Had they not set their jaws, made sudden indecisive
movements, felt terror, joy, a numb impending ecstasy,
and waited, waited then – for what?

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

All right. Things have been a little out of joint, lately. A little skewed. And that’s an understatement. The last eight weeks seem like a blur to me. And I’m a guy that has seen plenty of blurred times, for one reason or another, back through the years. But none has ever come down quite like this.

Since my book went haywire on Amazon in March, I haven’t written a whole lot of anything, anywhere. Except on this blog. From that first day, and the following week, I was intensely focused on the numbers, all through March. And the numbers freaked me out. You don’t get that high in the rankings. You just don’t. But there I was. And it just froze my voice, to think of how many people were buying the eBook version of Growing Up Amish.

So I did what I always do, when my world gets whacked out of joint. Retreat to the blog, and throw out a new post now and then. Telling of how it is, and where I am. I made a few references, looking back, of how maybe I’ll soon be able to get back to some serious writing. Meaning, of course, getting back to work on the sequel. But I never did that, except for some disorganized pecking now and then. I never immersed myself, never went back to relive things. Which is the only way it’s ever going to come out. By going back there in my head, and telling it like I see it when it’s all happening again. It’s not a formula. It’s not based on a “theme.” It’s a thing that roils from somewhere deep inside.

And then March ended, and Amazon removed the book from its promotional discount list. Brought in their next one hundred, for the next month. And Growing Up Amish gradually drifted on down and out of the top hundred. The top three hundred. But it hung in there, in that general area, for a week or two. And I wondered. Oh yes, I wondered a lot. How many copies had moved in March? I emailed Chip. Hey, can you find out for me? He said he would make some inquiries. It might be a while, before the numbers come in.

And then two weeks ago, on a Thursday afternoon, a message from Carol Traver. Hey, Ira. We got the March numbers. Rough numbers. But close. Here they are. In March of 2012, Growing Up Amish sold right around 44,000 copies. 44,000. And Carol went on. That brings your total sales figures to approximately 120,000 books sold. 55,000 hard copies. And 65,000 eBooks. Congratulations, Ira. You’re in rare air. That’s what she said. Rare air.

There aren’t a whole lot of books out there that sell 44,000 copies in a month, ever. At any price. Or free, even. Those are some pretty elite numbers. Not for the #1 Bestseller crowd. But for an unknown writer like me, yeah, it’s rare air. And the book’s still percolating out there, right along. You want it when you write it, that kind of recognition. That kind of success. You dream of it. But you don’t think of what it will do to you, if you get there. It’s impossible to imagine or anticipate such a place.

What it did to me was freak me out completely. Fried my brain, pretty much. I stand mute. 120,000 copies sold. And with book sharing, a lot more than that number have read it. Slice off the ten to twenty percent who hated it, the 1 Star and 2 Star reviewers, and that still leaves you with a whole lot of readers who liked it. And Carol told me later that the sixth paperback printing had just arrived at Tyndale’s warehouse. Double the usual printing, 10,000 copies this time. Wild stuff.

Right now, under the weight of 120,000 expectations, I can no more concentrate on writing a sequel than I could concentrate on the most boring Amish preacher’s endless, droning sermon. Which, as anyone who’s ever sat fidgeting in frustration under such a sermon can (but probably won’t) tell you, is just impossible.

It’s all kind of strange, really. I’ve never been in a place like this before. Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s the coveted writer’s dream. First book does well enough so you have fans clamoring for a second. I know. I’ve read that, too. And seen it now, and felt it. But until you actually live it, there’s no way to grasp what it really looks like. For some, I suppose, it’s a vision of a bright new dawn. Another chance to show the world what you got.

For others, though, it’s something else. A feeling deep inside that it’s gonna be tough, to do it all again. Real tough. And it won’t be a matter of time. It will be a thing that either will come, or it won’t. More likely than not, it will. One just doesn’t know exactly when. But most times, from what I’ve seen as a raw newcomer, it never comes quite like it did the first time. And that’s why there are so many one-hit wonders out there. In music, in writing, and probably in just about every area of artistic expression. Because it’s tough to hit another home run, or maybe even just to hit a single, in the arena where the first one came down. At this level, at least, that much is true.

The money is very nice, and I have nothing against making a lot of it. I hope to make a respectable little chunk from the book. Actually, I hope my agent makes a fortune from Growing Up Amish, because if he does, so will I. But money has little to do with why I write. Because when it comes to writing, it doesn’t matter if I get paid or not. I’d do it anyway. And in the long run, it doesn’t matter that much if the sequel doesn’t come. Oh, sure, I want it, there’s no way to tell you how much I want it, to write and have published what is in my heart. I know the story line. I know what needs to be told. There is so much to be said. And yet, if it doesn’t come, it won’t be the end of the world for me.

Because I’ll always have this forum. My blog. Something previous generations did not have, and could not have remotely imagined. A place to tell it like it is, as it’s all coming down. A place to speak to the world, completely independently. And at this moment, this blog is the only place, the only forum in the world where I can write my voice. The only one. And so I figure if I can’t tell it to be published, I’ll tell it right here for free. Just like I would have told the story of Growing Up Amish, had Carol not somehow magically appeared to claim it for Tyndale. Not in its current form, I’m not saying that. But the essence of the book would have been told, right here, spread over time. As a good bit of it was, at least the early childhood stuff.

So one way or the other, the sequel will come down. In book form, if I can eventually calm myself to get it said that way. And I know I will. But if not, if somehow I can’t, I’ll just tell it right here. In time. Fragmented, sure. It wouldn’t be as easy a read, like the professionally edited first book was. But it will be written, in all its raw reality. At some point. Somewhere. It will be.

For now, I will write where I can speak. And that’s here on the blog. Every couple of weeks or so, I’ll post about what’s going on around me, and maybe throw out a sketch now and then. We’ll see what happens. When the real stuff starts rolling in, I’m telling no one. And I mean no one. Not until a good bit of it gets written. And then we’ll go from there.

And that’s how it is. That’s where I am right now.

In the meantime, the wild and beautiful road rolls on. Last Friday, I set out in a little rented Jeep Liberty for the 12 hour trek to Vincennes, Indiana. Yes, I drove. Some of my new readers out there may not know. I never fly except in extraordinary circumstances. Like a funeral or some similar short-notice thing where I have little choice. Not because I fear flying, but to avoid the TSA goons in airports. The TSA exists primarily to intimidate and harass innocent travelers, that much is not even debatable. We all know, deep down, that the TSA serves no legitimate purpose and that it does nothing to “protect” us. And I simply refuse to allow their goons to inflict themselves into my life. I’ll drive two days instead. Two days one way, I mean. And if I can’t find the time to do that, I just don’t go.

But this trip was only one day, one way. Totally doable. The Jeep bucketed along the interstate, and right at 5:30 that evening, I pulled into Vincennes. Checked in and got the keys to VU’s Guest House, a very nicely furnished mansion on campus. No one else was staying there, so I had the place to myself. After cleaning up a bit, splashing some water over my face, I headed out to meet some old friends for dinner.

My VU professors were my friends, way back when I was a student there. All of them. And this evening, I was meeting Dr. Bernard Verkamp, my first and only philosophy teacher. Recently retired, he instantly invited me to dinner when I called him a month ago. We’ll meet, he said, with some old friends. And indeed we did.

With Dr. Verkamp, Lynn Linkon McCormick, and Kathy Yoder Miller

Lynn Linkon McCormick arrived at the nice Italian restaurant a few minutes after I did. She still looked exactly as she did back in 1989, when I first met her. Young, exuding boundless energy. She is the carreer/guidance Counselor at Vincennes, and her face was the face of VU, back when I tentatively walked through those doors for the first time. Yes, she told me then. Yes. Come on in and enroll. You tested right out the top with your GED. We want you to come. And with her encouragement and assistance, I enrolled.

After an excellent meal and great conversation, I retired to the Guest House. A little ribbon of tension pulsed deep inside me. I was excited about the next day. But also a little freaked. After the honorary doctorate was awarded, I was expected to make a short speech. Three to five minutes, they said. That’s the time you’ll have. Which was great. That much I could do. I certainly didn’t want to drone on and on for twenty minutes. I should be good. But still, it bothered me. And that night, I sat up, scratching words on a sheet of yellow writing paper. Practiced. Timed myself. I’d be fine, if only I stayed relaxed. But I had never addressed a crowd of this size before. Around eleven, I went to bed and drifted off into fitful slumber.

I’ve written before, about my first graduation from Vincennes, back in 1991. How not a single person from friends or family showed up to witness it. This time, though, I wanted at least a few. So I invited my brother Jesse and his wife Lynda. They’d be honored, they claimed. They’d drive up from South Carolina. And I invited some of the Waglers, my surrogate family in Daviess. Dean and his sister Rhoda said they would be there.

Saturday morning. The day. I got up, and puttered about. Messed with my little speech, on the yellow pad paper. Spoke it over and over. Timed myself. Just under five minutes. Should be good. I do very little public speaking, and usually improvise a bit when the time comes. I’d do that today as well.

I will say this. Vincennes University rolled out the VIP treatment for me and my guests. All the way. At 11:30, we assembled for a banquet in my honor. President Dick Helton, members of the VU Board of Trustees, and other dignitaries. And of course, my guests. They showed up, right on time. Jesse and Lynda, and Dean and Rhoda. After the meal, a quick van tour of the campus, most ably guided by Assistant Provost Lynn White. The campus has exploded since my days there twenty years ago. New buildings, new programs. Including RED, a brand new performing arts center.

And then the time was here. Time to robe and get ready for the ceremony. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around academia. Fifteen years since I graduated from Dickinson Law. I’d forgotten how it is. All the pomp, all the seriousness of it. We mingled with the faculty in a side room. I was issued my robe and cap. It wasn’t a mortarboard cap, like I’d figured. Nah, this was a little 6-pointed thing, a doctor’s cap, I guess. And they came up and congratulated me, the faculty. The Trustees. You look at them from a distance, and it’s intimidating. But up close, they were just people. People who seemed quite genuinely thrilled to have me there.

And it all came down then, some of it in slow motion and some of it at lightning speed. Lining up to march into the arena. Waiting for the 400-some graduating students to walk in and be seated. And then marching out in procession up the center aisle to the stage up front. The basketball arena was packed out. Absolutely overflowing with at least 5,000 people. And my brain kind of went into cruise mode. You’re here. You’re being honored. Enjoy this moment.

After a brief opening ceremony, President Helton addressed the students with a ten minute speech. And then it was time to present the honorary doctorate. Mr. J. R. Gaylor, a Trustee, a great bear of a man with a deep, deep voice got up and stepped to the microphone. Whatever I have accomplished in my life, it was all laid out in the most glowing descriptions imaginable. He concluded. For these accomplishments in literature, law and business, we are presenting VU’s 2012 Honorary Doctorate of Letters to Ira Wagler. Everyone clapped as I stood. President Helton approached with the hood. I stooped a bit and he slipped it over my head and adjusted it. It flowed down my back. Then I was handed a huge framed diploma. Doctor of Letters. Then “the microphone is yours,” President Helton whispered. I nodded and stepped up, clutching my little slip of yellow lined paper. My speech.

Photos by David A. Fisher, Vincennes University.

Dean, Rhoda, Ira, Jesse, Lynda

The hooding.

Framed diploma. Doctor of Letters.

The speech.

In a moment like that, you either freak out, or you don’t. Fortunately, I did not, at least I don’t think so. I looked out over the heads of the graduates and began to speak. Sure, I stammered a time or two, getting started. Who wouldn’t? But as I settled in, my voice was at least not shaking.

It was no great thing for the ages, or anything like that. It was just me talking, for about four minutes. I spoke briefly of my experience at VU and how formative and foundational it was. How frightened I was as I approached my first classroom. Thanked my professors, who had all reached out and befriended me. Spoke then, of the book, and the miracle it is. Of the wild and beautiful road I’m on, and how this moment was a stop along that road. I encouraged the graduates to follow their hearts. And then closed with a short quote from Thomas Wolfe.

So, then, to every man his chance – to every man, regardless of his birth, his shining, golden opportunity…

Thank you, Vincennes University. Thank you very much.

And then it was over. As applause rolled through the stadium, I stepped back and sagged into my seat. And realized how tense and exhausted I was, as wave after wave of relief swept through me. The ceremony moved along then, as diplomas were handed to more than four hundred graduating students who marched across the same stage I had walked twenty-one years ago, back in 1991. Who knows where they will end up? Who knows what distant goals they will achieve?

No one knows. That’s the beauty of it. The human spirit unleashed has almost unlimited potential.

And that was Vincennes University, for me, on April 28, 2012. Whatever happens in the future on this wild and beautiful road, there will never be another moment quite like this one.

The years are walking in his brain, his father’s voice
is sounding in his ears…His living dust is stored with
memory…He has never been here, yet he is at home.

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

I live in Lancaster County. Smack dab in the heart of one of the largest Amish communities in the world. Not to mention the oldest. And coming from where I’ve been, I sometimes feel like the odd man out there, drifting in a sea of cultural blue bloods.

Since my readership has increased pretty drastically in the last few months, it might be good to tell of how that happened. Some of you out there are probably wondering. Lancaster County. What’s up with that? Did the guy ever really leave the Amish, as he claims? Why can’t he seem to shake them for good?

Well, yes, I left. For good, back there at the end of the book. I never returned to Bloomfield or to Goshen, except to visit. But never to try again. That was my final departure. And at that time, there was little about the culture that attracted me. I wanted to shake it all off, the last vestiges of those chains. I was free at last. After all those years of turmoil. Free. And it felt great.

And yeah, there was some resentment bubbling inside me. A little bit of anger. I didn’t wear it on my sleeve, but it was there inside my heart. And I spoke it now and then. These people were stuck in their backward ways. They were welcome to stay there. The memories were still so raw inside, and so fresh. I was done. Gone. For good. I would never look back, except in gratitude that I had finally escaped. That’s how I felt.

I settled in Daviess, hung with the Mennonites and Beachy Amish, and they welcomed me. Then in the summer of 1989, I came to Lancaster County. Not out of curiosity, but for strictly economic reasons. That fall, I was set to enter college at Vincennes. I had a connection in Lancaster. And he told me. Come on in. Wages are way higher. You can make some real money here. More than you ever will in Daviess. Come on in. And the decision was easy. I had been a rolling stone for most of my adult life. So it seemed like a good idea, to roll on some more. Lancaster. I’d heard so much about the place. Remembered how odd they had seemed, the people from there, way back when they visited us in Aylmer.

And so, in May of that year, I loaded my ugly tan-gold T Bird and headed east. Arrived in Lancaster safely. It’s a beautiful area. Old, for this country. Lots of history. Tiny narrow ribbons of paved roads wind and twist through the countryside. Countless tidy little farms dotted about. Ancient stone houses and great red barns, owned by the same family for generations. Real roots, here. None of the vagabonding like my father had done, decades ago. These people were planted here. Born here. Lived here. Died here.

And the strange Amish buggies with rounded tops and straight sides practically clogged the roads, hitched to wild, high-stepping horses. You couldn’t have paid me to ride those buggies on those roads. Still couldn’t. I almost felt like a tourist, seeing this brand of Amish for the first time.

And that summer I worked long hard hours and saved my money. But I didn’t meet a whole lot of Amish people. I had no desire to, really. Sure, I said hi when passing in the regular stream of commerce. Mostly, I hung out with the Beachy Amish youth at Pequea church. They were friendly and accepting, welcomed me. Invited me to their social activities. It was a good summer, and a short one. In August, I left for Daviess and Vincennes, still convinced that the Lancaster Old Order Amish were one strange bunch.

The next summer I returned to Lancaster. And again, I made no attempt to meet any Amish people, or get to know them. Still wanted nothing to do with them. The summer passed, and I returned to Daviess and my second and final year at Vincennes.

The third summer, that’s when things started shaking. And changing. I boarded with Ben and Emma Stoltzfus and their family. On their farm just east of Honey Brook, over the line in Chester County. Upstairs, in the third floor attic of the farm house. A cozy little place that would be my Pennsylvania home base for about the next five years. Ben and Emma became as close to my surrogate parents as any couple ever has. I treasure the memories of their kindness. And their love.

And one summer evening, after I’d returned from a long day of working in the sun, Emma had a message for me. Some Amish guy had called that day. David (not his real name). Asked lots of questions. Was I staying there? Was I David Wagler’s son? Emma told him yes, and promised she would tell me. And she did. I was supposed to call him back. Here’s the number to his phone shack.

I looked at the slip of paper and shrugged. This was about the last thing I needed, some Amish guy tracking me down. I had just broken away a few short years back. I knew plenty of Amish people, even a few I still considered my friends. Why would I want to get to know any more? I pitched the number. Didn’t return David’s call. He’d go away if I ignored him, I figured. Another nosy Amish man with all kinds of invasive questions. No way, I wasn’t playing that game. He probably wanted to admonish me for leaving. Tell me to go back, to “straighten up and settle down” where I should be, back in Bloomfield. I didn’t want to hear it. Not this time. That song had been played too many times. No more, I would listen to it no more.

And a week or so later, another message. Emma smiled almost apologetically and told me as I walked in, exhausted, from a hard day’s work. David had called again. Insisted that he wanted to see me. Again, I shrugged. Who was this wacko Amish man? So persistent. Well, I could be persistent, too. And again, I pitched the phone shack number. Ignored the man.

And then, David unlimbered the big guns. He didn’t call Emma again. Oh, no. He waited, craftily, until evening the next time he called about a week later. I don’t remember who answered the phone. But it was for me. It’s David. The Amish guy.

I gave up right then. Any man that persistent at least deserved an answer directly from me. So I walked into the front room, off to the side, kind of a parlor. Took the phone. Hello. And a calm pleasant voice spoke. Precisely stating the words. Good evening. This is David. Is this Ira? Yes, it is. A few brief polite pleasantries. Then, hey, would you stop by some Saturday soon? We would love to meet you, my wife and I.

And there I stood, stuck. No. I don’t want to meet you. No. I don’t need to be admonished by any new Amish “friends.” But I couldn’t just say that. Too rude. So I hedged. Yeah, that might work. What did you have in mind? Of course, the following Saturday afternoon suited David just fine. And, of course, I had nothing else planned. So, reluctantly, I agreed. Where do you live? It’s simple, David claimed. We live just off the highway….and he gave me specific directions. OK, I promised. I’ll be there this Saturday afternoon. He looked forward to meeting me, he said. I mumbled in response. We hung up.

That Saturday afternoon, I headed out, shortly after one. In my old T Bird. Someday, I will write of how just ugly that car was. Not the shape, necessarily. But the color. Tan-gold. It was just gag-me awful. I haven’t owned that many vehicles in my lifetime, but I have owned two of the ugliest colors in the spectrum. The old avocado green Dodge. And that awful tan-gold T Bird. Other than the color, though, the T Bird was a decent car. It got me to where I was going, for a good many years. As a destitute student. So I guess I should honor it a little more.

I drove down the crowded two lane highway toward Lancaster. Turned right onto David’s road. A mile or two in. And then I turned into his drive. Nice place. Clean as a whistle, like most Amish places in Lancaster County. Not even a wayward leaf on the ground anywhere. Neat freaks, like all Lancaster Amish people. I parked. Got out and walked toward the house. Strangely, I wasn’t particularly nervous. This meeting was coming down, and it would be what it would be.

David met me at the door. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. Then he welcomed me into his home. I walked in. Met his smiling wife, and their clan of quiet children. All of them milled about. I scanned the room, amazed. Stacks of books were strewn about everywhere. Not fluff books, either. Literature. Theology. Bestsellers. I was instantly impressed. And as I looked into their faces, I suddenly knew that they were genuinely happy that I was there, in their home. It wasn’t just their smiles. It was their eyes. There was no hint of judgment in them. None. Nothing but pure honest joyful welcome. I didn’t know such a thing even existed in the Amish world.

And that was my first taste of how it can be, and how it could have been so much earlier in my world. To be accepted as I was, who I was, by someone from my background, my culture. Truly accepted. And truly welcomed. There was not a shade of a cloud of any reservation. None. I don’t think I could quite grasp, quite wrap my head around what that meant to me in that moment.

I won’t claim that I was suddenly, magically relieved of my resentment toward the Amish in general, right then. I wasn’t. I won’t claim that I decided right then that Lancaster County would be my future home. I didn’t. I was a rolling stone. Heading off to Bob Jones University in South Carolina that fall. I had no idea where I’d end up. I didn’t think ahead that much. I was focused only on working summers to earn enough to survive another year of college without loading up on too much crushing debt. I’d settle where I’d settle, when the time came.

I will say that when I met David and his family, that was my first real taste of people from my culture who accepted me, even though I had chosen to walk away. And that was a profound and startling thing to me. A minor miracle. To realize that such people could exist. I thought I knew the Amish as a group, and all their mindsets. I didn’t. Because I had never been exposed to certain elements of the Lancaster County Amish before.

The blue bloods came through. That’s all I can say. They fully deserve the status they claim for themselves. They are the real thing. What the Amish could be and should be.

That said, they’re not all like David and his family, the Lancaster Amish. Not nearly all. Even here, most are more like the type of Amish I knew growing up. Especially down south. South-enders, we call them. They’re mostly grim and humorless. Hard core. I can usually tell, when I meet them. Who they are and what they are. By how they look. I can sense their spirit. And tell who they are, from certain shadows in their eyes.

That was right at twenty years ago, when David finagled me into coming to his home. After that first time, the place became a regular Saturday afternoon stop for me. I soon developed a deep, quiet friendship with his family. Off and on, I’ve been there, a character in their lives as the children grew into adults. Married now, some of them. With children of their own. There were a few stretches through the years where I lost contact with them for a while, but I always circled back. Back to a zone of comfort that welcomed me, offered shelter from the storms. Back to real true friends.

And in time, my mind relaxed as well. My journey looped back, back to my roots. And I settled in, where there was comfort and support. I will never be accepted as a true Lancastrian. No one not born here is. But I’m settled, in my head. This is my home. Today, some of my closest friends are Old Order Amish. Right here, around me, in Lancaster County.

It might make sense, or it might make no sense, to those who have broken away from restrictive religious backgrounds. That I hang so close to the culture that caused so much pain. It might be mostly an Amish thing, I don’t know. Years ago, my brother Joseph was traveling by bus somewhere through Texas. At the bus station in some big city, a guy walked up to him. Completely English. Spoke to him in broken Pennsylvania Dutch. He had left the culture decades before. Lost pretty much all contact with his roots. And sometimes he randomly drove over to the bus station just to see if some Amish people might be passing through. And that day, Joseph was. They visited for a while, and the guy left. Still then, years later, he could not deny his longing for some connection to his culture. Something in his heart moved him to do what he did. There is no way to really disconnect, however much one might want to.

I chose to circle back, to live among them, the Amish. I could have chosen not to, and that would have been perfectly OK as well. I certainly don’t live like them, their lifestyle. Couldn’t do that if I tried. And I have no desire to. When I go “home” to visit, I stay in a motel. Because after spending the day in what used to be my world, I’m always quite ready to return to modern conveniences.

I guess for me, the dividing line is this. If, back there in the culture you have fled, there are people who still accept you as you are, stop. Reconsider your thoughts. Not your path, your journey is your choice. Just open your heart to those whose hearts are open to yours, and you will likely see with new eyes where you’ve been, and where you’ve come from.

My people, and my culture, will always be a part of my identity. Always be a part of who I am, how I react, how I see things. And nothing will ever change that fact. I can deny it. Or accept it. Either way, it’s still true.

It’s important, I strongly believe, to face and make peace with the past. And all it ever was, good or bad. Whatever the flaws of those in that world, to accept them. Whatever the hurts, to forgive those who inflicted them. Whatever the wounds, to seek healing. Which can be no small thing, sometimes, I know well enough. It wasn’t a small thing for me, and my journey was a walk in the park compared to that of those who have endured and survived every imaginable form of abuse. But it can be done, and it must be done. For a whole lot of good reasons. But mostly, for the sake of your own heart.

Because a heart that refuses to be healed will never be truly free.

It is to have the old unquiet mind, the famished heart,
the restless soul; it is to lose hope, heart, and all joy
utterly, and then to have them wake again…

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

It was an ordinary Tuesday a few weeks back. Mid morning. Busy at the office, the phones were ringing right along. And then Rosita beeped me. A guy on hold asked for me, wanted to talk. Some Dr. Helton from Vincennes University. OK, I said. She transferred the call.

This is Ira. And the pleasant man on the line identified himself with just a smidgen of a Midwestern drawl. Dr. Richard Helton, president of Vincennes University in Indiana. Vincennes University. My alma mater. The place I graduated from in 1991. A place of many good memories for me. Still, I’d pretty much lost touch over the years. Dr. Helton, after a few brief pleasantries, launched into the reason for his call.

Somehow, they had found my book. Someone on the faculty there. And someone with some influence had lobbied hard for me. So I was placed into the running, “taken into consideration,” I guess they call it. And somehow, I had won, all the while blissfully unaware that anything was even going on. And now, after the votes had been tallied, after the Board had reached a decision, Dr. Helton had called to tell me the good news.

On Saturday afternoon, April 28th, 2012, Vincennes University will award me an honorary doctorate.

It didn’t really hit me right at that moment, what that all meant exactly. Although I was pretty floored. Of course, I said, I’ll be there. I’m flattered and honored. I’ll be there. I asked whether any of my old friends, my professors, were still teaching there. Mostly not. Most of them have retired or moved on. After chatting amiably for another ten minutes, Dr. Helton said so long and hung up. I got up, too, and walked around a bit. My head was spinning.

An honorary doctorate. Just what the heck is that, anyway? I thought back over the years. I have graduated from three different institutions of higher learning. Vincennes University. Bob Jones University. And the Dickinson School of Law. At all three of those graduation ceremonies, someone had been awarded some sort of honorary degree. And I remember yawning, along with pretty much every other graduate. Come on. Stop wasting our time. Get on with the program. We’re here to graduate. Please, no long speeches. Give the guy his honorary degree and get him off the stage. That’s how we felt, mostly. And now it was my turn, to be the reason others thought those very thoughts. I guess what goes around comes around. Sometimes, anyway.

From here, from where I now am, it’s a pretty cool feeling, though, whatever one might think. Very cool, to be honored like that.

And I think back to how it was back then, in those days. When I first realized that I had a shot at actually attending a real university. A goal that had never even reached the status of a dream. It was too far out there, too impossible to even be on my radar screen. College? Me? I had an eighth grade education. Never had a day of high school. How would it be possible to enter, let alone graduate, from college?

The winter of 1988-1989 was tough for me in many ways, which isn’t that surprising. I’m a glutton for tough times, seems like. This was just one more in a long string. It’s not like I was alone, exactly. I mean, there was support around me, as I settled into my post-Amish world in Daviess.

But always, it seemed, something hard rose to confront me. That winter, I was reeling from the abrupt loss of a relationship I desperately wanted to work out. It did not. Instead, it collapsed into dust and ashes around me, because I could not speak my heart. The whole scene was pretty brutal. I’ve never written about it before. Not publicly. One day soon I will, maybe. I’m far enough away now, to speak of it without wandering too close to the edge of brooding darkness. At least, I think so.

And over that winter, I hunched down and absorbed the bitter pain of a loss such as I had never known. It was probably more intense in my mind because of how alone I felt. And how alone I was, really. In my new world, my new life in Daviess. It’s not like I could communicate much, not like I could really trust anyone around me, to talk to. Mostly because I didn’t know how. And somewhere, in the spasms of that pain, the shadows of a plan came to my mind. Leave this behind. Strike out into a new world. Get your GED. That’s the equivalent of a high school diploma. Get that, and maybe enroll at Vincennes in the fall.

I wasn’t sure just what all was involved. I couldn’t imagine taking the tests for my GED without some preparation. I made some calls. There were classes one could take, at the local high school in Washington. Tuesday nights, if I remember right. And a week or so later, I walked in and enrolled. Tentatively, a bit scared. I don’t remember the nice lady’s name, but I remember how helpful she was. Oh, yes, she said. Yes, yes. Come on in. We’ll analyze where you are. Take some placement exams. We’ll figure out what you need to learn. And we’ll teach you what you don’t know, so you can get your GED. And go on to college. Vincennes will take you. Don’t be afraid. You can do this.

Grateful for her words, I took the placement exams. And amazingly, in pretty much every category, I was already at college entry level. Except one. Math. I had a strong but basic eighth grade education from the Aylmer Amish school. Since then, I had devoured countless books. I had read and read and read. Much trash. And some good stuff, too. But who goes out and learns math on their own? A math brain, I guess. Which was most definitely not me. Still, I was astounded and emboldened. I could do this. And so I began attending classes, there in Washington, Indiana, to learn some basic elements of math. And to polish up my writing.

And after a couple of months of attending those weekly classes, I took the plunge. Went in and sat for my GED tests. I don’t recall many specific details of that day, except I was fairly confident. And when my scores came back, they were good. Actually, in a very high percentile. The nice lady smiled and congratulated me. She knew I could do it. This is the beginning. Now go enroll at Vincennes. Here’s all the information you need, to do that. And so I did. Enrolled at a real university, for the fall of 1989.

That summer was my first full summer here in Lancaster County. And it was a time of sweat and labor. I toiled in the dust and heat from dawn to late afternoon every day, five or six days a week. Working construction, building pole barns. It was one of the most intense and healing summers in my memory. I wanted to work, to save money for college. And I wanted to work to forget. I labored long and hard, to leave behind what was lost and to lay up for the future. And those three months were amazing, looking back. A mixture of so many emotions. I knew what was behind me, I’d just walked from there. There was no way I could possibly envision what lay ahead.

Three days before my 28th birthday. That’s when I walked through the doors of Vincennes University as a student for the first time. Clutching my new bright blue Jansport backpack, sagging with textbooks, I entered the halls of the Humanities Building. That’s the stuff I had signed up for, mostly. English. Literature. History. Speech. And one lone remedial math class, way across the campus.

And it was a magical and frightening time. Magical, because of the new possibilities that suddenly seemed so within my grasp. And frightening, because of where I’d come from. I was a simple ex-Amish man, with not a day of high school under my belt. That’s intimidating, any way you look at it. And yet, here it was before me. All I had to do was walk forward through the open door. College. The real thing. A world that called to a deep place in my heart. And to me, it was pretty much a miracle, this university. Vincennes University. A two-year school. The gateway to my journey through a world I had never dared to imagine.

I lapped it up from the first day. Timidly, I took a seat in my first class. Way in the back of the room, which would forever after be my most comfortable spot. World Lit, with Dr. Rodgers. A frail little wisp of a man, not that well spoken. But very knowledgeable. He hemmed and hawed and welcomed us. This semester, we would be exploring this theme and that theme in our studies. We’ll be writing a paper every month. The syllabus described our course. Syllabus? What was that? I’d never heard that word before. Had no clue what it meant.

I would soon hear a lot of words that I had never heard spoken before. Words I had read, words the meaning of which I knew full well. But there’s a difference between reading a word and hearing it used in actual conversations, properly articulated. I cringed at the way I’d been pronouncing some of them. And I listened and learned.

That first semester, I signed up for what was considered a full load. Fifteen hours. English I. History of some kind. Literature. And a few other classes I can’t recall. But it was the humanities, the reading, the writing, that side of the brain that was my strength. And I walked naturally through those doors, the doors that seemed to call my name. I was new here. Didn’t know who or what I could trust. So I went by instinct.

And to me, it was like a smorgasboard, the university. It was as if I were seated at a table groaning under the weight of a great feast of so many mysteries I longed to touch and taste. And feel. I eagerly read the assigned literature. Completed the writings on time. I was serious, focused and hungry, and that was soon plain to those around me. Within a month, all my professors knew my name, knew who I was. And to their credit, every single one of them recognized and welcomed from their hearts this student who had emerged from the backwoods of the “peaceful people,” the Amish. Every single one. Their doors were always open to me, and I soon felt calm and comfortable enough to just stop by and chat. To talk of things. To pick their brains. I was right at ten years older than the average college freshman. I’d lived ten tough years of life most of my classmates had never seen and probably would never see. And to me, it was a huge privilege just to be there.

After that first semester, fifteen credit hours were not enough to occupy my mind. The second semester, I took eighteen hours. And in my second year at Vincennes, on a full merit scholarship, I enrolled for twenty-one class hours both semesters. Sure, this was a junior college. Not a four-year school. Not as rigorous. But for me, well, I could not have found a more perfect launching place.

To me, Vincennes University was a shining city on a hill.

For what it meant to me, for what it did for me, for what I learned there, Vincennes University will always hold a special place in my heart. Always. And now they want to award me an honorary doctorate. Put me in a robe, and a mortarboard cap. From thenceforth, I can call myself Dr. Ira Wagler if I want to.

Which is strange, actually, and kind of funny. It’s never been my goal, ever, to get a doctorate of any kind. Never. It’s never been even a remote thought in my head, to be able to call myself Dr. Wagler.

And I won’t, except maybe in the odd instance where doing so might open an otherwise closed door. Then I might. Other than that, it would be a bit presumptuous, I think. To call myself that, or expect others to.

But you bet I’ll go to Vincennes University on April 28th. You bet I’ll be honored to attend. To walk the hallowed halls of academia again. To tour the old grounds. And you bet I’ll be grateful to accept the honor they are bestowing upon me. With all its pomp, and all its glory. I’ll revel in every minute. Soak it up. In a robe, and tassled mortarboard cap. Make a short speech. Oh, yes, it will be brief. And then I’ll return to my rather mundane life, back here in Lancaster County. Marveling at the strange way things come down sometimes.

I can’t help but wonder what’s around the next bend on this road.
*****************
The book is still roaming around out there, in some pretty elite terrain. I wrote about it, a month ago. How Amazon reduced the Kindle price, and how Growing Up Amish rocketed into the stratosphere. All through March, the eBook hung in there. In the top 25, mostly. Dipped and rose and dipped again. The highest spot I ever saw was #13. In all of Amazon Kindle. I am grateful that since returning to regular pricing on April 1st, the eBook has hung in there in the top one hundred.

And last month I wondered when it would show up in the bestseller lists. It was the top selling nonfiction book on Amazon, that was pretty clear. Would the New York Times recognize it? I didn’t know. And so one day, I cautiously asked Carol. She didn’t know. She didn’t think so. OK. I won’t look for it.

And no one saw it coming, three weeks ago, on the Wall Street Journal’s bestseller list. Number eleven. A week later, number three. No one saw it. No one from Tyndale. And not my agent. I was unaware that such a thing even existed. The Wall Street Journal bestseller list. Who would? Apparently no one in the publishing world knew, either.

It was so haphazard, the way it all came down. Last Saturday morning, an email from a friend. Hey. Your book’s number one on the WSJ’s bestseller list. Congratulations. Sure, I figured. Number one in memoirs.

And that afternoon, I stopped at a friend’s house for coffee. Hey, check out your copy of The Wall Street Journal. I think my book’s listed there. We looked. And we found it. Growing Up Amish was the number one eBook nonfiction bestseller, period, during the week ending March 25th. The New York Times didn’t recognize that fact, because my book was priced at a promotional discount. But the Wall Street Journal counted the raw numbers. I was number one. I stared. Then I took a picture with my iPhone. There aren’t too many higher pinnacles than that.

Today is Good Friday. A holy day. Growing up, we always observed Good Friday. I can’t remember if it was a fasting day in the Midwest, but it sure is here in Lancaster County, for the Amish, which mostly means they don’t eat breakfast and then have a large lunch. Many businesses shut down, including Graber Supply. So we got the day off. It seems strange, because Good Friday is not an official holiday. The banks are open. The mail is delivered. It’s like, why are you open? This is a holy day.

And on this holy weekend, I wish a blessed Easter to all my readers.

I am the man of constant sorrow,
I’ve seen trouble all my days,
I bid farewell to ol’ Kentucky,
The place where I was born and raised.

—Soggy Bottom Boys
___________________

I’d been looking forward to it all winter, and that second Saturday in March finally rolled around. That morning, I headed on down to West Virginia to spend some time with my friends, Dominic and Jamie Haskin. I’ve written of hanging out there before, usually at Dominic’s famous Fourth of July parties. On this last weekend trip, he was set up at a builder’s show in the local mall, and, as I’ve done for the last four years, I went down to help out for the day. And to hang out for the night.

Dominic and his father, Chris, own and run Timberline Pole Buildings. When they sell a building, I ship the package to them right from my yard at Graber. We’ve been doing business for a dozen years now, and Dominic and I have become close friends. And after the work’s done, we like to hang out now and then.

I remember a few years back, when I first ventured down to socialize with my West Virginia friends. And how Dominic and Jamie introduced me to their social circles. And how relaxed I felt in that world. They welcomed me, their friends, as one of their own. Unassuming people who work with their hands, mostly, they freely shared what they had with this outsider from up north. I felt instantly and completely comfortable among them.

And they’d wander in with their homemade brews and baked goods and covered dishes of delicious food. We’d lounge around the pool in the sun, just being lazy and talking of all the little things. Once or twice, I joined the horseshoe game out in the back yard. And as I mingled among these people, I listened to the cadence of their talk, trying to absorb their world. Their culture. Some day, I think, I could live in a world like that.

A few years ago, as my book deal came down, Dominic regaled all his friends with this great accomplishment. Ira got a book deal. He’s writing a book. It’s gonna be a good one. Bestseller, for sure. And they all looked at me, slightly awed and uncomprehending. No, no, I said. Don’t be like that. I’m just me. I’ll always be me. Besides, the book’s not written yet. It could be a total flop.

And in time, I got to know many of them on a first name basis. As friends. Many of them have read my book. And they still look at me a little awed. But they always smile when I come down. They always genuinely welcome me. And I always go back.

A few summers ago, I met Larry for the first time. He worked for a local framing company, and was a crew foreman. A lean, wiry man of medium height in his early thirties, he grasped my hand firmly and looked me in the eye. Colorful tattoos spilled down his arms. It was a warm summer evening. I sat with him at the picnic table and we cracked open a couple of cold long-necks and talked.

He didn’t tell me all of his story, not right then. But I learned a few sketchy details later. In his youth, Larry had lived on a wild and dangerous road. And somewhere along the line, he had run afoul of the law. Not uncommon for a redneck in West Virginia. I don’t know what he did. It wasn’t violent. Ran some ‘shine, maybe, or raised and sold some pot. Or maybe it was the harder stuff. I don’t know. Whatever he was doing, he got caught. And nailed. He was convicted as a felon.

He had two children with a woman who may or may not have been his wife at one point. Whatever the case, he was no longer with her. And when we talked, he always spoke of two things. His children. And his love of riding. Larry was a Harley guy. His eyes always sparkled as he described to me the joy and freedom of the open road. On a bike. You should do it, he told me. Nah, those things are death traps, I replied. Well, I’ll have to take you on a ride sometime. Yeah, I’d like that. And that’s how it always ended. We never did get it done.

He was an outstanding and faithful worker, from all I’ve ever heard. And I have no reason to doubt those who told me that. He was dependable. Always on time, worked until the job was done. And just last year, Larry scratched together the down payment on a little house of his own. First time. A little beat-up place. He moved in and patiently began fixing it up. It would be his. All his own.

And when my book came out last July, I gave him a copy. Signed it to my friend, Larry. He grinned as he took it from my hands. Promised to read it. Somehow, though, after that he always claimed to be “almost finished” with it. Just about at the end. I laughed and told him it was OK if he couldn’t get through it. I’m not quite sure he ever even started reading the book.

And on that Saturday as I worked with Dominic at the builder’s show, he told me. We’d go out to eat later, after things shut down. And then he wanted to drop by a little pub close to home. Larry was throwing a good-bye party. He was leaving the area for a while. I wasn’t particularly into hanging out late at any pub, but I agreed. Yeah, let’s stop by for an hour. Gotta give him my best wishes.

And so, around ten that night, we pulled in, Dominic and Jamie and I. Walked into the “pub,” which was actually just a dive bar. Nice enough little place. On a small stage against the wall, an aging band was tuning up. Sixties guys, from the look of it, gray-haired and old. But after they cranked it up, they belted out some of the best 80s rock’n roll I’ve heard live for a long time. Larry had set up court at a long table, filled with his friends. Already feeling good, he whooped when he saw us. Came over and welcomed me.

I sat at the table beside a lovely lady who had already imbibed a tad too much. You’re Ira? She asked incredulously. Yep, I am. And before I could react, the nice tipsy lady jumped to her feet and hollered at the top of her voice, all the while pointing down at me. THIS MAN’S FAMOUS! THIS MAN’S FAMOUS! I instantly shot up and pushed her back into her chair. Stop that. Fortunately, what with the loud band, no one heard or paid the slightest attention to her. In the next five minutes, she popped up and did it again. And again. Screamed. THIS MAN’S FAMOUS! THIS MAN’S FAMOUS! After the third time, I finally convinced her that I was leaving if she didn’t quit that. So she settled down. It was pretty hilarious, actually. Such a thing could not possibly happen anywhere but in West Virginia.

And we hung out with Larry and his crowd, me and Dominic and Jamie. I bought him a drink, and had one myself. After an hour or so, we took our leave. Larry shook my hand firmly and looked me in the eye.

“Thanks for stopping by,” he said. “I AM gonna finish your book.”

“You are my friend,” I replied. “You don’t have to make any promises to me.” And so we left him with his friends. Rocking and rolling with the aging sixties band.

On Tuesday of last week, Larry entered a new normal in his life. He reported to the federal penitentiary in Cumberland, Maryland. As an incarcerated inmate. And this is how it all came down.

As a convicted felon from his youth, Larry was never allowed to own any guns. Never. Not for any reason. But as he slowly rebuilt his life, he couldn’t resist. And on the open, private market, he bought a few rifles. For hunting and such. Maybe for protection, too. And it would all have been fine, except one day, after a furious argument, the mother of his children turned him in. To the law. The cops swarmed instantly, like cockroaches. A felon owning guns, now that’s top priority. Then the ATF swooped in and took over the case. All this clamor and action, for a victimless crime.

And they dragged Larry before a federal judge. Even so, he hoped to get off with maybe probation. And it seemed like that’s what would happen. Because that’s pretty much all the prosecutor asked for as near as he dared to, without actually saying the word. Probation. Larry’s friends all vouched for him. He was a loving father, a productive citizen. Dominic wrote a letter to the court. Larry was a friend. Dependable. Employed, pulling his own weight. His children needed him. Have mercy on this man.

But at the sentencing, the judge didn’t buy it. Any of it. A hard-hearted, heavy-handed man, he sat there and listened grimly. Then, on a whim, or maybe because he woke up cranky that morning, he sentenced Larry to three years in federal prison. Three years. And lectured him. How dare you defy federal law like that? Who do you think you are? Then Larry was dismissively waved away. As in, get this redneck out of my courtroom. I’ve got more important matters to take up my time.

And just like that, it was done. Larry was released and instructed to show up at the prison on March 13th. For three years. Sure, they told him. You can take this program, and do this and that, and with good behavior you might be out in a year or less. Still. Even one year. That’s enough to destroy a man’s life. Or at least set him all the way back to totally broke and ruined.

Larry will likely lose his little house, the one he scraped and saved for. He wrapped up his affairs as best he could. Dominic is storing his Harley. And so he is gone, away to the Big House. For at least a year, maybe three. Gone, deprived of all he knows and loves.

Any way you look at it, this is not justice. This is tyranny. This is the arbitrary destruction of a man’s life. Casual. Ruthless. And so terribly wrong. The law devoid of mercy is not law. It is oppression. Pure and simple. Brutal oppression, grinding its victims into dust. Yeah, yeah, I know. Larry is no innocent pilgrim. He’s far from clean. He’s made a lot of stupid choices and pulled off some really mindless stunts. And yeah, he could have done things better. But three years, for owning guns because he was a felon? He shouldn’t have done it. But I understand completely why he did. It’s that old yearning that always burns in the hearts of those who long to be free.

And that’s where my heart is, with those who crave freedom, whatever the cost. With guys like Larry. Ordinary people who struggle with their personal demons, sometimes. People who have made some really stupid mistakes. And got caught up in the relentless grinding cogs of “justice.” Ordinary people who have no voice to speak of the outrageous abuses they endure. And walk forward in silence and bravely face the heavy burdens the “law” imposes on them. And they know that no one will ever know what they face. No one will care. They deserve what they get. They have no voice. And no one will hear their stories.

Except this time. This time, I will tell of the savage unjustness of Larry’s plight. This time, at least, my voice will speak his story to my world.

One day, the Lord will hold to account all those who inflict such brutal and senseless destruction upon the downtrodden. He will, because He is just. I don’t know anything about the judge who sentenced Larry, not even his name. But chances are he probably considers himself a “Christian.” He probably prays to his big God, as he kneels in his big church (borrowing a line from Peter Gabriel, there). But I’d rather hang out with Larry in a dive bar than sit with that merciless federal tyrant on the soft padded pews in his big, beautiful church.

I hope Larry makes it through OK. I hope he survives the brutal federal prison system without too many scars. I hope he’ll be out by next year sometime. Whenever he gets out, I’ll see him the next time I come around. We’ll sit out by the picnic table, and crack open a few Buds. We’ll talk, he and I, as old friends. And I suspect he’ll probably allow that he’s fixing to finish reading my book just about any day now.

******************************
It’s been a rather interesting two weeks since my last post. At that time, I figured it might be a bit of a fluke that the book was ranking so high on Amazon, right up there so close to the top. But it wasn’t. It’s hung in there, held steady, mostly inside the top 20 now for the last week and a half. Stuck on #15 or #16 for hours, even a day at a stretch. The highest slot I’ve ever seen was #13, early last week. As each new high showed up, I snapped a picture of the screen with my iPhone. Proof that I was there. Anyone can claim anything. You gotta have proof. There aren’t a whole lot of people out there who can say their book was 12 spots from The Hunger Games in the eBook bestseller rankings.

The intensity of it all gradually numbed down to a new normal. And that’s where I am today. I don’t have to rush to my computer first thing every morning to check the numbers. They’ll be what they are, when I get there. I probably have not yet fully grasped how many thousands and thousands of new readers have purchased the eBook.

It’s been quite a trip, too, to check out all the new reviews posted on Amazon. More than a hundred of them. They’re mostly pretty cool, although some few don’t hold back their punches. Criticism is never palatable. But it’s all part of a legitimate conversation in the market place, I suppose. If a book’s got all 4 and 5 star reviews, you can bet someone’s friends were posting most of them.

And that brings me to another persistent little misconception floating around out there. I don’t know how often I’ve seen it, both in the Amazon reviews and also in independent blog reviews. A bunch of times. Wagler left the Amish and today he’s Mennonite. Well, no. I’m not. I left the Amish and joined the Mennonites in Daviess twenty-five years ago. Since then, I’ve moved on. Today I have shed the last vestiges of any belief system that would be considered uniquely Mennonite. Or any other brand of Anabaptism.

It was just how it all worked out, on my long and relentless quest for freedom. Freedom within the boundaries of what it is to be a Christian, sure. But freedom from denominational dogma. And that’s where I am today. For the last 8 years or so, I have been a happy camper at Chestnut Street Chapel in Gap, PA. The old church just behind the famous clock tower. That’s the longest stretch I’ve ever remained with the same church since my Amish days.

It’s a beautiful little group, the Chestnut Street congregation. Many are from plain background, like me. And many are from straight out English blood. The pastor, Mark Potter, was raised an Army brat. No plain blood there. But it all fits. And Pastor Mark Potter will one day move on to a far larger group, if he so chooses. He’s that good. It’s amazing that our little church managed to latch on to someone of his quality and character. Some of his sermons are available on the church web site. Check them out.

The end of March approaches. And with it, the end of the Amazon promotion of Growing Up Amish. I’d love to see the book keep flying, of course. But I expect it to return to earth, or at least a good deal closer to the earth. Maybe my mind will even calm down enough to get me back to some serious writing.

So, then, to every man his chance – to every man, regardless
of his birth, his shining, golden opportunity…

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

Well, I’m back. Way sooner than I figured, back when I last left you to head out on that long slog, to see if the next book would come. Because on that long slog, a little side road popped up, and there was no choice but to take it. So I did. And somehow, strangely, it brought me right back here to the blog. To tell you of how it was.

Nope, I haven’t turned in any new writing to Tyndale. Carol hasn’t read a page of the stuff I’ve been working on, for the sequel. Not even a word. Because it’s still way too rough. Because it’s not ready. And I won’t send it until it is. I have been working at it, and, well, sitting there and staring at it. Trying to “feel” my way in. Probably a bit too intensely. I got a rough draft cobbled together a few weeks after my last post. Sketched out what I needed to write, for a few chapters, in different places. And somehow, I even found a good thread or two, to develop. But it never broke loose. Somehow, it all seemed so elusive, so hard. The harder I concentrated, the harder I tried, the more my brain froze up, seemed like. Each day that rolled by was one more day gone. And the inner tension escalated. I’m losing time, here. I have to find it somehow, the voice that will speak my story. And still, day followed day, and not much was getting written, in actual word count.

I badly needed a break, a diversion. Something to get my head cleared. And then, last week, events abruptly took a turn of their own. Seemed like something or someone was nudging me. Stop. Don’t freak out. Take this side road instead. And check out a spectacular view from a new place.

Early last week, it all started with an email from someone at the Tyndale marketing department. Good news, it proclaimed cheerfully. On March 1st, Amazon will slash the cost of Growing Up Amish, Kindle version only, to a mere $3.99. And push it hard. Publicize it. The Tyndale email claimed I should be excited. This was a big deal. Every month, Amazon hand-selects one hundred books to promote. And my book was somehow included in this elite group.

I’d never heard of Amazon’s monthly “hundred books” promotion. But I thought it sounded cool. Amazon knows how to market, I knew that much. But a hundred books? Seemed like a lot, to push out there, even at a discount. And I checked my eBook stats. Growing Up Amish has been floating around lately at the respectable ranking of anywhere between 3500 and 5000 or so. Out of a million eBooks. Maybe, with the discount and the marketing push, it might creep back up there. I hoped it might even climb to 1000 or so, and maybe stay there for a while.

Thursday morning, March 1st. I checked my Amazon ranking. Right at 4500. All right. We’ll keep an eye on it, throughout the day. At noon, I checked again. Amazingly, that 4500 had dropped to around 2000. Wow. Amazon’s machine must be working. They’re probably sending emails to anyone who ever clicked on an Amish fiction book. Hey. Look at this. The real story for $3.99. Close to nothing. Check it out. And by the time I left the office at five, I was at 727. Under that 1000 marker I’d hoped for. In less than half a day. And the cautious thought edged into my head. This could be big.

Way back in the day, last summer, when my book crept onto the very bottom of the New York Times eBook bestseller list, it lurked for days and weeks at around 200 to 300 in the Amazon rankings. And Carol told me at the time that it sold around a thousand copies a week, to make the bestseller list. At that ranking, 200 to 300, it had sold a thousand copies a week. The highest ranking I ever saw back then was 133. And it stayed there very briefly. It might have crept a few notches higher, but I didn’t catch it.

And suddenly, I started imagining things. What if the book reached that plateau again? What if? That would be wild. Totally wild. And on Thursday evening, March 1st, as the book rocketed up past 300, I felt it really could happen. It could.

Turned out I hadn’t seen nothing yet. On Friday, the book kept pushing its way up. And up and up. 200. Then it hovered around 150 for a while. In all of Amazon eBooks. The hundred and fiftieth slot out of a million eBooks. Wild stuff. And still the number climbed steadily. 125. Then 113. Then 106. The highest I’d ever seen it. Maybe I could break into the top one hundred in all of Amazon. How cool would that be?

That evening, I clicked “refresh” now and again, on the Amazon page for my eBook. Nope. Just hung right in there at 106. It’ll probably drop now, I figured. That close to the top 100, but still no cigar. And then, just before 9 PM, I refreshed the link again. And the magical number leaped right out at me from the screen. 91. Number 91 in all Kindle books on Amazon. The top hundred. I’d made it. I stared in ecstasy. And disbelief. And then I snapped a picture of the screen and posted it to Facebook. The top one hundred. I’d made it. In the second day of Amazon’s March promotion. Just unbelievable.

And it turned out, again, that I hadn’t seen nothing yet. This time, my book was heading out and up to join the big boys. I posted the link with promotional sale information on Facebook. My friends went haywire with support, webbing the link on and out into the ether. Word of mouth. Buy this book. $3.99. That’s nothing. By Sunday morning, it broke into the top fifty. By Monday morning, it held at 33. And each day it crept up a bit. Fluctuated some, sure. But always jumped up past previous numbers. 22. Then 27. Then 21. On Wednesday morning, and again on Thursday morning, it broke into the top twenty at number 18. The 18th most sold eBook on all of Amazon.

That’s wild territory. Wild and beautiful. Rarefied air, any way you look at it. I stand here in awe. This is a place I will likely never see again. The book might plummet in the rankings at any time, but no one can ever take it from me that it’s been where it’s been. Even the Tyndale people seem mildly amazed. And perhaps just a little astounded.

And I think back to those days when I was struggling, writing Growing Up Amish. Intensely, frantically at times, as the next monthly deadline relentlessly closed in. In despair, at other times, when I could not find the words to speak what was in my heart. Somehow, I ended up chatting with God in those moments, now and then. Informally, just talking, reminding Him. This is your book. You can take it where you will. Do with it what you want. Just help me get it said right.

I believe He heard me, and did just that. Helped me get it said right. I really do. There are not a dozen words I would change in the entire book, even if I could. I credit my Tyndale editors, too, of course. A lot. But that was a given from the start. It was a miracle they were even involved at all.

And I feel a bit like I felt back then, except for the despair part. Here on this wild and beautiful road, where I see my book flirting with the highest rankings on the internet. This is your book, God. I gave it to you before it was even written. Take it where you will. Now. Next week. Next month. Whenever. Wherever. I don’t know what the future holds. You do. Bless the path of this book.

And here, at this place, I can only stand and marvel in gratitude. The windows of heaven have opened and poured forth blessings such as I could not possibly have imagined.

All right. That felt good, to write the old blog again. I’m thinking I’ll do that now and again, regardless of how the other writing’s going. It’s good to come back to where it all started, and stay connected to my readers. It helps get my brain unstuck. And this is a safe place, where I can be myself. So I’ll plan on posting once a month, at least, sometimes more. Depends on how often I can fit it in.

And now, it’s back to those rough drafts. Maybe with a fresh perspective. Maybe not. In some ways, my head seems clear. In others, it’s more fogged up than ever. We’ll see how it goes.

A couple of links before closing. The link to my eBook on Amazon, for those who want to check it out. Buy it, for crying out loud. For every Kindle in your home. It’s less than a latte at Starbucks.

And finally, the audio version of Growing Up Amish is now available for preorder. It’s being released on April 1st. I’m eagerly awaiting my copy. Should be here any day now.

There will be hard battles ahead, sure there will be.
And more treacherous, difficult roads. The dragons
of fear and doubt will lurk, as they always do….That’s
just part of life as it has been, and life as it will be.

—Ira Wagler: Inside the Shining City
______________________________

I had it coming, I suppose. When I wrote of my eagerness for whatever might come, in the year-end blog. Maybe I was feeling bold. Or maybe bored. I should have known, though. Be careful what you wish for, because it just might sneak up and slap you right up ‘side the head.

I’ve heard from a lot of readers. When are you writing the sequel to your book? But last year was so intense, so busy, that I didn’t think about it much. What would come would come. Then in early November, an email from my agent, Chip MacGregor. A few bits of news about this and that. At the very end, a short paragraph. We need to be talking soon about where you might want to go next with your writing. Tyndale is making some noises about another book.

And there it was. Another book. I sure hadn’t been out there pushing for one. Too much going on, and I didn’t really feel quite ready yet. Maybe I was just scared, I don’t know. But I answered Chip. Let’s talk about it after the holidays.

It seemed like going on from the end of the first book was the natural thing, after I thought about it. But I didn’t want to throw something out there just because the market’s hot right now. If I can’t write it and feel it, the narrative won’t work, because the reader won’t feel it either. And besides, the second book about as often as not just flat out flops. The first book is the one you HAVE to write, the second one not so much, I think that’s how it goes a lot of times. So there’s no guarantee of anything. Especially for a relatively unknown writer. Somewhat known now, but not that well, not compared to many others. The literary landscape out there is strewn with the wreckage of many a failed second effort from authors far better known than I could ever hope to be.

And I tried to imagine what it would be, to write a sequel. I’ve always shied away from some pieces of the past, from the time right after I left the Amish. There are hard places back there. And deep. A lot of other great writing fodder too, don’t get me wrong. The journey of a raw ex-Amish youth feeling his way into a whole new world. After breaking from his roots for good. Breaking into the English world. And loss, too, there was that. The thread of loss that almost universally affects those who break from the Amish culture. Loss of relationships, of family, of ancient cultural ties. Loss of my father’s blessing. And more. There’s lots of good material there, if I can get it told right. But always, from here, the hard things seemed more frightening to confront. To relive.

Because they are. A few weeks back, I wrote a few pages to show the Tyndale people what was in my heart. And it came down as I knew it would. The words roiled out of me in black torrents of the deepest melancholy I have faced in years. Maybe ever. I went down under. Way down under. I wrote it like it came. And then I sent it off.

After absorbing my writing for a week or so (and recoiling, I’m sure), Carol Traver called me one evening after work, at the office. After everyone else had left at my end. My insides were a tough knot of turmoil. And she firmly talked me back from the abyss. Don’t go back there, that deep. It’s too dark to see; you can’t even speak your message. What is your message? Let’s see if you can say it better. Those weren’t her specific words to me, necessarily. But that’s what I heard her saying.

We talked for quite a while about a lot of things, always circling back to my writing. And gradually, the tension drained from me, the turmoil dissipated. Right there, as we were talking. And I worked my way back. The fog in my head began to clear. In the next day or two, it lifted.

Carol is right. I can say it better. Write it better.

I’d failed the first test, though. When I had the chance to show her what I had in just a few pages. Flipped right off the deep end, I did. Maybe it was just as well to get that out of the way, right up front. But now, she needed something more. Some real writing, some real chapters, that I would submit in the manuscript. We talked about it, and it felt OK. Four chapters. Almost random, not quite. Some sort of opening. And a couple of places that are important to me. And what I see as the message of the book. I grumbled a bit. Come on, Carol. Do I really have to? Now? Immerse myself into those years from long ago? But I knew that what she was asking for made sense. I might as well write out some real stuff so Tyndale can see if what I have is what they want. And to figure out for myself if I can even get it told.

Growing Up Amish was my shining city on a hill. My impossible goal, my dream, my vision. And it was more than I could have imagined. The way it all came together, the way it all worked out. It was a triumphant and joyful thing. Pretty much miraculous. That accomplishment can never be taken from me.

And now I walk from the gates of that shining city. I will never return to this place. Once you set out on another journey, it’s impossible to return. It’s like going home again. You can’t, because everything has changed. Succeed or fail, you can’t go back to the way it was.

After the first leg of this journey, maybe a month, probably more like two, I’ll stop and rest a bit. And I’ll be back here, to tell you of how it was. And where the next destination might be. I’ll tell you when I know, one way or the other. If the sequel doesn’t work out with Tyndale, some other door will open. It might well be a door right back to this blog, a full circle back to the place where it all began. I don’t know, and don’t need to know until I get there.

Saying it as I saw it, from where my heart was when I wrote it, that’s all I’ve ever tried to do. In a New York Times bestseller, and right here on this blog. The platform makes no difference. Pretty much every post on this blog could just as well have been written in some form in a journal, had I ever taken the time and trouble to keep one. And in those hidden, unread pages, my voice would have been the same.

I’ve traveled long enough and far enough to learn to walk by faith as much possible, given my restless spirit and driven nature. Faith sometimes small as a mustard seed, seems like. But there. And when the noise gets too loud around me, that’s when I return and hold on to the simple core truth that the Lord is good. He always was. He always will be. And He will always show the right way to those who cry out to Him with even a mustard seed of faith.

I am ready for one more trek, one more slog into some rough terrain. I’m calm but alert, and yeah, a little tense and nervous too, as I approach a new door of entry from a new direction, on a path not seen before. And prepare to walk through that door and face and relive a whole lot of memories from way back. Memories of loss and turmoil, more than a few memories of more than a little loss. And memories, too, of life and joy and the anchor of quiet faith. Of moving forward into a new world of possibilities and opportunities such as I had never known. A world I embraced with hungry longing and desire.

It’s all there, if I can pull it together and fit it together in a way that works. And write it from my heart. A heart that was forgiven long ago. I think I can do it. I believe I can write it better now than it could have been written two weeks ago, or at any time in the past. I believe that. But I won’t know for sure until I go there.

And so I leave you for awhile.

After they are gone, all they have left unsaid will
remain unsaid forever…

—Ira Wagler, At Dusk in Winter
___________________________

It’s certainly been nothing to complain about, the winter so far. Mild weather, almost no snow. A cold snap now and then. But manageable. By this time, in the last two years, we had been blasted with several massive snow storms. I really detest snow. And we’ll get at least one good whacking at some point, I’m sure.

I should head on down to Sarasota, and hang out with the Pine Craft crowd for a week or two. Especially now that my parents arrived there right around the New Year. They plan to stay for three months.

I’m happy for them. Dad just turned 90 in December. They need to be where it’s warm. And Pine Craft is the perfect place. He likes to putz around and visit with people. He even got a little battery powered cart, to trundle around on. His knee has been bad for decades. Gotten worse, as the years encroached. So it’s hard for him to walk. The little cart should do wonders for his mobility. And, of course, he’ still cranking out his writings and keeping tabs on his numerous business affairs.

Mom is pretty much out of it, from Alzheimer’s. She sits and smiles. And smiles and smiles some more. Maybe she’s enjoying, absorbing her surroundings. Maybe not. And maybe it’s pointless to look too closely at the past. But still, I can’t help but say a few things like I see them.

She never got to enjoy the warmth of Sarasota sunshine in winter back when it would have mattered. Back when she could have lived it, when she could have really soaked in the joy of it. When she could have spent the days with her sister Rachel, and her brothers, Ben and William. And their extended families. Back twenty or even ten years ago.

Because back then, my parents lived in Bloomfield. And it’s against the church rules there, to travel to Florida for a few months or even a few weeks of leisure in winter. Because that’s too worldly. Because there can’t be any benefit in idleness, in simply hanging around every day. No benefit in visiting with others from far-flung communities. And so they forbid it. Ban traveling to Florida in winter.

It’s certainly not unique to Bloomfield. I want to say that clearly, to be fair. I’m not picking on my old home turf just for spite. I’m not. But it’s the only frame of reference that I have. The only scenario I can speak to, from what I saw. The rule is very common, in the many small communities dotted about the Midwest. In all their various flavors of church Ordnungs. In all their plainness, and all their strict living. You do not go to Florida for the winter, or even for a week or two. You just don’t.

I don’t know what they expect their elderly people to do, in those communities that forbid such travel. They sit around, the old people, snowed in, shivering from the cold. Stoking the kitchen fire all day and half the night. And for some of them in those many communities, visitors are scarce. A few rare treasured moments of distraction, over all too soon.

And they settle in for the winter, the old people, and at least some few quietly slip into depression. They have to. There’s simply no other recourse. All because church rules forbid them to travel to a happier clime. Like Pine Craft. Where they could see and meet and visit with all sorts of people. From all sorts of Amish communities, across the land.

A few years ago, my parents moved to May’s Lick, Kentucky. Along with my oldest brother, Joseph and his family. May’s Lick is more advanced in many ways, with more relaxed guidelines. And if you live in May’s Lick, you are allowed to spend the winter months in Florida.

Which is a beautiful thing, for my parents. Each year, Dad can’t wait to head down as winter approaches. Sadly, Mom was already about 85% gone when they moved to May‘s Lick. And now she is allowed to travel south with Dad for the winter. Now. Now, when she has little if any grasp of what’s going on. And I don’t care what anyone says, nothing about any of all that makes a lick of sense.

And I think of her, this woman who is my mother. Of who she was, as a young girl. Of what she saw and felt. And of all that she endured in her 88 years on this earth. Perhaps she’s happier now, in this state, than she’s ever been. Who can know? She has seen so much and endured so much. From the weariness of decades of toil. From her husband. And from certain sons. And still, there she is, smiling and smiling through the dense fog that has enveloped her. Who can really know how much she absorbs from all of life as it flows around her?

In August, when I was in Daviess for that book signing, we toured my mother’s childhood home. My brother Nathan and my nephew John Wagler and me. We were accompanied by some friends who had arranged the visit with the farm’s current owners. I wrote a bit about that when it happened. But I didn’t have the time or space to write it all.

The two young Amish couples who now live there were extremely friendly. Took us all about the outbuildings, and the house. And as things were winding down, one of the young men said they have one more thing to show us. Something they figured we would be interested in seeing. And he told us a story.

A few years back, or whenever it was they were fixing to move onto the place, they remodeled the house Mom grew up in. Whacked out some walls, changed the kitchen, and so forth. In the process, they tore off a lot of the trim around the bases of the rooms. And a lot of other lumber, too. Old wood. All of which was piled up outside to burn. And after a goodly pile had accumulated, they lit the thing. Flames devoured the wood, and it all went up in smoke.

The fire burned until it burned itself out. All the old wood was gone, except for a few small remnants that had burned off and fallen far enough away from the flames to survive. And I don’t know why, but one of the men picked up one of those charred little remnants. Maybe he meant to pitch it onto the glowing embers that remained. But before tossing it away, to be lost forever, he happened to glance down, to look at the back of the old piece of trim. And on that tiny remnant, there was some handwriting. In pencil. Written in 1939. By my mother, when she was a young girl of sixteen.

I look at that, and I marvel. And I wonder. What was it like that Thursday in November, back in 1939? Sixteen. She was sixteen. Was it morning when she wrote that? Or later, in the cold dreariness of a Daviess winter afternoon? Did she sneak that writing in, on a stack of trim? Or did she do it openly, as her father smiled? Did her siblings, too, perhaps write their names on that same piece of trim, now lost in smoke? What was going on around her, as she took those few seconds to scrawl some lines on some wood? Did her mother chide her, and tell her to get to stop goofing off, to get busy with the housework? And a thousand other things. I wonder. I’ll never know, but still, here is this frozen moment in time, preserved for all of history. But more importantly, preserved for all her children. And her children’s children, and beyond.

Any way you look at it, the fact that this little piece of trim survived the twin ravages of time and fire is nothing short of a miracle. I believe that. I really do. Look at it. Charred on two sides, almost the flames took it. Should have taken it, by any measurable standards of mathematical randomness. Taken it away forever. In which case we would have been none the wiser, because we would have never known. But against the longest odds, here it is.

Nathan and I gaped. Then drooled. And the kind young man motioned to me. And spoke.

“It’s yours,” he said. “Take it and keep it. It belongs to your family.”

Awed, we thanked him. And I brought it back home with me. And since I have no children, and have pretty much zero prospects of ever having any, I gave the little treasure to my brother, Stephen. He has sons to carry on the Wagler name. Including his oldest son, named after me, because he was born on my birthday twenty-eight years ago. Which is the only reason he was forever saddled with a name like that.

Ira Lee Wagler, when it gets passed on down to you, preserve and value this treasure for what it is.

Alrighty, then. How about the Super Bowl? It should be a great one, but it’s hard to think that it could match either of the League Championship games last Sunday. Both were classics, ending in abrupt, absolute heartbreak for the losing teams. And with one slightly different outcome, one slightly different bounce of the ball at any given time in either game, the Harbaugh brothers could just as well be facing off across the field come a week Sunday.

I’m for Eli, and the Giants. I take seriously the business of despising certain teams in sports, and the Patriots are right up there close to the top of my hate list. Not that I don’t respect them. I do. A lot. Bellichek and Brady are among the very best at what they do. Not just now. But in all of the history of football.

Much of my intense dislike for the Pats was forever cemented a few years ago, on that 18-game win streak. When they went undefeated, all the way to the fourth quarter of the Super Bowl. In many of the regular season games that year, the Patriots blew out their opponents. Didn’t respect them. Brady kept throwing touchdowns when the score was 45-10, or some such ridiculous thing, in the fourth quarter.

When you reach the top of such a rare place, the peak of a mountain that very few have seen, you better have some class. Some respect for where you are. And realize how fleeting it all is, and how soon it will all be gone. Sure, there’s all sorts of excuses. Football is football, and teams should play to the best of their abilities all the way through. That’s lame, though. When a team is beaten, pull back a bit. Don’t push faces into the mud when you don’t need to. That year, Brady and his bunch of bullies did just that. Pushed faces into the mud.

And Eli and his boys took them down. In the closing moments, in spectacular dramatic fashion. It was a beautiful thing to see. Ruthless arrogance shocked and humbled by the harsh reality of the final score. Pretty much the whole world cheered, except for maybe a tiny region around Boston. That was definitely the most satisfying Super Bowl in my memory. Just to see it happen. To see the football gods smile and serve some justice.

This time, the Giants will be more respected. But probably still underdogs. I hope it’s a good game. I’d settle for a yawner, though, as long as it’s the Giants winning in a total blowout.

Say not in grief, “He is no more,” but live in
thankfulness that he was.

—Hebrew proverb
________________

Tuesday night. After supper. I was settled in at my computer, ready to work on the draft of the blog for this week. My cell phone clattered. Titus Wagler. He hasn’t called much, lately. We connect now and then, but either he was at the phone shack at the end of his drive in Bloomfield and calling to chat. Or there was something else going on.

I answered. This is Ira. And Titus didn’t hem around, or anything. Told me the reason for his call. Chuck Leonard had been killed that evening, an hour or two before.

I reeled. No. I knew the man was old. In his eighties. But still. I just saw him right at six weeks ago. In Bloomfield, at my book signing.

“Was it an accident on the road?” That’s the first thought that hit me. Chuck had trouble with his eyesight the last, oh, decade or so. He worked as an Amish “taxi.” Hauled people around in his old van. I knew he had trouble seeing, and just figured maybe he’d run off the road or smashed into another vehicle.

“No,” Titus answered. “He was changing the oil on his truck, and somehow it rolled down and pinned him to the wall.

Changing the oil on his truck. An eighty-three year old man, who had been a mechanic for decades. Yeah. He’d done that thousands of times before. Still, this time it got him.

“Aaah.” I half groaned, half breathed. “Seems impossible. I guess it was his time.”

And Titus told me of how they had heard the sirens in the distance, heading west. Wondered what was going on. He had called an acquaintance in West Grove. Ronnie Harris, Chuck’s neighbor. Ronnie told Titus what had just come down. Chuck was still alive when the medics reached him. Spoke to them. But then, he just left. And now he’s gone.

We talked a bit more, then. Half-stunned, I thanked Titus for thinking of me right away. And for calling with the news. We hung up.

And I think of the grieving family, and I see them all as they were way back when. Chuck. His wife, Mrs. C. His daughter, Margie. And his sons, at least the ones I knew. Chuckie and Jamie. I see them all in the bustling flow of their lives when I first knew them. And remember so much of who he was. Chuck. Charles Leonard.

During the course of my long and often troubled journey, I have known very few people with a kinder heart. And I have known a lot of people. It wasn’t even a conscious thing, to him. I don’t know if he would even have considered himself kind. But he was. It was just a part of the essence of the man.

I know few details of his background. He came from somewhere west and south of Bloomfield. Appanoose County, I think. From a hardscrabble background. Where you worked, if you wanted to eat. Once in a while, he told me tales of how it was. And it was tough. He joined the Army during WWII, but never saw combat, thankfully. He married. Had children. Then divorced. Then met and married Margaret, a devout Catholic. And the kind and caring woman I always knew as his wife. He practically adopted Linda, Margaret’s daughter from a previous marriage. They had three children of their own, he and Margaret. Charles, Jr., forever known as Chuckie. Margie. And Jamie. I saw them grow into their teenage years. Listened to the tales they told in those turbulent years of their lives.

For years, Chuck and Mrs. C ran a truck stop close to the intersection of Rt. 63 and Rt. 2, west of Bloomfield. By the time my family moved to the area, though, they had opened the little café and repair garage in West Grove.

I didn’t hang around the café that much, for the first few years. Stopped in shyly now and then for a Mountain Dew or an ice cream bar. Mrs. C always smiled in welcome. I had no idea that one day she and her family would mean the world to me.

I had my first dealing with Chuck after Marvin Yutzy and I headed down to Florida in 1981. Sometime that summer, I think it was August, we headed back home for a few days to visit. In the old 1972 Cougar with the 351 Cleveland engine. On the way up, somewhere in Georgia, the 351 Cleveland started overheating. We pulled into a gas station along the interstate, a ramshackle place, and conferred with the bearded redneck mechanic.

He found the problem, some sort of hose that was clogged or something. And, of course, he had no parts to fix it. So the bearded mechanic ambled to a nearby tree, broke off a slim branch and sharpened it with his pocket knife. Unhooked the hose from the engine and forcefully pounded in the sharpened stick. Wherever the hose was taking the water, it didn’t matter much if it didn’t get there. That’s what the bearded one claimed. Marvin and I were extremely dubious, but we knew nothing of engines and such. Besides, the bearded one seemed confident, and he didn’t charge us a cent. So off we went. And, miraculously, we drove straight on through to Bloomfield.

That week, I stopped by to see Chuck. Clad in his old green, greasy coveralls, he greeted me cheerfully. And I asked him. Could he possibly rig up something less, well, primitive? So we could make it back to Florida. He opened the hood, leaned in and looked. Exploded in a high-pitched guffaw. “You got a stick stuck in your engine block,” he hollered. “Never seen anything like it before in my life. Oh, boy.” His high cackling laugh echoed through the little shop.

And then, talking all the while in a rambling flow of words, the man grabbed a section of hose and some fittings and got to work. In less than half an hour, he had everything where it should have been. But I had another problem. Marvin and I were traveling on a shoestring budget. Our normal state of living. You pretty much winged it, to get to where you were going. And our cushion of cash was very small. “How much?” I asked timidly.

I forget the total. Maybe thirty bucks or so. Whatever the amount, it wasn’t enough, for what he’d done. Still, I stammered nervously.

“Any way I could charge it and get the money to you later?”

“Sure,” Chuck said agreeably, as I sagged with relief. “But I’d really like to at least get paid for the parts. Twelve dollars.” I’m sure he figured that was all he’d ever see. I gladly paid him the $12, thanked him and left. He wished me a safe trip back to Florida.

And that was Chuck Leonard. Good-hearted. Kind. Even to a relative stranger like me. For all he knew, he might have never seen me again. Yet, he was always way beyond willing to help out, even if he probably figured he’d never see a cent for his labor. He got paid, though, for what he did for us. Marvin and I made sure of that. But how many other forlorn wanderers never got it done? I’m sure there were more than a few, throughout the years.

It was after we returned from Florida, settled in and joined the Amish church, that I “discovered” the café. Began stopping in, now and then. Quietly, nervously at first. But not for long. They all welcomed me, Chuck and his customers, as one of their own. Many a time over the years, Chuck retold the tale of how I had showed up with a pointed stick pounded into the engine of my car. He never could get quite finished without almost doubling over with laughter.

I couldn’t grasp it at the time, how much the café and its people meant to me. I just couldn’t. And the anchor of that place was solid. Chuck and Mrs. C. They held it together. Kept it going. Looking back, I’m sure there was never quite enough money to go around, never quite enough to pay all the bills. But somehow, they managed to make it work. All while raising their three children.

After Titus had his devastating accident in 1982, all my friends at the café rallied around me. Comforted me as best they could. And after Titus returned home from rehab, Chuck decided to step in. He offered to come and get Titus once a week, and take him to the café to hang out for a few hours. Just to get away. And somehow, strangely, Dad didn’t fuss much, if at all. And so Chuck came, every week. Rolled in with his old car. Always cheerful and excited. We pushed a smiling Titus out in his wheelchair and helped him into the car. Sometimes I went along, sometimes Chuck took him by himself. A few hours later, they returned. All that took time and effort from Chuck’s busy day. And yet, he never asked for a cent. And we, of course, never thought to offer.

And the day came when I left Bloomfield for good. For many years, I’d keep in touch with what was going on by calling now and then. Chatting with Mrs. C. Of who was doing what. And who said what. Gradually, though, I drifted away. But always, when I returned to Bloomfield to visit, usually over Christmas, one of my most important stops was at the home of Chuck and Margaret Leonard.

His little shop burned to the ground, around 1990 or so, I think it was. Or thereabouts. From this distance, the years kind of blend together. He had no insurance. Lost all his tools. People from the community, including the Amish, rallied and built a new shop for him. But he never recovered from that loss. It never was the same. He bought a fuel tanker truck and began hauling and selling heating oil and gasoline. Delivered to most of the Amish, at one time or another. He was well known before in and around West Grove. But after he began delivering fuel, he became a legend in the entire Bloomfield Amish community.

And here I want to say that Chuck was widely known and well-loved by the English people in Bloomfield, too. He was simply a local legend. But I come from the Amish world, so that’s the anchor of my perspective. I am in no way detracting from what and who he was to his myriad English friends and customers.

His old fuel truck was soon a familiar sight on the gravel roads around Bloomfield. He puttered about, faithfully making his deliveries. If he ever had a bad day, you wouldn’t know it. Always smiling, always cheerful. Genuinely friendly to all. And in the cab of his truck, he carried a bucket full of magical goodies for the children. A bucket full of bubble gum.

They always waited in small clusters to meet him as his truck rolled in. Most of those children are now young adults or older. And their memories pour forth. On the day Chuck was scheduled to deliver, they made sure to lurk about, waiting. Tousle-haired, and barefooted. And he always rumbled in, smiling and waving. He chatted with them, treated them with respect, took the time for them. Gave them gobs of bubble gum. And they loved him for it.

And as they entered their Rumspringa years, the troubled ones confided in him. Told him of how it was. Of their confusion, of their rage and pain and fear. He listened sympathetically. And he spoke compassion to them. Don’t you think you should wait to leave until you are at least eighteen? Sixteen is really young. It’s a tough world out there. You want to be careful with your choices. I’m sure they didn’t always follow his advice, the troubled Amish youth of Bloomfield. Maybe not even often. But they heard him speak.

I wasn’t there, so I can’t say for certain, but I’m sure his home was always open to those youth. Even after the café was closed and torn down in the mid-90s. That’s just who he was. He never had a reputation of actually helping them leave. He was too wise to do that; he knew their parents, too, and could see things from both sides. But the youth knew he was their friend.

You never really sense it in the moment, the impact a person has. Only in a time like this, in retrospect, does the true measure of a man like Chuck emerge. He never had much in material things. But he possessed great treasures in his heart. And he freely shared those treasures. There’s hardly a person, Amish or English, around Bloomfield who doesn’t have his or her own favorite “Chuck” story. Fondly recalled and fondly told. And there are a lot of Amish and ex-Amish men and youth out there who owe this man a great debt. A debt that can never be repaid.

He’s gone now. But we can honor the memory of who he was, those of us who knew the man. And experienced first-hand his heart of kindness and compassion.

You were there for me, Chuck Leonard. You and your family. Way back when I was struggling in despair through the tough slog of daily life. Searching for something beyond, something I could not find. You opened to me the doors of your heart and your home. You didn’t question the how or why of it, you just reached out and embraced a lost and traumatized Amish youth. Not to guide, necessarily. But just to be there, to offer a safe haven. And here I speak to all the world of my debt, my deep gratitude to you.

The Lord of the whole universe now holds you in His hands. And may you know in all eternity the true fullness of Christ’s love. Which is a deeper measure of the same love you gave so freely on this earth, to even the least of those around you.

Charles (Chuck) Raymond Leonard. 1928-2012. Rest in peace.

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…

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

An ordinary morning at the office a few weeks back. I was working at my desk when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the number. Unfamiliar, but local. I answered. Ira here.

The caller stated his name, and briefly, his reason for calling. He had just picked up a copy of my book yesterday. A mutual friend had recommended it. Last night he had sat up way late. Read all the way to the end. He just now called to tell me.

And with barely a pause, he launched. Unleashed a torrent of words. His story. From way back. He had left the Amish decades ago. Been excommunicated. All his life, he carried the frustrations of that choice. The deep wounds of being cut off from his family. Of the bitterness he battled again and again, all through the long years. He nearly wept as he thanked me over and over. Thanks for telling your story. It was time someone did. And still the words spilled from him as he talked, on and on.

I listened. Silently, sympathetically. Not that I could have gotten much in edgewise, anyway. The guy had obviously been deeply touched. And he was calling to tell me. Finally, someone he knew would understand. After five minutes or so, I gently interrupted him. I’m at work. I really appreciate your call. I really do. But I have to get back to work. Stop by sometime, and we’ll go have lunch. We’ll talk. Sure, he said. He thanked me and hung up.

At the book signing in Bloomfield last month, a stubble-faced guy walked in a few minutes early. I’d never seen him before, don’t know where he came from. He wasn’t one of my old West Grove buddies or anything. He stood in line, then approached me with his book and spoke his name. He had already read it, several times, he said. I thanked him and signed his copy. But he had come to tell me something more.

“This is an important book,” he declared solemnly. “It will be read for a long, long time. It’s an important book.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m very grateful that I had the chance to tell my story. And that my book was published by a major company like Tyndale.”

He seemed to think I hadn’t heard him. So he repeated. “It’s an important book. It will be read for a very long time.” The crowd behind pressed in on him then, so I didn’t have much of a chance to discuss why he thought my book was important. I thanked him again, and he moved on and out.

But I thought about his words later. A lot. Is Growing Up Amish an important book? Maybe. Maybe not. Readers will decide that. The market. And time, I suppose. It’s certainly not why I wrote it, to be important. Start out with a goal like that, and it’s a sure-fire way to never reach it. I write to write, to tell my story. Others can decide whether the book is worth reading, and whether it reaches the status of being “important.”

And those were two of the more memorable reactions to the book. I’ve seen and heard just about everything between. Along with some pretty strident criticism, too. Everyone has an opinion, one way or another. And I’m fine with that.

It’s been a good year. And I mean good. A year of harvest. When so many things fell into place. When so much came to pass, the stuff dreams are made of. When dreams come true, though, it’s not necessarily a relaxing time.

I’ve experienced just about every type of stress there is. Intense freaky stress. And the more reserved, silent stress, the type that really wears you down. I’ve gained twenty pounds, simply from not taking care of myself. A New Year’s resolution might be in order. Get back in shape.

I’ve recorded a lot of book-related experiences on this blog, as they happened. So I won’t go through all that again. Right now, I feel grateful and deeply thankful for all my blessings. I have to pinch myself sometimes, just to make sure I’m awake, that it’s all real. The Lord’s promises have never failed, but still, until you walk through that long, dark place where you desperately need them to be true, you don’t know what it is to really see those promises unfold. At least, that’s how it was for me.

Some numbers on the book. People are always asking. How many have sold? Are you quitting your “real” job? Are you rich? No. And no. I happen to like my “real” job a lot. The book has certainly achieved for me some degree of fame. But the fortune one instinctively associates with a bestseller in one’s mind, well, I’m still waiting on that. Sure, I’ll make a few bucks. And that’s great. I’ve already had replacement windows installed in my house, upstairs and down. And rebuilt my very tiny bathroom. All with the money from the book. It was way past time for both those little projects. And, of course, the evil, greedy tax man lurks out there, waiting to grab his share. So there won’t be any fortune, not unless the book sells a LOT more copies than it has to date.

As of now, there have been five printings. A total of around 50,000 hard copies. And around 15,000 eBook units have sold. Of the hard copies, around 10,000 remain out there in the market place, and Tyndale has about 5,000 stored in their warehouse. So a total of around 50,000 units, hard copy and eBook, have actually sold.

That’s more copies sold than most books ever dream of seeing. A respectable number. Very respectable, for a first-time unknown author. But it’s not huge. Plenty of other books out there have made a far larger splash, sold tens and hundreds of times more copies. My book has been a medium success, I’d say. Kind of like my blog. It gets a medium flow of traffic.

Probably another 10,000 copies would have sold, were the Amish and Mennonites not so maddeningly frugal. “Oh yes,” they write me cheerfully. Or even tell me to my face. “I bought a copy of your book and loved it so much that I’m passing it around to all my extended family.”

Which means anywhere from 10 to 50 people will read that one copy. That’s very nice, of course. The more people that read the book, the better. But it would be far nicer if some people in those extended families bought their own copies as well. Nothing anyone’s gonna do about it, though. That book-sharing habit is so ingrained into Amish and Mennonite culture that it’s useless to even grumble about it. All I can do is smile and nod.

I don’t know if the numbers out there represent the harvest of sales that have peaked and now will slow down. Or if the numbers represent the seed to be harvested. I hope it’s the seed, of course. That the book will keep selling and spreading. Wherever it goes, whatever happens, I’ve had my real shot at the real deal. And I’ve done OK. It’s just that, well, from an author’s perspective, it’s never enough. You always want more.

Whatever the case, I have to remain who I am. Can’t let it go to my head, that my book was moderately successful. My writing voice, silent for so long that I despaired of ever finding it, is one of my most treasured possessions. I don’t ever want to lose it. Which will happen, if I try to be something other than what I am.

The book has made its waves inside the Amish culture. It will continue to do so, I think, this coming year. It will be interesting to see what kind of structured response might emerge from those communities that are hostile to the book. I think that response might be forthcoming in 2012. Or maybe not.

Bloomfield, of course, has its problems with my work. And Aylmer, too, I’m sure. The official response has been muted. At some point, someone is going to say something. If not publicly, then privately. I’ll hear about it.

And in northern Indiana, too, I hear the book is not being well received among the Amish. Including my old friends, the people I knew there. I haven’t heard any specifics, just that they have recoiled from the book and are pretty hostile toward me. I’m not sure how many Amish people there have actually read it. Probably a few scanned it, and spread the word that the story is scandalous. I regret those reactions. I really do. I had hoped for at least an honest response. Tell me where I’m wrong. Show me what I wrote that wasn’t true.

And strangely, some few intellectuals (Certainly not all, or even many. Could be a tiny handful.), from certain slivers of the more progressive, mostly western Beachy-Amish and Mennonites, have been quite resistant to the book. In subtle ways, sometimes. And sometimes openly.

I’m not sure why. I guess they figured they were the gatekeepers. The ones who speak authoritatively about plain cultures, including the Amish. Their views are delicately nuanced, of course. And they recoil in horror at the raw, unvarnished details of my story. Their distaste shivers from their words and actions. They are stunned, pretty much in denial that a hick who graduated from Bob Jones University could get his story out there like that. Through Tyndale House yet, one of the largest and most respected Christian publishers in the world.

To them, to those stunned intellectuals, I say, relax. I’m as amazed as you are that my book got published.

That point of amazement, though, is pretty much all we have in common. You would have wished my book to be stillborn. To die before it could live. I wanted my book to hit the stratosphere. Which it hasn’t. So we both have to give a little, seems like, from what we would have wanted. One more thing, though. Stop reading my book through the skewed lenses of what you consider “literary criticism.” Which usually degenerates into just plain old criticism. I simply wrote my story. How it all came down. Sometimes, a story is just a story. And sometimes, a story honestly told reflects a lot of deeper things in life.

But apart from all the noise, I want to speak to you, my readers. The ones who have faithfully traveled with me, this past year. And before. You are the ones who made it happen. The ones who bought my book, and told your friends about it. You are quite a force, and I salute you all. Thank you so much for making this one of the best years of my life. Thank you. So much. I’m humbled and grateful.

The next year, 2012, will be a year of great challenges. And, always, opportunities as well. The future seems frightening, in so many ways. The world reels, from all the unrest and upheaval unleashed by the oppressive policies of increasingly tyrannical governments. The savage fruits of brutal and corrupt political power. Everywhere, we see and smell the fear. The uncertainty.

How it all will play out, no one knows. I’m not looking for anything pretty. In fact, I’m very pessimistic in the short term. Our 2012 presidential election will be the most vicious, scorched-earth political contest in our country’s history. There will be a lot of blood and fire and death across the world in the next twelve months. More so than usual, I think. It’s just shaping up that way. Some of that unrest, that blood and fire, will crash uncomfortably close to our communities, and our homes. I’m convinced it will.

And as those times, those events, invade our consciousness and encroach upon our lives, we will have to decide who we really are. All of us. Where we stand, and how we will choose to live. Where we place our trust. Both in each other, and in God. And as it all unfolds, we will be called to make our choices, to use or not to use the talents that we were given.

Whatever happens, I will write. Not because of any particular message. And not because I have anything particularly important to say. But just to speak. Of what I see from where I am. If no one hears what I’m saying, then it is what it is. I’ll write anyway. It doesn’t matter if no one’s listening. What matters is that I will have expressed myself.

A new year dawns. The old is gone. Never will there be another quite like it. It was a year of good things, a year heavy with the harvest of great blessings.

I look for great blessings in the coming year, too. Whatever happens, 2012 will bring new goals, new destinations. I’m tired, who isn’t? But eager. Eager to leave behind the safe walls of this shining city. Eager to strike out across the vast unknown one more time. I’m ready to battle the old dragons again. They’re still lurking out there. I’ll face and confront them. As I did before. Whack them back. And keep pushing on.

There will be times when I won’t quite know what’s going on. At least, if the past is prologue, that’s how it will be. But that’s where faith kicks in. Whatever the obstacles, they can be overcome. Will be overcome. In time, one at a time.

The new year, the future beckons. I’m thankful to be who I am, where I am. I walk forward with confidence. Calmness. And a little fear, along with a whole lot of other emotions. But mostly, I walk with a grateful heart.

Happy New Year to all my readers.

To live is to be slowly born.

—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
______________________

I’ve never considered myself a public speaker, in any sense. Never. I’m not a preacher. Or a teacher, either. Don’t have the patience, to painstakingly work my way through an outline, or whatever it is those guys use. And I don’t particularly enjoy the sound of my own voice. Mostly, though, I’m pretty much petrified by the thought of speaking in front of a whole room full of people. And the thought of stuttering and freezing up in front of a crowd. That’s the stuff of nightmares.

Seems like when it comes to doing new things, especially the unfamiliar, intimidating stuff, I always have to be dragged kicking and screaming through that next doorway.

In 2007, my world imploded in shambles around me. From the ashes of the fiery wreckage, I began to write. Something I should have been doing for decades. I always knew it in my heart, that I should be writing. But I never did, because it was just too hard.

While negotiating my contract with Tyndale two years ago, I fussed and fumed and grumbled savagely but silently to myself when Carol Traver insisted on a continuous, connected thread throughout the book. That was something I had never done before. Ever. But she was adamant. No “sketches.” She wanted a real memoir. I was terrified, but smiled and promised her I would write it. I wasn’t quite sure how, but figured I’d worry about that later. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, and all that. The continuous, connected story turned out pretty well, I think.

After the book was released, the Tyndale marketing team lined up a slew of radio interviews. And it was quite daunting, at least the first one. A fifteen-minute live slot. The producer called. Put me on hold. The music cued. Then the host came on live. Today we have Ira Wagler as a guest. Author of “Growing Up Amish.” Welcome, Ira. At that instant, it was sink or swim.

Somehow, I stayed calm. At least, my voice did. And somehow, after we got into the subject matter of the Amish and the book, I relaxed. Let it flow. A few minutes in, I was good. I knew this stuff. Instinctively. With no forethought or planning. I knew it. After that first interview, I never again freaked in even the slightest sense as the next one loomed.

The connecting thread spiraling through my little anecdotes: I never did any of those things until I was pretty much forced to. Except for the writing, maybe. No one forced that on me. It was just a natural reaction to severe emotional trauma. But still, it took that trauma to get it triggered. And in every case, once I took that first step through the door that somehow had swung open, it all worked out. Every time.

And I didn’t really think much of it, one way or another, when a nice lady called me a few months ago. Would I consider attending her book club meeting sometime? To discuss my book? Of course. I’d be honored. She was from Garden Spot Village, a premier retirement center located right in New Holland. They had a small book club there, about fifteen people. And someone had recommended my book. They would read it, then we would discuss it when I came. We settled on a safely distant date. December 7th.

They seemed quite excited that I would attend, the people in the little book club. I’ll say that much. They even did a press release, a tiny notice that appeared in the Sunday News about a month ago. Invited the public to attend. Ira Wagler, local author. Wednesday afternoon, Dec. 7th, at 2 PM. As the date approached, I got a few “reminder” calls from the excited people. I was planning on being there, right? Oh, yes. Yes, I was, I always assured them.

I didn’t fret about it, hardly at all. Or think much about what I’d say. I knew my stuff. And soon enough, the day rolled around. Around 11:30, I left work and headed on over to New Holland. My hosts met me in the main foyer. They would take me to lunch first, then we’d set up in the room where they met. They had reserved a much larger room, they informed me. Plastered posters all around Garden Spot Village. They were looking for a good crowd.

I’d never before toured Garden Spot Village. Never been inside, except the main foyer. That’s where the locals vote. Where I wrote in Ron Paul’s name, in the last presidential election. And will again, in the next one. Garden Spot is famous in the region as a very desirable retirement facility. It’s like a little city in there. And pleasant enough, surprisingly. Huge apartment complexes connected by a center hub. A cafeteria. A full service restaurant. I mean, one could live in there and never have to leave for anything. Which is kind of the idea, I guess. But you can leave on excursions into the outside world anytime you want to.

We sat at a reserved table in the restaurant and ate a fine meal. And it was fantastic. We chatted about this and that. I quickly gathered that the place was very much like any small town. Everyone knows what’s going on, who’s doing what, and who said what. I wouldn’t call it gossip, just chatter. Mostly newsy stuff, sprinkled with opinions.

At 1:30, we headed to the meeting room on the third floor. I had brought a full case of books, which we trundled along on a little cart. You always take your own books to a signing. Just in case anyone wants to buy a copy. We stepped out of the elevator and walked into the room. Good-sized, with over a hundred chairs, a small podium at the front. I was amazed to see the room already filling with people. Twenty or so when we arrived. And in the next 25 minutes, the place filled up. People from within Garden Spot, and people from without. Many clutched copies of my book. I sat at the table and signed and sold books for a while before we started. And then 2 o’clock rolled around. The nice lady walked to the podium and introduced me, to a great storm of clapping. And then I stood to address the crowded room. More than a hundred people. Assembled, to hear me speak.

And amazingly, I was fine. A brief five-minute intro. Who I am. Where I come from. And the book. How it came to be. How I consider it a miracle, the way it all came down. The fact that it exists at all. And then I said, from here on we’re going to talk about what you all want to talk about. Are there any questions? Half a dozen hands shot up.

I took all the questions, one by one. Spoke back. Naturally. Relaxed. And more questions poured in, thick and fast. All were valid, some more so than others. A few, whether by accident or design, tried to back me into a corner. Tried to get me to pour some concrete, to say negative things about the Amish. I stayed on message. On what I believe. About the Amish, and about Christians in general. Sure, there are fakes out there. People who are focused on works, on rules. Sure, there are Amish people like that. Of course there are.

But the Amish are not that different from any other people. A little different, maybe, because of their austere lifestyle. But they are human, just like anyone else. And sure, among the Amish, there are people totally depending on their works to save them. Such people exist in a whole lot of other denominations, too. A whole lot. But just because you are Amish does not mean that you are lost. I fought that theme, again and again. No. I will not condemn the culture. No. I won’t. In fact, I highly respect the Amish people. I could never live like that, but I will always defend their right to believe as they see fit. Religious freedom is key to any free society. Whether or not the beliefs of any specific group make any sense to me, or to the mainstream. Details don’t matter, not when weighed on that scale. Freedom does.

The minutes rolled by. Many questions focused on the details of the book. Sam Johnson. Did he really cut you off like that? Yes. He did. But he also heeded the call, way back, when my soul was at stake. Did what he was asked to do. What happened between us after that doesn’t matter all that much. God uses His flawed children to call His lost children home.

There were a lot of questions about Bloomfield. And Sarah. Where is she now? That was of great interest to all. I answered carefully. Her identity was totally changed in the book. Some remnants of the Amish world might know who she is. But the English world will never know, not from me. Had there been any way to omit her completely from the story, I would have. But there wasn’t. Not without gutting a good portion of the heart of the narrative. Whatever the repercussions, my story is my story. And, as the Tyndale people told me, I have the right to tell it. As we all have the right, and sometimes the obligation, to speak of where we’ve been, and where we’ve come from.

It went fast, and all too soon 3 o’clock rolled around. Time to stop. One last question. Then they all clapped. And I returned to the table and signed and sold books. And chatted briefly with each person in line. Thanked each one for coming. Pretty much all of them seemed thrilled. Then it was over.

I had stepped through one more doorway. And it felt great.

I’m ready now, for the first time ever, to offer to speak before groups of people. Groups, say, within a two-hour radius of Lancaster. And beyond, really, if there’s a big enough crowd. And if my travel expenses are paid. I never could quite imagine that this day would come, but it has. So if any of you, my readers, would like to arrange a book talk, contact me. In the next few weeks, I’ll post a specific page up there on the top of my blog. Probably gut and remodel “The Ellen Years” page. It’s about time for that, I’m thinking. In the meantime, if you’re interested in setting something up, just shoot me an email from my “Contact Me” page.

The journey of the book has been so much more than I could ever have imagined. At least to this point. And that journey, I think, is far from over. There will always be another doorway ahead. Somehow, I’ll get pushed through each one as it looms.

And I’m OK with that. Looking forward to it, even.

I haven’t mentioned his site since a few years ago when he launched it. But lately I’ve been perusing Wagler Wisdom, my brother Jesse’s blog. Jesse has that Wagler drive to express himself, and he does it well. Mostly just his personal take on things. He’s certainly not shy with his opinions, which is cool. Gotta keep up the old family traditions.

He also does something I usually don’t. My stories are mostly from memory. From the things I saw, the things around me. From my childhood on. Jesse does actual research on stuff. Digs up old articles of interest and such. Posts links. And lately he came up with a rather startling document.

It was written by Joseph (Joe) Stoll, my cousin, Dad’s nephew. Joe co-founded Pathway Publishers with Dad, way back in the 60s. A little fact that I’m pretty sure was included in the first draft of my book, but somehow got edited out. In 1966, when I was five years old, Joe Stoll wrote a brief article on the then-current state of the Aylmer Amish community. Complete with history, and statistics.

Many, I know, will find such stuff dry as chalk on a blackboard. But it’s amazing to me that somehow, lurking around on Google, Jesse found that article that someone (NOT Joe Stoll) had posted. And linked it to his blog. The first-hand account of the founding of the Aylmer Amish community pretty much backs up my version. I wrote what I had always heard, the things I remembered. I never saw this article before. To me, it was just fascinating to see that the actual written details so closely resemble the stories I heard as a child.

And it’s almost Christmas time again. Seems like it snuck right up on me, like it does every year. I don’t get too riled up about any of it. Accumulate and consume, if that’s your thing. Spend next month’s rent on gifts. Or spout grave noble proclamations, decrying the crass commercialism of the times if that makes you feel better. So be joyful. Or be sour. Whatever works. I’m all for leaving people alone to make their own choices about such matters.

I buy gifts for very few, and expect gifts from no one. It’s the freest way I’ve found, to celebrate the season.

I’ll share the Christmas feast with my brother Stephen and his family. Celebrate and watch some football. And if I’m lucky, somewhere along the line, maybe I’ll snag some Roasht from my Amish friends.

Meanwhile, if you are casting about for gift ideas, may I offer my suggestion?

Merry Christmas to all.

There is the bridge we crossed…and the creek. There is a field
of wheat, a hedge, a dusty road, an apple orchard, and the
sweet wild tangle of a wood upon a hill…And there is six o’clock
across the fields again…We shall not come again, we never
shall come back again…

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

It had the makings of a classic gathering from the moment the plan was conceived. The younger elements of the clan, all my nephews and nieces and their families, were invited back to Bloomfield for Thanksgiving.

My nephew, John Wagler, lives a few miles north of Bloomfield, with his wife Dorothy and their children. John left the Amish church years ago, but did what I could not do. He remained in the area. Nurtured the construction business he had launched as a young Amish man, kept it going. And developed it into the primary metal roofing business in the tri-state area. He met and married Dorothy (or Dort, as she is known), and planted roots just outside the fringes of the area where he was raised. Bought a farm and built a fine log home. All outside the fold of the Bloomfield Amish church structure.

Months ago, he emailed me. He was inviting all his cousins, all my nieces and nephews, to his home for Thanksgiving. Would I consider attending as well? Of course, I said yes. My brother Nathan lives in the area and works for John. So a couple of the uncles would be there as well, to celebrate with their kin. And to keep the younger guys, our nephews, straightened out.

I had to return to Bloomfield sometime, I knew. At some point, after the book was out. I had to return. Just to see the land again, the community that now seems so strange and foreign, and those few of my old friends who remained.

And it wasn’t long after the date was set that John and Nathan were making noises about having a book signing in Bloomfield. It would work, they claimed. The English people would come. Maybe not the Amish, but the English would. I thought about it. It should work. Then John texted me the number to the Get-Togather Room, an old store front on the north side of the town square that had been converted to a community place. One could rent it, John said. I called the number and spoke to Pam, the nice lady who takes care of the scheduling. Yes, she said. The Room was available around Thanksgiving. The cost would be $35.00 for three hours. So I got it scheduled, then rescheduled to Friday afternoon, the day after Thanksgiving. From noon to 3 PM.

And then I put the whole thing on the back burner. Didn’t think about it much. The time would come when it came. As it did, soon enough. I had half a case of books at home. I ordered two more for the trip. A total of around 93 copies. That should be enough for any book signing.

I planned to start out on Sunday, before Thanksgiving. Meander my way west past Indianapolis, stop for the night, then cruise on in to Bloomfield on Monday. When I went to Enterprise to pick up my rental car on Saturday morning, the nice lady kindly mentioned that she had a couple of new Dodge Chargers on the lot for just a few bucks more than the compact model I had reserved. My choice of colors. Black or cool-orange. My ears perked up. Dodge Charger. I’ll take the orange one. The nice lady seemed pleased.

She brought it up to the front, and it was one cool car. A mean-looking powerhouse rum-runner’s wheels. I practically drooled. This would be a good trip. I wouldn’t be running moonshine, though. I’d be running books.

The Book-runner.

For an 8-day road trip, I pack a lot. Throw everything I might remotely need into a large red suitcase and a couple of duffle bags. That night, I began packing the Charger. Lugged out my cases of books. The cool glossy sign of my book cover. And the next morning, by 8:00 or so, I was pulsing down the road in one of the coolest cars I’ve ever driven. Unbelievable power. And unbelievable fuel mileage. On that trip, I averaged better than 30 mpg. The fuel gauge didn’t go down, hardly. It just sat there, unmoving.

Bloomfield has a brand new two-story motel. A national chain, no less. Cobblestone Inn and Suites. I don’t know why anyone would have built such a thing in that town, but there it was. And John had negotiated some reduced rates for the “Wagler group.” By Monday afternoon, I was unpacked and settled in a clean new room with a king-sized bed.

Out then, for the evening at John’s house, halfway up to Ottumwa. The boy (to an uncle, a nephew is always a “boy”) has done well for himself. Very well. Some years ago, he built a big beautiful log home on his wooded farm, toward the center. And lately he’s added a big new wing off to one side, with a tower out the top. A garage below, bedrooms on the second floor, then the tower. The view from the tower is breathtaking. I’m thinking John might be “hunting” deer from the warm comfort of his own house in the not too distant future.

A few guests had already trickled in, John’s siblings. More would arrive Tuesday. And the rush would come Wednesday. I hung out that night at the house, chatting with John and his brother Glen, and their brother-in-law, Josh. Nathan had slipped off to the Des Moines airport to pick up his girlfriend Juanita, a lovely lady he met a few years ago in Canada. They arrived around 9, welcomed by clamorous shouts.

On Tuesday, I putzed around. Nathan and I drove out to see Titus. He was in the office of his truss factory, Midwest Truss, stressed and busy. For the first time in their history, they are running behind in filling orders. Which is a good thing, to have all that work. Titus manages the place, and logs a full day of work every day. Better that way than sitting around, twiddling your thumbs. Better too busy than too slow.

That afternoon, I stopped by the offices of the local weekly paper. The Bloomfield Democrat. There, I met Scott Spurgeon and his father Gary. The local press. The week before, Scott and I had talked on the phone for about an hour. He had read the book, and promised to do a write-up on it. He would announce my Friday book-signing to the Bloomfield world. To both the English and the Amish.

The new edition of the paper arrived at Scott’s office around 4:30. He beamed as he handed me a copy. And there it was, on the front page, top left corner. The first spot that catches your eye. “Growing Up Amish” author will hold book signing. Scott had kept his promise. The article was informative, well written, and accurate. I couldn’t have asked for better publicity. I bought ten copies, thanked him profusely, and left. That night I hung out at John’s home with the ever growing crowd of guests.

On Wednesday morning, I drove to West Grove to see Mrs. C, the lady who ran Chuck’s Café decades ago. The café is gone now, leveled back sometime in the 1990s. But their home is still there, the same place where I used to watch a bit of football, now and then, as a young Amish man. Mrs. C, now 80 years old, but looking much younger, welcomed me with a big hug. She beamed and beamed. She had read the book, and seemed very proud that she and her family played an important role in it.

With Mrs. C and her daughter, Linda Clark.

And then I headed on out on the gravel road to the old home place. The farm two miles north of West Grove. My nephews Glen and Mervin, and their brother-in-law, Jason Stutzman awaited me. They had agreed to walk back with me to the northern pasture where I had buried the Stud. To visit his grave with me.

The old rickety wooden bridge that spanned the Fox River is gone now, too. Washed away, many years ago. In its place, a brand new modern concrete bridge. They even changed the curve of the road; it now sweeps way north and slices into the rich black bottom fields I used to plow.

The mud-spattered Dodge muttered and bumped along the rutted lane as I approached the old homestead. A tattered cluster of buildings nestled into the hills. The place has been crumpling for decades. It was far from a tidy operation back when I farmed. But compared to its current condition, it was pretty much picture perfect back then, neat as a pin. Some Amish man and his family from Wisconsin bought the place and moved in six or eight years ago. The guy apparently has an issue with simple maintenance. Might be against his religion, or something. Seems like a shame, but it’s his place now, and he can do what he wants.

Approaching the “tattered cluster.”

The old house is in bad shape.

The old washhouse, where Mom was working when Nathan walked out and left.

Few emotions surfaced as I approached the tattered buildings. Those were all pretty much burned out of me last year when I immersed myself and went “way deep down” to relive the scenes so I could write them for the book.

I thought I remembered the draw where the Stud was buried, and Glen claimed he could lead me to the spot. We set out, tramping up the old lane to the north, navigating a number of single-strand electric fences that somehow had sprouted in haphazard and completely random patterns through the fields. Around the first draw, then down to the dry creek at the bottom of the hill, dodging the wicked electric wires. And then Glen walked right up to it. The post I sank beside my horse as the sun went down on that long ago night.

It leaned dangerously, right over the Stud’s body. Weathered with age, the top covered with moss, a few raggedy remnants of his halter still clinging to the top. And there I stood, on that spot, where I had buried my horse twenty-five years ago.

On the way back, we walked over to the old pond. Where we used to play hockey on the cold winter nights, way back. Where Sarah and I sat on the bank, where she wove that ring. I stood at the spot where we sat. The pond is a mud hole now, and no grass grows on the banks that produced the woven ring all those years ago. The ring that I still have today.

The spot where we sat.

The woven ring.

John had cooked up a huge pork feast for that evening, but Nathan, Juanita and I headed out for a meal with Titus and Ruth. And their boys, Robert and Thomas. They all welcomed us. Ruth bustled about, preparing a large pot of milk-based bean soup. The same recipe Mom used, way back. Laced with bacon, bits of greens like celery. It smelled simply mouth-watering, and, smothered in corn bread and covered with ketchup, it tasted even better. Exactly as I remembered it.

We later joined the huge crowd at John’s house. They could not all make it, his cousins, but a good many did. From all over. Canada. Indiana. Missouri. Kansas. Minnesota. And maybe a few other places I’m missing. My sister Rhoda and her husband Marvin even showed up that night, with their children. I had not seen them since the book was published. We greeted each other joyfully. It was a loud, boisterous crowd.

Thanksgiving Day arrived, and it was all it could have been. A great many people from diverse places, from various degrees of “plainness” to flat-out “English” like myself, all assembled in peace. Around sixty people, total. And children, children everywhere. This is how it should be, how it should have always been. This was my family. My blood. Eating, feasting and enjoying the company of each other.

After the Thanksgiving feast, the group photo.

John had set up a vast U of tables in his new garage. There was smoked turkey. All the fixings. And some of the finest pies I’ve ever tasted. Including my old favorite, raisin cream. The Lancaster people, those of shoo-fly fame, could learn a thing or two about pies from the Midwest Amish. The garage echoed with the clamor of our feast. And of our joy. That afternoon, people relaxed. A van load of us, including John and Marvin and Rhoda, took a tour of the old Bloomfield community. Somehow we ended up at our old home place again. It was probably the first time Marvin and I stood together on that soil since the days we farmed it long ago.

The day passed at hyper speed, as all such days do. I went to bed late that night, slightly stressed about my book signing the next day. Would many people show up?

The next morning at 9:30, Nathan, Juanita, my nephew Reuben Wagler and I met at the Get-Togather Room. Surveyed the situation. A smaller room up front, where we would set up the table with the books. And a much larger room in back. And in the back storage room, a host of tables and chairs. We set up tables in the back, for people to sit and visit. And my book table up front, decked with a tablecloth I borrowed from the very kind lady who operated the flower shop a few doors west. I lugged in my books. Two-plus cases. A total of 91 copies (from the original 93, I had given Scott Spurgeon and one of his workers a copy each). Set them up. I then ran out to buy some incidental stuff I needed while the others raced back home to fetch a large coffee urn and Styrofoam cups. They had decided we needed coffee for my readers.

We were all back and settled in and set up by 11:45. Five minutes later two ladies strolled in. They were the first. From that point on, for the next 90 minutes, the little front room was crammed with people. Some brought their own copies for me to sign. Most wanted to buy a signed copy. Nathan sat beside me at the table and took the cash and made change. I smiled and signed books and thanked each person for showing up. It was all very intense and it was all very good. The stuff memories are made of.

The rush is on.

I had rented the Get-Togather Room for three hours. The minutes rolled by, then an hour. People came and some hung around and some left. All clutching books they had purchased, books I had signed. In the back room and behind the old counter to the right, my nephews and nieces milled about, talking, drinking coffee, visiting, absorbing it all. And chatting with those who hung around for a while. Scott Spurgeon, the news guy, lurked about with his camera, taking pictures for a follow-up article in his newspaper. It was a bustling, flowing scene, and I could catch only snippets of it, because I was too busy signing books and chatting briefly with those who had come to see me.

The crowds kept pressing in, and grabbing my books at an alarming rate. And right at the 90-minute mark, halfway through, the last book was sold and gone. Every box was empty, the table was bare. This was truly a remarkable and unprecedented thing. At least for me, it was. I had not expected such a turnout.

But there was a backup plan. I dug into my briefcase and got out a batch of promotional cards Tyndale had printed up for previous signings. With many profuse apologies, I signed and gave out those cards and told people to please purchase the book locally. At Wal Mart in Ottumwa. Which is chronically out of my books, from all the tales I heard. And the Welcome Center in Bloomfield stocked it, too. Try there. Most people took it in stride. One or two, though, were visibly disappointed and upset. Stalked out silently. What could I say? Who could have seen this coming? I was hugely mortified. A big book signing, right in my old home town. Bloomfield. And I had run out of books, for crying out loud. I would have been upset, too. Inexcusable.

But it was what it was. I greeted each new customer with a smile and many apologies, and signed and handed out the promotional cards.

I always keep a tally of books signed at every event. As three o’clock rolled around, I totaled the tally. I had signed 135 books. And 42 promotional cards. By far the most autographs I had ever signed at any previous event. By far.

Many of the old timers who used to hang out at Chuck’s Café have passed on. They were old back then, and the years have taken their toll. But some remain. And a good many of them showed up. I don’t know who was the proudest. Me or them. Probably me.

Of the old-timers I used to hang out with, Chuck Leonard showed up. The man of Chuck’s Café fame. And his daughters, Linda and Margie. And even Bill Gibson walked in, the man who ran the old feed store in West Grove, way back. I didn’t recognize him until I heard him speak. I proudly signed his book.

With Chuck Leonard, of Chuck’s Cafe

And one other important character from my past walked in. DeWayne Cason, and his wife, Debbie. Debbie arrived first, with her daughter, Amy, and Amy’s husband. I greeted them, and practically demanded to see DeWayne. Debbie made some calls. Assured me that he was coming shortly. And soon enough, he walked in. The man who had dropped me off at the Ottumwa bus station, the first time I left home at seventeen. We hugged. And picked up right where we had left off, with our bantering chatter, almost thirty years ago. It was a very special moment among a host of special moments.

With DeWayne and Debbie Cason.

Ed Yoder, too, drifted in with his family. A good friend that I have not seen for decades. Actually, we became good friends through this blog and on Facebook. The last time I remember seeing Ed, I was holding him upside down in our barn after church one Sunday. He was an exceptionally mean little kid. And he was messing around in our milking barn that Sunday after church, doing some sort of mischief that I no longer remember. So I grabbed him and held him upside down and scolded him severely. We both laugh about it now. Ed, as an ex-Amish guy who fled Bloomfield at age 16, traveled the long ragged path so similar to my own. Took off on a few side trails that I somehow avoided. Today he is settled in Illinois, with his lovely wife and children. It was good to meet him after all those years, and to reminisce together about the old days in Bloomfield. Unfortunately, the one lone photo of us together did not turn out well, so there is no visual evidence of my claims.

And right at 3 PM, we wrapped it up. Cleaned up the place. It was over. My Bloomfield book signing. A smashing success. I felt exhausted. And exhilerated. Mostly, anyway.

Often, a writer is given no honor in his home town, at least not from the people about whom he wrote. And that was certainly the case for me in this return. Not a single Amish person from the Bloomfield community came to the signing. Not one. Which wasn’t that surprising, really. The Bloomfield Amish are hunkered down. In denial. That was their choice, not to come. And that’s fine. They are free to act as they see fit. But their absence also speaks strongly about their reactions to the book.

It shouldn’t bug me. I know. The rejection apparent in their collective reaction. But it does, some. I’ll admit that freely. I guess I’m so far removed from their world that I no longer can grasp what it’s really like. At least not in any rational sense.

History, I believe, will judge my book kindly. As one of the first, if not the first, honest stories from someone who had emerged from inside the Amish culture that was ever picked up and published by a major player like Tyndale. The story was honestly told. And respectfully told, without bitterness. At least, I tried hard to make it so.

But that, of course, was not enough. It never is.

Always, there is the manufacture of offense. Always, the obstinate refusal to look honestly into the mirror. Always, the cultural flaws, the human failures of the past are ignored as if they never happened. And heaven help the one who remembers and speaks of them to the world.

I’d like to shake them, the Bloomfield Amish. (And the Aylmer Amish, too, come to think of it.) Shout in their faces. But I won’t shake them. I won’t shout in their faces, either, at least not literally. I’ll speak to them on this blog, though. And I have a few things to say.

The book should not be feared. It’s simply my story, from what I saw and felt and experienced. From my perspective. I have never claimed it to be anything other than that. Everyone’s journey is different. This was mine.

Stop. Focus on what I just said. Just this once, instead of honing in like a laser on all my perceived offenses. Try it. Try being honest. You will experience vast new dimensions of freedom such as you have never known.

The book is what it is. And it will be what it will be, in the future.

I sprinkled a lot of pictures, or photos, on this blog. Far more than I normally do. They show the actual spots where things came down, and some of the actual people that were in my world way back in my Amish days in Bloomfield. And one might ask, as some have. Why weren’t those photos included in the book? A valid question. But I think back to something my father told me years ago, when I was grumbling to him about the fact that the Amish have no pictures of their people, or of their past.

“You don’t need pictures, not if your writing’s good,” he said. “The words paint the pictures for the reader.”

I’ve thought about his words many times since he spoke them. And what he said is true, at least to some extent. I won’t say never, but I don’t think you will ever see any pictures of places or people in any books I might write in the future. The words will produce those in your mind. This blog is the proper place for real pictures, to reinforce the mental images you have already formed.

And that, pictures and all, was my return to Bloomfield. A journey I will always remember fondly in my heart. Wildly successful in many meaningful ways, an utter failure in others. I don’t know when I’ll make it back again. I don’t expect to ever see the old house on the homestead again. Word is that the guy from Wisconsin who now lives there is making noises about tearing it down and building a new one. I don’t blame him. The house is literally falling apart. In some of the more populated areas of the country, like Lancaster County, it would be condemned as uninhabitable. And to be truthful, most if not all of the buildings on that farm should be bulldozed. Just leveled out. That’s how dilapidated they are. The deterioration has reached a point that is painful to see.

Next time I come around to the old home farm, it will no longer be the place I have known. The place I left so many times, the place that drew me back like a magnet again and again. That place is gone. Just….gone. It’s hard to grasp. The end of one era has passed. Another has begun.

The tides of time roll on, the seasons and the years. As they always have, and always will. Absorbing the new generations, the new blood that rises to replace that which was before. But the land remains, silent and enduring, until the end of time. And it will always harbor in its soil the remnants of memories of long ago. Memories of all those who settled upon it, and the woven tapestries of their lives. Even if they lingered there for only the briefest of moments in the long slog of the human march through time and history.

The memories remain, rooted in the land. Memories that will all too soon be lost, in the dark fog of time and history. Unless someone writes them.

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

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

I went back again to Daviess last week.

There’s never time, really, when the unexpected news arrives. And one can’t always make it. But when the word came early last week, I knew that I would go to Uncle Ben Yoder’s funeral in Daviess.

Only three of Mom’s siblings have remained with us for some years now. William. Sarah. And Ben, who almost expired last winter in Florida, due to complications from cancer. But he pulled out of it, and got a lot better. Even returned home to Daviess. I last saw him at my book signing there in August. He seemed to get around pretty well. But we all knew the time of his passing likely would not be long.

He passed away in the early morning hours on Tuesday, Nov. 8th. The funeral would be on Friday, the 11th. My sister Rachel sent me the texts with the news. I didn’t have time to go, really. I mean, I’ve taken off a lot of days for my book promotions this year. And next week, over Thanksgiving, I’ll be gone for a full week. But still, I thought, how many of Mom’s siblings have I ever honored thus? Only one, that I could think of. Aunt Anna, a few years back. But that was it.

So I decided to go. To simply take the time. This time. You can’t always make it, to every funeral. And no one gets offended if you don’t. Or shouldn’t, anyway. But this one was important in so many ways. Both to me, and my siblings.

We never knew Mom’s side of the family. Not really. We knew who they were, and chatted with them in passing. Ben was always the quiet one. Never had much to say, one way or another. If you had a conversation with him, you’d have to do the talking. He would answer your questions, but rarely ask questions of his own. I’m not sure where this silent trait came from. Maybe from the Yoder side. If so, that silence sure never got passed on to us from our mother. Not to that level, at least. We’ve always made ourselves heard, always clamored about, whether or not anyone was listening.

I don’t fly, not unless I absolutely have to. Not because I’m scared or anything. I’ve flown dozens of times in the past. But it’s a matter of principle. Barring extraordinary circumstances, I won’t walk the TSA “security” gauntlet, won’t let the goons bark and paw at me as if I were a dangerous criminal. That whole system has no legitimate purpose, and I refuse to accept it as anything other than brute government intimidation on a massive scale. So I just don’t fly. I’ll drive two days instead. And once they bring that same level of lawless intimidation to all our roads, which they are doing now in several states, I don’t know what I’ll do. Go back to a horse and buggy, maybe.

And so I set out on Thursday morning, early. Didn’t rent a car this time, but drove Big Blue instead. I don’t mind the low gas mileage so much, but I do mind all those miles accumulated in a matter of a few days. But this time, for some reason, I decided to let them pile up. What’s the use of having a truck, if you don’t take it on a road trip once in a while? It’s twelve hours, to Daviess. A long, long drag. I settled in and zoned out, and by six o’clock that evening, arrived at my friend Glen Graber’s guest cabin outside Odon.

Weddings and funerals. That’s when most families gather, when they rarely do so otherwise. For my family, though, it’s more the funerals. Because of the Amish thing. Depending on the community in which the wedding is coming down, you can’t invite your non-Amish relatives. Like Aylmer. And Bloomfield. And in those places, you can’t attend the weddings of your non-Amish kin. It’s verboten. But funerals are different. Open to all who will come. And the Amish from both those communities can attend non-Amish funerals as well. So funerals it usually is, when my own clan gathers.

I cleaned up a bit, changed clothes, and drove on over to the viewing. The church yard was packed out. About then Titus and Ruth arrived from Bloomfield. I lifted him from the van and onto his wheelchair and we headed in. I was surprised and pleased that six of my siblings had made the trip. Joseph and Iva from Mays Lick, Kentucky. Maggie and Jesse and his wife Lynda from South Carolina. Naomi and Alvin from Arkansas. Rachel from Kansas. Titus and Ruth from Bloomfield. And me. A pretty decent showing, from Ida Mae Yoder’s family. We greeted each other joyfully, surprised that so many of us had come.

Ben’s family and their families seemed very glad to see us. We mingled and visited with each other and with many relatives who were total strangers. In such a place and time, at least in Daviess, it always goes the same.

Some nice lady I have never seen before (or certainly can’t remember seeing before) approaches and excitedly exclaims my name. I smile and shake her hand. Oh, it’s good to see you, she gushes. I smile. And then I simply say, I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are. Are you my cousin? It’s best to just confront it, I figure. Get the awkwardness right out there. So we can both laugh. This happened a lot that night and the next day. Eventually I placed a few faces with a few names. Don’t know if I’ll remember them, though, the next time. Probably not.

After the funeral service was over late Friday morning, we all gathered in the church hall for a meal. One thing I’ll say about Daviess; those people sure know how to cook and bake. Simple, scrumptious food. Daviess is home to the finest cherry pies in the world. Far better than any I have ever tasted in any other Amish community, including Lancaster County. And I should know. Mom used to bake them. And they had those pies there, at the funeral meal. Same texture, same taste, two generations after Mom’s time. In Daviess, they know how to preserve and carry on the good traditions.

Around mid afternoon, Joseph, Naomi, and Titus all departed for their respective homes with their respective spouses. That left four of us siblings. Maggie, Jesse (and Lynda), Rachel and me. Jesse allowed he wanted to go see some relatives. He used to live in Daviess, and knows his way around. So, with one of my sisters riding shotgun, I tagged along behind him in my truck.

After a few stops, we pulled up and parked beside the plot of ground that holds more Waglers per square foot than any other in the world, probably. The “Stoll” grave yard, a few miles north and east of Montgomery. I probably had been there decades ago, but don’t remember. Here rests a host of relatives from both sides of my family, including my grandfather and great-grandfather.

The story of my great-grandfather, Christian Wagler, was unknown to me until I was an adult. Unspoken, the story was, except in whispers that I could not hear. But mostly just unspoken, as a blackened blot on the family name.

He killed himself. At age thirty-six. Shot himself in the head with a gun. They still know the exact spot where it happened, or close to it. Used to be the Gerome Raber farm, back years ago. I don’t know who owns it now. Supposedly, Christian, who had a history of severe mental problems, took the rifle and told his oldest son he was walking out behind the barn to shoot some sparrows. And when the son heard the rifle’s crack, he ran out to check. The scene that greeted him has never been accurately described; it remains a horror buried way deep down there, in the annals of my family’s history.

We’ve always heard that Christian was buried outside the grave yard fence. That’s what they did, back then. Still do, in some Amish communities, when someone takes his own life. But there is a lot of dispute today, as to whether that really happened. Whatever the case, Christian now rests well within the boundaries of the grave yard fence. Not exactly in the middle or anything, but certainly inside the fence. So either the tale was never true, or the fence has been moved since his day. Who can know? Or who really cares, one way or another, except his descendents?

The story of my grandfather, Joseph K. Wagler, was told and retold in my childhood. A deacon in the Amish church, a stern dark grim man. (Not sure if I’d even want to meet either Joseph K. or Christian in person). But well respected, from all I’ve ever heard. He too, passed in a most untimely fashion. While pitching oat bundles into the threshing machine on a hot summer day, he collapsed and slid off the wagon.

The events are recounted only from memory. No one wrote down the specific details, unless someone’s diary might yet surface and bring them to light one day. So there is some dispute even now as to how exactly how it all came down. The accepted version: they carried him to a nearby tree and laid him in the shade. He passed away there on that spot. Another version from an eyewitness claims they carried him into the coolness of the nearby milk house. And that’s where he died. Who knows? Does it matter?

We strolled leisurely through the Stoll grave yard and stood by their headstones, these two men so connected to my past. I exist because of their seed. Genealogies never meant much to me, growing up. Or mattered much, one way or another. But lately, I have grasped and accepted the importance of knowing and connecting to my roots. Who I am. Where I came from. Why I am the way I am.

After dropping the ladies at the motel in Montgomery to get some rest, Jesse and I boarded Big Blue and took off. This time, we headed out to explore the territory our father knew as a child. Familiar with the area, Jesse told me where to turn and where to go. First stop, the farm where my parents lived as a young married couple, after my father returned from CO service after WWII.

A few miles north of Montgomery. The house is newer, built since my parents lived there. The outbuildings sag in a state of sad disrepair. The old barn torn down, only the foundations remain. Another outbuilding, a shabby structure minus a roof, will not long survive. We got out and wandered around a bit. Tried to imagine how it was, all those years ago, on this ground that my father worked from dawn to dusk. And my mother, bent and toiling in the garden in the mid morning sunlight, her young small children tagging along by her side.

On then, almost straight east as the crow flies. To the farm where my father grew up. On the way, we approached the crossroad where he went to school. Parson’s Corner. It was a public school back then. The Amish bought the property decades ago. I believe the school has been in continuous use ever since my father attended there as a youth. That is a remarkable thing.

And then back south, less than half a mile. And there, on the left, the farm. Where he was born and raised. Almost ninety years ago. The old house was torn down and a new one built in the year I was born. 1961. The great old barn still stands, and a few other ramshackle outbuildings. We got out and walked around the windswept barnyard.

This, too, is a remarkable thing. To stand where your father stood as a child. To see what he saw then, in that same frozen moment, as the late afternoon shadows crept in. To see the very spot beside the old barn where the threshing machine was set up on the day his father died. And the old milk house, where the raggedy barefoot boy poured foaming milk from dented pails into large sweated metal cans settled in the water tank, and slopped some to the cats. This is where he was born, where he lived and grew, where he formed into the man he was.

We stood there, strangers in a strange place, and absorbed the moment. My own history, at least for many years, was one long trail of constant, restless movement. Of running to and fro, here and there, to no particular destination. This spot, this place, stands as a symbol of something strong and resilient. Something from long, long ago. Something that has remained.

This is Daviess. The land my father fled many decades ago, when the wanderlust struck him. The land he left behind. The land that lies buried in the ancestral memory, the land that calls me back again and again.

But we are strangers to this land, my father’s sons and daughters. And, except for some few rare and fleeting moments, there can be no return.

Avid hunters, we tramped through cornfields and pastures in
pursuit of pheasant and quail. And in season, we hunted deer
from before dawn until dusk. Our successes were rare but
greatly savored.

–Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish
____________________________

Hunting. It’s kind of like fishing, I suppose. Maybe worse. It’s the reason a lot of embellished tales get told in every imaginable setting, usually inflicted on unwilling listeners with frozen smiles. When accosted by someone who’s been bitten by the hunting bug, there is no escape. So one may as well hunker down and take it.

And it’s that time of year again. I can always tell at work, because at least one of my yard guys disappears mysteriously every now and then. For a full day, right during the work week. Mixed in with the Amish wedding season here in Lancaster County, things can get a little hectic once in a while. But I try to let my yard guys manage their own schedules, as much as possible. As long as the work gets done, hey, do what you think you have to. I’m a laid-back boss. Maybe too laid-back at times.

It’s not that I’m against hunting, or anything. It would be a good thing if the deer herds in suburban PA were thinned out a bit. I have no sympathy whatsoever for Bambi. And I used to hunt, decades ago. Quite fervently. So I know what it’s all about. But after I left the Amish, it just didn’t seem that important any more. So I quit. Don’t miss it at all, really.

We always had a few guns knocking about, on the farm in Aylmer. Before I was born, Dad bought an old J.C. Higgins bolt action shotgun. 16 gauge, which is an odd gauge these days. And we had a couple of .22 rifles. Used for shooting pests like groundhogs and sparrows and starlings.

The rule at our home was this. We could shoot a rifle after our 12th birthday. We got a pocket watch at 11, and could shoot at 12. I remember well the day my brother Stephen took me out behind our old concrete silo and showed me how to handle the gun. A bolt action .22. I knew how to work the bolt. After some stern instruction and admonition, he handed it to me. I lifted it to my shoulder, pointed it toward the hill to the south. Unclicked the safety. And probably flinched just a bit as I pulled the trigger. Of course, there was absolutely no recoil. Just a sharp “crack” and the quick whine and whump of the bullet as it hit the dirt.

A gun is a tool, like any other. You gotta respect it, of course, or someone could get hurt or killed. Just like one could get hurt or killed by a host of other tools. Like tractors, trucks, and in the case of the Amish, horses or machinery. When I hear the hysterical squeals of gun haters, I shake my head in disbelief sometimes. And disgust. From all their shrill incessant braying, you’d think a gun just up and kills some innocent person on its own any time it takes a notion to. Which is just silly. It doesn’t. Never has. Never will.

But back to being twelve. With my newly granted rights, I soon took to haunting the fields and woods. Always careful, I grew more confident with each excursion. Shot sparrows perched in trees or on the Martin box. And soon developed into quite the fearsome groundhog slayer.

Groundhogs are pests on farms. Dig their burrows, willy nilly, in the pasture fields. We always heard tales of how horses and cows stumbled into those burrow holes and broke their legs. A country legend, I think. I never saw it happen or heard of it actually happening anywhere.

Our pasture fields in Aylmer were dotted with groundhog burrows. I soon honed some pretty impressive stalking skills. Sometimes during the heat of midday, sometimes as the sun was sinking, I walked out with my rifle. Spotted a groundhog sunning himself or just relaxing outside his “doorway.” And began the long, slow stalk, creeping steadily toward my prey when its head was turned. Always freezing on the spot when the rodent looked my way. They didn’t seem to recognize me as a threat, as long as I wasn’t moving. Sometimes my quest was successful; often, though, I came up empty.

One evening after supper, as my sister Rhoda watched from afar by the pasture gate, I crept within ten feet of an alert groundhog. A big dude, sprawled and relaxed on the ground. I saw the hair of his whiskers, and the graying on his hide. Froze and moved as he looked my way, then away. Then I slowly, carefully raised my rifle. Took a careful bead through the open sights. Tensed my finger on the trigger. The rifle cracked spitefully. The frenzied groundhog instantly rolled over and disappeared into his hole. I checked for blood. There was none. I had missed. Too close, I guess.

There wasn’t a whole lot to hunt, in Aylmer. Mostly pests, always open season on those. Groundhogs. Crows. And in the fall, squirrels. Large red squirrels. Rats with bushy tails, really. In time, I graduated to Dad’s old 16 gauge shotgun. In the woods a quarter mile south of our home, I shot my first squirrel one September day. I lugged it home. And learned how hard it is, to skin one. Tough animals, they are. And not particularly tasty, either. After that, squirrels didn’t have much to fear from me.

Back before we moved from Aylmer to Bloomfield, Dad bought a new single shot 12 gauge shotgun at the Canadian Tire store in town. It was a cheap import, but a beauty, at least in our minds. The thing I best remember about that gun happened out of hunting season, one hot summer day.

We kept a flock of broiler pullets in a little shack in the pasture just south and west of the barnyard. White chickens that pecked about in the grass. It was mid morning. And suddenly, someone shouted, “FOX!” We all rushed to the barnyard gate and looked. And there was a fox, tearing back and forth through the squawking broilers, biting one here, chasing one there. The fox seemed weak, staggeringly weak. It stumbled blindly about, chasing, catching and biting chickens.

Such a strange thing was most unprecedented. A fox doesn’t just show up in broad daylight like that. Not unless there is something seriously wrong with it.

We milled about excitedly, watching. Stephen quietly rushed to the house and grabbed the new single shot 12 gauge. Loaded it. Walked out to us. Then through the gate and over the fence. The fox was still chasing and chomping the wildly excited chickens.

Stephen approached the uproar of squawking white feathers. And the fox suddenly stopped chasing chickens. Stopped, and stared with bleared and sickened eyes at my brother. Stephen planted his feet in the classic shooter’s stance. Lifted the single shot 12 gauge. Seconds passed.

And then the fox charged. Right at Stephen. An emaciated little bundle of orange and white, fangs bared. The scene is riveted in my mind as if it happened yesterday. Stephen tensed. And when the fox closed in to about twenty-five feet, we heard the loud “boom” of the gun as the barrel lifted in recoil in Stephen’s hands. The fox instantly collapsed. Dead, silent, on the ground. No quivering or pawing. Just a sad, dead little heap.

No one touched the corpse. Instinctively, we knew. Foxes don’t act like that, unless they are insane. Or unless they have rabies. That afternoon, Dad called a vet. The vet came out within hours and took the fox with him. In about two weeks, we got the verdict. Rabies. The fox had rabies.

No one was infected, including the chickens. Fowl cannot contract rabies. That’s what we learned, way back then. And that was the end of that little incident.

When we moved to Bloomfield, it seemed like a land of Canaan. A land teeming with wildlife, compared to Aylmer. There, my buddies and I tramped the woods and fields for pheasants, quail, foxes, coyotes, rabbits and deer. We pursued the conquest of the hunt with all the energy and passion only the most avid hunters know.

By the time I left in 1986, wild turkeys were moving in. Since then, all that wild game has prospered and multiplied. Southern Iowa harbors some of the biggest whitetails in the country. Deer as big as cows. And bagging a turkey is no big deal these days, from what I hear.

Like I said, I don’t hunt anymore. Haven’t for more than twenty years. Got nothing against it, though, and I mean that. I just can’t see the sense in dragging myself out of bed at 4 AM, and heading out into the cold damp woods to sit and freeze, all because of a rather faint hope that some hapless deer will wander by. If that’s your thing, more power to you. It’s just not mine.

But there is a deeper reason, I think, that I no longer hunt.

It’s because there are so many other options now. Hunting is one of relatively few activities the Amish can pursue for simple enjoyment. At least in many communities. One of the few things they can really get into. And it’s acceptable. After I left, I soon realized there’s a vast smorgasbord out there. So many things to see and do. So many choices.

And as new dreams were born and my interests expanded, some of the old ones gradually faded until they disappeared.

*************************************************
Several months ago, I went to an outdoor evening party. I don’t attend many such events, especially where there will be a lot of strangers. But my good friend, a man who writes for a living, Shawn Smucker invited me. So I went. And quite enjoyed the experience, really.

There were indeed many strangers present. Including a lady I now consider a friend, Janet Oberholtzer. Janet and I got to talking. She had heard about my book, and seemed quite interested in my story. Turns out Janet was on the doorstep of having her first book published as well. She has an astounding story of working her way back from a devastating accident that very nearly claimed her life.

Look at the book cover. That’s her leg. And the woman runs. Miles and miles every week.

I don’t usually read books of this type, but I was intrigued. So I got my copy a few weeks back. Read chunks at a time, as best I could in the evenings. Janet’s story is one of dealing with the really brutal stuff that never hits most of us. Hers was an extraordinary journey. After the accident, after beating the odds just to survive, Janet was told that her left leg would probably have to be amputated. That’s how bad it was. But she prevailed through it all. It was a long, tough slog.

After you walk through something like that in your life, there are a few things that could happen. You could just give up. Alive, but not really. Or you could function at some level, an emotionally scarred wreck. Or you could choose to live, to heal, to attack the obstacles, to reclaim your life, to never surrender to the darkness. Which is what Janet chose to do. And because of her choices, here is her story.

The thing I most appreciated about the book was Janet’s raw honesty in describing every stage of her journey back from the brink of death. It permeates the narrative.

I’m glad I went to Shawn’s party. And I’m glad I met Janet. You can meet her too, by ordering her book on Amazon.

“If every family would just do as they pleased,
what kind of church would we have?”

-Bishop Sam Mullet
________________

I was about as floored as anyone, I suppose. The media sure had a field day with the juicy reports. Amish people invading the homes of other Amish people and cutting off the beards of the men. And, at least in one case, forcibly cutting the hair of the women in the house. The news flashed in headlines all across this continent. And across the world. Befuddlement ruled, mostly. Such shocking stuff had never been heard before. Surely it was all just a farce. It wasn’t, sadly.

I instantly and instinctively realized the story would be good for my book sales. And almost immediately, my Amazon numbers, which had been languishing between 10,000 and 20,000 in the rankings, rocketed up. For a couple of weeks now, Growing Up Amish has pretty much been hanging right in there between 3,000 and 10,000 in the rankings (watch it plunge back to where it was before, now that I went and said that). I don’t know exactly what that means in real hard numbers. A dozen books a day, maybe. But when the subject of the Amish hits the headlines, there’s no such thing as bad publicity, not when it comes to sales of my book.

Along with a host of Amish and ex-Amish people, I read in disbelief as the details trickled out. And mostly, I won’t rehash those details in any depth. Just give my take on the entire sordid episode.

I did make some calls to few trusted contacts in Holmes County, though. Just to get a first-hand feel of all the buzz. And to try to sort the actual facts from all the media hype. My contacts were most helpful. One of them was very closely involved in the aftermath of these events.

It’s a terrible thing, to really grasp. People entering your home, and cutting off your beard. I mean, that kind of religious zeal went out the window, at least in the West, centuries ago. What is this, the second defenestration of Prague? Back then, they committed all kinds of atrocities during frenzied religious disputes. In a way, I couldn’t help but laugh at the mental picture in my head, though, of these beard-cutting incidents. How whacked can you be, to think you’ll get away with something like that in today’s world? Sheer madness, in every sense of the phrase.

It all stems from one man, and that one man’s decisions. Bishop Sam Mullet. From the pictures I’ve seen, a well-fed man. Not plump, particularly. But smooth. And well spoken. Looks Amish as they come. Large nose. Weathered but not unhandsome features. A patriarch with a full flowing beard that widens as it lengthens, well combed. Adds gravitas and all, such a beard. Could even be a source of pride, I’m thinking. Wonder how Bishop Sam would feel if someone forcibly cut that majestic beard from his face.

And there he stands, addressing the media. Confident. Arrogant. Smug. Yes, this was a church matter. No, the law shouldn’t be involved. And no, his group is most definitely NOT a cult. How could anyone suggest such a scandalous thing? And of course he didn’t order the attacks, didn’t order his followers to go cut beards and hair from Amish men and women in the sanctity of their homes. Of course not. But yet, his denials echo hollow. (Since that one hour-long interview, he’s been awful quiet. I bet his lawyer told him to shut up.) Why then, did his followers do such a preposterous thing? Did they just dream it up on their own? And follow through, without his blessing? Maybe. But I think not.

And here, it might be good to speak of a bit of background history. Of who Bishop Sam was way back when, and who he is today. My conclusions are my own, and should not be construed as anything other than my opinions.

The timeline of events seems a bit murky, so I didn’t spend a lot of time researching the dates and such. Because they don’t really matter that much, not to the essence of the story. From my Holmes contacts and from a New York Times article, I pieced earlier events together the best I could. So some of my background “facts” may be a bit off, as to exactly when they happened.

Bishop Sam emerged from the strict plain Amish settlement in Geauga County, up near Cleveland. The Geauga Amish have always had an unsavory reputation. Just a notch above the Swartzentrubers. “Low” Amish. Uncouth. Rough. Hard core, far more so than the mad bishop who tormented me all those years ago. Their laughter is hard and mirthless. Many drink. Or smoke. Or both. And their youth practice bed courtship. All the bad stuff my father raged against in his writings, all his life. That’s Geauga.

Some decades ago Bishop Sam moved to a similar settlement in Fredericktown, Ohio. Somewhere along the line, he was ordained, first as a preacher, then as bishop. I have no idea when. He relished his new position, and reveled in his newfound power. And ruled over his frightened huddled flock with a crushing iron fist. Old Testament style.

At some point, then, in Fredericktown, for some reason or other, Bishop Sam got restless. In time, he made plans to move away to another place and take his flock with him. And he did. Moved to Bergholz, Ohio, with around fifteen other families. And so they settled in the Bergholz area, Bishop Sam and his little group of pilgrims. Set up their own little world, and their own little community. Revolving around the dictates of one man. The man.

The Bergholz community may not have been isolated at its inception, but it soon was. Before long, the rumors started trickling out. Murmured stories of what went on. Brutal things. Despicable, horrifying things. I won’t recount them, because they may have been just rumors. Or maybe not. Inside the Amish lines of communication, details get embellished sometimes. A lot, actually. It’s called gossip. But the core of that gossip is usually based in some seed of truth. It is true that Bishop Sam successfully defended himself from charges of child abuse, and then turned and sued the local sheriff for $2 million dollars. He didn’t get that, but he did win some sort of judgment for a far lesser amount.

Then, about five years ago, there was trouble in Thug-land, uh, Bergholz. I have no clue what that trouble was, but Bishop Sam suddenly and stridently excommunicated some members of his church. Perhaps because they dared to stand up to him. Or maybe they just wanted to leave, to move out. Whatever. But he just kicked them out. Perhaps he really believed that was the right thing to do. Most likely, though, he simply could not brook any form of dissent. Or departure from his cultish enclave.

The excommunicated members were deeply grieved. Felt they had been wronged. So they approached some other bishops in their Amish fellowship. Told their stories. They must have seemed credible, because the bishops were concerned enough to launch an investigation. And they found that the excommunications had indeed been unjust. They stepped in to correct Bishop Sam’s harsh and hasty edicts.

And all was functioning as it should have, in the Amish way of things. There are structural safeguards. Sometimes they work; many times they don’t. This time, it seemed they had.

Bishop Sam, however, reacted in a manner most unbecoming. Some say his response was an explosion of raw rage and fury. Instead of accepting the rebuke of his peers, he refused to acknowledge their authority. Wounded, as a wolf among sheep, he simmered and stewed and chafed. He simply could not and would not let it rest. Or let it go. And his little frightened flock huddled low and endured the turbulent spasms of his deranged and egotistical rage.

His will was law in his little commune, by all the accounts I’ve heard. Still is, for that matter. The thing festered in him, how he’d been so mistreated by the other bishops. How his authority had been challenged. How his decision had been overturned. And somehow, through the years, someone in his group came up with the idea of extracting revenge. Cut the beards and hair of those who had wronged him. Not saying the plan was Bishop Sam’s idea. He denies it. I can’t prove it, one way or another. But I’d bet the farm that it was. Not that I own a farm. But if I did, I would bet it.

And so the nefarious plot played out like it did. In several different areas, within a span of a couple of weeks. Gangs of men forcibly entered the homes of several, mostly elderly, Amish bishops, the ones who had been involved in overturning Bishop Sam’s excommunications. Held them down and cut off their beards. In at least one instance, the gang included women. They assaulted the household women and at least one young girl and snipped their long hair. At least two of Bishop Sam’s sons, and one son-in-law, were arrested and charged. As were a few others. From what I’ve read in the news reports, all of them are free on bail.

Obviously Bishop Sam was a charismatic or otherwise mesmerizing man, or he never could have moved into the role of social-outcast leader and kept so many loyal followers. And obviously, his sons could never break free of him. They see with hollow, vacant eyes, believing in nothing but their father. They are enslaved to him. A man of his character would never release control of his sons under any circumstances. And they never developed the backbone to stand up to him.

That’s their loss. Big time. They could have been so much more. Could have been the men they were created to be. But they threw it all away. Sacrificed themselves to their father’s will. For nothing.

As far as controlling his sons was concerned, Bishop Sam wasn’t that different from a lot of Amish fathers, really. Not in the aspect of absolute control. He just took it further, pushed it way outside the lines. So far outside the lines that he now stands as a caricature of the Amish culture that birthed him. A bitter, violent controlling man. And this time, I think, he probably pushed it too far. It’s going to come back and bite him. It just is.

This time, he miscalculated badly. He figured his goons could slip in and assault his perceived enemies without any repercussions. That the news would not spread beyond the local Amish communities. The Amish don’t believe in calling the cops, or pressing charges. So he could get away with it unscathed, he figured. There was no way he or any of his thugs would face charges. That’s what he thought. He was wrong.

The law wants him, bad. As a libertarian, I am strongly inclined to leave people alone, mostly, to reap the consequences of their choices. As I strongly prefer to be left alone, mostly. And, perhaps stemming from my Amish roots, I’m usually extremely reticent to get the cops involved anywhere for any reason. But this guy, well, it would be good if they nailed him. Put him away for a while. Providing they can produce some hard evidence, of course. Hearsay and gossip alone are not enough. The evil in his heart is not enough. They have to be able to prove that his influence and his commands were the driving force in these attacks. An extraordinarily high hurdle. Absent that, the man cannot be judged guilty in a court of law.

He knows who he is. We don’t, not really. We can only surmise from what we see and hear. Sometimes, even in the most “clear cut” cases, our perceptions can be deceptive.

It will be interesting to see how it all shakes out. Bottom line, though, is this. Bishop Sam and his little gang of thugs are not Amish. No more so than I am. Sure, they dress Amish. Talk Amish. Look Amish. But they have violated one of the foundational tenants of the Amish faith. Nonresistance. They have embraced violence, and there is not a single group anywhere in the “real” Amish world that would fellowship with these guys. Or have much of anything to do with them. Not one. They stand alone. As the renegades they are.

And that’s pretty much all I got to say about one of the most bizarre incidents ever to come down in all of Amish history.

*************************************************
All righty, then. A couple of book signings to announce. Coming up in November. On Saturday, Nov. 19, I will be at the Barnes and Noble Bookstore at the Red Rose Commons in Lancaster, PA. From 3 PM until whenever people stop coming. Hope to see some of you locals there. And maybe even some non-locals. Remember, a lonely author sitting there twiddling with his pen and smiling hopefully is not a pretty sight. Don’t let it happen to me.

And then, the following week, the week of Thanksgiving, I’m going “home” to Bloomfield, Iowa. First time since the book was published. My nephew, John Wagler, has invited all his cousins (my nieces and nephews, a good many of whom will show up) and several uncles, to his home for the holiday. I doubt I will hang much in the Amish community, except for stopping by to see my brother Titus. I’ll definitely do that. Otherwise, I’ll probably lay low.

Anyway, I will have a book signing in Bloomfield on Friday, Nov. 25, from Noon until 3 PM. (NOTE: THIS DATE HAS BEEN CHANGED FROM TUESDAY, NOV. 22nd TO FRIDAY, NOV. 25th.) I’ve rented the Get-Togather Room, a converted store front on the north side of the town square. All are welcome to bring their copies, and I will have a couple of cases of books with me for those who wish to purchase one.

I’m nervous and excited to be returning to Bloomfield. Most of the old haunts are gone now. Chuck’s Café in West Grove was demolished years ago. The community is no longer what it was. But the memories remain, stark and vivid. And many of my old English friends are still around. I can’t wait to hang out and reminisce.

It ain’t what they call you, it’s what you answer to.

—W.C. Fields
_____________

Well, it’s been a wild ride, these last three months. Seems like a lifetime ago, when I was eagerly anticipating the arrival of that magical date. July 1st. The official release for my book. Time, however seemingly frozen, does creep on. As it did. Day after agonizing day passed in slow motion. Until the day arrived.

And strangely, my pre-release inner turmoil escalated. The book was my impossible vision, my dream, my baby. Packaged and presented to the world. What would the world think?

From my gut instincts, and from my blog fan base, I figured the book would be well received, at least in a tiny sliver of the market. But still, the tension increased. Exactly as the Tyndale people had warned me. It’s the same for every author, even the wildly successful ones, they claimed. So just expect it. I tried to. But it was impossible to fully grasp the true meaning of their words until I experienced what it was they were talking about.

A few days before the official release, the emails started trickling in. I’ll never forget the first one. From a lady, over in the next county. Fairly local. She had picked up a copy at BJ’s Wholesale Warehouse. They had stocked the book a week early. And she had seen it there, picked it up, and read it. She was excited and highly complimentary. Seemed mildly astounded, even. The book spoke to her, she claimed.

And that was the first taste, the first feedback from an actual reader, at least one who had purchased the book. The reviews had been percolating out there on the internet for months. The great reviews. The merely good. And the ugly. But those were reviewers who had obtained an advance copy, some of whom seemed a little taken with themselves. They certainly weren’t real purchasers who had invested their own money.

Since that time, I have received hundreds of messages from readers. The vast, vast majority via email. That’s how people communicate now. And I don’t wonder at all why the Post Office is in deep doo-doo. They don’t deliver much any more. Ten, fifteen years ago, all those email messages would have been sent by mail. And I’d have tons of letters to answer.

I’d say 98% of the letters/messages are very positive. I’ve heard from many who have emerged from their own restrictive backgrounds. Catholics. Baptists. Jews. And many other denominations. I even got an email from a reader in Japan some time back. Somehow the story struck a chord with so many. The universal themes, the journey, the lostness, the searching. And the finding.

I have received a few letters, though. As in handwritten on a sheet of paper. Or typed. My work address is posted on this site. And some few who are not wired still crank out the old lines on paper. Send them in the mail. The emails are easy to answer, and I try to return a brief note to everyone who contacts me. Well, almost everyone. Spread the word. That’s what I tell them. After thanking them for reading the book, of course.

The real letters, though, well, that takes more effort. And so far, I’ve written back to only one such letter writer. Because she wrote one of the very best responses so far. A nice lady, from Massachusetts. Quite riled up, she was, and determined to set me straight. Instead of describing what she wrote, I took a picture of her letter with my iPhone.

After reading that, my head most definitely felt “booped.” And my rear end, well, it felt kicked as well. She nailed me. Did she ever nail me. And she was right on. Sarah did owe me one. Maybe she still does. The letter gave me some glimpse of how deeply some readers get involved emotionally. I am very honored to have such readers.

And Jean, if you read this, you got it done for Sarah. You really did.

Not all the messages are complimentary, of course. Or even cordial. Because, as always, there are the flamers (defined in Dictionary.com as Computer Slang; to send an angry, critical, or disparaging electronic message).

No one likes criticism, however valid. And yeah, I grew up hearing that old cliché. You learn more from criticism than from praise. Maybe so. But I sure ain’t never felt that.

It’s a trite truism, that one learns more from critics. Might be true. But I’d sure love to smash back at them in kind. Measure for measure, blow for blow. Sadly, though, I can’t. I’m the target. Anyone can take a swipe. Responding would only encourage more of the same. Arguing with critics just turns into one giant tar baby. Whack, whack back, and on and on. So I generally bite my tongue and brood instead.

And boy, are they ever out there, the flamers, furtively lurking in the safety of the vast impersonal world of the internet. Not in large numbers. But there. What motivates these people I won’t care to guess. But there they lurk and shiver in the shadows, their faces never clearly visible. Anonymity begets boldness. And boldness begets the occasional blast of mindless vitriol.

Which is fine, because that’s their right. But it’s not fun, if you are the recipient.

A few posted reviews on the book. And no, I won’t provide any links. But from their harsh cacophonous screeching, one might conclude the book might as well be burned. Destroyed. Certainly not read, by any sensible person.

And a few send emails. I usually read them, then hit delete. Cast them into the ether of outer digital darkness. A few weeks back, one such email arrived. Seemed innocent enough from the heading. I opened it. There was no greeting, no pleasantries. Just the terse lines. And no signature.

I’ve just finished your book ‘Growing Up Amish’. I can’t believe that
your writing of your self pity and self importance got published. I read
nowhere in the book where you cared for anyone other than yourself.
I read where you used everyone you could for self gain. If you really
think there is some ‘Jesus Message’ relayed in your book, your
badly mistaken!

I can understand why Sam lost hope in you.

I’ll call the guy Bob. Flamer Bob. I won’t use his real name, so he can’t preen and bask in some perverse self-aggrandizing glory. After recoiling a bit, I did what I always do with all such vitriol. Deleted it. Dumped it out. But a day or two later, I got to thinking. What if I engaged, just to see what gives? I planned to write a blog down the road about responses to the book. Why not post Flamer Bob’s letter, and a bit of correspondence? So I dug into the deleted bin and retrieved his letter. Wrote a brief response and sent it off to Bob.

Dear (Flamer Bob):

Sincerely,
Ira Wagler

Flamer Bob lay low for a day or so. Then he answered. Probably delighted that I had engaged, he actually observed some basic rules of politeness. Even signed off with his name. Might have been his real name, might not. All his correspondence is posted exactly as he wrote it. As is my own.

Dear Ira,
First, I don’t know what you mean by ‘win’ ! I am not out to ‘win’ anything !
What is it that you want to win ?
Second, I guess that I grew fond of your character (you) in the book and
continued to hope for a better outcome. Now I wondering when you will
write the second in the series titled, ‘Still Growing Up’.
And, quote ‘What exactly did you intend to accomplish by sending me your message?’.
Answer: a response.
Ira. After reading your book I can honestly say that I didn’t intend on accomplishing anything.

Thanks for responding
Sincerely,
(Flamer Bob)

And this was my final response. A bit terse, perhaps. But still, more polite than he deserved.

You, sir, are a Flamer. Google the term if you don’t know what that is.

Ira Wagler

And that was it, with Flamer Bob. I don’t know how he reacted, because he had no way to let me know.

I wonder who they really are, these people like Flamer Bob. In their everyday lives. And whether their flamer personas are a fraud. They might be the pleasantest people around, face to face. Neighborly. Helpful. Cheerful. Kind. And it’s only their alter egos that I see out there on the web.

But I doubt it.
**********************************

Last weekend I made the long trek to Shipshewana, IN, for a book signing on Saturday afternoon at the Davis Mercantile building. Shipshewana has exploded in the twenty-five years of my absence from the area. I remembered little of the countryside or the town. My hosts, Levi and Joanna King, were simply lavish in their hospitality. I met a lot of people during the 3-hour signing. Including some friends from way back I had not seen in decades. Even my wandering minstrel friend, John Schmid, showed up. He was in town for two nights of concerts.

Tomorrow (Oct. 8th) I will be at the Freiman Stoltzfus Gallery in downtown Lancaster from 11 AM until 1 PM, for a signing. An accomplished artist, Freiman is an old friend, and he has graciously offered his gallery for a signing. If you are in the area, stop by. And as always at any of my signings, bring your copy with you, or buy one there, or both.

My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways, says the Lord.
For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your
ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts.

—Isaiah 55:8-9
___________________________________________________

She doesn’t need a lot of introduction on this blog, at least not for my seasoned readers. I have more than a few times detailed her determined fight against the brain tumors that assaulted her again and again, these past four years. For Anne Marie Zook, it was never a question of whether or not she would survive. It was always a day to day struggle in a fierce battle, a tough journey through some really rugged terrain. A quest for some quality of life in a battle to stay alive until she no longer had the strength to remain.

Paul and Anne Marie, and their children, Cody and Adrianna, were among my closest friends for years. Back in 2007, when my world imploded, they quietly stood by my side. They didn’t say a lot. But their home was always open, always welcoming to me. And in time, I took to stopping by on Sunday nights for supper. And to just hang out, comfortable with old friends who provided what shelter they could from the storms that engulfed me.

And late that fall, in early December, the first boom dropped into their lives. I still remember the phone call from Paul as they were on the way to the hospital late that night. Anne Marie had taken some MRI scans that day. For severe headaches she was having. The doctors had just called. There was a tumor on her brain. With desperate, hopeful quietness, Paul told me they didn’t know whether or not the tumor was malignant. They would find out after the operation. They’d do lab tests. He’d keep me updated.

And within a week or so, they did the operation, there at Lancaster General Hospital. The doctors were amazed at her resilience. Within days of the operation, she was back home, recuperating. And we all rejoiced at this marvel. The tumor was malignant, of course. Some vile form of cancer, growing right on her brain. And we all held our breaths, wondering when and if the tumor would return.

For her recovery regimen, she chose the natural route. Rejected chemo and radiation. And within a month, she was back on her feet, at home in her house. This scenario would unfold several more times.

Within ten months, in the fall of 2008, the tumor returned. Again, they operated on her brain. At Johns Hopkins in Baltimore this time. And again, within days, she was back home, her head shaved on one side, smiling with delight to be in familiar surroundings. And again, we rejoiced that she was still with us. And again, we held our breaths.

And every Sunday evening, I stopped by to see them. That became the accepted norm. Unless I was out of town for some reason, or had an occasional obligation elsewhere, that was my time with my friends. And this is my story of that friendship.

My time with them was “normal” time. We rarely discussed her condition, or how she was doing. We talked instead of life as it was around us. Where the children would go to school next fall. Her garden. This and that and the other. My job, Anne Marie told me more than once, was to bring laughter to their lives. To be who and as I was before she ever had cancer. And I tried. We enjoyed many relaxed times, just laughing, chewing on the old jokes. Scolding each other with good-natured humor.

Often, though, as I was leaving, Paul would follow me out to my truck, and we would talk for a few minutes. The heavier stuff. Just he and I. Of what the future might hold for his wife. And his family. Of all the implications involved in being a young single father.

Less than ten months after the second operation, the tumor returned again. Again, off they went, to Johns Hopkins. And again, she was back home within ten days. Smiling, delighted for the life that had been granted once again. And always, come whatever, I drove over on Sunday nights to see them.

It’s not that they were not surrounded by a great many other friends, and I don’t want to leave such an impression. They were. Tons of support, from all around. Anne Marie’s old group of friends rallied around her faithfully. People from their church. And from the community all around. Anne Marie’s parents, too, made the long trek from their home in Vancouver Island more than once. And when they came, they usually stayed a while. A month or more. And I got to know them quite well as well.

And life went on, as life does. A vibrant, spirited woman, Anne Marie lived in the moment. Intensely, with joy. Reveled in her children. Walked the trails in the surrounding woods with them. Built fires in the stone ring in their backyard at night. Camped out in the rain. She loved the rain, somehow it seemed to wash her clean of fear and care. When I came around on Sunday nights, she always greeted me with a smile and a big hug. Welcome. Set and stay a spell. And we settled in, she and Paul and I, and talked of all the little things.

But always, pulsing below the surface, we heard the echoes of that not-so-distant call. Her breath, her time of life was limited. Cancer doesn’t just disappear. We all knew, and yet for her we all lived in the moment. Or tried to, at least.

A trained masseuse, Anne Marie always offered to work on my right arm, which usually has knotted muscles from working at the computer. I probably have carpal tunnel, or something close to it, but she faithfully applied her heat packs and kneaded the knots until I almost screamed with pain. But it helped a lot. It was just a thing she always did. Work on my right arm. And I always told her how good it hurt.

And as the vile tumor slowly regrouped, rerooted and expanded and returned for the final time last spring, we could see the signs. By this time, we sensed her personality changing, as the tumor pressured her brain. As it became increasingly obvious, I told Paul one night as we stood out by my truck. It’s coming back. The tumor. He nodded. He knew. We discussed it briefly before I headed home. We both knew that one more deep and frightening valley lay before them, and that there was no way to go around it.

And that was my last “normal” Sunday evening with my friends in their home.

It all came down a few days later with savage speed and force. Paul called me at work as they were rushing down to Johns Hopkins one more time. And he called me the next day. The cancer had spread throughout her body. They would operate first on her spine, to remove the malignant lumps lodged there. And then they would evaluate whether they even could go into her brain one more time. With all the scar tissue from previous operations, the doctors feared another cutting might paralyze her.

After that operation on her spine, she never walked another step. They kept her there at Johns Hopkins for a couple of weeks, maybe a month. And they never did operate on the brain tumor again. At some point, then, they released her. Sent her home to die, basically. That’s not what the doctors actually said, of course. But that’s what they meant.

The progression of events from that time do not need to be told in minute detail. Paul found her a room at a local nursing home for a few weeks, and I went to see her there. I never did go down to Johns Hopkins. Many others did, but I told Paul I’d rather remember her as she was the last time I saw her.

But after she was moved closer to home, I went. She smiled and greeted me warmly. And as usual, she asked if I needed my right arm worked on.

Eventually, though, after a brief stay at Lancaster Hospice, she was moved back to her home. Hospice provided a real hospital bed, and a hospice nurse came around every few days. Paul cleaned out a section of the basement, and that’s where she was set up. So they could open the garage door sometimes and she could enjoy the fresh air.

And so they entered the final painful brutal stretch. Their friends, and especially many from their church, Rockville Mennonite, surrounded them with unbelievable support, both emotional and logistical. A schedule was set up for volunteers to come and be with Anne Marie during the day, so Paul could continue at least part time at his job. Food poured in, dozens and dozens of dishes that could be frozen. Only in the Christian community, and particularly the Lancaster County Christian community, would I ever expect to see what I saw unfolding at their home. It was breathtaking, amazing, and humbling.

Through it all, I kept my slot on Sunday nights. Drove over with my truck to hang out a few hours. Entered and shared the reality that was their home. A reality that gradually became ever more crushingly brutal.

We always ate at a little folding table set up downstairs, off to one side. So she could share the experience. And from week to week, I saw how much she had spiraled down from the week before. Still, she joined our conversations when she could comprehend the words through the haze of her pain meds. And she always, always asked to work on my arm. So, after eating, I’d pull up a chair beside her bed, and she would weakly massage the muscles on my elbow, the tightest spot. And I always groaned and told her how great it felt.

And then, last month, I was gone over a weekend for a book signing in Daviess. So I missed a Sunday night. The following Sunday evening, I rolled in. I had steeled myself, but still her condition shocked me. She was losing weight like crazy. The tumor relentlessly applied pressure to her brain. That night, as we sat and ate at the table downstairs, she cried out now and then, incoherent ramblings. Paul the the children seemed to take little notice. This was the daily reality of their lives.

We ate, then I sat in a chair beside her bed for ten minutes or so, and just held her hand. She recognized me, and somehow we communicated a bit. And then I went upstairs and watched a movie with Cody and Adrianna. We laughed and had a good time.

I’m no theologian, and don’t pretend to understand why such intense suffering must be a part of life. Anyone’s life. Ever. Oh, sure, it makes some sort of sense in theory. When you hear about it in a sermon. Suffering. It’s almost noble, and certainly an element of the human condition. But it’s different when you know the person. When it’s someone close to you. You can’t ignore the bitter senselessness of it all, not if you’re honest.

I knew her well. She was my friend. A mother, wasting away before her husband and two young children, crying out in pain. Clinging to life somehow, from sheer strength of will, even as the cancer inexorably, relentlessly, sapped her of all she ever was. For days and weeks and months. I don’t know why any of us would be called to endure the cruel indignity of such a harsh and hopeless fate.

And no words, however beautifully crafted, will ever diminish such a reality from what it actually is. This I can say, from what I saw and heard.

After I got home that night, I raged at God. Take her now. It’s the least you could do. She is suffering dreadfully, as is her family. What purpose can you possibly have, by allowing her to linger on and on like that?

I last saw Anne Marie two weeks ago, on a Sunday night. As usual, Paul and the children and I ate at the table downstairs. She lay there on the bed. Skeletal. Unmoving. Wasted away. Eyes open, staring at nothing. She did not recognize me at all. She didn’t even seem conscious. Just there, but not. I stood and looked down at her before leaving. I made no attempt to sit or talk to her. She was beyond the reach of my voice. Or anyone else’s.

We spoke out by my truck as I was leaving, Paul and I. “I’m heading out for Beach Week next Saturday,” I said. “For a full week. She is going to die when I am gone. She just can’t last long in that condition.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it’s definitely approaching fast, that’s for sure,” he said. “Could well be she’ll go when you’re gone. But we’ve thought that before, and she’s always held on.”

“That’s true. But she’s never looked this bad,” I said. “If it happens, I’m not coming back for the funeral. You got a problem with that?”

“No.” He paused. “You’ve been here, all this time. While she was still with us. And I know you’ll be here, when you get back.”

And with that, I left. Last Saturday morning, I drove the eight hours down to Nag’s Head, N.C., with a friend, to join the old crowd at the beach. Like we did last year, when I was working on the book. We settled in for the week.

On Sunday afternoon, I checked my email. A message about Anne Marie. She had passed away that afternoon at 3:30. I felt the jolt of finality. But mostly I felt relief. At long last, she was free of all the pain, the inhuman suffering that had been her life for so long.

That night, I spoke with Paul on the phone, and he told me how it all came down. He’d sensed it somehow, that the end was close. So he parked in a chair beside her bed that afternoon. Settled in for a nap. Suddenly then, her breathing shortened into ragged gasps. Stopped. A few more breaths. He sat there, holding her hand. And then she was gone. Her wasted body relaxed. At long last, she was free.

It had been an eternally long and arduous journey, at least it seemed thus to those around her, but Anne Marie Zook was finally home. And for that, we simply rejoice.

Her funeral was yesterday morning (Thursday, Sept. 15), at 11 o’clock, at Rockville Mennonite Church east of Honey Brook. A great crowd of people gathered, I’m sure, and mourned her passing. I was not among them.

And this coming Sunday night, I’ll head on over to see Paul, Cody and Adrianna. To hang out. Paul will unwrap some burgers and throw them on the gas grill, and I’ll grumble at him for not using charcoal. One of our ancient little arguments. We’ll eat. Talk. Laugh. Remember. And for a few brief hours, I’ll join them in the new reality that is their world.

********************************
I’m still in Nag’s Head, at the beach as I post this. It’s been a great week. All it could have been. We’ve chilled. Hung out. I even went out to see the ocean a time or two. We’ve shared the evening meals. Had a hymn sing on Wednesday night. And all too fast, it’s all ending. Tomorrow we’ll head back home.

The book has been fluctuating around out there. Since my last post, it has fallen off the NYT eBook bestseller list once again. And once again, this Sunday it bounced back on, at number 31. It’s all a bit strange. The book seems as unsettled as I was back when I kept bouncing back and forth from home. Now it’s on the list. Now it’s off. And now it’s on again. It would be great to see it settle in and stay a while.

I have two book signings coming up. On Saturday, Oct. 1st, at the Davis Mercantile in Shipshewana, Indiana from noon to 3 PM. So come on out, if you are anywhere close.

Then, the following Saturday, Oct. 8th, I will be signing at the Freiman Stoltzfus Gallery in downtown Lancaster, PA. From 11:00 AM until 1:00 PM.

I’m grateful to all who provide the time and space for a book signing. It’s been a great ride, and a wild one, so far. I hope the journey has just begun.

I am thankful for the mess to clean after a party because
it means I have been surrounded by friends.

—Nancie J. Carmody
_________________

It felt like it was time this year again. I’ve reached a couple of milestones this summer. So, I figured, why not? It’s been more than three years. So a few months ago, I sent word to a bunch of my friends. Garage party at my house on August 27th.

A garage party. People look at you kind of sideways, with a funny expression. What in the world is a garage party? Well, it is what it sounds like. A party in a garage.

Some purists (consisting of some of my nephews and me. Well, OK. Mostly me.) claim the garage may not be attached to the house. Gotta be a free standing structure, the more ramshackle the better. The interior, too, must not be too tidy. Actually, the dumpier, the better. Makes a far more comfortable setting for guests just to hang out and be themselves without pretensions.

I have a detached garage on my little lot. A concrete block structure, with a large addition on one end. There’s a huge garage door, big enough to drive a dump truck through, which was what it was actually used for, way back when. The last guy who lived on the place painted cars in the garage. He framed out a couple of bays with dark old hewn oak beams. And strung up some black plastic tarps, here and there. It’s all a bit creaky and haphazard, but it works. I don’t use the garage for much of anything. Tinker a bit now and then. And in winter, when a blizzard looms, I’ll park Big Blue inside for the night. With all the junk stacked about, I can barely fit him in.

The last party came down in late summer of 2007, around my birthday. My world had imploded a few short months before, and I was living alone for the first time in seven years. So I’m not sure why I had that party. Probably because I was in a stunned frame of mind, and wanted to hang out with a few good friends. They came, and we did hang out. And it was OK, even though I don’t remember much of that evening.

Since then, the summers have come and gone, and I’ve had neither the energy nor the inclination to host another garage party. Some of my friends hedged about and mentioned the fact that it had been a while, and I nodded and smiled. Yeah, I should, I guess. But I never followed through. And so it went, for the past three summers.

But then, a few months back, I got to thinking. Maybe it was time to host another garage party. I mentioned the possibility to Patrick, my boss at work, who immediately and enthusiastically endorsed the idea. This year I had some unusual things to celebrate.

First off, there was the book. Released on July 1st, my dream for so long. Now a reality. Seemed like that was reason enough. But there was still one more. My birthday would come in late August. And this birthday would be a milestone.

The Big 5-0. Fifty years old. It all seems so odd and so impossible. When you’re fifty, you’re supposed to be bent a bit, looking tired and worn. Or maybe that was the old 50. I sure don’t feel it. Old, I mean. And so I took the plunge, settled on a date. August 27th. Saturday night. Garage party, at Ira’s house.

It’s always an eclectic group, that gets invited. A few artsy friends. A co-worker or two. A couple of couples from church. And friends from here and there, loosely connected by the fact that they know me, and generally claim to be delighted to attend my parties. I invited about twenty people. And pretty much to a person, they all promised to come.

And so it was established, a few months back. The date set, the invitations sent. And then it was placed on the back burner, the whole thing. I didn’t worry about it much. Or even think about it, really. The day would come soon enough. Besides, with July came the once-in-a-lifetime excitement of seeing my first book hit the market. That was a big deal, and it pretty much absorbed all my attention for that month, and well into the next.

And then, about three weeks ago, I wandered out to the garage to survey the situation. It was pretty messy. A few tattered remnants from my last party four years ago lay strewn about. A dusty stack of paper plates. Plastic cups. Tables and chairs stacked against the wall. Dust and dirt everywhere. The little padded bar with decrepit bar stools I’d bought years ago for fifty bucks stood against a wall, forlorn and dirty. This was going to take some work, to get ready. And so, that Saturday morning, I dug in and began to muck out my garage.

I swept and dusted. Piles of trash accumulated in my old metal garbage can. I swept the walls clean of spider webs. Washed down the bar and a few deck chairs strewn about. You don’t use something for three years, it deteriorates on its own. After a couple of Saturday afternoons of labor, the garage began to approach passable status. Clean, but not too clean. Gotta have a little dust, or my guests might feel uncomfortable. After all, this is a garage. An old garage.

The weeks passed. My birthday arrived. I celebrated, somewhat subdued. But not freaked. My fortieth birthday caused a lot more angst than did my fiftieth.

And late that week, a small dark speck appeared in the Atlantic. Relentlessly approached our shores. Irene. And as Saturday arrived, so the hype from the media escalated. I fretted. Should I cancel? What if torrents of rain descended, and the power went off, right during the festivities? It all seemed so impossible, and so surreal. Pick out a Saturday evening two months ago for a little social gathering, and now a hurricane was bearing down, right on that night. Just unbelievable.

I decided to go ahead with the garage party. This would separate the adventurous from the timid. The rain wasn’t scheduled to arrive until late that evening anyway. Why let something like a little hurricane throttle my plans? Well, maybe not little. But maybe not as ferocious as predicted, either.

On Friday night, I went shopping. Paper plates, rolls, condiments, juice. And three dozen sausages from Stoltzfus Meats in Intercourse. Among the very best Lancaster has to offer, when it comes to meat. And of course, charcoal for the grill. One ironclad rule for any garage party: NO gas grills. Charcoal only. Not only does the meat taste better, it’s also all about the tradition of production. Lighting and nursing the charcoal to just the proper degree of heat.

Saturday came, and I uneasily watched the Weather Channel and checked the headlines on Drudge. From all the hyper-ventilating, one could surely believe that doom and destruction such as the earth has never seen was about to be unleashed upon the land. Including my land. Oh, well. According to estimates, the hard rains would not come until late that night. I putzed about, running last minute errands, filled my coolers with ice, and added the final touches to my garage décor. And scattered wood chips on the concrete floor.

Early afternoon. A few spitting showers came and went. Unsettled skies roiled above. Around 3, my friends Dominic and Jamie Haskin arrived from their home in West Virginia. I hang out at their place at least three times a year, and this was the first time they reciprocated. They would sleep in my empty upstairs apartment. I greeted them, took them upstairs to show them the place, and then we settled in the garage, just hanging and catching up.

By 5:30, others began trickling in, carrying various delicacies in covered dishes and bottles of wine and other refreshments. I fired up the grill and let the charcoal burn to a glowing orange. Shortly after 6, the sausages were carefully laid out. I hovered over the grill, turning the sausages every few minutes. And by 6:30, the crowd was assembled and ready to eat.

A very cool birthday cake. Thanks to Steve and Ada Beiler.

And a delicious feast it was. Potato salad, at least two varieties. Pasta salad. Regular salad. Two tomato pies (I’d never heard of such a thing, but they were quite tasty). And of course, sausages. Regular. Apple-flavored. And cheese-stuffed. It was soon clear to me that there was enough food on the table to feed far more people than were present. But that’s all part of the plan. I love left-overs.

It was almost magical, how the old garage morphed into a smoky little country pub. Classic 70s and 80s music boomed from the decrepit old speakers on the ancient radio, left mounted on the wall by the previous owner. People milled about. Eating. Laughing. Talking. After dinner, we lounged about, many with cigars and drinks. A rousing game of Hi-Lo broke out on my rickety bar, with much shouting and groaning, followed by loud accusations of shady dealing. All in good fun, of course. I briefly joined the action and was promptly shorn of many quarters, after which I made some loud accusations of my own. I fled the game then and mingled, chatting here and there, making sure everyone was relaxed and comfortable. And so the evening rolled along, at what seemed like hyper-speed.

Sharing conversation and food. From L, Sarah, Wilma, Freiman

Some of the guys loafing after dinner. Lots of food left.
I should have invited more people.

Adjusting the volume on the radio.

And all too soon, guests came up to me, thanked me for the enjoyable evening, and drifted off. Around 11, Irene’s rain began spitting sideways from the skies in earnest. By 11:30, I had walked Dominic and Jamie to their upstairs apartment, and carried the remnants of leftover food into the house to place in the fridge. Then I sat at my computer, perusing Facebook. Posted a picture I had taken earlier with my Iphone. Midnight came, then passed. And shortly after that, the lights flickered, struggled back to life once or twice, and then the house went dark. And stayed dark. I sat there in the black and utter silence.

Irene had unleashed her displeasure with a vengeance. My power would not return until 3 PM Sunday. But at least she arrived too late to spoil my party.

A quick update on the book. In my last post, I mentioned that Growing Up Amish had broken into the New York Times eBook bestseller list. And how great that was. Well, the next week, it bounced off the list. Stumbled a bit.

But then, it bounced right back on again. So, for the second time, I’m gratefully announcing my book has been listed on the NYT eBook nonfiction bestseller list. At number 33, this weekend. Thanks to all of you. Some day I may die a pauper. But no one can ever take that milestone from me. Ever.

The folks at Tyndale seem mildly impressed. Excited, even. So much so that they tweaked the cover. I think it’s pretty cool. And I think that even if you already own a copy of the book, you should run out and buy this edition.

Daviess County. The land of my father’s blood.
And my mother’s. The land that harbored in its
soil the hidden saga of my family’s history…

Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish
___________________________

I haven’t really spent that much time there. Probably less than three years, total, when you combine all my numerous and sporadic stints in the area. And three years ain’t a whole lot. Not when my fiftieth birthday looms ever imminent.

But in a deep and undeniable sense, Daviess County is home. My ancestral home. The place that holds so much of my family’s history. The place that harbors more Waglers than any other area in the world, probably. And from my mother’s side, the Yoders (a far more common Amish surname, in most communities). The place where the vast sprawling web of relatives, most of them strangers to me, were born and where they have lived and forged the great untold stories of their own. Stories I will never fully know.

It’s a distinct place, certainly. A land of rolling hills and narrow graveled roads, dotted here and there with ancient graveyards. With its own very unique Amish culture, a very unique Amish people. A land that reflects the woven tapestry of their lives, like they were spread in vivid colors on some great Renaissance painting. The faces of the men, angular, sharp, intelligent. Broad, flat and plain. And the women standing silently by, hunched and tired, their wrinkled faces speaking the tales they cannot form in words, and perhaps not even in their minds. Tales known only in their hearts. The mothers of sons strong and confident. And daughters, lithe and tall and vibrantly beautiful.

They’ve been there in Daviess all their lives, all of them. Their faces reflect the steady slog of decades of generational toil, the waves of experience that mirror all of life. And simple unquestioning acceptance of all that life might hold. The plower plowing. The sower sowing. The reaper reaping. Until the end of each individual journey, or until the end of time.

Those are the faces of Daviess, the land of my father’s blood.

I wonder sometimes, how it would have been, had he not decided to leave. Unilaterally, like he did. To take his fledgling family and strike out for unknown lands. For a better place. I don’t know how that would have worked out, to have been raised in Daviess. Or who I would have turned out to be. In a sense, I’ve always been kind of thankful that he left. Not because I think ill of Daviess, far from it. I am very proud of my roots. But because of the wanderlust that simmered in my father, my sheltered Amish world was flung open far wider than it ever could have been, had he stayed.

Had he not left, his children probably would have. So he made that difficult choice for us. So we didn’t have to. Or then again, maybe not. Maybe we would have stayed. Who can tell? All of this is mere speculation. Fascinating to consider, at least to me. But speculation, nonetheless.

I headed out Thursday morning, August 4th. My good friend, Glen Graber, founder of Graber Post Buildings, had arranged for a two-day book signing. For Friday and Saturday, August 5th and 6th. Always vastly optimistic, Glen had contacted Tyndale and purchased several hundred copies of my book. Friday’s signing would be in the foyer of his business. Saturday’s would be at a large local Amish-themed restaurant, The Gasthof. And since neither place stocked my book, well, in the future they would. Because there was no way Glen was getting rid of them all at the signings.

I love Big Blue, my truck. But not for long trips like this. Guzzles way too much fuel. Plus, I don’t want to rack up the miles. So I rented a little mid-sized vehicle from my friends at Enterprise. They’ve supplied a lot of vehicles for my various wanderings in the past. This time, they came up with a Dodge Caliber. Cool little car, kind of bullet-shaped, a rumrunner’s car, complete with satellite radio.

It’s a long slog to Daviess, from Lancaster, PA. And tiring. A good 12-hour trip. Two people could run right through. And one person could, too. I’ve done it in the past. But this time, I figured not to push things. I stopped around Indianapolis that evening. Get some rest. Head on in Friday morning.

I arrived at Graber Post around 10:30 or so. I walked in, and things were bustling. Graber Post is one of, if not the, largest supplier of pole building materials in the country. I had not visited the place for five or six years. It had expanded. Vastly. I walked up to the receptionist and introduced myself. She smiled. Oh, yes. They were expecting me. And then two guys walked into the foyer, carrying a folding table. They were setting up for my book signing.

From the second floor offices, my friend Glen hollered down. Come on up. I walked into his office and we chatted for a few minutes. Then I went back downstairs, to help the guys set up. In short order, we had the table, complete with burgundy cover, loaded with my books. On the front foyer window, two massive posters announced the book signing to all who walked in.

And as soon as we were set up, they came. Mostly employees, at least early on. Many already had their copies. I smiled and talked and signed books. Around 12:30. my nephew John Wagler and my brother Nathan pulled in. They had traveled from Bloomfield, Iowa, to attend. John had stopped at Worthington, IN, some 40 miles north, and picked up his sister Mary Ann, and her husband Jason Stutzman. The four of them walked in smiling, and I greeted them joyfully. A small family reunion, that’s what we had there.

Promptly at 1, my aunt and uncles arrived. Mom’s siblings. I had asked Glen to invite them. He did. Personally. Sarah and Ben and William (and Mom) are the only surviving members of Mom’s family. Sarah and William (or Bill, as he is known), have lost their spouses. Ben is battling cancer that almost took him last winter in Florida.

I don’t know them that well. Never have. And in recent years, I have struggled with the reasons why. They were cut off from my family. Because they were not Amish. So in some small way, at my little book signing, I wanted to honor them. And they came.

My kin arriving. From R. Uncle Ben (seated), Aunt Sarah, Uncle Bill

I met them, along with Nathan and John. We had set up some comfortable, cushioned chairs, behind the table, right beside mine. We helped them in, and seated them. And there they sat, as people drifted in and out. They smiled. Chatted. Visited with the customers. I beamed with pride. They had come to honor me. I was honored instead by their presence.

First books signed. Mary Ann (my niece) and Jason Stutzman

And the hours passed. People came and went. Introduced themselves, a lot of them, as old acquaintances I had not seen in decades. I smiled and admitted I had no clue. They smiled back and gave me their books to sign. And by 4 PM, I had signed 101 books. And then it was over.

Gift from my blog fan and friend, Beth Russo, who drove over
from St. Louis with her husband, Scot. Uh, I’m not a Cards fan,
Beth, but thanks for the lovely T-shirt.

The end of Friday’s signing. Nathan and Ira

Nathan and John and I helped dismantle the table and the displays. And then we headed out to Glen’s farm, and the cabin where he houses his guests. Glen and his friend “Goody” had been busy for a few hours. Cooking and concocting various delicious mixes. Fresh salsa, very mild, they claimed, but a bit spicy to my taste. But oh so delectable.

We sat around and chilled, while Glen stirred some kind of meat on the stove. Goody, who lives next door and plays the role of caretaker when not at his full-time job, offered to take my relatives on a tour of the “farm,” which is actually a wildlife sanctuary, at least until opening day of hunting season. I had toured the place before, so I stayed behind with Glen while the others took off with Goody on some sort of Obama-approved battery powered vehicle that can claw up and down the hills.

They returned, and we sat down to a delicious feast. Glen and Goody can cook, I’ll give them that. After dinner, my old friend Ron (Ritter) Stoll dropped by with a friend, and we sat around and chilled some more.

And we rehashed all the old stories about Daviess. The history, the people, their quirks, the church spats and splits, and the wild Amish Daviess youth of the past. Crazy, unrecorded stories. Daviess, Glen and Ritter claimed, did not deserve its sordid reputation. And in the next breath, off they rolled, recounting some wild tale so fantastic that it could only be true. I’ve never heard such stories in any other Amish community. Some day, someone will have to write a book, based solely on Daviess and its history. It’s all just flat out fascinating. And somewhat disturbing, much of it.

Nathan, John and I slept in the cabin that night. The next morning, we headed out to a special place, a place we wanted to tour before the 12 Noon book signing at The Gasthof. The farm on which my mother was born and raised. A few miles north and east of Montgomery.

Through a mutual friend, I had asked permission to come and tour the place. The farm’s two small houses are currently occupied by two Amish families. Young couples, with small children. One couple lives in the original house, recently remodeled. The other couple lives in the “Daudy house,” which was erected some decades ago for my grandfather, John Yoder. I may have been on the farm as a child with my parents. I can’t remember. But most likely I was not, because my father shunned my mother’s family. Because they had left the Amish church. That side of the family was off-limits to us.

The farm consisted of a rather small set of buildings. Set on a hill. A ramshackle old barn. An old milk house. A tiny feed shed. A newer machinery shop. And of course, the main house, complete with a water pump out front, the same one my mother would have used as a child.

My mother’s childhood home. “Daudy” house on left.

The skies wept with rain that morning. Which was significant and profoundly symbolic, perhaps. But it sure made it awfully unhandy, to really check out the place.

We walked into the house, wide-eyed. The small living room, complete with the original trim around windows and doors. The room in which my parents would have sat, on their dates. We walked up into the unremodeled upstairs rooms. Where the children would have slept. Unchanged, the rooms were, since that time. Small, impossibly crowded for six or seven siblings. But that’s the way they would have lived, seventy-five years ago.

Living room, which we figure was a courting room for our parents.

It was impossible to absorb the enormity of it all in a few short minutes. We walked through the house and the outbuildings, took pictures, and chatted with our hosts. It was a fine and shining moment, one that we will always treasure.

The rain drizzled steadily, so it was over all too soon. And so we headed over to The Gasthof a bit early. The huge restaurant where I first worked as a waiter more than twenty years ago. Now returning with my book. A homecoming of sorts.

We lugged in a case of books and set up at a very nice spot just inside the main entrance. And soon the people came, and milled about. Amish. Beachy Amish. Mennonites. English. More people than I could have dared to hope would show up. Old friends. The Wagler family, the people who gave me shelter and support all those years ago. Dean Wagler and his wife Wanda walked in. Dean looked a bit dubious at the fact that I’d written about him in the book. Even one of the old gang of six showed up. Vern Herschberger drove up from his home in Tennessee for the signing. He tried to sidle past the table, but I recognized him and yelled his name. We had not seen each other in 30 years. We shook hands and hugged, reconnecting like old true friends.

Characters from the book. From L, Wanda and Dean Wagler,
Vern Herschberger, Ira, Nathan

It was a grand old time. And all too soon, it too was all over. John, Nathan, Vern and I grabbed a quick bite from the Gasthof’s well stocked buffet. Chatted about old times, rehashed old memories. And then we all headed out for our respective homes. I drove four hours to the Dayton, Ohio, area before stopping at a Holiday Inn for the night.

As a son of a son of Daviess, going “home” was all I could have imagined. And more.

A few words on how the book is moving out there. I’m getting a lot of emails from readers all across the country. Sporadically. Some days one. Some days five. And I mean from all across the country. California. Idaho. Louisiana. Montana. The eastern seaboard. And many points between. Even one or two from my old Aylmer haunts in Ontario. They bought the book at Walmart or Costco, a lot of them. On a whim. And they had been moved enough to go to my site, find my contact information, and write me. I’m always grateful and flattered. I try to respond with a short message to each one, but I am falling behind even on that.

The book has been out for right at six weeks. The Tyndale people have been quite vague about the number published, and so forth. Because it takes a few months for real numbers, real sales, to shake out. Then a few weeks ago, Growing Up Amish came in at #45 on the August ECPA’s Christian Bestsellers List (ECPA=Evangelical Christian Publishers Association). The Top 50 books make the list. Obviously a big thrill for me. I’m honored and, yeah, a bit humbled.

But then, two days ago, something far larger came down, something just flat out wild. On Wednesday evening, I had just arrived home from work when my phone rang. It was Carol Traver of Tyndale. Throughout the entire writing and editing and publishing process, I can almost count on one hand the number of times I got a call from Carol. I mean, she’s the senior nonfiction acquisition editor at Tyndale. So when she calls, there must be something really big coming down. Either some dreadful disaster (Your book’s not selling. Sorry, Bud.), or some fantastic milestone.

It was something really big. A fantastic milestone. This Sunday, Growing Up Amish will debut at #31 on the New York Times eBook bestseller list. In the nonfiction category, of course. The top 35 make this list. So I just barely squeaked in, toward the bottom.

I probably haven’t really absorbed it yet. Not fully. It’ll take a while, I think. My book will be listed in The New York Times. The Holy Grail. At least for authors. Any way you look at it, that is rarefied air for a hick country ex-Amish redneck. It just is. Ain’t no other way to put it. But the journey never stops, it just veers onto different paths. And right now, I’m enjoying the ride on this path.

This blog, along with all its faithful readers, is one reason the book is where it is. Or that it even exists at all. Thanks for your support, all of you. And now, let’s get the real print copy of the book on the real New York Times bestseller list. Hey, what chance was there of even getting to this point? With all of you out there spreading the word, one more distant mountain can be conquered.

“And for me, it was like a new day had dawned. For the
first time as an adult, I faced the future without fear.”

—Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish
____________________________

It’s been a bit surreal, these last few weeks. Well, a lot surreal. Quite wild, actually. You look forward to something for so long, the day arrives, the door opens, and you walk through. And gape in wonder at all that’s on the other side.

I’ve walked through. I’m still gaping in wonder.

On the great day of release, July 1st, I decided to forego the gym and head to Lancaster to find my book. In a real bookstore, on a real bookshelf. Dodging through the weekend traffic, I fought my way to Berean Christian Books, across from the Park City Mall. Figured I’d give Berean first chance, since a week later they would host my first book signing. I parked and walked in to the foyer. I might have crossed myself, even. Don’t remember.

A few signs were plastered on the front door, with my picture, announcing the upcoming book signing. Pretty wild. But not as wild as actually seeing my book in public. Then on into the store. And over to the New Releases. Scanned the shelves for that familiar green cover.

Nothing. I mean, there were plenty of new releases, lots of bright covers and flashy titles. But not my book. Drat. I approached the clerk and asked if they had it in stock. He punched some keys on his computer. Yep. But the books wouldn’t be placed on the floor until the following Tuesday. Deflated, I walked out, drove next door to Border’s. Walked in, expecting nothing. I found what I expected. My book wasn’t there either. The Borders people pretty much looked at me as if I were an alien, when I asked about it. Nope. No new arrivals that day. I walked out.

Great. The big day had arrived and was upon me. And now I couldn’t even find my own book. An author has no honor in his home town, I figured. Like a prophet doesn’t. Not that I’m a prophet, but there’s a parallel there.

I had one more shot. BJ’s Wholesale Warehouse, a few exits west on Rt. 30. They might have it. So I shifted Big Blue onto the street and fought the traffic back out. Lights. Left turns. Yuk. And then I was on Rt. 30, heading for Centerville Road. I cruised into the BJ’s parking lot. A huge place. I’m not a member, so I couldn’t buy anything. But I didn’t want to buy anything. I wanted to see my book.

I walked through the front door, and they let me in. Now where were the books? Halfway through, a vast flat table, seemingly half as big as a football field. Covered with stack after stack of books. Laid flat, piled high. Up one side I walked, scanning the titles. No book. And down the other. Halfway. Then three quarters. I scanned the countless titles. A shiver of desperation rippled through me. It had to be here. If it wasn’t, I was out of options.

And then, there it was. Stacked, kind of wedged between a bunch of others. A little pile about ten books high. Growing up Amish. By Ira Wagler.

Even in the vast flat concrete jungle of that warehouse, it was a fine thrilling moment. My first taste of my book. For sale. Right there, in public. I picked up a copy. Held it.

I hailed a skinny kid with tattooed arms, strolling by with his girlfriend. Could he take a picture with my iPhone? He agreed readily enough. And did.

The next big first taste: The book signing at Berean on July 9th. The Lancaster Sunday News published a very nice review, and during the week leading up to the date, Tyndale ran two quarter-page ads announcing the upcoming book signings. First Berean at 11. Then Costco at 2.

The morning arrived. I had asked my brother Steve to attend too, to take some pictures. Especially of the first book being signed. Yes, yes, he said. He’d be there, about a half hour early. I puttered about the house, nervous. Then, shortly after ten, I headed out. Here I come. I may have crossed myself. I don’t remember. That’s how surreal the whole thing was.

I arrived a good deal early. Sat in my truck for a few minutes. Called Steve. He was on his way, running a bit late. Ah, well. I decided to head on in. Set up awhile, and wait for people to come.

I walked through the doors into the foyer. The nice signs still hung there, signs with my picture, announcing the date and time of the book signing. And inside the store there was a nice little table. Loaded with my books. In front of the table milled a group of about ten people. All women. Some clutched my book. They were waiting.

Waiting for someone. Waiting for me.

I strolled up to them and smiled. A few knew me. And so I stood there, chatting with people who had come to buy my book and get it signed. It wasn’t 11:00 yet. But where was Steve? Come on.

“I’m not signing any books until my brother gets here,” I said firmly. “He’s taking pictures, and especially a picture of the first book being signed.” Everyone nodded and smiled. But still, there we stood.

And then, after ten minutes or so had passed, Steve arrived with his camera. The nice Berean people even set up a chair for him, right beside mine. And then I reached for the book from the first lady in line. And signed and dated it.

The first book signed at my first book signing.

It was all a flurry of activity for awhile. And then, I sat there, with no one around. The lonely, forlorn author. Waiting. But not for long. The tide of people ebbed and flowed. I chatted briefly with many of them. Some were good friends, who took time from their busy day to honor my achievement. I smiled and talked. Posed for pictures. Steve was a busy man, both with his camera and with the customers’ cameras.

It was hilarious, really, to see the Berean people scurry about ever more frantically as book after book disappeared. They had ordered 75 copies. It was soon apparent that it would be a close thing. Some people grabbed more than one book, and I signed the extra copies to their friends. One fine young man took five copies. The most any one person bought that day.

Finally, one lone copy remained. It was already after 12 noon. We hopefully scrutinized every person who walked in. But by that time, new customers were unaware of my book and of the signing. Finally, sadly, I signed the last, lone obstinate copy and dated it, and it was returned to the shelf. More would be ordered ASAP, I was assured.

That afternoon, at two, I was sitting at a table in Costco. Three large posters, enlarged pictures of the book cover, announced my presence to the Costco world. And crowds ebbed and flowed again. Many were passing shoppers, some were my friends, again stopping by to buy a book and honor this moment. I left at 3:15. Clutching in my hands the three large posters. At least one of them will be framed.

And then, last weekend, I traveled to the blue-blood Amish community of Holmes County, Ohio. For a book signing at the Gospel Book Store in Berlin. It was all quite wild as well. I stayed with my good friend John Schmid and his wife Lydia, at their home. My home away from home, in Holmes.

Again, many of my blog readers and fans came out to see me and buy the book. I chatted with many people, posed for pictures, and signed books. Many older people spoke to me of how they had met my parents years ago. Some had stayed with us at our home in Aylmer. Everyone was most cheerful and agreeable.

It was all too good, too sweet to last, probably. And so it didn’t.

She was quite friendly as she approached. A nice Beachy Amish lady, probably sixty years old or so. Oh, she said. I met your parents many years ago. They stopped by my house, and I made a meal for them.

I smiled back. And chatted. A nice lady, indeed. And a good prospect, to buy my book. And as our conversation lulled, I asked her.

“So are you picking up a copy of my book? I’ll gladly sign it for you.”

Her face hardened into a stern mask. She had come to the signing to meet me. On a mission. But not to buy my book.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I read several sections from a copy one of my friends bought.” A pause. “Can I ask you a question?”

We were tumbling headlong into disastrous territory. Nothing good could possibly come from it. But I smiled.

“Of course,” I said.

She leaned in, her face still hard, like granite.

“Do you really believe you are honoring the Lord with your book?” She asked the question dramatically. Like she had me. There could be only one possible response. I would be forced to look away. Maybe even hang my head in shame.

I was startled. But not that startled. I never flinched from her steady accusing gaze. Never looked away.

“Of course I believe that,” I answered. “Yes, I believe the Lord is honored with my book.”

And her stony face fell. She gaped at me in disbelief. She had played her trump card. The one she knew would win. But it hadn’t. She had lost. I’ll give her credit, though. She recovered quickly. But she was shaken.

“Well,” she muttered. “I think there are some things better left unwritten.”

“And that’s your right,” I said. She turned from me and walked away.

I didn’t think about it until later, but her muttered comment was right on. Just not the way she meant it. There are some things better left unwritten. And I left them unwritten.

She was the first line of defense from a hard-core sector of the plain groups. Those who refuse to be honest about themselves or their culture. She instigated the first skirmish. She came, she confronted, she lost, and she left.

But she was only the first. She certainly won’t be the last. There will be many more like her, down the road. And some won’t give up that easily.

I don’t relish such skirmishes, such battles. And I don’t seek them. But if they are brought to me, I will not back down. I will confront them. Head on. And then I’ll write about them right here on my blog. In the future, I’m thinking, I might even name names.

I’m very excited about my next book signing. It will be held on August 5th and 6th in my ancestral home of Daviess County, IN. My good friend Glen Graber, founder of Graber Post Buildings, is taking care of all the logistics. Rather rashly, perhaps, he ordered and has already received a lot of copies of my book. It is whispered that there may be as many as several hundred. If so, we’ll need a LOT of people showing up, to make even a dent in that number. So if you are within reasonable driving distance, come on over. This is currently my only scheduled signing in the Midwest. Although there likely will be others, sometime down the road.

1:00 PM – 4:00 PM
Friday, August 5
Graber Post Buildings
7716 N 900 E
Montgomery, IN 47558
(812) 636-7355

12:00 Noon – 3:00 PM
Saturday, August 6
Gasthof Amish Village
6659 E Gasthof Village Rd.
Montgomery, IN 47558
(812) 486-4900

Since the book was released, this blog has seen an explosion of hits. Hundreds and hundreds of hits a day. Because Tyndale most graciously published the website address on the back cover of the book, along with the author info.

So a good many of you are getting your “first taste” of this blog. Welcome. To all of you. This site has been a good part of my world, and my connection to the world, since it was launched back in 2007. On this site, I have raged and writhed in pain. Cried out in anguish. Exulted in exuberant wonder. And healed, in time. At least partially.

On this site, my writing voice developed, the voice you read in the book. You can go back to my earliest posts, and read forward. And witness the voice as it was born. And as it firmed up and matured. All the way to the present day.

A few words of caution are in order, I think. Especially to those who may be the tormented, sensitive type, the type who walks around greatly burdened with all the tortured guilt of others’ perceived offenses. There are a few things such readers, and all new readers, should know.

Politically, I’m a libertarian. I respect no politician, except Ron Paul and his ilk. And of course, being human, he has his flaws as well. I don’t write about politics much. But I have, now and then, here and there. I whack both sides pretty much equally. Maybe the left a bit more. I don’t watch any mainstream news. None at all. I believe the current debt-crisis antics in Washington, DC are a dog and pony show. I pay almost no attention to it.

I love football, baseball and Nascar, in that order. I don’t like horses, and I think pets should mostly be kept outside the house. I don’t like cities and think they are evil pits of crime and wickedness. I won’t fly unless absolutely necessary, to avoid the TSA gropers. I’m comfortable in pretty much any setting, from a black tie event to a blue collar dive. I’m more comfortable around Joe Sixpack than I am hobnobbing with the intellectual elite. Don’t know why, really. Probably because I feel closer to my roots.

During the past four years, I have posted hundreds and hundreds of pages of words on this site. Words describing in detail who I am, where I’ve been, and where I’ve come from. And what I think, about a whole lot of things.

Somewhere on this site, there is something, some opinion, some post, some story with which you will vehemently disagree. Maybe even be offended. Count on it. I’m pretty much an equal opportunity guy that way.

Read. Recoil. Gasp in horror. Whatever. But don’t take it personally. And don’t send me scolding, accusing emails. Just don’t. And don’t be condescending. If you want to admonish, or even berate me, that’s OK. Just be honest and polite. You are free to be who you are. Respect my right to be who I am.

I’m just a redneck who can write. Keep that in mind as you peruse my blog-world.

Always I grasped, with tenacious grip, at the anticipation
of something rare, something great and grand and fine.
Something beyond.

I grasped for tomorrow, with its visions of splendor and a
shining city…..a brighter future of happiness and contentment
that always seemed to be just beyond the tip of my out-
stretched hand.

I would find it tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

—Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish
___________________________

Well, I’m almost there. Almost. One more week. Seven days until I walk through that final gateway into a world I have always longed for, but never known.

It seems like words will fail me. Almost, I stand mute. But, nah, I can’t. The day words fail me will be the day I die, most likely. But still, it’s that huge, this moment. I could just leave this blog post blank. Like a moment of silence, or something.

It’s been a long tough slog, as those of you know who have been with me for any length of time. I feel like a weary warrior. Not wounded, not anymore. I’m not saying there aren’t a bunch of scars. Of course there are, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Scars are signs of survival. From wounds that have healed.

I’m just drained from all the battles along this last stretch of road. The dragons did not flee as I approached them, the dragons of fear and doubt. There were a lot of them, especially during the early stages of writing the book. Each one in turn had to be confronted and faced down. They will rise again in the future. They always do. But for this phase of the journey, at least, they are defeated.

And now this phase of the journey ends. Another phase officially begins next Friday, July 1st.

The book is a beautiful thing. Kind of velvety, to hold and feel. The cover grabs you. The picture is pure genius. And what it contains inside, well, it’s the best writing I’ve ever done. Ever.

I owe it all to the folks at Tyndale. And here, I thank those folks at Tyndale. At least those with whom I worked.

Carol Traver, of course, needs no introduction on this blog. The senior nonfiction acquisition editor at Tyndale, she’s the one who made the decision to take my raw stuff, my “jumbled mass of words,” and run with it. There is no way for me to express adequate graditude and appreciation to her for making that decision, for taking that risk, for giving me a real shot at my dream.

Carol and her supervisor, Lisa Jackson, were the ones who took that mass of words and sliced and diced and fused them. From 115,000 words down to 72,000. (I knew I’d submitted way too many words. Better that way, I figured, than having the Tyndale people hollering at me for more.) They cut right at 40% of my original draft. And yet, even as they did so, they made the story fit and flow. I marveled at the result.

Susan Taylor was my editor. The person who worked closely with me. She took the first fused version and edited it, and then sent those edits to me with queries. Questions. Suggestions. And scenes that needed further elaboration. I couldn’t have been paired with a more qualified, no, gifted, editor. From the start, Susan was pretty much tuned in to my voice. And by the end, she was totally tuned in.

It was an outstanding experience, start to finish. Even though I fussed and grumbled a bit, here and there, during the editing process. I threw a few minor temper tantrums, even. (Who’s butchering my stuff? That colon doesn’t belong there. You’re messing with my voice. Gaaah!) Through it all, Susan remained calm and professional. And by the time we worked our way through the galley in a two-plus hour marathon phone conference, Susan had my full trust. She cheerfully accepted and inserted my final edits. Mostly tiny changes to better reflect my voice. And a few tweaks she suggested, from an editorial perspective. I was almost exhausted by the time we finished. But it was all good.

And then suddenly, abruptly, it was over. What was done was done. And out of my control. Since then, it’s been quite surreal, the daily grind of time.

The Tyndale marketing department is just flat out amazing. I can’t be thankful enough that my book was published by a powerhouse company where they know what they’re doing, period. We’ve had a conference call or two. The marketing people tell me they are “very pleased” with the sales so far. However, they rather obstinately refuse to define what they mean by “very pleased.” I guess they have to wait until the book actually reaches the end reader. Sure, the dealers are loading up. But if the public passes, all those orders will be returned. Boxes and boxes and cartons of books. What a nightmare that would be. I’d be persona non grata overnight. So they are cautious about real numbers, the marketing people, and understandably so.

Right now, the marketing department has scheduled a radio interview on WORD-FM 101.5 in Pittsburgh. From 4:15 to 4:30 PM on July 5th.

I am also scheduled as the only guest on my friend and bestselling author Suzanne Woods Fisher’s internet talk show, Amish Wisdom, on Thursday, June 30 at 5 PM eastern time. I’ve been on Suzanne’s show a time or two before, and it’s always a lot of fun. If you can’t listen live, check it out later. Suzanne always posts a link to her latest show within a few hours, so you can listen at your leisure.

So far, I’ve got a few dates set for book signings. I will be at the following sites on the following dates:

First, the local events. Tyndale will run THREE quarter-page ads in the local papers during the week leading up to the day.

SATURDAY, JULY 9TH

11:00 AM – 12 NOON
Berean Christian Store
898 Plaza Boulevard
Lancaster, PA 17601-2756
(717) 397-3517

2:00 PM – 3 PM
Costco (Members Only)
1875 Hempstead Road
Lancaster, PA 17601-5671
(717) 396-8460

So if you are in the area, stop by and buy my book. I won’t charge you extra to sign it.

Then, on the following Saturday, I will be in Holmes County, Ohio, thanks to my good friend John Schmid, who lined this up for me:

SATURDAY, JULY 16TH

9 AM – NOON
The Gospel Book Store at German Village in Berlin, Ohio.

2 PM – 4 PM
I’ll be at the Holmes County Flea Market on Rt. 39 on the east edge of Berlin. John Schmid will sing, and I’ll sign books. It most definitely should be a loud, large time. So if you’re in that area that day, stop by.

Finally, on Friday afternoon and on Saturday morning, August 5th and 6th, I will have two book signing sessions in my ancestral area of Daviess County, Indiana. Not sure of all the details there, yet, but I’ll keep you posted.

The few book signings I’ve ever witnessed didn’t look all that exciting. A little table with a lonely, forlorn author sitting there. Generally being ignored. Smiling hopefully at anyone who passes within twenty feet. Don’t let that happen to me. It’ll scar me worse for life.

Back in late January, when I posted those first two chapters, I made my first ever request of you, my readers. I asked you to go online and pre-order my book. A great many of you did, and I thank you. Well, now I’m making one more request. After this, I promise to quit nagging you.

If you read the book and like it, please tell your world. Tell your friends. If you’re on Facebook, link the cover pic and post it with your honest recommendation. Ask your friends to do the same. With social media today, there’s no reason the message can’t get out there, to a host of potential readers who are now far beyond the reach of my voice.

If you read the book and don’t like it, keep that obviously flawed literary opinion to yourself. Don’t say nothin’ to nobody. Just kidding. I hope you will like it. Inevitably, though, some of you won’t. I’ve seen some grumbling on the private blog reviews about how the book is this or that, how it didn’t meet certain expectations. And that’s fair enough. Not everyone will like the book, or enjoy it. And if you’re one of those, well, then so be it. Do what you have to.

And so I am where I am. Less than a week away from the release of my book. The journey has been long. Arduous. Fraught with all kinds of unknowns. And yet, I’ve pushed forward into magical realms that were inconceivable even a few short years ago.

I stand here, in the courtyard of that shining city of my dreams. The outer gates opened to me some time back, and I entered. I absorbed, breathed deep the rarefied air, and drank of a view that very few ever get to see. And now I approach what seems like the final golden door, the symbol of one of the deepest longings of my heart.

But even at this threshold, I pause to reflect. The golden door will open, and I will enter. But I won’t abide for long in this place. Another tomorrow comes, and soon I will be off to the next destination. And then the one after that. I will go where my Commander sends me. And do what He requires of me. Not always in good cheer, I’m sure. I’ll grumble a bit, and fuss, here and there, as I tend to do. (Aw, come on, Lord. You really want me to go there, down that steep and rocky trail? I could get hurt. Why can’t I just stay here, on this smooth, safe highway?)

But one thing I know, one thing I have learned on the long and often troubled journey from my roots to where I am today. A road that many have traveled. But, of those, very few have told the tale of how it was, not outside the boundaries of their social circles. But I’m getting sidetracked here, on a little bunny trail. The thing I have learned is this: My Commander will always have my back. And He’ll always provide the necessary logistical support from those around me, to get me to where I need to go.

There will be hard battles ahead, sure there will be. And more treacherous, difficult roads. The dragons of fear and doubt will lurk, as they always do, patiently waiting for the tiniest opening to swoop in and attack. That’s just part of life as it has been, and life as it will be. But tomorrow’s combat can wait until tomorrow. Sufficient unto the day is what that day may bring.

On this day, at this place, in this brief and blazing moment of gratitude and triumph, as a weary, battle-hardened warrior approaching at last the inner sanctum of my shining city, I turn my face to the heavens and simply exult.

(Photo by Mary June Miller)

Going to the mountains is going home.

– George Leigh Mallory
___________________

For the past two years, at about this time, we’ve packed a large motor home with enough food to last for weeks and headed out. Destination: the hallowed trackside ground inside the oval at the Pocono 500. It was always an adventure; getting in, setting up, and then just living it up in redneck city for a few surreal days. We’ve met some quite colorful characters, and seen many strange and wonderful things. And, yes, some weird things too.

This year, though, we didn’t make it. Not that it wouldn’t have been exciting and fun. But after attending the race for a couple of consecutive years, well, the fire seemed to have died. We didn’t really talk about it back then, my friends and me. But a few months ago, I mentioned to Paul that I likely wouldn’t be able to make it this year, what with my book coming out and all. He nodded and said that the others in the group had discussed it, and decided they would not go this year.

Hmmm. Discussed it, had they? Somehow they had failed to include me in that little conference. Guess that shows where I rate on the totem pole, but then, I’m not the one who owns the motor home. But, hey it all worked out. Looks like we all reached the same conclusion at roughly the same time, just from different points. And so this year, no redneck Nascar trip.

Since we first attended that Nascar race back in 2009, we’ve taken to hanging out as a group, now and then. At the home of one of us or another. And a few months ago, another couple showed up one night. Michael and Lori. They fit right in to the flow of things. And I got to know them fairly well.

Turns out Michael and Lori own a cabin in the hills of West Virginia. Close to the southwest corner, a good six hours’ drive. And this year, they invited us all down for the Memorial Day weekend. Come on, they said. We have plenty of room, and Ira can sleep on the couch.

It seemed like a good thing. Except, man, it was far down there. As gas prices rose, I fretted about running Big Blue all that distance. Not really so much about the miles. Just the cost of driving them. But I decided to go. Goodness knows I’ve been a bit stressed out lately. A road trip to a remote mountain cabin would be relaxing.

Everyone arrived by Friday evening, except me. On the way down, I stopped for the night at the house of my good friend, Dominic Haskin, who lives in Martinsburg, WV. Dominic and his father run Timberline Pole Buildings, and buy their materials from Graber. So I figured I’d stop and hang out for the night. Check to see if there were any supply issues.

I arrived around 3 PM, and found Dominic outside whacking weeds, and cleaning up the place. Getting ready for a Memorial Day party. We hung out by his pool. The boys from his crews stopped by for a few beers, and to talk about our building products. They vented about a few minor glitches in our system. I listened sympathetically and promised to take care of things. We didn’t go out on the town or anything, just hung out. Dominic grilled up some fantastic steaks, the first of many scrumptious meals I’d eat that weekend. We sat out by the pool and just chilled for a few hours. By midnight, we were nodding off. I slept in the spare bedroom downstairs. A cute little fluffy white cat kept stalking me, right down the stairs. The cat lurked about outside the bedroom door, staring at me with grim cold eyes. Kind of gave me the shivers. Clearly, I was an unwelcome intruder.

The next morning around 10, Big Blue and I headed west and south. Through the mountains of Cumberland, MD, then on to Morgantown. Then south and west. Around 2:30 or so, I was approaching my destination. I called Michael on his cell; they were all in town, eating lunch at some little hole in the wall restaurant. I joined them, and after lunch we strolled through an impromptu flea market set up in the local courthouse lawn. Americana at its finest, with flags waving everywhere, and cheap merchandise galore.

After stocking up on supplies at a nearby WalMart, we headed out to the cabin. Off the highway a mile or so, then a half mile back into the mountain on a narrow gravel road. Beautiful setting. A classic little board and batten cabin, with a roomy open porch on front, built by Michael and his father many years ago. I lugged in my bags and joined the others, loafing about outside on the porch.

Paul had brought and prepared his signature ribs, but there was no cooker around. So he and Michael fashioned one out of an old 45-gallon drum. It was all a long and leisurely affair, with much unsolicited advice flowing in from all sides. Eventually they got a fire going in the redneck contraption. The ribs were set on a makeshift wire grill inside the barrel. And so began a long stretch of feeding and starving the fire at tense sporadic intervals to adjust the heat inside the barrel. More streams of unsolicited advice flowed freely. Paul took it all in stride, dishing out as much as he got. The whole scene was pure hillbilly production.

Paul adjusting the air flow on his barrel cooker.

Some four hours later, Paul proclaimed the ribs done. And they were. We cut them up, served with beans baked over the open fire. And fresh Ceasar salad. A delicious feast. The ribs were hot and spicy, dry-rubbed in various spices and cayenne pepper. Whew. But tasty? You bet they were. Afterward, we all sat around an open campfire, chatting and sipping drinks, then moved to the porch for a few rounds of Hi-Lo. Around 10 or so, everyone drifted off to bed. I sat out on the porch alone for awhile, absorbing the West Virginia mountain night. Then I wandered inside, made a nest on the floor with couch cushions and settled in for a few hours of fitful slumber.

Sunday morning we slept in. Then got up to a huge breakfast of eggs, Applewood smoked bacon, hash browns, toast and coffee. Just what I needed – to gain more weight. But, hey, one doesn’t get to hang out in a mountain cabin with good friends very often. So do as the mountain folk do. Eat. After breakfast, Paul and I headed to town to get a Sunday paper. And the lazy day drifted on.

Three four-wheelers had been hauled down on Michael’s trailer. There was talk of going on a trail ride, and I agreed to go, assuming that I’d ride with someone. But when the time came, Paul decided he would stay at the cabin. He insisted that I take his four-wheeler and join the others.

Which was very generous of him. Except for one very important thing. I’d never driven a four-wheeler before. Never even so much as rode on one. So I balked. Those hills out there went straight up and straight down. It looked dangerous. But the others insisted. So, after a two minute tutorial on such basics as throttle, brakes, and how you must always lean forward going uphill, I mounted the wicked little machine and gunned the engine. There was no helmet. So I wore a bill cap, and goggles for eye protection.

The other two four-wheelers were loaded double. Michael and Lori led. Then Don and Angie. And then me. I should have had the presence of mind to cross myself. I mean, what can it hurt? I’ve done that for years every time I get on a plane. But it never occurred to me that now might also be a good time to do so.

The others roared off through the yard and straight up the steep trail. I watched them disappear up the hill into the trees. Then I gunned my engine, turned the throttle and took off after them. Immediate steep hill. And I mean steep. I leaned forward; the four-wheeler clawed its way up. And we crested the first hill. It was fun, except I was too tense to really enjoy it. The throttle seemed a bit erratic; one moment I was leaning backward from the speed and the next second I was practically flying over the handle bars as the machine seemed to cut and buck like a bull. But gradually I relaxed as the controls became more familiar. Up and down, up and down, the other two four-wheelers always disappearing over the next hill or around the next bend.

We rode for probably half an hour. Stopping now and then to take in the breathtaking scenery. I’m sure the others exercised great patience at my inexperience. And it was fun, all of it, except for one straight-down descent. I hung on as the four-wheeler bobbed and weaved dangerously, pretty much out of my control, then leveled at the bottom. Only then was I told that on such steep hills, I should use only the front brakes. Whew.

It all ended well. We got back to the cabin, safe and sound. After dismounting, I refused to ride again that day. I’d pushed my luck far enough, I figured.

That night, we ate by the fire, and hung out late by the fire. No cards. Just good friends hanging out, comfortable with each other, talking and watching the sky for falling stars. It was all quite relaxing. Magical, really.

And that was West Virginia.

As most of my readers know, I was raised on a farm. Around horses, cows, hogs and chickens. And as a young man, I detested farming with a passion. And since my flight from from the land many years ago, I’ve never really missed it much.

Except in some ways, I have. For a decade or more, I’ve dreamed of owning a few acres in the country. A tidy little place, in my mind, with a few sheep and goats grazing peacefully in lush pastures. And maybe a few miniature cattle. But no horses.

Maybe one day I might realize that little dream. Or maybe not. In the meantime, I recently took a rather startling step. Playing a role as a detached gentleman farmer. A few weeks ago, I bought a young Boer nanny goat. Yep, that’s right. A goat.

And no, the goat is not tethered on my lot in New Holland, grazing on my lawn. Here’s how it all came down.

A few weeks back, my Amish co-worker, Eli Esh, mentioned to me that he and his brothers were looking to buy some goats to graze on a few acres their father owned.

“Goats?” I asked, incredulously.

“Yep, goats,” he said. Then, sensing my interest, he asked if I wanted to buy one or two and graze them for free in the pasture. I immediately perked up and allowed that I might indeed consider such an offer.

And so, after Eli and his brother located and purchased four little weanling nannies, I bought one from them. A black goat, with a white blotch on its forehead. And we’re looking to get a few more. The plan is to graze them on the pasture, get them bred, and raise little goatlings for slaughter. I’m just a silent partner. No work involved for me, I was assured over and over again. We’re looking for a few more. Right now, the boys have a lead on some yearlings, ready for breeding. I’m fixing to buy at least one more, maybe two.

As with most “gentleman farming” ventures, I’m sure this entire episode will morph into a mini black hole, gobbling small chunks of money here and there and here and there for stuff that must of course be done to keep our investment, well, at least alive. Worming. Feed and hay in winter. And so forth, on and on. It’ll never stop. But hey, it’s a small sliver of one of my small dreams. Who knows what it might portend? And it will be fun. Plus it should, based on my record, provide me with at least a few prime opportunities to grumble a bit. And that’s something I enjoy doing once in awhile, given the right fodder.

One more blog after this, and then my book comes out. I feel like a little kid, counting down the glacially slow-moving nights until the dawn arrives when some great, grand, rare event unfolds. Sleep two more times, then I’ll get to go to town. Or something like that. In any case, I’ll post my final pre-book-release blog on Friday, June 24th. And then, well, I reckon I’m going on a little journey.

Nothing makes a fish bigger than almost being caught.

—Author Unknown
________________

A month back, around mid-April, they sprouted magically like they always do that time of year. Swarming around the tiny little creeks that cut like soggy ribbons through the fields of Lancaster County. Opening day of trout season triggered a great flood of people, fishing for the small stocked trout the Game Commission had obligingly released a day or two before.

They’re out there at dawn on almost any morning, but especially so on Saturdays. Mostly men and boys. Following the traditions passed down to them by their fathers. And it’s a good thing, although I’ve never had the energy to join them. On Saturday mornings, unless I’m working at the office, I sleep in with all phones unplugged.

But it’s still good to see, and it always tugs at me a bit. The thought of casting a line and feeling it come alive as a fish takes the bait. Except these creeks are so crowded, with people standing side by side, their poles and lines dangling dangerously close to each other. A real wild fish of almost any size could sure create some havoc if caught. You’d have one vast hopelessly tangled mess, and probably a good bit of cussing.

It’s cool, too, that Dads take their sons and daughters out to experience the thrill of catching a trout or two. Fishing is a wholesome activity and I can’t imagine my own childhood without it. Back in the day, I even fancied myself a bit of an expert at the sport. A long, long time ago, of course.

I was probably four years old when I caught my first fish. And it was my sisters, not Dad, who led me into a new and enthralling world one morning soon after breakfast. Naomi and Rachel and me, and maybe my brother Titus. We sat on the north bank of our pond, which was probably an acre in size, which back then seemed like a huge lake. The north bank was steep, and the water was deepest there. We had no real fishing tackle, except a hook and line. A four-foot piece of small black plastic pipe (did they make PVC back then?) served as the fishing pole.

Naomi baited my hook with a worm, and told me to dip the line in the water. I don’t think I’d even seen anyone catch a fish before, so I really had no idea what was about to happen. We sat there for a few minutes, and suddenly some unseen force tugged at the hook. My little black pole was almost torn from my hands, or so it felt.

“Pull him in, pull him in,” my sisters hollered. I yanked at my pole, back and up above my head. A wicked little yellow-bellied black monster of a catfish came sailing out of the water, whizzed past my head and landed smack in the middle of the multi-flora rose bushes behind us. A sorry little critter, about four inches long, writhed and twitched there in the dirt. Fortunately, my hook held and Naomi nudged the fish out of the thorny bushes, while I danced about excitedly. A fish. I’d caught a real fish. After retrieving the squirming little excuse of a fish, she carefully removed the hook. It was all quite wild and exciting.

And that was my first fish, ever.

After that, my brothers and I often fished on our own, out by our pond. Eventually we even purchased our own cheap rods and reels and assorted tackle and fishing lures. Our pond held mostly small catfish and some sunfish. We always hooked our catch, a mixture of both, to a wire stringer and carefully carried them in. Then whacked off their heads and gutted and scraped them clean. Which left a tiny sliver of edible meat. Mom always faithfully and cheerfully saved up the scraps that totaled a day’s catch, and stored them in the ice box. And eventually she had enough to fry up a good meal. Our meager offerings must have created far more bother than they were worth, but she never let on.

The best fishing in Aylmer came from the gravel pits, a series of ponds about a half mile east of our farm. Years before, gravel had been removed, hauled off by big ten-wheeler trucks. Back then, they didn’t fill the gaping holes that remained after drag-lines had clawed into the earth to extract the gravel. And thus some very nice deep ponds were born, and ponds of such quality will not remain long without fish. Who cares where they come from? Maybe they rain from the sky, to seed new waters.

We often ran over to the pits after supper on a hot summer evening for a quick swim. And during our spare time, probably two or three times a month, we fished our favorite waters there.

The pits held some bass, but mostly northern pike. A wiry snake-like fish with a long wicked jaw lined with razor-sharp teeth. We mostly caught small stuff, a pound or two in size, and man, there ain’t much better eating out there than northern pike, when it comes to fish. They sure tasted a lot better than the small fry junk from our own muddy pond.

Slowly, over time, we accumulated quite a stash of fishing tackle. Flimsy rods of various lengths and brands. Zebco push-button reels. Cheap no-name spinning reels. We bought line, hooks, sinkers and lures. In town, mostly, but sometimes here and there at local auctions. My brothers and I debated the merits of various spoons, flathead lures, and spinners. Rapala. Flathead. Mepps Rooster Tails. Peppermint spinners. Plastic worms, with and without wiggly tails. We carefully saved for our next buy. Kept our treasures in small plastic or metal Plano tackle boxes. As our fishing supplies grew, so did the size of our tackle boxes. The biggest one I ever owned back then had a hinged two-tier, lift-out tray.

And somewhere, from some cluttered auction box, I found a nice flathead lure with no hook. Mottled green, speckled with dark black spots. But it had no hook. Hmmm. Not being an engineer, I quickly found a solution. I safety-pinned a nice 3-pronged hook to the bottom side of the lure. That should do it. And the flathead joined all the other lures in my two-tiered tackle box, probably in a spot in the bottom tray. Maybe one day I’d actually use it to catch something.

That day of reckoning arrived one fine summer day. I’m thinking it was mid-morning, although it might have been right after our noon meal, when everyone else was taking a nap. My sister Rhoda and I snuck out and walked the half mile east to the gravel pits. (A tomboy to the core, Rhoda consistently outfished all her brothers. But hey, she could communicate with animals too, so no doubt she was talking to the fish, somehow, to get them to take her bait.) Instead of fishing at our usual spot, we chose another pond, just a bit east and south.

We stood there on the bank, two sun-browned and barefoot Amish children, and surveyed the pond. A silent heavy sunny day. Waves of heat shimmered from the water. Seaweed clogged the pond a few yards out. Protruding just a bit from the seaweed lurked what might have been a big fish, a pike. But nah. It had to be a small limb, broken from overhanging trees. We threw in our spinners and reeled them back. The limb stayed where it was, unmoving. And always seaweed clogged the hooks on our spinners. It seemed pretty hopeless, that we’d catch anything at this spot.

And then Rhoda reached into my tackle box and pulled out the mottled green flathead lure. Snapped it to her line leader. Cast out into the pond, no more than fifteen feet. She slowly reeled it back; the flathead dove deep into the clear water and snaked and wobbled like a wild living bug.

It all came down so fast that time seemed to stop, or at least slow down a good bit. The “limb” protruding from under the seaweed suddenly flashed to life. A huge pike shot out and gobbled the mottled flathead lure. Boom, just like that. Rhoda’s light rod bowed dangerously as she instantly reacted and yanked it back to set the hook, purely on reflex.

And then the great fish surfaced. Didn’t jump or anything, just rolled. The flash of silver scales glinted like a mirror in the bright sunlight. The water roiled and thrashed and foamed. And in that instant, my sadly under-engineered little safety pin was ripped from the lure. The massive pike shot back under the seaweed like a ghost, and was gone. It was all over in about five seconds. Stretched out seconds, of course, at least to us. We stood there frozen as tiny waves from the departed pike rippled up to the bank at our feet. Rhoda slowly reeled in the mutilated flathead. The hook was gone, firmly planted in the fish’s mouth.

Sure, we were young kids back then. I was probably twelve years old, give or take a year. Rhoda was a few years younger. And of course the pike seemed much larger to us than it probably was. But I’d swear to this day that the fish was at least a ten-pounder. Certainly massively larger than anything we’d ever seen, and larger than any fish anyone had ever caught in Aylmer, at least up until that time.

In muted voices of utter disbelief, we talked excitedly about what had just unfolded. The thought kept pulsing through my mind that I should have known that a safety pin would never hold any fish, let alone a monster like the one that had just chomped my flathead lure. A little life lesson was eventually born of that moment. If you’re gonna refit/repair something, do some calculations. Get it right.

We sadly headed home, where our story was met with dubious condescension. No one doubted that a pike had torn the hook from my lure. But I mean, come on. A safety pin. A four-inch catfish in our muddy pond could demolish such a pitiful connector. Everyone was openly skeptical of our descriptions of the pike’s massive size. Can’t blame them, I guess. I would have doubted it too, had I not seen it with my own eyes.

Chasing that pike became minor obsession for me for the next few years. I dipped deep into the reservoir of my meager savings, and promptly squandered a good twenty bucks or so on a brand new spinning rod and reel at the Canadian Tire store in Aylmer. It was the sturdiest setup I had ever owned. And in the ensuing months, and during the next few summers, I stalked the banks of that pond dozens of times at any hour of the day. In the morning. At mid-day. And as the evening shadows deepened into night.

Sadly, or maybe not, my quest was entirely futile. I never got that fish to bite again. He disappeared into the sea-weeded depths as if he’d never existed. Maybe the embedded hook killed him. Or maybe the wily monster learned enough that day to never be fooled again. I like to think he died peacefully of old age.

Over the years, my fiberglass spinning rod slowly splintered and disintegrated, and no shreds of it remain. The mottled flathead lure, too, was lost in the dust of time along the way. But somewhere, in a box in my garage, I still have that old Daiwa spinning reel. I pick it up now and then and hold it in my hands. It’s the only tangible thing that remains to remind me of that muggy summer day in Aylmer so long ago, when two raggedy Amish children did brief but valiant battle with a monster fish and lost.

I value that old relic of a spinning reel as one of my very few surviving childhood treasures. Along with the memories, I suppose, it is enough.

You can avoid reality, but you cannot avoid the
consequences of avoiding reality.
— Ayn Rand
______________________

They’ve been coming through our doors in increasing numbers this year at work. Shifting, lean, hungry-eyed men, pricing out a bit of trim and metal and lumber for small remodel jobs. Small time guys, probably laid off from some half-decent job they used to have, and will likely never see again. Out there slugging around for a bit of work to put food on the table. And for all those other bills.

A few weeks ago, Patrick (my boss) waited on a rough-looking guy. Well, he didn’t particularly look rough, but his clothes sure did. Ragged, worn, with patch sewn over patch. Mom used to patch our clothes when we were children, but this guy’s pants would have amazed even her. He stood there at the counter for ten minutes or so as he and Patrick talked and figured out what he might need for a certain little job. Then he left in his battered old beater of a pickup. He never returned, so he either didn’t get the winning bid, or he found his materials somewhere else.

We’re always cordial, of course, no matter who walks through our doors. Except maybe for some pesky salesmen, either the first timers or those who can’t accept rejection. But they don’t count. We are always genuinely cordial and professional, and we sell a lot of little odd job stuff to small timers. I can’t help but feel bad for some of these guys. They probably never have much left for their labor.

A persistent pulse of unease throbs in the public’s murmured conversations. It’s all around. You can feel it, sense it, taste it, speak it, hear it. A palpable undertow of suppressed panic, tinged with resignation. Silent slivers of fear. Lurking even behind smiling faces.

It’s been a long cold spring. And it’s tough out there. It really is.

With gas lurching toward $5 a gallon, things won’t get better anytime soon. Fuel costs affect all transportation, and everything transported. Food. Building materials. Getting to and from work. Family vacations. Whether or not you drive twenty miles to reach an otherwise “nearby destination.” Everything is affected, like the touch of King Midas. Except in this case, the opposite effect of his “magic” holds true. Things turn to ashes, not gold. Real life changes, big time. All for the worse.

It’s deeply perturbing, really, the shape we’re in. Not only in this country, but the world as a whole. After nearly a hundred years of deliberate currency debasement on a global scale, now comes the time to pay the piper. And he won’t lead his mesmerized flock into some mystical mountain cave. He will instead impoverish and enslave our children and their children into infinity.

Our political leaders squabble in Washington like the empty, shallow arrogant elites they are. As a libertarian, I genuinely despise both parties, and by association about ninety-nine percent of all others in that corrupt swamp who pick at the carcass of our country. The party of war and the party of Marxism. Both about equally destructive, and I really mean that.

In a time that begs for real leadership, our “messiah” Obama babbles inanely about alternative energy, as if the Left’s pipe dream could be spoken into existence. Like God created the world. Our messiah did manage to create a special board of some sort to investigate Big Oil, to make sure there is no price gouging. As if that will reduce prices by even a cent. Oh, yeah. That’ll do it. More inept and utterly senseless bureaucracy. It’s flat out asinine.

Except with Obama, I don’t think he’s as stupid as he acts. The man is determined to destroy the last vestiges of the free market that somehow managed to survive in this country. He may just get it done. I hope every single person who voted for him feels happy and hopeful about paying $5.00 for a gallon of gas. Fine change, that. (Not that McCain would have done much better, except maybe he wouldn’t have unleashed upon us the gorgon of a monster that is ObamaCare. I didn’t vote for him (McCain), either.)

I don’t hate Obama. Just his policies. I despise those with a passion. And I marvel in despair at his sheer incompetence. He’s even started his own little quagmire in Libya. Didn’t want to be outdone by Bush, I guess.

In time, there will be riots in the streets. There will be. After those desperate hungry guys out there slogging for small jobs get fed up, and decide to give it up. After it’s not worth the effort any more. After guys like that are driven to the wall and cannot find food to feed their families, that’s when it will all come down.

And right on cue, here comes Atlas Shrugged, the movie. Haven’t seen it yet, since it’s a limited release, but I plan to. I won’t go through all the contortions and disclaimers stating my disagreements with Ayn Rand. Her cold logic, devoid of any possible acknowledgment of God. Her strident atheism. Somehow, the woman wrote a timeless novel that contains a host of real core truths. Truths that will always stand, regardless of time and a myriad of political maelstroms. The book was one of the two most influential novels I have ever read.

We have stepped through the doorway into the world of Atlas Shrugged. As the clogging tentacles of government tighten their deadly grip on every aspect of our lives. Emboldened Leviathan must and will devour itself. It simply cannot sustain itself, not for long. It cannot hold. And it will never, never stand. Not in the sweeping saga of history.

Recently, a strange thing came down at work. Perhaps it speaks to the times we are in, and perhaps it doesn’t. I got an email requesting a quote for a pole building. The prospective customer was the CEO of some regional business. He wanted to erect the building on his farm. I emailed back. We chatted a time or two on the phone. And then he stopped by on a recent Saturday morning when I was pulling weekend duty.

A florid-faced man, probably sixty or so, round cheeked, slightly rotund. Confident air, as if used to being obeyed. I greeted him politely. And he was pleasant enough. Just way too suspicious. Like he didn’t really believe I was who I was, or that what I said was true.

It soon became clear that he knew just enough about pole construction to make him dangerous. And a flat-out idiot in his conversation. Somehow, he didn’t trust our normal construction standards. He wanted an option for this and for that, and an option for heavier grade metal and bigger poles. Heavier snow loading on the trusses.

And, of course, he wanted every option listed with and without labor. We sell complete building material packages. He figured he could find his own cheap crew.

I do thousands of building quotes every year. And few things are more irritating than a prospective customer blithely rattling off options merely for the sake of mild if not zero real interest or consideration. Like he loves the sound of his own voice. Buying a building is not like buying a car. Some people get that point confused. (Adding that dormer will cost about two thousand bucks. Oh, you thought it could thrown in for free, or for a few hundred bucks? Nope. Sorry.) But that day, I remained very cordial, and took careful notes. I’d have the quote to him by mid-week, I assured him. He thanked me and left.

And I got it ready, the quote. It gobbled at least an hour right out of a frantic day. I faithfully and laboriously calculated and listed each option. Even had Dave check it over, which took a few minutes of his time as well. Then I emailed my quote to the florid CEO. Almost immediately he answered, requesting a few more senseless options, then fussed when I returned the pricing. My competition was way lower, he claimed. I politely explained how I came up with my numbers, which took more time. And finally, with that, I figured he was gone.

But nah. No such luck could be mine. A few days later, another email. Maybe he was impressed with my expertise and ready to go. I scanned the page. A list, an entire page of a list. Demanding even more detailed options. Including one that would, if implemented, have destroyed any warranty against leakage on the roof. All priced with and without labor.

Some time ago, I stumbled across an essay about Pareto’s Law, which, among other things, formulates the following: “80% of your sales come from 20% of your clients.” Conversely, 20% of your sales come from 80% of your prospects. So 80% of your effort gleans 20% of your sales. All that time, gone, and the value of time is incalculable. After reading, I mulled it over. Where my sales came from. And where my efforts seemed fruitless. Pareto’s Law really made a lot of sense.

I was so impressed that I printed the essay and gave copies to Patrick and Dave, my two office co-workers. Well, my one boss and my one co-worker. Pat and I chatted about it. And after receiving the CEO’s second detailed request, Pareto’s Law stirred in my head. I discussed the situation with Patrick. Should I spend two hours working on a quote that had few prospects of success, or should I focus my time on more productive things? Perhaps because of my heavy lobbying, we decided to pass on the quote.

So Patrick crafted a very diplomatic letter, far more polite than anything I could ever have concocted, and emailed it to the florid CEO. Told him we are declining his request for the quote and why. And I moved on to other work, greatly relieved.

Sadly, the CEO promptly responded to Patrick’s letter in a most unprofessional manner. I imagine his face was more florid than usual as he reacted by pounding his message on the keyboard. Strident, unedited. Threatening, fuming. I wouldn’t work for the guy, that’s all I’ll say. Except for one more thing. Good riddance. He would have been far more of a pain that he could possibly have been worth, had he purchased the building. Which he wouldn’t have done anyway. Never had any intention to. Pareto’s Law. Look it up.

The reviews from the little independent blogs are slowly popping up out there, posting ratings on my book. Nope, I’m not providing any links. If you’re that curious, find them yourself, like I did. So far, the ratings have ranged from three to five stars, out of a five star scale. Seems like a few reviewers were less than impressed with the book. One said it was sad. Another said I left the Amish because I wanted a pickup truck. Funny, though, they all did compliment some aspect of the book. Guess that’s what you do when pronouncing a judgment of three stars.

And of course, most of those who rated the book four or five stars did only that, with few words. Praise slips from the shadows, almost mute, while criticism grumbles loudly. It all adds a bit of stress to the long wait.

Growing Up Amish is “heavy reading.” Sure, it’s got its light moments, but mostly it’s not light stuff. Pretty much like my blog has been since its inception, except the book’s flow is connected, not random. So if you’re expecting a breezy narrative with vapid depictions of the Amish, don’t buy the book. Oh, wait. Scratch that. Buy it anyway, just put it on the shelf. The cover alone is worth the price.

A blessed Easter to all my readers.

Let me hear my Momma calling,
Look a-yonder, ya’ll, who’s coming.
Down the road, he’s coming home.
But they know I never will.

Conway Twitty, lyrics: Play, Guitar, Play
_________________________________

My parents spoke now and then of the long ago world they had known as children in Daviess. And of the colorful characters they saw in that world, including the ragged dusty tramps, straggling down the road to no particular destination, lugging their meager belongings in torn rucksacks, offering to chop wood for food. Once in awhile, Mom even hummed a few verses from the classic Depression era song, “Brother, can you spare a dime?”

And the Aylmer Amish community, too, had a few local tramp legends. Way back in the dawn of its history, it was said, Solomon Herrfort left his coat hanging on a fence post beside the road while working in the fields one day. When he returned, a tramp had taken up an axe lying nearby and split the top of the post without bothering to remove Solomon’s coat. He’d been drinking, we heard. The tramp, not Solomon. (Although Solomon might have wished for a drink after he found the tattered remnants of his coat. Then again, probably not.)

And another legend was born in my own time, in my own childhood world. Late one night, Homer Grabers discovered a tramp sleeping in their barn. The details remain a bit foggy, but if I remember right, they came home from somewhere, maybe visiting at a neighbor’s place, and their farm dog was yapping insanely out by the barn. Homer and his son Alvin cautiously ventured out to investigate, and were greatly startled and then horrified to discover a man bedded down in the hay loft. One of them rushed to the schoolhouse phone and called the cops. It all ended (in subsequent greatly embellished detail, of course) with the cop hauling the hapless hobo off to somewhere, hopefully to a night in a warmer bed at the Aylmer jail.

To us, as children, tramps were mythical figures, and we tried to imagine what it would have been like to live in a world where they would just come strolling down the road from and to nowhere. And, of course, we never caught even so much as a glimpse of a real tramp.

And then one evening, we almost saw one. Or so we thought. It might have been late spring, going on early summer. Or it might have been late summer, going on early fall. The shadows of visual memory are about the same in either setting. But if I had to pick, I would say it was late spring/early summer.

It was after supper and we were outside, barefoot, playing and chattering in the yard. Probably an hour or so of daylight remained. I don’t remember who first saw him. In about two seconds, all of us did. A figure walking from the west along the gravel road toward us. We stirred a bit uneasily but continued our play. And watched as the speck of a man grew larger.

Closer he came, passing the great oak tree in the road ditch a few hundred yards away, and then he reached our lane. Frozen, we stared as he turned in and walked right up to our house. We skittered about like frightened rabbits, shifting into the shadows. Someone ran inside to tell Dad, who slowly ambled out. By this time the stranger had reached the concrete walkway leading to our house.

He was young, maybe twenty years old, which seemed old to us back then. Dressed in worn clothes and worn-out shoes. He looked ragged and tired. Dirty blond hair, and possibly a small beard (although that little detail escapes me). He stopped as Dad walked out to meet him.

“Hello, what can I do for you this evening?” Dad asked, somewhat rhetorically. The young man smiled hesitantly and fumbled nervously in his pocket. Pulled out a slip of paper.

“Your son Joseph said you might be able to put me up for the night. He wrote a note and told me to give it to you,” the stranger stammered. Joseph, recently married, lived with his wife Iva on the Sansburn farm a mile west. Dad took the note and quickly scanned it. Whatever it said, it seemed to satisfy him. He asked a few quick questions, to verify the note. And then he opened up his home.

“Come on inside and we’ll get you some food,” Dad said. He turned back to the house, the young stranger following close behind. Mom met them, smiling. She was used to unexpected company, but not this kind.

“This man is hungry,” Dad told her. “Can you fix him a bite to eat?”

And, of course, Mom could. Totally accustomed to scratching together quick meals for the swarms of Amish visitors that often popped in unannounced in every season, she quickly warmed up some leftovers on her stove. Dad sat and chatted with the young man. Nervous at first, the stranger calmed down a good deal and soon was wolfing down the plate of food Mom set before him.

Dad sat there at the table with the stranger as he ate and talked. He lived northeast of us, somewhere up in the Corinth area (if I remember right). Things weren’t going well at home with his parents. He and his father fought a lot. And he hated his job; his boss was always mean to him. It was all reaching unacceptable levels. Then in the last few days, for some reason, all the forces of life had conspired against him. He had a big knock-down drag out argument with his father the night before. And that day, the boss screamed at him for absolutely no reason (which was, of course, the stranger’s highly biased perspective). And at quitting time, instead of going home, he had simply walked down the road with nothing, really, but the clothes on his back. He didn’t own a car, or much of anything else.

Somehow, after trudging for hours, he had ended up at Joseph’s place. Joseph, recently ensconced in his new home with his bride, listened to the stranger’s story. While sympathetic, he couldn’t quite see boarding such a person for a night. So he finally decided on a sensible course of action. He sent the stranger a mile east to his father’s place with a note.

Dad listened as the man talked and talked, inserting a comment now and then. The stranger was stressed and exhausted, that much was plain. And by the way, his feet hurt. Could he possibly get some cardboard to cut out and fit into his shoes? All those miles of walking had about done them in.

Of course. That would be no problem, Dad assured him. But eat first, then we’ll take care of that.

The stranger didn’t know where he was going. This much was established as he ate and talked. All he knew was that it was over back there, back at his home and at his job. And that he needed a place to stay that night. Tomorrow he would move on, he assured Dad.

Hovering in the next room, we listened to their conversation, mildly disappointed. The guy wasn’t really a tramp, just a confused young man who had been pushed to the wall. But to us he seemed like one.

And soon enough, he finished eating. Dad ushered him into the living room, and they sat on rocking chairs and talked. The sun set, and darkness fell. Dad lit the hissing mantle lantern, and that was my last visual memory of the two of them together. Sitting there talking in our living room by the lantern’s light. And soon the children went off to bed.

The next morning, we got up and did our chores, then came in for breakfast. Dad was missing. Mom told us why.

The night before, Dad and the stranger had sat up late, talking. Dad had gently but persistently advised the young man to return home the next morning, and return to his job and face his problems. The stranger, at first adamantly opposed to such a plan, had gradually softened as Dad persuaded him. And eventually, he had agreed that he might consider returning.

Of course, Dad closed right in for the sale. And before they retired that night, he had convinced the young stranger of the wisdom of returning.

The stranger slept in our spare downstairs bedroom, in the northeast corner of our house. In the room bordering my parents’ bedroom.

The next morning, well before dawn, while all of us were still in deep slumber, Dad roused the young man from his bed. Mom got up and cooked a hasty breakfast for them both. With the stranger tagging along, Dad went out to the barn, harnessed his horse and hitched him to his old rattletrap buggy. The stranger stepped up and settled in nervously for the first and only buggy ride of his life.

And Dad took him home. The five or six miles north and east, in the predawn darkness. The buggy clattering along on the gravel roads, announcing its presence to the world with a single blinking orange light. They arrived at the young man’s home early enough for him to get to his job on time later that morning.

At home, we ate breakfast and began our day without Dad. Later that morning, he rattled into the lane with his rig, his mission accomplished. He never spoke much about the incident, at least not that I remember. It was just a thing that had happened, out of nowhere.

And thus ended this strange and extraordinary encounter between a stern, hardcore Amish man and a lost and disillusioned young English kid. Somehow, a connection was established across seemingly impenetrable cultural barriers. A father’s heart spoke life to a stranger’s son.

We returned to the normal bustle and flow of our lives on the farm. Spoke now and then of the stranger who had walked unannounced into our lives on that early summer evening. And that was that. Except it wasn’t, quite.

Some months later, one Saturday afternoon, a car pulled into our drive. Not a clunker, exactly, but not a late model, either. A clean-cut young man stepped out, smiling. He walked to the passenger’s door and opened it. A plain but smiling young woman stepped out.

It was the stranger, the “tramp” who had walked into our lane months before. He had returned home and cleaned up his act. Found a new job. Saved some money. Bought a car on credit. Started dating a nice girl. And now he had returned to thank Dad for what he had done all those months ago.

He proudly introduced us to the plain young woman. His girlfriend. And they both thanked my parents for their kindness that night.

After twenty minutes, or maybe half an hour, the first slivers of an awkward silence sprouted. There was no more to be said. A final pleasant platitude. Then the two young people got into the car, and drove slowly out our lane. Turned east, onto the gravel road, back to their English lives.

We never saw them again. We returned to the normal flow and course of our lives. Pondered among ourselves, now and then, about the tramp who had walked into our world for a few brief and surreal hours.

I don’t remember his name, although he spoke it to us. And I don’t know what ever happened to him. But I wonder sometimes how his life turned out and where he is today.

We sat there silently through the eternity of the next
few moments. There was nothing more to say.

—Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish
_______________________________

They call it the waiting game. The death march. And probably a few other choice descriptive terms they didn’t bother to mention. The most stressful time in the entire process of writing a book.

It’s that long dead stretch after the manuscript is finished, and there’s nothing more for the author to do. Nothing, that is, but wait. Wait for the publisher to plod through all the steps. Galleys. Final edits. And then that final endless wasteland. After all the editing, waiting for the release date.

They warned me of it, the Tyndale people. I chuckled quietly to myself. How silly, I thought. How could anything be more stressful than writing a book? Especially a book as improbable and, yes, as impossible as my own? Think of the stress of that. Seemed pretty obvious to me. After it was all done, I’d relax. Chill for a few months.

I’ve been idle now for some time. Except for a few final changes that were inserted into the manuscript after sporadic email exchanges and couple of brief conversations with Susan Taylor, my editor. It’s done. The book is done. No more edits from me, no more nothing.

Of course, they were right, as they pretty much have been throughout this process. They’d seen it countless times before. It always happens, like a formula, I suppose. They knew well the time would come for me.

And now the season of stress has arrived, rolling in like some winter storm. I should have known better than to doubt them.

It’s the strangest form of stressful tension I have ever experienced. Not the brutal bitter intense stuff in which I was immersed four years ago. You brace up for that, lower your head and doggedly trudge forward until things get better.

This is a solid, steady undertow, deep inside the pit of my stomach. Just there, roiling incessantly, like calm but crashing waves. Wearying in its quiet persistence. I try to focus on other things. My job. Working out feverishly at the gym. Hanging with friends now and then. Writing this blog. And yet, it’s the first thing that greets me each morning, that tension deep inside. Silent, heavy, a thing always present in every waking moment.

Not that I’m grumbling. I most definitely am not. Just saying how it is. I’d a lot rather experience all this tension than to never have had the chance to do so.

Now that the writing is done, I’ll huddle down in my hovel and stay a spell. Won’t bother the Tyndale people. They are doing what needs to be done. If they need my input, they’ll let me know. I’m only one of a dozen or two half-freaked, whacked-out authors my contacts are managing. The least I can do is to be the silent one.

Fortunately, though, I can express myself right here.

In my opinion, the Great American Novel was written decades ago. You Can’t Go Home Again, by Thomas Wolfe. Pure genius. And the truth of that famous line is still as powerful today as it ever was.

From certain rumblings, from one certain quarter, Wolfe’s creed will hold true for me as well, it seems. Which is not that surprising, really. It’s been thus, for those who penned their thoughts and memories of their past, probably since written language was developed. But still, it’s a bit jolting to experience first hand.

One can write in the most sensitive manner of which one is capable, and yet, because of intense cultural pressures, all that sensitivity will simply be ignored. No grace whatsoever for the chronicler. None. The minutest detail will be closely scrutinized under a microscope to uncover the minutest error, however trivial.

All the hurtful, damning details left untold are discounted as less than nothing. Because of a few paragraphs, honestly told, that are so insignificant that no one would otherwise have even noticed. And thus unfolds a great drama, a production of offense, complete with harsh accusations of dark ulterior motives. It’s all so trivial. And I’m so far removed from that mindset that I can no longer comprehend it. Not in any rational sense.

And, of course, an alternative scenario is trotted out to disprove my own, a “memory” so far removed from what really happened that it borders on delusion. It’s all a bit of a mess. Wouldn’t have to be. But it is.

They are tricky things, memories. And sure, I might be wrong on some details, here and there. But the things that happened in my life in a myriad of defining moments, the essence of them, those are locked inside my mind. As vividly as if they happened two minutes ago. And on those details I will not budge. Never.

It’s maddening, really, the inordinate fussing from a single place. And deeply frustrating. Maybe I should have included a smattering of all the stuff left unsaid, so there would be a real reason to fuss. And yet, I could not write those prurient details. Because they are not important in the retelling; they are merely a “tickling of the ears,” and serve no other purpose.

I have never written that kind of stuff. And I won’t start now. But it’s tempting, to think of what might have been written that wasn’t.

And, perhaps in the passion of the moment, without allowing for the necessary time for proper reflection or cooling down, words were written in slashing lines and sent to me. On paper. Words that probably would have been better left unwritten. Words that I will always have. Always. On paper. And every single syllable, every single such strident reactionary communication sent to me is filed away, perhaps to be woven into some future story at some distant date. That’s just how it is.

Just a word of warning there, for anyone who might be contemplating the launch of their own vendetta. Don’t do it. It’s not worth the hassle, the effort, or the energy. Trust me on this. Don’t go there.

A place that for decades (but not in recent years) in the past I had considered as “home” is now all but lost, as in reality it has been for some time, I suppose. And possibly some family ties might end up frayed as well, if things are pushed to that point. However one looks at it, that’s just plain senseless and silly. And totally tragic. Not that I want to be overly dramatic. My family is my family, and will always be. And my blood is my blood. Nothing will ever sever that.

I have my flaws, I know. My list of more or less ordinary faults and failures. And my life story, well, it pretty much mirrors the classic tale of woe that Amish preachers have always recounted with great relish.

The wayward son, who would not submit. Who insisted on going his own way. Out into the world. Who went to college, and then law school. And then married an “English” woman (Not born English, but thoroughly so in every other respect). Nothing good could possibly come from that. And on that point, it might seem they were right, at least to their way of thinking. No one can deny the factual evidence.

But now, suddenly, shockingly, after all these years, he’s speaking about his past, the wayward son. Writing it, for all the world to read. About who he was and where he was. And the characters around him, including those he loved and those who loved him.

It must be a bit of a jolt, for those back there in my past, still comfortably cocooned in their own little world.

How dare he? Look at who he is.

I’m divorced. That’s the first line they will always use, dramatically intoned, of course. And nothing more needs to be said. What can a man like that possibly have to say that could be of any value? I should be holed up, huddled in my shell, grateful and visibly humbled that anyone could possibly dredge up the vast amount of Christian charity it takes to even deign to acknowledge my existence. (Well, maybe that’s a bit overwrought. But hey, I was on a roll there.)

Anyway, despite what they might think or admit to saying, there is something more to be said. Actually, a lot more to be said. Even by one such as me. About how it was. And how it went. Way back when.

My defense: I have tried to be honest. About who I was, and who I am. And about those around me, in all their humanity. At an admittedly steep cost sometimes to others.

Which might not be fair to them sometimes. But I can’t see any other way to tell it.

Always, I’ve tried to be honest. In my blog. And in my book. Although I suppose my readers will have to make the final call on that.

The Tyndale people were right, as usual. The long wait is all they claimed it would be.

The stories of our great feats were told and retold,
and grew more fantastic with each telling.

–Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish
____________________________

For decades now, the story has resided among the most retold, and perhaps the most embellished, of classics in the seemingly bottomless repository of the Wagler family annals. I’ve always suspected it might be humorous only to us. It certainly is vastly more hilarious when related in Pennsylvania Dutch, the language in which it all came down. I also always knew that someday, somehow, I’d write it. Or try to. The time now seems right.

It was back in the early 80s. Sometime during the summer after my second flight from home, which was a short, intense excursion lasting only a few months. That summer, my cousin Reuben, from Marshfield, Mo., was staying with us in our home there in Bloomfield. Marshfield didn’t have much of a youth group, so Reuben was allowed to come spend the summer with us, hanging out with my brothers and me. He worked construction with my older brother Stephen.

That summer, my right arm was secured in a sturdy plaster cast, bent at the elbow and supported by a sling. Broken, snapped in two in a farming accident. But that’s another story. It was pretty cumbersome, the cast and arm sling, but it sure got me out of a lot of farm work. So it wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

We hung out with our cousin, me and my brothers. Enjoyed his company probably about as much as he enjoyed his time of freedom away from home. We didn’t particularly get into a lot of mischief, at least not the serious stuff.

I don’t know who first saw the notice in the paper. Stephen or Titus, probably. Pancake Day in Centerville. A day of feasting and celebration, for some reason or other.

Such small town festivals were off limits to us, and had always been. Such shallow revelry was not for us. Too worldly. Plus, there would be live music, a band of some sort. Definitely of the world. Not acceptable to the Amish people of Bloomfield. Not back then, at least. Or now, either, unless there’s been some drastic changes in the last twenty five years. Which could be possible, I suppose.

The three of them, Stephen, Titus and Reuben talked about it. How it would be fun to go. And then, right on cue, it was discovered that Dad would be gone that day. All day. Probably to a farm auction somewhere in the area. He loved auctions. Always returned with loads of stuff, mostly junk. And when he left for a sale, it was just assumed that he would be gone until that evening.

So the boys crafted their bold plan, and followed through. Somehow, it was decided that I wouldn’t be allowed to go. Maybe my broken arm had something to do with that. After Dad left that morning, I watched enviously as they rattled out our long drive and drove up to West Grove. There, they tied up their horse somewhere, probably at Henry Egbert’s place. Then they stood beside the highway and hitchhiked west. And soon enough, some English guy stopped and picked them up. They bounced about excitedly as the twenty miles flowed by. And soon they arrived in Centerville.

They walked to the square. And it was all they had expected. A great festival, with flags waving, a large crowd milling about. A center stage. The live band played. Then the mayor made a rousing speech. Then the band played again. And, boy, were there pancakes, pancakes, everywhere. More than they could possibly eat. And sausages. The boys stuffed themselves and loafed about, drinking it all in, deeply savoring this rare worldly treat.

And by mid afternoon, they returned. Safely back to our home farm. Dad was still at the auction. They breathed a sigh of relief. They had pulled it off. And the story might have ended there, in which case it would have been long forgotten as not worthy of being told. But further events unfolded, and thus a tale was born.

That night, after supper, we all sat around, reading and chatting. Dad was sitting on his favorite chair, leafing through the local paper. One little ad caught his eye.

“Har, har,” he chuckled. “Looks like they had Pancake Day in Centerville today.”

It was an offhand comment, totally random. The boys hunched down, silent. They certainly had nothing to add. Dad turned the page of his paper.

And then, from the kitchen, Mom piped up.

“Pancake Day,” she exclaimed. “Why, these boys were there.”

It was like an elephant had suddenly lumbered into the room unannounced, and collapsed the house. Deathly silence followed. Dad’s face twisted into a serious frown as he absorbed the shocking news. Stephen and Titus groaned inside. I said nothing. Hey, I didn’t go. I was innocent. A frozen moment passed.

“What!” Dad roused himself from the rubble and shook off the dust. “I hope not. I hope no one in this house would have done something like that.”

Stephen and Titus remained silent. And in the normal course of things, the issue would probably have flared briefly on the spot, then died. Dad would have scolded a bit, and then left it. But Reuben was the wild card in the room. In his family dynamics, back in Marshfield, economics were always factored in. His father, Homer, was a practical man, not given to lofty rhetoric. Reuben stirred and looked at my brothers. Why weren’t they speaking up?

They sat there, obstinate and stonily silent. Obviously, they were not about to defend themselves. So Reuben rashly plunged in.

“They were totally free,” he chirped. “The pancakes were free.” Surely uncle Dave could see the sense in that. Free food was free food. Sadly, his reasoning made not the slightest impression on Dad. It probably made things even worse in his mind, that one would sin so grievously, just because something was free.

His face darkened into an even more serious frown. He pursed his lips into the famous Wagler “schnoot.” But he didn’t say much, not right then. But we knew we hadn’t heard the last of the matter. We soon drifted off downstairs to our bedroom in the basement. There, we roundly scolded Reuben for inserting himself into the conversation. And then everyone retired for the night.

The next morning after breakfast, that’s when it would all come down. That’s when Dad always delivered his important admonitions, after reading the Scriptural passage. Because that’s the only time we were a captive audience. We couldn’t just get up and walk out. At least, we never did. Never crossed our minds. So through the years, we heard many rather strident lectures, sitting there at the table after a tense and strained breakfast.

And we were right. Dad was in a particularly fine fettle the next morning, having stewed over the matter the entire night, apparently. And after reading a short section of appropriate Scripture, he launched his offensive.

It was the usual stuff. He and Mom were shocked and disappointed that the boys had attended Pancake Day in Centerville. Me and Mom. That’s what he always said. Why, Pancake Day was such a thing of the world. Live music, yet, and all the bad stuff associated with worldly entertainment. There was no reason that any Amish person should ever attend such an event.

His lectures were always circular. Always, by the time he was done, he had repeated himself at least twice, maybe three times. That morning was no different. On and on he rolled. And then he closed it out with the piece de resistance.

“It’s certainly not necessary, to go to Centerville for pancakes,” he intoned. “Why, anytime you want pancakes, just come into the house and ask Mom, and she will make you all the pancakes you want.”

And that statement would have been fine. Or at least unchallenged, had he stopped right there. But he just couldn’t quite let it go. Couldn’t stress his closing point enough. Round and round he went, in a wide looping circle. Just in case there might be some slight chance we hadn’t grasped, hadn’t absorbed his message as we should have.

“Anytime, anytime you want pancakes, you just come into the house and ask Mom. Anytime. She will gladly make you all the pancakes you want, much better pancakes than they have in Centerville.”

And yet again. “Anytime, just anytime. Mom will gladly make you pancakes anytime.”

Through the entire lecture, we all sat silent. No one made a peep. Not a word.

“Anytime, anytime.” Dad closed it out. Then he settled back, somewhat smugly. The lecture was over. His decree firmly impressed upon us all.

But then, alas, someone spoke.

“Not anytime,” said Mom.

This book is dedicated to my mother, Ida Mae (Yoder) Wagler, whose quiet inner strength sustained her through the long and difficult journey that was her life. She never wavered in her deep love for all her children, even, and maybe especially, for her wayward sons, who broke her heart again and again. Her love was her sustaining strength.

________________PROLOGUE________________

One fateful, starless, April night, I got up at 2:00 a.m. in the pitch black darkness, left a scribbled note under my pillow, and walked away—all my earthly belongings stuffed in a little black duffel bag.

Seventeen years old, bound for a vast new world. In my eager mind, the great shining vistas of distant horizons gleamed and beckoned. A world that would fulfill the deep yearning, the nebulous shifting dreams of a hungry, driven youth. And it would be mine, all of it, to pluck from the forbidden tree and taste and eat.

I could not know that night of the long hard road that stretched before me. That I was lost. I could not know of the years of turmoil, rage, and anguish that eventually would push me to the brink of madness and despair.

And so I walked on through the night. Within a month or so, all five of my buddies would follow. And the shattered little community of Bloomfield, Iowa, would reel and stagger from the bitter blow. From the shocking scandal, the shame and devastation of losing so many of its young sons to the “world.”

My long journey had just begun.

________________CHAPTER ONE________________

No one seems to remember exactly what was going on at the old home farm that day. Can’t say I blame them. There is no particular reason they should.

The one thing everybody does seem to agree on is that it was a typical late August day. Stiflingly oppressive heat. Barely a wisp of a breeze. Not a cloud in the sky. Not that I could confirm or deny any of it. I wasn’t there. At least not when the day dawned.

Some of my older siblings claim the threshers were there—though it was awfully late in the season for threshing oats. The menfolk were probably clattering about in the barn loft, sweeping the old wooden granary bins where the oats would be stored. And soon enough, the neighbors would have come rattling in with teams and wagons to haul the bundled oat sheaves. The threshing machine would have been there too, pulled by an ancient hybrid of a tractor and set up by the barn before the first loaded wagons came swaying in from the fields. Sweating in the dust and heat, the men would have been pitching the bundles onto the conveyor belt that fed the belt-driven threshing machine, where they would have been chewed up, separated, and deposited into the barn as oats and straw. The late harvest was under way.

I’m guessing some of the younger kids were picking strawberries in the field out by the old hickory tree. Seems late in the year for strawberries too, except for the Ever- bearing kind. Those plants produced from June until the fall frosts killed them. My father planted gobs of them every year to sell as produce—and to keep the children busy.

If Mom felt extra tired or stressed that morning, I’m sure she didn’t let on. After breakfast, she and my older sisters were probably doing what they always did: washing dishes, cleaning the house, and preparing the noon meal for everyone, which on that day would include the threshing crew.

But then, my sisters remember Mom abruptly stopping what she was doing. Stumbling to a wooden chair by the kitchen table, her face twitching with sudden spasms of pain.

“Go fetch your father from the barn,” she instructed Rosemary and Magdalena. And off they went.

“Mom said for you to come. Right away,” they gasped. Dad dropped his shovel and rushed to the house, the girls tagging anxiously behind him.

Mom was sitting there at the table, white faced. “It’s time,” she told him. He turned and dashed off to the neighbors’ place a quarter mile to the east. “English” people who had a car.

Moments later, my sisters stood silently by and watched as my mother—still sitting in her chair—was carried to the car by my father and one of the threshers. After easing the chair to the ground, Dad helped Mom shift into the backseat. Once everyone—Dad, Mom, and the English neighbor—was situated, they headed off to the hospital in nearby Tillsonburg.

Except for Rosemary and Magdalena, I doubt the rest of my siblings had any clue what was going on. They may have noticed that Mom had gained some weight lately and that she seemed tired a lot. But in those days, in that setting, no one spoke of such things. Especially to young children.

Dad didn’t return home until supper time, and when he did, Mom was not with him. My sisters remember the children gathering round.

“Where’s Mom?”

“We have a little baby,” Dad announced, beaming. “A boy.”

They murmured excitedly. “A baby!”

“Mom is staying at the hospital tonight. We’ll go get her tomorrow.”

I’d like to think my birth was an important event, and to some extent, of course, it was. But in Amish families, the arrival of a new baby isn’t treated the same as it is in “English” families, where everyone fusses rapturously. For the Amish, where it’s not at all uncommon for families to have upwards of ten children, a new baby just isn’t that big a deal.

By the time I came along, my parents already had eight children. Four boys and four girls. An even number of each. I broke the tie. Number nine.

I’d like to think, too, that the choosing of my name was the source of much somber thought and measured consideration. Serious weighing of various possibilities and combinations. Perhaps even reciting the finalists aloud a time or two, just to make sure the name would fit in the flow of all the others in the family.

I’d like to think it was an important ritual. But again, I know better.

Earlier that summer, Dad had hired a strapping young man to help with the farmwork in return for room and board and a couple of bucks a day. He was Dad’s nephew and my cousin, probably around twenty years old. He was a fine, upstanding fellow, by all accounts. Hardworking, too. His name was Ira Stoll.

By the time Dad had fetched Mom and me from the Tillsonburg hospital the next day, someone—I suspect it was my two oldest sisters—had come up with the fateful suggestion: “Why don’t we name the new baby boy Ira?”

“After our cousin?” I can imagine Dad stroking his long black beard thoughtfully.

Mom, resting in bed, did not protest. In fact, I’m guessing she was even a little relieved. And so it was settled, in the most lackadaisical manner imaginable. With zero fanfare or fuss, I was saddled forever with the name Ira.

No middle name.

Just Ira.

Ira Wagler.

And thus began my life in the Old Order Amish community of Aylmer, Ontario.

________________CHAPTER TWO________________

The Old Order Amish are a pretty exclusive group. And there really aren’t that many around. By latest official count, right at a quarter million worldwide. It just seems as if there are a lot more because, well, the Amish are so different.

So visible.

So quaint and old fashioned.

And so ideal. At least from the outside.

It’s not their fault that English society finds them endlessly fascinating. Mostly, they just prefer to be left alone.

A few defining factors must exist for one to be considered Old Order. First, and most critical, no cars. Horse and buggy only for local transportation. Second, no electricity. Not in the house or in the outbuildings. Third, no telephones in the house. Old Order Amish fiercely and jealously defend these boundaries.

Of course, there are a few other defining characteristics: All Old Order women wear long, flowing, home-sewn dresses and some sort of head covering with chin strings. The men wear homemade trousers with no belt loops and no zipper, just a large, four-buttoned, horizontal flap across the front. Barn-door pants, we called them. And all the men have beards. At least the married men do. A full beard is pretty much a universal requirement. But no mustache.

Which makes little sense, really. If it’s biblical to grow a beard, one would think it’s just as biblical to have a mustache. It’s all naturally growing facial hair. But somewhere along the line, back during the Civil War, supposedly, the Amish decided that mustaches looked too militaristic. And since that time, the mustache has been strictly verboten.

Not that this issue hasn’t been a cause of much dispute and dissension over the years. Always, it seems, some wild-eyed heretic somewhere is spouting Scripture and publishing bombastic little pamphlets arguing in favor of the mustache. Such arguments, however logical, have always been rejected by the powers that be, with the mighty hand of the church forcing the heretic to either repent or be expelled.

Other than the facial hair thing, there is wide variation and a lot of inordinate fussing within Amish circles. Some groups use only hooks and eyes on their clothes; others use buttons and snaps. Some pull motor-powered machinery with their horses; others refuse to use motors at all, not even small gasoline engines. Some groups allow little phone shacks at the end of the drive; others have phones only at their schoolhouses. Still others have no phones anywhere and must bother their English neighbors in an emergency.

Most Old Orders use buggies with steel-rimmed wheels, though a few allow rubber-covered rims. In most communities, the men wear suspenders, or “galluses,” to hold up their pants, but no communities allow belts. The size and shape of the women’s head coverings vary greatly from region to region. As do the length and fit of their dresses. And so on and on.

Most Old Orders today have running water in their houses; only the plainest groups reject indoor plumbing. And some practice strict shunning of former members, while others are more relaxed about those who leave.

Amish life is made up of a mishmash of confusing rules about what’s allowed and what’s forbidden. Most of them make little sense, especially to those on the outside. They don’t have to, as long as they make sense to the Amish themselves. Which, I suppose, they do.

Despite the differences, almost all Amish are considered Old Order as long as they don’t allow cars or electricity, or phones in the houses. I say almost all, because some groups, such as the Swartzentruber Amish and the Nebraska Amish of Big Valley, Pennsylvania, reject the Old Order label. For them, Old Orders are too modern.

***************
I grew up in Aylmer, an Old Order community located about thirty miles southeast of London, Ontario. As Amish communities go, it was considered middle of the road, or somewhat moderate in its rules.

The Aylmer community was founded in 1953, after a small exploratory group, which included my father, traveled by Greyhound bus from Piketon, Ohio, to the Aylmer area to scout for suitable land to settle. Why they ever wandered into southern Ontario remains a mystery, at least to me. But they did. And for some reason—perhaps on a whim—they got off the bus in Aylmer, walked into the office of a local real estate agent, and asked if he knew of any farms for sale in the area.

After regaining his composure at the sight of the gaggle of plainly dressed, bearded men before him, he allowed they had come to the right place—and what do you know, it just so happened that he did know of a few farms for sale!

He squired them about the area for a few days. Was most gracious and attentive. Probably couldn’t believe the good fortune that had dropped out of the sky. Imagine it—a hapless pack of wayward Amish people emerging from the bus and asking to buy land. An agent’s dream.

And the men were impressed. Their new buddy showed them several farms for sale, amazingly all within a two-mile range or so. They boarded the bus and returned to their families, singing the praises of this new land. In the following months, they returned and bought farms. The Aylmer Old Order Amish had arrived.

Most of the original Aylmer Amish settlers were young—in their thirties and forties— with young children. It was a rare and unusual thing back then to just up and move and establish a brand-new settlement, especially so far away, and in another country, yet. A bold thing. Even a brazen thing. Who did they think they were?

But those concerns didn’t faze them. They were idealists, with their own progressive beliefs and newfangled ideas of how one should live. They were determined that this new settlement would be different from all the others. More pure. They would not tolerate the sinful habits and customs common in the older, larger settlements: smoking, drinking, or “bed courtship” among their youth. And their youth wouldn’t be allowed to “run around” wild, driving cars and partying. This they purposed firmly in their hearts. Dark and humorless, the men peered about suspiciously for the slightest hint of sin among them.

The Aylmer community considered itself an example for the lesser elements.

The perfect church.

The “shining city on a hill,” from which would come noble directives about how people should live. Pronouncements that were particularly harsh toward communities that allowed tobacco use and/or bed courtship. And toward fathers who worked away from home instead of farming. There were proclamations about not spending money eating out in restaurants and about how children should be raised and disciplined.

In time, people came in droves to see the place for themselves, the perfect church, the place that issued such grave and noble proclamations. They came from all over: from the small communities dotted about in the various eastern and midwestern states. From Michigan. From northern and southern Indiana. New York. Wisconsin. From the hills of Holmes County, Ohio. And, yes, even from the blue-blooded enclaves of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

The visitors displayed a wide variety of dialects and dress. Daviess County people talked fast and sloppy, with many English words mixed in. Holmes County people conversed in a slow drawl, taking forever to get anything said. Even their English taxi drivers spoke Pennsylvania Dutch. And Lancaster, well, those people used old German words we had never heard before and had no idea what they meant. We thought the Lancaster people the strangest. They were certainly the most unlike us. The men wore wide, flat-brimmed black hats, and the women sported funny little heart-shaped head coverings. We even heard rumors that their buggies were quite distinct from those in other communities. Rectangular, like a box, with straight sides. Not angled in at the bottom, like those in most communities. And rounded tops. Hilarious to us, and strange.

Guests frequently arrived unannounced, often just minutes before mealtime. Many of my early childhood memories include having strangers in the house, company from other communities who stopped by for a meal or for a day or for the night. Mom always scratched together enough food for everyone. Cheerfully. Only later in life did I ever consider how inconvenient that must have been for her at times. My sisters, too, have commented that they would bake a cake or some other delicacy, only to see it wolfed down by hungry guests they would never see again.

Some guests left bigger impressions than others. Once, when I was about four years old, a couple stayed with us for the night. The man had salt-and-pepper hair, a sharp, pointy little beard, and piercing eyes. I was terrified of him for some reason and thought he looked quite evil. The next morning, as they were getting ready to leave, he looked right at me and asked if I wanted to go home with them. They needed another little boy, and I would be just the ticket. I was horrified and speechless, and wildly shook my head. He was, of course, only joking, but I didn’t know that. I learned to keep my distance from our guests after that.

Once, several couples from Lancaster stopped by for a late afternoon meal. Only Dad and Mom ate with them. The visitors requested cold peach soup, which consisted of cold milk, peaches, and soggy lumps of bread. Standard fare in Lancaster County, we had heard. We lurked behind the curtains and watched as the adults sat there primly, visiting and eating the cold, gooey mess as if they enjoyed it. Though we were relieved not to have to eat the atrocious concoction, nobody collapsed after eating it, so it must have been okay.

Occasionally single men would make the pilgrimage to Aylmer, emerging from the hills of who knows where, on a mission to find wives. Wild eyed and shock haired they came, sometimes lurking about the community for a week or two. None, as far as I know, were successful in their mission.

One such long-bearded youth stayed with us for a few days. The first day, he asked for a basin of water and towels; then he disappeared behind our large barn to “wash up.” I don’t know why he didn’t just use our bathtub. They probably didn’t allow indoor plumbing where he lived.

It was a good thing, I suppose, to be exposed to Amish people from other communities. It greatly broadened our experiences and our views, albeit still from inside the culture. Sure, we made fun of what we had not seen before and what we didn’t understand. But we absorbed it too. And eventually we came to respect others who were different from us.

It’s a strange but indisputable fact: Even among the Amish, other Amish seem odd.

************************************
NOTE FROM IRA:

During these past four years, I have never asked for anything from you, my readers. Never. I wrote and posted, and you came and read. I want to continue that relationship. But this one time, I am asking you for something more. I’m asking you to pre-order my book (at a substantial discount) on the Amazon link below. If you’re going to buy the book (or two or three copies) anyway, please do so now.

And yet, because of you, here it is. Thanks for reading my stuff.

Pre-order Growing Up Amish on Amazon

…prove me now herewith, saith the LORD of hosts,
if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and
pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room
enough to receive it.

—Malachi 3:10
____________

I consider myself a pretty crusty guy. Mildly cynical. Healthily skeptical. Aspiring to eventual curmudgeon status, somewhere along the lines of my good friend, Fred, whom I’ve long admired.

I’m certainly not the kind of guy who jumps up and down, hollering “Praise the Lord” at the drop of a hat, or at the drop of much of anything. Not that there’s anything wrong with such up and down jumping, if that’s your thing. Just don’t holler in my ear, because that makes me irate.

And it’s not that I doubt what I know. It’s just, well, somehow, it’s always seemed wise to me to test things a bit, instead of spouting rote words at the slightest provocation, like a squawking parrot. But then, most of you already knew that about me.

Don’t babble incessantly. Anyone can claim anything. Words are cheap, especially rote words. Many praise the Lord with their lips, while their hearts remain vacant, and far from Him. Not everyone is like that, of course. But over the years, I’ve met far too many who were.

This year, though, some of my firm (and healthy) skepticism has been deeply shaken. 2010 was a year that severely tested the resolve of this crusty old cynic to remain a crusty old cynic.

2010. A twelve-month span of unbelievable events that have unfolded before my startled eyes. Events beyond anything I could have imagined. A wild year. An absolutely exciting year. A year when so much crap was washed away. An intense year, a frantically busy year.

A year when the desires of my heart were granted, after a long slog down a tough and weary road.

The year of Tyndale. The book deal. The year the book was written, in one long and intense summer. The year the Lord shone His face into my life and onto my efforts. A year that I probably worked harder than any before, ever, but also a year when that work was accepted, purchased, and edited by a major publisher.

It’s been done since late October, the manuscript. Turned in. I waited nervously for their edits. What would they do to my stuff? I couldn’t wait, yet I feared the day of its return. And then, one evening, there it was in my email inbox. Five batches of edits, with queries. I quickly opened the first and scanned it. Almost collapsed with relief.

They kept my voice.

Edited a good bit, and cleaned up here and there, in some rough spots. But clearly my voice. I was amazed, astounded, and grateful. They had promised me they would. Assured me many times. Tried to calm me.

Of course, I thought, that’s what they promise everyone who’s writing for them, that they’ll keep the voice. And until that moment, I had my doubts. Anyone can claim anything. But they kept that promise. And I am grateful.

I was actually pretty amazed, and still am. They took my raw stuff, and made it palatable. I’m just astounded at how I see slivers of different scenes and times (in my original draft), woven together into one seamless narrative. Reflecting the mood and intensity of the story in that moment.

It’s a beautiful thing, the end result. Let’s just say I’m very happy with it. No, scratch that. I’m ecstatic.

Tyndale rocks.

In the last three weeks, I have been working on the edited batches, responding to the queries. Adding some description here, another paragraph there. It was intense, but this time I enjoyed it. A lot. The original production was mostly sweat and toil. The second stage, the editing and querying, was dessert. And now it’s mostly done. There will be one last round or so, I suppose. And then maybe a final check before printing.

The book is scheduled for release in July. Around the first or so. Seems like a long time, yet, but there’s a lot to be done on Tyndale’s end.

I’m excited about it. Well, that’s weak. I’m whoopin’ in-your-face freakin’ excited about it. It’s all a bit surreal. But it is real.

The folks at Tyndale, too, seem cautiously excited. Carol Traver, the guru of my publishing world, sent me a very complimentary note after it was all done. Which, coming from her, was just huge. Prior to that, I had little true grasp as to what she was really thinking. After each monthly submission, she always emailed back, “Good job. Keep it coming.” But who knew what she really thought? Only at the end did I truly believe her.

And then she did something really wild. Something pretty much impossible. She submitted my name and got me accepted as a speaker at the Munce Group. A convention of book retailers in Hershey, PA, in mid January. On the morning of the 17th, I will address the attendees, several hundred of them. People who buy books, thousands of different books each year, and sell them in their stores.

I’m one of only a handful who was accepted for that honor from hundreds of potential applicants. Carol must have submitted one outstanding application/proposal. I’m grateful, excited, and nervous.

And no, you can’t come hear my speech. The convention is closed to the public. Which is actually a bit of a relief to me. I’d much rather address strangers, who know nothing of me.

How Carol got that done, got me in at the last minute, is a source of wonder and awe to me. But she did. Like I said, Tyndale rocks.

Lately, now that I’ve had time to catch my breath, I’ve thought of things. Of how it was, these past four years. And how it went. The long road from there to here.

In 2007, after my world collapsed and I started writing, I cast about for a verse that would reflect my traumatized state. I found it, short, cryptic, and to the point. And posted it on this site as my new favorite verse: Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.

And frankly, I deeply longed for the wrath of His vengeance to be unleashed in furious waves upon the lives of those who had wronged me, betrayed me. Those who had hurt me so deeply.

And that was an OK verse, I guess. OK for me at that time, because that’s where I was.

But it could not remain my favorite verse, not long term. If it did, it would reflect a heart that could not heal. A heart focused primarily on vengeance, even the Lord’s vengeance, is not a heart that is truly free.

Not free to live life as it can be lived, as it should be lived. Not free to absorb and be thankful for the blessings, the miracle of life in each new day. Not free to be productive with the gifts God has granted. And not free in a host of other ways.

The months rolled by, then the years. Then, late last year, something stirred inside me. Like a still small voice inside my head. Nudged me to change that verse. It was time, said the still small voice.

And so, after some thought, I settled on another verse, the one that remains today under the personal info page. The verse I have since claimed as my own: Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart.

There are many ways to delight in the Lord, other than rote words, however spoken, claiming such delight. One such way is to use the talents, the gifts He gave you. I have tried my best, these last few years, to use those talents, especially that particular one I had ignored for most of my life. In His own way, in His own time, the Lord called me back to claim that talent. And honor Him, by honoring it as the gift He gave me.

And in 2010, He granted me the desire of my heart. I’m very excited about 2011, and all that it might hold.

The Lord has opened the windows of heaven and literally poured out His blessings all around me. Blessings I could not have imagined, even twelve short months ago.

He may choose to do what He will with my efforts. Make them successful. Or not so much. I’ll know, in time. In the next year, I suppose.

Either way, I will have had the opportunity. For that, I am truly and humbly grateful. Both to God, and to Tyndale.

Either way, I will have done my best. And that is my gift to the Lord.

*****************************
Happy New Year to all my readers.

And which of us shall find his father, know his face, and in
what place, and in what time, and in what land? Where?

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

Some childhood memories are vague and murky things. Shifting shadows, barely visible through the misty fog of years, recalled from many decades of snapshots stored in the mind. So many events and characters are as clear to me as if they happened yesterday. And yet, some things are so remote that no amount of careful consideration can rouse them from the slumber of the past.

And when it comes right down to it, some of the faces that were around me each day are no longer clear in the setting in which I knew them. The mind is a tricky thing. As are memories. This fact was recently brought to my attention in startling fashion.

The Aylmer community of my childhood was blessed (or afflicted) with a long train of outside seekers. Young English men who wandered in, no one knew quite from where, and made known their desires to join the Amish church. There in Aylmer. And always, a place was found for them. A place to stay. To live, to acclimate into this new culture.

In retrospect, I feel a bit sorry for them. In all earnestness they came, starry eyed and sure that they had found the great golden utopia on earth. To adopt the simple, plain lifestyle. Faith reflected by works. The true and honorable road to a rather harsh and severe God.

It takes a certain personality to pursue such a path to such a point. And a good deal of inner strength. They all had the personality and the will, no question about that. Some of them, I suspect, were about half mad as well.

And most of them lasted a good while. Six months or so. Some few hung around for a year or more. But none of them ever really had a chance to make it. In time, most of them strode merrily and zanily from the beaten path of accepted Amish norms, triggering furious frowns and sharp rebukes from the stern Aylmer leaders. And all of them eventually departed, sadder and possibly wiser. Not one of them, as far as I know, actually made it all the way through to full membership. Which is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It’s just symbolic of how it went back then, and how it tends to go today, in similar quests. Mostly, anyway. There are always exceptions, I suppose. There usually are.

I remember a host of their names and a few of their faces. From the times they lurked about in Aylmer, so different, yet so honestly convinced that this was the right path for them. It’s tough, to try to join the Amish from outside. Almost impossible. The harsh plain lifestyle. Always, the language barrier looms, an almost impenetrable wall. And we weren’t exactly that kind to them or accepting of them, either, truth be told. Which is neither here nor there. It was what it was. A long tough road.

And yet, you gotta hand it to these guys. They tried. They didn’t make it, but they tried.

They’re still out there, most of them. Somewhere. And amazingly, or maybe not, some few of them read this blog. At least upon occasion. A connection from way back for them, I suppose. In a distant, seeking, innocent phase of their lives. They are welcome. I wouldn’t mind meeting them and just talking, catching up on the years that have passed since those long ago days. I’m sure all of them would have some stories to tell.

Last week, one morning, I opened my email. A message, with a picture attached. The sender’s name was one I had not heard in probably thirty years. One of those “outside” guys who hung around Aylmer, way back. For a few months, maybe six or so.

He wrote a short note. He had enjoyed the pictures of my family on my blog. And by the way, he had located an old photo from some archives. From that time, back in Aylmer. It was attached.

I opened it. And there it was, in clear color. An Amish man, leaning against a wall, grimly staring straight ahead, while some Beachy guy stood there gazing at him with admiring, worshipful eyes.

Clearly the man was a Stoll. Dark, humorless, like a smile would be sinful. Huge beard, with just a hint of a mustache. That was always a big thing in Aylmer. They hedged around, always allowed the mustache stubble to grow, just a bit. Sheared it now and then with a hand clipper. Somehow it must have made them feel unique, superior. An Aylmer hallmark, was the mustache stubble sported by many (not all) of the married men.

Convinced the man was a Stoll, probably Stephen Stoll, the deacon, I posted the picture on Facebook. Who is this man? Opinions and queries flowed in almost immediately. A Stoll, for sure, said the Waglers. Yep, looks like Stephen all right. Must be Stephen. I even went so far as to state affirmatively that this was the man who read Scriptures aloud in church on Sunday mornings. So it was settled, we thought.

But not so fast. Some feedback from the Stolls themselves. Notably from Sam and Ruth Eicher. Ruth is Stephen’s sister. It’s not him, she claimed. And she should know her own brother.

And then the Eichers made a startling comment. It might be David Wagler. Your father. He wore glasses. Had a gold tooth. I was appalled. No way. Not that man, staring so darkly at nothing in particular. It wasn’t Dad. Couldn’t be. Didn’t resemble him at all.

I recoiled from the suggestion. The Aylmer men of my youth were a pretty somber, humorless bunch. Grim. Stern. Took themselves far too seriously. Freely lectured other Amish communities about their glaring sins and shortcomings. Almost all of them were like that. And it all got a little tiresome to those of us who lived among them, those of us who knew their flaws, their faults and failures.

We called them Bears, the dark Aylmer men. Behind their backs, of course. A rather nefarious term, but totally accurate, we felt. Because they grizzled and growled incessantly. And their grim, bearded visages, well, they literally resembled bears. I take full credit for coining the description, along with my brothers, Stephen and Titus. It was so apt and so natural that it instantly stuck. Even today, in certain circles of former Aylmerites, if you describe someone as a Bear, it is instantly understood exactly what you mean.

But somehow, I always held Dad a bit apart from the others. Sure, he could be dark and humorless too, and was, plenty of times. But he wasn’t a Bear. He was my father. Somehow, that made it different, at least to me. I didn’t pause long to consider why it would be so. It just was.

There were no pictures of him from that time. None that we knew of. So there was nothing to which to compare this picture. Except our memories. And they sure didn’t jive with this.

And the matter kind of died, there on Facebook. Those who claimed it was a Stoll seemed to have the upper hand. The Eicher/Stoll camp was silent. Seemed to have been beaten back. And then in the calmness of one morning this week, a startling observation from none other than my older brother Jesse. Grandpa Jess, from South Carolina.

He had studied the photo. And reached a conclusion. The man in the picture was Dad. Jesse did not have any doubt. I was shocked. And that’s stating it mildly.

That man, leaning against the wall, back in 1968 at my uncle Pete Stoll’s public disposal auction before leaving for Honduras, that dark man symbolic of so much that was so wrong with Aylmer, that man was my father? It could not be. But I looked closely. Studied the picture. Gradually the thought gained acceptance from my recoiling mind. It could indeed be him.

I am now convinced it is. This picture shows my father’s face.

This is the only known photo of him from that period of his life. In 1968. He was going on forty-seven years old. Two years younger than I am today. The year before, in 1967, he and Joseph Stoll had launched Family Life, the monthly magazine that would propel my father into the limelight as one of the most famous and influential Amish figures in the world.

It’s astounding, the picture. And it almost takes my breath away. This is how he looked and who he was, a lifetime ago in another place. This is the man, then, who loomed so large in my childhood world. And beyond. The man whose rich, mellow voice prayed the morning and evening prayers in a rhythmic lulling flow. The man whose deep, rich baritone led many a song in church. The man who gently rocked and soothed his restless toddlers into calm slumber on his lap, crooning “Sweet and Low,” as the sun sank in the western skies.

This man, standing there in an ordinary moment in an ordinary day of his life, more than forty years ago. This man, my father.

Only those born and raised Amish up to and including my generation, and maybe the generation following, can understand what this picture truly means, what a rare treasure it is. Today, it’s not that big a deal anymore. What with digital cameras on cell phones, many if not most Amish people are photographed one way or another. At one time or another. But not back then. Back then, the stars had to align. And even then, the results were rarely so clear, like this.

Back then, Amish history was almost exclusively spoken and written, not visually recorded. It’s impossible to grasp the significance of this particular photo. There are simply no others out there of my father. Not from way back. At least none I’m aware of. Not from his youth. Not from his running around years, or from his camp years during WWII.

Why, then, could not we, his children, glance at the photo and instantly recognize him? Because there is no reference point from which to compare him, at that time. The very fact there are no pictures makes him a stranger to us. We remember him in later years, after we were adults, and he had aged a good deal. After the memories from our childhoods faded.

We, his sons and daughters, will cherish it always, this frozen moment of my father from so long ago. As, I suspect, will future generations of his offspring.

Now, if someone out there could only come up with something similar of my mother.

*************************************
More photos from the day of Pete Stoll’s sale. The same day Dad’s picture was taken. Amish back then weren’t the “hot” item they are now; the headline erroneously describes them as Mennonites. We’ve come a long way, baby. Thanks to Sam and Ruth Eicher for these photos.

The three Amish men, from front to rear: Uncle Abner Wagler, Alva Eicher, Stephen Stoll (Yes, I’m quite certain that is Stephen, this time. Note his sizable mustache. More distinct than Dad’s, even. )

Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing,
of just going along, listening to all the things you
can’t hear, and not bothering.

—Pooh’s Little Instruction Book
_________________________

I had every intention of posting last week. Had the time, and all, what with all that other writing completed, at least for awhile. But of an evening, as I settled in at my computer, ready to crank it up and crank it out, well, I just sat there. Stared blankly at the screen. Tinkered around. Checked Facebook. Checked it again. Putzed around on other sites. Drudge. Watched football. And so forth. I never did get anything started, writing wise.

I was simply exhausted. Mentally drained of words. Just flat out tired. Far more so than I had ever come close to realizing when in the thick of it all. Just flat out tired, from all the stress and strain, the mental tension of the last six months.

And winding down from it all was just a bit odd. So I didn’t write. At all, for two full weeks. Had no desire to.

I’m not sure how much energy there is this week, even. But hey, I gotta start back up sometime.

Thanks to all who took the time to read the last post. And to all who took the time to comment, both on the blog and privately. I’m proud of the feedback. Almost sixty individual posted comments. A record, all time, for my blog. Wow. You all are still out there, in case anyone had any doubts. I appreciate it a lot, your loyalty and your interest.

I was impressed with a number of the title suggestions. Although I don’t think the Tyndale people were impressed enough with any particular title to change their minds. So the prize money and free book won’t be awarded to anyone.

To me, “Look Back, Amish Son” spoke strongly, especially with that cover photo.

In the meantime, Carol Traver at Tyndale returned some very positive feedback on the completed manuscript. I now await their edited version, which should be returned to me by around Thanksgiving. We’ll see what they’ve done to my stuff. And then, it’s back to work again. I’m winding down now, just to wind right back up again before long. For the final stretch. It’ll all be over by Christmas. That’s what they tell me.

It’s been an interesting summer, in real life. Or would have been, in a normal summer. A lot of stuff flashed by, and I hardly noticed. The entire summer, mostly.

In late July, though, there came a day when my awareness was honed to its keenest edge. Because of events unfolding two thousand miles away, the old ghosts returned to the house. I knew that they would come, and did not stay to face them.

Instead, I shut down my writing and rented a car. Headed out on a quick road trip to Daviess. Not a short road trip, just a quick one. To attend a historical gathering, which happened to be scheduled at the most opportune time. Twelve hours on the road. In Daviess for about eighteen hours. Then twelve hours back.

It was a good trip, very productive. One of these days, when the muse strikes right, there will be a full length blog on what I learned about my great-grandmother. Detailed history on my mother’s side. Fascinating stuff, at least to me.

The trip did the trick too, of keeping my mind focused away from the ghosts back home. When I returned, some fragile essence of them remained, both in the house and in my head. A diminishing presence, however. Not that scary anymore, thankfully. Since that time, the ghosts have drifted off. They didn’t flee. Just floated out of my life.

They have not returned. I don’t expect them to.

Last week, an odd thing happened. Odd, and maddening. I got home from the gym, Tuesday night, I think it was. My message machine was blinking. So I listened. A cheery Amish-sounding voice. He’d heard I was writing a book. He was writing one too, and wouldn’t mind chatting.

Sounded innocent enough. So I called the guy back. Amos (not his real name, but solidly Amish) answered almost immediately. Must have a cell phone, I figured. We chatted a bit. Mostly he talked and I listened. He had self published a book some years back and was now working on another one.

“Who’s your publisher?” I asked.

He hedged. “I’m talking to Harvest House.” Sounded plausible. He continued. “Who’s your publisher?”

“Tyndale,” I said. “I think they might have a better distribution network than Harvest House.” In retrospect, a silly thing to say. The conversation lagged. It was time to hang up.

“It’s hard work, writing,” I ventured. Figured we’d have that much in common, at least. But no.

“Oh, it comes out right along for me,” Amos allowed confidently. Uh, all right, then. We hung up. And that was that. Or so I thought. A bit strange, but I thought nothing more of it.

Then, a day or so later, an email from Carol Traver, my Tyndale contact. The lady who made it all happen for me. She had some questions to discuss about my manuscript. But she opened with an odd paragraph. She had exchanged some nice emails with my friend Amos, she wrote cheerfully. He would be sending in some stuff for them to look at.

My friend Amos? I didn’t even know the guy. But I realized instantly what he had done. Checked out my blog, probably, and gotten Carol’s name there (I never mentioned her in our conversation). Then googled her email address. Then wrote her, claiming to be my friend. And couldn’t she just maybe check out his manuscript? Since he was my friend, and all.

She had told him to send it in; someone would check it out.

I was apoplectic. Absolutely outraged. I had worked long and hard to break through. And after years of labor, weary toil and setbacks, I had managed to land a deal with Tyndale. It was a long tough road of perseverence, interspersed with a few miracles. And some help, sure, from my friend Jerry Eicher, who used his contacts to get it all started. But he’d read my stuff, and liked it.

My relationship with Carol and her company is something I highly value. And deeply respect. I will never, never take it for granted. Never.

I will never send any Tom, Dick or Amos their way, with my blessing and my name. Not if I don’t know them, and especially not if I’ve never read a word they wrote. That would be sheer lunacy.

And here this guy was trying to leapfrog into the publishing world of Tyndale, by misusing my name to open a door that otherwise would be barred to him. What colossal nerve. Or colossal stupidity.

Amos is a cheap, freakin’ shyster. And even that term is too kind.

We got it all straightened out. One of my good friends, who knew Amos, managed to muscle him into sending an apology to Carol. And confess what he had done. I assured her that I would never sic anyone on her like that. She was most gracious, as always. I suppose there isn’t too much they haven’t seen, there at Tyndale.

I’m still outraged. And mortified by it all. But in a sense, I’m glad this happened early on. For me, it was eye-opening, a valuable lesson for the future.

The next “Amos” who calls will be cut off at the pass. This strategy will not work again (not that it worked this time). Not with Carol. And not with me.

It’s a bit hard to grasp, that Thanksgiving is almost here. Where has the year gone? I’m starting to sound like an old geezer, I know. But seriously, it seems like only a few weeks ago, it was spring. This year, on Thanksgiving Day, I’m looking forward to football, and a huge feast at my brother Steve’s house.

November, of course, means that the wedding season is in full swing here in Lancaster County. Every Tuesday and Thursday, they gather. Huge crowds, assembling on local farms in temporary buildings and tents. From the early hours, before daybreak, great hordes of buggies clog the roads. You have to dodge them incessantly on the way to work. Come flying over a little hill, and there’s two or three of them lined up, plugging along with their little blinking lights. It’s hard to pass a long line of buggies, what with opposing traffic and all. At such moments, I do grumble savagely upon occasion.

Why can’t Lancaster be like all other Amish settlements in the world, and hold weddings year round, instead of squashing them all into one long intense stretch in November? Blue blood Amish tradition, I guess. One doesn’t mess with such things.

Least they could do, for all the bother they cause, is bring me some of the wedding food. All that good old home cooked starchy stuff, topped off by the one concoction that reflects true genius.

Roasht. I drool, just thinking about it. I don’t know who invented it, but someone should be selling the stuff. I get to savor it about once or twice a year. And it seems like since there’s so much of it around right now, it would be a good time to nab some. From somewhere. But alas, my prospects remain bleak. Guess I just don’t know the right people.

He heard again, as he had heard throughout his childhood,
the pounding wheel…the whistle-wail, and he remembered
how these sounds…had always evoked for him…their glorious
promises of new lands, morning, and a shining city…

…The magnetic pull of home, why he had thought so much
about it and remembered it with such blazing accuracy…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

It seemed so intimidating, back then, six months ago. So, well, daunting. But they smiled, the Tyndale people. Reassuringly. Of course it could be done. Especially after we got together for a day, and picture-boarded the story. All I had to do then was connect the dots. Fill in the blanks.

But that’s not how I write, I wanted to tell them. It’s an organic thing, to me. The process. I never quite know how the story will end, what details will emerge.

Trust us, they said.

And so I did. Had little choice, really. They were giving me an opportunity so rare, it was almost incomprehensible. A major publishing company, and they wanted my story. A lot of people dream of and strive for that all their lives, and never get the chance.

And so I began, six months ago. Working on my book. Since that time, it has been the primary focus of my life. Always there, every waking moment. Day after day, and week after week. Always there, lurking in my mind, with me as I faced each day.

Normally, I think, a manuscript is written from start to finish. Then submitted for editing. It freaked me out a good bit, to think of that. What if it wasn’t what they wanted, after all that effort?

Once again, the nice Tyndale people smiled kindly. They’d seen it all before, I’m sure. Newbie writers freaking out. We would work it out, they said. Just write a few chapters every month, and send those in. That way, we can give you feedback as you write.

So that’s what we did. All summer. Every month, another batch. I kept plugging away. Sent in forty to sixty pages a month, right along. Earlier today, I emailed the sixth and final section. Except for editing and rewriting, which will be an intense process, it’s done. The first draft of the book is written. A huge milestone in my life. Just huge.

This weekend, for the first time in six months, I plan to relax. Vedge, as in couch potato, watching football. No agenda, nothing. And most of all, for a few days, at least, there will be no writing on my mind.

It’s been an intense road. Both the writing, and the extended journey back through the years. Back to places I had not been for decades. Places buried in my mind. And buried for a reason.

The memories came roaring back, from all those miles and years. I pried them open, swept aside the cobwebs, and ventured in. Flinched, sometimes, at what I found. Turned my face away. There are some places in the past you just don’t go, not willingly. But I did. Forced myself. Looked around, and wrote. Some of the scenes were among the most brutally tough things I’ve ever tried to write. Stuff you’ve never seen on my blog.

What in the world could I have been thinking, way back, when it all came down? The pride and folly of youth. So raw, so selfish, so thoughtless. That was part of it. And yet, pulsing through it all, the hungry relentless yearning of the human spirit to live free, to touch and see and know. And taste. That was part of it, too.

The summer flew by. I kept plugging on. Through it all, I tried to keep a normal schedule. Or as normal as possible. Still working full time at my real job. Working out at the gym. Stirring up occasional fights, uh, discussions, on Facebook. Still watching baseball, Nascar, then football. Still writing a bit on the blog, now and then. Each month, I focused only on the writing due that month. Didn’t allow myself to think much, even, that it was for a book. Just get it written. You can absorb it all soon enough, what it is and what it really means.

And then, last month, an email from Carol Traver, the senior nonfiction editor at Tyndale. The lady who, at her sole discretion, decided to take the risk, to present to the Tyndale Board the proposal for my book. Now, she had designed a cover for the book, and wanted to run it by me. Make sure I approved. I opened the file. Scrolled down. And there it was. It took my breath away.

That’s not me, walking away, although it could be me. The cover is beautiful, and stunningly symbolic. The Tyndale people are true professionals, all of them. At that moment, it really hit me for the first time. This was the culmination of all my efforts, all those hours of sweat and labor through six long and intense months. All that time, spent writing this past summer, would eventually result in this. A real book, that you can pick up and hold in your hands. And read. A real book, in real bookstores.

I recoiled a bit at the title. At least, at first. But Carol explained. They wanted some- thing simple, something easily passed on by word of mouth. I would, of course, be welcome to suggest other titles. They will consider all offers.

So here’s a contest for my readers. If you can think of a better title, email me. Or just post it here on the blog. If Tyndale accepts your suggestion, I’ll give you fifty bucks in cash, and a signed copy of the book. Remember, simplicity, simplicity, simplicity. And, of course, the word “Amish” included somehow.

They plan to release the book next summer sometime. As of now, no specific date has been set. I’ll keep you posted.

Summer reading, for 2011. Spread the word.

The world, as a rule, does not live on beaches and in country clubs.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald
_________________

I don’t particularly care for the beach. Any beach. I can count on one hand the number of hours I’ve spent in my lifetime lounging on a towel, gazing at the ocean waves. I mean, it’s certainly breathtaking in power and majesty, and all that. But after a few minutes, ten at most, what more is there to see?

So I was dubious a few months ago, when my niece Janice called and invited me to join her and a few friends for a full week at the Outer Banks. They’d rented a big house. They would buy all their food and cook for themselves. For seven days. Beach Week, they called it.

“Ah, I don’t know,” I hedged. “I’m working on writing, and September’s batch will be due about the time you get back. So I’ll be pretty intense right about that time, working on it.”

She was undeterred. “Come on,” she said. “You can bring your laptop and write there. We have only one rule. No drama, from anyone. You can do what you want, when you want. Stay up as late as you want, and sleep in as long as you want. You can spend all your time writing if you want. We won’t bother you. We have only one formal meal a day. Dinner at night. You can join us for that. We’ll feed you.”

And I got to thinking. I have never done anything like that. Hanging out at the beach. Not for a full week. It would be nice, to get away. Concentrate on getting some writing done on my MacBook. And I thought some more. Meanwhile, Janice emailed me pictures of the house they had reserved. Three stories, with decks all around. Eight bedrooms. Seven bathrooms. Full kitchen, game room. Swimming pool and hot tub. There wasn’t a whole lot it didn’t have, from what I could see.

And I thought about it some more. Then I emailed Janice. Count me in.

YAY, she replied. And other than thinking about it occasionally, I pushed thoughts of the trip from my mind. It would come when it came.

And it did. They had rented the house from Saturday, Sept. 18 until Saturday, Sept. 25. The week approached. I caught up on all my projects at work. Prepared all the paperwork for my deliveries. Scheduled what I could, for my drivers.

I packed Big Blue on Friday morning, then headed to the office for a half day’s work. I left early that afternoon, heading south through Dover and Salisbury, MD. Beautiful fall day, clear skies. It’s always a great feeling of freedom and anticipation, setting out on a jaunt like that. It was a meandering journey. Traffic lights almost all along, except for a brief stretch of Rt. 13.

I approached the southern tip of MD, new territory for me. Then the bridge tunnel. I never even knew such a thing existed. I paid the $12 toll and drove out. Twenty-six miles of four lane bridge, stretching across the bay. Twice, the road tunneled right down into the ocean. It was the wildest thing. And right back up again. I marveled at the engineering feat. And the resources in brains and raw materials it took, to build something like that.

And then on into Virginia Beach, where I booked a room at the Hilton. Hung out and relaxed, ready for my final foray the next morning, on down to the Outer Banks.

I headed out in good time. Entirely new territory. I’d never been through the area before. Outer Banks. I’d always heard the word spoken reverently. Never paid much attention. The beach was there, and the ocean. Never tempted me one bit.

Of the group, I arrived in the area first. In Waves, NC, a little burg about halfway out the little finger of land that is the Outer Banks. Janice called; she and her friends Brian and Melanie were a half hour behind me. I stopped at a pub and waited for them.

They arrived. Introductions were made. I’d met Melanie before, but not her husband Brian. Seemed like a nice guy. Our house wasn’t quite ready for us, so we ate. Then drove down to the rental office. Melanie and Brian walked in and emerged with the house keys. Whew. Only a block away. We followed them to the site.

A bulky three story light blue beach house. Our home for the next full week. A huge place. We whooped with excitement and dashed in to explore. We quickly selected our individual bedrooms. Then unloaded our vehicles in the hot sun. The girls had already purchased enough food for an army. Everything you could imagine. Snacks, cheeses of every sort and flavor. Lunch meat, sausages, steaks. Chips. Juices of every flavor. I would definitely gain some weight around this place. We spent the next hour unpacking and setting up house. Everyone but me had done all this before. I marveled at the efficiency. Everything in its place, for an extended stay.

Later, we took a quick walk to the ocean, a quarter mile away. The waves were high and angry, from Hurricane Igor half a world away. That was the first of my three brief excursions to the seashore. None of which lasted more than half an hour.

My nephew Steven Marner and his girlfriend Evonda arrived a bit later. And then Fred made it down late that evening, around 10 or so. And that was everyone. It was one of the most relaxing feelings imaginable, the beginning of seven consecutive days, with no agenda.

No agenda for anyone, that is, except me. I’d brought my MacBook. And a wireless keyboard a friend lent me for the week. I had outlined the month’s batch for my book, and done some writing. But I’d have to hit it steadily throughout the week, or it wouldn’t be ready. I set up my station at one end of the vast dining room table, plugged in my MacBook, and that’s where it stayed all week.

Life was pretty much as Janice had promised. Laid back. Most of the others hung out by the pool, swam in the ocean, and took short jaunts to town. I joined the activities when I felt like it.

We ate when we wanted, pretty much what we wanted. Cold cuts, snacks. Janice found a little fudge shop and faithfully provided us with fresh fudge every day. We had one formal meal a day, each evening. Tacos one night. Steak the next. Fish. Scrumptious feasts, each and every one. As I’d feared, I gained at least five pounds. As the patriarch of the group, I was called on each night to pray the blessing before the meal. Which was a bit startling. Not the prayers, but the fact that I was the oldest by quite a few years. But it was cool.

We watched college football Saturday, and pro football all afternoon and evening on Sunday. Roared loudly for our teams. And on Saturday night, the boys unlimbered the poker chips. I’d been around the game many times, but had never learned to play. This time, they insisted. Whatever time I needed, they would teach me. We started out with Texas Hold’em. I stumbled my way through a number of hands. Counseled with Steven, who patiently instructed me on my options. And by the second hour or so, I got the basic hang of it.

And it was fun. A lot of fun. I see now why the poker craze has swept the country. It was plain old harmless fun. We played probably four good games throughout the week. I’m ready now for the next time someone invites me to sit in. Sure. Sure I will.

And Monday came. That morning, armed with my coffee and orange juice, I parked at my computer and stayed there, off and on, for most of the day. A most relaxing setting. Even when the others were bustling around, playing games or just hanging, I sat at the computer, half joining the conversation around me, half focused on my screen. Editing this, making changes there, adding a paragraph there.

The weather was perfect. Sunny. Windy. Warm. And the days flowed by. After Tuesday, the week was pretty much over. At least, that’s how it seemed. Each day morphed into the next. Each day, we’d think: We’re one day closer to the end. And time just whooshed by. It was amazing and a little sad.

I kept a tight schedule, writing. On Wednesday, I pretty much just hung out for the day with the others. But on all other days, I spent a good three to five hours at my computer.

There were a few traditions, apparently, from previous excursions. Badminton. Cornhole, or Bags. I hadn’t played badminton in probably thirty years. It was quite wild. We teamed up. A strong wind was blowing. From one side of the court, you could tap the birdie and it flew a great distance. From the other side, you had to smash it, and it barely made it over the net. Janice and I teamed up. We won a few matches, but not the championship.

On Wednesday night, Janice announced we were singing hymns. Also a tradition. Fred unlimbered his guitar and strummed. Janice had forgotten her old hymn book, so she googled the songs. The wonders of modern technology. And we stood there behind her and Melanie, seated on the couch, and sang hymns from her laptop. Many old classics. Fill up my cup. Nothing but the blood. And about a dozen more. I’m not a singer, and it’s been a long time since I enjoyed singing as much as I did that night.

The week’s end approached and people drifted away. Brian left on Thursday morning, for work. Evonda left Friday. And we all packed up by 10 AM on Saturday. Said our good byes and left. It was time to head back home.

We’ll all be back again, I think.

Writing

Melanie, Janice, Fred

Poker seminar. From L, Brian, Melanie, Steven, Ira

Steven and Evonda

Food, food, food. This is why I gained five pounds.

They had been young and full of pain and combat,
and now all this was dead in them; they smiled
mildly, feebly, gently…spoke in thin voices…
looked at one another with eyes dead to desire,
hostility, and passion…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

He passed away quietly that Friday morning, a few hours before sunrise. His health had deteriorated in the last few years. He had not been able to get around very well for some time, and used a walker. But still, his final demise was unexpected and abrupt. He suddenly took a turn for the worse and weakened quickly. And by that Friday morning he was gone.

I didn’t know Uncle Virgil Stoll that well. Sure, I knew who he was. The man who married my mother’s older sister Mary, way back when. A quiet man, from all I’d ever seen. And from all I’d ever heard about him. A quiet man, content in the background. Never raising his voice, never inserting himself. Just minding his own business. In quietness and confidence was his strength.

I knew him when I saw him. But I didn’t really know him or his family, if that makes any sense. Who they really were. What they really were. Their children, my first cousins, might as well be strangers from another planet.

The same is true of host of other relatives in Daviess, mostly on my mother’s side. A host of first cousins. I wouldn’t know them if I met them on the street. It’s always been so. But after Uncle Virgil’s passing, I got to thinking. And brooding about the reasons why.

My mother’s parents, John and Mattie Yoder, were solid Daviess County stock. Old blood. Their home farm, where Mom was raised, is just a mile or two north and east of Montgomery. I’ve never been on the place. Parts of the house still exist, where she was born. I want to stop by sometime, and check it out. Take a tour.

She had a bunch of siblings. Brothers and sisters. Rachel. Leah. William. Mary. Sarah. Joe. Ben. Anna. Except for Leah, who died as a young girl, all of them remained in Daviess after my parents moved out many decades ago.

It’s strange and tragic, really, when you think about it. Strange, how a few stark decisions made more than sixty years ago still affect my family and our connections to my mother’s side. And tragic, how they always will.

I want to be careful here. Not to come across too harshly. It’s not like anything can be done about the distant past. And it’s not that we were all somehow irreparably traumatized. We really weren’t. But still, when one looks back over the years, and examines the reasons why things were done as they were, one can perhaps expose the empty futility of strident religious dogma. Relentless and arbitrary, borne of absolute conviction of right and wrong. And the harsh words and deeds that followed.

And one can reflect honestly, without rancor. At least, one can try.

My father returned from his service as a Conscientious Objector after WWII. Returned to Daviess, rejoined my mother and they purchased a little farm not far from her parents’ place. The farm was along the main drag on Montgomery Road, about four miles from town. They lived there for a few uneasy years, but Dad was restless. And not entirely content with the way things were going in Daviess. Which was fine. That’s how it was, and who he was.

He never got along all that well with Mom’s family. The Yoders were pretty laid back, not as driven or hard core Amish. Not like Dad. And that’s not unusual, either. Or necessarily bad. Personality conflicts often mar in-law relationships.

But things got worse after the Mt. Zion Amish Mennonite Church, also known as the Block Church, was founded. A car church. Most of Mom’s family, including her parents, abandoned the Amish and joined the Blocks. I’m not sure if that happened after my parents had already left Daviess. But after they defected, Dad made a fateful decision. He was determined that his children would have as little exposure as possible to Mom’s family.

In 1950, my parents moved to a little fledgling community in Piketon, Ohio. From that date to the present, Mom was pretty much separated, walled off from her family in Daviess. As were her children, at least until they reached adulthood.

Dad was right, in his mind. I don’t begrudge him that, or question his resolve. But still, from where I am today, I really wonder what the man was thinking. How could he believe that his children would not one day grow up and realize what he had done? That we would not one day ask why? How could he not see that, back then? A very intelligent man, he must have been caught up in the frenzied righteousness of his cause. He did have a reputation to protect. As a writer and all, especially after moving to Aylmer. Editor and founder of Family Life. Author of dozens of didactic little stories. Where everything always worked out, and the Amish way was always portrayed as right and true.

Maybe he was just shortsighted. Whatever his motives, he was certainly all too human.

Eleven children. That’s how many were in my family. Six sons and five daughters. We grew up, mostly in Aylmer, in a world devoid of any real knowledge of our back- ground or our Yoder heritage. By decree, we were raised as pure Waglers. But the Yoder blood still pulsed within us, and always would.

To their enormous credit, Mom’s siblings made the pilgrimage to Aylmer to see her, since she was rarely allowed to return to Daviess. Even when my parents traveled back to visit, Dad mostly kept her at his relatives’ homes, while she silently pined to see her family. So they showed up at our home, her siblings, usually during the summer about every two years, and stayed for a day or two. Even then, it was always a strained and joyless thing. While they were there, dark thunderclouds hovered, and pure tension rippled through our house. You could have cut it with a knife. I marvel that they ever came again, after the first few times. It couldn’t have been easy, to return. But they did, because they loved their sister.

They had families, most of her siblings. Children our age. We rarely, if ever, saw them. Our first cousins. We grew up in different worlds, and our connection by blood simply could not span the borders of those worlds.

And so we were “protected” from our non-Amish cousins, from our uncles and aunts. Allowed to associate only with the Amish relatives. We didn’t know enough to realize what was going on, or if we did, we could not grasp the senseless cruelty of it all.

And the years flowed on. And on. To the present day. Of the eleven children in our family, only three remain Old Order Amish. That’s not a good percentage, by any standard. It was all in vain. All that “protection,” all those arbitrary walls erected to keep us from our non-Amish kin. My father’s strategy worked flawlessly in only one respect. We never really got to know them and we probably never will. Not like we would have. Not like we should have.

I’m sure if my father had it all to do over again, things would be different. Vastly different, by his own admission. And therein lies perhaps the deepest tragedy in this narrative. He was a gifted man, a visionary with myriad talents who stubbornly pursued his dreams, sailing boldly where no one had sailed before. A giant among his people, a man who influenced tens of thousands, a man who reached the pinnacle of fame and honor within the boundaries of his culture, a man now approaching the sunset of a long and productive life.

And here, at this point, at the journey’s end, he is realizing too late the utter futility of the strident, hard core Amish polemics that defined so much of who he was. Realizing too late that so much of what was so important to him a lifetime ago has crumpled to dust and ashes at his feet.

Much of what truly mattered in life passed him by, because of his choices. And as he has discovered, we rarely get second chances at things like that.

Sometimes there is a second chance, if one is young enough to change. Or decides to change at any age. In either case, it’s rare. But it can happen. That’s one reason, maybe the main reason I’m writing this, for those who might yet pull back from the brink while they still can. While there is still life left to live.

Family is family and blood is blood. And there is no more to say.

Uncle Virgil and Aunt Mary stayed with the Daviess Amish church. Raised a family. And then, in the late 1970s, they left too. Joined the Block church, I suppose, or some similar “car church.” Now Mom was the only one who remained Amish, in all her family. I can’t say for sure whether my father admonished Virgil about the matter, when he had a chance. I can’t imagine any other scenario. Virgil probably smiled serenely and remained silent.

In 1997, Mary was struck with Alzheimers. She sank rapidly into that twilight existence where her body remained healthy after her mind had fled. The same place in which my mother resides today. Virgil faithfully and quietly remained with his wife and cared for her. For ten years. He didn’t get out much. Just stayed with her, the woman he loved from his youth.

In 2007, after a decade of suffering, she was mercifully released. I remember hearing the news with barely a twinge. She was a stranger to me. I don’t know if any in my family attended the funeral. I suppose a few may have, but I don’t know that. I hope someone did.

And then he was alone. He stayed with his daughters and their families. Reveled in his grandchildren.

I had not seen him in years, I don’t even remember the last time. And then, in late July, I made a rare one-day trip to Daviess. A gathering of sorts, that I wanted to attend. Virgil showed up, accompanied by his son or son-in-law. He hobbled slowly with the help of a walker. Sat there on a bench. I saw him from across the yard, and eventually went and sat beside him. We visited. He knew who I was. I should have had a picture taken of the two of us. But I didn’t. Never even crossed my mind. That’s my loss.

A few weeks later he was gone. He passed away in the early hours of Friday, August 13, 2010. I don’t know when his family realized the end was imminent. Probably at some point during the previous evening. The children came to be with him. As the night hours passed, he slipped in and out of consciousness.

He stirred now and then. And twice, he looked off into the distance and called his wife’s name. “Mary!”

They may have sensed her presence, the others in the room, but their eyes could not behold her.

“Do you see her? Do you see Mom?” They asked. His sunken face lit up. He smiled and nodded. Yes.

And by the time the sun came up, he had quietly slipped away to join her.

This earth, this life, that is…that we have seen and known…
that has broken our hearts, maddened our brains, and torn
the sinews of our lives asunder….

Quick are the mouths of earth, and quick the teeth
that fed upon this loveliness. You, who were made
for music, will hear music no more: In your dark
house, the winds are silent…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

I don’t know the family, or the particular characters involved. But from the second I heard it weeks ago, the tragic drama of the story deeply moved me. With a keen sense of awe and horror and disbelief. I’d never heard anything quite like it before, and couldn’t shake it off. That’s why I took the time to write a “real” blog this week.

Tragedies unfold around us every day. People die unexpectedly. Sometimes violently. From accidents on the road, in cars and on motorcycles. And countless other fluky ways. Each time, we read about it, hear about it, and other than normal reactions of sympathy, shrug it off. If we don’t know the victims involved, at least, that’s what we do. And that’s fine. We can’t be walking around, burdened by every tragedy. Wouldn’t be healthy, the continuous mental strain.

Some few of you who read this will recognize the details and know the names. But it’s really not that important, who they are. Ordinary people, living their lives as best they can in accordance with the dictates of their faith. I know of them, near kin to a few of my closest friends in Lancaster County. And from my friends I heard the story.

The family used to live here, in Lancaster County. Solid Amish stock. Then, some years ago, they moved to upstate New York. Some plain community, Beachy or Charity or some such ubiquitous group. Anymore, from my perspective, those groups all seem pretty much the same. The family adapted well, both to the new area and the new lifestyle.

There were children. Eight daughters and two sons. A large family, by any standards other than the Amish. In time, the older children grew into adulthood.

They lived on a farm in their new community. Scrabbled a living from the tough rocky upstate New York soil. The father also had an outside business of some sort. Overall, the family prospered. And the children grew.

The back of their farm borders the Susquehanna River. The children liked to swim and wade the river during hot summer days. Over the years, they got to know the stretch of water that bordered their farm. They spent many happy hours there, splashing and swimming.

This year, the early summer drought took its toll on their farm and crops. Stifling heat, day after day, and no rain for weeks. One hot afternoon in early July, some of the children decided to head down to the river for a swim. Three or four of the girls. And the younger of the two sons, probably around 18 or 20 years old.

They walked to the back end of the farm to the river banks. The water was low, from the drought. On the normal stretch they knew, no spot was deep enough in which to swim. So they waded in, cooling down. Splashed about. And the story could have ended there.

Then the brother and one of the sisters, who was 16 years old, decided to go down the river, to unfamiliar territory, in search of deeper waters. They wanted to swim, not wade. And in that heat, who can blame them?

They told the others of their plan and set out. Around the bend they splashed, disappearing from the view of their siblings.

They waded on, the water was still shallow. Up ahead, another bend, and some large rocks. Maybe the water would be deeper there, so they could swim. They approached the rocks.

The actual details as told to me were sparse and sketchy. And even most of those are not that important. What happened as the two young people approached the bend and the rocks is the story that haunts the mind.

Blithely wading along, they suddenly, with no warning, plunged into an 8 ft. drop-off in the river bed. At the bend, around the rocks, the waters swirled in a vicious vortex. Sucking them both down into the depths.

They could swim. Not that well, but they could. As the waters closed around them and drew them down, down, they fought to resurface. Somehow, they both got back up, into the air. He struggled, closer to the shore. She was right behind him. Almost, he could drag himself out. But the hungry waters pulled at him. She flailed and struggled.

I don’t know if it all happened in silence, or if they had the breath and strength to speak to each other or shout for help. I don’t know if either of them panicked as they struggled in the water.

He would make it out. Just barely. And then she grabbed hold of him, her hands clamping on him like a vise. In utter desperation, she hung on. To her older brother. He would save her.

Mere seconds had passed. Exhausted and stunned, he hung on, either to the grass or maybe a branch by the bank. Still she held on to him. Don’t let go. Don’t let go.

And he felt his grip slipping; she was pulling him back in. If he let go, he would not have the strength to fight the water anymore.

At that instant, with absolute clarity, he knew he had to make a choice. Try to save himself and his younger sister. And drown if he slipped back in. Or save himself. But only if he shook her off, broke free of her deadly grip on him.

I don’t know what thoughts flashed through his mind, and don’t really care to know. But at some point in that frozen moment, he knew that unless he shook her off, they would both die. He did not have the strength to pull both of them out of the water’s vicious unrelenting grasp.

So he made the only choice he had. He shook her off and broke free. The churning, pitiless waters instantly swallowed her, pulled her under. She disappeared and did not resurface.

His little sister, who had tagged along with him all her life. His sister, of his blood and bone and flesh. His sister, whom he loved. Gone, below the waters.

He dragged himself onto the bank. Lay there for a brief moment, in total shock. Then he stumbled to his feet and staggered back to his other sisters who had stayed in the shallow waters back around the bend.

He gasped out his tale, and they rushed back to the farm for help. He knew it was a futile thing, that no help existed anywhere that could do any good now.

And he was right. It was too late. There was no hope. None. Their sister was dead. Later that afternoon, the rescue workers retrieved her limp body from where it rested at the bottom of the hole in the river. Sixteen years old. Gone.

The family reeled from the shock and grief. Four days later, on a Saturday morning, they buried her in the graveyard by their little church. Their relatives and friends, including many Amish from Lancaster County, attended the funeral. And deeply mourned their loss of one so young and innocent.

Even from a safe emotional distance, it is a hard and bitter thing to contemplate. The loss of a vibrant young life. Of a beautiful girl of sixteen, on the threshold of adulthood, who had everything before her. Family. Friends. Eventually, in the natural course of things, a husband and children of her own. Now snuffed out. All her tomorrows, all her dreams, all she would have been in the course of a long and fruitful life. All cut short in one brief and terrifying instant.

We are told to mourn with those who mourn. And in this case, it is not hard to do. We can, even now, pause and reflect on the family’s loss and say a prayer for their well being.

But to me the true drama, the real story resides in the cruel choice. It simply defies comprehension. The choice her brother was forced to make in the span of a few fleeting seconds. It is very rare, for any human to be confronted with such a stark decision in such brutal circumstances. With such tragic consequences. But it does happen, as it did here. A choice of life or death. Your own or another’s.

He made the right call. The right choice. Had he done otherwise, the family would have mourned the deaths of two of their children at a double funeral. And that day would have been far more tragic than it was.

But that truth is probably cold comfort to him. I don’t know him, but my heart goes out to him. The utter devastation in the desolate fields of his mind. Drained of tears, wracked by waves of guilt and grief. The bitter pain of loss increased a thousandfold.

How will he ever get past that? How will he deal with it, and go on to live a productive life? How will he even go on at all? His future forever tinged, his dreams incessantly haunted by vivid nightmares of memories from that day.

It seems impossible, to those of us viewing from a distance. Impossible that a young man could ever heal from the searing memories, the scars, the brutal shock of such unfathomable emotional trauma.

But it’s not impossible.

From my own experiences in the not-so-distant past, I know that the Lord extends grace to those of His children who are passing through the fires of unimaginable shock and loss. It seems like such a trite and clichéd thing to say. It’s the kind of stuff people always spout. Often by rote, with no real concept of what they’re saying.

But it’s true. Simple specific grace. That’s what got me through a few years back. And continues to.

Not that I would consider my experiences as even remotely comparable to these events. But still, the grace was there. I could feel it. Even though I didn’t think to ask for it, particularly. I could feel it, as I huddled helpless in the eye of the savage storm. Enveloping me. Not those who weren’t involved, those who stood in sympathy on the sidelines and wondered how I could take it. Just me. It was enough. More than enough.

And the Lord will pour out the necessary grace for this family, too. Especially for the brother. Not that he won’t have to deal with the guilt and grief and upheaval, again and again. And the flashbacks. For a long time. He will. And not that he shouldn’t get some serious heavy counseling. He should.

Life is a gift for the living. All the living. Including the wounded. And the deeply traumatized. A gift to receive. To live. To heal. To move forward into the future. To walk in awareness. To acknowledge and accept the past, however difficult or painful. To live, in time, in settled contentment. And joy, too, can and will return with a new dawn.

Ultimately, our choices define who we are and how we live. It’s all there for the taking. It can all come in time. Even in the aftermath of harrowing, heartbreaking loss.

Even in circumstances such as these.

******************************
As I post this, they are assembling. From points all across the nation. From the east to the west. From Pennsylvania to Montana. Well over a hundred people, by all accounts. Maybe as many as two hundred.

It’s the first ever ex-Amish reunion held in Bloomfield, Iowa. The brainchild of Ed Yoder and my nephew John Wagler, among others. This weekend at a park close to town. It will be an interesting and exciting time.

Any ex-Amish person who ever lived in Bloomfield is invited. That would include a lot of people I wouldn’t know, because I left back in the late 80s. More than twenty years ago. Some ex-Amish who attend might not even have been born then. But it still would be a huge blast to attend. Meet old friends and acquaintances, and make new friends.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t make it. Well, I could have, but it would not have been a responsible thing to do. Not with deadlines looming like Judgment Day, and so much yet to write. As I explained to Ed Yoder, the only thing that could possibly keep me away is the thing that is keeping me away. So I’m home, plugging away, wishing I were there.

The Bloomfield church fathers, it seems, are not at all amused about the whole thing. They are quite grim, in fact. A week or so ago, Bloomfield’s most powerful Bishop even stood in church and sternly forbade any church member to attend. Ah, well. Bearish as ever, they are. Some things never change.

I hope this event is so successful that there will be another reunion before too long. Maybe in a few years. Next time, I will make every effort, including procrastinating on then-current deadlines, to attend.

The summer comes again, heat-blazing summer, humid,
murked with mist, sky-glazed with brutal weariness…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

It’s been one of those summers. Half gone, already, seems like. As is the year. Hotter than a biscuit in the East. Record temps. Much moaning about “climate change,” and how we’re all going to die in the next year or so, if something isn’t done. Strangely enough, AlGore remains silent. Mostly because of his masseuse problems, one would suspect. Not that I’d wish ill on anyone. But his troubles couldn’t have befallen a more deserving man.

Anyway, it’s flat out hot out there. And no, I don’t mean it’s warm. It’s hot. The paved parking lot at work shimmers in the sun. The work crews slog through the day, gulping gallons of cold ice water. And I am hugely thankful for my air-conditioned office job.

I’ve wondered sometimes, when looking at old photos from back a hundred years ago. People standing there in a crowd, in a small town somewhere, or a city. Outside in the summer heat. No air conditioning. All the men wearing suits, most wearing ties. And hats. The women bundled up in large billowy dresses, also wearing hats. It’s hot. You can see it. And back then, most people didn’t bathe every day. Maybe once a week. And their deodorants, if they even had any, certainly weren’t what we have today.

I’ve looked at the old photos and wondered. What it would have been like to stand in that crowd. And I can’t help but wonder how those people smelled. I bet it wasn’t very appealing. Likely quite rancid. Maybe that’s why the dainty maidens of the time carried smelling salts. Probably they needed it to revive themselves and to quench the stench.

Anyway, it’s hot. And I’ve been stressed. More stressed than I’ve been for awhile. More so than I’ve been since the spring of 2007, for those who remember that dark time. Different stress, certainly. But comparable in its intensity.

Stress from this and that. But mostly from working on the book. It’s not that I’m not producing. I am steadily working my way through the picture board chart. But still, seems like no draft is ever quite done, not good enough.

Now July 4th has come and gone. I hadn’t planned a whole lot, but ended up at two different parties in two different states. Which isn’t bad for someone who hadn’t planned a lot. Big Blue was cruising, puttin’ on the miles. First, on Saturday afternoon to my ex-brother-in-law Paul’s home in Lebanon. With a few close friends. We grilled steaks. Hung out late, playing Hi-Lo. I slept on the couch.

The next morning, it was west and south to Hedgesville, West Virginia. Dominic Haskin, my close friend, always throws a great party on the Fourth. This one was no exception, except it was for one day instead of the usual two. Again, lots of great food (but no pig roast). Hanging out by the pool. Chilling with the West Virginia crowd. And after darkness fell, real tube fireworks. Quite the show.

On Monday, it was back home again, in time to get a few hours of writing logged in. And that’s going to be my game plan for the duration. I have no plans for any trips, short or long, in the near future. Not until after late October. Then, maybe.

And so the summer slogs by. As usual, I’m assailed on all sides by a host of minor irritations.

This year, there was the Census. I don’t even remember the last one. Must have been ten years ago, but I wasn’t paying any attention back then. This time, I was.

First, I got the notice proclaiming the form was on its way. Big whoop. How many millions were spent, doing that? Days later, it arrived. I opened it suspiciously. Ten or twelve questions. Name. Address. Income. Blah, blah, blah. Near as I could tell, I was obligated to fill out only one. The first one. How many people live in your house?

So I carefully penciled in the number “1” and mailed it back. Nothing else. No other info. Take that, Census people. I heard nothing for awhile. Then, one evening, a tiny note tucked in the screen door. From a Census worker. Local. Call me, it said. Listed the full name and phone number and convenient evening hours. I glanced at it, then tossed it aside. Come and see me yourself. When I’m home.

A few weeks passed. I always glanced at my drive when pulling up, checking for any suspicious vehicle that might indicate a Census worker lurking in ambush. Never was. Then about three weeks after the first note, a second one. Stuck into the screen door again. Different name. Must be the supervisor, I figured. I was here, the note said. A telephone number. Call me, we can do this over the phone, it suggested cheerfully. And maybe a little hopefully. Again, it listed convenient evening hours, up until 9:30 or so. Unimpressed, I read the note, then tossed it aside with the first one.

And that was the last I heard from anyone. They know how many people live in my house, at least downstairs. That’s all they need to know. And no, I’m not paranoid. Well, maybe a little.

I’ve yawned my way through the long, exceedingly boring coverage of the World Cup. Along with most other Americans, I suspect. All the hype on Sports Center, all the breathless coverage, all the rah, rah, just swooshed right over my head. I don’t understand any of it. Don’t care to. Guess that might make a bit of difference.

Somehow, soccer seems to be by far the most popular sport in the world. Except in North America. Watching a squad of guys running back and forth across a vast field, kicking and head-butting a round ball, that will never be popular here. Never. Not like other sports.

So I yawned when the US team was unceremoniously booted out by Uruguay. Who even knows where that is? I yawn at the upcoming finals. I’ll yawn at the winner, as other countries riot. Bring on real football, American style. And how about them Braves? They’ve been on a roll ever since I publicly scolded them on Facebook a couple of months ago. A most timely happenstance on my part.

And speaking of FB, I have mixed feelings about it. So far, it’s been a good experience, mostly. Sometimes I catch myself surfing when I should definitely be writing. Overall, though, it’s a very good way to keep up with family and friends.

Fifteen years ago, we didn’t even have cell phones. Think about that. Think how different the Seinfeld show would have been, had the characters been equipped with even the most basic cell phones. But it wasn’t an option then. Which makes Seinfeld reruns seem increasingly quaint.

Now, we have cell phones that can access our FB and we can post pictures almost instantly. We’re wired, is what we are. And I don’t even do Twitter, and whatever other new stuff is surfacing out there.

It’s a good venue for quick thoughts and observations. Causes. Short political screeds. Bashing this guy, praising that one. It’s also great for connecting after a tragedy, and for info on deaths and funerals.

I’ve had to learn. On FB, to be careful when disagreeing with someone. Because no one can hear your voice inflections. It’s all written. So a sentence that’s read might seem a lot more harsh than the same words spoken. Because of voice inflection.

I know a few people who have left FB. Didn’t like how it was hogging their time. I respect that. I’d be tempted to do the same thing, except I write the occasional blog, and am working on a book. FB is a perfect medium to announce a new post and to update readers.

I wonder, if a blog like this would even be possible to launch now. I doubt it would attract a similar readership. But then again, it might. Content, I think, is what makes or breaks a blog. But still, it seems strange. When I launched this blog a little over three years ago, FB was barely a blip in the public’s consciousness.

I chuckle sometimes, at the stuff posted. Guys post pictures of the road, grilled steaks or ribs, prate about football, Nascar and boasts of the hunt, and taunts about politics. And battles about religion. Merrily whack each other, amidst much name calling. Thugs and such. Perhaps taking it too far, sometimes. Girls…well, some girl moans she’s having a bad day. Instant response: a cascade of, uh, support. Hang in there. You poor thing. Praying for you. We really must get together soon. And so on and on. Not that I have anything against any of it. Mostly, I don’t even read the stuff. Just saying, is all.

And no, I’m not grumpy. It’s hot out there.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

—St. Ambrose
____________

I had expressed some reservations when he enrolled. That summer two years ago. But he’s an adult, and if he wanted to attend, that was his business. Even so, I grumbled at him a little. Since then, we’ve communicated now and then, and he stopped by to visit a time or two. He really seemed to enjoy his classes, and was always eager to discuss and debate the issues. Although the source of his conclusions was always a bit suspect to me.

So when my nephew Gideon Yutzy emailed me an invitation to attend his graduation at Faith Builders, I didn’t give it much thought at first. Faith Builders, in Guys Mills, PA. A rare place where plain Beachy and Mennonite kids can go to get a couple of years of accredited education. For teaching, mostly.

I’ve always been suspicious of the place. Stems back to about the mid 90s, or there-abouts. For some reason, I attended a Faith Builders fundraiser. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, the main speaker that night, I think his last name was Zehr, stood there and did his utmost to guilt-trip the audience into giving to the cause. He railed rather disdainfully at wealth and wealthy people. I listened. Seemed like a strange thing, to clobber the wealthy even while asking them for support. Plus, he sounded like a raging socialist to me. A man who had no clue how the free market works, as people who scorn wealth generally don’t. My guard was up. Has been since that day.

And in the years since, I haven’t been that impressed by what I heard from graduates of the place. Aggressive hyper-Anabaptist apologetics, mixed with plain dress. Which is OK, if that’s what you want. But it’s not where I am.

So when I got Gideon’s invitation, my first thought was, fat chance. Why would I drive six hours one way to attend a graduation at a school I didn’t respect?

But then, suddenly, my mind went back to another time and place. Nineteen years ago. I was an eager graduate at Vincennes University, a Junior College in southern Indiana. Against all odds, I had obtained my GED, and attended Vincennes for two years, the last of which was fully paid by a merit scholarship. I didn’t make a big fuss about the graduation. But I invited my friends around Daviess. And my family. Not that any of the family would come, I knew that. But still. You invite them.

Graduation day came. In gown and mortarboard tassled cap, I proudly marched across the stage. Received my diploma. Associates’ Degree in General Studies, Summa Cum Laude. And I knew it before I marched. But I looked out over the audience anyway.

Other than my professors and a few friends I had made at the University, not a single friend or family member was present to cheer my accomplishment.

Not one.

It didn’t seem like that big a deal at the moment. And it didn’t really bug me that much. It was corn planting time in Daviess, so all my local friends begged off. They were in the fields and all. Of course I understood. Only much later did it hit me how fragile was my support structure at that time. Pretty much nonexistent. And I had no semblance of a safety net at all.

It was what it was. And I’m just saying how it was.

In the years that have passed, I vowed to myself that if any of my nephews or nieces or siblings ever graduate with any kind of degree, anywhere, I would make every effort to attend if remotely feasible.

Well, it was feasible to drive six hours one way to see Gideon graduate. And by Wednesday my plans were made. Friday morning, May 21, I set out with Big Blue. My niece Elaine Wagler accompanied me. She and Gideon have been close friends since childhood.

And off we went, north and west. A long, long drive. By 3 PM, we pulled into Guys Mills and found the school. An old high school complex. Gideon greeted us joyfully. It seemed to mean a lot to him that we had come to witness his big day.

He took us on a tour of the place. Classrooms, dorms, the library. Gideon’s eyes sparkled as he described his two years of education. The whole experience, the late night discussions, the required readings, the small tight knit classes. The close friendships.

Despite myself, I was impressed from the first moment. It was obvious that whatever they taught here, they taught it thoroughly.

That evening, the graduation ceremony. Everything on schedule, and it went down right on time. A well-coached little choir sang a song. Sixteen graduates stood there, beaming. As class president, Gideon gave a fine five minute speech. Even the main speaker, some Mennonite preacher from Canada, kept my attention and wrapped it up before he lost us.

Afterward, we all mingled about for almost two hours, the guests and the graduates. Apparently Gideon had talked about me some, because more than a few strangers walked right up and addressed me as Uncle Ira. They knew who I was, they read my blog. I smiled and nodded and shook their hands. Even had several very good conversations. Everyone was most polite and cordial. I was equally respectful, being on their turf and all.

And I came away with an entirely new perspective of Faith Builders. A clean little school. Whatever they do, they do it with quality and character. I’m still as suspicious as ever about what they actually teach there. And I still don’t agree with most of it.

But you know what? It doesn’t matter. I don’t have to. There’s room out there for every type and denomination. Including a plain Beachy Anabaptist Junior College. The professors at Faith Builders are struggling to instill the value of education into a culture that has traditionally rejected higher learning. Or at least viewed it with extreme skepticism. An unenviable job, much like rowing upstream in a strong current. What- ever the doctrinal flaws (from my perspective) at Faith Builders, that’s admirable. And I truly respect the place.

Congratulations to my nephew, Gideon Yutzy, on his graduation from Faith Builders. May he grow and prosper in whatever life holds for him.

Last weekend was filled with much excitement. First, on Thursday afternoon, I was interviewed for a full hour on the radio show, Amish Wisdom. My friend Erik Wesner guest hosted the show. We had a lot of fun with it. I knew Erik and managed to keep the conversation as between two friends. It turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself.

And right after that interview, I headed out with the old gang for the Pocono 500 Nascar Track in Long Pond, PA. Five of us in a motor home again, just like last year. Time for Redneck City. We felt a bit more seasoned and confident, after last year’s experience.

In a spitting drizzle, we pulled in and were set up by 9:30 or so. This year, we graduated to spot right at the backstretch fence. Unobstructed view of the track. As we parked and set up, we met our neighbors two spaces over. Two couples from Ontario, Canada, not far from the Aylmer area. A younger couple and an older couple. Seemed friendly enough, but a bit standoffish. I was surprised. Canadians are usually quite genial.

We ate a late dinner, then sat around chatting. By eleven or so, everyone bunked down for sleep. Except me. I sat outside with my laptop, enjoying the sounds and the surroundings. Listening to music and typing a few notes. The Canadians next door seemed to have retired as well.

I sat there for an hour. Then two. It was getting late. Time to hit the sack. And just about then, the Canadians’ camper trailer door swung open, and the younger man slowly lurched out. Heavy set, clad in shorts and T shirt. It was more than half dark, even with his trailer lights, so I pretended not to notice. He staggered to a lawn chair and sagged into it.

And he sat there. Doing nothing, except occasionally taking a sip of beer from his vast mug. Every now and then, he emitted a half groan, half bark. Don’t know if he was trying to get my attention or what. I didn’t stir, just kept an eye on him.

He continued his weird half groans, half barks. Obviously the man was completely smashed. He sipped now and again from his mug. And suddenly, without a sound and without warning, he leaned over too far. Before my startled eyes, he rolled right off his chair. Crashed to the ground with a great thud. I looked on with extreme interest while pretending not to. I’ve heard of people doing that, rolling off chairs while intoxicated. But I’d never seen it happen before.

He slumped there against the trailer, occasionally pawing about feebly with his hand, like a fat pig in slop. No way. He wasn’t getting up anytime soon. The trailer door then opened, and the elderly woman, perhaps his mother, emerged. She stood there swaying, analyzing the situation. She then walked up, mumbling incoherently, and grabbed his hand and tugged. He lay there, solid as a mountain. Didn’t move even a fraction. After several attempts, she gave up and disappeared inside the trailer. The fat man sprawled there, an unmoving, unmovable lump.

About then I decided it was time for me to go to bed.

He must have roused himself at some point, because by mid morning the next day, he emerged from the trailer. Didn’t look half bad, considering where he’d been the night before. We pretty much ignored each other for the duration, except for late Saturday night, when Paul had to walk over and ask them to turn down their music. Which they reluctantly did, eventually.

We settled in for three days inside the oval. We feasted on steak, fish, ribs, grilled over open flames. I probably gained a few pounds. I even got a bit of writing done on my laptop. Sadly, Buddy and his boys from New York never showed up. We were quite disappointed. Scoured the campground all around us with binoculars for any possible glimpse of his old yellow school bus or the little motorized bar. All in vain. Maybe the tanking economy affected him or something. Sure wish I could have met him again.

And then of course, there was the race. Or the races. Our trackside parking space allowed an unfettered view of the backstretch. We sat on top of the motor home in camp chairs and absorbed the sound and fury of the engines.

On Sunday, after the race ended at seven, we packed up and left for home. It was time. Three days at Redneckville was just about right.

….a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion:
for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?

–Ecclesiastes 3:22
_______________

All right. Time for a little break. And a brief update.

It’s been an intense five weeks or so, since the last post. Yeah, yeah, I know. I intended to post here at least once a month, but it just didn’t happen. It’s not that I want to ignore the blog. But for the first time in three-plus years, there’s something vastly more important, writing-wise, that demands pretty much all my attention.

And you few (you know who you are) who kept harassing me with whiny emails, well, here’s a new post. Peace, I say, peace.

The week after returning from the Tyndale trip, I left again for a few days. This time to Mays Lick, KY, for my niece Laura May Wagler’s wedding to Joshua Mast on Friday, April 16th. Big Blue and I headed out late Wednesday afternoon, on leisurely road trip. Stopped at the Holiday Inn in Cumberland, MD for the night. Cumberland is a fascinating old town nestled among the steep hills. Very unique architecture, tall steeples on old churches. And the trains hiss and clack and run all night, right past the Holiday Inn.

I pulled into Mays Lick late Thursday afternoon, to all the bustle and stir associated with an Amish wedding. Guests arriving from all over. Including my parents, who technically live in Mays Lick, but had been staying in Aylmer with my oldest sister Rosemary for a few months. They arrived about the same time I did, around 3:30. Dad was all in a dither because he still had to finish his tax forms and get them mailed off before 5 PM that day, April 15th. Somehow, don’t ask me how, he got it done.

Mom looked thin and impossibly frail. My sisters led her around like a child. She smiled and smiled and claimed to know me. But she did not speak my name. And I didn’t push it. She seems to be in a peaceful place, perhaps the most peaceful since her childhood.

Then hanging around all evening with a lot of people from a lot of places. A great crowd of Waglers had assembled from various points. The Amish and the non-Amish. It was all good. A loud time was had by all.

On the day of the wedding, I heard my brother Joseph preach again. And my Dad led a song in church. One of these times will be the last for Dad. The local Bishop performed the marriage ceremony, after a rather detailed journey through the Apocryphal story of Blind Tobit and the hair-raising adventures of his son, Tobit, Jr. Who traveled through dangerous territory to court and marry an even more dangerous woman whose seven previous husbands had all been murdered on their wedding night by evil demons. I had not heard the story for many years.

In some Amish communities, they honor Tobit by painstakingly expounding on the minutest details; in some they briefly skim through the tale. And in others, they pretty much ignore it altogether. It was interesting to hear again, but in my opinion the good Bishop perhaps over expounded just a smidgen. At least for my taste. But then, no one asked for my opinion.

After all these years, I’ve finally analyzed why I have so little patience with the Tobit story at Amish weddings. It’s because that story winds up the sermon. Once it’s told, the couple is promptly married and the service is soon over. So by the time the Bishop gets around to starting it, everyone’s already been sitting for quite some time, usually two-plus hours. When the Tobit story starts, the end is in sight, and everyone stirs restlessly.

Don’t know why I’m grumbling about Tobit. The wedding was very enjoyable, from start to finish. Lots of people. Great food. Great weather.

On the day after the wedding, Saturday, a group of us drove up to the Cincinnati area and toured the Creation Museum. It was interesting, very detailed. Overall, though, mildly disappointing. Really nothing new that I hadn’t seen or heard before. It was OK once, but I wouldn’t spend the money to go through again.

And since returning from that little trip, I haven’t relaxed much. Working ten-hour days at my job, then two to three more hours every night on the computer. And emailing my editor now and then. The book’s first three chapters are in the final stages of rewriting. They are due next week. I’ll be at the computer all weekend.

Other than that, there’s not a whole lot to say about the book. Other than it’s stressful. More so than any term paper I’ve ever done in college and more than any brief ever submitted in law school. Or oral argument, for that matter. All kinds of thoughts jumble through my head. What if it’s not what they want? What if…..? Aaarrgggh..

But that’s the reason I’m turning in short segments, especially at the beginning. If I’m on the wrong track, there’s time for corrections.

A few thoughts on the passing scenes.

The little group of “dangerous” militia guys I mentioned in my last post still languish in prison. Last week a federal judge, to her credit, ordered them immediately released on bail. The thuggish Feds appealed that order to a three judge panel. So they sit, the eight misfits, rotting away, all because of words they spoke. I’ll be surprised if they ever again see any sort of freedom.

And then of course, there’s the BP oil rig that “accidentally” exploded three weeks ago. Oil has been spewing into the ocean ever since. An environmental nightmare. Right on cue for the wacko extremists to scream for a permanent ban on all offshore drilling forever. Meanwhile, a lot of other two-bit countries keep sinking wells and extracting oil at a feverish pace.

It’s all a bit too convenient, if you ask me. The accident. Better chance than not, the BP rig was sabotaged. Few things are as they seem, or as authorities claim. Neither is this, in my opinion.

Who was it? It’s anyone’s guess. Could have been “black ops” forces. Or wacko environmentalists. Maybe North Korea sent over its entire fleet, consisting of one outdated, clanking sub, and blew it up. I don’t know. But the results sure fit the political agenda of a lot of powerful people. Maybe I’m paranoid, but it just seems way too convenient. Way too convenient.

The Feds have done at least one thing right lately. They’ve honored the Simpsons with their own stamps. Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie all on one sheet. Couldn’t believe it the other day when I saw them at the Post Office. I immediately bought a sheet. Won’t use them, though. I’ll store them away in my desk. Some day they’ll be worth something.

I’ve got one major break planned this summer. On the first weekend in June, I will join last year’s group and camp inside the oval at the Pocono 500 for three days. Hopefully we’re a bit more seasoned this year, and won’t have any fires inside or outside the motor home. And hopefully our neighbors will rest easier this year. I’m sure looking forward to the trip. Slurp, slurp. I will be taking my laptop, however, and try to get some writing and editing done.

Congratulations to Mervin (my nephew) and Marlene Wagler, of Worthington, IN, on the birth of their first child. A daughter, Hosanna, born on May 4th.

All you zombies hide your faces.
All you people in the street,
All you sittin’ in high places.
The rain’s gonna’ fall on you.

Hooters, lyrics: “All you Zombies…”
____________________________

They do it every year, like clockwork. Always just before Easter. Always so utterly predictable, always in the most serious scholarly manner, and always, despite a great charade of earnestly searching for objective truth, always the same tired preordained conclusions. I don’t know why they even bother anymore.

Always, in some major magazine, the cover story. “Was Jesus real?” or some such mindless question. Or “Did Jesus really exist?” The long vacuous interviews with Rev. Dr. So-and-So, who of course graduated with honors from the Princeton Divinity School, or some similar high falutin’ place. And the good Rev. Doctor always spouts the same muddled psychobabble that passes for knowledge these days in the esteemed institutions of higher learning. The bemused expression, the ever so slightly lifted eyebrow, that one could be so obtuse as to believe that anyone, ever, had risen from the dead. Of course, he generously concedes, one can always admire the life of Jesus (while not admitting that he for sure existed) and the beautiful lessons He taught. One can glean some comfort from that. And, of course, the untaught, the unwashed, must always cling to their old outdated fables.

But what with science and all, we can now measure the age of skeletal remains right down to within half a million years. Anyone, even a pea-brain, can rest assured that no one has ever risen from the dead.

They’ve got it down to a formula. That they can harvest again and again, every year. But this year, it was different. This year, they didn’t serve up the mindless Rev. Doctors, at least, not so one would notice. This year, they went right for the jugular. Right for the perceived evil, at its source. But they weren’t concerned about the real evil. They were only concerned about tearing down an ancient enemy, an enemy that has been badly bloodied of late.

This year, they went after the Pope. In one of the most vicious coordinated secular attacks against established religion that I have ever witnessed. Day after day, for more than a week, leading up to Easter. Calls for the Pope to resign. Accusations that he had known of and covered up the terrible priest/child sex abuse scandals for decades.

The New York Times led the attack. Joined by many malcontents, including some ex-Catholics. And the entire world, it seemed, hammered savagely and relentlessly at the foundation of a venerable institution almost two thousand years old.

I’m not Catholic. Not particularly a fan of the current Pope, either. The Church has endured its scandals over the decades, centuries, and millennia. And I have issues with some of its foundational doctrines.

But I respect the institution (If any of my Bob Jones professors are reading this, just pick yourselves up off the floor). I respect the Catholic Church because it has stood like a bulwark against the shifting tides of political correctness. It has stridently called abortion what it is, murder. It has insisted on the traditional concept of marriage. And it has respect for all human life, even the lives of murderers. Although misguided in its economic philosophy, it has spoken out for the poor and the oppressed world wide.

On these issues, and others, the Church has not budged. And has made itself the target and bitter enemy of modern utopians. Secularists who are succeeding in forging the world to conform to their bleak visions. Forces that hate and despise the Church and all it for which it stands.

And this latest coordinated attack was preplanned. Long ago. To unfold during Christianity’s holiest week. To embarrass and hound, to accuse the Pope of the vilest of acts, that of covering up the abuse of innocent children.

From what I’ve read, and I have no reason to disbelieve it, the Pope, back when he was a Cardinal, worked tirelessly to bring to justice the abusive priests. And to cleanse the Church of this evil. The accusers knew this. Deliberately ignored it. And bayed for his blood.

The Church is damaged. Peggy Noonan (a practicing Catholic), in her chatty, oh so reasoned and sweet Washington Beltway narrative, thinks it will take a least a generation for the damage to be healed. I was quite irritated at Ms. Noonan a year or so ago, when she lauded Mr. Obama and criticized Sarah Palin. Quit reading her stuff for awhile. How obtuse can she get? But on this point, I think she’s right.

But the Church will endure. It has survived political intrigue and scandals off and on for almost its entire existence. We always think our current times are worse than any others, ever before. But they usually aren’t.

The Pope has not stepped down. He won’t. Viva Pope!

About the same time the Pope was viscously attacked from all sides, a poor little ragtag militia group in Michigan was surrounded and arrested by federal thugs. Eight befuddled hillbillies, staring in bewilderment at the camera.

They are being charged with seditious acts. Whatever that means. Planning to kill cops, or some such thing. Words, mostly. Which ain’t a whole lot.

It’s a farce. And it’s a sham. The little group was infiltrated by some nutcase lowlife criminal informant who was pressed into service. An agent provocateur who rabble- roused them to say and do things they would not have otherwise said or done. It was entrapment. The Feds sent in dozens of agents and spent probably a million bucks to nab them. The idea that this bedraggled little “militia” was even a remote threat to the federal government is not only ludicrous; it’s sad. And scary for all of us.

Now a federal judge has denied bail. These poor hicks are in serious trouble. They will be railroaded into plea bargains and will likely spend decades, if not the rest of their lives, in prison.

I’ve thought about it. Who would make the best next door neighbors? The “dangerous” militia guys? Or the jack booted federal thugs who arrested them? It’s not even close.

Welcome to Amerika. This is not justice. This is tyranny. It’s intimidation. A warning for all the rest of us out there. We’d better cower and keep our mouths shut. Not complain too much about government. Or they’ll come after us.

It just ain’t right. But it’s the world we live in. An increasingly dark and frightening world.

And that, my friends, is probably the last rant you’ll see from me for awhile. It was on my mind this week, during the tension of the approaching Tyndale trip. I had to write something.

On Thursday morning, after an extremely restless night, I got up at around three o’clock. Showered, dressed, threw a duffle bag and my briefcase into Big Blue and headed for the PHI airport. I hate cities and I hate airports. But for this trip, and at that hour, it was no problem.

I passed through the gauntlet of TSA thugs, er, workers, with minimal hassles. What a colossal waste of resources, our airport security apparatus. My flight took off on time, and by shortly after nine, we touched down in Chicago.

There, I was met by Susan Taylor, the editor assigned to my book. Less than forty minutes later, we arrived at Tyndale House in Carol Stream. A huge office complex, with an attached warehouse.

Susan led me to the third floor office of Carol Traver, Tyndale’s senior non fiction acquisition editor. And there she was. The lady who had made it all possible for me. It seemed like we already knew each other, having chatted on the phone numerous times. Carol then gave me an extensive tour of the Tyndale complex.

I don’t remember all their names, but I met a lot of very friendly people. All were most gracious and seemed genuinely pleased to meet me. Some few even mentioned that they read my blog. I absorbed it all. Not many get a guided tour like I was getting.

And then it was time to get to work. Carol, Susan and I set up in a conference room. For the next five hours, we worked our way through my life. From birth. They were experts at extracting memories, incidents, scenes. Carol mapped it all out on large easel paper. Picture boarding.

Outside Tyndale’s main entrance.

With Carol Traver. Whether I succeed or fail, this is the lady
who made it all possible.

With Susan Taylor, the editor who will be working with me.

It was intense. Draining. And a lot of fun. By 4:30 or so, we wrapped it up. The all important easel paper picture board was carefully folded and placed in my briefcase.

Later, they took me out to eat at a lovely little Irish pub. And then to my room at the Hampton. This morning a stretch limo, driven by a Ukrainian with a heavy accent, took me back to O’Hare and my flight out. Only the second limo ride of my life.

My flight back went right on time. Three hours ago, I walked into my home. Back again. After a whirlwind trip.

I’m exhausted. It seems surreal, everything that just came down. But it was good. I think I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

Every day you see one more card.
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart.
The waiting is the hardest part.

Tom Petty, lyrics: The Waiting…
__________________________

Things have settled down a great deal since my last post. At least inside my head. The waves of euphoria have calmed. Replaced with, well, a lot of things. A quiet sense of what has to be done. Some trepidation. A little fear. But mostly, a deep, deep realiz- ation of the opportunity that has dropped into my lap. People struggle all their lives and never reach that goal, never even get the chance I’m getting.

I’m thankful. And still a little awed about how it all came down.

I’ve not written much yet. For the book, I mean. Played around a bit with the prologue. And the first chapter. But mostly, just mulling over memories. Rereading a lot of my old stuff. Trying to decide what I might or might not incorporate later.

I’ve not written much because the folks at Tyndale want to meet with me first. That was to happen sometime in March, tentatively. But things move a bit slower at the corporate level, it seems. So now it will be early April.

I chafed and fretted, early on. Wanted to get on with it. There’s a huge amount of work to be done before fall.

But now I’m calmer. Settled down. The Tyndale people know what they’re doing. They have a game plan. I’m new at this. Plus, there’s plenty of time to freak out later. As I’m sure I will.

Originally, the editor was planning to fly in and spend a day with me in our conference room at work. That’s changed too. Now, instead of one or two Tyndale people, there are at least four that must meet me. So they decided it makes more sense to fly one guy to Chicago than it does to fly four people to Lancaster. Makes sense to me too. I abhor flying, mostly because of the TSA thugs. But for this, I’m game. Heck, I’ll drive out if necessary.

They want to spend a full day, plotting the story. Picture-boarding, they call it. Go from point to point, all the way through. Which should greatly simplify things. I’m not quite sure about it. Never done anything like that before. But they seem very confident. So we’ll see.

The tickets have been purchased. I fly out to Tyndale’s corporate headquarters early on Thursday, April 8. Return the next day. Country boy meets big city. I’m sure it will be an adventure. An intense one.

But from the new writing I’ve already done in preparation, one thing became clear. When the time comes to buckle down and produce, I will have to sit at my computer on my old desk in my messy living room in my cluttered house. And block out all the noise. Clear my head. Forget even that I’m “writing a book.” I’ll have to write to all you readers on my blog. As I have for going on three years. Talk to you, as I’ve always done. Otherwise, my voice won’t come out right. And the narrative will be stilted and false.

So for now, I’m in limbo. Thinking. Plotting. Sketching a bit. Waiting. Preparing. It’s going to be a long wild summer.

Way back in April, 2008, I posted a blog about old songs. Amish singing in church. Shortly thereafter, Erik Wesner of Amish America linked that post to his blog, triggering an immediate and noticeable uptick in hits. Amish America is certainly among the most widely read websites out there about Amish life.

Since then, Erik has graciously linked to about four or five of my other posts. “Running Around” was probably my most widely read post, primarily because Erik linked to it not once, but twice. Because of him, I have a lot more readers than I otherwise would have.

This past Monday, Erik’s new book, “Success Made Simple: An Inside Look at Why Amish Businesses Thrive,” was released in stores. Of course, it’s available at Amazon and other web sellers as well.

My copy arrived yesterday, a nice hardcover book. So last night I picked it up, figuring to peruse it briefly so I could mention it on this post. Next time I looked at the clock, two hours had passed. I’m not a businessman, never had any drive or desire to be one. But the book is so engagingly written, so well researched, so filled with anecdotes and examples of real life Amish businesses, that I found it hard to put down.

Erik is not only a scholar, but a fine writer as well. Which is quite refreshing. Many “scholarly” works are dry as toast. This one is not.

I definitely recommend it. Pick up your own copy and check it out.

Finally, while I have shied away from discussing politics lately (no sense in deliberately antagonizing any of my readers), I simply can’t keep silent on this one. Can’t ignore the vile developments that emerged from the slime pit of Washington, DC, last Sunday night. We’ve been inexorably traveling to this destination for many decades. And now we have arrived. Socialism is here and it’s here to stay, at least for the next few generations. Until and when it all collapses into dust and ruins. And fire and blood and death.

As it will collapse. Truth crushed to earth will rise again. Always. In time. But probably not in our lifetimes.

We get what we deserve. As a libertarian, I hold the Republicans and Democrats about equally responsible for where we are. Long term. Neither party really wants change from the status quo, even though the Republicans are trying to catch the head winds of the strident resistance that is rising like a flood. But it won’t be enough. It’s like a professional wrestling match; the outcome has already been decreed. All else is a show for the passions of the masses.

We are ruled by thugs who will stop at nothing to force their grand utopian visions upon us. It’s all vile. All politics that glorifies and increases the power of the state. Whether it’s the Patriot Act, or this latest abomination of health reform. It’s all from the same source. And it’s all equally evil.

Other than that, I don’t have a whole lot to say about the “health care” that will soon afflict us all. Except to advise all of you to stay healthy. Seek alternative treatments. Know where to find them and stock up on as many remedies as you can afford. Because the natural holistic methods will be regulated and criminalized soon enough. Count on it.

There is now a bill before the Senate that would place all natural supplements and vitamins under the loving oversight of the FDA. The bill’s sponsor: John McCain. They will never stop devouring our freedoms, the thugs that rule over us.

I close with a quote that has always been true, and will always be true. (I’m not a Nietzsche fan, but on this point he nailed it.) Until such a time as we absorb this truth and move to hunt down and drive a stake through the heart of the savage, ravenous murderous beast, we are doomed to wander this desolate wilderness in which we find ourselves. We and our children and their children.

“State is the name of the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly it lies; and this lie slips from its mouth: ‘I, the state, am the people.’

Everything in it is false; it bites with stolen teeth, and bites often.”

—Friedrich Nietzsche

Yeah, running down a dream
That never would come to me.
Working on a mystery,
Going wherever it leads.
Running down a dream.

—Tom Petty, lyrics: Running Down a Dream
____________________________________

I’ve had the dream for a long, long time. Far longer than I’ve been blogging. I’ve always known, deep down, that one day I would pursue it. Reach for it and grasp it, one way or another. And either make it, or stumble and fail trying. Probably in a spectacular fiery crash, as most of my failures tend to unfold.

But somehow, after graduating from college and then law school, life took over. And the day to day grind of living it. The dream lay dormant for almost two decades, as other pressing things intervened. Always, I knew that I should revive it. Do what it takes to get there.

But I don’t usually walk through life-altering doorways, not willingly. Not unless pushed by some powerful outside force. Don’t know why. My cautious nature, I guess. Or maybe I’m just burned out from all those experiences of running around and leaving home so many years ago.

And then, almost three years ago, the dream rekindled itself. Came smashing back on its own accord. Triggered by a series of traumatic events.

And when you get slammed by that level of trauma in a deep gut blow, it stirs the true essence of who you really are, deep down. At least it did for me.

My instinctive reaction? I began to write. On this blog.

A litany of pain and fear and rage and sorrow, at first. For some time. Then slowly, tentatively, the stories of my past emerged. My background, my childhood. And over time, my writing voice developed. And more importantly, the discipline of producing something, even when the muse seemed distant. Week after week, for a year. Then two.

And somewhere in that time, the dream, which had flickered so low for so long, was reborn.

My long term strategy was hopelessly naïve. Keep producing good stuff, post it out there for the world to see, and one day someone with connections will notice. I have never advertised this blog. Or promoted myself. Word of mouth, I figured, was the best publicity. I kept plugging on. And my readership increased, through word of mouth and occasional links from other sites, to some pretty impressive numbers.

The dream intensified. And now it has taken one more giant step toward reality. A hugely critical step.

A few weeks ago, I accepted an offer through my agent from Tyndale House. To write a book. Tyndale. Out of Chicago. Big stuff.

I’m very excited. And scared. And pretty much freaked. Glad I don’t have a weak heart.

It was a long process. Frustrating at times. Hopeless at others. And I’ll tell you how it all came down.

First, I tried my hand at self-publishing. With disastrous results. We all, I think, remember how that went.

As a direct result of my reactionary tirade, an email appeared from an old friend, Jerry Eicher. Jerry and I were friends and classmates for probably the first seven years of our lives. I had not seen him in close to 20 years.

Jerry is a very successful author of Amish fiction. His books are everywhere, in book- stores. At Wal Mart. I’ve seen them on Choice Books racks at rest stops along the PA Turnpike.

He had been checking out my writings. And read of my futile effort to publish. Guess he felt sorry for me. He had a suggestion. Why don’t I contact his source at Harvest House, his publisher? Of course, I was all ears. Or all eyes, since we were communicating via email. Jerry sent me the link to his source. And I sent the guy a short message, along with a few of my stories.

Amazingly, the guy emailed back. He was impressed. Would I consider writing a book for Harvest House? Would I? You bet.

I sent him half a dozen of my sketches, and in June, he presented my writings to the Board at Harvest House. He was extremely optimistic. Convinced the Board would accept my stuff. The day came. The Board met. That night, a sad email.

He was very sorry. Some on the Board loved my stuff. But a few obtuse (my word, not his) members thought my Amish stories weren’t sweet enough. Not sweet enough. Think about that for a moment.

Anyway, the vote had to be unanimous. And it wasn’t. So no deal. Just like that.

And there it was. Rejection. Again. I had purposed to keep my expectations to a minimum. And I tried. But it was a blow. To absorb and accept.

My Harvest House champion was devastated as well. We spoke that evening. He was quite sorry and extended his genuine condolences.

But then: “Wait,” he said. “I know an agent. A friend of mine. I’ll contact him. This guy knows everyone in the business. Maybe something good can come from all this yet.”

I thanked him and hung up. A few weeks later, the agent emailed me. Could we talk? We could and did. Shortly thereafter, in late July, I signed a contract with him. Sent him about ten of my sketches and some personal info.

And that was it. No news all summer. After Labor Day, a short email, listing all the publishers he had approached. Big names. And then, silence. Nothing. For months.

In the meantime, I kept on doing what I did after the first two rejections. Writing. When things don’t work out, keep walking. Keep doing what you do best with the abilities you have. Sounds a bit cliched and trite, but it works for me. Whatever happens, I’ll always fall back on that.

And then, in January, a terse email. All the publishers had passed. No takers. Except one. A lone editor at Tyndale had expressed some interest in a biographical work. Would I consider that?

Of course. And so, a week or two later, I spoke on the phone with the interested editor. For an hour. About my ideas for writing. And hers. It went well and I was relaxed, amazingly enough. I agreed to send her an overview of what I had in mind. After we hung up, I sent her some links to specific posts on my site.

About a week later, I sent the overview. A few days after that, my agent emailed me that the editor was impressed. And that she would present her idea for my book to her Board at Tyndale.

Oh, boy. Here we go again. Another Board. Looming like the Great Wall of China. You can’t get around and you can’t get through. Now what? It hadn’t worked out with the Harvest House Board. I tried again to keep any expectations quashed. Fought back the nervous tension. And kept writing for my blog.

And about a week after that, a late evening email from the agent. Great news.

Tyndale had made an offer for a book. I couldn’t believe it. After all this time. It seemed like the Lord was honoring my commitment, my dream. I sat there and stared at my agent’s message. Read it over and over again. Absorbed it, soaked it in. Then I made some phone calls. To my siblings and a few friends.

Since then, the editor and I have spoken and communicated via email. As to what she wants. And when. She will fly in sometime in March to meet with me and plot out the story line.

She wants a book based on my life. From birth. A continuous work. Not short sketches. I’ve not written like that before. But I will now.

Tyndale wants the manuscript finished by fall. The book is currently scheduled for release in the fall of 2011.

And that’s how it all came down. I’ve got some work to do. A lot of intense work.

And here, I publicly thank my friend Jerry Eicher. He freely and unselfishly offered to me his connections to the publishing world. Without which I would not be where I am today. I will never forget his kindness.

This summer will be like none I have ever known before. It’s going to take a lot of intense concentration to get the book done on time. I plan to use a lot of the stuff already posted, the stories and the scenes, woven in. But it’s going to take of lot of writing from scratch, too.

I know I can do it. I know I can. But still, deep down, way back, there’s always that gnawing fear, that specter of failure. Just enough, I hope, to hone my creative senses to a finer edge.

I don’t embrace the fear, but I walk toward it. Face it. The dragon will not flee. It must be confronted and slain.

Until November, the blog will have to take a back seat. I’ll check in sporadically, probably once a month or so, to let you know how it’s going and that I’m still kicking. Maybe, with Tyndale’s permission, I might post an excerpt or two from the book, here and there.

And so I leave you for awhile. At least as you’ve known me on this blog. Wish me well.

When the manuscript is finished and submitted, I’ll be back. To tell you of how it was.

And so, once again I stand at one more threshold. Ready to step into a strange new world. It’s been a lot of years since I’ve wanted something as intensely as I’ve wanted this. It’s what I’ve yearned for, dreamed of, for so long. Like the great shining city, always over the next hill, that called to me in the days of my youth so long ago. The city that somehow always faded into the mists, when approached, as the mirage it was.

Now, for the first time, I approach the gates of that shining city. The gatekeeper awaits a battered traveler, ragged and weary from the tough slog of so many long and lonely miles through so many years. A traveler with some tales to tell.

And this time, the great city is not fading away as I approach. It looms ever closer. It’s real.

And that’s a little scary. Intimidating. I’m a simple man, from hard plain roots. I have to fight it sometimes, the urge to turn and flee back to the comfort zone of the land from whence I’ve come. To where I know and am known. But I can’t. The price of getting here was too high to turn back now.

I don’t quite know what’s on the other side of those gates, or exactly how it will go. I think my editor does. And I expect some of it won’t be pretty.

There’s only one way to find out.

_________________________________

Housekeeping Note: This week, my webmaster cleaned my spam infested site and installed the latest version of Word Press. He got rid of 22,000 plus spam messages. To protect from future spammers, he installed the CAPTCHA Code system for those who want to leave a comment. Just below the box where you write the comment, type in the letters and/or numbers exactly as they’re shown, and your comment will be posted.

They cry in the dark, so you can’t see their tears.
They hide in the light, so you can’t see their fears.
Forgive and forget, all the while
Love and pain become one and the same,
In the eyes of a wounded child.

—Pat Benatar, lyrics: Hell is for Children
_________________________________

It happened in the late 1950s, a few years before I was born. I faintly remember them in my childhood world. The seven Mexican Mennonite children who were farmed out to various families in the Aylmer Amish community.

Mexican Mennonites were just that. Mennonites who had emigrated from Mexico. With few or no worldly possessions. With their own language, their own habits and customs. In southern Ontario, they were considered second class citizens. Ragged. Uncouth. Shifty. Mean. The hard-faced men with greasy side-swept hair slouched around in tight jeans and shoes with pointed toes. Most smoked. Many drank. The women, dressed in distinctive patterned flowing skirts, fluttered about, chattering in Plattdeutsch, a low German dialect.

Most of them were poor. Some were destitute. They roared about on the gravel roads in great finned cars, ancient rusting hulks.

We never had that much to do with them, except in the occasional course of normal commerce. No one trusted them. And so they existed in a dimension of their own, almost underground, struggling to survive in a strange land and a foreign culture.

And then, somewhere over in the area of Corinth, a few miles north and east of us, a certain Mexican Mennonite man with the last name of Fehr left his family one day. Just up and deserted his wife and eight children. I don’t know where he went. Maybe back to Mexico. Or maybe not.

But his choice of action was pretty much par for the course. Of what we thought of Mexican Mennonites.

His deserted, destitute wife struggled to feed the children. Ranging from toddlers to teenagers. On many a day, her cupboard was bare and there was no food. Her children looked on with hungry eyes. Desperate, she turned to her people for help. None was forthcoming.

And somehow, after the ragtag band of unsupervised children had terrorized their neighbors once too often, the people at the local Social Services office got involved. They decided to remove the children from their mother’s home. They determined that the Aylmer Amish were of similar faith and approached the leaders there to see if the children could be taken in. Meetings were held. And it was decided that five of the eight children would be farmed out to various families that would open their homes. The two oldest sons were allowed to remain at their mother’s home.

And so one day, as the little ragged children looked on in befuddled bewilderment, a long black car pulled up outside the shanty that was their home. Their mother herded them out and told them to get in. She had packed their few meager belongings and placed them in the trunk.

The long black car pulled away from what would be the last shared home the five frightened children would ever know. They shifted around and peered out the back window in alarm. Their mother stood there, receding in the distance, watching them leave. After she disappeared, the children murmured to each other. David was the youngest, probably around a year old. His sisters comforted him as best they could. The long black car rolled on.

And on and on, to them it seemed. Into strange and unknown territory. Then it slowed and turned into a drive leading to a farm. Pete Stoll’s place. There, David was taken from the car. He would stay here. As he was carried up to the house, his siblings watched him go.

On then, to the north and east. Next stop, Pete Yoder’s farm. The bishop. There, Pete and his wizened wife, Martha met them. The two girls, Betty and Mary, were told to get out. This was their new home.

Cornelius and Isaac, five and three years old, were unloaded at Noah and Nancy Gascho’s home. Some weeks later, Jacob, in his teens, was taken to the preacher Nicky Stoltzfus’ home at the east end of the Aylmer settlement.

And so they were taken from their mother, who could not feed or care for them, and distributed among a number of Amish homes in Aylmer.

I wasn’t there when it happened, so I didn’t see it. But it defies comprehension, the new life into which those children walked. Abruptly and unceremoniously, they were thrust into strange and frightening surroundings. In which everyone around them spewed incomprehensible gibberish. Terrified, stammering in their native Plattdeutsch, they were denied even the comfort of each other.

Within a year, another son was born to their mother. From a man not their father. She named him William. Whether from the kindly dictates of Social Services or on her own accord, the infant child ended up at the home of Levi Troyers.

Over at the Noah Gascho home, things were not going well. Cornelius and Isaac, tireless little live wires, soon frayed the elderly couple’s nerves to the breaking point. So their son-in-law and daughter, Joe and Laura Stoll, a young couple with children of their own, offered to take them in.

They may as well have been bastard children, all of them. Alone. Released by their mother. Abandoned by their father. Of them all, only little half-brother William was eventually adopted by Levi Troyer and his wife. The others all retained their last name. Fehr. An alien name, one that instantly branded them as outsiders and strangers who would not share in the inheritance of the families that had taken them in.

I have faint memories of some of their faces. Of Jacob, the oldest, and William, the youngest, I have none. But all the others I can see in my mind.

The boys were natural tinkerers, mechanics. Loved to tear apart and reassemble lawn mowers and such. Cornelius, or Corny, as he was called, had skilled creative hands. He hung out with my older brothers.

Isaac was a bit of a clown, always acting up. And always in some sort of trouble, it seemed. The clamor of his voice still echoes in the recesses of my memory.

David, always keen, always alert, a lean quiet loner with straight-hanging hair, was constantly absorbed in his own mysterious projects.

Betty, raven-haired, and Mary, a blonde, were about the age of my older sisters.

They were all measured and judged from the context of the worldview of those around them. And inevitably found wanting.

From the start, things did not go so well. Jacob, the oldest foster child, was unhappy with his new lifestyle. He quietly and persistently attempted to escape from preacher Nicky’s home. Each time he ran away, he was located and convinced or forced to return. And Betty, too, when she could no longer take it at uncle Pete’s home, launched desperate, sporadic flights into the fields, sobbing and calling for her mother.

For them all, life was hard. It had to be. And it showed on their faces. They were loud, fractious, uncouth. And the boys were mean. In school, they lagged far behind their peers. For the older ones, their prior education had been sparse at best. Thrown in with others of their age in these strange new surroundings, they were hopelessly lost. And could never catch up. It was simply impossible. Consequently, they were branded as dull, dense, hard of learning. Always slightly different. Separate. Looked down upon. Mocked. Scorned. Rejected by their peers.

And I’ve heard the murmurings, too, from those years. Of the harsh discipline they endured. Constant nagging. The strident incessant admonitions. And harsh corporal punishment. The brutal rod was not spared.

Mary, a quiet shy girl, sometimes did not speak for days. On her first day at the Aylmer Amish school, she was unable to communicate because she did not speak English. Somehow, the teacher found this a sufficient reason to whip her. That afternoon, after she returned to her “home” at uncle Pete’s, she was whipped again.

It’s no wonder she clammed up and wouldn’t talk, then or later, after she had learned the language.

I’m not saying the Fehr children were not loved. I am saying they must have felt unloved. In a foreign culture that tried to forge and mold them into something they were not. A culture that focused almost exclusively on the externals. And crushed the spirit, ignoring the internal regions of the heart.

It seems, even today, after so many years, that common sense was somehow omitted from the equation. In the decision to separate the siblings and raise them in different families. How is it possible for the most well-intentioned foster family to provide even a fraction of the love in the poorest mother’s heart?

But it was what it was. The Fehr children struggled into adulthood. I’m a bit sketchy on the facts, but some, if not most of them, actually joined the Aylmer Amish church. As was expected. This is what you do. And do as you are told.

But it could not stand. Stark simplistic rules and expectations rarely can or do.

Jacob left. He hung around the area for a few years, laboring at odd jobs here and there. Sometimes he showed up at the Aylmer Sales Barn and chatted with James Stoll, who must have had a market stand.

And Betty left too. She moved out of Aylmer in the early 1970s to Milroy, Indiana with the Eli C. Miller family. She very much enjoyed these new surroundings. But after some time, she moved to Holmes County to be near her brother, Cornelius, who had settled there.

And Isaac left too, and David. Where they went and what they did, I do not know. Probably they shifted about and survived as best they knew and could. Occasionally they drifted back into the Amish settlement and stayed for a few uneasy weeks or months. Always, they left again. David, it is said, served in the US military and was discharged honorably.

In the early 1970s, Mary moved to Marshfield, Missouri with Pete and Martha Yoder, her foster parents. Eventually she married Jacob Byler and they had a family.

Levi Troyers moved from Aylmer before my time and took William with them.

I have not seen any of the Fehrs since the early 1970s. And they were all removed from my mind, about as far as possible, until recent years. As they began to pass away, and the news trickled though the grapevine. Sparse, tense messages, replete with the heavy underlying knowledge that one more chance to right past wrongs has now slipped away forever.

In 1996, Jacob died in Georgia, at age 50. Where he is buried I do not know.

David, ill from a brain tumor and complications from decades of alcoholism, quietly returned to the Aylmer area where he had lived his childhood days. There he died a few years ago. His body was cremated and returned to Millersburg, Ohio, and he was buried there.

Betty Strait, the divorced mother of two sons, struggled with heart problems most of her life. On December 10, 2008, she went to work as usual. She never returned home. A heart attack struck and she passed silently and quickly. She is buried in Millersburg, Ohio.

Most recently, in November of 2009, Isaac died in Holmes County, where he had been staying with his brother Cornelius. He too is buried in Millersburg.

William and three of the brothers who never were farmed out, Larry, John, and Bill all still live in Canada.

Of them all, only Cornelius remained Amish. Today, he is a respected member of the Old Order Amish church in the Winesburg, Ohio area.

Mary and Jacob Byler today reside in Lexington, Ohio. Mary is the mother of five and grandmother to fourteen children. She has struggled over the years to put to rest the traumatic days of her broken childhood. She has seen much and suffered much.

At Isaac’s funeral, Mary spoke of that day when the long black car came and took them from their home. Into exile and separation and a life of fear and anguish.

It was impossible for her to describe the wounds, the hurts. But she spoke. She tried.

But still, who knows where they would have ended up, had the Amish not intervened? Life might have been even worse. If there were ever children born with the deck stacked against them, it was the Fehrs.

I’ve wondered sometimes, over the years. About how it all came down. Whose idea it was, to agree to take those seven children from their home and farm them out like that. To different families. I figure it was probably Pete Stoll. He was a good hearted man, who always had a soft spot for the less fortunate. Not even a stray dog, they say, would go hungry if Pete Stoll could help it.

There are people alive today who would know all those details. In Aylmer. But I doubt that those people would talk to me.

The Fehr children had it tough and hard. They knew it. They felt it. They lived it. Things most of us could not endure or even fathom. And things those around them should have known and could have made better.

But they didn’t. Or wouldn’t. And so the Fehr children survived as best they could with what they had to face. From life as it came at them.

For all these years, they have been alone. Unheard. Forgotten by most of those who knew them as children in Aylmer so long ago.

Alone. Absorbing the blows. Toughing it out.

They had some things to say, all of them. Of how it was. And how it went. Their quiet hesitant voices have always been ignored.

And now, some of their voices have fallen silent. They will not be heard again.

At the time, all those years ago when the decisions were made to remove the children from their home, everyone involved did the best they knew with the hard choices confronting them. Including the Aylmer Amish families that took them in. Of that I have no doubt.

But sometimes, in the judgment of history, that is not enough.

Sometimes the generation that follows, those who come later and were not involved or even born, those who look back with a heart of human compassion, they are called to pronounce a verdict on the past:

“Even with the best of intentions, it was wrong, so very wrong, how the Fehr children were treated. Something like that should never happen again. And all those, including their peers who mocked them, who can still clean the slate and make things right with the remaining survivors, they should do so now before it is too late.”

There are times when hard and bitter truths must be spoken. And need to be heard. However difficult it might be to speak those truths. Or however painful to hear them.

This is such a time.

And Esau said: Behold, I am at the point to die:
and what profit shall this birthright do to me?

Genesis 25:30
____________

They never told us why.

Everything was preached from a solid foundation of what had always been. Amish this. Amish that. You live this way because that’s the way it is. You live this way because it’s where you were born. You live this way, you walk this path because it’s the only way, the only path we’ve ever known.

It was our birthright. And we were special. The special people. The chosen ones who preserved and honored the only true way. With some prodding, there might be a reluctant admission that yes, others not of our particular faith might make it to heaven. But only because they didn’t know any better and were not born Amish. But those who were born in the faith had better stay.

Better stay, or surely face a terrible Judgment Day in the afterlife.

That’s what we heard. What we were told. By our parents. And in the sermons we heard in church. From our earliest memories.

But other than that, they never explained why. Why we were special. Why we alone knew the only true path. Why we were born special. Only that we did and we were.

It sure made for some messed up minds. And messed up lives. Not for the drones, the dense ones who accepted without question what they were told. But for anyone with a speck of spirit, it got a little crazy.

Think about it. You are in a little box. A comfortable box, but a pretty confining one, when it comes right down to it. You wonder what’s outside. Peek out a bit, now and then, and peer around. But deep down, you know that if you step outside that box, you are speeding down the highway to hell. And could arrive at any instant. Boom, just like that.

It’s a brutal thing. A severe mental strain. And it’s the reason that in every community (except Lancaster County), when Amish kids run wild, they usually run hard and mean.

It’s because once that line is crossed, there are no others. And nothing you can do, absent returning, can make any difference. Believe otherwise, like the Mennonites and the Beachys, who drive cars and prate about being saved, and the devil’s got you right where he wants you. That’s what we were taught and what we believed.

In Lancaster, somehow, it’s different. The youth don’t have that wild driven look in their eyes. Not even the “wild” ones. Not sure why that is. Maybe because overall, the community here has a more relaxed attitude about such things. That’s my conclusion, at least, from where I am.

And it seems to work here. A large majority of the youth that drive cars while running around ultimately settle down and join the church. Marry. Raise families.

But still, if you dig around a bit, it’s not ideal.

In a recent conversation with a young local Amish man, we discussed the Amish culture, lifestyle, heritage. He was quite progressive in his thinking. Many of his close friends had left in the last few years, he told me. And he had to make a choice. Join them or stay.

He stayed. Not because his friends were necessarily wrong. And certainly not because they weren’t Christians, believers. He decided to stay because of all the positive things the Amish have and hold. Family. Culture. Tradition.

What he was really saying was that he valued his “birthright” too much to let it go.

And I respect that. Told him so. But then:

“What about your children?” I asked. “What if they choose not to stay?”

He hedged. “I would hope they would. I try to show them, teach them by example.”

I had no doubt. But I persisted. “I’m sure you do,” I said. “But what if one of your sons decided not to stay? Could you bless that? Or would you use guilt to try to change his mind?”

I don’t think anyone had ever asked him quite that question before. He hedged again. Repeated himself. “I would hope my son would choose to stay.”

“And there you have it,” I said. “When it boils right down to it, what you’re telling me is that the Amish church is based on a foundation of fear. How can that possibly be a good thing? It’s unsustainable.”

But I left it then. Didn’t push it. We meandered on to other subjects. He was a good guy. Maybe he hadn’t thought things through quite to the end, but who among us has?

In another recent conversation with a reader, I was asked about my own experience. How I made it to where I am today. As a believer. A Christian. It got me to thinking, and resulted in this post (in case anyone wonders where I came up with this week’s subject).

My writings have never been overtly religious. And I abhor didacticism with a passion. Where each story ends with a sweet little prepackaged lesson. Figure it out for your- self, the deeper meanings. And the lessons, sweet or bitter. There are plenty of preachers out there. I’m not one of them. But the reader’s question got me to thinking. I have never told the story of how I became a Christian, not on this site. And at some point, my readers deserve to know where I’m coming from.

I think we’ve reached that point. So here goes. But be forewarned. If such things make you uncomfortable or queasy, turn off the radio, as Rush would say. Stop reading. Now. Because I don’t want to hear your griping.

The reader’s question got me to thinking. Remembering. Reliving. Triggered a rush of vivid scenes in my mind. Of how I made it. How I survived.

I almost didn’t.

Between the ages of seventeen and twenty, I left home three times. Each time I returned, determined that now this was it, that this time I would stay. It wasn’t fear alone that brought me back, but a host of things. Family. Relationships. Friends. The comfortable world I knew from birth. And fear.

After the third time I decided this was it. No more. The time was right. To settle down. Join the church. Live a quiet life of peaceful simplicity.

So I did. Joined the church, that is. Began dating a girl. My friends were getting married. So I figured that was the logical next step. The relationship got serious.

But always, something wasn’t right. I fretted, restless. And at twenty-four, I realized I could not do it. Could not make it work. Depressed, I brooded. The mental strain was almost unbearable. Waves of turmoil and doubt engulfed me. That period of my life was probably the closest I ever came to actually losing my mind.

About then, my horse died. Collapsed and keeled over, for no apparent reason. From some rare brain disease. At least that’s what the vet claimed. It seemed like a sign.

My father, sensing my traumatized state, offered to buy me another horse. So I would stay. I turned from him in gloom and silence.

And so I boarded the bus in Bloomfield and left. Again. For the fourth time. Leaving in my wake a shattered landscape strewn with the wreckage of broken relationships. I moved to Daviess. The land of my fathers. Restless, I traveled. Went west and worked on the wheat harvest. To Florida then for the winter. Back west to help with spring seeding in the same fields I had harvested a few months before.

To a point, I unwound from the tension of recent events. But I was not at peace. And once again, something pulled me back. To the fold of the Amish church. This time I was double determined. I would make it. But not in Bloomfield. I moved to the northern Indiana Amish settlement. Lived in the Topeka area for awhile, then Goshen. Worked in a trailer factory. This time it would work. I would make it work.

It didn’t, of course. And I couldn’t. I recoiled from the vapid provincial banality that surrounded me. There was simply no way I could stay. And this time I knew it was the final time. That I was lost. And that if I left again, there could be no hope of salvation. Ever. I sank into quiet desperate despair.

Like Esau, I was exhausted, famished, approaching death. And my “birthright” could not sustain or save me.

And somewhere from these depths, I finally did what I should have done long before. I cried out to God. Not that I figured He’d hear me. I wasn’t sure He even existed. But I prayed. For the desire to do right. I didn’t even have that much. I had no hope what- soever that my prayer would even be heard, much less answered.

But it was. Both.

In less than a month, he walked into my life. A young Amish man who had joined from the outside. He had not a speck of Amish blood in him. He’d married a beautiful Amish girl; they had a family. A couple of energetic young sons. He sported a long black beard. Was more Amish than the Amish. But we connected. Big time. He understood my frustrations. My despair. And my fears. I spoke to him as I had never confided in anyone before. I trusted him.

And gradually, gently, the man calmed my spirit, gave me hope. Led me to realize that my rough and rowdy past could be forgiven. That all the pain, all the wounds could be healed. My own. And all that which I had inflicted on so many others in the past.

By showing me Christ’s love, my friend led me to Him. For the first time, I grasped that Christ had died for me. Suffered. Bled. And that I could be His. Through faith. I was amazed at how simple it really was.

And so I was reborn. Spiritually. A huge load was lifted from me. Replaced with a deep quiet sense of joy and internal peace beyond anything I had ever known.

It wasn’t a really emotional thing. And I don’t get that emotional about it now. Guess it’s that old reserved Amish blood in me. Live your beliefs, speak if someone asks, but don’t babble nonstop about them. Anyone can claim anything.

But the experience was intense and it was real.

With my spiritual birth came an entirely new freedom. It did not take me long to realize that much of what I had been taught, implicitly or overtly, had been flat out wrong. The cultural box might provide some protection, but it could never bring salvation.

And once I really truly grasped that fact, I left the Amish church for good.

I have never looked back. Except to reminisce, remember, reflect. On how it was. Including the good things. Things you have read on my blog, if you’ve been with me for any length of time.

I have no desire to return to that lifestyle. Ever. I respect those who do, however, and those who have chosen to stay. Like the young Lancaster County father who hopes his sons will follow in his footsteps.

Sadly, after I made the choice to leave, my friend took it pretty hard. He had high expectations for me. That I would cherish my heritage, the same one he had adopted as his own. That I would follow my father’s footsteps as a defender of the faith. And so much more. He saw it was not to be, that all his expectations were dashed, never to be fulfilled.

He chose to turn his face from me in sorrow and anger. I have not spoken to him in more than twenty years. But he was and remains one of the most important people I’ve ever encountered. When the chips were down, he did not hesitate, but waded into the darkness to lead a lost soul to the Light.

He will always be my friend. Perhaps one day we’ll meet again as brothers.

In the years that have passed since I last saw him, I have tried to do to others as he did to me. Meet people where they are. As they are. To reflect Christ’s love in the messy details of everyday life. And it’s not like my own life hasn’t been messy since then. It has been, brutally so at times. Mostly as a result of my own choices.

But God is who He is. Forever. Unchanging. And always there, even when He doesn’t seem to be. This I have learned. And this I know. Ultimately, I rest in that knowledge.

And if there is only one thing my readers glean from my writings, I hope that’s it. That God is there, even when He seems far away.

Some (not all) from my background would, if pressed, conclude that I, like Esau, have squandered my birthright for a mess of pottage. Because I walked away from it all. All the traditions. The structure. The blessings. The cultural identity. And left it all behind. And, from their perspective, for what?

But they are wrong. It is not true. For all Christians of every denomination, including the Amish, there is a far more important birthright.

We are joint heirs with Christ in our Father’s kingdom.

Fire drives a thorn of memory in the heart.

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

It’s been noisy lately. Steady static noise. In my head. I’m not sure why. Probably a combination of a lot of things.

Sometime over the holidays, around Thanksgiving, I could feel it creeping in. Out there on the fringes of my consciousness. A deep sense of brooding, tinged with sadness. Remembrance and loss. Palpable. Persistent. Crashing in and receding in small but savage waves, it could not be shaken off or shrugged away.

I’ve learned, when such a brooding mood strikes, not to ignore it. Let it work its way through the system. Not embraced necessarily, but absorbed. Usually within a few days, a week at most, it’s gone.

But not this time. It hung in there, hovering around me like a cloud. Right up through Christmas.

I thought of things. A tangled jumble of memories and events. Stuff that went down in recent years. Stuff that crept back into my head. What was before. Things that once were but no longer are. Idealized in retrospect, certainly. But still, things that might have been.

Guys aren’t supposed to be like that, I know. Shrug it off. Move on. I had, I thought, mostly. But somehow, a sliver of a thread still connects. The past returns, unan- nounced and unexpected, at the most inopportune moments. And will not be denied.

Sporadically then, the grieving process continues.

After the holidays, I pretty much snapped out of it, as if waking from a dream. Where am I and how the heck did I get here?

I knew, of course. And know. But something inside doesn’t.

Overall, 2009 wasn’t that bad of a year. I accomplished some, if not all of my goals. Did some pretty intensive writing, which is one of my main measures of judgment. And I’m one year older. Approaching fifty.

And there were losses, too, unexpected and abrupt. I think of my friend Allan some- times. And it sinks in how much I really miss him. Sometimes of a Sunday evening, I half expect him to come striding through the door, chattering away as only he could. Always catch myself and push back the rush of memories. Think it cannot be that he’s gone. That, I suppose, is part of the grieving process too.

The winter weather isn’t helping any. Incessant cold has set in. Day after day, week after week. Snow storm after snow storm. It’s enough to depress a guy, even if he wasn’t so inclined otherwise.

And then, to top it all off, over New Years, I got sick. I never get sick, not with all the vitamins I scarf down every day. Not to mention Superfood. But on the Monday before New Years, I felt it coming on. Ached all over. Back, knees, head. A day later, the full blown head cold set in. Might have been the Swine flu, for all I know.

So I was inflicted with another kind of “head static.”

It got worse. On New Years eve, I lost my voice. Almost totally. No running around seeing the old out, and the new in. I sat bundled up, watching football, sipping orange juice and tea, and gulping handfuls of whatever vitamins I could grab. For a few days I pretty much stayed in the house, which is highly unusual for me. Even when I’m sick. After a week or so, I slowly cleared up. Almost back to normal now. Hope it’s another five years before I get hit like that again.

This week, the Haiti earthquake dominated the news. A poverty stricken nation, solely dependent on foreign aid already, practically leveled. A natural tragedy, almost beyond comprehension. California, take note. One of these days, San Francisco will simply vanish into the sea.

Some of my friends were closely affected by the Haiti disaster. A few were almost killed. Rodney and Lillian Smoker, a young couple from our church, were practically at the epicenter. Rodney spent most of his twenty-eight years in Haiti, living there with his missionary family.

The Smoker family. Lillian, Jeremiah, Rodney

They had arrived a few days earlier for a three-month stint and were at his “home” when the quake hit. They were in the second floor of the three story house. The structure collapsed onto almost thirty people on the first floor, killing most of them. Miraculously, Rodney and Lillian and their year old son, Jeremiah, escaped almost without a scratch. They managed somehow to get a message back to their extremely worried families late that night. Two days later, a group from another church five hours away sent in a team to evacuate them and a few other survivors. So they are safe, at least physically. But Rodney lost many, many of his close friends and “family.” Unbelievable devastation all around, and for him, staggering personal loss.

The shock and emotional trauma, I’m sure, will have to be dealt with for a long, long time. For both of them.

The media immediately denounced Reverend Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh for making un-PC statements about the disaster. Limbaugh can defend himself. I heard him say nothing wrong. But poor Robertson was mercilessly excoriated by secularists and Christians alike for his comment. Something about how way back when, the Haitians made a pact with the devil to be free from the French. And how voodoo remains prevalent in the country to this day.

Near as I can tell, what Robertson said was true. He didn’t say the devil pact was the reason for the earthquake. He did say that Haitians need Jesus and a whole lot of charity right now. Meanwhile, his organization is flying in countless plane loads of supplies for the Haitians. Why is anyone fussing about that?

Somehow, Robertson reminds me of the Old Testament prophets. Every time he opens his mouth, he’s viciously attacked and denounced from all sides. Including Christians who hasten to distance themselves from a daft old fogy and to proactively showcase their own “tolerance.” Robertson, undeterred, soldiers on.

I’ve noticed that if you listen to him in context, what he says usually makes a whole lot of sense. Not always, but more often than not. He is the last of a dying breed. Along with the late Rev. Jerry Falwell, Robertson provided an instant media-ready punching bag for decades. There won’t be any like them after Pat passes on. And that’s our loss.

A few words about football, which I have ignored on this site for months. First, a public apology to my Jets. I scolded them quite severely when they fired Mangini last year. I still think it was a mistake. But the new rookie coach, Rex Ryan, has performed more than proficiently so far. Especially with their rookie quarterback. Even won a playoff game last Saturday. And yes, I celebrated. Being a Jets fan is somewhat akin to being a Cubs fan in baseball. Always hopeful, but knowing full well that the team will find a way to defeat itself.

They will run into a wall this weekend, I think, against the Chargers. But I’m rooting for them. My prediction: the winner of the Cowboys/Arizona shootout (next weekend) will lose to the Chargers in the Super Bowl.

I live in an old house. All brick. The builder must have loved natural light, because he installed large, and I mean huge, windows in every wall, every nook and corner. Vast monstrosities, the original windows still remain. Ancient decrepit, leaky things.

And in a winter like this, the cold air blows right through. The windows function more like a sieve. I’ve always despaired of replacing them because of the astronomical cost of replacing so many.

But the crews are hungry this winter, so I decided to at least get a quote. I contacted a young Amish contractor, who allowed that he could probably install them for under $300.00 each. I was astounded. I figured the cost would be double or even triple that figure. So I bit. Come on out and measure and give me a price, I said.

And so he did. He arrived that very night after work. Knocked on the door. Young married guy, probably in his mid thirties. I invited him inside.

“So you’re Ira Wagler.” He said. It was a half statement, half question.

Unsure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing in his mind, I guardedly conceded that I was.

“I’ve read your Elmo Stoll stories,” he said. “My Dad gave me a copy awhile back.”

Oh boy. “Well, what did you think?” I asked.

He liked it. And we sat there at the table and discussed Elmo story in detail. He was intelligent, articulate, a progressive young Amish man. But thoroughly Amish. Which was fine. He wanted to copy the blogs his Dad gave him, he said, but the copy was a copy of a copy of a copy, he figured. The words were almost blurred. Copying them again would make them close to unreadable.

I had known the Elmo blogs were floating around out there. In the Lancaster area and a whole lot of other places. The Amish man’s little anecdote confirmed it.

I’ve got to get The Shepherd Chronicles together and get them published in a little book, I thought to myself. If people are out there trying to decipher almost unreadable copies, there has to be a market. There simply has to be.

If I’m remembered in no other way, there will be at least one future generation of Amish that will know me through those writings. Of that I am convinced.

I dug around and found a hard copy of the blogs and gave that to him. He thanked me profusely. In the meantime he was busily measuring my windows. Upstairs and down- stairs on the north and west sides only. Figured I’d do the coldest half of the house first. The windows are ordered. Within a couple of weeks they should be installed. Cold air, be gone.

And speaking of Elmo Stoll, one of my readers created a computer generated portrait of the man a few months back. Emailed it to me. I was impressed. Accurate enough to be recognizable, for sure. With the reader’s permission, I’ve posted it below.

“Elmo Stoll”
by Lee Nelson Hall, Jr.

“Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world.”

—William Shakespeare: Hamlet
__________________________

The date never had any particular significance when we lived in Aylmer. It was a cold winter day, just like any other. The Aylmer Amish, mostly Daviess County stock, simply weren’t tuned in to the old Swiss-German lore that had been passed down through hundreds of years and many generations. Either that, or they just didn’t care.

But it wasn’t long after we moved to Bloomfield until we heard the murmurings. I was fifteen years old, and for the first time in my life, I learned that January 6 was Old Christmas. The day when folks celebrated Christmas before the Gregorian Calendar was adopted, way back when.

Old Christmas was a holy day. A somber day. And, I would learn, a day of unspoken fear pulsing from the dense fog of a dark and shadowy underworld. It was utterly devoid of all the festivities and good cheer of Dec. 25. All members of the church were required to fast that morning. And not work much that day, besides the necessary barnyard chores. But most of all, no one, but no one, was expected to be out and about that night. We were sternly warned to stay close to home. And stay inside.

People whispered furtively of that day with dread and foreboding. And the details trickled out, details preserved from some deep collective cultural memory of lurking malevolent evil, retold and passed down from generation to generation not by written history, but solely by word of mouth.

On January 6, Old Christmas night, the spirits were out. Evil spirits. Unleashed upon the land. Halloween was child’s play, compared to this. And on that night, and only on that night, one had better not lower his guard, or one might see and hear unspeakable things.

Even then, for the first year or so, I remained blithe and pretty much uninformed. I could feel a vague sense of uneasiness about Old Christmas, but most were reluctant to talk about it much.

And then one Sunday, as Old Christmas approached, a young Bloomfield preacher took it upon himself to teach specific details on what supposedly came down on that night. As a warning. A wiry nervous spindle of a young man, he stood and earnestly spoke of things, some of which I had never heard before.

These were powers from the darkness. And without faith, they would remain dormant. But on that night, at midnight, according to the young preacher, there were several evils that might be unleashed.

He stood there, tense and nervous, wringing his hands. Stammered and stuttered and cleared his throat incessantly. Some might feel these things should not be spoken of, he hemmed. So as not to tempt any young people out there to go and try this stuff. But he would share it as a warning, as he believed these things had actually happened in the past. And they were real.

He needn’t have worried about me. I wasn’t about to go in search of any spirits. I sat there, mesmerized, and absorbed this new dark knowledge.

The words tripped out in short chopped phrases, interspersed with warning after dire warning.

At midnight, if you ventured out to the water pump on your well, stooped down and listened, you would hear a voice. Emerging from the depths. The voice would speak to you, tell you of things to come. You would be as God and know the future.

At midnight, if you walked backward down the stairwell in your house, holding a mirror positioned so you could look over your left shoulder, you would see the one you would marry in the future. Assuming you were single, of course.

At midnight, if you went out to the barn, the cows and horses would speak to you in human tongue, in human voices.

And finally, if you slipped a comb under your bed before you went to sleep on Old Christmas night, you would wake up at midnight and see the devil.

You had to believe these things would happen. And expect them to happen. And act on your faith. That’s what the preacher said. After more dramatic warnings of how one should never try these things at home on that night, never tempt evil to unveil itself, the preacher meandered off on another subject. I sat there, fascinated and appalled.

As the years have passed, my thoughts have returned now and again to the strange things I heard that day. I’ve pondered them in my heart. Wondered if there was really any substance to the tales. The rational mind rejects such things as old wives’ fables. Old Amish fables. Superstitious folly, based on fear and ignorance.

But I don’t know. I didn’t then. And I don’t now.

The stories had to come from somewhere. Such tales are not woven from the air, out of nothing. At some point in the distant past, someone had to experience the events the preacher described.

Someone had to listen at a well at midnight. Someone backed down the stairs, peering over his left shoulder through a mirror. Someone went to the barn at midnight and heard something strange. And someone placed a comb under the bed and awoke at midnight to see something so evil that it could not be described.

Someone with faith in dark things.

Someone. Somewhere. Sometime.

But through the years, I have never met a single person, anywhere, who claimed to have experienced first-hand even one of those events.

I’ve met people who claimed to know someone who had. Always second-hand hear-say. Once I heard my sisters speak of some girl in northern Indiana who supposedly had backed down the stairs, holding a mirror to reflect over her left shoulder. She saw flames of fire. And the cousin of some of my friends placed a comb under his bed one Old Christmas night. He claimed to have awakened at midnight and seen the devil at the foot of his bed.

It might be just an Amish thing. It’s part of their identity. They’ve preserved the old customs in more ways than one. Somehow, they cling to old sayings. As mainstream culture did before the advent of modern media.

The Amish are steeped in the strange and supernatural. Ancient wisdom from dubious sources. Signs and wonders. Some have visions. Some have seen angels in the skies.

Each community has its own dark sayings. Its own legends. Its own beliefs. The more plain and conservative the church, the more steeped in superstitious fear.

In Daviess County, the land of my fathers, they know nothing of Old Christmas. But the old people there have an ancient saying. If it rains into an open grave, there will be an unexpected death in the community within two weeks.

In 1989, I attended my grandfather John Yoder’s funeral in Daviess. In early January. On the day of his funeral, the clouds swept in and rain poured into the open grave. An old woman, a bent and wrinkled old crone, dramatically proclaimed the dark saying, almost like a curse. She had seen it all before. She spoke with resigned confidence born from generations of knowledge and experience.

Within two weeks, a local Amish man in his thirties, with no history of health problems, collapsed and keeled over dead. Heart attack or stroke or some such thing. The Daviess people murmured quietly. They knew well the real reason for the young man’s death.

The dark sayings seem to fulfill themselves. And perpetuate themselves to the next generation of young people who see and believe.

Growing up, we heard many strange and terrible tales from traveling preachers from other communities over the years. Usually from the larger settlements. Northern Indiana and Holmes and Arthur, Illinois for some reason come to mind. Probably because their preachers told the wildest stories.

Stories of beer joints and demons lurking overhead, visible only to Amish eyes. Of a tombstone in one Amish country graveyard that has been seen to burn eerily at night with unearthly fire. Of the two fire-singed men who showed up at the wake of a rebellious young Amish girl who had lived a wicked life in Arthur, Illinois. Two smoke-blackened men who walked in unannounced and uninvited, viewed the corpse, looked at each other, and nodded. Then disappeared without a word into the night and back to hell, from whence they had emerged to claim their own.

Stories of the devil and all his works.

Stories specifically and conveniently designed to frighten into submission any young person who might rebel or harbor heretical thoughts of leaving the fold of the Amish church. That’s the bottom line. It always was. It always will be. To hold the youth at any cost. By any method necessary, including raw irrational fear.

It’s the only way the Amish culture can or will survive. That, and harshly shunning those who do leave as a warning to those who would like to.

The stories are what they are. And the tales about evil spirits on Old Christmas night. Told and retold from one generation to the next. Oral renditions of dark memories and dark practices, some of which likely predate the dawn of our cultural past. Remnants of which survive and even prosper today, in both memory and practice.

I believed it all for many years. If you heard it from a preacher in a sermon, it was as unquestioned as the gospel. Today, I’m pretty much an agnostic as to whether the stories and legends are actually based in truth. Could be they are. Could be they’re not. They are real enough, I know, to those who believe.

But once implanted, some old habits, some old customs are almost impossible to let go. Even for those who have otherwise shed the last vestiges of the Amish lifestyle.

Old Christmas. January 6. Even today, I’m always quietly aware, quietly alert as the date approaches. Not out of fear, but from a deep sense of respect for my cultural heritage. And deep respect for what I was taught in the days of my youth.

On Old Christmas night, you won’t catch me wandering around outside.

Especially not at midnight.

“…the dark ancestral cave…from which mankind
emerged into the light, forever pulls one back –
but…you can’t go home again…you can’t go…
back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.”

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

We always stirred this time of year. Plotted. Prepared. Planned. Turned our faces again to the west and north and the distant land of home. Did whatever it took to make the long journey back for Christmas.

They seem blurred now, those years in the early 1990s, to flow together as one. And every year it went the same. My brother Nate and I discussed it some throughout the summer, then got serious about mid-November. We didn’t live that close to each other, so plans had to be made. To get together and go home together.

I was attending Bob Jones University in Greenville, S.C. Nate lived an hour away, in the Seneca area. We existed on shoestring budgets. I was a student. Nate worked on a framing crew and was preparing for a one-year stint as a counselor at Fair Play Boys’ Camp.

We were lithe and lean and impossibly fit. In the peak and pride of our physical and muscular manhood. I look back on photos from that time and marvel that I ever could have been so skinny.

We were going home for Christmas. Home to our parents’ two hundred acre farm in Bloomfield, Iowa. The place where only a few short years before, we had lived as Amish youth. Where we had grown into adulthood, where we’d run around. Where we had sown the turbulent seeds of that period of our lives and where we had eventually torn away. Leaving in our wakes a trail of grief and pain. The dashed expectations of our parents and the broken dreams of others.

We harbored in our hearts some few tattered remnants of regret and guilt.

We’d left independently, each on his own path, and on his own terms. With little guidance, even less support, and no semblance of a safety net, we had pressed onward and outward. Walked away from the only family structure we had ever known. Driven by a vague undefined hope, and the desire for more, so much more. And always the promise of a brighter future, always the distant gleam of a great shining city in a tomorrow that never came.

Both of us were skittish somewhat, tense and raw. Unhealed. It was still so close. So little time had passed since we’d left, so few years. Back then, in youth, a few years seemed like a long time. But it wasn’t. And our internal turmoil could not be denied.

We had escaped the desolate land, the bleak deserts, the sparse hard lifestyle, and we felt free. Why then, return again into the dark boundaries of the land from whence we’d fled?

Because at Christmas, “home” was the only place we’d ever known. And despite the tenseness, the confrontations and admonitions we knew would surely come, we did not hesitate, but prepared to set out on a journey to go back.

And so we made our plans. In a time before cell phones and email, we finalized the details the Sunday before while at our sister Maggie’s place for lunch. At Bob Jones the following week, my final test was over one day by noon. By mid afternoon, Nate arrived in his little white pickup. Since we didn’t trust either his pickup or my old tan T-Bird to make the long trip, we pooled our meager resources and rented a fire engine red Pontiac Grand Prix. (Neither of us so much as owned a credit card, but that’s another story.) We loaded our stuff and hit the road.

Through late afternoon and evening and the long night we drove, taking turns at the wheel, stopping only for gas and food and coffee. Few things dull the mind more than traveling all night in a car. Into the sunrise, and on and on, the Pontiac pulsed along. North and west. By noon, we were getting close. Passed through familiar northern Missouri landscape. Crossed the border into Iowa. And the first Amish farms on the southern end on Rt. 63.

We were back.

But before heading out, we instead turned east to Bloomfield. To buy a few simple gifts for Dad and Mom. For Dad, a few boxes of Brach’s chocolate covered cherries. For Mom, a large red poinsettia. No card, just the gifts. We cruised around the deserted town square. What only a few years ago had seemed like a glittering metropolis now sat squat and dark, a collection of ramshackle rusted stores huddled in a half empty town.

Then out of town, the highway west into the burg of West Grove. Then right onto the gravel road that led to the farm. Two miles, then the half-mile driveway to home.

And by two o’clock, we were pulling up to our parents’ house.

It was all pretty much the same. As it had been the last time. The old white bungalow with a few rickety buggies parked forlornly in front of the shop. We parked and got out and yawned and stretched and stretched. Then up the concrete walkway to the house, where Mom met us at the door. She smiled and smiled and chattered in welcome. Nate handed her the poinsettia. She feigned surprise. Oh, for me! You shouldn’t have. And we followed her into the warm familiar kitchen, where her ever present pot of coffee sat simmering on the humming stove. Sat at the table while she poured us each a cup.

She fluttered about and smiled and smiled. Her boys were home. And indeed we were.

After a few minutes, Dad, hearing the commotion, came clumping in from his tiny office, which was attached to the north side of the house. He walked gingerly, limping on his gimpy knee. “Hello, boys,” he said, peering over his wire-rimmed glasses at us.

And we stood respectfully and shook hands with him and he spoke our names. We gave him his gift of chocolate cherries. He sat down to visit a bit. How was the trip? Good, we said. Did you drive all night? Yes, we did. You must be tired. Yes, we are. And so on.

My father had an ironclad rule. No son who owned a car could live at his home. For the first few years after we left, his face darkened if we so much as drove a car onto his property and parked it for a short visit. But by the early nineties, we’d reached an uneasy unspoken truce. He wouldn’t fuss overmuch if we parked our car out front, as long as it was clearly understood that it would be only for a few days. Over Christmas, for instance. We honored the truce. And to his credit, so did he.

We settled in and sat around then, whiling away the late afternoon hours, laughing and chatting with Mom as she bustled about, filling us in on all the latest gossip while preparing supper. She hovered over the hot stove, stirring up a pot of her milk-based bean soup laced with herbs, because she knew it was our favorite. And she knew her kitchen was the only place in the whole wide world where we would ever find it.

Darkness fell and the hissing mantel lanterns were lit, brightening the entire house. We sat down to eat, and it was a comfortable pleasant thing. Just Dad and Mom and my brother and me. After supper, we sat drowsily, nodding off on the couch. And as bedtime approached, Dad cleared his throat and announced it was time for evening prayer. We knelt and heard again the rich mellow rhythm of my father’s voice as he recited the five-minute High German evening prayer from memory.

And somewhere in these years, I don’t remember exactly when, after the others had retired, I sat up with my father and we talked. Just me and him, man to man. He had many questions about my college classes and what I was learning. I was comfortable and open with him for the first time in my life. The hours passed, and the hissing lantern flickered low. At midnight, as the cold crept in, Dad got up and stirred the dying embers in the stove and restocked it with firewood. And with that we finally went off to bed.

After that first time, we made it a tradition. The first night of any future visit home, he and I would sit up late and talk. Those are among my most treasured memories of my father.

We slept in the bedrooms that a few years ago had been our own. The smoky kerosene oil lamp flickering dimly on the night stand. The bed smothered with plump feather comforters Mom had carefully placed there. I snuggled in, the cold night air engulfed the room, the high clear chimes of the old black wall clock struck once as I drifted off into fitful slumber.

The next morning I awoke early, startled by my surreal surroundings. Dad called for us to come and eat the breakfast Mom had already made. Eggs and bacon and toast and thick rich gravy. We sat at the table and groggily stuffed our faces with the food on which we had been raised.

After breakfast, Dad took up the Bible and read a passage of scripture for devotions. Nate and I glanced at each other. We might even have winked a bit. This was the ideal moment for the obligatory admonitions we knew would come at some point. We sat there, a captive audience. We were trapped. It was Dad’s time to deliver a little mini sermon. About how we were living in the world and of the world. How we should even now change and return home and establish ourselves as upstanding members of the Amish church. Me and Mom believe that’s the right thing for you to do. That’s how he always wrapped it up.

Might as well get it out of the way, we figured, and get on with things.

And so he did. The same old song, exactly as we’d heard it many times before. Just a slightly different verse.

Seems like it must have been a Bloomfield rule or something. If your worldly children come home to visit, make sure you lecture them. Don’t let that chance slip by or you will have sinned.

It would have been nice to go home just once and not be subjected to that particular refrain. But mostly, we learned to just let it pass and let it go.

After the obligatory lecture was over, Nate and I thanked Mom for her delicious food and took off to tour our old haunts. Stopped to see Titus, who was calm and collected as always. Then to Chuck’s Café in West Grove. Reconnected with all the local farmers we used to hang with. Then around the settlement itself, stopping here and there to say hi to an old friend. And stopping by at our siblings’ houses for coffee breaks and sweets.

Everywhere we went, the fire engine red Grand Prix was a source of great fascination. Someone must be doing well, people would comment slyly, to drive a car like that. We grunted vague replies and pretended the car was Nate’s. Didn’t seem to cross any- one’s mind that it might be a rental.

Bloomfield was expanding. Every year, it seemed, new buildings had sprouted where only pasture grasses waved before. Or some English farm had been snatched up by an Amish farmer. The character of the community changed. New names, new faces from people we had never seen before, people who had moved in from Jamesport, MO and other troubled settlements.

For my parents, it was a golden age, those early years of the 1990s. Unrecognized as such in the moment, as I suspect are most of what are later nostalgically referred to as “golden ages” throughout history. But for my parents it really was such a time.

They were surrounded by their married children. Six of them. Titus and Ruth lived a few hundred yards down the lane. Halfway out, my brother Joseph and his wife Iva and their family. My sister Naomi and her husband Alvin Yutzy and their family a half mile south. Steve and his wife Wilma and their family a mile south. Rachel and her husband Lester Yutzy and their family a mile west across the fields. And my sister Rhoda and her husband Marvin Yutzy lived in a trailer up the hill on the home farm.

In some small sense, it was my father’s empire. The Waglers were an influential force in Bloomfield. He was the undisputed anchor of that force. The aging patriarch surrounded by his offspring, approaching the sunset of his years. There was no way he could have known that in less than a decade it would all be gone. Had he, I suspect he would have treasured and appreciated those days far more than he did. Or maybe not.

And my mother too, could not have imagined what the future held in store. That the day would come when she would endure the sight and bear the sorrow of her family scattering to the winds. And just as well she did not and could not know. Surrounded and honored by her children and grandchildren, she glowed when her daughters came home to spend the day with her, sewing and canning and doing the things mothers and daughters do. Those times, I believe, were among the happiest of her life.

The day slipped by and another night. And then Christmas dawned. We slept in, awoke late and got up to Mom’s fresh coffee. For the scripture reading that morning, Dad read the Christmas story from Luke. No admonitions forthcoming this time. That little chore had already been done. Mom bustled about, covering hot dishes to take to the noon meal at my brother Joseph’s house halfway out the lane. By eleven, a line of buggies trickled in. All the family gathered, as we always did on this day.

Nate and I joined them. A large group. Our brothers and their wives, our sisters and their husbands. And all their children. The house soon echoed with our boisterous talk and great peals of laughter, common sounds at any Wagler gathering. A ragtag line of nephews hung in the shadows, rough and rugged boys, growing like weeds. They spoke shyly to their “English” uncles and discussed us among themselves. Soon enough, they too, or a good percentage of them, would taste of the world outside the boundaries of their own.

A sumptuous feast was spread, and we gathered about. Heads bowed as my father prayed the blessing. And then we dug into the food.

After lunch as everyone lounged around dozing and drowsy, Nate and I made noises to depart. It was best to start back that day, to beat the heavy post holiday traffic. Dad wished us safe travels. Mom gripped our hands and smiled and slipped us small gifts of stocking caps and gloves, or similar practical things.

And then we left. It was time to go. We could feel it. Just something in the air.

This was not our world. It would never be our world again. Sure, it was “home,” but in cold hard reality we were vagabonds and strangers. We didn’t fit and we didn’t belong.

And as we absorbed that truth, the deep stirring desire to return home for Christmas diminished in our hearts. Receded gradually, almost imperceptibly, over time.

Until it pretty much died. And we could find little reason to go back.

All the children say:
We don’t need another hero.
We don’t need to know the way home.
All we want is life beyond the Thunderdome.

—Tina Turner, lyrics: Thunderdome
_____________________________

My cell phone rang the other evening, as I was tooling down the road in Big Blue. My brother Titus, calling from the local schoolhouse phone in Bloomfield, Iowa. Just to chat. He checks in with me once in awhile, usually about every week or two.

I answered. We talked. He’d enjoyed my last blog. Someone usually stops by and gives him a hard copy. As we wound down, he allowed that his son Robert had a question for me. A pause, as someone picked up on the other line. Then seven-year-old Robert’s eager slightly raspy voice.

“Hi, uncle Ira.”

“Hi, Robert. How are you?”

“Good.” Then right to the point. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I said. “Go ahead.”

A brief pause. The question tumbled out, the words tripping over each other. “Do you think you’ll ever find yourself a wife?”

Whoa. Don’t know where that came from. “A wife?” I chuckled, taken aback. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Don’t you think you need a wife? He persisted. “Me and Thomas think you should have a wife.” Obviously, it was a matter of grave concern to him. To both of them. They probably felt bad for me.

On the other line, Titus chuckled, a bit awkwardly. “The boys have been discussing this quite a lot lately. It’s a big issue and they’re very preoccupied with it. And concerned for you,” he said. “They weren’t really satisfied with our replies. So I told them they could just ask you themselves.”

Ah, good parenting, that. “Yes, yes,” I agreed. “The only way to get the real answer. Go right to the source.”

Back to little Robert, and his important question. “No,” I assured him kindly. “I don’t think I need a wife. I’m pretty happy living by myself. I’m used to it, to living alone. So I think I’ll be alright.”

“OK. Bye.” He said abruptly. He didn’t seem convinced. He would discuss it at length, I’m sure, with his younger brother Thomas. The two of them would grapple with it. After chatting a bit more with their father, I hung up.

And it was fine. Other than a slight twinge of sadness, I thought the whole thing frankly humorous. And I was touched that my two little nephews concerned themselves with my well being. Children, in their innocence, will come right out and tell you what many adults think, but can’t bring themselves to say.

And in a young Amish kid’s world, it must be a strange and frightening thing. To have an uncle, Daddy’s brother, who used to be married, but now lives alone. They can’t fathom such a thing, turn it in their young minds and grasp it. A concept wholly foreign to their world.

And that, I suppose, is how it should be. I’m glad it’s still that way somewhere.

But I reflected on the conversation. Mulled a bit. Children say the darnedest things. And their conclusions are usually more true than not. Which got me thinking about an incident years ago, when I myself was a little boy, younger even than Robert.

Not that I’m remotely comparing the two disparate incidents. Just that Robert’s childish wisdom roused my own long dormant memories from decades of slumber.

It was a Sunday morning in Aylmer, a sunny summer day. I was four, maybe five years old. Church was at Alva Eichers’ place, a mile north and west of our home.

We left for church that morning, rattling down the road in Dad’s great old topbuggy. I stayed with Dad as he stood around with the men out by the barn, visiting before the service. A family of strangers from another community attended that morning as well. I don’t remember whose company they were. Probably relatives of someone or other. The father looked slick, cleaned up. Trimmed beard. He may not even have been wearing galluses, I’m not sure. They were from Nappanee, Indiana, I heard later. A couple of young boys hovered close to the slicked up man from Nappanee. One of the boys was about my age. I stared at him, fascinated. Inordinately rotund, his little body was about as round as tall.

Around noon, the church service ended. After Uncle Pete or Nicky Stoltzfus or Jake Eicher had preached the main sermon. The final slow drawn out song. The children were released. We ran out to play.

And somewhere in the course of our play that afternoon, I approached the little boy. The rotund one. Round-cheeked, he wore glasses, perched on his pudgy nose. We stood there, sizing each other up. Hands in pants pockets. Awkwardly scuffed the dirt with our bare feet. At least I was barefoot. He probably wore shoes, coming from Nappanee and all.

We stood there, face to face. I was on my home turf. He was a stranger in a strange land. He smiled hesitantly.

“What’s your name? I asked.

“Ernest,” he said shyly. He smiled again, almost pleadingly.

Ernest. Never heard of a name like that before. I looked him up and down. Then into his eyes. Then I spoke.

“You are fat.” I said. Flatly. Matter-of-factly. Little rancor involved. I had never before seen someone so young so heavy.

His face fell. The smile vanished. His eyes widened with dismay and pain. He seemed to shrink into himself. Without a word, he turned and lumbered away.

I walked off. Didn’t really think anything of it. I didn’t despise him. Or laugh at him. He was just different. He was, well, fat.

That afternoon, after we had returned home, my sisters talked of the strangers from Nappanee. And the little boy. Ernest.

“Did you play with him?” One of them asked. Probably Maggie. She was always admonishing us to be nice.

“A little.” I answered innocently. “He was fat.”

Maggie looked sharply at me, startled and suspicious.

Utterly unaware of the effect my words would have, I blithely prattled on. “He was fat. I told him he was fat.”

It was a huge mistake. My three sisters instantly reacted with expressions of great horror and disbelief. Maggie, Naomi and Rachel. They gasped in unison. “Aaaaaaah.”

“You did WHAT?” They shrieked. Practically in unison again. And right there on the spot, an impromptu school session was called to order. Three screeching teachers. One poor little unwilling four-year-old student.

The tumultuous clamor of their voices echoed through the house in waves, loud, over-whelming. Next thing Dad would be awakened from his nap. And that wouldn’t be good for anyone. I stood there hunkered in the full force gale, perplexed. I honestly wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about.

“You can’t do that, make fun of someone because of how he looks,” they lectured sternly. “It’s not kind.”

Kind? What did that have to do with anything? Truth was truth. I saw what I saw. And I knew what I saw. Unwilling to concede without a defense, I bristled.

“But he WAS fat.” I said stoutly.

Alas, my rock-solid reasoning was promptly smashed and swept aside like so much dust. My retort triggered a great cascade of even more anguished screeching. Many ominous scenarios were trotted out. What if people made fun of the way you look? Laughed at your curly hair? How would you like that?

Although failing to see any connection between their ominous scenarios and my supposedly dark and apparently unforgivable sin, I nonetheless made a hasty tactical decision to shut up and retreat. Not say anything more. The screeching eventually subsided. Soundly admonished and feeling very chastised, I was released at last. Relieved, I dashed off to play.

Their lecturing must have sunk in somewhat. Penetrated the obtuse barriers in my subconscious mind. I’m sure I committed countless childish transgressions in the ensuing years. But none even remotely approached the level of my stark pure cruelty to a poor little overweight boy named Ernest on a long ago summer Sunday afternoon in Aylmer.

At least none that I remember.

It is unfair to believe everything we hear about lawyers.
Some of it might not be true.

—Gerald F. Lieberman
__________________

You’d never know it, just being around me. As most of my customers don’t. I never tell them. That I am an attorney. Fully licensed in PA. I’m just common old Joe Schmoe. Pleasant. Cheerful. Accommodating. I can even dredge up a passable chuckle at the same tired old attorney jokes every time they’re trotted out. And believe me, I’ve heard them all.

I don’t do much anymore, of the legal work. Mostly write wills for the Amish here in Lancaster County. Word of mouth gets me a number of clients each year. Works for me. Produce something tangible, and get paid for it. Otherwise, the system is so adversarial, so parasitic, so contentious that I left it years ago. The stress, and the seeming lack of tangible accomplishment, got to me. So far, no regrets.

But once in awhile, in the course of my duties as general manager of Graber Supply, it does become necessary to strip the veil. To show my true colors. Mostly that happens when customers can’t or won’t pay their bills. After I’ve cajoled them. After they’ve promised for the tenth time the check is in the mail. And it isn’t. About then they receive a very official looking letter, complete with all the legalese. Pay up. Or else I’ll see you in court. Signed: Ira Wagler, Esquire. General Counsel.

The letter works most of the time. But not always. And then, after some months of patient, if sporadic persistence, I head off to the small claims court. File a Complaint.

Yep. I sue. Without even the slightest tinge of conscience. A contract is a contract. And in PA, an uncontested debt is voided after two years. So the window for action is fairly limited.

It doesn’t happen often. At most, maybe twice a year. Oddly, the people I go after are usually Amish or Mennonite. Plain people. Or at least from that background. It’s strange. Maybe they think I’ll just let it slide. From their actions, or lack thereof, that’s what they must think. Either that, or if they ignore the problem long enough, it will just go away. It won’t. As some few of them have learned the hard way.

I do have a little trick up my sleeve. If you make me come after you, I’ll sue your business. And you personally. And your wife. All the names I can throw in there, I will. Whatever sticks, sticks. Whatever doesn’t, the judge can remove.

I figure most of the time, the slackers’ wives aren’t even aware of what’s going on in the business. If a guy won’t pay his bills, he may well be hiding that fact from his wife. Might as well do my part to inform her. It’s got to be a rude awakening, to be served papers stating that you are being sued in court for an overdue debt.

But mostly, I want the wife included in the suit because if we win a judgment, we can have the sheriff go in and sell their stuff. All marital property. Furniture. Fixtures. Tools. Vehicles. Even clothes. Not that we ever have. But it makes for a pretty hefty bargaining chip. Can’t be ignored, like before.

Last summer, I went after a local Amish guy. He’d merrily purchased a lot of building materials during the previous year. Seemed like a decent guy, with his fingers in a lot of projects. He paid on time. Until all of a sudden, after running up over ten thousand dollars in bills, he just disappeared.

It was not a good situation. We sent monthly statements. Called. Patrick even stopped out at his house a time or two. No luck at anything. The guy wasn’t around and he was sure not making himself available. After a series of increasingly threatening letters, I finally took his case to small claims. Filed suit. Against his business. Him. And his wife. We waited.

Within a week, a desperate call from the wife. She must have talked to her attorney. Could we please remove her from the suit? We were firm, but kind. Can’t do it. After we get a judgment, we’ll negotiate. But until then, we have to do what we have to do. The poor goodwife sighed and wept. She was expecting their third child shortly, she claimed. With all this stress, and her husband’s multitude of debt, she didn’t quite know where to turn.

I felt sorry for her. And even more irritated at her husband. Putting her through all that. She filed notice that she would attend the hearing to defend herself. And try to get herself removed from the proceedings.

“That’s all I need,” I grumbled to Pat. “Some poor weeping destitute Amish housewife, showing up to tug at the judge’s heartstrings. I won’t have a chance.”

On the day of the hearing, I sallied forth. Arrived a few minutes early, as usual. And there she sat, in the waiting area. Plump, pretty, thirtyish, heavy with child. No attorney. Most small claims cases are pretty informal. An English neighbor had brought her. Her husband was nowhere to be seen. I greeted her kindly. We chatted. She fluttered about, extremely nervous. No, terrified. We waited. And then the judge received us in the courtroom.

I sat at a table in front and to the left of the judge, she at a table on the right. The judge, a stern lady, sat behind her bench, robed, imposing. She recited the caption of the case. Graber Supply vs. ____. A suit for collection of unpaid debt.

The judge looked to me to begin. I was the plaintiff, the one bringing the suit. But before I could proceed, the Amish housewife interrupted.

“Please, please, may I speak?” She implored, rising to her feet. She trembled with tension and fear. The judge nodded. “I’m not here to dispute that the money is owed. It is owed, every penny of it. All I ask is that I be removed from the lawsuit. Please.” She suddenly burst into tears, short chopping sobs.

The judge was gracious. “You’ll have your chance,” she said kindly. “Let Mr. Wagler go first, then you can say what you want.” The poor woman nodded and sat down again, vainly trying to muffle her sobs with a twisted knot of a handkerchief already soaked with tears.

It was my turn. I plunged in. Gave the judge copies of past due invoices. Briefly stated how the husband had purchased building materials over the past year. And not paid. He wouldn’t talk to us, or respond in any way to our requests for payment. Or even come to the door when we stopped by. This action was our last resort. And, I said, since the wife had also benefited from the husband’s business, it was only right that she should be included. I asked the judge to keep her in.

Then it was her turn. In this terrifying moment, in this hostile frightening world, a gentle helpless lamb trapped in a den of lean and hungry lions, she struggled visibly for the inner strength for words to convey what she had come to tell us. She turned to me; her dark, deep tear-stained eyes reflected impenetrable depths of raw fear and grief and hopeless despair. She labored to regain her voice. And then, in trembling broken tones, she spoke.

“I have never gained anything from the things you sold my husband,” she choked. “Not once. There were many times in the past year when I didn’t know where I would find enough food to feed my children. I only found out recently that we have debts of more than sixty thousand dollars. We have no way to repay.” Lowering her face, she sobbed uncontrollably into her handkerchief again.

I sat there frozen. As did the judge. It was a scene straight out of a Dickens novel. The trembling broken heroine covering her face, cornered by her cruel oppressors. But bravely speaking truth to power as best she knew.

She turned to the judge and continued. “All I ask is that I be removed from this suit,” she sobbed. “If I’m not, and there is a judgment against us, they will send the sheriff to our house and he will sell everything we own. And…..I don’t want my children…..my little boys……to have to see that, to go through that…Oh….please…” Her voice broke abruptly, she leaned forward, under terrible duress, half collapsing onto the table, her body wracking with sobs. Otherwise there was no sound.

Her sons. That’s why she was here. Enduring this brutal ordeal. To protect her sons.

The judge looked on with open compassion and pity, greatly alarmed. As did I. For her and her condition. And all this stress might induce labor. A child might be born right here in the courtroom. At least the thought flashed through my mind. And through the judge’s mind, I’m sure. The English neighbor approached and soothed her, wiped away the tears. She struggled, breathed deep, grasped desperately for some semblance of composure. After some moments, she calmed down a good deal.

The judge then turned to me. Did I have any questions for the defendant? I did. I asked them gently. Had my boss not promised that we would not come out and take their stuff, as long as they made some effort to pay even a token amount every month? She nodded. Did she not believe him? She didn’t know, she just didn’t want a judgment against her. After a few more questions, I turned to the judge and flatly repeated my demand for judgment. Then sat down at my table. I felt unclean. And tired and old.

The judge looked somber. She would make her decision and we would receive it in the mail within a few days. We stood as she walked out. I held the door open for the Amish housewife and the English neighbor as they left. The poor woman, still shaking and weeping softly from the stress and fear, returned to the shattered wreckage of her desolate world, a world in which her shiftless lout of a husband had allowed her, in her fragile highly emotional state, to come to this place and face the music all alone.

I walked away knowing I had won. She had no documentation to dispute my claim. No proof of LLC or Corporation protection. Technically, the letter of the law was on my side. Back at the office, I sagged into my chair, exhausted. “It was awful,” I told Pat. “Just awful.”

A few days later the ruling came down. The stern lady judge had copped out. Found some obscure technical reason to postpone a decision. I think she just invented some-thing because she couldn’t bring herself to rule against the Amish housewife. She rescheduled another hearing. Thankfully, before that happened, a committee was appointed to oversee the Amish guy’s finances. The day before the second hearing, we got a call with an offer to settle for sixty-five cents on the dollar. We fell over our-selves to accept it. And so it all went away.

Maybe the judge was wiser than I first thought.

I was greatly relieved. For the poor housewife. And for myself. I’m not sure it was in me, to go back and do it all over again. Too many moral ambiguities, too much strain, too much stress. In a world where black and white all too often fade to murky shades of gray.

That’s why I don’t do this stuff every day anymore.

But once in awhile, it’s OK. Recently, I had my second action this year. Mainstream Mennonite guy, from the next county. Around four grand, he owed. Throughout the spring and summer, I called periodically. Always, he made promises. Next day. Next week for sure. He would send a check. Of course, he never did.

So in late September, I gathered my papers. Trudged off to District Court. Before leaving the office, I had a Google search done for his wife’s name. Cross checked to make sure I had the right person. In the Complaint, I included the business, and the husband and wife individually as defendants. Paid my filing fees. Then awaited their response.

They were tough. Refused to sign the receipt and accept service. The court sent me another bill for $75 for a deputy to personally serve the papers. That money went right down the rat hole, with all the rest. I’d add it to my final judgment, I figured. So I waited.

A few weeks later, a call from the husband. Shaken. “I don’t want to get sued,” he stammered. “Can’t we work something out?”

“Simple enough,” I answered. “Pay up.” He hedged. “I won’t drop the suit until you pay up,” I said. “You’ve lied to me too many times. Promised to pay. I’ve never seen a cent.”

“Can’t you at least take my wife off?” He begged.

“Nope.” I said. We hung up.

The weeks passed. I figured he might call to settle. He never did. So on the scheduled morning, I packed my papers in my briefcase and headed to court.

I arrived early. Waited. Maybe they wouldn’t show. Fifteen minutes before the hearing, they walked in. I’d never seen them before. Always dealt with him over the phone.

He seemed hunched down, resigned, beaten. She was strong, tall, stony faced. And nail-spitting mad. She marched up to me. Glared. “Why am I on this suit?” She snarled. “I’m not part of his company. It’s an LLC. You lied on the Complaint. I never was a part of this. You lied.” She spat the words at me.

I was in no mood to take it from her. “Look,” I shot back. “He didn’t tell me he was an LLC. He had an affirmative duty to do that. When he didn’t, he lost his LLC protection. If you want to be mad at someone, be mad at the guy next to you. And if you want to discuss lying, talk to him about the dozen times he promised me the check was in the mail. He didn’t pay his bills. That’s the only reason you’re here.”

Certainly my words were not conducive to their marital harmony. But it seemed like a perfectly sensible thing to say. No sense blaming me for their troubles. She sat there steaming, not even slightly mollified.

He desperately wanted to settle. She was determined to confront me before the judge and force me to remove her name from the suit. “Whatever,” I shrugged. “It’s not personal to me. I’ll settle. Or I’ll go before the judge. Either way, I’m getting my money or a judgment. If I get a judgment, it’ll be a matter of public record. And I’m coming after you. Believe me, I’m coming after you.”

The hunched down, beaten man recoiled visibly from my words. He seemed terrified at the thought of a legal judgment against him. He asked me to leave them alone for a few minutes. I walked away. Minutes later he called me back. He’d give me a check if I told the judge we’d settled. “Write the check first,” I said. “Then we’ll see the judge.”

So that’s what we did. He wrote me several checks, to be cashed monthly. The grim wife argued to the end about the actual amount owed. Accused me of fudging the invoices. They even came to the office to wrangle about the final amount. She fussed inordinately about a $5 late fee. We worked it out. She was still steaming mad when they left. Still spitting nails. Don’t know why. We could have settled over the phone. But some people insist on doing things the hard way.

And so I won. Recovered what was rightfully ours. But it was draining. I was flat-out exhausted. From all the confrontation, the bitter words, the tension, the harshness, the seething rage. In the end, other than having done my job, there was little satisfaction in my victory. It seemed hollow, empty.

And that’s why I don’t do this stuff every day anymore.

…and find then in our hands some object, like this, real and
palpable, some gift out of the lost land and the unknown world,
as token that it was no dream – that we have really been there.
And there is no more to say…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

I’ve always had a serious weakness for a good knife. I don’t know what it is. There’s only so much you can do with one. A knife isn’t a gun. It can only cut and slice and skin. And stab.

I’m not sure why the fascination. It’s not like I have warrior genes or anything, what with my spotless credentials from a long line of nonresistant Anabaptist forefathers. Guess it’s a guy thing. Guys love to sit around and hawk and spit and pull out and compare their knives and regale each other with grand tall tales of the blood and conquest of the hunt.

I love a good knife. There’s nothing quite like holding a forged blade, to feel the solid grip of the handle carved from wood or bone, the heft and balance, the cold cutting edge of razor sharp steel. I gravitate to the fixed blades, hunting knives, survival knives, and especially a well crafted Bowie. Must have a dozen or more, scattered about. Including a couple of Damascus blades. Some were moderately expensive. Funny thing is, I hardly ever use my knives, especially the more expensive ones. The higher the price, the less apt I am to use it. To me, they are a thing of beauty, to be spread out and wiped down and admired. Then packed up and stored away again.

Some of my Bowie knives.

I don’t really remember my first knife. It might have been a cast off from one of my older brothers. Or something Dad bought for me at Uncle Pete’s harness shop. A cheap little multi-bladed pocket knife with faux bone, black plastic handles. And a swivel attached to one end, so as to tie it to my galluses on an old shoe string. From there, a long line of nondescript knives came and went. I remember a nice two-bladed Barlow, again with faux bone plastic handles. And later, after I could shoot, a cheap hunting knife.

I treasured them all. Wish I still had some of those old originals around, but they have all disappeared in the clutter of the past. Lost, misplaced, or simply left behind as I moved from place to place.

Today, my knife fever comes and goes. I buy in spurts, as the urge hits. I’m not a collector, just a guy who likes a good knife. I rarely attend a gun show without picking up at least one. In August, for my birthday, I splurged on a Kit Rae Sword of the Ancients. No particular reason to buy a sword. That’s so last millennia. But I wanted one. Just because. So I bought it. It hangs in splendor on a wall inside my home.

I’m addicted to the Saturday Night Knife and Gun Show, a two hour affair that runs from 8 to 10 every Saturday night. I watch, fascinated, absorbing the corny down home wisdom of Mike Politoski, a rotund good old country boy who expounds at length about his products, America and Jesus. In about that order. His slogan: “The round man with the square deal.” Most of his stuff is cheap junk, with a quality offering thrown in once in awhile. It’s all about as southern and hick country as anything out there. More so than Nascar, even.

Strangely, I rarely carry a knife anymore. But there’s always one within easy reach. At my desk in the office, in my house and under Big Blue’s driver’s seat.

As with most manly things, the knife’s reputation has taken a hit in recent decades. The nanny state shrieks hysterical disapproval. And about every week or two, it seems, we read of how some pompous constipated bureaucrats suspended some poor little six year old for two months for taking his treasure to school to show his buddies. It’s abominable, and it’s a barometer of where we are as a society. Every boy should have a knife. And be taught how to respect it and how to use it.

The old classic brands are mostly made in China now, and that’s sad too. Old standbys like Buck, Schrade, Remington, Winchester, Gerber, Smith and Wesson. And countless others. Old majestic mainstays whose very names used to evoke quality. All are available now at very low prices, but the quality ain’t what it used to be. The American models of those brands are worth quite a bit of money, much more than the new ones. A few brands like Case, Ontario, Cold Steel and others are still manufactured here. And their prices reflect that fact.

In the early 1980s, I think it was, I sent off for a knife catalog from Smoky Mountain Knife Works in Tennessee. Saw the advertisement in Outdoor Life. Some weeks later it arrived, a glossy tome, filled with pages and pages of colored pictures. All knives. All for sale. Some for a hundred dollars or more, a fortune for me at the time.

Not that I ever would have remotely considered spending anything approaching that amount. But still, one could dream. As I did, while perusing the pages. After a few days, I made my selections. A handful of cheap Sodbuster folders with white plastic handles. Lockbacks. Only a few bucks apiece. Naively, I imagined one might sell them for a bit of a profit. So I ordered six or seven.

I returned again and again to a certain page in the catalog. The picture showed a beautiful fixed blade hunter. Stag bone handles. Leather sheath. Uncle Henry by Schrade. A perfect knife, I figured, for hunting. Skinning out a deer or fox. The only drawback was the price. Around thirty dollars. I weighed the thing in my mind, set aside the catalog. Went back again the next day and the next. And finally made my decision.

I had never in my life paid that kind of money for a knife before. That was real money back then, especially for a country boy chronically short of funds. But I decided to buy it. Quickly, before changing my mind, I wrote out my order, enclosed a check, and mailed it off.

It seems so quaint today. To order stuff from a catalog and actually send a check in the mail. Knowing the item wouldn’t arrive for weeks. But that’s the way it was back then, before the internet age. Life moved at a more leisurely pace.

In about a month or so, the mailman delivered a small box, addressed to me. I tore it open. Examined the cheap Sodbuster folders. Nice enough. Made in China. (I never made a dime off them.) Then I opened the second little box. And there it was. Every bit as beautiful as pictured in the catalog. A fixed blade hunter/skinner. Full tang steel. Stag bone handles. A well stitched brown leather sheath. I hefted the knife in my hands and admired it. It was a thing of beauty and it took my breath away.

It was a treasure to me, too beautiful to use. And so I didn’t. Rarely, if ever, carried it in the field. Never used it to skin a single animal. Not once. It stayed securely stored in my desk in my bedroom. Once in awhile I extracted it and held it and wiped it down, kept it clean and gleaming. I showed it proudly to my friends, who emitted appropriate grunts of approval.

Some tumultuous years later, I packed my bags and left Bloomfield. With a bit of cash, a few personal items and some clothes. My Uncle Henry knife was among the few things I treasured enough to take with me on that journey into the unknown.

A few years later, after working through some major issues, I moved to Daviess County, IN, and began attending Vincennes University. Weekends, I worked at the Gasthof Restaurant, waiting on tables. One of the busboys there was a young fifteen year old Amish kid named Marcus Marner. Marcus and I got to be friends. He was talkative, eager to learn. He was also an outdoorsman, a hunter, a guy who actually used his knives.

We talked of many things, and one night I took my prize knife to work and showed it to him. His eyes gleamed as he held it in his hands.

I can’t for the life of me imagine why I said it, such a rash and reckless thing. But I did. “You wanna buy it?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “How much?”

I didn’t need the money. I mean, I wasn’t starving or anything. Maybe it was just the thrill of the deal. “Thirty bucks,” I said. He agreed instantly. I gave him the knife. And the next weekend he brought me the money. A crumpled twenty and a two fives.

The money was soon gone, frittered away on trifles and staples like gas and food. After graduating from Vincennes in 1991, I left Daviess County. Haven’t lived there since. I rarely go back. Marcus soon faded from my mind. But I never forgot that knife.

It’s not like I really regretted selling it. It was just a knife I had bought a few years before. But still, I always remembered its heft and feel, the quality and beauty of it. My main regret was that I had allowed something so tangible from my Amish youth days to slip away like that.

But I had. And that was that. I didn’t see Marcus again for almost twenty years. Then in May of last year, he showed up at my niece’s wedding in Missouri. Friend of the parents. I wouldn’t have recognized him. Married, with a family. He knew who I was and introduced himself. I saw glimmers of the young Marcus of years ago in the burly, bearded Amish man standing before me.

Ira and Marcus Marner. May, 2008.

After chatting a bit, I asked the inevitable question. “Do you still have that knife I sold to you back at the Gasthof all those years ago?”

“Oh, yeah,” he grinned. “And boy, have I ever used it. I’ve hunted with that knife on me in a lot of different states. Skinned out a lot of deer.”

“I’d sure like to see it again sometime,” I said ruefully. “I never should have sold it to you. I’ve always regretted that I did.”

And that was that. Then last month I attended my niece Mary Ann’s wedding in Worthington, IN. The community where Marcus and his family lived. Upon arriving, I was startled to learn that the wedding service would be held in Marcus’ shop.

On the day of the wedding after the noon meal, as everyone sat around visiting, Marcus sought me out. “Come on up to the house,” he said. “I’ll show you that knife.” I followed him up the hill and sat on a bench on his windswept porch as he disappeared inside. A moment later he emerged. Handed me the old knife. And I held it again for the first time in twenty years.

The sheath was blackened with age and beaten by use. He had not been kidding. He had definitely used the knife. I grasped the stag bone handle protruding from the sheath and pulled it out.

The knife. Schrade Uncle Henry #144

Other than the blade having been honed down a bit from use, it was exactly as it was the day I sold it. Full tang handle. Heavy. Glistening. Sharp.

I sat there and gently ran my fingers back and forth across the edge of the blade, testing for any nicks or imperfections. And for a brief instant I was a skinny ragged Amish youth again, a lifetime ago in another place. So much, so much had come down since then. So many miles, so many years. So many hard roads, so much left behind. I’d pulled off some pretty substantial accomplishments. And endured my share of colossal failures. I had lived enough, it seemed at that moment, to fill a dozen lives.

I held it in my hands, this relic from the past, and looked up at Marcus, a lump in my throat. “Aww, it’s beautiful,” I breathed.

And Marcus stood there beaming, watching me. Then he spoke. “That knife is yours,” he said. “It always was. It will always be. It belongs to you. Take it back with you to its rightful home.”

It was a grand, sweeping generous thing to say. A hugely magnanimous thing. Deeply moved, I gaped at him. The thought had never crossed my mind. That he’d give it back. I had sold it to him, fair and square. It belonged to him.

“You don’t have to do that,” I croaked. “It’s your knife. It’s part of your life too. Part of your youth, your past. You’ve owned it for much longer than I did.”

He waved off my protests. And I shut up. One thing I’ve learned over the years, if someone is doing something unexpected, something generous for you, shut up and accept it. So I did. I thanked him humbly and profusely.

The knife now rests with all my others. Clean. Unused. Admired. Sometimes of an evening I unwrap it and return in my mind to the time I sent off for it in the mail, ordered from a catalog. Reflect on who I was, what I was, where I was, almost thirty years ago.

It is a tangible part of my distant past. One of very few such things that remain from the days of my youth in Bloomfield, Iowa. Callously sold without thought for a mess of pottage, lost to me for two decades. And then returned unexpectedly, against all odds, by a classy guy who instinctively recognized what it meant to me.

I treasure it for what it is, and what it represents. I always will.

And it’s home for good.

“One may smile and smile, and be a villain.”

William Shakespeare: Hamlet
________________________

Well, it’s been a wild week. Probably unlike any I’ve ever experienced before, or ever will again. My fleeting seconds of fame on CNN came and went like a speck of dust in the wind. Here briefly, then whoosh, gone forever. Old musty details in today’s wildly accelerating 24-hour news cycle. (For those out of the loop, the link to the CNN piece is here.)

It was wild, to see myself on film. My grand debut. Broadcast to the world. A bit anti-climactic, and strange. Overall, I probably shouldn’t complain too much. They did an OK job. These people are drive-by media, professionals who without any qualms whatsoever routinely destroy the lives of ordinary citizens. So I consider myself lucky. I got through relatively unscathed.

It was strange too, to see what they chose to run. It’s a bit like writing a story, I suppose. Often when I write, I’m not sure exactly which details will emerge. The story grows organically. I think the CNN people did the same thing.

When Carol Costello interviewed me, 80% of the conversation was focused on Rush. What did I think of him? Does he influence my beliefs? Do I think he influences elections? And so on. I also strongly stated my political beliefs. Libertarian. A huge fan of Ron Paul. Pull our troops from Iraq and Afghanistan. Stop policing the world. And so forth.

I thought my answers were OK. Fairly articulate. Reasoned. Calm. But now no one will ever know. Because on the film I never mentioned Rush at all in any way. Or Ron Paul. Or my libertarian views. Others discussed Rush. But not me.

What did I think of the video? Well, it seemed like from the locals, talk show host Bob Durgin, who was interviewed solely because I mentioned him, got the most air time. And he was good. Entertaining. Very outspoken. Second most air time went to Big Blue, I think. My truck was a gleaming star. Glad I washed him the night before, and dusted the dashboard. I came in third, for all of about forty-five seconds. Fading out at the end, walking from Big Blue. Then back to Carol Costello and her condescending smile, to close it out.

I grade it a C or C minus. There is no question in my mind the three-segment series was designed and produced as a hit job on conservatives in particular and talk radio in general. They smiled and smiled while filming me, but villainy lurked in their hearts.

I don’t think they succeeded. And two things especially irritated me.

It was all so dramatic. First, Carol Costello breathlessly proclaimed that by 3 PM, I’d already listened to conservative talk radio for EIGHT hours. Strongly implying that I’m either a wacko or a slacker, or both. Which I didn’t exactly appreciate.

Two days later, however, columnist Denis Keohane on American Thinker knocked that little implication right out of the ball park. And he linked to my blog. Great guy.

The second irritation was by far the most egregious. And that was my final brief on- camera comment. Where Carol Costello dramatically intoned that I know all about anger. Which was silly. I wasn’t angry during the interview. I didn’t look angry while making the comment. But there I was, stating that I trust no politician in this world, Republican or Democrat. Well, I don’t. Except Ron Paul. Which I stated clearly at the end of that sentence, as PART OF the sentence. And Jim Clymer, the Constitutional Party chairman. I said that too. But they sliced out my tribute to both of these fine men. Thereby making me say something I had not said.

I’ve long been suspicious of what I saw and heard on TV news shows. Sound bites are sound bites. Isolated, lacking context. They can make you say anything they want you to say. That’s what I’d heard, and what I believed. Now I know.

But I’m glad they played it the way they did, rather than the opposite. Better to be known as virulently distrustful of all politicians than trusting them more than I do. In my opinion, only a fool trusts politicians in general.

The Monday morning segment unleashed tremendous turbulent waves out there on the internet and talk radio. I’m sure Rush didn’t see me, but his people did. He raged at length about it on his show that very afternoon, thereby garnering about two million more viewers to watch the program who otherwise would never have known it even existed, which was probably exactly what CNN was secretly hoping for. He was particularly irate at the frizzy-haired psychiatrist who piously opined that Rush is a bully. That was a new one. Strange. I never felt bullied. But then, what do I know? I gaped at her onscreen. Tried to imagine briefly what it would be like to come home from work every night to someone like her. It was impossible to visualize, too terrible to grasp. I’d rather be divorced.

Rush also went after my friend-for-an-hour, Carol Costello. Called her a stalker. As I’ve said before, 80% of her interview with me focused exclusively on him. She seemed locked in. Maybe she is a stalker. The interview was actually over, and Bob the producer had to yell for her to ask me about Bob Durgin, the local talk show host. So she did. My answer to that question was one of the few things you heard from me on the segment. After my vocal cords were strained and tired. Strange. Talk about Rush and my political views for twenty-five minutes, ask one question about Bob Durgin, then go with the answer to that one question.

To be fair to Carol, she discussed the interview in much more depth on her blog. I don’t know who made the final decisions as to what was seen on TV. Maybe Bob the producer.

So there it was and that was it. A grand adventure for a country hick like me. You bet, I’d do it all over again. But I’d be just a bit wiser the next time.

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And now, a few words on a most neglected subject. Sports. My Jets, after a stellar 3-0 start with their star rookie quarterback, have slackened lately. Lost three in a row. Including last week’s loss to lowly Buffalo. However, I didn’t have to endure much ribbing from the guys at work, who were pretty quiet and hanging their heads after the Eagles’ loss to the even lowlier Raiders.

The Jets, at least, have an excuse. Rookie quarterback. He’s learning. He’ll grow. And he will win. On the other hand, if the ageing McNabb doesn’t perform for the Eagles, they’re done. Andy Reid can mumble all he wants. The Eagles are one-dimensional.

And that brings us to the Phillies. Back again to the World Series this year. Their arrogant thuggish fans are popping out of their hovels like rabbits. Crooning and crowing and wearing silly red outfits and waving flags. The evil Yankees managed to blow it last night, but they will prevail. It’ll be them and the Phillies. Evil empire versus the thugs. For me, it’s like a choice between the Russians and the Chi-coms. I hate both teams.

Should the Angels happen to pull it out, I’ll definitely cheer for them. But if it’s the evil Yankees, I’ve decided to cheer against both teams. Cheer every error, every out. For both sides. Which is not exactly conducive to mental stability and calmness. What’s that continuous dull roar I hear in my head at all hours? Cognitive dissonance?

Maybe I need to schedule a session or two with that frizzy-haired shrink after all. Oops, scratch that thought. I’d rather go insane.

I make my living off the evening news.
Just give me something, something I can use.
People love it when you lose, they love dirty laundry…

Kick ‘em when they’re up, kick ‘em when they’re down.
Kick ‘em when they’re up, kick ‘em when they’re down…

We can do the innuendo, we can dance and sing.
When it’s said and done, we haven’t told you a thing.
We all know that crap is king, give us dirty laundry.

—Don Henley, lyrics: Dirty Laundry
_____________________________

I really don’t know how this stuff happens. Generally I mind my own business pretty well. It’s not like I’m out there, beating the bushes for publicity. But once in awhile, it seems, strange events bombard me, events so far beyond the remotest realms of possibility that the aftermath leaves me shaking my head in disbelief. And a little shaken.

It all started a few weeks ago one morning at work. I stumbled in bleary eyed, sipping my coffee, with nothing more on my mind than the day’s work schedule. After firing up my computer and checking my email, I noticed a message from a strange source. CNN. Probably spam, I thought. That close, I deleted it. But then decided to check it out. The sender claimed to work for CNN in New York. She had noticed on my blog that I listen to talk radio. They were doing a program soon on conservative talk radio listeners. Would I perhaps be interested in an interview?

It seemed legit. So I returned a short message. You want to talk to me. When? How long? I’m available evenings. Within two minutes she replied. Could I call her right away? It wouldn’t take but a minute.

So I called, setting off a chain of events that will culminate next week. The nice lady’s name was Nailah and she hadn’t lied. She actually needed only about two minutes. Where was I located? Lancaster, PA. How long had I listened to talk radio, specifically Rush? Since 1992. Do I still listen every day? Yep. Which local station do I listen to? WHP 580 in Harrisburg, Bob Durgin’s afternoon show. And RJ Harris in the mornings.

And that was about it. Kinda wild. Nothing at all about being raised Amish. That’s my shtick, where most of my stories originate, and why my readership is what it is. But she didn’t go there at all. By George, they were on the subject of talk radio listeners, and that’s what they’d stick with.

She told me that the Lancaster area would be quite attractive to them, since the producer and other personnel could drive up, and get it done in one day. After giving her my contact numbers, I hung up. I didn’t think enough of the conversation to mention it to a single soul. The chances of CNN interviewing me, I figured, were about as remote as me winning the Mega lottery. Ain’t gonna happen. Not after they read some of the rants on my blog.

The following week, I left for my niece’s wedding in Indiana. The CNN thing was so far removed from my consciousness that I never even mentioned it to one person. I returned to the office on Monday, Oct. 5, again with nothing more on my mind than the work that had piled up in my absence.

Before 9, my direct line rang. Unknown number. 212 area code. I answered. It was Bob Ruff, a CNN producer from New York City. Would I still be interested in doing an interview? Sure, I said. We talked a bit, and he told me he would arrive with the filming crew on Wednesday afternoon. The filming would be done for their morning show, American Morning. I would be interviewed by Carol Costello, from CNN’s Washington D.C. office.

He paused a bit after speaking her name, as if awaiting my startled exclamation. I said nothing. I wouldn’t know Carol Costello if I saw her. Never heard of her. I didn’t say that, just thought it. It also flashed through my mind that being interviewed by some wacko left wing feminist anchorette from DC was probably just about the last thing I needed. But I didn’t say that either.

Bob thanked me and hung up. He’d be in touch to finalize details, he claimed. I hung up. About then I started to freak out just a bit. I approached Pat, my boss, and filled him in. Sorry, I said. I should have told you before. After picking himself up off the floor, Pat allowed that he had no problems with the plan. Go for it, he said. After lunch, Bob called again. It was set. They would come on Wednesday.

I tried to grasp what had just happened. CNN had just called and they were coming out to interview me. CNN. That bastion of left wing, Obama-worshiping liberalism. CNN, which for years has been leaking viewers like a sieve. I’m no fan of CNN. And that’s being polite. I never watch any of their programming. Never. My head would explode. (I don’t watch Fox News either. I’m fair and balanced. I don’t watch any TV news.) But now CNN had somehow located me and wanted to interview me about conservative talk radio. It had to be a trap.

Tuesday arrived and I expected to hear from Bob the producer again. But the phone stayed quiet. He never called. Maybe they weren’t coming after all, I told Pat as we discussed the situation. Pat asked if I was preparing any comments. Nope. I didn’t know what they’re going to ask, and besides, if you know what you believe, you don’t need to prepare statements. Just state your beliefs. That’s what Rush always says.

Strangely, I slept well on Tuesday night. Slumbered. Wednesday dawned. I dressed and set out for the office, half thinking the CNN people wouldn’t show up. But as I drove along, listening to RJ Harris of the local WHP station in Harrisburg, he suddenly announced that CNN was coming by that day. To interview them and local listener Ira Wagler. Believe me, when you’re driving along half asleep early in the morning, sipping coffee, and you hear your own name booming over the radio, that jolts you awake. Big time. Big Blue almost dove for the ditch. And about that moment I realized without a doubt that CNN was indeed coming to interview me that day.

At the office, the day proceeded. No calls from Bob the producer. Noon came and went. Still nothing. Then about 1 o’clock, my cell phone rang. Bob the producer. They were just wrapping up at WHP in Harrisburg. They would be at the office by 2:30. They wanted to film me at my desk listening to Rush on the Internet before 3:00.

I tried to stay calm. But I was freaking again, just a bit. What in the world had I gotten myself into this time? Around 2:30, after fielding a few calls from Bob and the cameraman, who claimed to be lost, the main crew arrived. They wasted no time. The cameraman, whose name now escapes me, opened a large case and extracted a huge filming camera. He set up in my office and filmed for the next fifteen minutes. Just me sitting at my desk, working (or pretending to) while listening to Rush. Another cameraman was on the way, and Carol Costello should be here by 3:00, they said.

The second cameraman arrived, and moments later the door opened and she strolled in. A lovely, polished lady, perfectly coifed. Carol Costello. One of the “beautiful people.” She walked right up to the counter where I stood, half frozen, smiled graciously and extended her hand. We introduced ourselves. And stood there and chatted while the cameramen set up their equipment.

There was about a ton of it. They opened cases, set up bright lights, strung electrical cords, plugged in stuff. Everyone in the office pretty much shut down and stood at a safe distance, gaping. Carol and I chatted. She immediately put me at ease. No, she didn’t have a list of questions. She would let the conversation flow naturally, she said. And no trick questions.

“Are you really going to use this film on CNN, or is this just one of many?” I asked.

“It’s definitely running,” she answered. “I make those decisions. This filming should have an actual air time of around three minutes, which is a long time.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” I said. “But I’m withholding judgment until I see the final presentation. I don’t really trust you guys.” A huge understatement. She laughed.

“You better treat me right,” I said, half jokingly. “Or I’ll whack you on my blog.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We just want to do a piece on people who listen to talk radio.”

Getting wired.

I didn’t have a whole lot of time to get nervous. The cameramen approached and wired us both with tiny mics. A few practice runs, and we were off.

She was a class act. Gracious. Good, really good at what she did. Looked me in the eyes. Talked directly to me. I did the same to her. And strangely, even though my coworkers and some customers stood on the peripheral of things and watched, I was able to tune everyone out and focus almost entirely on Carol and her questions. She kept her promise. No trick questions. She didn’t try to trap me. She allowed the conversation to flow.

It was mostly about Rush. I mentioned Glenn Beck, but Rush was the focus. When did I start listening to him? 1992, I said. Do I agree with him? Not on everything. My political views? Ron Paul libertarian. And so on. At the very end, she asked a few questions about the local WHP station and the guys there.

And I stood there in front of the counter behind which I work every day, a hick country boy from hardscrabble roots, and talked for probably twenty-five minutes to this beautiful cosmopolitan jet-setting CNN correspondent from Washington, DC. Who had briefly left her world and inserted herself into mine. Unbelievably, time flew. I stammered and stuttered a few times, but overall, I spoke slowly, at least for me, and gave fairly articulate answers. At least I think so. Watch the film prove me wrong.

THE ACTUAL INTERVIEW. Thanks to Rosita Martin for her pics.

And then it was over. At least that part. Now, Bob the producer instructed, we needed to go for a ride on Big Blue, with both cameramen squashed in the back seat, as I drove “home” and listened to local firebrand Bob Durgin, whose show started immediately after Rush. So we walked out and piled in. Carol and I up front. Two men with large filming cameras in the back. By this time, Carol and I were chatting it up like old friends. I was completely at ease. She was just a person, doing her job.

She claimed to have met my hero, Ron Paul, numerous times in the CNN studios. I believe her. I startled her only once. She spoke glowingly of some of the bipartisan Republicans she knew in DC. Like Lindsay Graham, for instance, she said. I said nothing, just mumbled under my breath, “Lindsay Graham is a pansy.”

She heard me and gasped. Couldn’t stop herself. I hastily explained. “He’s moderate. Bipartisan. I don’t want bipartisan. I want someone who stands on principles.”

We then took another short drive in Big Blue, just me and her, as the cameraman filmed us from our yard. We sat in the truck, chatting like two old friends.

“Does anyone here at your office watch CNN?” She suddenly asked, almost wistfully. I wanted to tell her that we did. But I couldn’t.

“No,” I answered gently. “But we will watch this episode.” She nodded, looking mildly crestfallen.

And then her part was over and it was time for her to leave. “Before you go,” I said, “I want a picture of just me and you.” She agreed readily. So we stood and posed.

Carol Costello and me.

“Now I want an autograph,” I said. And she was genuinely flattered. She wrote me a nice little note and signed and dated it. “This is big stuff,” I told her. “Nothing much ever happens in this hick town.”

“I still have to pinch myself sometimes,” she replied. “That I actually work at CNN.” And then she smiled and waved and left us. Back to her home in Baltimore, and her office in DC. The intense savage world of broadcast journalism.

The cameraman still wanted footage of me walking to Big Blue with my briefcase, “going home.” Shot after shot, in scene after scene. He got it all.

And all that footage will be edited down to around three minutes of actual air time. Probably interspersed with opposing viewpoints. Who knows? It will show on CNN’s American Morning program on one of three dates, Oct. 19, 20 or 21. After airing, it will be available almost immediately on CNN’s website. After it’s posted, I will link to this site and also on Facebook. I’m curious indeed as to what will be shown and how it’s presented.

The next morning, Thursday, RJ Harris of the local WHP station called me at work to discuss the event. We spoke live on the air for about four minutes. And with that, the whirlwind twenty-four hours of abnormal activities ended. Only then did I stop, relax and try to absorb what had actually happened.

I’d been interviewed on CNN, for their American Morning program. Which is aired nationally from coast to coast. I’d been picked from among three hundred million fellow Americans. Randomly, it seemed.

Why, one might ask, would I even do such a thing? It’s risky. Even though I didn’t say anything stupid, they can still make me look stupid, with their editing and cutting. Cut short a sentence. Splice words together, to make me say something I hadn’t said. There’s any number of things that might happen.

It could be a hit job. I don’t know. And won’t until I see it.

If it is, it is. Either way, it was a grand adventure. The kind of adventure most people don’t get to experience in a lifetime. Besides, I figured I held a trump card. If it is a hit job, I can at least expose it for what it was to the people that know me. Right here, on this blog.

Unlike most people, at least I have somewhat of a public forum out there to defend myself. I hope Carol Costello and the folks at CNN treat me right. If they do, I’ll gladly credit them. If they don’t, well, they’ll stir the old writing juices again. Get me roiled and riled. And we’ve all walked together down that path before.

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POST NOTE:

THE FIRST SEGMENT WAS BROADCAST MONDAY, OCT. 19. IT’S THE ONLY ONE THAT INCLUDED ME.

Link to Monday’s broadcast