them out. We can’t just let you go gallivanting down there in a mismatched outfit.” This decree caused me to grumble a good deal. Good grief. We got a committee now, to see that Ira gets dressed right.

And later that week, I dragged it all in, and everyone hovered around to inspect my coat and pants. The pants are way too loud, too bright, it was decided. I was instructed to go back to Boscov’s and exchange them for the white pants. Or I could just wear jeans with the seersucker jacket. In either case, my shirt could be white, but not too white. And my striped tie, well, it never was quite decided how that would go. I was advised to take along several ties, and let Janice pick out the right one when the time came. This caused me to grumble a good deal more. Better I had just left it all back at the store, and never bought the thing, I muttered. This is a real production and it’s getting way too complicated. I should never have strayed from my jeans and checkered flannel shirt and vest. Too late, now, though. And I dutifully exchanged the loud seersucker pants for a straight white pair.

Saturday afternoon. Abbeville, South Carolina. A beautiful, beautiful sunny day. You can feel it the second you get to a place like that. How laid back things are, and the much slower pace of life. And it felt good that Saturday afternoon when Wilm and I arrived from up north. We parked outside and walked into the old refurbished livery barn where the reception would be. Dozens of tables were set and ready. A large crowd of people milled about. My sister Maggie stood off to the side with her husband, Ray. Janice came and welcomed us. There were hugs all around. I hugged Maggie hard. Just that close, I’m not here, I told her. And she smiled and told me. “Just that close, I’m not here, either.” I walked around, greeting others. The whole Beach Week crowd would be there, looked like. And a whole lot of other people.

Janice took us to the Belmont Inn, the old hotel just across the square, then, where everyone had booked rooms. A quaint old place it was, indeed, still exactly as it would have looked back in Thomas Wolfe’s day. It reminded me of the small towns he describes so eloquently in his writings. I checked in, and the clerk handed me a key. A real key, to get into my room. That was almost as confusing as that keyless card you just have to wave in front of the door, back there in Holmes County a while back. We walked to the elevator with our bags. Janice punched the button. We waited and waited. A small sign warned. Be patient. Everything is slower paced around these parts. The elevator will take a while to get down to you. And I just stood and absorbed the place and the setting.

My room was just as quaint and old as the hotel setting downstairs. Comfortable, though. And I told the girls. I got me a new suit coat and white pants. I’m not sure what shirt to wear, or which tie. I brought along a couple of shirts and a couple of ties. If none of it works, we’ll just go shopping for whatever does work. After Wilm had checked into Janice’s room, they came over to where I was. I unzipped my garment bag. Unwrapped the seersucker jacket and the white pants. The girls stood there and held the shirts and ties to the coat and pants, one after another. I just stood off to the side and watched. This is all so complicated, all this color coding, I grumbled. Better I had just stayed with my flannel shirt and jeans, and a nice new vest. And the two of them stood there, and it was amazing to watch them hone in and pick the same shirt and the same tie at the same time. The off-white shirt, and the striped tie. “This is it,” Janice told me. “You are going to look very spiffy in this outfit.”

There was some time to kill, so Janice and I headed out to her old home place. Maggie was waiting for us. I want to spend a bit of time with you, I told her. She asked if I was hungry. Of course, I said. What do you have? And she fried up fresh eggs for sandwiches. The taste and smell took me right back to when I was a child. You take the fried egg, put it on a slab of homemade bread covered with a layer of mayo, and cover the whole thing with fresh-sliced tomatoes. It’s beyond delicious. I wolfed down two sandwiches, and then we just relaxed and sat around to visit. I slipped off into a short nap. Janice left us soon, to go run some errands. And by 4:30 or so, Ray and Maggie and I were heading in to town for the evening of festivities.

They dropped me off at the Belmont Inn. And right as Ray was pulling up to let me out, Maggie laughed and told a little story from long ago. Back when she and Ray were young marrieds, their budget was pretty tight. One year, on their anniversary, they decided to go out to eat, at the restaurant in the old hotel. They had ten dollars to spend on a meal, an unheard of luxury back in those days. Ten bucks was a small fortune. They were seated in the restaurant. The waiter brought them water and menus, then left them for a few minutes, until they decided. Ray and Maggie opened their menus. They were horrified to discover that the least expensive meal in the place was priced beyond all the money they had on them. Maggie laughed at the memory of how shocked they were. And she told me. “We waited until the waiter had his back turned, then we sneaked out the side door, right over there.” I howled. Did you ever go back later and get that meal, when you could afford it? I asked. She shook her head. Ray chuckled from behind the wheel. “Nope,” they said. “We never did.” Well, you need to, I said. You can’t just leave the story unresolved like that, even after all these years.

I walked in and boarded the slow elevator up to the third floor. Much bustling about was going on. Steven and Evonda and Janice and Wilm and a lot of other friends were getting dressed for the reception. I walked into my room and got ready to don my new outfit. T-shirt. Shirt. Pants. Tie. And as I looped the tie around my neck and fumbled around, I realized with some horror that I had forgotten how to tie the Windsor knot. Back in the day, I tied that knot every morning before I went to work. Now I was totally blank, on how to do it. I freaked out a bit, then walked out and down the hall to where the others were. I can’t tie my tie, I told Janice. She instantly called for Steven, who was getting dressed for his big night. He wandered over and in a minute, he had the Windsor knot tied around my neck. I gulped with relief. Good grief. Can’t believe I forgot. Use it or lose it, that’s what they say. That sure held true here. And then it was back to my room for my jacket, my shoes and my hat. And then I strolled out and down the hall again. I felt pretty cool. And I looked pretty cool, too, I reckoned.

And the evening just came in at us. I walked out and across the square with my nephew, John and his wife Dort. We were among the few extended family who had traveled far to get there. And we chatted right along as we walked. It was just a gorgeous late afternoon. Clear skies. Warm, but not hot. I strolled along importantly in my spiffy outfit. It felt so good to be alive.

The livery stable was stirring with guests when we arrived. We walked around, greeting and hugging people, then found a table somewhere close to the middle of things. People trickled in and right at six, there was a pause. Sam Thomas, the very capable MC, intoned into his mic. “Ladies and gentlemen. Let’s all welcome Mr. and Mrs. Steven Marner.” The big old front doors rolled open, and Steven and Evonda strolled in. A grand entrance, indeed. The crowd clapped and cheered and roared. Steven and his bride took the dance floor, then, to a slow love song. We clapped and cheered some more.

At four different points around the vast room, the caterers were setting up. There would be carved beef slices, carved turkey so soft that it fell apart on your plate, all kinds of sauces and dips, finger foods, and a table with the basics, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, chicken fingers, and meat balls. All of it was just delectable, cooked to perfection.

We feasted and mingled and feasted and mingled some more. I hung out with my brother Jesse at his table, then strolled around. A friend introduced me to a nice local couple. We shook hands and the friend told them. “Ira is a NY Times bestselling author.” Ah, shucks, I said. The man looked at me and boomed. “With that outfit you got on, I figured you’re from up north somewhere. Like New York City.” No, no, I said. I’m from up north, but I’m a country boy. I don’t hang around the city hardly at all. His wife asked what the title of my book was, and I told her. Growing Up Amish. She stood there and blinked for a second. Then she got quite excited. “I read that book,” she half hollered. “It’s in our church library. I can’t believe I’m meeting you here.” And so on and so on. We posed for pictures and there was a good deal of more fussing. Then I drifted off. I certainly wasn’t expecting such a thing to happen at a place like that.

The evening slid on, then, and it was all just delicious. Good memories of a good, laid back night. After darkness settled in, Sam Thomas turned up the dance music, an invitation to all of us. I had not hit the dance floor in a long time, probably years. But that night I did. How can life ever be a dance, if you don’t join the dancers now and then?

Around ten, the guests moved down a few doors to where Fred was hosting the after- party party. There, a loud band was set up, with flashing lights and all. I was done dancing. I sat out in the courtyard with others in a circle, and a good time was had by all. Soon after midnight, John and Dort and I walked back across the square to our quaint old hotel. It was late, and I settled in for the night, tired but content. The great, grand party in the South was over.

And it was all beyond lovely and it was all beyond rare and refined, the whole evening. The ambiance and the setting. But mostly the people. And I don’t know if I’ll ever wear my seersucker coat and striped tie and white dress pants again. I probably will, I’m thinking. Sometime, somewhere. But even if I don’t get it done again, it was worth all the hassle it took to get dressed that fine for this one evening.

And that’s about all there is to say.

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The Penitent…

…for in all that limitless horizon there was no shade or shelter,

no curve or bend, no hill or tree or hollow: there was only one

vast, naked eye – searing and inscrutable – from which there

was no escape, and which bathed his defenseless soul in its

fathomless depths of shame.

—Thomas Wolfe

________________

The preacher man stood with his head bowed to his chest, all silent, looking solemn. He had been preaching right along, but apparently there was something heavy on his mind, something that made him pause. Some story. He stood there in silence for a few more moments in the open doorway between two rooms. And then he settled in to tell it.

Recently he had traveled to another Amish community, somewhere far away. I can’t remember, but I’d guess it was somewhere down in the States. And he had stayed there over Sunday, and he was invited to preach. Which he did. But that wasn’t the story. After church, there was the traditional noon meal. Homemade bread, Amish peanut butter and all the fixings. And after the meal, the men relaxed and spread out and sat around to visit.

And the preacher man told us. A strange thing he saw. He noticed a man sitting hunched over, off to the side, alone. Youngish, probably in his thirties, I took it. He watched the man, intrigued that he sat there, all by himself. No one bothered him. The man seemed greatly burdened. He hung his head. And then a tear trickled down his cheek. And another. The man reached up listlessly and wiped the tears away, but the preacher could see. More tears trickling down, more tears wiped away. And then more and more. The weeping would not stop.

And the preacher man turned to the men around him, the people he was visiting with. And he asked them. “Why does that man sit alone, and weep? What happened? Why does he grieve so?” And one of the older men next to the preacher sadly shook his head. The other men around them kind of froze up, silent, listening in. And the old man told the preacher what had happened in the sad man’s life, that he sat off alone, all by himself. A terrible thing, it was, a sin better not talked about much. A sin you almost can’t come back from.

The weeping man had been an ordinary average guy, growing up. He ran around with the other youth in the community. And in time, like most Amish boys do, he asked a girl if he could take her home one Sunday night after the singing. She said yes, and the two of them started dating, got to be a thing. And after a few years, there was a wedding one Thursday. They got married. Just another ordinary Amish couple settling in to their own home, their own household. And then the children came along. There were two or three, if I remember right. And their life path was set, as in days of old, the days of their forefathers. Their children would grow, there would be more, and then the parents would grow old together, surrounded by their extended family. Such was life foretold, and such was all that anyone ever expected from the weeping man and his wife.

The preacher man paused, here, in the telling of the story. And he looked even more grave and somber than before. He spoke softly, as if he were talking directly to each individual in his hearing. I know it felt like he was talking only to me. No one saw it coming, the trouble for the young couple. But somehow, the wife was tempted by another man. An English man. They kept it hidden, pretty well, so that no one suspected anything. Until it couldn’t stay hidden any more. The scandal broke across the community. The shocking news was proclaimed from the rooftops throughout all the land. And the young Amish wife ran away with her English lover. Deserted her home and her husband. I can’t remember what the preacher said happened to the children. If they went with Mom or stayed with Dad. Wherever they went or stayed, they bore the burden of their shame.

And the young Amish wife filed for divorce. For the husband, it was the most shameful stigma imaginable. He staggered with the blow. Everyone clucked and talked of how awful it was, that his wife treated him so badly. What was she thinking? And everyone blamed her, all the way. Her poor husband couldn’t help it, that she divorced him. He was about as innocent as he could be. Still. Divorce was divorce. He was allowed to stay Amish, in the church. He could never get remarried, at least as long as his ex-wife was alive. And penance. There would be never-ending penance.

The husband eventually got a bit of a grip on his life. Adapted to the new reality that was his world. He was Amish and divorced. A misnomer, if there ever was one. And in time, he took to sitting alone and weeping always after church. The others learned to leave him alone. And so he sat there, and his tears would not stop. They would never stop.

And the preacher paused, then, as he wound down his story. And he told us. He understood, then, why the man sat apart and wept. It was a heavy thing he carried, and lived with every day. And he spoke, in a voice of compassion. The poor weeping man would bear the shame and sorrow of his sin all his life. He would always, always sit and weep after church on any given Sunday. But, the preacher told us. When the Lord returns to gather his children, there is hope that there will be room in heaven for the poor weeping man, too. That he might also be gathered in, when the Lord comes for His own.

I remember the scene vividly from my childhood. Not where church was that day. But the story and the setting. The preacher man of long ago was Elmo Stoll. And I remember that even as a child, I felt very sorry for the weeping man, that he could never have any hope of joy in his life, but only guilt and pain and sorrow and relentless shame and penance that could never end.

The Amish. Divorce. Mention the word “divorce” in polite Amish company, and it’s like waving a cross at a vampire. They recoil from it that strongly. It simply is not part of their lexicon, the concept or the practice. And that’s OK. I’m not criticizing any of that. Just observing. That’s part of why the Amish have maintained their identity, part of the reason they remain a separate people, their strong stand against any kind of divorce for any reason. It’s simply not allowed. If your partner leaves and divorces you, well, that’s not your fault. You can stay with your people. But you can never, never be the one filing for divorce. Do that, and you will be cast out. Don’t matter how good a reason you had. That’s just how it is. And that’s how it’s always been.

And other than Elmo’s little tale, I don’t remember a whole lot of such stories in my childhood. Maybe a few, always told in hushed tones. I remember one story Dad told a few times about a single girl, a spinster, who came to work for Pathway, there in Aylmer. I can’t remember her name, or where she came from, but I can still faintly see her face. A rather beautiful girl, in my young mind. And Dad always told us her story. She was engaged to a young Amish man back in her home community, wherever that was. And their wedding date approached. And the last night before the wedding, her man decided he didn’t want to get married after all. He ran away, disappeared, and soon emerged in some nearby city. English. She was devastated, of course. Dad always shook his head as he concluded the tale, and said, wisely. “She can’t be thankful enough that he didn’t wait until after they were married, to leave like that.”

I could never see that much to be thankful for, when your betrothed deserts you on the night before your wedding day. And I thought stern thoughts about any man who could ever do such a thing. He must have been a real bad person. And then one day, long ago, I fled from my betrothed, too. Openly, face to face, not sneaking out the night before the wedding or anything like that. But still, we were betrothed. The Amish take family very seriously. And I broke the bond of family. Be careful how you judge, is what I take from looking back. People have their reasons for doing what they do. Someday, you might do close to the same thing yourself.

After we moved to Bloomfield, there were a few more rumblings here and there, about divorce scandals. Maybe those rumblings always were out there, maybe I was just too young to be told. Or maybe I wasn’t paying attention. Anyway, sometime during the eighties, I think it was, there was a large scandal down south of us a ways. Just over the line in Missouri about a hundred miles. The Clarke community was a real plain place. “Low” Amish, we called people like that. Very strict, not a lot of comforts allowed. Hard working people, of course. And life was hard.

It kind of swept through that community like a plague. Young husbands, half a dozen or so, leaving their wives and children. Running off to town, living English, and running with English women. It sure made some waves in the regional Amish world of that time, there in the Midwest. I remember people clucking and shaking their heads. How could any man be so deliberately wicked? To just off and leave your wife and children? What kind of man would do such a thing? And what was going on, down in Clarke, anyway? The Clarke community hunched down, deeply shamed. And the young abandoned wives bore the heavy burden of their shame, as well. It was a strange and bitter thing, such as I had not seen before.

In Lancaster, I don’t hear much of such a thing as divorced Amish people. I’m sure there is the odd couple, here or there, where one or the other ran off. It happens just about anywhere, and it happens seemingly randomly. I was chatting with a local friend not long ago about it all. And he told me. A few years back, there was this young Amish man my friend knew real well. They grew up together. Went to school together. The man had married, Amish, and they had about six children or so. And one day, out of the blue, the young father just took off. Went and bought a Harley and took to running with a rough biker crowd. Why? I asked? Where did that come from? You don’t just run off and join Harley people unless there was something going on before. My friend shook his head. “I have no clue,” he told me. “The guy just seemed to go haywire. And he left his family, just like that. They’re all still Amish, his wife and children. I guess she’s his ex-wife, now.” And I clucked in sympathy and shook my head. Who can understand such a strange thing as that?

An odd marriage doesn’t have to involve divorce, or even separation. Down east of me, there is an extraordinary situation, a thing such as I’ve never heard of before. There, in one district, a wife left the Amish church a number of years ago. She didn’t leave her home or her husband, just the church. She joined some English group of some kind. Got a car, and didn’t dress plain anymore at all. When such a thing happens, usually, there’s an explosion. Someone leaves, a home breaks up. But that didn’t happen here.

The woman and her husband continued living together, and they still live together today. Their home never broke up, never got busted. What makes this scene so extraordinary is that the husband is the deacon in his church. Ordained and everything. He remains the deacon. The whole thing just boggles my mind. I’ve never heard of such a thing before. But there it is, a mere few miles from where I live. And I’m certainly not knocking the situation. I think it’s fantastic, that everyone involved is so level headed. Including the bishop and the preachers.

I got to talking about it all with my friend Amos Smucker, the horse dentist. If anyone knows what’s going on, right now or in the past history of all of Lancaster County, he does. And he told me. “It’s the plainer, hard core communities where this kind of stuff happens more. Sure, it’s happened here in Lancaster. I can tell you of a few examples. But those plainer places, they get it in waves. Six, nine couples at a time. Not long ago something like that happened out there in western Pennsylvania, around Smittensburg and Punxutawney. Those communities are real strict and plain. And it just seems to happen more in places like that.” And I thought back to Clarke, Missouri, back in the eighties. Yes, it seems like the plainer communities have more of a problem with it, I agreed. There was no judgment in our conclusion. We were just observing.

Winding down, then. Coming from where I came from, I never imagined that the stigma and shame of divorce would ever be something I’d have to deal with. It’s not something that crosses your mind much, when you’re growing up Amish. Stuff like that mostly happens to people out in the world, and once in a while to some Amish person who should have known better than to marry the spouse they did. The odds are pretty long though, that it’ll ever happen to you, not when you’re safe inside the box. You don’t look for it, you don’t expect it.

There’s a small distinction for me, I guess. I never experienced divorce as an Amish person. I had left decades before. I can only imagine what the shock of it all must be like, if you’re still a part of your people, and something like that comes at you. It would have to be a hard thing, a bitter thing. It just would have to be.

And so I am where I am today. And yeah, I know. I’m a poster child that the Amish use, that parents point out to their wayward children. Look at Ira. He left, when he shouldn’t have. When he knew better. And just see how it went for him. He got all educated, when he should have been content at home working on the farm. He married English. And now he’s divorced. And that’s not all. When his marriage blew up, it got really, really messy. It was a huge scandal that rocked the world he left. A man like that should never hold his head high again, not around the people he came from. He shouldn’t be able to look them in the eye. And he wouldn’t, if he had any shame.

There’s a lot more that’s left unsaid, I suppose, from people who talk like that. Penance. Endless penance. That’s what they figure I should be doing. That, and there must be tears, there must be incessant weeping. There must be perpetual remorse. It all looks a lot like the sad man who sat off to the side alone in the preacher’s tale.

I will give them this, the people who judge me. I will give anyone this. It’s a harsh and brutal thing when a marriage blows up. Few things I have ever seen have been anywhere close to as brutal as that. And yes, you rage and cry to the heavens. There are tears, there is sadness, there is rage, there is weeping. All those promises, all those hopes and dreams, all those plans for a home and family in a place of peace, all that gets swept away into the debris of a torn and broken world. And yes, there is penance and regret. There is remorse that cuts so deep you think you’re sliced in half. And yes, none of it will ever really die inside you. All of it will live in you for as long as you’re alive.

But the Lord is the Lord of broken people with wounded hearts. He cares for the lost, he cares for the exiled, he cares for those whose lives are so shattered that there is no hope. And he heals them. Somewhere in the Old Testament, there is a place where he speaks to people like that. And he tells them.

I am the Lord of the whole earth. And I know you are far from the place you grew up in, the place you call home. You are stranded far from there, and you will never see your home again, despite the deepest longings of your hearts. But I want you to have joy in life, wherever you are. I want you to make the world around you more beautiful. I want you to plant gardens. I want you to live, and not weep. You are my children, and you will never not be. Go, then, and live and rejoice on this earth.

That’s what the Lord said to his lost and exiled children a long time ago. And that’s why I don’t sit off to the side alone and weep like the sad man did in the preacher’s tale.

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Vagabond Traveler: Tracking Thieves…

…He would appear at the table bearing a platter filled with some revolting

mess of his own concoction, — a mixture of raw vegetables, chopped up —

onions, carrots, beans, and raw potatoes — for he had the full strength of

his family’s mania concerning food, … and deep-seated distrust of every-

body’s cleanliness but his own.

—Thomas Wolfe

_________________

I didn’t feel particularly grumpy that morning as the day dawned. Well. Maybe just a little. It was my Saturday to work, which comes around about once a month. So no sleeping in. Which was fine. I’ll take my turn at work, just like everyone else. But, it was also going to snow. And I could see, looking out. It was fixing to start, right about the time I walked to my truck. Snow. Spitting white stuff. In April. So, yeah, maybe I was a little bit grumpy about all that. Still, it was a new day. And you just do what you do, when a new day comes.

The roads were dead when I pulled out in Big Blue and headed over to Sheetz for my coffee. Of a Saturday morning, the roads are usually dead here in Lancaster County. But they’re especially dead on a Saturday morning in April when it’s snowing. I pulled up and parked at my usual spot and walked in. The cashier, a kindly elderly lady, wears a name tag that simply says, Mom. She’s been around for about as long as I’ve been going there, and always smiles and greets me by name. A few years back, I watched for my chance. And one Saturday, around mid-day when it was slow, I snuck in a copy of my book and signed it and gave it to her. She beamed and beamed and smiled in wonder. Ever since then, she often asks how my family is doing. “How is your Dad?” Oh, he’s still writing, I say. She was all sympathetic, too, back when my Mother died. She offered me her sincere condolences. “I feel as if I know her,” she told me. This morning, she smiled in welcome as usual as I walked up to pay. Some of us have to drive to work in this snow, I grumbled. “You be careful out there on the road,” she admonished.

On over the back roads, then, toward the office. The snow swept down in great wet blobs. I took my time, meandering along. A few minutes before eight, I arrived and parked. Today would be a slow day, if there ever was one. It was. The phone rang sporadically. A few brave souls wandered in for materials. One local couple came in for a quote on a garage. They had just moved down from New York. I’m sorry it’s snowing here, in April, I told them. They laughed. “It’s nothing, compared to what we’re used to,” they said. And right at noon, as I was leaving, the snow stopped, and the spitting skies cleared up. Great. At least the afternoon could be salvaged, I figured.

I don’t usually get too torn up, on a Saturday afternoon. I putz around, run a few errands, and generally end up for coffee at the house of some of my good Amish friends. Well, at least when they’re home, that is. Lately, they haven’t been around that much. But this Saturday, they were there. And right at my regular time, around 2:30, I parked Big Blue outside their house. The husband met me, and we chatted for a few minutes before heading in. And he told me. The goodwife was very ill. Well, she was some better now, but earlier in the week, she had got so bad, they went to see the doctor. Bronchitis and pneumonia, is what the doctor had decreed. She was on antibiotics. And feeling a lot better. We walked in, then, for a cup of coffee. The goodwife sat on the couch, resting, looking a little wan. I greeted her cheerfully. What’s the matter? I hear you’re sick. “I was,” she said. “I’m feeling a lot better now.”

We just sat there and drank strong creamed coffee and talked. And the goodwife told me. She was feeling a lot better. At her low point, it was pretty bad. The antibiotics had helped a great deal. Almost immediately, boom. She was breathing better. And she asked me. “Are you stopping at Miller’s Health Foods this afternoon?” I am, I said. I always stop there of a Saturday afternoon to stock up on my veggies for my smoothies for the next week. I buy mostly organic stuff. And each morning, I blend it all up and drink it. Good stuff, right there. Delicious, too. So yes, I told her. I’m stopping by at Miller’s when I leave here. Can I get you something?

“Well,” she said. “It seems like I’m out of Thieves Essential Oil. Do you think you can pick up a bottle?” Ah. Thieves Essential Oil. Right here, I will concede. I don’t claim to know a whole lot about Essential Oils. I know there’s people out there who swear by them. And I remember that my sister Maggie used a good variety of Essential Oils when she was fighting her cancer last year. And now she’s cancer-free. I don’t claim to know much about any of it. Except Thieves. I know about Thieves. That stuff absolutely works. It’s a magic elixir. When you get a bad cold or you’re stuffed up and can’t breathe, just rub some on the back of your throat or on your chest. And swallow a drop or two. It will cure your ills, just like that. I’ve known since the Ellen days. She always had Thieves around and it always worked when you needed it.

And how in the world did an Essential Oil get loaded down with such a name as Thieves? Legend has it that it happened many hundreds of years ago. A plague was sweeping the land. Might even have been the Black Death. And people just died, whole families. Whole houses full of people. Everyone just collapsed and gurgled to death in the most horrible way imaginable. And when people got the plague and died, everyone else stayed far away, so as not to get infected. It was a brutal and fearful thing.

And somehow, it was soon discovered. There was a group of people going around, from house to house. Even into the houses of the dead they went. Fearlessly. And they robbed every place they walked into. Stripped the dead of their trinkets, even. And generally just helped themselves. And the authorities could not figure it out, what was going on. Why weren’t these vile thieves getting infected and dying, just like everyone else? And somehow, at some point, some of the thieves were captured in the act. And the authorities took them and imprisoned them. And asked the thieves. How can you walk into a plague-infected house, and not get killed for it? Why don’t you get sick and die, just like everyone else does? If you show us your secret, we won’t torture you, or tear you limb from limb. We’ll let you live.

And the thieves gave up their secret. Showed the authorities what they had. A mixture of herbs and oils. When you rubbed it under your nose, and swallowed a few drops, you would be protected from the plague. And all other sicknesses, too. And that’s where Thieves Essential Oil comes from. I believe there is a lot of truth in the legend. And I told the goodwife. Of course. I’ll be happy to pick up a bottle of Thieves for you. I’ll be back after a bit. They gave me some cash. And off I went.

Miller’s Natural Foods is a pretty nice store. Just east of Bird-in-Hand a few miles, just off Monterey Road. Well stocked with just about everything natural imaginable, and Amish-owned. I stop by almost every Saturday afternoon. Sometimes I bring along my Amish friends and sometimes I don’t. You’d think the Miller’s people would recognize me by now. But no one has ever given me the slightest indication that such a thing is true. I always walk in, grab a basket, get my veggies, and get out of there in less than twenty minutes.

And today I sauntered in, on a mission. Get my own stuff. And get some Thieves for the goodwife. I puttered around with my basket, back in the walk-in cooler. Kale. Spinach. Baby carrots. Brussels sprouts. All stuff I throw into my Ninja every morning. And then I wandered back into the store. Essential Oils? Where did they keep the Oils? Eventually I took my basket up front, to the cashier. A real nice elderly Amish lady. These Miller people sure run a productive place, I thought to myself. I’ve thought that often. And I chatted with her for a bit.

I’m here to pick up some Thieves for ______, I said, conversationally (and I named my friends). Instant recognition. The goodwife is very sick. “Oh, my,” the cashier fretted. “We are out. We’re getting restocked next week. But that won’t help someone who’s sick today.” Oh, good grief, I thought. That’s all I need. No Thieves. The nice lady brightened, then. And she told me of another little Amish store, just a few miles over there, across the fields. Not far at all. “She deals in essential oils. She should have some Thieves for you,” the nice lady said. I thanked her, and paid for my stuff. And off I went, in my truck.

The other Amish place was just where the nice lady had told me it would be. There was a big greenhouse with a little shack sitting off to the side. That must be the store. I poked around. No one seemed to be home. I stuck my head into the door of the store. No one. I walked in. Cool little shack, loaded with shelves all around. You gotta hand it to the Amish. They keep things pretty simple. And there was a shelf, with lots of little Essential Oil bottles. My. Someone could just walk off with a few of those, and no one would know the difference. There was a small counter. On the counter sat a large cowbell. And there was a little sign. Please ring bell. Hmm, I thought. I guess I’m supposed to ring it outside. No one’s gonna hear it in here. This is getting to be quite a production. I picked up the cowbell. Heavy, of solid brass, it was. I stepped outside. And I shook the bell up and down, hard. It clanged and clattered and pealed and bounced from the barns and houses all around. Goodness, I thought. That was loud.

A moment later, a robust Amish woman stepped out of a nearby greenhouse where she had been working and walked over to help me. The greenhouse must have been warm. She wasn’t wearing a coat. She was young, in her thirties, probably. A mother, I could see. Her face gleamed with a healthy glow. I’m sure she would have been barefoot, had it not snowed three inches that morning. She smiled at me as she got close. Open and friendly, is what her smile was. She figured I was just an ordinary English customer. I smiled back and greeted her. I wasn’t sure about ringing that bell so loud, I said. And then I told her what I was looking for.

Miller’s Health Food said you might have some Thieves Essential Oil that I could buy, I told her. They’re totally sold out. I’m here for ______ (and I named my friends). The goodwife is very sick. Instant recognition, again. But the robust woman looked a little perturbed. “I sell another brand. It’s called OnGuard. It’s the same formula as Thieves, just not that name. But I’m sold out, too,” she said. Oh, my, I said. What am I going to do now? My friends really need it. And the woman suddenly had an idea. “Let me go in the house and see if I have a partial bottle I can sell you,” she said brightly. “When you’re sick like that, it’s good to have what works.” She turned and disappeared.

She returned a few minutes later, smiling. She had found a partial bottle. Oh, that’s great, I said. Thanks so much. She wrote up an invoice. I paid her, and thanked her again. And then I took the precious little bottle of healing oil back to the place I had started from.

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

My motorcycle journey chugs along, real slowly, seems like. I’m fairly used to my beard now. It stays decently trimmed. And I’m letting my hair grow long. And it’s getting to where you’ll notice. The other day, an Amish contractor stopped by to break down a building he’s buying. The guy’s a good friend, I’ve worked with him for years. “My,” he said, peering at me sharply as he took a seat by my desk. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You’re starting to look like a hippie.” Ah, thanks, I said, beaming. It’s real nice of you to notice. I take that as a big compliment. One of these days when you walk in here, I’ll have me a real ponytail. That’s my goal, anyway. He allowed it would be a little different, to see such a thing, but totally OK with him.

So things are rolling along right nice. A few weeks back, I went and got my motorcycle permit. In PA, you have to get a beginner’s permit first. You gotta go in and take a written exam, and get 16 out of 20 questions right. Some time ago, I printed out the PDF instruction guide and study book. It all seemed pretty basic. Just common sense stuff, adapted to motorcycles. One theme runs through it all, over and over, again and again. THE OTHER DRIVER WILL NOT SEE YOU. THE OTHER DRIVER WILL PULL OUT IN FRONT OF YOU. INTERSECTIONS ARE VERY DANGEROUS. WATCH OUT FOR THE OTHER DRIVER. That Saturday, I headed on over to the DMV office to take the test. It was around midmorning, and I immediately thought. This place is packed out. I’ll never make it, through these crowds. I could feel it in the air, a panicked sense of pulsing fear. Great. I checked in and got my number. About an hour, the man told me. I walked to the back of the crowded room and found a chair and settled in to wait. And I waited. And waited.

I had brought along my study guide, since I figured there would be no way this would be a quick thing. On the back of the book were about 80 practice questions. So I just started in on those questions. All 80 of them. The ones I missed, I did over again. And again and again, until I pretty much knew that practice test like the back of my hand. Meanwhile, my number was creeping up, one agonizingly slow minute after another. An hour passed. Then two. I took the practice test again. And then my number was called. I picked up my bag and walked to the front. When you wear an Aussie hat and oilskin vest in a place like that, you can feel the stares hitting your back as you pass. What kind of loon is this? What’s he here for? I felt the questions and the stares.

The man behind the desk greeted me. I spoke back cheerfully. Did I want to take the test on paper or on the computer? I’ll take the computer, I said. You all seem to be quite busy today. He chuckled. “Yes, Saturday is our busiest day,” he said. “Tuesday comes right after. We’re closed on Mondays. On Tuesdays, you have all the people who lost their licenses over the weekend coming in, to get their work driving permits.” I felt bad for those people. I mean, this place was tense enough. If you got caught by some cop for having one beer too many, you’d have to come wade through this mess. Not to mention all the costs associated with a DUI. It’s a racket, is what all of it is.

The man took my application and my driver’s license and punched around on his computer. Then he directed me off to the right, to computer #7. “Just answer the questions. Then come back here. I’ll take your check then, but only if you pass.” Oh, well, I said. Here goes. And I walked over and sat down and signed in. The questions came up at me, blip, blip, blip. And I was hugely relieved to see that I recognized every single one of them, from my practice exam. In less than ten minutes, I answered the sixteenth question. The computer congratulated me. Sixteen straight. You have passed. A stab of relief shot through me. I walked back to the nice man. He printed out my permit, and I wrote him out a check for ten bucks. He handed me the precious piece of paper. Thank you, I said. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me. And I walked out, clutching my motorcycle learner’s permit.

Which means I can now ride on any road in Pennsylvania, at least during daylight hours. And only if I’m wearing a helmet and eye protection. Which is pretty wild. Which doesn’t mean I’m riding. Someone has to teach me how. I’ve never driven a motorcycle even so much as a foot. I’m signed up for an instruction class this summer, in July. A few months out, yeah, but it was the first opening they had that suited me. Once I get through that little ordeal, my real license will be issued. And then, I should be good to hit the road. And then, we’ll see if that Harley chopper was the real thing or just a grand illusion.

A few days ago, I got the link. From my friend, Dr. Sabrina Voelz in Germany. They had filmed my keynote presentation last summer at Plain People Conference. I posted the first part before, if I remember right. Sabrina kept telling me. We’re editing the Q&A session. We’ll make two clips. And just yesterday, I got the links. The first half, and the second half. It’s kind of cool, to see what I had to say preserved so professionally. It’s all a bit astounding to me. Just like being invited to the conference in the first place was astounding to me. My friends in Germany have been way beyond kind to this ex-Amish redneck who just happened to get a book published. I am grateful, and will always be.

A few words here at the end, a belated public good-bye to a good friend. Fifteen years ago when I came to work at Graber, John had already been the mechanic on duty for a number of years. He was retired from a full career as an airline mechanic, and the man was absolutely paranoid about the trucks under his care. He worked his own schedule, clocked in when there was work to do, and kept all the Graber delivery trucks in tip-top shape. It got so those roadside robbers, the DOT goons, learned to just leave our trucks alone, because they knew they would find no violations. Once, after an exhaustive roadside check, the DOT robber told my driver. “My compliments to your mechanic. I can’t find even a single small violation.” That was John.

He slowed down as he grew older, but still kept a fierce pride in maintaining our trucks. Gradually, then, his work load lessened as he clocked fewer and fewer hours. And a few years ago, he approached me one day and told me he was hanging it up, was giving his notice. He was 85 years old. We wished him well. It was different, not having our crack mechanic around, but life goes on. John stopped in to see us now and again, leaning on his cane and hobbling along slowly. Always, he looked a little older and a little frailer.

He passed away quietly in late February, the day before I checked into the hospital for my heart ablation. The next Saturday afternoon, there was a short viewing period before he was laid to rest. Along with a few of his other friends and coworkers from Graber, I stopped for a few minutes to see John one last time and say good-bye. He was all dressed up to go away. His normally grease-stained hands were clean and folded. The half-smile on his face spoke of a place he was seeing that our eyes cannot behold on this earth.

He was a man of integrity and a good friend. John P. Stoltzfus, Rest in Peace.

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Scenes from the Open Road…

You cannot find peace by avoiding life.

—Virginia Woolf

__________________

The morning broke, and the sun rose and glistened over a bright and beautiful day. And I reveled in the feeling and the freshness of it all. It wasn’t that long ago, I thought to myself, when I didn’t know if such a day would ever come again. But now, here it was. And it stretched before me in the distance, as far as the eye could see. Maybe there won’t be another time, but there will be this time. This morning, this day, there will be one more journey down one more open road.

It’s an important thing, a wedding is. And with fifty-nine nieces and nephews all stirring around out there, there’s been no shortage of invitations coming at me. Right along, over the years, here comes another envelope in the mail. One more proclamation from one more far and fertile land halfway across the country. Behold. There will be a great wedding on such and such a day. A huge feast will follow. You are invited. In fact, we would be honored by your presence. Inherent in all that was this simple message. We’ll be offended if you don’t show up. And I was, like, Gahhhh. It all got to be a bit much for an eccentric old uncle like me to take in.

And no, it’s not because I’m a prickly old curmudgeon. I enjoy family gatherings as much as the next guy. The thing is, you can’t go to every wedding. Just like you can’t go to every funeral. Especially if they’re far away, and you got a job to go to every morning. All those factors figure in. So my normal response has been, thanks, but I won’t be able to make it. Randomly, now and then, I could make it. And did. And it was always an enjoyable thing to get together, to hang out. Always an adventure.

Friday morning. Good Friday. It sure works out well this time, I thought, as I headed on over to my friends at Enterprise to pick up the car I had reserved the day before. It works out well, because Good Friday is a holy day here in Lancaster County. Many businesses here shut down. You don’t work. But you can travel. It’s just another normal day, to all the outside world. Right at seven, as the place opened, I parked Big Blue and walked in. A new guy behind the little counter, there at the Ford place. He looked at me, all decked out in my jeans, canvas vest, and Aussie hat. I greeted him cheerfully. Beautiful day out there for a road trip. What kind of car you got for me?

He didn’t seem all that communicative. Cordial enough, and professional. Just not real talkative, like those guys usually are. “I have a Ford Focus for you,” he told me. “It’s pretty close to new, only seven hundred miles on it.” That’s great, I said. But I have to ask, because I always do. Do you have a Charger on the lot? He shook his head. “Sadly, I do not,” he said. That’s fine, I said. I always check, because I always upgrade if you got one. The Ford Focus will be just fine. Especially if it’s that close to brand new.

He got my paperwork ready and walked out to fetch the little car. And as we were doing the walk-around, he got communicative, all of a sudden. Those guys are usually pretty good, and this guy was stellar. Upsell. That’s what you do, when you’re renting a car to someone. Not the model or the make, necessarily. But upsell to trip-specific insurance.

He had asked who my insurer was, and about the deductible. Allstate, I told him. Now, he smoothly slid into his sales pitch. “I know you have great insurance with Allstate,” he began. “But we have insurance you can buy, just for this trip and just for this car. That way, if something happens, your Allstate coverage won’t be affected. It’s only $24 per day, and it would bring your total to such and such.” He named the price. And told me what those guys always say. “With this insurance, you are totally covered. We don’t care if you bring us back only the steering wheel. You’re covered.”

He was good. I’ll give him that. Real good. I came closer to biting than I have in a while. But still. I hedged. My truck coverage spills over to rental cars. I had checked that out a few times over the years. So I told the guy. I’ll pass, this time. He persisted. “Are you sure?” I guess that’s how they train them. Yes, I said. I’m sure. He handed me the keys. “OK, then. Have a great trip, and we’ll see you early Monday morning.” Thank you, I said. I will and we will.

The little Focus was what the man had said. Brand new. I parked my truck at the far end of the lot, and walked back to the car. I got in and adjusted the seat and mirrors to fit me. Well. The Aussie hat would have to go, at least while I was driving. My head pretty much scraped the ceiling as it was. That’s OK, though, I figured. And I headed home to load up. I had packed light. Just for a few days. At least I thought so. As always, when the time came to load, I threw in this and that. I might need a pair of sneakers. And an extra jacket. Lord knows what the weather will be out there in Ohio. It’s a weird state. I loaded a box with a dozen of my books, too. You never know when you’ll meet someone who wants a copy. By eight, me and the little Focus were on the road.

And it seems like such a strange and astonishing thing, but I gotta say it. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt so lighthearted and free as I did that morning, heading west. I’m not even sure how to put my finger on it, how to describe it. I guess it was just a state of mind. Whatever it was, it had been a while. And I felt the gratitude stirring deep inside me. Thank you, Lord, for this day. Thank you, for health and strength. Thank you, that I can go and spend time with my family. I will never take such a thing for granted again, and I will always be grateful for all of life. That’s what I felt and that’s what I thought and that’s what I spoke to the Lord that morning on the road.

The little Focus pulsed along, on and on into the morning and then into the day. It sure was a heavy car, for its size. I didn’t feel small at all, driving along in traffic. But when I stopped for coffee for the first time and got out, I couldn’t believe how tiny the car was. Oh, well. I reached in to the passenger’s seat and grabbed the Aussie hat and put it on and sauntered in. Inside, no one would know that I was driving a little toy of a car.

Onward, westward, I pushed along. And soon enough, I-70 came right up. I left the toll road after paying the exorbitant fee of 21 bucks. For a little car, to drive from Harrisburg to New Stanton. That’s highway robbery, I grumbled to myself. The thing is, that price will never recede, will never go down. Only up. I paid. And then it was on west, to Wheeling, WV.

And I thought about it, as the Focus slid along through the traffic. The wedding. It was a big deal to my sister Naomi and her husband, Alvin Yutzy. They had raised a long row of strong, strapping sons and one beautiful daughter. And the strange thing was, the children had all pretty much stayed with the church their parents raised them in. Not precisely, and not all, but still. Close enough. And looking back to where I came from, and how I could not stay at the place where my father was, it was a thing of wonder to me, how Alvin and Naomi had raised their children. Especially the sons. Somewhere, there had to be some communication going on when those guys were growing up. That’s all I could figure out. Sons get all restless sometimes, and will push on and out, from where they were raised. Get a little more modern than their parents. Walk a different path. Like I had. Unless…unless someone is talking and someone’s listening.

Whatever the reasons, almost all of Alvin and Naomi’s sons didn’t stray very far from how they were raised. They stayed pretty plain, which was and is a wonder to me. And now, one of the younger boys, Daniel, was getting hitched to Sheri Byler, a Conservative Mennonite girl from Holmes County. That’s where I was heading. Up west and north to Holmes. It’s been a few years since I’ve been there. I used to stop and see John Schmid, now and then. Back when. John and I still hang out a few times a year, when he comes through Lancaster County. And we always catch up, and he always invites me out to Holmes. The problem is, John travels a lot, working in prison ministry. And he’s not home a lot. We had chatted a few weeks back, and I told him I was coming for a wedding. He told me. “You’re welcome to stay at my house, but we won’t be home. We’ll be traveling that weekend. A concert in Missouri. But you can stay at my place.” He meant it, too. Ah, that’s OK, I told him. I’ll just get a motel room. It sure would be nice to hang out, and I sure would stay at your place if you were home. But I’ll just hang with family and friends at the motel.

Down around Wheeling, Highway 250 got some real sharp curves. I mean, you’re going one way this instant, here comes a hairpin, and you’re going the other way, pretty much. I don’t mind the road, though. It’s a scenic drive. By early afternoon, I got through the curves and headed on west. Then up Rt. 19 through Sugarcreek. Walnut Creek was next. It sure is hilly, out there in Holmes. I haven’t seen many places where they farm hills like that. But out there, they do. The Amish are about as saturated in that area as they are here in Lancaster County. I cruised on up Rt. 19. And there, just outside Walnut Creek, stood the Wallhouse Hotel. It jutted majestically from the farm fields all around. All five stories of it. Wow, I thought. They’re getting a little hifalutin’ in Holmes. That there’s a brand new place, looks like. And five stories high, yet. What’s next, a real skyscraper?

The Wallhouse Hotel was almost brand new, and pricey enough. I didn’t grumble, though. This place was chosen because it was real close to the church where the wedding would be tomorrow. I sauntered in, all sharp. The clerk greeted me politely. I need a room, I told him. For two nights. I didn’t make a reservation. And I need the AAA discount. He checked me right in. A big king bed in a room on the fifth floor. I took the electronic key and thanked him and trundled out a cart for my stuff. A guy should travel light with only a few bags, I knew. But when you’re going to a wedding, you gotta take some nice clothes on hangers. And you need a cart for that, when you’re moving from your car to your room. I loaded the cart and boarded the elevator. All around me, everything was glistening and new.

I pulled the cart up to Room 505, and fumbled around for my key card. And I looked at the door. Strangely, there seemed to be no slot of any kind to stick my card into. There was a little plastic box mounted right under the door knob. Looked like it had a lid, and a little indent to push it open. So I pushed. Nothing. I pried around. Nothing. This was getting frustrating. I mean, come on. There’s gotta be a slot for my card, somewhere. And I pried around that plastic lid every which way. Up. Down. Sideways, both ways. It simply would not budge. I stood back and pushed my Aussie hat about as far back as it would go, and scratched my head and just looked at the door. There has got to be a way to get that card stuck in there, somewhere. There has got to be. But there wasn’t. Not that I could see or feel, anywhere. A couple of times, I almost boarded the elevator to go back down to the front desk. But I didn’t want to leave my cart there, with my stuff. So I stayed, glued to the spot, and just fought that door. I talked to it, too, real sternly, which didn’t seem to make any difference at all. It was a maddening and frustrating thing.

About right then, a couple stepped from the elevator and strolled right up to me, to pass on down the hall. Heavy-set and bearded, the man was dressed all casual in shorts. I turned and practically assaulted them both. I can’t find a place to stick my card in, I said. I’ve almost torn this door down, and it won’t budge. Can you show me how to open the freakin’ thing? The man barely slowed his stride. “Try waving the card across the plastic thing, there,” he said. “I think some hotels have remote cards, now.” I looked at my card. There was no stripe on it, anywhere. So I waved it across the front of the plastic thingy under the door knob. The green light went on, and there was a sharp click. The door unlocked. I stood there and sputtered. I ain’t never seen such a thing. The heavy-set man had walked on past me, but he was sympathetic. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You’ll be alright.” I gaped after him. And I felt like I had just crawled out of a hole in the jungle, somewhere.

On into the room, then. A beautiful spacious place. King bed, fridge, all kinds of closet space and a large bathroom. I’ll enjoy my stay, I thought. After unpacking and relaxing for a few minutes, I headed on back down. I wanted to check out a few places before supper tonight at the community center. I stopped by the front desk on my way out. You people need to tell guests that you just wave your card to open the door, I told the clerks. There were two of them now. I almost tore your door off its hinges before someone told me how the card works. They both chuckled. What can you expect from a guy wearing an Aussie hat? That’s what I felt them thinking.

I drove out on Rt. 19 toward Berlin. A few years ago, I had a book signing at Gospel Light Bookstore. My friend, “Small” Hochstetler, owns and runs the place. He was around somewhere, the clerk told me when I walked in. And soon enough, he came bustling around. Even with my beard, he recognized me. He beamed and shook my hand. We stood there, close to the spot where I had signed my books, and just visited. With Small, that’s an easy thing. He’s never short of words.

I asked about Dad’s books. Oh, yes, he had them right up front, by the entrance. All three volumes. Dad had come around last spring, I think it was, and there was a book signing for him, too. Lots of people showed up. Small shook his head in wonder. The man just keeps writing and writing and producing and producing. After half an hour or so, we were winding down. Small paused and looked at me sharply.

“And what about you?” he asked. “Are you working on your next book?” Ah, well, I said. A thing like that, you can’t force it. It’s gotta come on its own, and if it doesn’t, I’m totally OK with that. But I’m thinking it will. By the way, did you know I almost died last November? Small had not heard. So I told him. My heart issues. How close it had come, to me leaving. I finished my story. I’m not afraid anymore, I said. Not afraid to die, and not afraid to live. I’m not afraid of another book, either, and what it is to write it. I’m telling you, I can’t help but talk about it to whoever will listen to me.

Small looked at me sharply again. “You need to write that story, then, if you’re not afraid,” he said. “For your next book, just write that.” I have, I said. I’m writing that story, all of it, on my blog. Once the book comes along, I’ll be able to go back and pick through and expand on stuff. That’s my game plan. Small seemed satisfied, then. He asked which blog told of my hospital stay, and I pulled it up on my iPhone and showed it to him. He jotted down the title and the date. It was close to closing time, which was at five on Good Friday. I took my leave and headed back to the hotel.

I settled in, then, and just rolled with the events as they came down. The evening before a wedding, there’s always s big old feast somewhere, provided by the groom’s parents. That’s how it’s been, anyway, in the past. And tonight, Alvin and Naomi were hosting a meal at the community center just outside Sugarcreek. I pulled in right at 5:30, right on time. The place looked pretty deserted. A few other vehicles were parked about randomly. My brother Jesse pulled up in a rented van about the same time I got there. He and Lynda emerged and we greeted each other. Where is everyone? Alvin and Naomi met us as we approached the front door. My sister smiled and smiled and greeted me with a huge hug. “I’m so honored that you made it.” she told me. Not a problem, I said. I wanted to come. I didn’t make it to most of the weddings in your family. This one was close. So here I am.

I shook hands with everyone all around. We lounged around and visited, then. Jesse tried to stir the pot by loudly praising Trump. “He’ll be the next president,” Jesse proclaimed. It might have stirred up a few people, but not me. I hope Trump wins, I said. Not that I vote, or anything. I just want to see him win, because I hate the establishment so much. And nothing is getting more tiresome than listening to all those pious Christians telling you. You can’t be a Christian and vote for Trump. That right there is enough to make anyone vote for him, even if you don’t vote. Which I don’t.

I saw my sister standing across the room, and went to chat with her. She was fretting. Over a hundred people had committed to come for supper tonight, and only a few dozen had showed up so far. Oh, well, give them some time, I told her. She looked me up and down and pronounced that I had good color and looked very healthy. I laughed. And I told her what I had told Small, earlier. I can’t not talk about it. I’m not afraid. I can’t tell you how not afraid I am. Not afraid to die. Not afraid to live. I’ve never been here before, in my heart. It’s the freest place I’ve ever seen. It’s a beautiful place to be. I’m getting my motorcycle license, I babbled, somewhat disjointedly. She gaped mildly at me. This was certainly a side of me that she had never seen before. I can’t help it, I said again. I can’t not talk about it.

The place filled up then, boom, just like that, as waves of youth swarmed in. And more guests, too, from out of state. My good friend and blood brother, Rudy Yutzy walked up, smiling. His load had just arrived. We hugged, and he asked about my heart and health. “I didn’t realize you were in such bad shape until after it was all over,” he told me. “Had I known, I would have been out there to see you.” It all ended good, I told him. And more people flooded in. Naomi wouldn’t have to worry about the food getting eaten. There was much shouting and greeting and hand shaking and hugging and back slapping. And we all feasted from the loaded potato bar. It was a very special time.

The next morning came, and the day flowed at us. A large group assembled in the lobby for breakfast. The Wallhouse sure served up some tasty food. Biscuits, gravy, eggs, bacon, all the usual greasy stuff. I ate a heaping plateful and sat at the table sipping coffee. A few local friends stopped by to hang out and chat. We all drank coffee and connected.

Rudy and his brothers wanted to go check out the old homestead of their great-grandpa, Reuben Yutzy. His claim to fame: he was probably the only Amish gun maker, ever, in all of history. He cranked out a good number of high quality muzzle loaders way back when. His guns are highly sought after, especially by his offspring. When one shows up for sale, it’ll bring $30,000 or so. His little work shop is still there on the farm, but just barely. It’s going to collapse and fall in very soon. A load of us headed out and checked out the work shop and took pictures. A few walked on back to the old graveyard on the hill, where Reuben is buried. And soon after 12, we headed back to the hotel to get dressed for the wedding.

By 1:30, we were assembled at the church. A large nice quiet sanctuary it was. The usher led me right to my seat, just a few rows back from the very front. A seat of honor, in the family section. Jesse and Lynda were already seated to my right. Steve and Wilma came in right after me. Of all the siblings, we three brothers were the only ones who had made it to this wedding. That’s just an observation, nothing more. Lord knows I’ve missed more than my share of such events over the years. I made it to this one pretty much because it was close and convenient.

We chatted as the place filled up. I’m suspicious of any Plain wedding service, I told Jesse. A lot of preachers like to hear themselves talk way too much. Jesse chuckled. Well, I said. With the Amish, you know the service is going to be three hours long. That’s just how they do it. But with the Beachys and Plain Mennonites, you got no idea of how long it will go. I sure hope this one’s short. We’ve all heard the five-point sermon on what a good marriage is. We don’t need to hear it again. Jesse glanced at the bulletin. “It looks like it’ll be fairly short,” he said. “There’s going to be lots of choir singing.”

The service began, then, and it was short and very lovely. An opening prayer, then a short admonition from some preacher. And Jesse was right. There was a good bit of choral singing from Daniel’s buddies from Faith Builders. That’s the Plain Mennonite school in western PA, where he and Sheri met. Daniel was on the school choir, and that choir does a real quality job. All A Capella. No instruments at all. As I’ve said before, I don’t agree with the hyper-Anabaptist teachings at Faith Builders. I get weary, listening to that kind of talk. But whatever they do there, they do with all their might. And their choral music has always been of the highest quality. I’ll give them that.

After the choir had performed a good many songs, the preacher man stood and delivered the main sermon. His words were sparse, his presentation blissfully short. And right soon, Sheri’s father, who I guess was a minister of some sort, stood to perform the vows. And almost precisely one hour after the service began, the happy couple was presented to the congregation as Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Yutzy. We all applauded.

There was a great and delicious feast, then, in the auditorium. I sat with my brothers at a family table way up front. We sure were honored all day, with the seating and the service. Afterward, people scattered to the winds. Rudy and his load headed back to Missouri, driving most of the night. I took my sister Naomi over to the bed and breakfast they had rented for their extended family. Most of her children and their families were there. We sat around and just visited for a few hours. And then I headed on back to the Wallhouse hotel for one more night.

The next morning the lobby was pretty much deserted, compared to how it had been the morning before. I packed my stuff and sat down for a nice loaded plate of greasy breakfast food. Then I went back up and fetched all my luggage. Loaded the car. And stepped back in to fill my water bottle and grab a fresh cup of hot coffee. I stopped on the way out to turn in my key card and get my receipt. And then I walked outside.

It was a beautiful sunny day. Easter Sunday. A day of new beginnings. A day to hit the road. I boarded the little Focus and turned to the east and home.

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

Well. My computer woes seem to be over. After my disastrous experience with the Best Buy people, I took my brother-in-law Paul’s advice. I hunkered down and hooked up my old computer. It was familiar and it worked just fine. Paul didn’t forget me, though. On Thursday, the evening before my road trip, he headed on over with my new Asus model. He had used his Amazon connections, loaded Windows 7, and claimed it all was ready to go. I was a little skittish from how it had just gone with the other computer, but I welcomed him. And in about an hour, he had transferred my data from old to new. It all seemed to work fine. We checked out everything. This model did not freeze up. I paid the man and thanked him for his expertise and time. It’s a good thing to have good people in your life. And it’s a good thing to have good connections.

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Of Rage and Love…

Have no lips trembled in the wilderness?

No eyes sought seaward from the rock’s

sharp edge for men returning home? Has no

pulse beat more hot with love or hate upon

the river’s edge?….No love?

—Thomas Wolfe

____________________

He walked in that Saturday morning at the office. And I looked at him as he approached to where I was standing behind the counter. An old man, with a lean hard face. Kind of shabbily dressed, like old people are sometimes, and they don’t realize it. He had seen better days. He looks a little hungry, I thought to myself. And he had a grumpy air about him, as if he knew this day would be like all the rest have been, lately. It would not bring him many good things. Tired, is how he looked. Tired and old and grumpy. Still. He was a customer, or at least he might be one. And I smiled and greeted him, just like I try to smile and greet anyone who walks through that front door on a Saturday morning, or any other morning. Can I help you? I asked.

He nodded. I could, yes. And he told me. He had this little bitty storage shed back home, down south over the Maryland line a ways. It needed a new roof. He had a lot of questions. And he took his time, asking. And I took my time, answering. There wasn’t much else going on at the office right then, anyway. Might as well pay some attention to the old man. Don’t matter, how small his project is. Just take care of him, like you would if he was asking about a big building he needed. That’s what I thought to myself. And me and the old man just talked along. My first impression was right. He was in a grumpy mood. He kind of snapped out his questions. Maybe he’s just tired, from all he’s seen, I thought. Maybe it’s just not a good day for him. And we kept talking.

The phone rang, then, and I glanced back at my desk. Just let it go to voicemail. I’m busy here. But the old man wouldn’t have that. “Answer the phone,” he told me. “I’m in no hurry. I’ll wait. I just have a few more questions.” So I answered and chatted with a builder for a few minutes. Sorry, I said as I hung up. We only got one person in the office, on a Saturday. And today, that’s me. The old man waved it off. “Don’t think a thing of it,” he said. And he went right back to asking questions about metal for his little roof. I showed him color samples of what we have. Metal. Trim. Screws. He absorbed it all. He’d have to go back home and get some measurements. And then he’d get back to me. We were winding down. He took my card. And I thanked him for stopping by. We’ll have your stuff, when you’re ready for it, I told him. Call me, and we’ll have it ready for you when you get back.

And he turned away to walk back out. And just that close, he did. But just as he was turning, his eye caught the little poster taped to the back of my computer screen, facing him. My book. He stopped, and looked at the poster closely. Then he looked at me. Then back to the poster again. And he got all curious. His whole face changed. And he asked me. “Did you write that book? Were you born Amish?” Yes, I said. I did and I was.

And he looked at me. “Were you ever shunned?” he asked. Yes, I said. I was. For years and years. But as Dad got along in years, he let it go, dropped the shunning. I am very thankful that I get to sit at the table with him now. He’s old, in his nineties. But better late than never. Way better. Let me tell you that.

And the old man leaned in toward the counter, totally focused on what he had to say. It was like a light went on inside him. “I know all about what it is, to be shunned,” he said. The grumpiness was gone, replaced by a quiet, well, I don’t know what. A quiet knowledge, I guess. He went on. “I was a Jehovah’s Witness, years ago. I left them, back in the eighties. And they’re a lot like the Amish are, if you leave them. They’ll shun you. Oh, yes, they will. They still won’t have anything to do with me, the ones I knew back then. Still not today.”

The light died in him, then. And it drained out of him, his eagerness to tell me what he knew and thought. He was just a tired old man again. He settled in, settled back, seemed to shrink into himself. “It sure is a strange thing,” he muttered. “It sure is strange, how they treat you. And all because they claim to love you.”

Yeah, it sure is strange, indeed, I said. And I know how it affects you, to be rejected like that. I know all about how that is. I’ve been there. And we stood there and talked about what it was to be shunned. How you deal with it. How you adapt, in your head and in your heart. He had definitely seen some hard places. I could tell. He had been down some hard tough roads.

“I could still go back,” he said, suddenly. I was startled. No one had mentioned anything about going back. But he wanted to. “I mean, if I wanted to, I could,” he said. “Not that I do. But they would take me back. If I went, I would have to get to the service on a Sunday after it starts. I’d have to sit by myself all the way in the back, and then I’d have to get up and leave just before it ended. Eventually they would take me back, as a member, then.”

Wow, I said. I could go back to the Amish, too, if I had a mind to. Which I don’t. I’m just saying. I could. They wouldn’t make me sit in the back, though. Actually, you’d sit pretty close to up front, where they can keep an eye on you. And they would make me walk a pretty strict line for about six months or so. But they would accept me, and genuinely so, during the process. I guess different groups do things different.

There was a silence, then. We just stood there, in the company of each other, the old man and me. It was soon time for him to go. But still he lingered, as if there was something more he wanted to say.

And I told him what I thought about the whole shunning business. My take on it. Yeah, I said. It hurts, to be shunned. And yeah, it’s no fun. But I have always stood for people to have the right to believe what they want. Don’t have to make sense to me. I’ll defend the Amish all day, and the JWs, too. They have the right to be who they are. They have the right to believe what they want.

The old man looked at me. I think it had been a few years since he’d thought much about the shunning. It had been a while since he’d talked to anyone about it. Especially someone who halfway understood where he had been and what he had seen. And he seemed to be considering his next words carefully.

“Yes,” he said. “We all have the right to be who we are, and to believe what we believe. That’s a given. But that don’t make it any easier to be shunned.”

It was time to go. He turned to the door. But then he turned back. He had one more thing to tell me. One more thing to say. He didn’t shake his finger at me, or anything. But what he said came from somewhere buried deep inside. There was nothing grumpy, nothing tired about the old man now. And then he spoke.

“They claim they’re doing it out of love, the people who shun you,” he said. “But it’s not love, to reject a person just because that person leaves your group. Maybe it’s hate. For sure, it’s rage. It’s not natural, for a parent to reject a child, to cut off all contact with a child. It’s not natural. It’s not Christian, either. You can claim it’s anything you want to. But it’s not love.”

No, it’s not love. I agreed. It’s not love, to shun someone. Real love is what those people need, the ones who shun. What they’re missing. And real love will never allow a parent to reject a child. Never. That don’t mean you have to approve of what the child is doing. But you won’t reject him. It’s impossible, with love the way Jesus taught and lived it.

“No, it’s not real love,” he answered. “And yes, real love is what those people need, what we all need.” Yes, I said. It sounds trite, but it really boils down to love. We all need love. Those who shun and those who are shunned. We need to love and be loved.

It was time, then, to leave. He offered me his hand, and I shook it. “I’ll give you a call when I got those measurements for my metal,” he said. “And thanks for your time.

You do that, I told him as he turned and left. We’ll be here.

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

Almost, this blog didn’t get written. And one might think. It’s March. The bad month for Ira. Last year, it got real dark, and he freaked out and never posted a word. It’s March. So of course that’s why he got stuck, writing.

But it’s not. It was way less complicated than that. I got March, this year. It will never freak me out again, not like it did. Not saying I’ll never skip a blog in March. But it won’t be because I’m freaked out. The thing is, I got a nice, new PC, a desktop computer. And a friend came over and set it up. The nice, new computer didn’t work. Kept freezing up on me, and losing the writing I had just labored on. There wasn’t a lot of peace of mind involved. I got a little fretful, I will concede. And for a while there, this week, it looked like this post wasn’t gonna get done.

My old computer was pretty ancient, in computer age. I bought it back on 2008 or 2009. Way back when I was blogging every week, and finding my writing voice. It’s an old-style desktop with an old-fashioned flat monitor. And it has more than served me well. I cranked out a lot of writing on that computer. I’ve worked my way through a few keyboards, and I’m on my second office chair. And the book. Every word was punched out, or at least edited, on that old computer.

And a few weeks ago, I got to thinking. I better get something new, before this old thing crashes and I lose all my stuff. So one day last week I emailed my ex-brother-in-law and good friend, Paul Yutzy. I’m thinking about picking up a new computer. Could you come over and set it up sometime, if I do? Paul is a computer geek, works in the field, and has always been my go-to guy. He answered right back. Sure. Get what you want. Brand doesn’t matter much these days. I can stop by one evening and set it up for you.

So on Saturday after work, I headed on over to Best Buy to pick up a cheap PC. That right there was my first mistake. But I didn’t know. So I went in and lurked around the computer section. Surely someone would see I needed help, I figured. I mean, in a big box store like this, you always have to fend off the sales people. They won’t leave you alone.

And almost right away, here comes this beautiful girl, all smiling and friendly. She had a name tag, so I figured, here we go. Great service, this. She smiled very prettily and gushed at me. “Oh, I just LOVE your hat (I was wearing my Aussie.). You wear it SO well.” Why, thank you, I said, genuinely pleased. It’s real nice of you to notice. She smiled again, and then started asking questions for some survey she was doing. She didn’t even work at Best Buy. So that little compliment went out the window, whoosh, just like that. I felt deflated.

After shaking her off, I kept loafing around, looking at computers. No one came. It all figures, I grumbled to myself. When you’re looking to buy, no one pays any attention to you. When you’re just window shopping, you get assaulted by some pesky sales person every time you turn around. I finally approached the sales desk, where four guys were standing around, cracking jokes and laughing. I got some questions about a computer, I said, and one of them rushed to help me. He knew his stuff and I was on my way in twenty minutes with my new PC. A Lenovo, an all-in-one model, where everything is in the screen. Pretty wild stuff, those computers are. I unloaded at home, and set the big box in a corner.

The next afternoon, Sunday, Paul and his friend Malinda came over. I shuffled around, trying to stay out of the way, while Paul set up my new model and transferred the data from old to new. All my docs, and all my pics, and all my other stuff. By late afternoon, he was done, and we sat down to the fine meal Malinda had whipped up. And then they left. I felt good. A brand new computer. Latest model. I was all set, I figured.

Almost right away, things did not go well. I surfed around a bit on the internet, and then left the desk for a few minutes. When I sat back down and moved the mouse, nothing happened on the screen. The thing was frozen stiff. No movement, no nothing. I finagled around and hit various combo keys. Control, Alt, Delete. Restart. Nothing. Finally, I reached down and unplugged the computer. It went dark instantly. I fired it back up. Maybe that was a fluke, I thought.

It wasn’t. The computer froze up and locked up randomly, maddeningly, at the most inopportune times. I had an outline started for this blog, and pulled it up. I punched around, writing, for fifteen minutes. And then, boom, the screen froze up again. No. No. NO. I screamed inside. I can’t lose all that stuff I just wrote. And again, the only way to get rebooted was to unplug the computer and start over. I’ll never get a blog written this way, I thought. Oh, well. Just skip this week, I guess. But still, I wanted to. And I kept working away, off and on. And the computer kept freezing up, mostly when I was online, and mostly after I turned my back for a few moments. It was all real frustrating.

Came this Wednesday evening, early, then. I sat here, working on my blog. And I saved the words, now and again. And then there was a long stretch, probably half an hour. I should save, I should save, I thought. But I kept writing. And all of a sudden, the mouse wouldn’t move. Frozen again. No. No. NO. But it was. I yanked the plug-in from the wall, and then fired up again. Word would not, could not retrieve the words I had not saved. It was still early. I got pretty livid. I shut down my new computer unplugged everything, threw the keyboard and mouse into my messenger bag and loaded my truck. Back to Best Buy. That’s where this piece of junk was going.

I walked in and up to the Service counter. And our conversation remained polite throughout, I gotta say. But they were rigid, unhelpful, and totally lacking in service. They wanted to charge me $100 to move my data from the defective computer onto a new one, and it would take five days. Frustrated, I excused myself and stepped aside and called Paul. I told him what was going on, and he got all indignant. “It takes five minutes to transfer that data,” he told me. “Get your money back, go home and plug your old computer back in. I’ll find something that’ll work for you in a day or two.”

So that’s what I did. Asked for my money back. At least they didn’t make a fuss about the refund. As I was walking out, I almost bumped into the pretty young survey girl who had swooned about my Aussie hat last Saturday. Still out there, still as pretty as ever, still accosting people for her survey. She recognized me, her eyes widened, and I tipped my hat. Ma’am, I said. And then I got out of that place. I will not shop at Best Buy again.

And then I went back home and reconnected my trusty old computer. My old friend. I thought we had parted for good, but now we were together again. The computer fired right up, and everything worked, just like it always has. And that’s why this blog got posted this week.

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Vagabond Traveler: Wilderness and Sky…

Mama, put my guns in the ground,

I can’t shoot them anymore.

That long black cloud is comin’ down,

I feel like I’m knockin’ on heaven’s door.

Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door,

Knock, knock, knockin’ on heaven’s door…

—Bob Dylan, lyrics

____________________

I don’t know quite how to speak this week, about how things went. I guess, just start back where it started, with the telling of it. I felt the pensiveness and tension in me, back even before my last post. And no, it wasn’t fear. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. It’s not fear. Whatever it was was there, just kind of stirring around inside me. It was like I was standing there, looking at a great mountain in the distance. The ablation. Out there a good ways still, but creeping in a little closer every day. And each day, with the rising and setting of the sun, there was nothing to do but walk right toward it. And I knew. There was no way around it. The mountain had to be faced, and it had to be faced alone. This road had to be walked, and it had to be walked alone.

It’s not that I didn’t want the procedure done, the ablation. I did want it done. And who am I kidding? A “procedure” is just a clean word for that way more frightening term. Operation. That’s what I was facing. An operation. Sure, nowadays, they can slip up through a vein in your groin with a laser knife, slide right into your heart, and just sear the misbehaving muscles. The thing is, fifteen years ago, it would have been major open heart surgery, what they were doing to me. They would have sawed me open with a hack saw. And they would have peeled back my ribs and poked and cut around my heart with a knife. By hand. And I would have been cooped up in pain for weeks and weeks. That’s assuming I survived, of course. I would have played the odds, though. Not much choice there. I would have had to. But it’s not anything like that, now. Now it’s very close to an outpatient thing. You walk in one day, walk out the next. That’s what the doctor told me, anyway.

And from the start, ever since my long hospital stay last November, I wanted it done. It had to get done so I could get off some of those toxic drugs they had me on. It had to get done, for my life to ever be close to normal again.

And it all closed in, it all became so clear to me as the mountain crept in a little closer each day. I thought about it a lot. How rare and beautiful life is. How much there is I haven’t done. I’m fifty-four. Not that young anymore. But not that old, either. And I thought to myself. You really need to get a grip on things. Figure out what’s important. You’ve been depressed these past two years or so. You’ve been drinking yourself into a stupor. You’ve been full of rage. For what? What good does that do anyone? What does it do, except prove that you can drink yourself into any state of mind you want to? Stop it. You can’t drink away pain. Stop choosing to feel all dark and depressed and angry. Get up. Clean up. And get out there, and live. And yeah, all that said, I sure would like me a drink. I sure would like one.

It took a while, to get my bearings after I got home from that long hospital stay in November. Took a few weeks for it all to sink in, how close it had come. How nearly I had left this earth. It changes you, a thing like that does. Nothing is quite the same as it was before, not ever again. Not once you really grasp it, that you faced the Grim Reaper right up close and walked away. There’s a couple of things that can happen, after that happens. You can curl up in fear, retreat even further into the darkness. You can drink even harder and swear at the bitter skies. Or you can step up and realize that Death took a shot at you and missed. And you got nothing to fear, not ever again. That’s what I grasped after a few weeks at home, after things had settled down a bit. I had faced Death, and I will never be afraid again. Not like I was before. I will walk free, I will live free.

And it trickled out and around, then, this new knowledge I had latched on to. How beautiful life is, and how intensely I wanted to be alive. The people around me at work were the first to see that new part of me, I think. I spend more time in the office than at any other place. And once I had grasped this new perspective, I could not keep it inside me. The joy bubbled and rolled from me. My coworkers looked on in astonishment as I walked about, whistling to myself. And even breaking into song, sometimes. Who was this strange new guy? They wondered. It sure doesn’t sound like the Ira we know. Is the man off his rocker? It can’t be him, singing like that. But it was.

And it didn’t take long for the first wild strange thing to get here. I don’t quite remember how it came up. But I got to thinking. And it seemed like a real good idea at the time. Then I got to talking. And I told them, at the office. This spring, after my ablation, I’m getting my motorcycle license. There was a brief, stunned silence. Not that anyone had any problem with what I had said. It’s just that, I mean, me riding a motorcycle is even crazier than me cooking and having a beard and wearing an Aussie hat.

I’ve taken a few very rare rides as a passenger, in my life. I’ve never, never driven a bike. Never. You couldn’t have paid me to. Death machines, that’s what I called them. People get killed on those things all the time. And not because they’re driving recklessly, either. Most times, a motorcycle accident happens because other drivers don’t see the bike. They pull out in front of you, and it’s over. That’s a death machine, I said sternly to a lot of friends who ride. You’ll get killed, riding that thing. That’s what I’ve said, many times. And I have never, never even remotely considered getting my license, or learning to ride. It was way too big a risk for the old me to take.

Now it isn’t. And now I am not only considering it, I’m planning to do it. Just because I want to. If I die riding, I die riding. That’s better than rotting away in some desolate nursing home thirty years from now.

I remember when I told them, there in the office. I’m getting my motorcycle license, I announced brightly one day. The guys seemed to accept the news cheerfully enough. One of them came back at me. “Oh, so are you going to be riding with the Pagans?” And I shot back. Maybe. If they’ll have me. I got no problem riding with the Pagans. Or the Hell’s Angels, either. Heck, I’ll be their chaplain. They’re just people. They need the gospel, just like anyone else. I’ll ride with anyone. I’ll walk with anyone, too. Don’t matter to me at all, who it is, or what they look like.

And that was that. And that’s how it is. Sometime this month, I’m planning to go get my beginner’s permit. And this spring, I’ll spend three Saturdays taking a training course. I could not know less about riding a bike than I do. So I figure to learn from the ground up. And I figure if I don’t like it, well, at least I’ll have my license. If I do like it, I’m getting me a Harley, something long and gleaming and wicked. I already got my canvas backpack and my duster and my boots. I’m growing a ponytail to go with my beard, and I’ve got a big old Bowie pig sticker in a leather sheath to strap to my hip. And, oh, I’m thinking about getting a dog, too, to ride along. (Which is real odd, because I haven’t allowed my heart to become attached to any animal since the Stud died, way back.) Let’s just say, if all that happens, there’s gonna be a whole lot of new border crossings coming up real soon.

A month or so out. The mountain lurked, creeping ever closer every day. The ablation loomed. I’m not sure how to describe how it felt. It was a mixture, I guess. Kind of a strange restlessness, way down deep. But I held on to what I learned, back in November. I will walk forward and I will walk without fear. And I didn’t feel at all that the Lord must keep me alive because there’s some special work for me, down the road. No such thoughts bogged me down. If anything, there was an even stronger sense that I was entirely expendable. I’ve said it before. You are expendable. Everyone is. The Lord doesn’t need you for anything, not for any reason. And about the time you get to thinking you got some special thing going on for Him, that’s when something will come along and whack you right upside the head. And it doesn’t matter, anyway, in the end. The Lord’s work is gonna get done, one way or the other. That’s just how it is.

I stayed pretty loose emotionally. At my last appointment, the doctor had told me. An ablation was not something to fear. It was being done to make me better. That’s about as basic as you can make it, I guess, coming from a doctor to a patient. But I never lost sight of how serious it was, how serious it had to be. When you go under, and when a foreign object gets slid up to cut and sear your heart, that’s a serious thing. Ain’t no other way of looking at it.

A few weeks out. I wasn’t looking for a sign, or anything. And I can’t remember exactly what I was looking for, rummaging around in one of my desk drawers one evening. Stuck way in the back, there was a little paper bag. Rolled up and crumpled up in a corner. Curious, I got it out. There had to be some reason a paper bag was stuck back in the drawer. I unrolled the bag. Opened it.

And there was a little necklace stuck in there. A little oblong piece of flat clay, baked to look like a stone. A little more than an inch across. A thin black lanyard was looped through a hole in the stone, big enough to slip over my head. And in the center of the stone was the stamp of a cross. I turned the thing in my hands and examined it. And it calmed my spirit, I gotta say. I couldn’t remember where I had picked up the necklace, probably at some flea market somewhere. Strange, I thought, that it now emerges, at a time like this, at this very moment. And I bent my head and looped the black lanyard over. The flat stone nestled into my chest. The stamp of the cross. I was about to go on a journey, a vagabond traveler in a strange land. And I would carry the cross with me. That’s what I decided right there on that spot that night. I told no one of what I had found, or of my decision. It was a simple thing between me and God. Kind of like a covenant, maybe.

A week out. The final countdown rolled down in my head. And I looked out, ten days or so, and made plans. The things I would do, the places I would go, when it was all over. You look to the other side, in times like that. At least I do. Because when you get there, that means the mountain is behind you. Mostly, though, I focused on the actual date. Wednesday, February 24th. That’s when it would all come down. And they had told me at work. The day before, we’re sitting you on a chair, here in the back office. And we’re going to stand around you with our hands on you. And we are going to pray to the Lord for your protection. I’m OK with that, I told them. And the last weekend approached, then came and went.

Tuesday, February 23rd. The day before. It all seems a little surreal in my mind, that day. It seemed to flash by, and it seemed to crawl along agonizingly slow. I worked. Told my customers and my builders, the ones I talked to face to face or on the phone. Tomorrow I will be out of the office, and the next day. I’m getting a medical procedure done. I’m thinking maybe I’ll be back Friday, at least part of the day. And the day wore on. Afternoon came. And Rodney came to tell me. Come to my office. We’re ready to pray for you. And I got up and walked with him.

They had set up a chair in the middle of the room. I sat in it. And they gathered around me, my coworkers and my friends. They placed their hands on my shoulders. And they spoke to the Lord on my behalf. Be with Ira as he walks into this journey, this unknown, tomorrow. I bowed my head and sat there. And when they had finished, my eyes were a little wet. I thanked them, all of them. My good friends. Right there for me, right there with me. Tomorrow, though, they could not come to where I was. Tomorrow, I would walk alone.

And that evening, we had our regular Bible Study upstairs, our little core group of die- hards. Six of us were there. Regulars, mostly. And we listened to a Keller sermon. And again, it was all a little surreal for me, sitting there, absorbing this time together with my friends. It all seemed so rare and precious, a moment like that. And afterward, we sat around, talking. Keller had mentioned in his sermon. Trust your friends. Be bold, and be vulnerable. And as we were winding down, someone asked. Does anyone have anything out of the ordinary to share? Or request?

I spoke up. Yes. I do. Tomorrow, I said, I’m going in for my ablation. It’s a pretty big deal to me. I would like all of you to gather around and pray for me. I know we’ve never done anything like that before, not here as a group. But tonight, I’m asking. They didn’t hesitate, my friends. They stood in a semi-circle behind my chair. Placed their hands on me. And each of them prayed a simple prayer, talked to God. And they weren’t asking the Lord to make sure I made it back. They were asking that I would be calm and resolute, whatever comes. And that His will would be done. And as they wound down, then, I thanked them all. I was a little choked up. It was a special moment for all of us, I think. We stood around talking for a few more minutes. My friend Allen and I finalized our plans. He had offered to come and take me in to Lancaster General early the next morning. I was scheduled to check in at six o’clock. And then we all separated and headed for our homes. That was the last evening, winding down.

The vagabond traveler paused and pulled the brim of his hat down low against the cold and shifting winds. He huddled in his long coat and wrapped it tighter around him. He shivered ever so slightly and looked to the west. The road before him led into the shadows, slowly fading into darkness. The smell of death was out there. Shadows from the mountain loomed large above him. It will come in the morning, he thought. The good or evil that will be sufficient unto its day. The journey will continue, the road will lead on. In one dimension or the other. He shivered again, and then settled down to rest. But he knew sleep would be a far and fleeting thing that night.

There was no late meeting with my friends at Vinola’s that night. That’s what usually happens. I go down after Bible Study, and we sit there and talk for half an hour or so. And that usually winds up my Tuesday evening. But not tonight. Tonight it was time to do some thinking and it was time to go to bed and get some sleep. I felt fairly calm. But I wasn’t all that sure if sleep would come.

It didn’t, and it did. I slept fitfully, jolting awake now and again. And again. And soon, the alarm clattered. The last morning. This was it. Allen would be here at 5:15. I got up. Showered. Dressed in T-shirt and sweats. Slipped on the stamped cross necklace. Packed a light duffle bag. Last time I went to the hospital, I stayed for ten days. So this time, I packed a change of clothes, and a few books and other items. And my iPad. Just in case it goes longer before I get home, like it did last time. I glanced at the clock. My phone dinged. A text from Allen. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I looked outside. A light rain drizzled down.

And I stood there in the kitchen, like I always do just before leaving on a journey. Whether it’s a ten-day road trip or a one-day excursion to the hospital. And I remembered the last time I left like this. How I had crossed myself and talked to God, just before walking out. I thought about that. How I had asked God to allow me a safe return later that day to the home I loved. Well, He allowed a safe return, alright. Ten days later, after almost calling me to His home, instead. But still, I remember getting home after all that time and walking into my house. I stood there, right where I had stood when I left, right where I was standing now. And I crossed myself again. And thanked Him.

Outside, lights flickered in my drive. Allen. He was here. I picked up my bag. And then I stopped. And then I crossed myself again. I felt very calm inside, talking to the Lord. The conversation was short. My words were very simple. God, I said. You know the future. I don’t. I’d really like to return to my home tomorrow, like the doctor told me I could. But I’m OK with whenever it is You get me back, or if I don’t come back at all. I’m OK with that.

Outside, Allen waited. It was time to go. I switched off the lights and shouldered my bag and walked out into the darkness and the rain. I greeted Allen as I settled in, and we chatted right along. Mostly about the little things, the ordinary details of our lives. The roads were completely deserted at that hour. In twenty minutes or so, Allen turned onto James Street and pulled up and parked outside the hospital entrance. There wasn’t a whole lot to say at this moment. We shook hands. Thank you, I said. My friend. Thanks so much. “You are very welcome,” he answered. “I hope everything goes well for you.” Then he stopped. “Well, I know it will go well for you, whatever happens,” he said. Yes, I said. I know, too. It will go well, whatever happens. I turned to the entrance as Allen edged out and drove into the predawn darkness.

I walked in and up to the second floor. Same place where I checked in last time for my “outpatient” day. I shivered a little. This place sure holds some tough memories. I walked up to the nice check-in lady, and ten minutes later, I was being directed to a bed in the corner of the outpatient room. They curtained me off, and the older, motherly nurse came with all her stuff. Blood pressure. Oxygen level. Temperature. That’s what she needed. She chatted right along and I chatted back at her. We got along real well. I’m here to get my heart fixed, I told her. She clucked in acknowledgement and sympathy.

I changed to a gown, then, and just lay there. She came around now and again. Talking right along all along. During one conversation, I told her. I’m wearing my stamped-cross necklace. I pulled it out and showed it to her. “Oh, my, Hon,” she said. “You can’t have that on you. You can’t have anything on you.” But it’s important to me, I protested. She was sympathetic but firm. “No necklaces on the operating table. That’s the rule. They don’t want anything that’s going to get all tangled up.” I looked sad. But I heard her. And I didn’t apologize to God, or anything. Just slid the lanyard up and over my head and slipped the necklace into my duffle bag. “When you get back to your room, you can put it on as soon as you like,” the nurse assured me soothingly.

They wanted me in the operating room soon after eight. That’s what I was told. The nurse flitted about, taking care of other curtained-off patients. I heard her chatting right along with them as well. And I glanced at my iPad. Eight o’clock. Things had better be happening soon, here, I thought. About then, a male nurse came in. He introduced himself and told me. He was here to prep me for the procedure. He did his thing for a few minutes. The curtain slipped open and the doctor came walking in. Dr. B. The man. He was all smiles. “Ira,” he beamed, waving his cup of coffee. “It’s a go. We’re going to get you fixed up.” I smiled back at him and shook his proffered hand with my left hand, which was the only one free at the moment. Thanks, I said. I’m good to go.

And the whole thing just came at me, pretty much like they said it would. My prep nurse disappeared, and within minutes a very lovely female nurse walked in and spoke to me. “I’m (I forget her name, but she was real lovely.),” she said. “I’m here to take you to the operating room.” Great, I said. She rolled out my bed, an orderly took the front while she pushed along. And we swept out into the halls and out and around all kinds of corridors. And then they were pushing me through a large set of swinging doors. The room. It was cold, real cold, just like I remembered it from a few years back, when my flutter heart got worked on. They rolled me up and then slid me over onto the table. A whole team was assembled. The lovely nurse kept chatting right along. I told her. I won’t see you guys again, because when I wake up, it’ll be in another room. I want to tell you. Thank you so much for all you are doing for me. She smiled in welcome. And then the anesthesiologist walked in and up to the head of my bed. The time was real close. I’m not quite sure I grasped just how close. But I know now, looking back.

And I had thought about it, how it would be at that moment. I can tell you how it felt. I was a traveler, standing at the edge of a wilderness. I’m talking wilderness as described in the Bible. I remembered how Pastor Mark had told in a sermon what a real wilderness was. It’s not a nice “wild” place where you can drive or walk in, camp out for a night, and then leave. Modern civilization has greatly romanticized the concept of true wilderness. A wilderness is a place of real danger, where you might actually die. Pastor Mark compared it to the Ebola virus, which at that time was ravaging several African countries. And he said. “Wilderness, the Biblical wilderness, is where you travel into one of those countries to care for the stricken. Where you care for the sick, people with Ebola. That’s what a wilderness is.” I never forgot.

And now, here I was, ready to walk off into another kind of wilderness. A dangerous, dangerous place, where there was no guarantee of return. I was ready to take off for a nice long hike into the wilderness. I had a map I trusted. And there was a guy back there on the border, directing me. The doctor. I trusted him, too. Completely. And on this little hike, well, they pretty much got the wilds tamed down, these days. Almost all the people who walk in make it back out. That’s the thing. I was wandering in, fully expecting to return. But the bottom line was this. I was fully planning to return. But once in a while, someone doesn’t make it back.

The operating team chatted right along. The anesthesiologist hovered at my head with her equipment. And she reached over and connected a little hose to the IV needle they had stabbed into my wrist. I looked down at my wrist, curious. I wonder how long this will take, for me to go under. The anesthesiologist was talking right along, too. And she told me, as she opened up the flow. “Pick your dreams.” That’s a funny thing to say, I remember thinking. Pick your dreams. And I told her, all conversationally. Hey, I can feel something flowing into my veins…. And that was it. That’s the last thing I said or thought. I was out like a light. Gone, down under into a strange land of strange dimensions and bright loud skies.

The vagabond traveler stood at a high point, looking down into the valley below. So that was it. The wilderness. It was a desolate place, but he felt no fear. A strange place, yet somehow so familiar. Above him glinted a vast expanse of hard bright yellow skies. Not soft or white, like light from the sun. But hard yellow, like paint. As hard as it gets. He didn’t think it strange, though. There were voices around him, too. They spoke to him, and he spoke back. He felt no euphoria. And he felt no darkness inside, either. He just was. Everything just was. He stood, looking out into the distance. It was time. He shouldered his pack, and glanced at his map again. Way, way out there, the desolate landscape shimmered as one with the hard bright yellow skies. And the traveler turned his face to the wilderness and walked.

I slid back into the white light of this reality and jolted awake. And I instantly realized where I was. In the hospital, in the recovery room. It was over. My “procedure” was done. And I walked out of the remnants of the world with the hard, bright yellow sky. A nurse noticed I was awake and welcomed me. I can’t remember what she said. But I remember my first words, in a question. Did it work? She smiled. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Everything went very well.” I asked what time it was. 12:30. Wow. I had been “under” for three-plus hours.

I relaxed and slowly emerged from the fog of that other world. At first, there were clear memories of how it looked and the conversation I was having back there. It was not a place of fear. It was just a place. Slowly, then, the cobwebs brushed free from my mind. As my thinking cleared and I woke up, the details of the other world receded, receded, and slipped away. I tried to grasp, to hold onto them, but I simply could not do it. And then only a vivid memory of the hard yellow skies remained. And that’s all I have with me today. The hard yellow skies, and the fact that the world with such skies was not a fearful place. Nothing else remains in me from my journey into that wilderness on that particular day.

They rolled me on out to my own room real shorty after I woke up. I felt woozy, but not dizzy or anything. There was a weight on my chest, and I checked it out. A heavy battery pack stuck into the front pocket of my gown. A dozen wires protruded from the battery and snaked out all over my chest. And there were a dozen little sensors glued onto me, on my chest and upper arms. To keep track of how my heart was beating. Wow, I thought. No wonder the motherly nurse made me remove my stamped-cross necklace. That thing sure would have gotten in the way of all this. I won’t even be able to wear my cross until I get checked out of here, when they tear these things off.

And another real motherly nurse took care of me in that room. She fussed around. Told me I was on bed rest until 3:30. And in the meantime, did I want any food? She had a cold turkey sandwich she could bring me. I fussed right back at her. I’m not very fond of the food in here, but sure, I’ll take a sandwich, and thanks. She kept checking my vital signs, too. Blood pressure, and such. I was at optimal levels every time. After my bed rest was over, I grumbled about my gown. I’m not hooked up to anything, on my IV ports on my wrists. Can’t I wear my own clothes? “No,” she scolded. But then she went off and fetched me a set of scrubs. Blue, a shirt and pants. I gratefully changed into those much freer clothes. And then I grumbled at my nurse some more. I’m up and walking around. I’m not hooked up to any drugs. I feel fine. Why can’t I just go home? She chuckled, and scolded right back. “We have to keep an eye on you overnight. You have puncture holes in both groins. We have to make sure you don’t bleed out.” I settled in then, not content, but at least understanding.

There’s not a whole lot to say about any stay at any hospital, I don’t reckon. I settled into the evening, and in for a long night. Early that evening, they wheeled in the guy who would be my roommate. I got along real well with him. It’s just that when there are two patients in one room, the nurse traffic doubles. And this guy was in worse shape than I ever hope to be. He was born with half a heart and half a kidney. All his life, he had dealt with those issues. And he was in now, to get his pacemaker replaced. His old one got infected. Like I said, we got along real well. I sure thought about it, that I will never have all that much to complain about, not when I think of him. The night crawled by, pretty much a sleepless thing.

I wanted to get out ASAP the next morning. And Noah, my nurse, told me. The doctors will make their rounds around midmorning. And I was chomping at the bit when the Nurse Practitioner finally walked in around ten. She was quite friendly and cheerful. Yes, I was being released. Yes, everything had gone just about as well as one could possibly hope for. I asked her, then. How about my heart strength? Did Dr. B check that out, when he was down in there? “No,” she said. “We’ll check out your heart strength in a month when you come for your follow-up. I was a little deflated. OK, I said. She left, then.

I called Rodney at work. He was coming in to pick me up and take me home. I’m released, I told him. I’ll be processed out by noon. And right then, the Nurse Practitioner came racing back into the room. She interrupted. “Excuse me.” Excuse me, I said to Rodney, and turned to the Nurse. And she told me. “I just checked your report, and Dr. B did check out your heart strength yesterday. I said nothing, just looked at her. She went on. “Your heart is back to the equivalent of 100% strength.”

I gaped at her, then whooped. A hundred percent. She smiled. “Yes.” Wow, I said. The heart failure people told me I will always, always have a very weak heart. I guess this’ll show them. Wow. There is no better news than that. I held my hand out and up. High five, I said. And that Nurse Practitioner lifted her own hand and slapped mine really hard. I was so excited I could barely contain myself. I’m back to 100% strength, I mean, my heart is, I burbled to Rodney, who was patiently holding on the phone. He congratulated me, and told all the others in the office. “Ira’s heart is back to 100% strength.”

Noah came around soon, then, brandishing a clipboard with papers for me to sign. And then a nurse’s aide popped in. She was here to extract the IV needles from both my wrists. I held out my hands and looked away as she yanked them out and taped a big band aid on each wrist. How about these sticky thingies on my chest? I asked. “I’m not taking them off,” she informed me. “Pull them off yourself. First, though, let me get the wires loose.” She fumbled around and extracted all the wires and took the battery from my chest pocket. “OK, you’re good to go,” she said. “You can change into your street clothes.”

I wasted no time disappearing into the bathroom with my duffle bag. Off came the abominable blue scrubs. Then I searched my bag and found it. The clay stamped-cross necklace. I lowered my head and slipped it on. The stone felt firm and cool and comforting, snugged against my chest. Then I dressed in my T-shirt and sweats and my camo jacket. I laced up my sneakers. I was ready to go.

Shortly after noon, Rodney came strolling in. And a few minutes later, we were walking out to the parking garage where he had left his car. Half an hour later, he pulled into my drive. Everything looked the same, as it should have. I had been gone for just over thirty hours, a little more than a day. I stepped out, grabbed my bag, thanked Rodney, and turned to my house.

And then I walked into my home. Stood there, in the kitchen. I set down my bag and lifted my eyes to the heavens. I felt it washing through me, a huge wave of thankfulness and relief. And I crossed myself one more time as I spoke to the Lord.

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The “Ministry”

Silence receive us, and the field of peace, hush of the

measureless land,…replenish us, restore us, and unite us

with your vast images of quietness and joy…come swiftly

now; engulf us,…speak to our hearts of stillness, for we

have, save this, no speech.

—Thomas Wolfe

_____________________

It was a slow Saturday morning at work last month. Not a lot going on. Saturdays are like that sometimes. There’s only one guy in the office, and one guy in the yard. And you’re either sitting there twiddling your thumbs, or you’re slammed with crowds of customers. It’s one way or the other, mostly. Ain’t no in-between.

About mid morning, the door bell jingled. A customer. I got up from my desk and stood at attention behind the counter. Two guys and a woman walked in. A youngish man, in his thirties, maybe. And an older couple, who looked to be the parents. I greeted them. They smiled and greeted me back, all three of them. Friendly people, seemed like. And I asked them. What can I do for you today?

They were looking for a pole building, of course. It seemed a little odd, though, as we got to talking. The older guy told me. He and his wife lived up in one of the small provinces in northeastern Canada. He told me where. Wow, I said. I was born in Canada, but I never got that far east and north. Anyway, the younger guy was their son, just like I’d figured. And Dad and Mom were wanting to move down to this area, to be with their son and his family. They wanted to convert the attached garage on the son’s home into living quarters. And the parents would live there. That meant the son needed a new garage, to move his stuff to. And I thought about it, real fleetingly, right there. I wonder how that’ll work out, having your parents live in your garage. I mean, I loved my Dad and Mom. But I couldn’t ever envision such a thing as that. But it was none of my business. So I leaned over on the counter and engaged. I asked questions. What size garage did they need? Their basic budget? And the three of them just stood there and we talked.

I thought about it a few times. The son was very clean-cut. Maybe a little too clean. Reminded me of the people I hung with down at Bob Jones University years ago. It was a formal setting, all the daily classes were. Everyone always acted all happy and chirpy. And all around, all kinds of happy rote prayers floated up to heaven every day. I can’t remember that I heard much honesty from anyone. This guy reminded me of all that, somehow. He was just a little too cleaned up. All strictly my opinion, of course.

We stood there, talking, taking little bunny trails off to the side now and then, for the next fifteen minutes or so. And then the door bell jingled again. I looked over. A young woman. Modestly dressed in a skirt and jacket. She wore some kind of knitted hat on her head. Dark, long hair. No question, she was strikingly beautiful. She walked right on over and stood with the others. The young guy’s wife. And after greeting me, she joined the conversation. And again, I wondered fleetingly, as I talked to her, talked to them all. How in the world is it gonna work, to have these older people living in what now is your garage? I hope it all does work out. But I can see a lot of potholes, lots of danger points ahead. Not because I know any of you. But I know little bit about human nature.

I’m rambling here, a little bit, too. Still, it all fits, I think. We chatted along for another ten minutes. I gave them some good grasp of what they were looking at, cost-wise. The young couple stood there, right in front of my counter computer. And I noticed the younger woman when she saw it. The poster I have taped to the front. The poster of my book. She looked a little startled, then looked at it more closely. Absorbed it. Then looked at me. Then at the poster. Then at me again.

“Did you write this book?” She asked, a touch of wonder in her voice. Yep, I said. A few years back. It’s done pretty well. And the husband looked, now, too. Read the poster. “Growing Up Amish,” he mused. And he asked, suddenly. “Are you born again? We’re Christians. We go to (Blank) Baptist Church right here in Chester County.”

I nodded and smiled. I’m a believer, yes. I said. And they both beamed at me, all welcoming and kind. Still, there was that bit of reservation in their eyes. I could see what they were thinking. This guy claims to believe. We’ll take his word for it. But we’ll keep our guard up, too, until he proves himself. That’s the feeling I got, that they were feeling. The parents, during this little exchange, stood blissfully off to the side, murmuring dreamily to each other of living in their son’s garage. There were no questions at all about my faith from Dad and Mom. They seemed very content to take me at my word. No judgment exuded from them.

I guess I shouldn’t say I felt judgment from the younger couple, either. But they were just so clean cut, so perfectly coiffed, and, oh, so Christian. The kind you pick out from across the room because they’re standing there, looking all holy and judgmental, while everyone else is having a drink and playing cards and having a grand old time. It’s not enough, to politely decline the invitation to the party. They have to show up and make sure everyone sees how strongly they disapprove of such sinful behavior. That’s what they reminded me of. People like that.

And then the wife smiled a dazzling and knowing smile. A secret smile, like we were in the same club, and knew the sign. She gushed at me. “Oh,” she half squealed. “You come from the Amish, and you’re born again.” And then it came. The million dollar question. The one they would judge me on. “Do you have a ministry to the Amish people, now that you left? Now that you’re born again?” And again, that dazzling, 1000-watt smile. You and I know what unwashed people like the Amish need. That’s what she was telling me. But are you doing that? Are you telling them what it is to live right, like you should be?

I smiled at them both. The older couple still stood off to the side. Still blissfully uninvolved in the conversation, still dreaming about their future. I wondered again, fleetingly, how in the world it would be, to go and live in the garage of your son and his wife. And I looked at them both, that son and his wife, and smiled again. And promptly failed the test they’d put me up to. Not only did I fail, I flunked it spectacularly.

No, ma’am, I told the striking young woman with the dazzling smile. No, I do not have a “ministry” to the Amish people. Actually, I don’t have a ministry to anyone. My Amish friends accept me as I am, and I accept them as they are. If I ever “minister” to them, it’s through my actions. And I don’t know it. I kept smiling at them; they smiled back with frozen smiles. I talked on. I got a hard enough time looking after myself. To me, it’s a miracle that I can take the free gift of grace. I got nothing against people who have ministries of whatever kind. But I just walk. I figure that’s pretty much what I’m called to do. Just keep walking.

They both took it tolerably well, I have to say. The dazzling smile dimmed maybe just a fraction, you had to look hard to notice. The man smiled, too. I had let them down, but they were all generous and uplifting. I made some comment that I keep a few copies of the book around here, in case anyone would ever care to buy one. Neither of them showed the slightest inclination or interest. We wound down, then. I reached across the counter and shook hands with all of them. They thanked me very much for my time. Not a problem, I said. That’s what I’m here for. And they all rambled out. And I wondered again how that was going to go, the parents living in the garage of their son. In my heart, I wished all of them well. The parents, especially. I’m sure there will have to be grace and forbearance from all sides, when and if they ever get moved into that garage.

And I have thought about those people a lot since that Saturday. What exactly does it mean, to have a “ministry” to anyone? Why is it so important to some people, to be seen as ministering? What drives the desire? Selfless ideals? Ego? Is it the natural superiority that comes from knowing you have something that others don’t, that others need? I’m not judging the woman, or her question to me. And I got no problem if she or you or anyone else wants to run around out there “ministering” to whoever it is that needs it.

But somehow, I’ve always recoiled instinctively from the term. Maybe it’s the Amish blood in me. Ministry. It just sounds so, well, so perfect. I know a little bit about human nature. And I know when you’re consciously stooping down to “help” another, you are not at that person’s level. You can’t be, reaching down. You can’t speak eye to eye to someone you’re looking down on and preaching at. And to me, looking people in the eye is as important as any message I might have to tell. More so, even. Who’s gonna listen to someone talking down to them? No one. Well, people might pretend to listen, but they won’t hear.

When you look someone in the eye, you’re saying way more than the words you speak. You’re saying, I’m talking to you right where you are, because that’s where I am, too. I know where you’re coming from, I know where you’ve been. I can tell you there is a better way, I can tell you there is a better place. Standing right here with you, I can tell you that. And, no, I’m not “ministering.” I’m no preacher. I’m no “warrior,” either. Those are all stuck-up terms for stuck-up people, looking down on sinners from above. I’m just a guy, walking along, right here where you are.

One other thing, too, bugs me about consciously having a “ministry.” It seems to me people all wrapped up in “ministry” get to thinking that they’re in pretty good shape, they got the inside track to God. And then they get to thinking that the Lord needs them pretty bad, here, to get all His stuff done. And no one else can do it quite like they can. They get to thinking that they’d be pretty hard to replace, that they’re not expendable. And they get bogged down with all the hidden pride that comes from thinking like that. Not saying it’s always that way. But it often is.

I want to be careful here. And I want to be clear. I’m not talking about the preacher man who is called to proclaim the gospel to people like me and others. I’m not talking about the singer and his song. There are lots of legitimate ministries out there, and I got good friends sacrificing a lot to get out there and spread the word. I cheer such people on, and I respect them. I’m talking here about the regular person, walking along through life, all puffed up with importance. Kind of like that young man in the office that Saturday, and his lovely wife with the dazzling smile. Kind of like that.

And I felt the same way sometimes, when people talked to me after I got out of the hospital late last year. When I told them how low I had slipped, how close I had come to cashing out. How I had looked death in the face, and returned. More than one person listened to my tale, then told me. “Well, the Lord sure has something for you to get done, here in this life. There’s a reason He spared you, there’s a reason you’re still here.” And it was fine, and it was all well meaning, such talk. But my response was always pretty much the same.

Nah, I said. That’s not necessarily true. I could walk out of here and get run over by a truck. Or I could get into a serious accident on the way home today, and get killed. The chances of any such thing happening to me are exactly the same as they were before I ever went to the hospital. The statistical chances, I mean. I’m not saying the Lord won’t protect me. He might. And maybe He does have some more work for me to get done. The thing is, that work will get done, whether I get to it or not.

That’s what I said. And that’s what I believe today. And no, I’m not being fatalistic. Far from it. Because I can say right here that things have been different since I got home from the hospital. A lot different. You don’t look death in the face and stay the same as you were before. I don’t think it’s possible. It’ll affect you deeply, one way or another. After I got back home, and got settled in a while, I looked back over my life. And I looked at the stretch of road before me. And gradually I realized. There’s so much to do that I haven’t done, so much life that I haven’t lived. And at this moment, I feel more alive than I have felt in many, many years. It’s a strange and startling place to be.

I have lived intensely in the past, intensely enough for several lifetimes, probably. And I look back over it all sometimes, and reflect. On how it was, and how it went. So many miles, so many years. So many hard roads, so much left behind. I know what the darkness of the valley is. And I know the view from the mountain’s peak. I have seen and felt so many things.

I know what it is to feel old and tired. I know what it is to trudge along, exhausted and famished and beyond weary of the road. To look at the future and feel flat and joyless. I know these things, I have seen and lived and felt them all. And the last time I knew what it was to be filled with real joy, well, that time was so long ago. The past can never be changed from what it was. The future can be changed from what it might have been, though. And I have wondered if such a time of real joy will ever come again.

And now I know. It will, because it has.

I can say this, from right here. I look forward to what the future holds. I mean, I welcome whatever comes with anticipation and joy. Whatever it is, across the board. Good or bad. It’s a strange new place filled with strange new things. And I’m grappling along like a blind man through unfamiliar terrain. Feeling my way through what it is to walk with joy through whatever comes. Figuring out what it means to truly be alive.

And I try to grasp what I’ve heard Tim Keller preach many times at our Tuesday night Bible Studies. Whatever the Lord allows in your life is the best thing that could happen to you. In the long run, for His kingdom. Whatever happens to you is the best thing. It’s almost impossible to wrap your head around such a truth as that. It’s flat-out counter-intuitive. And yet, here I am. And here I stand, believing. Lord, help my unbelief.

And right now, the near future holds a grave and dangerous thing. I mentioned it a few times since I’ve been out of the hospital. The A-Fib doctors want to do an ablation. That’s going up a vein in my leg, and snipping the wild muscles in my heart, so it will beat right. It’s a totally routine procedure. So common that it’s almost an outpatient thing. I’m scheduled for the last full week of this month. Go in one day, do the operation, then get out the next.

Everyone talks all calm, the doctors and their staff. And they have reason to, I’m sure. Still, the thing I realize is, it’s serious any time any foreign object touches your heart. It’s serious, any time you get “put to sleep.” Some people never wake up. Sure, it’s routine, and sure, the doctor has done hundreds and hundreds of similar procedures. Statistically, it should go fine, and I should be fine. But still. There are no guarantees. There can’t be. And as the day gets close, it’s slowly seeping through me, it’s sinking in for the first time in a long time. I intensely, intensely want to live.

I want what the future holds. Whatever may come, I want to live it and see it. Feel it. Taste and absorb it. I want to walk through all the joy that life has, I want to trudge through the dark and dangerous places, too. And I want to proclaim to every person I meet, be that in the wilderness or on the streets. The Lord is who He claims to be. I faced death right up close, and walked away. And let me tell you the strange and impossible thing that happened. I surrendered life, gave up all I am or ever was or ever will be. And now I truly live.

And yeah, I know what fear is. There are a few things that have loomed fearful in the distance for years. I fear growing old alone. I fear a debilitating illness, fear growing old and sick and gray and feeble, fear becoming a burden to my extended family. Fears such as that lurk ever dark and silent like so many ghosts in the night. So, yeah, I know what fear is.

But I do not fear what it is to die. And I have never, ever felt so free.

And so here’s how things are, going into the operation the week after next. (I won’t be posting that Friday, by the way.) I feel intensely alive, and I intensely want to live. But the bottom line is, it really doesn’t make a whole lot of difference in the end. It really doesn’t. Because if this life is taken, something far better waits on the other side. This I know. This I believe by faith. Quietly and calmly, I believe it.

And so I leave it all at that. If the stats work out, I’ll plan to post again in early March. When that time comes, and as I’m walking forward into each new day, well, I’m planning on doing a whole lot of things I’ve never done before. And there will be a whole lot of living coming down such as I’ve never lived before.

Only the Lord knows the future. What is to be will be. I’ll just keep walking.

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Jonas and the Ninja…

All things proceeding from the earth to seasons, all

things that lapse and change and come again upon

the earth–these things will always be the same, for

they come up from the earth that never changes, they

go back into the earth that lasts forever.

—Thomas Wolfe

___________________

I kept telling the people at work, all through the fall and early winter. My coworkers, and my builders and random customers. It’s been too nice. It can’t last. There will come a storm. And tons and tons of snow. That’s gonna happen. But you know what? And I paused dramatically, to let it sink in to whoever I was talking to, often some poor listener who was trapped, or at least felt obligated to pretend to be paying attention. You know what? I’m good with that, good with whatever comes. When you look at the last couple of years, winter came real early. And regardless of what happens this winter, it’s gonna be shorter than the last few. And I’m good with that, I’m good with whatever comes.

It had been a real wuss so far, the winter. I mean, not that I got anything against that. I love wussy winters, where it stays mostly mild. And where you don’t get two or three feet of snow, all at once. I love to drive to work not fighting messy roads. I love to schedule my trucks at work, and know that the drivers will have safe, dry roads to travel on.

All through November and then December, it was balmy weather all the way through. Scary warm, almost. I think on Christmas Day, it was in the sixties around here. I sure wasn’t fretting about it, but I thought. It has to at least get cold enough to kill the bugs in the ground. Otherwise, there’ll be trouble next spring. And next summer. That happened a few years back, when it never really froze deep. That next summer, the stink bugs came crawling out in full force. They were everywhere, inside and out. And stank up the place, everywhere, too. They even got into Big Blue, somehow, and pested me while I was driving. Didn’t matter if you kept the windows closed, and all sealed off. They got in, somehow. That happened more than a few times. I blame it on mild winter weather.

And the New Year came sliding right in. Still nothing cold to speak of. Through the first half of January, it was about as balmy as it could be. Our crews were busy at work, building. We can schedule work right through the winter, I said. And that’s pretty much what we were doing. And so it went, until early last week. That’s when the chatter started from the weather people. There’s a big old snow storm coming. No one knew for sure the path it would take. And I heard it every morning on the way to work, and every day on the talk radio station I listen to on my computer. Now it was coming in from the Pacific. Now it was crossing the Rockies. And as each day passed, they got a little firmer, a little bolder with their predictions, the weather people. And by mid-week, they pretty much proclaimed it. A major storm, coming in from the west. Anywhere from a foot to eighteen inches of snow. That’s what was forecast for the local area. To the south, down in DC and Baltimore, down there they would see a record snowfall. These were real rumblings, of a real storm coming. And we got set mentally to hunker in.

They even gave the storm a name. Jonas. I was astounded. Where in the world did they come up with a name like that? From the Jonas Brothers? From Jonas-Jonas Huckabuck? For a first name, Jonas is about as Amish as it comes. I would bet there are more Amish Jonases than any other brand. It sounded kind of cool, actually. Jonas the Storm. And now Jonas was roaring in from the west and south. By all accounts, he was not a happy camper. And he was all primed to dump a load of snow right here in New Holland.

And I thought about it. If this thing was anywhere close to as bad as they were saying, I’d be holed up in my house for a few days. For sure all day Saturday. And I thought about it some more. For years, when a snow storm had me holed up in the house, I always turned to my favorite beverage. Scotch or vodka. You mix yourself a drink, right in the middle of the day, and you just sit there and sip that baby and look out the window and watch it snow. That’s how I’ve always, always done it. I won’t say I was all uneasy or anything like that, as my first vodka-free snowstorm named Jonas swept up from the south and west. But I will say I sure thought about it. I will say that. Oh, well, I thought, too. I got my food, my eggs and taters to fry up. I had plenty of both. And I had something else, too, a new thing. And no, this wasn’t a cooking pot from my father’s stash from years ago. This was a new kind of tool for a new kind of food. I had my brand-new Ninja blender.

Bunny trail, coming right up, here. This is how it all came down. It was about as far from my mind as anything can be, a few weeks back, when Rodney told me at work one day. He’s got a blender at home, and every morning he mixes up a healthy mixture of veggies and fruits and other goopy things. He just throws that stuff all in, he told me. And then it blends, there in his blender. He drinks a shake for breakfast, goes home and mixes one up for lunch, and then eats a regular meal for dinner. And he’s slowly losing some weight. I was intrigued. Wow. That’s a world I’ve never seen before Tell me more. And he offered. “I’ll mix one up for you tomorrow, and bring it in. You can have it for lunch.” He did. And I did. And I was impressed, I gotta say. And I was about to step through the door of the blending world, a place I had never known even existed, except maybe in the vaguest sense. I mean, you figure some whacked-out vegan is gonna be out there, blending up nuts and stuff. But not real people in the real world. I was about to find out different. Big time different.

It’s a very strange world, when you get to talking about blenders, I soon found out. Rodney had a Vitamix. The top of the top of the top. I guess it will do about everything except actually eat what it chops and slices and dices up. You can even make soup in eight minutes in a Vitamix. And that night, I threw a little post out on Facebook. I was impressed, I wrote, with the shake Rodney had brought me. I can see a quality blender real soon in my near future. Well. You’d think a herd of cats were set loose, with their tails tied together. The comments came spitting out, fast and furious, from almost the first minute. Get a Vitamix. Definitely the best. No, no, get a Nutri Bullet, came from over here. And from over here, no, no, get a Ninja. And back and forth it went, the conversation, and back and forth. My head was spinning. I never had any idea there were so many different brands of blenders, and so many passionate fans of each brand. This was a whole new world I was wandering into.

The Vitamix definitely seemed to be at the top of the totem pole, when it came to quality. But it definitely is at the top tier in pricing, too. A refurbished model goes for $300.00. Double that for a brand new model. That’s a lot of smackeroos, for a blender. My cash flow is fairly modest, and there’s been sizable hospital bills coming in. All the other brands were more reasonably priced, more in line with my budget. I figured I’d look around for a few weeks, then make my decision. In the meantime, I bought a $16 cheapo blender at Walmart, to use while I was making up my mind. And I gotta say. If that’s all that would be available on the market, I would never have taken up blending. The cheapo blender was a piece of junk. After a few weeks, I decided to step on up to something of a bit more quality.

I really liked the looks of the Ninja, and eventually that’s the one I settled for. The people I knew who owned one had nothing but very good things to say. And I watched an infomercial, too, that just happened to be on one day. According to my TV, the Ninja chops, dices, slashes, dips, mashes and blends. It does everything but cook. One notch below the Vitamix. And also vastly more affordable at an even $100.00 at Walmart. So one Saturday, a few weeks back, I picked one up. I brought it home and carefully unpacked it and set it up. The circular, spiraling blades looked so cool, and very capable of doing any job I needed done. And every morning since then, I’ve been blending up my very own secret formula of smoothie for breakfast and for lunch. It’s a production, but it’s a lot of fun, too. And I actually love the taste.

OK. Back from the bunny trail. I was all stocked up for any snowstorm, I figured, as Jonas came roaring in. Plenty of greens, and plenty of frozen fruits in the fridge. I’d be in good shape, as long as the power didn’t go out. And I chatted with the tenant, as the weekend got close. We might be getting a good chunk of snow, I told him. I just stopped tonight at the hardware and bought me a new shovel. My old one broke last year. And he looked at me, all wise. “Well,” he said. “We got a pickup with a plow blade at work. I’ll bring that home on Friday night. I can clear the drives here when it stops, then I’ll have to go to work and clear the place.” Works for me, I said. And right along, that Thursday, the weather people got bolder. Jonas will arrive tomorrow night, they proclaimed. On Friday night, at around seven o’clock, the flurries will start. And it will pick up, then, and snow all night and all the next day.

Friday. D-Day. We felt it in the air. Definitely something serious was coming. The weather people kept saying. Down south a ways, they will get hammered. Two feet, maybe thirty inches. Here, around this area, eight to twelve. By Friday, that was upped to maybe eighteen inches. Wow. That would be a mess. After work, I headed for home. I wanted to stop at Amelia’s Grocery for a few things. But first, I needed gas at Sheetz. I approached the station from the south, on my way home. It was just before six. Dark. Sheetz was all lit up. And there was something unusual going on, I saw when I got close.

The place was a madhouse at the gas pumps. Trucks and cars lined up, waiting. Not long lines, just a few vehicles deep. But still, I had never seen anything like it, not here. They have fifteen pumps or so. The place is big and roomy. I pulled in to the crowded lot. Come on, you people, I grumbled to myself. Do all of you have to wait until just before it snows to fill up with gas? And about then, I thought about it. That’s what I was doing. That’s what I had done. And I simmered down right there and quietly took my place in line and waited, just like everyone else.

And it all came down, as it had been foretold. Right at seven, I strolled out to get my mail. Snow was spitting sideways from dark skies. I saw the highway was starting to get covered, too. The road looked slick. Cars crept along carefully. A bad time to be out, tonight, I thought. And I walked back inside my warm and well-lit house.

And later that night, before hitting my bed, I looked out again. I was scheduled to work the next day until noon. And I wanted to get a good idea if the roads would be open. At 9:30 that night, I knew there would be no going to work the next day. Snow was falling steadily, and it didn’t look like it was going to stop anytime soon.

Saturday. I slept in. Around 8:30, I got up. Took my shower, then cranked up the Ninja. Sat at my computer as I sipped my breakfast. Outside, the snow was piling up, and I mean, piling up. Still. I looked longingly out the window. A quick run to Sheetz for coffee couldn’t hurt. And I bundled up in my hat and heavy coat and walked out to the garage, where Big Blue was safely parked inside. The tenant usually keeps his car in the garage. I evict him only when there’s a snowstorm coming, so I can park my truck inside. He doesn’t grumble. And it works out well for both of us. I waded through the knee deep snow and opened the big garage door. The day before, I had loaded some concrete blocks on my truck bed, for weight. Now, I got in, and backed out into the storm.

It was pretty bad getting out of my garage and driving the few hundred feet to the main road. Great drifts stretched and swathed everywhere. A few times, I had to back up and take a run for it, to get through a drift. And eventually I got out to Rt. 23. Headed left, and on down to Sheetz. That place is always, always open. Don’t matter what the weather’s like, or if all the roads are closed. Sheetz is open. I pulled in, parked, and got out. Walked in. A few straggling snow plowers wandered about, stocking up on food for their shifts. The coffee was on. I filled a large cup, paid, and walked back out. Getting onto my side road and into my garage was quite an adventure. An hour later, I don’t think I could have made it. But now I did. I waded back to the house. And stepped out again to take a picture of my stone angel, huddled and cold under the shrub tree, the snow swirling all around.

And that was the only excursion anyone took from my place that day. The snow kept sweeping down, and kept getting deeper and deeper. Inside, all nice and warm by my Eden Pure heater, I putzed around. Played on the computer. Surfed Facebook. And got some reading done. Since my hospital stay, I have been reading much, much more than I have in many years. I’m working my way through about ten P.G. Wodehouse books that have been gathering dust for a long time. The man was simply a genius, and simply the greatest humorist to ever lay pen to paper. I devour one book, and go right on to the next. Jeeves, Bertie, Blandings Castle, the Mulliners. I saw somewhere that Mr. Wodehouse wrote a hundred books. And right now, I’m working my way through that list at a pretty good clip.

I fired up my cooking burner that day around noon, and fried my up a mess of potatoes and eggs and toast and butter. What better feast is there than that, right in the middle of a snowstorm? And I glanced at the liquor cabinet now and then. A vodka sure would go down good about now. And that’s as far as it ever got. Just me thinking about how good it used to taste. It never was a close thing, as far as giving in.

And I thought about it, mulled it over a good deal that day, as Jonas swirled and swept around outside. The strange place I’m in, when it comes to alcohol. It’s all pretty uncomplicated. A lot of people make things a lot more complicated than they’d have to. They make the mountain way too steep, the monster way too fearful. Recently, there was a real popular link floating around on Facebook. I saw it posted at least half a dozen times. Some pastor wrote it. Fifty Reasons Why I Don’t Drink. And I read through the list, and it was all fine, I guess. But I thought to myself. Why twist yourself into fifty different pretzels to come up with fifty different reasons not to drink? Does that make you more holy, the more reasons you have? I don’t drink for only one reason. My doctor told me not to. That’s about as simple as it gets. And there’s nothing “holy” about any of it. Nothing moral or immoral. It’s just a choice, as most things in life are.

By late Saturday, before I got to bed, the snow had pretty much stopped. Jonas had played himself out, and a record storm he turned out to be. Outside, right at thirty inches lay spread on the ground. I chatted with the tenant on the phone, and we plotted our move for the next morning. He had parked his pickup and plow outside, where I usually park Big Blue. He’d get right busy as soon as we got up.

And the next morning around nine, he was out there, warming up his truck. I bundled up and stepped outside with my shovel. He walked over and we stood and talked. And after a bit, he cleared his throat. “Look,” he said. “I want you to be careful, shoveling out here. I don’t want to come around and see you lying there in bad shape, or worse. Take it slow. Stop and rest often. Shovel for ten minutes, rest for five. Shovel for ten, rest for five.” Yes, sir. I said. There wasn’t really anything else to say.

He got to plowing, then, and I had my short back walks cleared in ten minutes. And soon enough, both drives were open as the tenant plowed right along. He took off, then, for his work place, to get the lots cleared there. I stepped out to the garage and unlimbered Big Blue. Time now for another coffee run to Sheetz. And that morning, the roads were passable, almost fully cleared.

After lunch, the tenant had not returned. I retired for a brief nap. And just as I was dozing off, there came a tapping on the door, out on the street side. Ah, come on, I thought. I’m trying to rest, here. But I got up, and stepped to the door and looked out, then opened it. A young teenager stood there, shovel in hand. “Do you need your walks cleared?” he asked. And I was impressed. Tell you what. I need a path cleared to my mailbox out there, and I need the snow cleared away so the mailman can get in, I said. How much? He shrugged. “Fifteen bucks,” he said. Deal, I said. And I was impressed again. The kid got right down to business, and half an hour later, he was knocking on my door for his money. I walked out and checked his work, then handed him a twenty. Keep the change. He thanked me and walked on to the next place. An enterprising kid, right there, I thought. He’ll get somewhere some day, with that kind of drive.

The next day, things got back to half normal. I headed off to work. A slow Monday, for sure, after a storm like that. The boys spent much of the day on skid loaders, clearing the parking lot and yard. And all this week, the temperatures have warmed into the thirties every day. The snow banks are settling, sinking. And soon, all will return to how it was before.

And thus Jonas came and went.

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Border Crossings…

I’m a cowboy,

On a steel horse I ride.

I’m wanted, dead or alive.

Wanted, dead or alive.

—Bon Jovi, lyrics

___________________

I didn’t quite know what was going on when I got back home from my little excursion to the hospital, back over a month ago. But I knew there were some changes coming. New stuff, new ventures into scary new places. And I’m a person of routines, stuck in my ways. I liked it the way it was, is my motto. So I wasn’t all that eager to walk forward, to see what all that new stuff might be. But I gotta say, this far out. It’s been rolling right along, life has. And I’ve pretty much been rolling right along with it. And I was right, about those changes coming. Some real strange things have been going on. Real strange things, indeed.

Where to start? Where to start? Right here, I guess. I’m cooking for myself. I mean, actually frying stuff up in a frying pan on the stove. Anyone with even the slightest knowledge of my history will grasp how astonishing is this fact. I got lectured pretty hard, by the grave doctor and his nutritionists. Low sodium only. You’ll really, really have to watch what you eat. And you can’t go out to eat, much. Most restaurant food is gonna set off those fluids in you again. Which means you’re best off fixing your own food at home. Cooking. For yourself. It did no good, and I was too shell-shocked anyway, to make much of any protest. But I don’t cook. I never have. You might as well tell me to learn to speak Latin, or some such senseless thing.

It all was what it was, I figured. And I figured, too, that most of my cooking would be done in my crock pot. That’s the most basic way to cook any food. And I had watched Ellen, way back, when she whipped up a crock pot meal. It was all pretty simple to do on my own, later on. And that’s about the only way I’ve ever cooked, ever since I’ve lived alone, these past nine years. And that’s the first thing I did after I got home, this time. I cooked up a batch of beans and spices and a hunk of organic buffalo meat in the crock pot. It all came out OK, and I ate the mess. But I got to thinking, along about that time. There has to be something more to life than a crock pot, when it comes to fixing food. There has to be a better way. There just has to be.

And there was a better way, all right. I would have to learn to cook, at least the basics. I had the pots and pans, I knew, to fry up what could be fried. My kitchen is quite well-stocked, in fact. Many years ago, my father discovered some special cookware imported all the way from Denmark. It was made of titanium, brand named Pyrolux. I’m not sure why Dad got all excited about this particular brand. But he did, and he became a dealer in short order. There must have been some perceived health benefit or other going on. And as he always did in all his business ventures, my father went all out. He wrote about this new magical cookware in The Budget and possibly in Family Life. And he stocked up on dozens and dozens of pots and pans of every imaginable size and shape. I mean, there were large pans and large pots, all with glass lids. And there were medium and small pans and medium and small pots, all with glass lids as well. And I know the man sold and shipped out hundreds of these pots and pans to customers all across this land and Canada.

All that, to say this. There was a space there of about a decade, maybe from the mid-1990s on, when I picked up a new piece of titanium cookware every time I went home to visit. Dad offered his wares to me quite magnanimously, I must say. And I never shrank from accepting such a gift. Oh, yes, I’d love one, I told him when he offered. And I’d venture into his vast storeroom of inventory and help myself to whatever item caught my fancy on that particular day. And over time, I ended up with just about all there was to get, when it comes to cookware from the Pyrolux Company in Denmark. I had small pots and large pots, I had small pans and large pans and flat square pans and round pans. Even after Ellen and I were married and stopped by home to visit, I always asked Dad. Got any cookware around I can have? By this time, the pot and pan business had long been extinct. But he still had a good bit of inventory kicking around. And much to Ellen’s embarrassment, Dad always told me to help myself, which I did, happily and without any guilt whatsoever. “Stop asking him for free stuff,” Ellen hissed at me every time. Oh, he wants to get rid of it, I said amiably, as I grabbed another two-hundred dollar pot from a large pile that sat there gathering dust.

And so there was not a problem finding the tools to cook with. My kitchen is a gold mine of all one might need. I can hold my head high, there. (I’m thinking titanium has fallen out of favor and might now be considered poisonous. Maybe that’s why Dad had so many of the pots and pans available.) The problem was, what can I cook? I mean, I could not have been less skilled than I was.

I asked around a bit. Did some checking, on low sodium foods. And I found a couple of things I figured would be pretty simple. Eggs. And potatoes. And yes, I know. Potatoes are loaded with carbs. But that didn’t concern me much. I wanted something that passed my new low sodium test. And raw potatoes and raw eggs have no sodium, naturally. Or it’s so miniscule it might as well be nonexistent. I could eat anything I fried up, as long as I kept the salt off. Or at least kept it to a minimum. And so I ventured out to the grocery store one day. And there I found what I was looking for. Some red potatoes. And a dozen large free-range eggs. I bravely trudged home with my victuals. Now, to see if I could fry up this stuff.

And I gotta say, it all turned out. Sure, there was a learning curve, especially in frying the eggs. I busted the yolk every time, the first dozen tries or so. Eventually I figured it out. Just don’t flip them. Crack’em open into the pan, cover with the lid, and let the eggs cook. Over easy is how I like them anyway. The taters were easy. I sliced and diced and chopped them up, cut up part of an onion, greased up the pan with olive oil, and cooked the whole mess up. And lately I’ve took to adding some bits of hamburger or thin steak slices, chopped up. That all makes some tasty goulash. And it all makes for a delicious mess when you top it with a couple of farm-fresh, organic, over-easy eggs. I’ve been dining real fine. One of these days, I’ll be confident enough to cook for company, even. And for me, that’s saying something.

And no, not every night do I fry up eggs and potatoes. Maybe every other night. I beg whatever I can from friends wherever I can, and I have a good supply of frozen, low-sodium foods in my freezer. Soups and such. And I dine out at least twice a week. I’m pushing that line on salt, seeing how far I can take it. Still careful, of course. But not paranoid. And so far, it’s all been going good. Including my cooking. Which is a very strange thing. But it’s not the strangest thing.

And moving right on down the list, then, to the next odd thing. And that is the extraordinary fact that I have grown a beard. Yep, whiskers. And a mustache, even. Such a thing is probably just about the last thing I would ever have imagined you would hear me tell, a few months back. But now it’s now. Things aren’t the same as they were yesterday. I’ve been very leery of beards for decades. Never dreamed of having one, with one exception. The wheat harvest, back in 1986. I grew a beard out there in the wild lands of Montana and Alberta, because somehow that seemed fitting. Mostly, though, I was a lost soul back then. And that beard lasted only a few months. Once I got back to civilization in Daviess, off it came. And that’s been my only experience, ever, with a beard, at least that I can remember. Until now.

I’ve never liked beards, because in the world where I grew up, beards were mandatory for men. At least after you got married. In Aylmer, you had to grow whatever beard you could when you joined church. I mean, their youth have beards. Or did, years ago. I can’t speak for today. I’d guess that’s still the rule up there. And that’s fine, if it is. I’m just saying, I’ve never liked beards, and never seriously considered growing one in the normal course of things. You get burned out, when something is mandatory like that. You shy away from the hard and fast rules. And it gets to be a pretty powerful motivator, not to fall in line, when you got that kind of baggage on your back.

I’ve seen it many times, over the years, and I always recoiled from it. Some guy will break away from the Amish, married or single. And next thing you know, he’s showing up, not with a beard, but with a huge old bushy walrus mustache. Because the Amish can’t have mustaches. And for some guys, it’s just too much to shake off, when freedom suddenly comes. I mean, I understand it. But I’ve always recoiled from it. You see an old friend, or just some guy you know came from the Amish. Beardless, he strolls about. But between his nose and mouth, there grows a great bushy mass of hair so huge that you know it has to interfere with his food when he’s eating. I’ve never been able to grasp why anyone would want to do such a thing. But it’s OK. I’m over my revulsion now. I’ve come to realize it’s none of my business, the personal choices others make. And I’ve remained pretty much free of beard and mustache over the course of my entire lifetime. And happily so. Until now.

There’s one thing that happens when you stay in the hospital for ten days. You don’t shave. Mostly, because you’re laid up, and you can’t. At least, that’s how it was for me. My first Monday there, I had Steve stop by my house and pick up a few things. Including my battery shaver. He dutifully lugged it in. And there it sat, in a bag, until the day I left. You don’t shave, because you don’t feel like it. And half the time I was there, I couldn’t get out of bed whenever I felt like it, anyway. And so, by day ten, I looked at myself in the mirror with some interest. I sure had a scruffy face. I wasn’t sure how I was gonna get all that hair off with my shaver, or a razor. And it hit me, about the last day I was there. It’s grown, now, for ten days. Trim it up, and it won’t look half bad. And by the time my nephew, Andrew, arrived to escort me out of that place, I had it figured out. I would go and buy a trimmer. Because I would need one in the future, to trim my new beard.

And so far in, I actually kind of like it. It took some getting used to, I gotta say. I shudder to confess, though. I have a mustache. Gahhh. One never knows, when one is judging others. Some day, you’ll walk that same path yourself. Anyway, at my age, I got a lot of gray hair. So my beard is partially gray, too. I keep it trimmed way down, and neat. It’s a salt and pepper look. It all gives me a little more gravitas than I naturally have, I would claim. And it definitely makes me look at least slightly distinguished. Especially during conversations when I reach up and slowly stroke or scratch my beard with a wise and knowing look. With a beard like that, I think, you can fool a lot of people a lot of the time.

All that said, I’m not making any prognostications about walking about majestically bearded for the rest of my life. As fast as the notion struck me, it could well leave. To me, it’s nothing religious or moral or amoral, growing a beard. It’s just that I knew I’d be facing a new world, when I got home from the hospital. And for that new world, I’m sporting a new look. And that’s all there is to that.

OK, then. So I’m cooking for myself in my own kitchen, with my very own cutting-edge cookware. Bearded. Had you told me such a thing would be, six months ago, I would have expelled you from my presence. I would have told you to come back when your head’s feeling right again. And I would have done all this with a totally clean conscience. But things get stranger still.

I’m not even quite sure how it happened, just last week. I was strolling about in a department store one day, not really looking for anything in particular. Maybe some shirts off the clearance rack. I always buy my winter shirts around this time of year, when the spring clothes are getting stocked, and the old inventory gets way reduced.

I walked about, lollygagging. Looking at this and that. And then I walked right into a small section with several nice racks and shelves. On those racks and shelves were hats. Dozens and dozens of hats of every type. Spiffy little fedoras. Bowlers. English caps. I checked out a few with some interest. I hadn’t known hats were “in” again. They must be, for a store to stock a selection like this. And then I saw them, off to one end. Not really cowboy hats. Maybe you’d call them Aussie hats. Something like Crocodile Dundee wore, way back. Or Harrison Ford. A medium wide brim, turned down in front and back. And I couldn’t help myself. I took one that looked to be about my size and tried it on. It fit perfectly. But nah, I thought. I don’t do hats. I don’t wear hats. I just don’t.

And once again, my aversion to hats is something that can be traced straight back to my ex-Amish roots. From where I come from, in the Midwest, you don’t wear a hat if you came from the Amish. At least, that’s how it was, years ago. And since that time, wearing a hat of any kind has been just about the last thing I could ever imagine doing.

We always, always had to wear a hat outside, growing up. That’s the underlying issue. And when it gets drilled in you like that, you get burned out. And you shy away from it if you ever break free. I can remember many times, playing outside at home, gloriously grimy and hatless. And Dad would come strolling around, on his way to somewhere, maybe town. And if it was your turn to go with him, it was a big deal. And always, always, he said. “Go get your hat, so we can go.” And we did. Did we ever. A trip to town was way too big to miss, just because you didn’t have your hat on.

One of the most accurate scenes in the movie “Witness” involved a hat. The Amish mother and son sat there in the train station in Philly, waiting. The little boy asked to go to the restroom (where he would witness the murder that set things off). His pretty young mother smiled and told him he could go. The boy turned and was two steps gone, when she spoke his name, and he halted in his tracks. “Samuel,” she said. “Dye Hoot” (Samuel. Your hat). The boy turned back with an “ah, shucks” grin, and put on his hat. That’s exactly how it would have happened in real life. I’ve always marveled at the scriptwriters, that they got such a small detail so right on.

So it was from such a foundation of experiences that I stood there at that hat rack that day. Fingering that Aussie hat. Trying it on, and trying it on again. It fit perfectly. It’s hard to find a real hat that fits perfectly, I thought to myself. And it was a Stetson, a real honorable brand. And best of all, it was 50% off. Well, that’s what the signs claimed, anyway.

In my old world, it would have ended right there. With me toying with that hat, then setting it back on the shelf, and walking out of there. But the old world I knew for decades is gone, now. In this new world, I cook for myself. And I thought, what the heck? The new me don’t drink, and I’ve got a new beard. So why not a manly hat, for a whole new look? Those are the thoughts that flashed through me as I stood there, turning that hat in my hands by its brim.

Well, you can guess the rest. I took that hat right up to the nearest cashier. Shelled out my $23.00, which was half the listed price. And I walked out of that store with that hat. In my truck, I shaped the brim just right.

I wore my new hat out and about the rest of that day. And I gotta say. People look at you a little different, when you come around. Eye you up a little different, give you a little wider berth. And everyone is, oh, so respectful and polite. I’m not saying that’s the way it should be. But that’s the way it is.

That evening, I strolled into Vinola’s, proudly wearing my new hat. I’d like to say I clanked in, but I haven’t worn spurs since my ranching days in Valentine, Nebraska. A few regulars lounged at the far end of the bar. I greeted them and took a seat. Pour me something exotic in a tall glass, I told the barmaid. Whatever you mix up with be fine. Just leave out the alcohol. That’s how it’s been, in my new world. I still stop at my favorite bar, to eat and chat. Not as often as I used to, just now and then. And I am very much welcomed. My friends at Vinola’s had heard about my stint in the hospital, and they all rushed around and hugged and welcomed me, my first time back. I can’t drink, I told them. At least, not for now. And they were totally fine with that. I harvested a lot of welcome hugs from a host of very lovely ladies. “Welcome back,” they told me. “And, oh, I like your beard.” I smiled and felt right at home, like I always do there.

And that night, my friends commented about my hat. Yeah, I said. I just wanted something different. Plus, it’s winter. You gotta have protection on your head. And I sat there, watching football with my buddies and swapping lies. And I ordered some food. A cheeseburger. They make everything from scratch, there at Vinola’s. And I tell them. I can’t drink. I can’t eat salt. They serve up the food, as salt-free as they can make it. And all of it is just beyond delicious.

After eating, I soon made noises to leave. My exotic, juicy drink was gone. My hamburger wolfed down. Time to head on home, I told my friends. And one of them asked me. “I want to buy you one for the road. Will you drink a cup of hot tea?”

Well. What do you say to that, sitting at any bar? You take what’s offered from a sincere heart, I figured. Sure, I said. I don’t know much about hot tea, but I’d love some. I called over the barmaid, and we had a little conference about what it is to make hot tea. Then, by magic, a cup of hot water appeared. And a selection of tea bags. I picked one and plopped it in. And waited while the hot water turned all murky. And then I sat there, hunched over the bar at Vinola’s in my “bad” new hat, sipping a hot cup of Earl Grey.

I shuddered to think of what Max Brand or Louis L’Amour would have written about such a scene. A couple of young toughs would walk up and insult me. That’s the formula. There would be words. Ha, ha, look at that wuss. He’s not man enough to drink real whiskey. He’s drinking hot tea. Shouldn’t you be sticking out your pinky finger when you lift that cup? Ha, ha, ha. I would stare them down, and they’d go for their guns. And I’d have to draw, lightning-quick, and shoot them both. All to prove I’m a man, and that a man can drink hot tea anywhere he’s darn well got a mind to.

I finished my drink, and slapped my friends on the back. So long, guys. And thanks for the tea. And walked out of the place. It sure is a strange thing, I thought later. My old routines got all busted. And here I am, cooking my own food at home. I got a new beard. I’m wearing a tough new hat to the bar, and drinking hot tea. And it’s been less than two months since I got back home from the hospital. I sure wonder what other borders are out there to cross. Or if I’ll have the nerve to cross them when I reach them.

I think I’ll have the nerve. Heck, the way it’s going, one of these days I’ll be rumbling down distant roads on my custom Harley.

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