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.

***********************************
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.

***************************************
POST NOTE:

THE FIRST SEGMENT WAS BROADCAST MONDAY, OCT. 19. IT’S THE ONLY ONE THAT INCLUDED ME.

Link to Monday’s broadcast

“Then summer fades and passes and October comes. We’ll
smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill
of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure.”

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

We almost made it, all of us. But once again, a few didn’t. The record remains intact. I have not been together with all my brothers and sisters and our parents at the same place at the same time for close to forty years.

Two brothers couldn’t make it this time. Just the way it worked out. A few years ago, I was the only who didn’t show. And so nine of us, with our parents, gathered with other guests last week for the wedding of my niece, Mary Ann Wagler, and Jason Stutzman. Mary Ann is the daughter of my oldest brother Joseph.

The service was held on Friday, Oct. 2, at the little New Order Amish community of Worthington, IN. Just north and west of Daviess County, the land my father left more than fifty years ago.

I headed out Wednesday afternoon. Didn’t feel like doing the 12 hour drive in one stretch. Not through the desolation of western PA, which only seems to get worse, each time I travel through. After passing into Ohio, I searched in vain for a Holiday Inn, but had to settle for a Hampton. Not as classy. Not as comfortable. But it would have to do. And it was OK.

I arrived in the Worthington area about mid afternoon on Thursday and hung out with my nephews, Joseph’s sons. Seems like we see each other mostly at events like this. We chilled and chatted, drinking coffee and catching up on the latest. And running last minute errands. Meeting the happy couple. Mary Ann smiled and smiled.

Later, everyone gathered at a neighbor’s shop for supper. We were among the first to arrive. Before long, many of my siblings trickled in. Maggie and her husband Ray from South Carolina. Rachel and Rhoda and their husbands from Kansas. Naomi and Alvin from their new home in Arkansas. And of course, Joseph and Iva, the bride’s parents.
We greeted each other cheerfully and sat about and talked.

There’s always joy, in such a gathering. Or should be. Ten years ago, we would not have gathered like this. Couldn’t have. Now we can, and it’s a beautiful thing.

And then, just as the food was being set out, the door opened, and they shambled in, both leaning on canes. Dad and Mom, with my oldest sister Rosemary. Mom walked between them, supported on each side. They helped her to a seat. She looked small and very frail, certainly worse than when I saw her last at Christmas. But she was smiling.

After waiting a few minutes for her to settle on her chair, I walked over to her. Would she still recognize me? She had slipped a lot lately mentally, I’d heard. To the point where she sometimes does not even recognize her own daughters. I greeted her and took her hand. She smiled and spoke my name. I sat beside her and we talked.

She was there, and yet she wasn’t. Aware of some of us, some of the time. She lives now in her childhood world in Daviess County. She speaks in soft halting tones of family, neighbors, places, things. All from that safe dimension from long ago, where her heart has remained all these years. A world to which she has returned.

It’s gut-wrenching. And yet, somehow, I think her state of existence brings its own degree of peace. At least, one hopes as much. And grasps what solace one can from that hope.

She is in the depths of a winter that has been long and cold. And after winter comes the spring. Soon she will enter that new spring, unlike any she has ever known. There, her smile will not be dead and vacant, but alive with a joy that can never be taken from her. Her mind will be clear again as she walks into eternal peace.

We assembled the next morning at nine o’clock for the wedding. The service was held in a large tent beside Marcus Marner’s shop. Although rain had been forecast, the day broke clear and cool. Perfect weather. I walked the gauntlet, shaking hands with a hundred strangers, mumbling greetings. Yes, I was Joseph’s brother. The bride’s uncle. No, my wife wasn’t with me. Actually, I’m not married. And so on.

Soon it was time to file in to be seated. I followed Titus on his motorized wheelchair and sat beside him on a backless bench. Up front with the married men. It’s not often that I get to be with him, so I was honored for the opportunity.

It was, I think, my first New Order Amish service. Or maybe I attended before, but it was long ago. Things are done loosely the way the Old Orders do it. Same old slow songs, but fewer verses. The entire Lob Song in all its glory. The main difference was the preaching. It was mostly in English, which would never happen in an Old Order service. Old Orders preach only in the “Muttersproch,” the mother tongue. A defining symbol of their survival.

Things rolled along smoothly, and around 11:15 the couple rose and stood before Bishop Monroe Hostetler and exchanged their marriage vows. A few testimonials, another song, and it was over. We filed out.

Mary Ann and Jason at the “Eck” for the noon meal

After a delicious meal of grilled chicken and all the fixings, we mingled and visited. I sat about with my siblings and we talked. About this and that, the little things. And the fact that so many of us could make it to this place for this special day.

And it suddenly struck me as I sat there in the low dull hum of a hundred murmured conversations and observed. That we are no longer what one would call young. We are gray or graying now, all of us. The years have flowed unchecked, they have accumulated, and from each of us they have extracted their toll. The fires of youth no longer burn. And the rage of youth has died.

And I looked on their worn tired faces, each reflecting the wisdom only years can bring, each interwoven with the stories only siblings know, each wrinkled with the deep tracks of time, the passage of long and weary decades. And the somber fact sank in, absorbed as never before.

That we had entered autumn. The autumn of our lives.

It is a hard thing to grasp, to turn in our minds and examine. That morning was so long ago, that the youth we thought would last forever has fled, that we have entered the fields of age from which there is no return. That approaching winter looms.

For me, it’s not particularly a sad thing, or a happy thing. It just is. But it heightens my awareness of my own mortality. We all too shall pass, the young men and women of the next generation will rise and replace us, until they too enter their own seasons of autumn and finally winter. The way it’s always been. And will always be until the end of time.

************************
Perhaps it’s because I’m knocking at autumn’s door. I don’t know. But lately, in the last month or so, I have been extremely restless. Unsettled. Mid-life crisis, or some such thing. I’m sure there’s a label for it.

I haven’t felt remotely this restless since my Amish youth days, when I churned with inner turmoil about my identity and my future. So it feels a bit strange. A lot strange.

I don’t know if the restlessness triggered my decision to write less, or vice versa. I do know that since less time is spent writing, the void must be filled with something.

I’m not freaking out or anything. But it’s not particularly fun either. I’m plugging along. Life goes on. It always does.

And life goes on, too, for my friends Paul and Anne Marie. A few weeks ago, after several days of severe headaches, Anne Marie went to the hospital for an unscheduled MRI scan. They received the results within hours.

The brain tumor has returned. Full blown. Virulent. Deadly. Larger than ever.

They called me the next morning, a Saturday. I stopped by to see them. The third time now that they’ve had to deal with same grim news.

Strangely, it’s different this time. Maybe they’re used to it, not that you could ever get used to such things. But they were utterly calm. Matter of fact, almost. We discussed the options. This time they wanted to go to Johns Hopkins for the surgery.

The following week, they traveled to JH. The tumor was golf ball sized. Strangely, Doctors did not consider it necessary to operate immediately. Yesterday, after more severe headaches, Paul rushed her down to JH, where she was admitted into Intensive Care. A CAT scan showed that the tumor was bleeding. This morning, after loss of some motor skills, she was rushed into surgery. Paul called this afternoon to tell me everything went well, and she is awake and alert. She might be able to return home as soon as Monday, which boggles the mind.

Other than that, I don’t have a lot to say. As always, they would appreciate your prayers. They are grateful for the gift of almost two years that Anne Marie has been granted since the tumor was first discovered. Naturally they hope for many more years, but they will accept the future as it unfolds. Not that there’s much choice. The Lord may choose to give. He may also choose to take.

I ain’t askin’ nobody for nothin’, as the song goes. But for those who wish to send support in the form of cards and letters, their address is as follows:

Paul and Anne Marie Zook
588 Meetinghouse Road
Gap, PA 17527

“Song, song of the south.
Sweet potato pie and I shut my mouth..”

Alabama, lyrics: Song of the South
____________________________

When it comes to staid, blue blood, dignified Amish communities, Lancaster County has no peers. So prim and proper, is everyone. Traditional. Clean. Distinctive in dress. You can tell if people are from Lancaster County by their clothes, no matter where you see them. Heart-shaped coverings for the ladies, wide flat-brimmed straw hats for the men, even on the coldest winter day. Distinctive too in the funny round topped, rectangular boxed buggies, hitched to fidgety lunging horses that have absolutely no business on the roads, horses that could still win races at most tracks around the country.

Unique, it is. And distinctive. And Lancaster Countians know it. They tend to view all other Amish communities with a suspicious eye, as hangers-on, wanna bes, that don’t quite measure up.

Homes are spotless, inside and out. Yards and drives around here are cleaner than the house I grew up in. Of a Saturday evening, young children swarm around outside, sweeping vigorously with wide bristle brooms, lest the horror of some stray speck of dirt or blade of grass mar the driveway. In the fall, leaves that flutter from the trees are attacked almost before they hit the ground, and rudely piled up and burned with all the others. I’ve always viewed this cleanliness fetish with some awe. Why sweep the drive? It will only get dirty again. Wait to rake the leaves until they all fall. Makes a lot of sense to me. But I’m from the Midwest. From one of those communities that doesn’t quite measure up. What do I know?

So I observe and marvel. So prim and proper, is everyone. And that’s the way it is.

At least that’s what I thought when I moved here in the early 1990s. From Honey Brook to Morgantown to New Holland, from the Welsh Mountains to Gap and beyond, it was all the same.

But then I heard some talk, muted murmurings. About some place simply called the south end. Things were different down there. Backwards. Ultra Conservative. They go barefoot in summertime. Men, women, children. Every day. Even on Sundays, I expect.

Not that I have anything against going barefoot. I did that once, too. As a child. But not since.

The South-enders, I was told, are hicks.

I couldn’t believe it. Not in Lancaster. From what I’d seen, it was all one monolithic community, one united front.

And then one fine summer day came my first fateful brush with the South-enders. It was probably 1992 or ‘93, when I was in college and working the summer months at Graber Supply. That morning I delivered some metal roofing to an Amish farm about ten miles down, in what would be considered the edge of the southern end.

I rumbled in with the flatbed delivery truck, my cargo securely strapped down on the bed. The place was neat enough. Buggies and hacks were swarming in. Apparently there was a frolic that day, to install the new barn roof.

Men rushed about, removing old rusty nails from stacks of soggy used lumber. They were chattering in PA Dutch, hooting with hard mirthless laughter. All were barefoot, their flat-crowned straw hats smashed down low over their foreheads. The women too, strolled comfortably barefoot, lugging large baskets of food to the house, and clutching small squalling children.

I got out of the truck and approached the homeowner to see where he wanted me to unload. A wiry man with a fierce black beard. He greeted me cheerfully, smiling. Fine beautiful day. Yes, yes, I agreed.

And then I did something really stupid.

I spoke to him in PA Dutch. His mother tongue. I forget what I said. Probably some offhand comment about the frolic. My words had an immediate and dramatic effect.

He froze. As did everyone around us who heard me. Work ceased, the hard laughter died, it was eerily quiet. A few rusty nails slipped from stained and dirty fingers and plunked softly to the ground. As the puzzle was computed in dense brains in the hot sun. Why was this English man, this truck driver, speaking in PA Dutch? Made no sense. Except… except, ah, it could mean only one thing. He must have been born Amish. And left them. Not a good thing. Definitely not a good thing. Grim stares bombarded me. I could feel them.

The homeowner recovered slightly, gathered a bit of composure. He stuttered and stammered. Was I raised Amish? Yep, I said. In the Midwest. Who were my parents? I told him. He looked blank. He hemmed and hawed a bit more. Was Mr. Graber, the owner of Graber Supply, also raised Amish? Yep, I said, suddenly aware that a gaping precipice was yawning at my feet. The homeowner continued.

“I wouldn’t really have to know,” he said. “But is Mr. Graber excommunicated from the Amish church?” The barefoot yokels around me leaned in eagerly, ears honed.

“Nope.” I said. Whew. Dodged that one. If word got around that Mr. Graber was an excommunicated ex-member of the Amish, there goes all his local business. But the homeowner wasn’t done.

“I guess I really wouldn’t have to know,” he said again, with a frozen smile. “But are you excommunicated from the Amish church?” The thought flashed through my mind that if I said yes, the load of metal roofing would be sent right back to the yard with me. Another driver would have to deliver it. The yokels leaned in again.

“Nope.” I answered. “I am not in the ban.” The tense air dissipated instantly, swept away by the summer breeze. The men around us resumed their work, wrenching rusty nails from old used lumber, murmuring amongst themselves. My answer seemed to satisfy the homeowner, at least long enough for me to get the metal unloaded. After collecting the check, I quickly boarded my truck and fled the place.

Lesson learned. Since that day, it has been my policy to never, never speak in PA Dutch to any Amishman I don’t know. Especially the plainer ones. Regardless of how jolly they might seem. Or how loudly they might laugh.

Since that time I’ve been content to let the southern end be the southern end. I know few if any people down there. It’s a mostly free country. If they want to live like that, more power to them. I don’t invade their territory. They leave me alone.

And then about a month ago, my good friend “David” asked me to run him down to the southern end one Saturday afternoon. Some guy he needed to see. I agreed cheer-fully enough. David and I go way back. I stop by his place often for coffee and to beg food from his goodwife. So when he has errands and it suits me, we run around with Big Blue.

We set off, David sitting up front, his twenty-something son, Mike riding in the back seat. A beautiful sunny day. David clutched a map with impossibly small print. I had no misgivings. I figured he knew where he was going.

We headed south on Rt. 222. And drove and drove. Down past Refton. Then Quarry-ville. And a small burg or two beyond. The landscape gradually changed around us. Different country. Hills. Woods. Rednecks. Little stores and businesses scattered here and there. Neat farms, at least on the main road. Keep going, David instructed. And so I did. On and on.

“Seems like we’ll get to Maryland soon,” I said. After studying the small print map, David admitted we’d gone too far. So we backtracked, looking for the road he wanted.

“Don’t you know where you’re going?” I grumbled. “Surely, a Lancaster born Amish man like you wouldn’t be lost.” David allowed that he had never been in this particular area before in his life. I was astounded.

“Never had any reason to come down here before,” he explained.

We meandered around a good bit, looking for our road. David claimed the maps weren’t accurate, that some local roads were omitted completely. I was dubious. We finally found our road and turned west on a narrow paved path that quickly narrowed even further into a one lane trail. No sign of the box number we needed. The road dead-ended. So we turned around and drove back out to the next farm, an Amish place.

It was a rambling, ramshackle place that didn’t belong in Lancaster County. Not the Lancaster County I knew. Reminded me more of the Midwest. Missouri in particular, not that I have anything against Missouri. Bare, decrepit buildings. Junk machinery parked about. An old house with a sad little hovel tagged to the rear. Probably the daudy house. I shuddered at the thought of my parents living there. Tall grass swayed in the unkempt yard.

Under an old oak tree in front of the house, the Amish farmer and his teenage son, both barefoot, lounged about, dressed in raggedy clothes and old straw hats, hands firmly planted in pants pockets. Talking so some English rednecks. A few mangy mongrels lurked about. As I parked, the rednecks and the boy walked off to the barns. The Amish farmer peered keenly at David as he emerged from Big Blue. He smiled, displaying large brown-stained teeth. David, impeccably dressed in contrast, walked up. From Big Blue, Mike and I intently watched this curious encounter between north and south.

David spoke first. We couldn’t hear, but whatever he said, that’s about all he got out. The South-ender, greatly excited by such unexpected company, instantly launched into a torrent of words. Gesticulating all the while with animated motions of his hands. David stood there and smiled kindly, occasionally getting a word in edgewise, as the farmer talked and talked.

“Must be some complicated directions,” I muttered to Mike after some minutes had passed. “If it takes this long.”

After some time, David finally extracted himself and walked back to the truck, where Mike and I had been reduced to chortling and making snide comments about the area and its inhabitants.

“Well, where’s the place?” I asked as David got in.

He looked befuddled. “I’m not sure,” he answered. “There’s ponies in the front pasture.”

“What,” I hollered. “You’re standing out there talking to that hick southerner for ten minutes and you didn’t even get directions? What in the world was he talking about?”

“He was more interested in who I was and in our mutual freundschaft,” David answered sheepishly. “And what my business is down here.”

We drove east as the barefoot farmer ambled back toward the house. Eventually the pavement ended. Probably the first gravel road I’ve ever seen in Lancaster County. Big Blue bumped along. “Sure we could be in Missouri,” I grumbled. “There’s got to be a whiskey still or two hidden in the woods around here somewhere.” About a mile later we saw ponies in the pasture in front of a house. Just as the barefoot farmer had claimed. And so we finally reached our destination.

And that was the end of that little adventure. Later David told me that according to local legend, the barefoot farmer had once in a rage siezed a pitchfork and chased a nosy zoning officer from his farm. Probably happened when they were attaching the hovel of a daudy house to the main house. But my opinion of the man escalated enormously when I heard that. Can’t fault a guy for protecting his property from local township thugs. Maybe the southern end isn’t so bad after all.

To every thing there is a season, and a time
to every purpose under the heaven…

—Ecclesiastes 3:1
_______________

One hundred and twenty-four weeks. That’s how long it’s been. Almost two and a half years. One hundred and twenty-four straight weeks of posting a new blog every Friday night. That’s a long, long time. Any way you look at it.

That’s what I thought to myself as I struggled a few weeks ago to come to grips with the fact that the time had arrived for a guest blogger. My friend John and I had discussed it. He had agreed to do it. He’d have something ready, he assured me. I had no doubt he would. But yet, when the chips were down and the moment came, it was hard to let it go. Even for a week.

In the end, I forced myself to do it. I was exhausted. Felt empty. And it was my birth-day. Send me what you got, I told John. The decision was made. And then I let it go.

From the first moment, it seemed, a great weight was lifted from me. I relaxed. Didn’t fret or fuss about what had to be done, and how soon. Or about the subject matter.

I slept. Slumbered for the first time in years, without words and phrases running through my mind in my dreams. I read. Books. Magazines. The web. I watched baseball and football. Frolicked in the sun. Went to a friend’s house one evening for dinner. Hung out. I did everything but write.

It was great. I felt alive. An active participant.

On Monday, my birthday, I felt like doing something completely off the wall. Something out of character. I mulled my options. Buy a motorcycle. Naw, don’t want to commit suicide. Hike the Appalachian Trail. Takes too much planning. Parachute out of an airplane. Too wild, even for my present mood. So I decided to take the plunge and open a Facebook account. That’s quite enough excitement for a paranoid schizo like me.

So I did. Just like that. Shocking. It was easy. I welcome new Friends. Join me.

And as the days passed, I realized how relaxed I was. No stress. John emailed his material early in the week. I looked it over with a critical eye. Good. Almost zero editing. No stress there either. I could handle more of that.

All too soon, the week ended. On Friday, right on time, John’s blog was posted to great acclaim. Good stuff. And now it’s time to return my nose to the grindstone. Crank out the old weekly posts for all those impatient readers out there.

Except maybe it’s not.

The blog was forged under the intense pressures of stress and pain and loss and grief and fear. And a whole lot of other crap. The turmoil unleashing in waves. I didn’t really plan anything. It just kind of happened, fell together on its own. The first few months are pretty rough, writing-wise and in subject matter. It’s where I was. What I felt. And what I thought. When I was finding my voice.

Unplanned, most of it, from week to week. It’s all there. Every blog, from the first one. In chronological order. You can go back and check them out. Every one. Exactly as they were posted.

It’s all there. The pain and rage and fear and hurt. The loneliness and sorrow. I laid it all out there in raw and bloody words. And in time, other things too. Politics. Current happenings. Stories from my childhood. Memories. Nostalgia. Interspersed with occasional spasmatic regressions as certain events and anniversaries stirred the old demons from their sleep.

Overall, I’ve been pretty open. Maybe too much so for some of you. Most of you know how I feel and what I think about a lot of things. From politics to pickup trucks to football to the brutal turmoil engulfing the breakup of my marriage. And everything between.

I’ve been asked more than a few times during the past two years if I’m angry at God. I’ve always thought that a strange question. Angry at God? Why would I be? It never occurred to me to conveniently blame God for all the bad stuff that happens when people actively mess up their own lives. I haven’t been angry at Him at all. Apathetic, maybe. I’ve felt far from Him sometimes. But angry? Never even crossed my mind.

And I look back over those first twelve months of posts. How the readership gradually and steadily increased, mostly by word of mouth. Along with a few helpful links here and there. How I kept plugging away, doing what needed to be done. Moving forward, week after weary week. I now have an accumulation of writings I could not have fathomed even two short years ago. My total hit count should pass 165,000 this week. An honorable number. Not staggering. But honorable.

And it filled a deep need inside me, the writing and the posting. The modern word for it, I suppose, is therapy. But that seems a little trite. Whatever it was, it helped me deal with what was bugging me. And move on.

But it’s been tougher, the last while. To take the time needed to produce something of quality every week. Every blog demanded all my spare moments. Every evening. Eight to fifteen hours a week. Which was great, the first two years.

But lately not so much. I got a sense that the costs in time and pressure were depriving me of other aspects that needed some attention. Like living. Last week confirmed that.

To everything there is a season, as the Preacher wrote so long ago. The season for weekly posts on this blog is over. It is time for me to live. Return to the things I have neglected these past two years. And perhaps venture into some unexplored terrain. Taste some new experiences. I’m ready.

The rage is gone now. And most of the pain. In the late hours of the night, the fear returns sometimes, slipping into the edges of my consciousness like a ghost. As does the sense of loss. Of so much, so many things that are gone and will never return. A certain degree of sadness, I think, will remain with me always. But mostly, I’m good. In decent shape emotionally. My heart is calm. I’ve accepted life as it is. It took two-plus years and thousands of dollars worth of counseling for me to be able to write this paragraph.

But now I can. And mean it.

It’s a peaceful place to be. Although I’m fully aware there will be flashbacks some-times. I know not “what dreams may come” when least expected. Some things, I know, will have to be confronted and faced down again and again. But less and less, I hope, in time.

It’s a peaceful place to be. I don’t ever want to leave.

That doesn’t mean I won’t write. Writing is a part of my life now. It will always be, for as long as I can punch a keyboard. So I will continue to produce. Just not every week. I don’t need to now. And I just don’t have it in me anymore.

Loosely, I plan to post about every two weeks, always on a Friday evening as usual. Although I won’t commit to a firm schedule. Sometimes I might post two weeks in a row, then not again for awhile, and sometimes every other week. After each post, I will note that fact on my Facebook page with a link to the blog. Those without Facebook will just have to check in occasionally for a new post. I may lose some of you. If so, it’s been a great ride.

I’ve always appreciated all my readers, except for a few tedious Flamers who got kicked out quite some time ago. Some of you have been with me from the beginning. It’s been a long journey and a memorable one, at least for me. I’m deeply grateful for your faithful support. And for those of you who joined me somewhere along the way. We’ve come a long way together. Thanks for hanging in there with me.

Walk with me in the future as I continue on a more leisurely pace along the path so faithfully traveled these past two years. As I flesh out some of my previous sketches and throw out a new one now and then. There’s still a lot of material to be gleaned. A lot of stories to be told. About a lot of fascinating and unique characters.

The vibrant details of the past remain vividly ingrained in my mind and memory. Like fields of gold, rippling in the winds, heavy with the fruits of harvest.

And I will reap that harvest. In time. On my own terms.

Since this is my birthday week and I needed a long overdue break,
I’ve asked my good friend John Schmid to fill in for me this week.

—The Editor
_____________________________________________________

Note from John: It is an honor to be asked by Ira to be a guest writer. No way can I match Ira’s ability to keep you glued to what ever subject he writes about, but in keeping with Ira’s heritage, let me tell you one aspect of Amish culture here in Holmes County, Ohio.

********
I pulled into the driveway of Bishop David Kline between Fredericksburg and Mt. Hope several years ago because he was hosting an exchange student from Texas and I knew the family, so I thought I’d stop by and see how she was doing in her “cross-cultural” stay with an Amish family. I’m sure that Amish country and the panhandle of Texas have some similarities, but I can’t think of a one right now.

As I rolled to a stop in front of the Kline house I saw David coming out of one of the sheds in the barnyard. He came over to my car to say hello. I was just turning down the radio which was tuned to the Cleveland Indians game.

“Hello, John,” he said.

Hello David.”

“You like the Cleveland Indians?” he asked. Obviously he’d heard what I was listening to.

“Oh, sort of,” I understated.

He grinned and then he went on to tell me a story that I have retold many times since. (I can’t remember if I ever checked on the exchange student or not. Her name was… I can’t remember…)

It seems that growing up David had a friend in the same church district as him who loved the Cleveland Indians. I don’t know his name, but I’ll call him “Levi.” Levi always knew the score, the batting averages, who got traded, which pitcher was doing well, his E.R.A., how many strikeouts, how many games out of first place they were… he knew everything. He was a fan. Anybody who had any questions about the Cleveland Indians just asked Levi. Anybody who thought the Indians had no chance at the pennant got more promises than a politician could give (well, maybe not that many) as to why this was the Indian’s year (usually until July. When reality set in).

One summer, when Levi was 18 or 19 years old, he joined the church. In a perfect Amish world this means he would no longer be interested in such worldly competitive endeavors such as sports, and especially professional sports, especially Major League Baseball which plays on Sundays and advertises beer and they wear uniforms and such. But, as you know, since the Amish live in the same fallen world as the rest of us, Levi continued to be a walking encyclopedia on Cleveland Indians trivia.

Then Levi got chosen by lot to be a preacher.

Then he moved to Ashland, Ohio (read: strict).

Dum da dum dum… RIP Cleveland Indians.

About ten years ago, in the late nineties, right after the Indian’s great run at two world series (oh, man, that was close!) and great players and future hall of famers such as Manny Rameriz, Jim Thome, and Omar Vizquel, Levi came to Holmes County to visit his old childhood friend, David Kline. In the course of the evening, at a lull in the conversation, one of David’s boys asked him, “Do you still follow the Cleveland Indians?”

Levi’s response was quick, definite, abrupt and final: “No!” as if to say, “Of course not. You know better than that! What a dumb question!”

The young Kline boy said, “Well, it’s just as well that you don’t. They’ve lost nine games in a row.”

Levi stared at the boy over his wire rim glasses and pointed his finger at him in a gesture that was a cross between judgment and triumph and with raised eyebrows and in a victorious and confident voice said, “Yeah, but they won last night!!”

I told this story to my good friends, Marvin and Erma Hershberger who live just south of Charm. Erma told me that a couple of years ago she was tying her horse to the hitching rail at the Charm store just as an older Amish man right beside her was getting off of his buggy. This man was not untypical in that he had a reputation similar to David Kline’s friend, Levi. He followed the Indians as best as one can without TV or radio. The next best thing is the Wooster Daily Record.

Erma said she watched him hustle over to the newspaper box and cram a couple of coins in the slot and rip open the door and grab a paper and quickly open it up to the sports section. He was reading intently as he walked past her buggy on the way to the front door of the store when suddenly his face turned sour and he balled the paper up and threw it into his buggy and stomped into the store to buy his groceries. True Indians fans know exactly what he read. And how he felt. Ever since 1948.

In Holmes County, the Amish love baseball. I have often wondered what the local high school, Hiland, would be like if the Amish attended. Hiland has won several Division IV (the smallest division) state championships in basketball, both boys and girls, and gone to the state finals in baseball a couple of times. And they did that with close to half of the potential athletes in the district not going to high school.

When I played fast pitch softball, the best teams were always made up of Amish boys who had quit school after eighth grade and hadn’t joined the church yet. Several of those teams won the State and then the USA National Softball Title in their respective divisions! At the annual Ft. Wayne softball tournament the last few years, the girls champions have been local Amish girls whose uniform is their everyday dresses. The local Amish businesses will sponsor them but only if they dress appropriately. It sort of tickled me to see a team of girls from Florida who had expensive flashy spandex uniforms and who looked like a mixture of professional athletes and Hollywood movie stars get beat by our local Amish girls wearing dresses and head scarves.

Which brings me to my favorite Holmes County Amish Baseball True Story (the others are also true, but this one is so unbelievable that I thought I’d better mention the word “true”).

Leroy Kuhns lives about two miles from me, between the little crossroads of Fryburg and the village of Mt. Hope. He wrote this story for the September 2003 issue of The Connection , an Amish publication from Indiana. Leroy grew up in the Fryburg Amish Church district. The district just to the East of them, between Fryburg and Mt. Hope, is called Elm Grove. The Elm Grove boys were a little older than the Fryburg boys and for several years the two groups used to play ball every Wednesday night from July through early September. Abe Troyer, one of the Elm Grove all-stars, called them the “Fryburg Windsplitters” even though Leroy claims that Fryburg won every game (at least he has a hard time remembering that they ever lost).

So, here is my favorite story and I’m just going to quote Leroy from his 2003 article:
Of all the games, the one I remember best was one night while Pete Merv was pitching. I was catching and it was bottom of the last inning. We (Fryburg) were ahead by several runs. It was too dark to be playing, already at the beginning of this inning, but I knew that Elm Grove would never acknowledge defeat unless we got the last three outs. Merv quickly put the first two batters down, but by now the clouded western horizon was bringing on total darkness. Players from both teams aggressively objected for us to pitch to another batter. It was just too dark. Somebody’s going to get hurt.

But we only needed one more out and I was determined to get it. Every player seemed to be saying, “It’s no way safe anymore!”

Rising from behind home plate, I raised my hand in protest. “O.K.” I said, “Only one more batter. We’ll be real careful and I can practically guarantee that nobody will get hurt.”

It was now so dark that I, being the catcher, had to call the balls and strikes myself. Our ump lacked the proper equipment for playing in the dark.

I ran out to the mound and said to Merv, “Okay, Merv, here’s the plan. You go through your full wind up and motion, and so will I, but don’t you dare throw the ball! We’ll try to strike the batter out without throwing the ball.”

“O key dokee,” said Merv with a mischievous grin.

Back behind home plate now, I checked who was the batter. Jerry Miller, a soft spoken, left handed hitter, stepped into the batter’s box. Once Jerry was all set, Merv “rocked and fired.” I held off for a second, then smacked my fist into my mitt. “S-t-r-i-k-e one!” I heard a few soft grumbles from the Elm Grove bench. “They’re using the dirty ball on purpose, so it’s hard to see!”

I now noticed several of their players taking position behind the home plate backstop, apparently to check on my honesty in calling balls and strikes. Jerry’s face showed nothing but confusion as he lowered his “stick.” But then as I rose up and went through the motion of throwing the ball back out to the mound, Jerry again got set and ready in the batter’s box. Again Merv “rocked and fired” and upon the “smack” of my mitt I called out, “S-r-i-k-e two!”

“NO!” came from behind the backstop. “That was way outside!”

“Oh, but it wasn’t!” I replied. “It was right down the pipe!”

Now they really started to get on Jerry’s case for just watching the ball go by.

“Don’t just stand there! Three called strikes is as bad as three swings and misses. You might as well at least try!”

Jerry now showed a renewed determination to get his bat on the ball. Giving his bat a couple of short quick swings, he stepped back in the batter’s box, dug in, put his elbows up a notch and totally concentrated on the pitcher. Merv again reared back for the third empty delivery. With smooth motion he followed through with his arm down the front of the mound. Just as I was ready to smack my catcher’s mitt again, I sensed a rush of air as Jerry put all of his weight into a hefty swing that split the cool night air across home plate.

“S-w-i-n-g… and a miss! Strike three! Game over! Fryburg wins!”

And that’s Leroy’s story. I found out later that it was a couple of months before the Elm Grove boys realized that they had been schnookered! Several years ago I was singing at a benefit auction at Mt. Hope when someone in the crowd yelled, “Tell that baseball story!” About one minute into the story I saw some of the Elm Grove boys, now in their 50’s & 60’s, casually stroll out of the tent.

A house is never still in darkness to those who listen intently;
there is a whispering in distant chambers, an unearthly hand
presses the snib of the window, the latch rises….

—J.M. Barrie
__________

For decades, the story has resided in the Wagler clan’s chronicles of lore and legend, to be trotted out and re-examined from time to time, when the fire burns low and the murmered talk turns to certain mysteries of the distant past. It was solemnly recited to each of the children in turn as they were considered old enough, it was passed down, whispered in hushed tones to those of us who weren’t even born when it happened. I first heard it when I was probably three or four years old, when one of my older brothers (Stephen or Titus, I can’t remember which), took me up the stairs and showed me the spot in the old section of the house where it all went down. I absorbed the tale with wide wondering eyes and tried to comprehend the fact that such a fright-ful thing had happened in the sanctuary that was my home.

It happened around fifty years ago, in the mid 1950s. A few years before I was born. And a few years after my parents had moved up to Aylmer. This was before my father added a sizable addition to the ramshackle house that was on the farm when they arrived. The original house was small, consisting of a few rooms on the ground floor, and three bedrooms upstairs.

It was a dark and stormy night. Oops, that’s Snoopy’s infamous line. Actually, it was a still and bitterly cold winter night. No one remembers the exact date or month. A thick layer of frozen crusted snow covered the ground. A full moon glowed in the clear night skies, casting eerie shadows onto the earth below.

It was a normal evening. Nothing out of the ordinary. After the barnyard chores were finished by lantern light, the family gathered round the supper table. Maybe Mom had concocted one of her delicious milk-based soups of beans and bacon and other magical flavorings. Everyone sat around the kitchen table and ate from pale green hard plastic soup plates. Maybe the children fussed for the last scraps of cherry pie. After supper, the boys lounged around and read; the girls helped Mom wash and put away the dishes. Soon it was time for bed. The family gathered round. Knelt while Dad’s rhythmic mellow voice rolled in lulling waves as he recited the traditional High German evening prayer. Asked the Lord to watch over them as they slept that night. The lulling flow wound down and stopped. The prayer was finished. The children rose to their feet and trundled off upstairs.

As was his habit, Dad stayed up late, after the family went to bed. Perhaps writing some notes for a future book, or perhaps penning his weekly Budget news letter. Eventually, between ten and eleven o’clock, he retired. He turned off the hissing mantel lamp; its bright glow flickered and died. The house went dark and quiet. The fire in the wood stove diminished to cooling embers. The bitter cold crept in. All the family slept.

Upstairs, the northeast room was used for storage and assorted junk. Even years later we called it the “trash shtoop” or trash room. Beside that room was a smaller bedroom used for company. A purple curtain covered its doorway. And on the west side of the top of the stairs was a larger bedroom that my older brothers and sisters shared.

My two oldest sisters, Rosemary and Magdalena, around twelve and ten years old repectively, shared a bed by the north wall of the large room. Their younger brothers Joseph and Jesse slept on a bed over on the south side of the room. Maybe they had an invisible line on the floor to separate the boys’ side from the girls’. I don’t know, but somehow it worked, at least short term.

On this particular night, my sisters slept on their bed on their side of the room, snuggled against the cold under the warm thick goose down blankets my mother had made. Across the room, the boys slumbered under their own heavy blankets.

The frigid winter air crept in through the old pane-glass windows. From the west, the full moon cast white light on the floor and shadows in the room. The night hours passed. All was still, as it always was.

Suddenly, Magdalena awoke. What time was it? There was no clock. But she heard something, some unfamiliar noise, somewhere in the house. A nervous energetic girl, she always slept lightly, easily awakened by the slightest sound. She lay there, under the thick goose down blanket and listened intently, every instinct honed, all her senses focused.

And then she heard the creaking. On the stairs leading up to the second floor, to their room. Footsteps, slowly, softly, steadily. Creak, creak. Up and up. Creak, creak.

She shivered. Covered her head with the heavy blanket. It could be Dad. Why would he be coming upstairs at this late hour? She lay there, silent, unmoving. Rosemary, at her side, slept on.

The deliberate incessant creaking reached the top of the stairs. Soft treading footsteps then, approaching their bedroom door. Almost petrified, Magdalena froze there on the bed. Covered her face, all but a spot where she could peep out.

The doorknob squeaked softly and turned. Slowly, their bedroom door swung open, the hinges squealing mildly in soft protest. Magdalena stared. The figure of a man materialized in the shadows. He stood there a moment, unmoving. And then he stepped into the moonlit room. A complete stranger. Medium build. White hair. White beard. And, Magdalena always insisted, he was wearing white clothes. Although that could have been an illusion caused by the glistening moonlight.

She froze in helpless horror and watched as he padded softly into the room. He paused, stood there briefly, and surveyed the room. Then he approached the bed on which her brothers slumbered unaware. He reached the bed, then strangely, knelt down and looked under it. Reached in with his hand and felt about the floor. For only a moment. He rose to his feet and turned toward the girls’ side of the room. And then he shambled straight toward them.

Petrified with terror, Magdalena could only watch as he approached. He reached their bed. Stopped, then bent down to look under their bed as well.

As he was stooping down, Rosemary suddenly stirred and moved her foot. Briefly. At that slight movement, the man froze. Then he rose quickly to his feet and padded softly from the room. The door closed behind him.

“Rosemary,” Magdalena whispered frantically. “Did you see him?”

“Yes,” Rosemary whispered back. “I saw him the whole time.” She had not been asleep after all.

“Shhh,” they whispered in unison. They listened intently for footsteps treading down the stairs again. There were none. All was silent. Their brothers slumbered on.

The silence could mean only one thing. The man was still upstairs with them, perhaps in the rooms across the hall. Maybe he would return. They lay there quietly, side by side, tense with terror, wide awake. And waited. And waited. All was deathly still. The hours crept by, minute by painful minute. And still no sound.

And then, after what seemed like an eternity, they heard stirrings of life below, the welcome sounds of Dad clattering about downstairs, the thump and bang as he filled the woodstove and lit the fire. Moments later he called up. “Girls, time to get up and do the chores. Get up.”

They made no sound and did not move. Dad called up again. And again. Irate, he finally hollered up. “If you won’t get up, I’ll have to come up there and fetch you.” Still they made no sound, did not move.

Thoroughly irritated now, he finally clumped up the stairs and walked into the bed-room. “Why won’t you get up?” he demanded. And for the first time in hours, they stirred. The words flowed from them in torrents. There was a strange man up here. He came into the room. He’s still up here somewhere.

Dad reacted with a chuckle, utterly disbelieving. Surely they had just imagined it.

“Ah, it’s probably just Melvin Keim,” he said. Melvin Keim was a young man from another community who came around from time to time to work as a hired hand. Dad’s first thought was that he might have arrived late and just walked in. He was probably sleeping over in the guest room, Dad said.

The girls were adamant. It was not Melvin Keim, they protested. It was a strange man, with white hair and white beard. And white clothes. Dad realized at last that his daughters were not delusional, that they had seen something or someone, or at least thought they had.

He walked through the guest room. No Melvin Keim or anyone else. Then he opened the rickety old blue door to the trash room on the northeast corner of the house. A blast of cold air greeted him. He walked in and looked across the room. The east window was half open. Dad waded through the clutter of junk furniture and boxes of books and old magazines. Over to the window. He leaned out and looked down. On the ground directly below the window, a full story down, a fresh set of footprints led away from the house and out to the road.

Faced with such irrefutable evidence, Dad had no choice but to believe the girls. He did take them aside separately and questioned them closely on what they had seen. Their stories meshed. Every detail. Shaken, Dad admitted that he had forgotten to lock the doors that night. A rare oversight, one that probably never happened again.

My sisters have never wavered from their original version of events. Magdalena in particular recalls in vivid detail every second of the ordeal.

After fifty years, the mystery remains, as puzzling today as it was back then. And as creepy. Who was the stranger who wandered into our home on that moonlit winter night? A tramp? Or someone more sinister? What did he want? Why did he go upstairs and into the room where my siblings slept? What did he want under the beds? Did he know the place? Why did he slip out a second story window to escape? How did he do that without injuring himself? And where did he go?

We’ve rehashed those questions for fifty years, for longer than I’ve been around. And we’ll never know the answers.

Perhaps my father’s recited evening prayer that night was honored in ways he could never have imagined.

“There’s never enough time to do all the nothing you want.”

—Bill Watterson, “Calvin and Hobbes”
_____________________________

I don’t know what it is. In the Dog Days of summer, everything droops. Energy, spirits, and sometimes inspiration. Most years, you can blame it on the heat. Not so much, this year, except for the last week, maybe. It’s been cool, month after month. So it’s not the heat. The grumpy blahs of summer’s end, and fall’s imminent arrival. Followed then by the incessant cold of winter. Approaching like some dark distant brooding cloud.

As Labor Day looms, and the official end of summer, I look back, as always, with mild astonishment. Reflect on all the great grand things I’d planned in the glorious dawn of spring, and how those plans stack up to the harsh reality of late summer. As always, the eager optimism of those heady hopeful days fell flat somewhere along the way. Or just quietly drifted away in the busyness of living. And the things left undone will remain so always, at least in the time frame I had envisioned.

In this Dog Day season, there were quite a few.

I haven’t hiked. Not much, anyway. Seems like it rained about every Sunday I planned a trip. I went on a couple of short excursions. But not to my favorite spot, Tacquon Glen in the southern end. That beautiful remote rugged trail, once so private, so serene and calming, has been discovered by the masses. On any given weekend day, a dozen or two cars line the road. Not to mention a string of buggies. The trail is clogged with hikers.

Which is fine. The more people know of the place, the more enjoyment will be gleaned from it. But sadly, at least a percentage of the newcomers are slovenly boors who leave littered evidence of their passing. The trail is strewn with trash. The Sunday News even ran an article on the subject a month or so ago. Tacquon Glen has been “discovered.” The masses congregate and march. So for me it’s off the list. Time for new conquests. Maybe I can add that task to next spring’s plans.

I haven’t grilled, but once or twice. Which is a horror and much to my eternal shame. Somehow, it just didn’t seem important. This summer, I’ve been watching my calorie intake a bit more closely. So I don’t eat much food. Excluding Superfood, I spend less than $20 a week on groceries at Amelia’s Discount Foods. Which is basically nothing. A granola bar for breakfast. Salad for lunch. A sandwich for supper, usually made with delicious homemade bread from my Amish friends. So there hasn’t been any particular reason to do a lot of grilling.

Truth be told, I’ve just not had much urge to fire up the charcoal since my good friend Allan passed away in May. He used to slip out regularly of a summer Sunday evening, and I’d grill sausages. Which we devoured with great gusto. Now he’s gone. The grill gathers dust. Seems almost sacrilegious, but maybe it’s time to throw another party.

I haven’t fished. Not that I’ve ever fished much around this area. Not like I used to as a child stalking pike and bass with a cheap spinning rod and reel in the gravel pits of rural Aylmer. But once or twice a summer, even here, I used to dig out the old fly rod and head over to the Conestoga to snag a few crappies or sunfish. Not this year.

I haven’t camped. Because that wasn’t on my list last spring or any other. I don’t camp. Never have, since I was about ten years old, when my father returned from somewhere, maybe the Sale Barn, with an old canvas contraption he’d picked up for a few dollars.

It was a vast, two-room tent. I don’t remember much about it, except that we lugged it out and disentangled the great lump of canvas and set it up in the yard on the west side of our old machinery shed. At dusk, my brothers and I dragged out piles and piles of bedding and blankets and pillows. The interior reeked with the almost overwhelming odor of dank canvas. Didn’t deter us a whit, though. We stretched out in our snug nests and talked late into the night. The harsh cries of nighthawks and hooting owls echoed close around us. Finally slipping off to sleep, we woke to birds screeching in the early morning light. The old tent swayed and dipped with heavy dew. When we slapped the walls, great torrents of moisture cascaded down.

It was an adventure then, something different and grand and great. But somehow I lost the wonder of it all along the way. Today, I class campers in about the same category as bicyclists. Avid, driven, focused on their craft and methods. Willing to pursue their passion at enormous cost in time and treasure. At least the campers aren’t as annoying as the bikers, unless you get stuck behind some creeping travel trailer on some impassible stretch of road. Which can make one mutter things that shouldn’t ought’a be said.

So I didn’t get a lot accomplished this summer. Not like I’d planned. But I did a whole lot of nothing. And some hanging out with friends. And some traveling. And some writing. Guess that’ll about have to do.

It’s Dog Days in blogland too. Last week’s post brought some private mutterings from a couple of readers. They must have thought the B&W Ointment was a farce. That I just made it all up to see if I could fool you. One wag mildly accused me of quackery and suggested I hang around people who hold less dire perspectives. Another message suggested I take a break from writing for a few weeks, as I’m obviously under a lot of stress. After considering that suggestion, I concluded it wouldn’t be such a bad idea. To take a breather once in awhile, maybe have a guest blogger fill in. We’ll see.

Meanwhile, my good friend and well known author Jerry Eicher linked the post to his publisher’s site because he felt it would be of interest to his readers. So it goes. Some see one thing and some see another, all after reading the exact same words. For the record, B&W is not a farce. All I wrote about it was true. I highly recommend it.

It’s Dog Days for the local cops. A few weeks ago one night in the little burg of Columbia, over on the west end, a homeowner noticed an intruder in his van outside the house. Outraged, the homeowner went out and confronted the thug with a baseball bat. One blow, and the bad guy was writhing on the ground with a bloody nose. The cops arrived and congratulated the homeowner and hauled the burglar off to jail. At least that’s what they should have done, and would have done in a saner time, and maybe in a saner season of the year. But no. The homeowner was arrested and now faces felony charges for using excessive force. The DA prissily sniffed that the robber might have been armed and could have injured the homeowner.

I could rage and seethe for a few paragraphs. But I won’t. Been there, done that. It’s just sheer insanity. No wonder the common man increasingly disrespects and despises the law. And the cops. One outraged citizen wrote in a letter to the local newspaper that he would never spend another dime in Columbia. Ditto that for me. Not that I ever have spent a dime there. But I won’t now for sure.

It’s Dog Days too, for an arrogant class of people who suddenly are facing uprisings in their districts during what should have been a lazy summer recess. Our imperial senators and congressmen. That’s one bright spot in an otherwise abysmal economic landscape, the hordes of common citizens who are flocking to town hall meetings to protest a government takeover of their health care decisions. When you think all is lost, sometimes it’s not. The groundswell of protest is a beautiful thing to see. Viva the Resistance!

And this year, you can sense too, a pulsing undercurrent of unease. Not fear, just a realization that we are somewhere we haven’t been before. It’s been a weird summer. Even here in Lancaster County. Where hundreds of Amish work crews and countless little shop businesses scramble for scraps. We’re not used to hard times here. It’s been the land of milk and honey for so long. Now those streams are running dry.

There’s always work to be had, of course, but competition remains intense. Crews that in a normal year would be scheduled out three months struggle for work in the next two weeks. Perhaps this is a “dire perspective,” but maybe we should all make like ants and save and store sufficient supplies for a long tough winter. I’m just saying, is all.

But one bright star gleams in the bleak night skies. To comfort us. Football. Oh, yeah baby. Preseason pro games kicked off this week. We count down the four weeks to the real thing. And college, too. I can’t wait.

The Eagles are in classic and delicious disarray, as usual. Decimated by injuries, and one of their star thugs picked up for possession of pot. As a libertarian, and to be fair, I stridently defend his right to smoke anything he wants. But neither the law, nor the league sees it that way. So in the meantime, it’s trouble for the Eagles, in which I take huge delight. McNabb ain’t getting the team anywhere again this year. Maybe Michael Vick will. He’s back and signed with the Eagles after two years in federal prison for dog fighting. I actually kind of like the guy now, because everyone else hates him. Under-dog (no pun intended) and all. I hope he performs well, even for the Eagles. But they’re not going anywhere.

Sadly, neither are the Jets. I’m furious at management for firing coach Eric Mangini after his Bret Favre induced losing season last year. He was out of a job for all of two days, before the Browns wisely snapped him up. Now the Jets have an untested rookie coach and not a whole lot else going for them. So it’s going to be a long hard slog again. Go Cardinals. I’m still heartbroken over your Super Bowl loss. Get the thing won this time.

The art of healing comes from nature, not from the physician.
Therefore the physician must start from nature, with an open mind.

– Philipus Aureolus Paracelsus
_________________________

Seems like every Amish community has one. Its local expert on natural cures. The man or woman who will prescribe concoctions of herbs and mixtures of who knows what for just about any ailment.

The Amish are particularly gullible to natural fads. They believe what they are told by scurrilous quacks. Are maddeningly susceptible to any claims published in a book or magazine. If it’s in print, it must be true. It never seems to cross anyone’s mind that lies can be printed as well as told. Used to be one could identify the latest scams by scanning the pages of The Budget. Always good-sized box ads proclaiming eternal youth, joint health, snake oil guaranteeing a brand new heart, ointments for every imaginable sprain or bruise. The Budget is probably still a valid barometer.

Not that I don’t believe in natural treatments and cures. With age, I am increasingly hostile to all pharmaceuticals. I’ll take prescription drugs only in severe emergencies. And then get off them as soon as possible. I’ve taken a daily regimen of vitamins for about ten years now. For the last five, I’ve faithfully drunk my Superfood mixture twice a day. Great stuff. I wouldn’t do without it.

But I don’t buy all the wild claims made by herbal manufacturers. Anyone can claim anything. I research all herbs and vitamins before using them. It’s easy to do, on the internet. I also ask the opinions of those I trust, those who harbor knowledge far advanced to mine.

My father, in his later years, became quite involved with natural foods. Every year or two, it seemed, he wrote another extensive expose on his latest discovery. In the 90s, it was fiber. Then bread baked from fresh ground whole wheat kernels. Then COQ10, a miracle vitamin for the heart. And those are only a few I can remember, of the many. It got so that when he launched into his latest magical discovery, I would just kind of let it flow in one ear and roll out the other.

So it was with extreme skepticism that I greeted his latest “discovery” a few years back. My parents still lived in Bloomfield. I think it was in January, 2007, when Ellen and I made our final trip home as a married couple. We were there a few days. It was winter, ice was everywhere, the roads were slicker than snot.

When we arrived, Dad was gimping about the house, busy as always, firing the wood stove and pounding away at his manual typewriter. He and Mom greeted us cheerfully. He paused from his work and sat on his rocker, arms folded, to visit awhile. It didn’t take long.

“Have you ever heard of John Keim?” He asked, rocking vigorously, glancing at me sideways, as he tends to do.

“Nope, can’t say I have,” I answered.

“He’s an Amish naturalist. He lives in Ohio,” Dad said.

Oh, boy, here we go already, I thought to myself. “Oh, is that right?” I grunted.

Oblivious, Dad was just getting warmed up. In the next half hour, I learned far more than I ever cared to know about a man named John Keim.

He was a man, Dad claimed, who had invented a natural ointment that healed burns. And wounds. But mostly burns. The Amish are particularly interested in burn treat-ment. They get burned more than average because some child or adult is always pouring white gas into a kerosene lamp, it seems, and poof, a split second later, an explosion and skin is peeling off from third degree burns. Or that old classic, pouring gasoline on an open fire. That’s probably caused more severe burns than anything else in the world.

John Keim named his concoction B&W Ointment. For Burns and Wounds. The product is entirely natural. A mixture of various herbs, with a base of raw honey. In recent years, he traveled around to Amish communities, holding meetings, and teaching others how to apply B&W treatment to severely burned victims. And, Dad claimed, the ointment actually causes natural skin to regrow, even where there had been the worst burns, third degree. Something modern medicine cannot do. Burn doctors do painful skin grafts, because they can’t make burned skin grow again.

After a burn accident, the victim is slathered with the B&W over the burned area, then the ointment is covered with burdock leaves. Then everything wrapped in gauze. New treatments are applied each day. In seven days or less, new skin is growing. Rarely, if ever, do any scars remain.

I was dubious. But I listened. It could be true, I reckoned. It all sounded pretty simple to me. Like an “Amish” story. Lots of fantastic claims, but short on facts. Not that I doubted the power of natural remedies. But a concoction that would heal burns and grow new skin? If true, the medical profession would have to pay attention.

Dad had a vision to publicize the B&W regimen in his monthly news magazine, “Plain Interests.” Also personal testimonies. The plan, he said, was to have an appointed person in each Amish settlement, a person trained by John Keim. When there was a burn accident, that person would be summoned to come and apply the treatment.

And as my father rocked back and forth and talked incessantly about this latest “discovery,” I sensed that this was more than his usual health kick. That he was excited. And firmly convinced of the quality and claims of this product. He is not a stupid man. I decided to keep my eyes open, to see for myself if the B&W Ointment was all it was cracked up to be.

And so I did, after we returned home. Read the occasional account in Plain Interests and The Budget. Stories of how someone, usually a child, was badly burned. How the B&W treatment was applied.

From testimony after testimony, I’ve concluded the stuff does work. Exactly as Dad had claimed. Dozens of successful treatment cases have been meticulously recorded by John Keim and others, including Mark Stoll of Aylmer. They have taught others. In many Amish communities today, burn victims are immediately treated with B&W ointment. And, except in two cases, I think, they have been completely healed. The two cases involved infants or very young children who died from their burns.

Recently, a family in Aylmer was not allowed to use B&W on their badly burned little girl. The doctor, who had previously allowed it at his hospital, flatly refused and instead did painful skin grafts on the child’s burned leg. After the girl was finally released to return home, the parents fled with her to Mexico. There, they somehow convinced the extremely dubious and slightly horrified Mexican doctors to remove the skin graft. They applied B&W, and the wound was soon covered with new natural skin.

Completely healed. Something modern medicine cannot do. Just think about that for a moment. Let it soak in.

Because that’s really the bottom line. Whatever valid criticisms might surface, and there may be some, that central fact cannot be refuted. A simple Amish man with no formal education has developed a natural remedy that outperforms all the known burn treatments ever devised by modern medicine. It flat out boggles the mind.

And it’s not a secret. The Amish freely share their knowledge with anyone who cares to inquire. In certain few hospitals scattered about (Kansas City and London, Ontario and maybe one or two others), they even allow the Amish to come in and apply the B&W treatment to their own members who were burned. The doctors witness it. They see the results. They know it works. And yet, it has caused no stir, no shock waves in the medical world.

Why would a person supposedly devoted to healing ignore such a simple solution? Suppress a remedy that costs almost nothing and could heal thousands who writhe in constant pain? Several reasons, probably. There have been no controlled studies of B&W. Until that happens, it will be viewed as a quack cure. I did find one critical analysis on the web. And there’s always peer pressure. Unwillingness to risk stepping outside established boundaries. And deep suspicion of anything outside mainstream thought and teaching.

It all reminds me of the Old Testament story of Naaman, the Syrian captain. He was told to dip himself in the Jordan River to cure his leprosy. But that was too simple. He expected more fanfare, a bit of recognition of who he was. Some acknowledgment of his office. You’ve got to be kidding, he thought to himself. Here I travel all the way to this desolate country and this hick prophet tells me to go dip in a dirty river. I’ve got the best doctors in the world. And they can’t heal me. Who does this guy think he is? He was storming off in a huff until his servants calmed him and somehow convinced him to consider Elisha’s very simple directions. He relented and returned. And dipped himself seven times in the River of Jordan. Only then was he healed.

The comparison may be a bit of a stretch. But the simplicity of the remedies is similar. And the bull-headed resistance of the powers that be. There is one huge distinction. The doctors who ignore B&W do so to the detriment not of themselves, but of their patients. Contrary to their sworn duty to heal.

I’m not against doctors. They are callously and relentlessly demonized as the Obama administration muscles to pass into law the abomination of universal “health care.” Most doctors work hard and do the best they know, the best they can. Not to mention the long years and endless hours they spent on their educations. All I’m saying is that they should examine the readily available evidence and consider the implications of natural treatment for burn victims. Would that there were one, or even a few, who might dare to shed the shackles of the State and reject all government funded programs. And open private clinics that would include the option of natural remedies.

And then there’s always the drug companies. Vast conglomerates who will commit any act to protect their billions in research investment. Thousands of burn victims can writhe in agony as their wounds are wire-brushed. No way that an unlearned Amish-man and his natural formula will ever be allowed to jeopardize their precious profit.

Not that I have anything against profit or against the drug companies’ right to pursue it. But when their minions run crying to the government to shut down competition, and outlaw natural treatments, that is beyond despicable.

We are, I think, entering the dawn of a dark age in our civilization. We will see and experience hitherto unimaginable things. Terrible things that no one alive has seen or experienced before. An age of upheaval and fire and blood. When government intrusion will dictate every aspect of our lives from cradle to grave. When the elderly will be assisted in their passage to the afterlife because of lack of “affordable” care. When natural treatments will be outlawed and people who persist in providing such treatment will be prosecuted, imprisoned, and forced underground into the black market. An age when the less you have to do with any governmental programs, the better off you will be. And the longer you will live.

In such a time, it would behoove all of us to step into the “River of Jordan.” To be aware of simple remedies like B&W, as well as a host of other natural products. To know how to use them. Where they come from. And how to get more. Not only for our own benefit. But also for those around us.

Those who refuse to prepare with available knowledge and plentiful resources will have little recourse when the dark times come. And even less excuse.

All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on.

—Havelock Ellis
_____________

About once a year or so, it seems, they trot out another one. This one was shown in England last weekend. An Amish-themed documentary entitled “Trouble in Amish Paradise”. One more film about a fascinating backwards culture, one more tidbit for the ravenous maw of mainstream appetite, one more attempt to satiate a hunger that can never quite find its fill.

It featured two local Amish couples who set out, some time ago, on a quest for truth. And followed that path to its ultimate end. They began to question the established church practices and beliefs. And as the title suggests, their queries created a great firestorm of trouble. One of the two couples was excommunicated. Of the other couple, only the husband was. Someone emailed me a link to the film and I watched a few minutes of it. Later that day, I logged on to see the remaining fifty or so minutes, and the link was gone. So I didn’t get to see it all. A few friends who did see it reported they thought it was pretty fair and tastefully done. And honest.

I don’t know the two couples and their families. They both reside here in Lancaster County. I don’t know what triggered their discontent, their search and the subsequent journey of faith they traveled. But I feel for them. I can imagine the pain and uncertainty they faced. The intense stressors they encountered. From a whole lot of sources. Family. Relatives. Friends. And, not least, the Amish church. It’s tough, to be forced to choose a path that estranges you from all you have ever known. To walk away from the security and structure of such a close-knit community life. Especially with young children.

Technically, I have no problem with their decision to allow the filming of their journey and its immediate aftermath. That was their choice to make. I do not fault them for it. And it’s really none of my business. If they felt comfortable doing it, more power to them. It’s not like I don’t do something very similar, in much of my own writing. I have few illusions on that point. But for the rare insider perspective of my Amish back-ground, my stories would attract only a fraction of my current readers.

And yet, I have mixed feelings about the documentary. About spilling out for all the world to see the intricate details of the journey. Not because of the details themselves. Anything that happens to anyone is fair game. But because the events are so close. So fresh, so recent. It all just happened. And the drama continues. How can anyone be in a frame of mind to discuss the events rationally in so short a time? I’m not saying they weren’t rational, the couples. I didn’t see most of the documentary. But from my own experiences and from what I’ve seen of others, it’s almost impossible to absorb and process the pain of cultural separation and rejection absent the passage of substantial time.

I have seen them, encountered them again and again over the years. Individuals and families who had left the Amish. Joined the Beachy church. The Mennonites. Charity. Mainstream Protestants. Some are outright “English” and wander alone, with no claims of affiliation.

I have spoken to them and listened to their stories. You can soon tell which ones have dealt with the wounds of the past and which ones are still struggling and which ones probably never will get over it. They have a hungry bitter eagerness, those who still struggle, to speak of it incessantly. Of how they were wronged. How cruelly they were treated. How patriarchal and dictatorial the Amish system is. The manmade rules, how unscriptural they are. How arbitrarily applied. How the Amish are lost. Some few even state with grim certainty that one cannot be Amish and be a Christian.

When I talk to such people, there is no question their pain is real. You can see it in their eyes. The hard lines on their faces. The constant mental strain. I feel sorry for them.

They just can’t let it go. Can’t let it rest. Not with the passing of time. Not for any reason. Like Christian in Pilgrim’s Progress, they stumble along the footpath, stooped and bowed by the great weight of baggage on their backs.

And that simply is not healthy. Can’t be.

I’m not saying the couples in the documentary were like that, or are like that. Or will be like that. I am saying that the painful events they experienced are probably still way too fresh for them to have dealt with and processed the resulting emotional turmoil.

The Amish church was founded around three hundred years ago. It’s not going anywhere, regardless of the myriad doomsayers who somewhat gleefully predict its imminent demise. It is solid and it will endure.

The structure of the Amish church has remained largely unchanged since its inception. Yes, the power is centered on the ministers and bishops, regardless of how much they might protest they are just “servants.” They are not servants. They are leaders, with a lot of raw power. They can be dictatorial. Decisions are often made that simply make no sense, however one looks at them. Yes, members are expected to submit to the church’s authority in all matters. Yes, it can be a hard road for anyone with a spark of individuality. And yes, it can be almost impossible to break away without losing your mind.

But it can be done.

Sometimes the Amish lifestyle in general makes little sense, even to those of us who emerged from it. And the further one is removed, the less sense it makes. But I try to keep in mind that the structure and rules are a survival mechanism, without which the culture would be swept into the mainstream, probably within a generation. No longer separated. No longer distinct.

Which to me wouldn’t be a big deal. But it is to them.

Here I directly address those who were raised Amish or in some other similar plain setting. You can always choose to leave. Maybe you already have left. As a lot of us did. But if you make or have already made that choice, it seems to me, there should be no expectations of changing the cultural structure that has anchored the church for so long. A structure that was in place long before you were born. And will be here long after you are gone.

If you suddenly see the light, and conclude that all those manmade traditions and rules are unbiblical, that the bishop has too much power, whatever, by all means follow your own conscience. State your position. Do what you have to do. But then, don’t complain when the inevitable consequences follow. Don’t expect an entire culture to see things your way. That’s like kicking a concrete wall, expecting it to give. It won’t. You’ll only hurt yourself. And endure a lot of needless suffering.

We all have to find our own equilibrium, those of us who left. Our own sense of who we are, where we’re going, and how we’ll get there. And how we absorb and deal with the daily consequences of our choices.

Some deal with it one way and some another. Some never do.

Letting go is the only answer. Let go the rage, the anguish, the hurts, the wrongs. Life’s not fair. Just let it rest. That doesn’t mean there won’t be flashbacks. Or that you never have to deal with the issues again. Or that you won’t have to vent occasionally, when something sneaks up and whaps you upside the head. And that’s OK.

It does mean you can take control and live a productive life without allowing the hurts of the past to control your present well being. That you can walk in calmness, with a peaceful heart. You can even reach a point where you respect and honor the good things the Amish hold on to, of which there are many.

Not that you have to reach that point. But you can.

Only by letting go will you ever be truly free.

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

I’ve always been quite vocally opposed to tanning beds. The oven-like contraptions you lay in to get a fake tan. The people you see strolling about in the dead of winter with dark tans, most of them, get it from artificial sources. I’ve always proclaimed they will pay for every minute spent in a tanning bed. It just can’t be healthy. Can’t be. Common sense tells you that.

Now I’m not so sure. May have reevaluate my position. Last week the Feds came out with a study showing that lying in a tanning bed is equivalent to soaking in arsenic. Pretty nasty stuff. My natural inclination is always to take any federal study and conclude that the opposite is true. I remember all the hype and hysteria about caffeine, second hand smoke, fiber, and so on, ad infinitum. It’s always something. What will kill you one year may well be proclaimed healthy the next. 1984, anyone?

So I may have to try the tanning bed this winter. In any case, the activity will be taxed soon enough. Anything that’s perceived as bad for you is taxable. There’s a reason this particular study was released now, when tax revenues are plummeting everywhere. And with the insane wackos now running the country, nothing is off limits.

This week, I took somber note as Big Blue cranked over his 30,000th mile. Wow. Can’t believe it. Where has the time gone? Seems like only a couple of months ago that I proudly drove the truck off the lot, glistening and brand spanking new.

A deadline is negative inspiration. Still,
it’s better than no inspiration at all.

—Rita Mae Brown
_______________

I wonder sometimes, after posting another childhood sketch, what the reactions of my readers really are. A few comments always trickle in, but compared to the total number of readers each week, the feedback is pretty miniscule. And that’s not a slam at anyone individually or at all of you collectively. I appreciate all who take the time to read. I’m just saying, is all.

On the surface, the sketches are stories and memories of mundane everyday things that happened long ago in a world now long gone. But in the details of each sketch lurks the incessant hunger of a child to search and seize and explore the known world around him. His community, his family, his surroundings, and the events of an ordinary day. And the world outside his established boundaries. A world that beckons, calls, fascinates. A world into which he will one day venture on a quest to search for that magical land he had glimpsed only from afar.

It’s hard to reach back through the fog of years and try to recapture the essence of the things I saw and heard and felt so long ago. To shed the crusted cynicism of age and experience, and return again to the simple wonder and innocent unpretentiousness of the child. To get there, I have to be in the right frame of mind, kind of “in the zone.” A touch of brooding melancholy helps.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. You never see the failed attempts, the tattered incomplete scenes that get shelved for perhaps another try another day. But it’s been fun. A lot of work, but fun.

I’ve known a few adults who somehow kept alive the flame of childish wonder of their youth. Genuinely. Naturally. Some. But very few. And I’ve seen plenty who walk about with incessant exclamations of contrived wonder. There aren’t many spectacles sadder than that. Or more irritating.

For me, true childish wonder receded long ago. Only the memories remain.

Every week or two, it seems, another email pops up in my inbox. So and so wants to be your friend on Facebook, it informs me blithely. As if there would be scant possibility that I might not want to be that person’s friend and even less of a possibility that I might not have a Facebook account. I mean, how far back in the stone age could I be?

Pretty far, apparently. Because I don’t. Have an account, that is. I’ll be almost any-one’s friend, just not on Facebook. Many of my friends and relatives do have an account. And from what they tell me, it’s a beautiful thing. A great way to keep in touch and instantly share news gossip and opinions and comments. I think most Facebook people check their sites first thing in the morning for all the latest.

And from what I’ve heard, it’s a surefire way to reconnect with old friends from way back. People you haven’t heard from in years, maybe decades. I must confess, that would be intriguing. There’s a long, long trail of people out there I’ve lost touch with. Who knows who might pop out of the woodwork?

So I’ve considered it seriously. It would be cool to hear from old friends and to join the social network. I could even link to my blog and maybe increase my readership there.

But so far I’ve resisted the temptation. Where would I find the time? I’m too busy here, working on my writing. Besides, and this is the real reason, I’m just way too paranoid. I’ve read the fine print on the Agreement you enter when you sign up. Anything you post on Facebook is their property in perpetuity, or close to it. Which means forever.

That means all your pics, all your comments, your gossip, opinions, everything. Even if you take it down, it still exists on the main database. And it’s theirs to use as they see fit.

What about this website, you might be thinking. I post a lot of stuff here. True. But there’s a huge difference. This is a real website. I pay for the domain. It’s mine. I can take it down anytime. And when it’s down, it’s gone. Not saved in some huge database.

I don’t know. I might break down and open a very basic stripped-down Facebook account at some point. Just to check out that world and see if any old friends contact me. But for now, I’m pretty content where I am.

Most of you know I’m not a fan of our current President. I never watch him speak. Can’t stand the guy. But at the baseball All Star Game last week, as the President walked out to the mound to throw the ceremonial pitch, I rooted for him. Man to man. Throw it over the plate. Or at least to the plate. I felt a bit sorry for him as he stood there and waved to the crowd. He looked lost. Come on, man, I thought. Make me proud of this, at least. He wound up and threw. The announcers fell over themselves burbling about how he “got it to the plate.” But it was a bad throw. I don’t think he did get it over, or even to the plate. Otherwise, they would have shown it.

It happens now and then, and it never fails to jolt me a bit. When I’m in public some-where, in whatever setting, and some complete stranger walks up and tells me he/she reads my blog. The first time, I think, it happened at the mall in Lancaster late last summer. I was sitting and sipping a cup of coffee at the mall center, not a whole lot on my mind, when a young Mennonite girl approached timidly. Upswept hair topped by a little covering, she looked to be maybe twenty years old.

“Are you Ira?” She asked shyly.

“I am,” I admitted, startled.

“I read your blog,” she smiled. I smiled back and thanked her. It immediately struck me that she knew a heck of a lot more about me than I’ll ever know about her. We chatted a bit and she wandered on. I have no idea who she was.

And that’s how it goes sometimes. It happened again at a wedding I attended last Saturday. Almost all who introduce themselves are either plain or from a plain back-ground. Only once or twice was it a completely “English” stranger. So far no one’s asked for my autograph. Once someone does that, I will have arrived.

One of my sisters reproached me a few weeks ago at the Kentucky family gathering. I haven’t been fulfilling my reporterly duties in proclaiming all the new babies and upcoming weddings in the family. Been doing some serious slacking, she admonished. I bristled.

“I’m not The Budget,” I grumbled. “Read The Budget for that stuff. I got more important things to write.”

My brother Steve backed me up. “No, he’s not The Budget.” Steve said.

My sister was not convinced. Or satisfied in the least. She persisted. What can be more important than family?

“Not a fair question,” I grumbled again. “Of course family is most important. But the nature of the blog has changed over time. I don’t want to bore my readers with so many factual details about people they don’t even know.” Unless I can weave a story around it, I thought to myself. But I didn’t say that.

It was no use. My defense could not stand. So, in the interest of family peace and future harmony and all that, here goes:

CONGRATULATIONS TO:

Andrew (my nephew) and Marnita Yutzy on the birth of their daughter, Hadassah Ilene, born June 17, 2009.

Jason (my nephew) and Julie Yutzy on the birth of their son, Nicholas Klaus, born July 3, 2009.

Congrats to the proud parents. May your daughter and son prosper, along with your other children. I don’t have pictures of both babies, so I won’t post the one I do have. For continued harmony, and peace among the Freundschaft and all that.

AND CONGRATULATIONS TO:

Mervin Wagler (my nephew) and Mary Marlene Yoder, on their wedding, which was this very day in Worthington, IN. My regrets that I could not attend.

Jason Stutzman and Mary Ann Wagler (my niece) on their engagement. The wedding is planned for October 2, 2009, also to be in Worthington, IN. I plan to attend.

And there you have it. Sorry for my slackness. Family things, even the basic factual details, are very important. And I don’t want to lose sight of that. Ever.

I am a bit distracted this week. A lot of stuff going on. Things happening. Mostly good things. Some of which I hope to share before too long.

“Play us a tune on an unbroken spinet, and let us hear
the actual voices of old fairs; Let us move backwards
through our memories…Let us relive the million forgotten
moments of our lives….”

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

We made it probably three, maybe four times a summer. It was a rare treat, to be allowed to go. An experience to be savored and treasured, for the delightful thing it was. To partake of the bustle and stir of the great city market that was the Aylmer Sales Barn. Every Tuesday was market day.

It was a ramshackle ratty place, consisting of a few acres of cracked and rolling pave-ment and dirty broken gravel, lined with row upon row of vendors’ stands. Inside the main auction barn they sold cattle, and in later years, furniture. A dilapidated side wing housed a number of “English” vendors, who sold mostly cheap Japanese trinkets. And antiques and just plain old junk.

Amish vendors too, sold their wares from little market stands, outside in the elements. Of a Tuesday, the laden old top buggies lumbered down the main gravel road through the community, en route to town. Uncle Abner was a consistent mainstay, selling his eggs. He made the weekly trip to market until he no longer could because of age, a period of close to fifty years. LeRoy Marners sold baked goods. And maybe several other Amish families sold things too. I can’t remember. In the early 1970s, Sam K. Yoder also had a stand.

To us, the Sale Barn was a huge affair, a far shining vista of glittering treasure, a vital part of the pulse of the Aylmer settlement. A place that throbbed with life and lights, full of exotic and wondrous sights and sounds and tastes. Where one never knew the exciting adventures that might unfold.

Sometimes I got to go with Dad, sometimes one of my older brothers let me tag along. We usually went to town first, walked and shopped the great stores on the Aylmer square. Stedman’s. Canadian Tire. IGA. Then ended the day at the Sale Barn.

Outside the main building entrance the French Fry wagon sat parked, windows opened, the delicious tempting odor of hot oily fresh cut fries permeating the air. We always bought fries. Sprinkled them liberally with strong sour vinegar. Canadians don’t put ketchup on their fries. That’s for sissies. And Americans. I wasn’t even aware such a strange and frightful practice existed until I was probably ten years old.

There was a small café in a corner inside the ramshackle Sale Barn building. Beside the serving window stood a metal water tank filled with ice and shimmering bottles of cold soda pop. Mountain Dew, Coke, Orange Crush, and the swirled glass bottles of biting red Cream Soda. There, beside that tank, through the sliding serving window, auctioneer Les Shackleton bought me an ice cream cone one summer night. I was a penniless curly-haired little five-year-old kid, wandering around on my own, staring with hungry eyes at all the mouth watering ice cream and pop other people were buying. He was a nice loud man, who took pity on me and kindly asked my name and claimed to know my father. “So you’re David’s boy,” he boomed as he handed me the cone. Barely able to speak English, I nodded. I slurped the Maple Walnut ice cream, and marveled that such people existed, who for no discernible reason bought little Amish boys such treats. And I savored every bite.

Sometimes a few of my friends were there as well, and we hung out, absorbing all the sights and sounds. The fruit and vegetable man, hollering his prices at passersby. Dad usually stopped by that stand late and haggled for a box of overripe blackened bananas to take home to feed his ravenous family. And down the line, vendors selling clothes, shoes, sunglasses, toys, junk, and old used bicycles I would have killed for. Anything imaginable was available at the Aylmer Sale Barn.

The Pigeon Man sat parked off to one side. The back of his truck was lined and stacked with rows of wire cages. Pigeons and other birds fluttered and bounced inside the cages. Amish boys from around the community, including my older brothers, slipped out at night with dim flickering flashlights. Like squirrels, they scrambled and shimmied up the hand-hewn beams in the empty yawning lofts of great old red barns in pursuit of as many pigeons as they could grab. It’s a wonder someone didn’t fall and break his neck. The pigeons they caught were deposited into burlap feed bags and delivered to the Pigeon Man each Tuesday at the Sale Barn. For thirty-five to fifty cents apiece.

The action lasted until late; it was always dark when things shut down. The vendors wrapped up and loaded their leftover wares and headed out of town. I don’t know if uncle Abner usually sold all his eggs or if the Marners sold all their baked goods. I imagine the prices dropped as closing time approached.

And then one night, it happened. A strange and terrible thing. As the Marners were heading home, a car slowly approached from the rear. Pulled around, and stopped. It was pitch dark; the gravel road was devoid of all other traffic. Young Paul Marner and one of his sisters sat in the large top buggy. A man emerged from the car and approached. Paul pulled the horse to a stop. At his side, the man on the road held something that might have been a pipe, or a gun. He wasted no time with greetings, but gruffly demanded their money.

They gave him all the day’s proceeds, a grand total of twenty-seven dollars. The man returned to his car and roared away. Greatly shaken, the two headed on home, glad to be unhurt. The news flashed across the community the next day. It was all people talked about for a week or two. I was in the second or third grade, seven or eight years old. So it must have happened in 1968 or ’69.

I don’t remember all the details, but somehow the local police got on the case. And somehow they caught the guy. I don’t know if there was a trial, or if the Marners ever testified in any way, but the robber spent some time in jail. Probably a few years at least. And that’s about all I can recall of the Great Aylmer Buggy Robbery.

My father was a man of many trades, and once a year, for a few weeks in July, he too joined the vendors at the Sale Barn. He shipped in fresh cherries by the truckload, from the fertile orchards down close to Lake Erie. A smiling elderly man named Alfred C. High rattled in on a Tuesday after lunch. On the back of his old blue flatbed stake body truck, he had loaded stacks and stacks of lidded wooden baskets with half-loop handles, filled with some of the world’s most luscious black cherries.

Somehow Dad had located the High Farms and made a deal. He paid them just a smidgen above wholesale price, then sold the cherries at the Sale Barn for retail price. It was a money making proposition. By the time I came along, Dad’s reputation as a seasonal cherry vendor was firmly established in the Aylmer area. During the season, people flocked in to buy his cherries.

Alfred C. High usually delivered a few baskets of cracked cherries, or seconds, with each load. These were never sold at the Sale Barn, but were always snapped up by the local Amish because they were cheaper. One Tuesday about mid-morning, William and Fern Kramer, an elderly couple from the nearby Mt. Elgin settlement, trundled the fifteen miles in their horse and buggy to buy some cracked cherries from that day’s load. They sat for hours and hours, waiting for the truck to arrive. About the time the old blue truck pulled in, Neighbor John from half a mile down the road rattled in with his old hack to pick up a few baskets of cracked cherries for his goodwife, Martha.

Unfortunately, that day there were only three or four baskets of cracks, instead of the usual dozen or two. There was tension in the air as Neighbor John and Fern Kramer faced off on who would get to take the cracks. Standing there, hands on her hips, Fern struck first.

“I guess I’ll take them all,” she said authoritatively. Neighbor John looked extremely grieved. As Fern moved in to seize the baskets, Dad intervened. They would have to share and each take two baskets. That’s the best he could do, Dad said. And the fairest thing. Neighbor John looked slightly less grieved. It was not a good day for the Kramers, who had to trundle fifteen miles on their horse and buggy clear back to Mt. Elgin. After waiting for hours and hours. I don’t know why they didn’t just take a few baskets of good cherries. But they didn’t. Guess it never crossed their minds to spend the extra money.

Once in awhile, I got to go along to help sell. On Sale Barn day, we pulled into the vendor area and located a stand. Alfred C. High then backed his old stake body truck to the site. And we unloaded maybe a hundred or more covered baskets. Dad helped unload, but he was already busy selling, engaging anyone who showed even the slightest interest. To verify that the cherries were of good quality all the way to the bottom, Dad would pour a full basket into an empty one, slowly rolling out the delicious fruit. He even allowed people to taste a few before they bought. After tasting, few could resist a purchase.

And here, at a vendor’s stand at the Aylmer Sale Barn, I was introduced to my first real taste of commerce. Of selling a product, taking money, giving change. The bustle and stir of the crowd, the characters who stopped and talked and tasted and bought. “English” people, the old, the young, the fat, the tall, the long-haired hippy types of the age. Scraggly hillbilly hicks, most of them. As were we. We just didn’t know it.

And we engaged too, in some minor commerce of our own. Lugged in cages and boxes with baby rabbits and bantam hens with cute little fluffy chicks. Sold them for a few dollars apiece. We weren’t allowed to own large livestock like calves and goats and sheep. Dad said they ate too much feed. But we did raise small stock, rabbits and such. What we sold was ours, we pocketed the money, to save or spend on things we wanted, hockey equipment and occasional contraband like sports magazines and comic books.

When things slowed down a bit, or most of the cherries had been sold, Dad left us at the stand from time to time and went off to do his shopping. One evening, I stood there all alone. Selling baskets of cherries right along. Two long haired young thugs approached. Well, maybe they weren’t thugs, but they sure didn’t have any money to spend on cherries. One of them stopped in front of my stand and pointed at the sky.

“Look at the plane,” he said. I turned around and looked up.

The young long haired thug grabbed a handful of cherries while my back was turned. The neighboring vendors all roared with laughter. The two young louts walked on, snickering, munching on their pilfered cherries. I was helpless, mortified and hugely embarrassed. I resolved never to get fooled like that again. Like a country simpleton.

And once as I stood there alone at our stand during the early hours of a summer evening, a great ruckus arose from the fruit and vegetable vendor across the way. A bald giant of a man, he was particularly aggressive that night, staggering about and accosting passersby with loud, crude shouts. He was slosh-faced drunk, but I would never have been able to tell. I thought he was just a loud English man. Eventually someone notified the owner of the Sale Barn, and he emerged to confront the loud bald vendor.

The bald giant vendor stood there, red-faced with drink and breathing hard, as the owner curtly ordered him off the premises. The giant bellowed a slurred curse, then slowly cocked a massive paw and unleashed a wide slow looping swing. The owner ducked, then dove in and grabbed the giant behind each knee and yanked. The giant abruptly sat down on his rather sizeable butt. Confused, he slurred more curses, then slowly stumbled to his feet and attacked the owner again, cocking a massive menacing fist. Again, he swung a wide slow looping arc. Again, the nimble owner ducked and dove at the giant’s knees and tugged. Again, the giant sat down abruptly. This time the owner turned and walked away. A few minutes later, two cops arrived and escorted the drunken giant to their car and took him away.

In my memory, that was the first real violence I ever witnessed. I stood there, gaping in awe and disbelief. No one, I figured, would believe my tale.

The Aylmer Sale Barn. There never was one like it, before or since. A place where small children sailed on great voyages of adventure into a strange and mysterious world. A place never forgotten by those who shared the grandeur of its glory years.

It still exists. Vendors still gather of a Tuesday afternoon to sell their wares. Old timers still hang out in the café and speak of bygone times to those who will listen. On the morning of my uncle Abner’s funeral in January, I drove by the Sale Barn with my sister Rachel. We didn’t stop or get out, just drove by and looked. I barely recognized the site of so much drama and wild adventure all those years ago. The place looked sad and desolate. A small cluster of tattered, forlorn buildings is all that remains.

Maybe that’s all there ever was. Maybe it always was a sad forlorn little hick country place. And not the great distant shining vista I remembered as a child. Maybe. To most people.

But not to me.

Take it easy, take it easy.
Don’t let the sound of your own wheels
Drive you crazy.
Lighten up while you still can.
Don’t even try to understand.
Just find a place to make your stand.
And take it easy.

—The Eagles, lyrics; Take it Easy
____________________________

It’s always the same. The anticipated event approaches. At long last, the day arrives. The festivities begin. Savored as they unfold. And then, all too soon, they’re over. I’ve just returned from six days on the road, my last excursion for the summer. I’m quite grumpy, and don’t want to be back. So on this expedited post, I’ll share a few general reflections and fill in some space with pictures.

We have a lot to learn, in fast paced PA. About chilling, relaxing, and just letting it all rest for a day or two. It wouldn’t hurt us, not to be rushing around like madmen through each minute of each day. Finishing this project post haste, so we can start the next one. And so on, ad infinitum.

It’s been awhile since I was exposed to southern culture. I lived it a few years, back in the early 1990s while attending Bob Jones in Greenville, SC. But since then, decades of running the northern/eastern rat race got to me. I’m a full fledged clock-watching, totally scheduled northern boy.

On Friday afternoon, I set off for West Virginia and the home of my friends, Dominic and Jamie. They were hosting their annual great July 4th party the next day. I arrived by mid-afternoon, and hung out with Dominic. We lazed around his pool, ran a few errands, got stuff together for the next day’s big bash.

They have a little suite in the basement. Bed, bath, everything one needs to stay a few days. Dominic grilled some fine steaks that night, and we retired to rest up for the big bash the next day.

Saturday dawned, beautiful, bright and clear. Perfect day for a celebration. We ambled about, prepping everything. Setting out food and plates and coolers full of every imaginable drink. People would arrive at 2. The party would last until the fireworks around eleven.

Jamie and Dominic before the party.

And promptly at two, the guests began to trickle in. Friends, coworkers, friends of friends. We feasted on BBQd pork, coleslaw, chips, and a vast array of other delicious dishes. Then sat around the pool, threw darts in the garage, and generally just laid back. I was more laid back than I have been for years. Utterly, and I mean totally relaxed. Even allowed myself to be coaxed into playing a few games of horse shoes. I had never played before. And it showed, against some of those WV hustlers. But I scored a point or two, salvaging a tiny shred of honor. My team lost both games.

Some friends who had attended last year’s party didn’t make it this time. I missed them.

Around ten, Dominic and a few of his buddies unveiled some long, hefty dangerous-looking tubes. Fireworks. Unlike any I’d ever seen in PA. The crowd hung back a safe distance as the boys fumbled with lighters. The flickering flame, a sharp hiss, increasing to a high scream, and off they soared, straight into the skies at least a few hundred feet, before exploding into fiery colorful shreds. I don’t know where Dominic and the boys got those fireworks, or what exactly was in them. But in PA, they would have been immediately arrested after lighting even one.

I retired around midnight, still utterly relaxed, and fell asleep in minutes.

The next day around mid morning, after a good southern breakfast of eggs and bacon, I took my leave. Thanked my hosts for the great experience, and departed for Kentucky. My rented Dodge Charger pulsed along through the Sunday traffic on the WV back roads. Eventually I reached the Interstate and headed south and west.

On Monday, I putzed around eastern Kentucky, ending up in Lexington for the night. Horse country. Lexington is surrounded by hundreds of tidy, fenced horse farms. Huge ornate barns, more elaborate than the owners’ houses. With the economy, the horse business is hurting as well, I gathered from reading the local newspapers and from a few conversations around the area.

On Tuesday, family members would gather at the Blue Lick Battlefield State Resort Park in the Mays Lick, KY area. The site of the last Revolutionary War battle. My nephew John got the idea for the reunion a few months ago. He reserved rooms, took care of all the logistics. Invited everyone to come. Not all of us would make it. Even my parents had left their home in Mays Lick to spend the summer in Aylmer. So they wouldn’t be there.

But we had another reason for gathering at this particular time.

In January of this year, after a battery of tests and scans, my oldest brother Joseph was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, a rare form of cancerous blood disease. Once you’ve got it, you’ve got it. It will never leave. You’ll deal with it the rest of your life. Most people who get it develop some sort of program and live relatively normal life spans. Some get wiped out in short order and die.

After his initial diagnosis, Joseph and his wife Iva headed to Mexico for treatment. One particular clinic specializes in cancer treatments, with an emphasis on natural solutions, and some chemo. The treatments seem effective. He’s surviving well, just tires easily. Has to watch himself, not overdo things. Because of his situation, his family decided to get together this summer in his honor.

Slowly we trickled in, those of us who came. And we came from all around. My niece Janice from Phoenix traveled the longest distance. Steve and Wilma Wagler from PA. Jesse and Lynda Wagler from Abbeville, SC. Lester and Rachel Yutzy from Hutchison, KS. Ray and Maggie Marner from Due West, SC. A vast assortment of nieces and nephews. And of course, most of Joseph and Iva’s children, from various Midwestern states.

We’re graying now, the siblings, and no longer young. Nieces and nephews who were always underfoot as squalling children now amble about, full grown adults, some of them married with their own families. It seems strange. Rightfully, time should be frozen somewhere, and we all should remain as we were ten, twenty years ago. But it just doesn’t work that way. Sometimes it seems like I’m dreaming, and need to pinch myself to wake up.

The park has a few cabins and a sprawling comfortable lodge. Most of us booked rooms at the lodge for the two day, two night stay. We greeted each other familiarly, as if we’d last seen each other yesterday. We settled in our rooms and gathered at the main pavilion, which John had also reserved for two days. Coolers full of drinks and baskets and boxes of food were soon strewn about. We sat around and visited as the women laid out the late afternoon meal.

Joseph looked and seemed normal. Just as I’d always remembered him. He is very upbeat about his condition. Determined to do all he can to live and enjoy life. And watch his grandchildren grow.

He grumbled a good bit about my perspectives in the Wicked Pony story. He claimed that I have a very vivid imagination. That I tend to embellish my stories. I laughed and cited artistic license.

At five o’clock, the meal was served. Hot dogs, salad and numerous side dishes. For dessert, homemade, hand-cranked ice cream.

After supper, as dusk settled late, we sat around a camp fire and just hung out. Caught up with the latest news and gossip. There was a minor uproar earlier when one of my uppity nephews slyly accused me of inventing a word in last week’s blog. Ostensively, he said, was not a word. He even drew support from a few other loafers who lounged about, gleefully stirring the flames of dissension. Of course, I was out-raged and defended myself rather stridently. The issue was resolved only after I googled the word on my Iphone and presented the proof to my accusers. So I successfully beat back that little attack. Make up words indeed. Can’t have my reputation besmirched like that.

And that was the start of two lazy, laid back relaxing days. We just chilled. Relaxed. No schedules whatsoever, except for the five o’clock evening meals. Otherwise, everyone was on their own.

Some hiked. Some swam in the pool. Or played mini golf. We staged mock duels with old style flintlock cap pistols purchased at the camp store. A referee carefully counted the step-off, then proclaimed the winner. We visited the graves of Revolutionary War soldiers who had died on that site. We toured the park museum.

I never met any moonshiners, although I chatted with several people who claimed to have contacts. I have no doubt they did.

We brewed strong pitch-black cowboy coffee late at night and sipped countless cups. Retold old stories. Roared at the old jokes. Both the stories and the jokes somehow always grow more vivid and more detailed with each retelling.

On the second night, sisters Dorothy and Janice sang the songs they used to sing as teenagers. Dorothy strummed her guitar and Janice sang harmony as they played the old songs. In the darkness and the flickering shadows of the campfire, they looked exactly as they did twenty years ago, and it took me back. Two little girls, my nieces, singing their hearts out.

We hung out late the last night, then straggled off to bed. And then, on Thursday morning, it was over. Everyone took off for their own homes, returned to their own busy lives.

It was an outstanding gathering, one of the most relaxing in my memory. Only one small problem. Two days wasn’t long enough. Next year we’ll make it three.

John, Dort, Rachel and others

Jesse and Lester

Jesse and Rachel

Me and my Dodge Charger

Breakfast of scrapple, bacon, eggs.

Janice and Ira

Dueling: Lester and Ira

Dueling: Glen and Ira

Firing: Glen and Ira

Happy Grandpa Jess presenting Ira a SC walking stick

John, Lester (standing), Maggie, Joseph, Rachel

Assortment of nephews and nieces

From rear: Nancy Ann, Joseph, Iva, Rachel, Ray J.

Glen brewing Cowboy coffee

Siblings: Rachel, Jesse, Steve, Ira, Maggie

The entire group (minus Joseph)
Less than half of the extended family attended.

Dorothy, Rhoda, Janice. Sisters singing

Politicians are like diapers. They both need changing regularly and for the
same reason.
—Author Unknown

There ought to be one day – just one – when there is open season on senators.
—Will Rogers
___________

It’s July. The summer hums along. Independence Day. All the rah rah celebrations. Cookouts. Fireworks. Great puffery and proclamations from countless elected buffoons lauding our freedoms and liberties, even as they work tirelessly to destroy them.

On Independence Day, I plan to hang out with the same group as last year. My friend Dominic Haskin in West Virginia. This year, though, he is forgoing the pig roast. He’s serving normal stuff, like burgers and hot dogs and all the fixings.

It’s that way all across the land, I imagine. A little more subdued this year. What with the downturn in the economy and all the fears of layoffs and uncertainty about the future. Can’t blame folks for being skittish. I’ve got only myself to support. If I had a large family, I’d be skittish too. I’m more than half freaked out the way it is.

We’re a different country than we were twelve short months ago, or even six. Vastly different. And we’re picking up speed as the cliff’s edge looms.

Independence Day is morphing into Dependence Day.

Since the day King Obama ascended the throne and stretched out his mighty hand, our government has leeched its vile life-draining tentacles onto the throats of private businesses. Set out to destroy capitalism. Trillions of dollars created out of thin air. Czars for this and Czars for that, more offices being created each week. Spend our way to prosperity, even though it’s never worked, in all of history. And never will. Stimulus funds thrown about like so much graffiti. Bailouts of thug bankers, car companies. Too big to fail. GM now stands for Government Motors. (Dodge as well. Big Blue is shamed.) Soon we’ll all be driving rickety little carts on wheels, the green cars Obama envisions. Early this week, Obama lectured us about the light bulbs we use. It boggles the mind. The President of the United States, lecturing us about light bulbs.

And last week, our esteemed Congress passed Cap and Trade, ostensively to halt global warming. In reality, to exert more control, dictate our lives to the nth degree. And to raise taxes. Probably the most abominable piece of legislation ever produced in this country. At least until the new health care laws hit us later this year.

And right on cue this week, the vile vicious Al Franken was certified as Minnesota’s new Senator. As I predicted last November. If you live in Minnesota, get out. (I thought the Will Rogers quote above was particularly applicable in your state.)

The Nanny state engulfs us. It’s a mess. Nothing good can possibly come from it. And we ain’t seen nothing yet.

That’s my rant for this Fourth of July. I try to avoid ranting, and have been doing well resisting the occasional urge to do so. But sometimes it just can’t be helped.

After the weekend, I’m heading to Kentucky to spend a few days with family. Then home by late week. On Monday, I have a free day to meander. Not sure where I’ll go or what I’ll do. Maybe head into the Kentucky backwoods, and out again. If the moon-shiners don’t get me. Maybe I could learn their trade to help me through the coming hard times. Always a good market for liquid corn, or so I hear. Although to be truthful, the stuff I’ve sampled (years ago, of course) from a Mason jar was clear as water and tasted more like kerosene than anything else. I have no doubt it would burn as lamp fuel. Which of course would be its stated purpose if I were ever caught with any.

On the home front, well, it’s summer. I’m rolling along, taking in life’s little adventures, such as they are. One Saturday a few weeks ago, I emerged from Amelia’s, my favorite Bent and Dent store. Nothing more on my mind than running a few errands, perhaps hanging out for coffee with some friends that afternoon. As I boarded Big Blue, a tired-looking lady approached me, smiling hesitantly, making eye contact. Tall, pretty, about my age.

“Do you want to do your good deed for the day?” She asked. Still smiling hesitantly.

“What’s that?” I replied.

“My car won’t start,” she answered. “I need a jump.”

“Ahhh, I won’t be able to help,” I replied regretfully. “I’d sure like to. But I don’t have any jumper cables.”

She looked crestfallen. “My husband will have to drive over an hour to get here,” she said. “It would really be nice if someone could jumpstart my car.”

“Keep trying,” I said. “Someone around here’s got to have some cables.” I drove away. I felt bad. Guilty, even. I drive a big mean 4-wheel drive truck. You’d think there would be jumper cables in it somewhere. But no. I’d let her down.

It wouldn’t happen again. A few weeks later, while at a local hardware store, I bought the longest toughest pair of jumper cables they had in stock. Sixteen feet long, heavy 4 gauge. I’m ready for the next damsel in distress.

The summer’s brought its changes too. Lancaster for many decades published a morning paper (Intelligencer-Journal) and a late afternoon paper (New Era). Both pretty strange names for newspapers, and both were owned and published by the same company. The Intell was liberal, the New Era conservative. I think their readership was roughly the same.

The two newspapers have fallen on hard times, which has been happening a lot to newspapers lately. Across the country and the world. Advertising revenues tanked, along with the economy. Many proclaim the imminent end of printed news. Every-thing’s on the web now. So this week, after who knows how many decades of separate existence, the two local newspapers combined. The papers and the names. It’s now a morning edition. Which irritates me. I was a subscriber to the New Era, the afternoon edition.

It’s been a summer of passings, too, of some famous and infamous people.

Mr. George Tiller, the Butcher of Kansas, was sent to meet his Maker as he sat in church about a month ago. I can’t imagine what a man who performs late term abortions was doing, sitting in a church pew, but he was. A mentally deranged man, quickly labeled a “right wing terrorist” by the media, shot Mr. Tiller and he died shortly thereafter.

Mr. Tiller was directly responsible for the murders of thousands upon thousands of fully formed babies. He was among the few persons in this nation whose primary practice was late term abortions. Where all but the baby’s head is extracted from the womb, then the baby’s brains are skewered and sucked out with a vacuum. Murderous. Brutal. Barbaric.

Perhaps Mr. Tiller is now being confronted and accused by the thousands he slew. I’m not sure how that works. But I won’t judge. Perhaps he had time before he died to repent and cry out for the blood that even at that late moment would have cleansed even him of the terrible stains of innocent blood that drenched his soul.

I don’t know if most people will remember where they were when they heard Michael Jackson died, but I will. I was at the gym, winding down on the treadmill. Watching the captioned newsflashes on TV. And then it flickered across the screen. LA Times: Michael Jackson is dead.

I’ve never been much of a fan of Jackson’s. Like most people, I considered him pretty much a loon. But still, the news jolted me. He’s been around so long, you don’t expect him to just up and die. At fifty years old. Back in the late 1980s, early 1990s, the man cranked out some half decent music. And few could match his dancing skills.

But after his original success, somehow, something went dreadfully wrong. I don’t think he had many happy moments. He lived in la la land. And we were witness to the rather horrifying spectacle of seeing a black man carved into something resembling a white woman.

I may have seen Farah Fawcett a few times on reruns of Charlie’s Angels. During the show’s heyday, I didn’t watch TV because I was Amish. Even so, I knew who she was from reading magazines and newspapers. Along with about a hundred million other young men, I thought Farah Fawcett was a vision of perfection, probably about the most beautiful woman in the whole world.

She kind of disappeared after that show, played a few movie roles now and then. The tabloids kept us apprised of the latest gossip about her stormy relationship with Ryan O’Neil. As the years passed, I thought she aged about as gracefully as any movie star, except perhaps Katherine Hepburn, who was in a class of her own. Farah died of cancer on the same day Michael Jackson passed away. She was sixty-two years old. The news of her death was completely overshadowed by his.

And lastly, Billy Mays, the loud obnoxious hawker of all things on late night TV. I would not have wished him ill, but I will NOT miss his grating shout, “BILLY MAYS HERE…” Every time I heard even the first syllable, I dove for the remote to switch channels or hit the Mute button. I could not stand the man.

And finally, an update on Anne Marie. About a month ago, she had a regularly scheduled MRI scan. Her Lancaster doctor spoke with her a week or so later and told her he sees growth where the tumor had been. And that it likely was returning. He recommended radiation treatment immediately.

Paul called me with the news that night. It was a heavy moment. I listened, not knowing quite what to say. So I said little. That Sunday night, I stopped by as usual, and we laughed and chatted like we always do. One of my jobs, Anne Marie has proclaimed, is to bring laughter to their house. Even so, it was a somber time as we talked about what the near future might bring.

The next day, a Monday, they traveled down to Johns Hopkins with the test results. Their JH doctor reviewed them and announced quite a different diagnosis. He saw scar tissue, he said, but no new tumor growth. He did not recommend radiation or any other treatment, other than the natural treatment Anne Marie already was doing. He complimented her on her quality of life.

Paul and Anne Marie were stunned and ecstatic. Almost disbelieving of the good news. They called me that night, and we whooped and hollered. I couldn’t believe it either. Finally, something positive.

She is not out of the woods by any means, and may never be. Her JH doctor told her the tumor might return at any time, for no discernible reason, even after years and years of dormancy. They’ll take that. As they would have accepted the first diagnosis. As they’ll take and savor each day the Lord grants them together.

“The great thing about touring Holmes County with John Schmid is that
he knows everyone, and you get to meet a lot of interesting people.

The bad thing about touring Holmes County with John Schmid is that
he knows everyone, and you can’t get to where you’re going, because
everyone stops to talk to him.”

—Ira Wagler
__________

I’d never been to Holmes County, OH before. Never. In all my years of wandering this continent, Holmes was never on my route to anywhere. So I never stopped.

The Holmes/Wayne settlement is, of course, the largest contiguous Amish community in the world. Or so it claims. Lancaster can’t be too far behind, but somehow Holmes slipped ahead a few decades ago, and never looked back. So I’ve always had it in mind to visit one day, to check things out for myself.

Last winter my friend, John Schmid, called me. Asked when I would come to visit, so he could show me around. He is involved in prison ministry, and travels so much it makes me tired to even think of it. So I told him to check his schedule, and I’d plan a weekend when he was home. He chose last weekend, June 19-21.

So last Friday, I gassed up Big Blue, packed my large camo duffel bag, and headed out. Hit the PA Turnpike west. It’s always a weary chore, to travel the Turnpike from about Carlisle west through Somerset. It’s a lonely desolate stretch. Steep hills, sharp wicked curves. Ninety-nine percent of the time, the Somerset skies spit either snow or rain. And this time was no different. It rained briefly.

All bad things must pass, including the PA Turnpike. Eventually I reached Ohio, and approached Holmes on Rt. 39 West. Through all the little towns with names I always saw in the Budget all those years ago when I was a child. Sugar Creek. Walnut Creek. Berlin (pronounced BERlin). John lives in the tiny village of Benton. After turning off Rt. 39, and cruising the County roads, I reached the little huddle of houses that was Benton.

The side street where I should have turned was blocked. A flashing arrow sign boldly announced Benton Days. A small-town celebration that night. Chicken barbeque, ice cream and old time, down home entertainment. I parked and walked down the blocked street. People bustled about. A large tent had been set up, right over the street. Tables and chairs. Off to one side, in the hot sun, stood a large rather pudgy Amishman, clutching a wooden paddle, stirring a huge pot of beans cooking over an open fire. The Amishman sweltered in the heat of the fire and the humidity.

Someone told me how to get to John’s house, and a few minutes later I pulled up with Big Blue. John emerged from his ministry’s international headquarters, which consisted of a very cozy little cabin. Greeted me and we carried my bags into his house. His wife Lydia welcomed me as well, before rushing off to the festival to help with the food.

John showed me to my room. Then to his office, where I posted last week’s blog on his computer. I sometimes post using my Iphone, but Holmes County has no AT&T service. My Iphone was dead as a doornail and would remain so the entire weekend. It felt strange, not to be wired. Almost Amish. And even some of them are pretty much wired these days.

Then John grabbed his guitar and we were off to the festival, a block away. It opened at five, a typical small-town celebration. The first annual. If this one succeeded, they’d have one every year, John told me. A small crowd of probably a hundred people soon milled about. We feasted on barbequed chicken and Ohio potato salad, the best in the world. Donations were accepted to defray costs.

At six, a welcome speech, and several speakers, including a ninety-year-old resident who rambled at length about the old days when Benton was a rip-roaring town. The guy was actually very interesting. Sadly, a great thunderstorm approached, complete with lightning and wind. Slashing rain poured down, and the poor old man was forced to concede his post. Freaked out by the lightning, I took refuge in John’s van. Every-one else huddled under the tent for twenty minutes until the storm passed. The sun shone again, and the first band took the stage, which was set up on the porch of the closest house a few feet away.

John Schmid in concert at Benton Days

At 8, John took the stage. It was the first time I’d seen him perform. He spoke with practiced ease, and sang many of his own classics, and a few new ones, including his hilarious version of “What was I thinking?” And a string of Johnny Cash songs. A few blog readers approached and introduced themselves. And some folks I already knew. Including Paul Marner, an old friend from my Aylmer days. His family had moved out around 1970 or so.

Paul Marner and Ira

Paul and his wife Kathy and a few other friends dropped by John’s house later, and we all hung out and had a great time until almost midnight. Then off to bed. Tomorrow I would tour Holmes County. I tossed restlessly all night. I don’t sleep well away from home. And not that well at home, come to think of it.

The next morning we headed out for the day. First the local restaurant in BERlin. It was jammed with locals, most of whom knew John well. We joined an Amish guy at a table, a friend of John’s. He wasn’t wearing any galluses, which I thought strange. I would soon learn such a thing is not strange at all in Holmes County.

At breakfast, as it had the night before, the conversation drifted to Eli Weaver, the guy whose wife was murdered. The people I spoke to believed he had done it, and placed the blame on Barbara Raber, his lover. According to the locals, Eli was pretty much a low life, and entirely capable of knocking off his wife. But that’s just what they said. I don’t know enough about it to have an opinion.

After breakfast, we toured Schrock’s of Walnut Creek, the area’s largest producer of cabinets and kitchens, and where my boss, Patrick Miller, cut his teeth. Pat’s father, Marvin, manages the place, and took us on an extensive tour through the show room.

On then we rushed, into what would be one busy and exciting day. The great thing about touring Holmes County with John Schmid is that he knows everyone, and you get to meet a lot of interesting people. The bad thing about touring Holmes County with John Schmid is that he knows everyone, and you can’t get to where you’re going, because everyone stops to talk to him. Everywhere we went, stores, post office, the deli for coffee, on the street, people waylaid John and held us up.

Not that I minded. It was just part of the experience. John Schmid is one of the most unique men I’ve ever met. He was born in the Holmes area. Completely “English.” Not a drop of Amish blood. But in his youth, he took to running with the local Amish and got to know them so well he even learned the language. He speaks flawless PA Dutch. He married Lydia, a Mennonite girl whose parents had been Amish. You’d never know he wasn’t born an Amishman. He even sings PA Dutch songs. And the Amish love him for it. He’s accepted as pretty much one of them. Welcome at their homes. And boy, does he know a LOT of people.

Around 11 o’clock, we pulled into Sam and Ruth Eicher’s place in the Millersburg area. They had heard I’d be around and called John and asked him to bring me by. Sam and Ruth lived in Aylmer when I was a child, a young married couple. They lived directly across the road from the old East school house. Their oldest son, Jerry, was my age and in my grade for the first two years, before they moved to Honduras in the late 1960s. Jerry is today a very successful author of Amish fiction.

Sam, Ruth and Ira at the Eicher home

Ruth welcomed us at the door of their neat, new house. Sam sat in his easy chair in the living room. He had a stroke a few years back, and was a shell of the former Sam I had known years ago. Ruth also happens to be my first cousin, and Elmo Stoll’s sister. We sat there and talked as old friends. Ruth then dug out some old newspaper clippings with pictures of some of the Aylmer Amish people of my childhood. Rare, very rare pictures. I almost collapsed with excitement and requested copies. She agreed to send me some. This week, she took them to a local printing shop, where the pictures were scanned and emailed to me. The pictures will be of enormous interest to anyone who lived in Aylmer in the late 1960s-early 1970s. I can’t thank the Eichers enough for sharing them.

Characters from my Aylmer childhood days.
Peter Stoll, on left, was Elmo Stoll’s (and Ruth’s) father.

Characters from my Aylmer childhood days.
I was seven years old when these pictures were taken.
My Uncle Abner is the Amishman front and center.

All too soon, we had to leave for our next stop. Lehman’s Hardware in Kidron. I wanted to see the place. So off we rambled in John’s van. As we passed through Mt. Hope, John remembered that the great tri-annual machinery auction was on that day. We swung in to check it out. And there I got a true taste of the Holmes County Amish.

The place was huge, and large crowds milled about. At least eight different auction rings were going at the same time. Tens of acres of machinery and junk. Little knots of Amishmen stood about, hands folded or in their pockets. Snippets of conversation floated in the breeze. Of course, John was immediately assailed by acquaintances all along our path. So we stopped and talked, and stopped and talked some more. I hung back; once in awhile he introduced me as David Wagler’s son, Ira. You know, the David Wagler who started Family Life. Which usually brought a gleam of recognition from the Amishman of the moment.

Mt. Hope Auction

And here, at Mt. Hope, I saw every degree of Amish that exists in Holmes. Must be about nine different levels. Swartzentrubers are the lowest, or the most conservative. They are called the “Hinistie,” which loosely translates to “the least,” “the lowest,” or literally “the ones bringing up the rear.” Then you have Dan Amish, Andy Weaver Amish, Tobe Amish, and several other levels whose names escape me. All the way up to “normal” Amish, who in Holmes are so modern they don’t even wear galluses. Each group dresses somewhat distinctly. It’s enough to make one’s head spin. I couldn’t tell much difference, except for the Hinistie, who look and dress downright slovenly. The men wear long sleeved shirts, the women long sleeved dresses, even in the hottest weather. The women wear great, tightly strung black bonnets at all times while out-doors. We saw a young Hinistie girl walking along the road, tightly bound with long flowing dress, long sleeves, and high shoes. She looked hot, and I don’t mean that in the modern sense of the word. She looked overheated. I pitied her. Probably the same as English people pitied me years ago, when they saw a ragged little Amish boy trudging along the road. Oh, well. It’s all relative, I suppose.

After some time, John managed to extract himself from accosting hangers-on, and we boarded the van and crept out. Even then, a young Amish boy approached the van window and asked John if he’d bought anything. John claimed he didn’t have a clue who the boy was. He obviously wanted to tell his friends he had spoken to John Schmid. Bragging rights, and all. Off we went then, headed for Lehman’s. The hard-ware store that sells all the old-time tools and hard to find items. We stopped first at a little hole in the wall restaurant for a late lunch. My diet went right out the window in Holmes. I’m doing penance this week at home.

Lehman’s was pretty neat, a hodge podge of buildings cobbled together over the years as the business expanded. Filled with thousands of obscure items. All kinds of hand tools and gardening stuff. Hand forged axes from Sweden for $300.00. Must be some axe. They even sold the little human powered push tillers we used years ago in Aylmer.

The afternoon passed. We had a stop or two to make, before heading back to John’s home. Where he would pick up his guitar and head for his second engagement of the weekend, a short set at an outdoor concert.

On the way back, we stopped for a few minutes to see David Kline, the well-known Amish author and Bishop. I didn’t know he was a Bishop until after we left, or I might have been a little intimidated. David ambled out to meet us. He knew John, of course. John, I am convinced, knows everyone worth knowing in Holmes. David welcomed me warmly. We sat in the cool shade of his front porch and visited animatedly for ten minutes. We had to leave then, as time was running short. Some day I will return for a more leisurely chat.

We rushed home then, cleaned up a bit, then off to Doughty Valley, where the annual outdoor summer concert was unfolding that night. John is a mainstay of the Doughty concert, but had told them he would sing the opening set at 5:30, and would have to leave, because he had company. We drove out into the country, the remote hills, and turned down a half mile long winding gravel lane. Down, down it went until it led to a beautiful open meadow along a flowing creek. People were already assembling. A large flatbed trailer had been set up as a stage. I trailed along with John as he tuned his guitar and swapped tales with other groups.

At 5:30, John opened the concert, and I saw him perform for the second time in two days. He is a polished performer, and the crowd loved him. At six, he closed it down. We stayed to watch the second set, Paul Mark and Beverly Miller and family. Then off again.

We had a dinner appointment at the home of Myron and Sarah Ann Miller and family. Amish friends of John’s. In the past, John dropped off my blogs periodically, so they felt as though they knew me already. Myron’s parents, Crist and Nettie Miller and his uncle, Ray Miller, also were there. John’s wife Lydia joined us as well.

They all greeted me warmly. Myron grilled hamburgers, and we sat around and talked like old friends.

Myron was an Amish preacher, and commented on my Preachers blog and the ordination scene I’d written some time back. That’s exactly how it was, he told me. He didn’t wear galluses either, which I thought was pretty wild.

At 9:30 we left and headed home. A long day, a good day. We were both exhausted. The van bucketed along the back roads through the darkness, on short cuts known only to the locals.

We passed an Amish farm, a young man with a flashlight stood there beside the road. John braked the van to a stop. He knew the guy, he said. He backed up. The Amish man approached the window on my side of the van.

He was young, a stocky powerful barrel-chested man, with a short beard on his round face. He recognized John and greeted him heartily. He was out moving some horses, he said.

“You just got married recently, didn’t you?” John asked.

The young man nodded. “Last October.”

“Where’s your wife?” John asked.

“Right here with me,” the young man replied. And she stepped up from the shadows, a tall beautiful wisp of a girl, barefoot, hands clasped, smiling shyly. I was startled. I had not seen her back there. John chatted along, asked about her family, which area she was from, and the small talk that is common in such a setting. The three of them spoke through the open window on my side of the van.

I was tired, the ebb and flow of their conversation seemed surreal as it swelled around me. I looked at the young couple in the flickering shadows cast by the van’s head-lights. The stocky powerful young man with the round face and short beard. His shy smiling young wife at his side, out there with her husband at 9:30 on a Saturday night, helping him move some horses. I don’t remember their names, and it’s not important. But I was struck by a deep sense of who they were and what they represented. They stood there, utterly unpretentious, chatting with John about this and that for a few brief moments. And then we left them.

Of all the things I saw in Holmes, this simple scene touched me the most. These two young people who had so recently joined their lives. They are the future of the Amish faith, the Amish culture, the old traditions, the old way of life. In Holmes County, at every level. And beyond.

After attending church with John and Lydia the next morning, I sat with them for a quick but delicious meal of sandwiches and left over potato salad from the festival. Then I packed Big Blue, thanked them for their gracious hospitality, and took my leave. Exactly seven hours later I pulled into my drive at home. Even the Somerset skies spared me that afternoon.

“There is in every true woman’s heart, a spark of heavenly fire,
which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which
kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity.”

—Washington Irving
________________

I really don’t know how I get myself into these situations. It’s certainly not like any- thing is planned, or that I’m out consciously looking for adventure. But somehow, stuff just happens. And that day, there I was, in the thick of it all. Not as a participant, just an observer, a chronicler. And what I saw and heard left an indelible impression.

It was a Saturday afternoon a few weeks back. Beautiful sunny day. Planting season. Amish farmers tilled the fields with great jangling teams of horses and mules.

I had a late afternoon business appointment at an Amish place. I arrived right on time, 4 o’clock. Half an hour or so later, after taking care of the business at hand, we sat at the kitchen table and talked.

Twice, I almost left. But for some reason, I sat there and continued visiting. Which is unusual. I’m normally not that sociable. We weren’t discussing anything important. Just this and that, mostly small talk about mutual acquaintances. But then it was time to leave. I took my briefcase and prepared to go.

And at that instant, suddenly the door burst open. The Amish housewife who lived next door poked her head into the kitchen. Spoke urgently. There had been an accident in a nearby field. Something about a young Amish boy and a team of mules.

We all rushed out of the house and ran across the field, which was right next to the house. And there, less than a quarter mile away, at the neighbor’s buildings, stood a six mule team. Several men milled about. The team had been unhooked from the harrow, a wicked looking contraption with curved tines designed to rip the earth. The men were frantically tugging at the harrow, unhooking sections from each other. As I approached, they lifted a section and flipped it back. I couldn’t see from where I was, but I knew a boy had been trapped and dragged by the harrow.

We got there a few seconds before the EMT medics, who had already been called. Wailing sirens approached in the distance. And there he was, sprawled loosely on the ground, a young lad about ten years old. Covered with dirt, from rolling along the field under the harrow. I don’t know how he was positioned when they found him. When I first saw him, he was flat on his back.

His clothes were torn and tattered. His face was caked, his nostrils and mouth clogged with dirt. Eyes open, staring into space at nothing. He didn’t move at all. He looked dead.

The medics arrived as I stood there gaping, running full speed from their vehicles with bags and equipment. With the Amish men who had lifted the harrow, I stood nearby and observed. The medics knelt by the boy and administered first aid. Cleared the dirt from his nose and mouth. Felt for a pulse. Sliced his tattered clothes from his body. Asked for the boy’s name. Called firmly, sharply. “Amos, can you hear me? AMOS!!!” There was no response.

I don’t know this, but they probably felt his pulse. And knew that he was alive, but just knocked out cold.

But I figured he was dead. There was no doubt in my mind at all.

And then, walking through the gate, across the spongy clodded dirt, she came. Not running, just walking fast. A robust, buxom youngish woman, her face and arms reddened from endless hours of toiling in the sun. Barefoot, in a blue dress with a black apron. A light blue scarf on her head, looped and knotted on the back of her neck. She approached, the medics shifted slightly, made room for her. She walked right up to the crumpled, broken body of her son.

She leaned over him. And she called his name, spoke to him in his native tongue. “Amos, can you hear me? Amos, these men are here to help you. Amos.”

Amos. A good solid Lancaster County Amish name. Bland, but solid. He was probably named after one of his grandfathers. Or an uncle. Maybe he was the oldest son. Probably had a string of younger brothers and sisters. These thoughts, and a thousand other jumbled threads, swept fleetingly through my mind as I watched his mother and heard her speak.

She was calm and cool. No trace of hysteria. No tears. She crouched down briefly, as if to brush her hand on his face. But then she pulled back, so as not to interfere with the medics. She called again. Still no response. No movement. Nothing.

The head medic spoke in curt commands. Call for a helicopter. Two-way radios blared. The medics were good. Totally focused. Totally efficient. A small stretcher was fetched, and blankets. Somehow they slid the stretcher under the boy. They continued working feverishly.

The mother paced about. Stopped again, a few feet from her son. Crouched there, slightly bent, her hand resting on her knee. And again she called him. And again, and again. “Amos! Amos!”

Firefighters arrived then and cordoned off the area. I squatted off to the side, with one of the men who had lifted the harrow. He quietly murmured his story to me. He was a nearby neighbor, the husband of the young woman who had alerted us in the kitchen. He had seen Amos all afternoon, driving the team, standing directly behind them on the evener to which the mules were hitched. And then he looked, he said, and saw no one standing on the evener, just the mules plodding across the field. He instantly knew what had happened and rushed out to stop them. By the time he got there, the team had walked all the way to the gate, where they had stopped. The mules hadn’t run away. They’d never even realized that their young driver wasn’t in control.

Somehow, Amos had bounced off the evener. And instantly got caught in the harrow’s teeth. He had been dragged clear across the field, probably an eighth of a mile. When the men got to him, his left leg was protruding backward from the harrow, snapped in two.

Neighbors had now gathered, a small knot of a crowd, craning to see. They were cordoned behind the gate to the field, a good hundred feet away. I had absolutely no business being where I was. None whatsoever. But having run across the field from the other direction, and being one of the first on the scene, I stayed. Aside, out of the way. And just watched it all unfold.

I marveled at the mother. Her calmness. The depths of her quiet strength. She never faltered, never broke down, never shed a tear. Maybe that came later. She was a daughter of generations of tough independent people born to the land, stolid forthright people who tilled the soil and lived fruitful lives of quiet simplicity. Accepted adversity and affliction and tragedy without question as the will of God. And died as they had lived, close to the earth that had sustained them. And at this moment of acute crisis, as the son she had borne lay broken and motionless on the ground, she did not shrink, she did not faint, she did not break, but instinctively summoned a degree of courage and composure that would have been impossible to contrive.

Her husband stood there silently, watching. He did not call his son. From some deep untaught prompting, they knew. The boy might hear his mother’s voice when all others were lost to him.

Time seemed frozen, but minutes passed. There was little doubt in my mind the boy was dead. But she stood there, bent slightly forward, and calmly called her son again and again.

It was not a call of fear. She spoke cheerfully, forcefully, as if rousing him from deep slumber at sunrise.

“Amos, Amos, wake up! Amos, these men are here to help you. Amos, do you want to go on a helicopter ride? The helicopter is coming! Amos. Amos!”

That was the only sound, except for the curt, intense voices of the medics and the occasional jolting blare of the two-way radios.

Again and again she called her son. And again.

And somewhere, from the subconscious realms to where his soul had slipped, the boy heard the echoes of his mother’s voice. He stirred faintly. And he returned.

She had called him back.

He had been utterly unresponsive for what seemed like an eternity. It was probably about ten minutes total, from the time the first men reached him and freed him from the harrow’s teeth.

The medics realized it before anyone else, as they knelt there beside him. They continued working feverishly, intensely. Strapped him onto the stretcher. Placed an oxygen mask on his face, attached tubes.

The boy suddenly emitted a high piercing wail of pain and terror. He was awake, and felt the excruciating pain from his shattered leg. His mother crouched down and spoke to him, comforted him.

We heard the throb of the helicopter then as it chopped in from the east, and circled the field. Swooped down and landed, directed by the firefighters. The door opened. Two medical personnel leaped out and raced to the boy.

As they transported him to the chopper, I got up and walked back across the field to my truck. As I reached Big Blue, the chopper lifted off and headed west.

I reflected on the things I’d seen and heard, made some mental notes so I could later tell the story. And realized I didn’t even know the father’s name. Or the mother’s.

I only knew the first name of their son.

**********
POST NOTE:

Amos Stoltzfus, 12, was flown to the Hershey Medical Center that day. Miraculously, he suffered no internal injuries. His left leg was shattered, broken in many places. During the first few weeks, Doctors feared his leg might have to be amputated.

Those fears were not realized, thankfully. His leg is on the road to full recovery. Amos returned home to his family two days ago. Spurred by the energy and vitality of his youth, he is expected to be walking again in about four weeks.

The rhythm of the weekend, with its birth, its planned gaieties, and its
announced end, followed the rhythm of life and was a substitute for it.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald
________________

It rained all week. Relentlessly, day after day. And rain drizzled as we gathered last Friday at my brother-in-law Paul’s place. Well, technically my ex-brother-in-law. But we remain friends.

We met at his place in Lebanon, me and a handful of his friends I didn’t know. One of whom owned a very nicely outfitted 28 ft. motor home. I was the only one in the group who had ever attended a Nascar event. By 1 o’clock, we’d loaded the motor home with enough food and staples to feed an army for a week. “Better to take too much and bring stuff back, rather than run out,” I lectured. We boarded, and off we sailed. Destination: Long Pond, PA.

For reasons known only to true Nascar aficionados (and therefore unknown to me), the little hick town of Long Pond, in the hinterlands of the Pocono mountains, hosts one of the longest and fastest tracks on the circuit. Two-and a half miles. Not an oval, instead a wicked D shaped track with some hard left turns. And banks so steep a man could hardly stand upright. It makes for some exciting racing and the occasional spectacular crash.

The motor home bucketed along, and the rain kept pounding down. After about two hours, we approached the track. Followed the signs to the office, where our tickets had been reserved. Or so we thought. At the counter, no record of them could be found. We would, of course, be welcome to purchase them on the spot. Half an hour later, after much exasperation and firm persistence, we finally walked out, prepaid tickets in hand.

On then through the tunnel and onto the infield. We thought we were early. This was Friday, the big race wasn’t until Sunday afternoon. But we were laggards, slowpokes. A vast sea of every imaginable type of camper and travel trailer was already in place. On hundreds of acres. Slovenly people lounged about. Kids on bikes, kids running everywhere. We gaped at the incredible scene. But we had reserved slots, so we’d be OK. We pulled to the entrance. There the lady guard informed us the camping sites were first come, first served. We would have to do our best to find a spot in the sea of rabble. Paul insisted firmly that we had reserved a space. She stared vacantly at him. She didn’t know of any reserved spots.

We drove around, talked to another security guard, who also pleaded ignorance. These Pocono people did not have their acts together. Finally we decided to cruise around until we found our spot. And that’s what we did. Sure enough, on the back straight-away was a fenced in area with reserved spaces. Ours was among them. Relieved, we finally pulled into our space and disembarked. Our reserved area seemed to have mostly nice motor homes. None of those old converted school busses or ancient rattle-traps that sat parked among the riff raff outside.

The motor home would be our home for the next two days. In the drizzling rain, we set up camp, unrolled the awning, and set up our lawn chairs and table. Paul then fired up the electric grill to do some pork chops. The chops were served, after a minor incident with a grease fire, which greatly excited our nearest neighbors, two spaces down, who rushed over and attacked the grill and dragged it out away from the motor home. All the while talking loudly and belligerently. And all needlessly, of course. Paul claimed everything was under perfect control at all times. The chops were perfectly done. The first of many delicious meals Paul concocted. Afterward, we sat inside around the table and relaxed, talking and playing cards.

And then Don, the owner of the motor home, turned on the furnace because the air was quite chilly. Less than a minute later, clouds of smoke billowed out of the heat ducts in the floor. Don looked greatly alarmed and proclaimed that the motor home was on fire. He and Paul began pawing at the panels where the furnace was housed, while I ran outside, hollering for a fire extinguisher. Our poor neighbors two spaces down, who had just settled down after the excitement of our grease fire, flared up again from their seats and rushed about madly, clutching their tankards of ale.

By the time I returned with the very excited neighbors, Paul and Don had quelled the fire with jugs of water. And discovered the problem. A mouse nest in the heat ducts. They cleaned it out, Paul rewired the furnace, reconnected the ducts, and half an hour later we settled at the table again, shaken and relieved.

The very excited neighbors retired to their camper two spaces down, chugging their ale, immersed in animated conversation. About us. They cast wary glances our way, keenly alert for yet another emergency. We were obviously nimrods at this Nascar camping stuff.

About then, creeping through the gate, into our fenced reserved area with mostly nice respectable motor homes, came a decrepit old yellow school bus. Converted into a camper. The thing was ancient, at least twenty five-years old. Through the gate it crept and swayed, towing some sort of contraption behind. We stared at it, fascinated. It turned right, onto our street. We watched with increasing alarm as it approached. Surely it would pass. But no, it slowed, then lurched into the empty spot directly beside us. Now our wary neighbors two spaces over wouldn’t even be able to keep an eye on us.

“Oh, boy, I muttered to Paul. “That’s all we need. Now we won’t get any sleep, with people like that beside us, partying all night.”

The decrepit school bus creaked to a halt, brakes squealing faintly. Four or five lanky, bearded, tattooed, pony-tailed roughnecks spewed out like ants, smoking cigarettes and puffing on thin stogies. Clad in worn jeans and old T-shirts and laced-up leather work boots, bandannas tightly wrapped around their heads. They unhooked the trailer. Opened bus doors. Uncoiled ropes and pounded stakes into the ground and hung tarps. A well-oiled machine, those guys.

They looked hard and tough and mean, and went about their business quietly. Through the back door of the old bus, we could see neatly stacked sleeping bunks and piles of supplies. Cases and cases of beer. The roughnecks ambled around, cradling massive insulated cups, close to keg size, from which they sipped anon.

We gaped as they unveiled and assembled the contraption they had towed in. A converted golf cart, made up to look like a racing car. Complete with engine and steering. But greatly extended; it had a platform, with bar and barstools. Even a tarp above for shade and shelter. The only one of its kind in the world, without a doubt.

Buddy’s portable bar

The roughnecks acknowledged our stares with curt nods, even a greeting or two. But they were focused on setting up camp. Once that was done, they sat at their portable bar and relaxed and sipped from their vast mini kegs. Even chatted a bit. Seemed friendly enough.

Turned out the roughnecks had an old trick up their sleeves on getting to know their neighbors. Borrow stuff. The first night, a knock on the door. One of the roughnecks. Could they borrow some pepper and perhaps some seasoning salt? But of course. We chatted. Nice guy. Later they borrowed Don’s battery charger to charge their spare cells.

We hung out and talked and got to know them, and they were among the most decent guys it has been my pleasure to meet. Rednecks. People who worked for a living, with their hands. Their leader, Buddy, the guy who actually owned the bus, and the portable bar, turned out to be one of the most entertaining, smartest guys I’ve met anywhere.

They were oh so polite. And quiet. My fears about explosive all night partying were completely unfounded. Buddy proudly showed us his portable bar, and regaled us with the story of how he had built it. It was truly a remarkable little machine.

On Saturday night, Buddy joined us at our campfire where we sat, some puffing on fine cigars and some drinking adult beverages. He settled in his lawn chair and talked, sipping vodka from his mini keg. He was from New York, north of the Big Apple. A Union heavy equipment operator. He had converted the old school bus with his own hands a few years ago. Inside, it was sparse, but he had everything he needed to attend the races. Including a toilet and shower. And a viewing platform mounted above the bus, complete with the requisite flag pole, from which fluttered four or five flags.

He was recently divorced after twenty years of marriage. “I get along with her a lot better, now that I’m not married to her,” he claimed.

Buddy’s take on life consisted of a simple form of karma, or a variation of the golden rule. Help out someone, be nice, and it will return. Be a prick, and that’s the word he used, and that too will cycle back to you. You’ll get what you deserve, either way. Usually, with talkers like Buddy, all you have to do is prod occasionally with a question or two, and he’ll talk right along so you won’t have to. But not Buddy. As he talked, every now and then, he’d peer at you and ask an intelligent question. He was a talker, but he got a little uncomfortable hearing just his own voice. Which is rare, for a talker.

And as I sat and listened to the man who looked for all the world like a common thug on the streets, I thought of what a friend had once told me. His teenage daughter had just started driving. He told her if she ever gets stranded somewhere, alone and without a cell phone, she should go to the nearest biker bar, or some similar redneck hangout. The people there would help her. And protect her. At the time, I was mildly dubious about my friend’s advice to his daughter. But after hanging out with rednecks like Buddy and his boys, I think my friend may have been wise.

I thought too, that night, of how our country is spiraling out of control in so many ways. Spiritually. Economically. Socially. I concluded that if we have enough men like Buddy, men who know how to build things with their hands and grow their own food, men who are honest and self sufficient, we just might have a fighting chance to survive. And there are more of them out there than we know.

Strangely, as the weather forecasters had predicted, the skies cleared by Saturday morning. That afternoon, we saw our first race. An ARCA race, which is about four levels below the big boys on Sunday. Saturday night, Paul grilled steaks with no grease fire incidents, and we dined quite well. Later, as we sat and visited around our fire with Buddy, a huge fireworks show began. Buddy loaded us onto his portable bar and drove out a bit for a better view. The fireworks were spectacular; the show lasted forty-five minutes.

I wandered around until after midnight, visiting with various neighbors. Everyone was in fine spirits, but not overloud. All the old timers agreed that both the number of campers and the partying had greatly diminished from last year. The consensus was that the economy must be the reason for reduced attendance, as well as reduced rowdiness.

Before the race. Buddy and Ira

Sunday dawned spectacularly clear. A perfect race day. We ate a late breakfast/lunch and prepared to mount our own motor home to watch the race. Buddy located an open space right at trackside by the fence and inched his old bus up to it. He and his fellow roughnecks swarmed about and set up a canopy and safety netting on the platform above the bus. They even rigged up a four inch PVC pipe, attached to a trash barrel below. A redneck beer can slot for their empties. Buddy had an engineer’s mind, and ringside seats to the show.

Shortly after two, the thing we’d all assembled for began. A great roll of thunder as the forty-three cars paraded around the track for a few laps. Then the pace car pulled in, and the thunder increased to cyclone levels. Around they came, at about 170 miles per hour. We sat in our lawn chairs on top of the motor home and drank it in.

Our wary neighbors watching the race.

As the field spread out, eventually there was a continuous stream of cars flashing by at all times. We were in the center of a screaming vortex of sound and fury. It was a sensation unlike any I have ever known. Wild, aggressive, dangerous, yet controlled power. I can see how some people get obsessed. Addicted. Not that I will. But I can see how it could happen.

At six, the race ended. Tony Stewart won. His first win this year. We got down and packed up our stuff. Joined the long line of vehicles and motor homes exiting the track. Ninety minutes later we had traveled the five miles or so to the interstate. I got home just before midnight, exhausted.

And so it came, and so it went, in two short days. A great trip. A fantastic time. And it wasn’t really about the race. It was about getting together, hanging out, partaking of an adventure. Meeting people like Buddy and his friends, and the overly excited neighbors two spaces over. It was about living in an alternative world, however briefly. And writing the stories we lived.

I’d do it all over again. And maybe next year we will.

**************************
Seems like I’ve picked an interesting time for my forthcoming trip to Holmes County. There’s lots of buzz flying around about Barbara Weaver, the Amish housewife from Maysville, who was found murdered in her home last week when her husband was away on a fishing trip. Five children are now left without a mother.

This week, the husband, Eli Weaver and his “lady friend” Barbara Raber were arrested. He for complicity to commit aggravated murder and she for aggravated murder.

It seems pretty cut and dried. But I would caution everyone to withhold judgment until the facts come out at trial. Sometimes, what seems to be glaringly evident turns out to be as glaringly wrong. Everyone, even the most morally degenerate person, is entitled to the presumption of innocence until proven guilty.

In a case such as this, it’s hard to keep that in perspective. But we should.

“A journey is best measured in friends, rather than miles.”

—Tim Cahill
__________

Used to be, years ago, that I could pick up on a whim and travel cross-country on some wild goose chase or another. For any reason or none. Maybe there was work somewhere in another state. Or I was heading off to college. Or just visiting a friend. Whatever the reason, I packed my duffle bag, counted my meager hoard to make sure there was enough money for gas and food, and headed out. Often, in those days, I’d set out in the evening, so as to avoid excessive traffic. Drive all night, my eyes propped open by cup after cup of strong black coffee. Ah, those were the days.

Not so much anymore. I’m now a certified homebody. Guess it comes with age. The idea of a fast and loose trip, like those in my youth, tempts me not at all. Wearies me, in fact. I’m quite content to stay in my unglamorous little home, to follow my bland daily routine. Work, gym, a couple of hours writing at the computer in the evening, with a baseball game on TV off to the side. Then off the bed, and do it all over again tomorrow.

Now Memorial Day has come and gone, with all its solemn observation, cookouts, and merriment. The official summer kickoff weekend. And the way things are shaping up, this staunch homebody is going to be doing some serious gallivanting around in the coming weeks.

This weekend comes the first summer adventure. With a small group of brave friends, I plan to camp out in a motor home inside the oval at the Pocono 500 Nascar race. How redneck is that? Now that little trip I AM looking forward to very much. I’ve only done something similar once before, back in 2000, when my brother Nate and a few of his South Carolina friends treated me to an excursion. At the Charlotte, NC Raceway. It has been my greatest Nascar experience to date.

Maybe not for long. This inside-the-oval camping stuff is for the real junkies. Hard core race fans. It’s like a little city in there. Redneck city. Row after row of motor homes, vendors, food and drink stands, all kinds of flags waving (including Dixie), and loud splashy T-shirts.

And, of course, the race itself. It’s ear-splittingly loud, it’s unbelievably fast, it’s a true-blue redneck experience. Slurp, slurp. Watching on TV is nothing, compared to seeing it live. There is simply no comparison.

We’ll cook out, hang out, sit on top of the motor home on lawn chairs and watch the races with binoculars. Busch race on Saturday, the big one on Sunday. I’ll take plenty of pics. To those who watch the race: look for the guy in the blue lawn chair waving wildly from atop a giant motor home.

Then, a few weeks after that, after barely regrouping and returning to my normal routine, I’ll take another trip. My first visit to Holmes County, Ohio. I’ve never been there. In all my wanderings over the years, never even came close. Don’t really know why. Guess I just didn’t have a lot of contacts there. And it never was on my path when traveling from one place to another.

Now I have at least one contact. One who seems to know everyone who is someone, which I guess includes about everybody. My buddy John Schmid. John has graciously volunteered to host me. And set the entire agenda. I’m just showing up. He’ll take it from there. Hopefully after that trip, I’ll know a lot more people, including a lot of new friends.

I don’t know what to expect, so probably the best thing is to have no expectations. Or as few as possible. That way, whatever happens is good. From what I’ve seen in films and pictures, Holmes looks to be hilly, with lots of little farms dotted about. And lots of tourist-trap places.

And then, a few weeks after I’m home from what will surely be a wild and exciting experience in Holmes, I’m off again. No rest for this homebody. This time it’s to a family gathering in Mays Lick, Kentucky.

I have ten siblings. Five brothers and five sisters. We haven’t all been together in the same place as a family for more than thirty-five years. Back when I was about ten years old. It’s never worked out since then, as for decades the Amish siblings have refused to host those of us who aren’t, or attend non-Amish events.

I could say something trite, like, how sad. And it is sad, but it’s also ordinary people living their lives as best they can, as best they know. Doing what they think is right. I respect that, or try to.

Thankfully, the situation has been changing slowly, as the passing of years forces each of us to face our own mortality. Age seems to mellow people somewhat. Usually, anyway. But not always. So we inch ever closer to the possibility of all being present. We’ve come close a few times, with only one or two absent, but haven’t quite been able to make it. There’s always the logistical issue of assembling from various points in the country to one place. At the same time. So I’m not sure we will this time either. As they say about such family dynamics, it’s going to take a funeral. But it would be great if we could get it done before it comes to that.

So that’s my travel itinerary for the near future. Lots of miles, lots of places. What with the gas prices inching up, I might park Big Blue again, and rent some little jitterbug, at least for the last two trips. I hope the rental won’t be a hybrid.

*************
And now, a brief update on the Heathen post from a few weeks ago. I had decided last week that I would not expound further on the matter. Heathen is still garnering the occasional comment, and the conversation may continue there for as long as it will, as long as you the readers have something to say.

But some instinctive prompting made me decide to let it rest, not to expound further on it for now. There’s only so much one can say. And I’ve said my piece. No sense beating a dead horse.

When I got back to the office after the Memorial Day weekend, a letter waited on my desk. From Joe’s publishing company. I sat and peered at the envelope with some trepidation. Then opened it.

It was a personal note from Joe. He had been stunned and deeply affected by my reaction. And, no doubt, by the reactions of my readers. He’d pondered the issue, done some soul searching. In the letter, he apologized sincerely for the personal rejection and the pain he had caused.

I felt a little bad. Other than the verbal exchange, it never was really about Joe. As I wrote in the post, he served as an unfortunate trigger, the guy who broke the last straw. For me, and for a whole lot of my readers, from the unprecedented number of responses.

It went so much deeper than him. It was much more about my breaking away from a culture that, well, makes it tough to break away. A lot of latent pain surfaced. Stuff I had not confronted in years.

It’s not fair to blame it all on Joe. It’s wrong to hold a grudge against him.

He’s made it right. I respect that. I accept the apology. I want to let it go. Move forward. And wish him well.

And since I so publicly excoriated him, I wanted to let my readers know he did the right thing. Which took some courage. It couldn’t have been easy.

When I evaluate honestly my own reaction to the incident, I confess to bristling a bit overmuch. I responded with “Don’t Tread on Me.” Right or wrong, part of that response was coldly deliberate. As a warning to others. You can criticize my writings. Reject them for any reason or none. Comment publicly on the blog or send a private email. I can take that as part of the conversation.

Just don’t make it personal, don’t talk down to me, and don’t preach at me.

Or I may write about it to the world. At least my world.

Joe and I both learned from the experience. I’m confident of that. And if that phone call happened today, the conversation, as well as the aftermath, would surely be quite different.

And you all wouldn’t have to hear about it.

Thanks to all who commented, mailed and emailed their condolences after last week’s post. I thought at the time that it’s too close; I should just let it go. Not write it for a week or two. But I couldn’t. The grief and melancholy closed in, and that’s one way, the only real way, I deal with it. Write. Last week, any other subject would have been obviously contrived. Because my heart wouldn’t have been in it.

With some Amish friends, I attended Ben’s viewing the night before his funeral. And on Tuesday, I attended Allan’s memorial service. A small core group of old friends from way back, including me, spoke publicly, sharing our memories of him. Expressed our sadness that he had slipped away so quietly, with so little warning.

That provided the necessary closure for them both, the formal farewells. Released a lot of grief. I’ll still think of them and miss them, especially Allan. But I’m good. Ready to move on, and live. For as long as I am blessed with life.

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny.

—William Cullen Bryant: Thanatopsis
______________________________

I’ve wondered sometimes, as the years have slipped by, how it would feel to be old. To reach that age when, as a matter of course, those you knew and loved passed away in rapid succession. What my parents have seen and felt, as they have watched old friend after old friend being returned to the earth. Until there are but few left. And their own passing is imminent.

This week, I got a small taste of what that feeling might be like.

When I first came to Lancaster County, back in the early 1990s, I somehow met and got to be friends with an old Amish guy. A preacher. Open, kind, always eager to visit and discuss anything and everything under the sun. His name was Benuel Blank.

I stopped by often on Saturdays during those early years, just to hang out and talk. Ben had known my Dad well, and had even contributed a monthly column to Family Life for a year or two. Until the hard-core Lancaster County Amish machine convened an inquisition and shut it down. With pious proclamations and sanctions. Which affected Ben deeply.

Ben was always curious about what I was learning in college. I delivered more than one of my old History and Political Science textbooks to him. A voracious reader, his eyes always gleamed as he took them from my hands.

I never heard him preach. And that’s my loss. Never really had the opportunity, as I don’t have a habit of attending Amish church services here or anywhere else. Others have told me he always delivered a powerful emotional sermon of grace and love. Unashamedly preached the gospel. Mingled with his message his tears.

He had known Elmo Stoll well. Was a good friend of his. Even after Elmo moved to Cookeville, he came to Lancaster County to visit Ben at least once.

In the past ten years, Ben and I drifted apart. Didn’t see that much of each other. I was busy with my life. Didn’t stop by as often as before. Saw him sporadically here and there, maybe every couple of years.

Ben called me once or twice after Ellen and I separated a few years back. He could not grasp, could not comprehend such a thing, but he called. To let me know he cared.

He read my blogs as and when he could get hold of them. Once or twice, I stopped by and dropped off the latest copies. He eagerly devoured The Shepherd Chronicles, and complimented that effort with an enthusiastic “Well done!”

Ben’s wife Annie passed away last year from cancer. Some months later, I stopped by to visit him. He talked incessantly of her, and how much he missed her. Tears flowed from his eyes; he wept openly.

It was the last time I saw him alive.

On Wednesday, an Amish friend called me at work. Early that morning, Ben had passed away from a heart attack. At age 76. His fondest wish was granted. He had left this earth. And gone to join his wife.

Having barely absorbed the news of Ben’s death, I arrived home that evening. To find a message on my home phone. From another friend. Call him right away. I did. His voice broke as he told me the news. My old friend Ralph Stanley had passed away that morning.

He had a benign tumor on his brain. All they had to do was cut it out. He should have been fine. But then something went dreadfully wrong. He never recovered from the surgery.

Ben was older, his death a shock, but really not that unexpected. Ralph Stanley was three years younger than me. We had been friends for twenty years.

I first met Ralph when I came to Lancaster in 1989 or 1990. From “English” back-ground, he had joined the Beachy Amish and was running with the local Pequea church youth. Tall, thin, a hard sculpted intelligent face. I remember meeting him for the first time. I thought, “now here is an intelligent young man I can talk to.”

We hit it off immediately. And began to hang out. Neither of us had much in the way of family or relatives in the area. I had one cousin. He had a sister.

Ralph was a Licensed Practical Nurse, an LPN. I was a student and worked construction in the summers. Not a lot in common. But we became best friends.

He talked of his experiences at the hospital where he worked. I mumbled about my job. We both loved to read. Ralph dissected and discussed in minute detail the books he was reading. I mumbled about Thomas Wolfe.

He was intrigued by the fact that I was attending college. Such a thing was as remote a possibility in his background as it was in mine. I encouraged him, told him he could do it too. Eventually he did. Attended Millersville University and attained his RN degree.

We didn’t really have a lot in common, on the surface. I think we jelled so well because we both emerged from hard, plain roots, a tough background. He came from the hardscrabble hills of Gallipolis, Ohio, where nothing was ever taken for granted. And little was expected.

He had fine long fingers, and taught himself to play piano. I marveled. To me, it would have been like teaching myself to speak Latin. On many a Saturday afternoon, I stopped by his place, and was lulled to sleep on the couch as he pounded away and sang at his sister’s piano, his high clear tenor echoing through the house.

And throughout these last twenty years, he was always there in the background. We embarked on countless adventures together. Laughed a lot. He was one of the funniest guys I’ve ever known. Sometimes we didn’t see each other for months on end. But when we did, we picked up right where we had left off.

About ten years ago, he made some lifestyle choices that alienated him from some in his family and from most of his old friends. He was utterly rejected by those closest to him. He felt the pain to the core of his soul.

After that, he preferred to be addressed by his middle name, Allan.

He was my friend before. He remained my friend. And I his.

He was among my closest supporting pillars during my latest troubles. About one Sunday night a month, he faithfully came out to see me. I grilled dinner and we sat and ate. For as skinny as he was, the man could pack away a lot of food. We talked. About life. The books we’d read, in minute detail. Our plans. How they didn’t always work out. Our dreams. And how life could kill them, if we allowed it to happen.

And our friendship could fade too, if we allowed it to happen. I last saw Allan earlier this year, in January or February, when I met him in town for a late lunch one dreary Saturday afternoon. We talked. Didn’t seem to have much of a connection, which was strange. I wondered about it at the time. I scolded him good-naturedly. Told him next time he would have to call me. I wouldn’t bother him again.

We parted. He walked away into the cold winter mist.

I never heard from him again. I’m sure we would have connected this summer, when I have my great annual cookout.

But now we won’t. Because he’s gone.

They’re both gone. Benuel Blank, the Amish preacher. And Ralph Allan Stanley, my old faithful friend.

How does one process, how does one grieve the same-day loss of two such long term relationships, two such old friends? Who so suddenly were called away before we could say good-bye, who have now crossed the bar to the other side. From which there is no return.

I know what it is to process loss. And what it is to grieve. But right now, somehow, it seems like I don’t.

This is how it must feel to be old.

A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.

—Proverbs 17:17
______________

We gather infrequently these days, the three of us. Usually at a wedding, about every year or two. Last week, as the guests assembled for my nephew’s big day, I looked for them. I knew that they would come.

They are my friends. Best friends might not be quite accurate anymore. As it once was. But old friends is. From way back. Decades ago.

We haven’t lived in the same area since the late 1980s. Not all three of us. We drifted, our lives diverged on different tracks. Pursued our own paths.

And yet, when we get together, it’s pretty much like it’s always been. We share a comfortable sense of affection, a feeling of relaxed acceptance, a solid foundation of quiet trust. Intangible bonds that can only be forged on the tempered twin anvils of experience and time.

I met them in the summer of 1976 in Bloomfield when I was a skinny 15-year-old kid. Marvin Yutzy was about my age. Rudy Yutzy a year or so younger. We hit it off almost immediately.

After my family moved to Bloomfield that fall, we became friends. Somehow we just clicked. Marvin and Rudy were first cousins. Had known each other all their lives. I was the new guy on their turf. They gladly made room for me.

Rudy, the youngest and the tallest, was the orator of the group. He could weave and stitch and thread the most fascinating vivid tales from the most mundane everyday events. No detail was too small, no comment too obscure. He included and expounded on them all in the fantastic colorful narratives that flowed from him in a continuous rolling stream.

Marvin was a bit more reserved. Intelligent, thoughtful, observant, a keen hilariously dry sense of humor. He could deadpan a joke and move on before the true incisive humor of his observation hit you. A natural wingshot. I’ve seen him knock ducks and pheasant and quail out of the sky in quick precise succession with his old Browning 12 gauge.

And me, well, I’m not quite sure where I fit in. Probably the one that brooded and mulled over things. Perhaps over-mulled, if that’s a word. The one who made the occasional comment that made absolutely no sense to the other two. But somehow it worked. Somehow we jelled. We became fast friends.

We were intelligent. Curious. Hungry. Quick to laugh. Found humor where none really existed. Devoured all the books we could lay our hands on. Discussed what we’d read. Passed our worn, dog-eared paperbacks to each other.

We weren’t particularly exclusive, at least not early on. We hung out with other friends, especially the little group of six that eventually formed. But the three of us always had a connection, a special bond.

I turned sixteen first. Marvin a few months later. We began “running around.” Rudy had to wait another year before he could join us.

Marvin and I rattled about in his decrepit little death trap of a topbuggy, hitched to Jane, his driving horse. Jane was small, but fast. She could flat out move. The speeds she sometimes reached, it is a true miracle the decrepit little buggy held together. The way it rattled and creaked and swayed, I was always convinced it would disintegrate at any second. I marvel sometimes, even today, when I think about it. That we didn’t get seriously hurt, or worse. There ain’t enough money, anywhere, to tempt me to take a ride again in that buggy hitched to Jane, were such a thing even possible.

Rudy looked on enviously as his two close friends ran around that first year. We were sixteen. Told each other that we would savor every day of that age. Sixteen. We were men. Or felt that we were.

Soon enough Rudy joined us, and we hung out with our group of six. Restless, driven, full of energy and desire. We hung out as and where we could. Got together every chance we had.

Then one fall day the three of us were together, working in a field. I don’t remember where, or exactly what we were doing. Probably filling silo somewhere, or some such similarly grueling task. We were deeply absorbed in a discussion of how we would always resist the powers that oppressed us, how we would be loyal to each other. Always. Through whatever might come.

I don’t remember whose bright idea it was. Or where he dreamed it up. Probably read it in a book somewhere. Maybe a Louis L’Amour western. Sounds like something Louis might have written. And we were big fans of his.

“Let’s be blood brothers,” said the one with the bright idea. “We can stick our fingers with a pin and join them together. Mingle our blood. That’ll do it.”

With scant consideration, the other two agreed immediately. That would be a fine and noble thing. Blood brothers. Always loyal to each other. Always there for each other. Come what may.

One of us found a safety pin, probably stuck in his coat to replace a missing button. Gingerly then, one by one, we each pricked a thumb. Until we could squeeze out a drop of blood. We held up our hands, thumbs extended. They met. We pressed. The blood mingled.

We swore no oaths. Made no vows. Probably would have, had anyone dredged up the presence of mind to think of one.

“Brothers,” was all we said. “Blood brothers, always.”

And then, out there in that harvest field that afternoon, our little makeshift ceremony was over. We returned to whatever it was we were doing. It’s probably the first and only time in history that three Amish youths did a thing like that.

We talked about it sometimes, what we’d done. It meant something to us. We weren’t sure why, but it was a solemn thing. And despite the years that have passed, we still recall that day and that event.

The years flowed on then, and our deeds and the words we spoke were what they were. Good and bad. Rudy was the first among us to settle down. He began dating Marietta Yoder. When he was twenty years old, they married. Settled in a little trailer house on his father’s farm.

Marvin and I continued our running around. Some time later, he began dating my younger sister Rhoda. In October of this year, they will observe their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

Children were born to them both. Strong sons and beautiful daughters. Rudy has been a grandparent now for a year or two, again the first among us to reach that milestone.

My path meandered a bit more, through some rough terrain. In the spring of 1986, my personal life imploded. Reeling from a succession of self-inflicted blows, I wrapped up my business affairs and left Bloomfield. With nothing but the clothes on my back and a thousand bucks. This time, I didn’t sneak away under cover of darkness with only a note to announce my absence. In broad daylight, I boarded the bus and headed out. My two blood brothers remained behind, with their fledgling families.

I would remain in a precarious mental state for a few more years. And yet, throughout all my subsequent wanderings, as I fled to strange and distant places for reasons I could not articulate or fully comprehend, when the winds and fire swept and raged around me, when the vast lifeless wastelands stretched into infinity before me, through it all one fact remained constant.

I was always, always welcome at the homes of my blood brothers. And at their tables. Not that I came around that much. But when I did, they welcomed me. As I was. Who I was. Even though by doing so they risked the smoldering wrath and harsh discipline of the Bloomfield church fathers, who viewed with grim displeasure even the appearance of friendship or fellowship with a backslidden renegade like me.

Always, their doors were open. Quietly, with few words, they supported me as best they could, as best they knew.

They didn’t preach. Or pretend to understand the demons I wrestled. Or ask why I did the inexplicable things I did.

They were just there. As they had promised. In that stubbled field so long ago.

It meant a lot to me then. It still does.

True friends are a rare and precious thing.

In time, both Marvin and Rudy left Bloomfield. And the Amish church. Today, Marvin and his family reside in the Hutchinson, Kansas area. Last year, Rudy and his family moved to Linn, Missouri.

We’re graying now, about the age our fathers were years ago, back when we were convinced they knew nothing. That pretty much all they said or did was madness.

The years flow by like water, and the dreams of who we thought we were or would be by now have receded and fallen by the way. We have seen and lived things we would have thought unfathomable in our youth.

And yet, as we met this past week, we sat about and talked in the calmness of settled contentment. Spoke of the old times. Retold the old jokes and laughed again together. Rehashed old memories. The things we did. The blood ceremony.

We realize our fathers had some wisdom after all. We concede that now in retrospect.

We might not be who we thought we were back then, a lifetime ago. But we are who we are. And one constant fact remains true.

We’re “blood brothers” still. And old friends.

My theory on housework is, if the item doesn’t multiply, smell, catch fire, or
block the refrigerator door, let it be. No one else cares. Why should you?

—Erma Bombeck
______________

I’m getting company at my house this weekend. Family. Some remnants of the great influx of Waglers that will be flowing in. For a wedding this Saturday.

And so they’ll come, the Waglers and the Yutzys. From all points of the country. By air, by land. But none by sea, as far as I know. To observe and celebrate. To witness and rejoice.

My sister Rhoda and her family will stay upstairs, in my still-empty apartment. And I mean empty. No furniture, nothing. At least it’s passably clean. Bring your pillows, air mattresses and sleeping bags, I told them. And my niece Janice, who I haven’t seen in more than two years, planned to come and sleep on my living room couch.

I’m looking forward to it. To seeing everyone, hanging out, the merry boisterous times. I’m more than delighted to play host and reciprocate a bit of the hospitality my siblings have always shown me when I visited their homes.

But to a man who has lived alone now for two-plus years, it’s cause for a bit of, well, shall we say, mild concern. I haven’t had much company, other than guy friends, at my house in a long time. And guys hanging out and snacking with my award-winning chip dip (in my eyes, at least) while watching football or baseball or Nascar usually don’t pay much attention to their surroundings. Not that they’d be even slightly concerned or offended by a messy house.

My house is comfortably cluttered. Stacks of things. Books. Boxes of this and that. Empty steel ammo boxes I use for storing things. Plastic storage tubs with lids. Bags of groceries on the kitchen table. Chips. Tinned food. Cases of water stacked in the porch. More books. Numerous pairs of shoes strewn about. Several coils of new rope I picked up at a gun show (never know when it might come in handy). Hunting knives and other outdoor gear. Backpacks. Clean shirts hanging where they dried weeks ago. And, of course, more books.

A stranger would conclude it’s a hopeless mess. The stranger would be wrong. I know where everything is. I have a system. When I need something, I pluck it from its spot and go. Throw it back when I’m done. It works for me.

So the thought of company, well, all are welcome of course. But when Janice offered to “clean my house” while she’s here, I half panicked. Not that I wasn’t greatly touched by such generosity.

“All I ask is that you have cleaning supplies around somewhere,” she said cheerfully.

Of course. Cleaning supplies. I’m sure Ellen had some such stuff way back when, stuck away in cabinets and kitchen drawers. I made a mental note. Check cleaning supplies.

But before Janice could clean, I figured I’d better get things spruced up a bit. Pre-clean the house so the real house-cleaner won’t be too horrified.

So last weekend I hit it. Vacuumed. Dusted. Swept. Wiped. Discovered some floor and table areas that had not seen the light of day for months. Stacks of books were carefully packed in large plastic storage tubs. Old newspapers discarded. Throws and spreads carefully laundered. The windows, well, the blinds were kept down as always. The way my windows are looking these days, soon I won’t need blinds. Light won’t be able to penetrate, in or out.

This spring, as usual, my house has been overrun by vast hordes of tiny little black ants. Itty bitty things. Swarming everywhere. A few weeks ago, I placed ant traps around the house. Ant hotels, I think they’re called. For some reason, the little pests ignored them completely. Traipsed blithely by. Then last week I went out and bought some sweet poison, brand name Terro. Placed drops of it on little pieces of cardboard and set them about here and there.

Instantly, the ants’ behavior changed dramatically. They congregated as if for church service. Or even better, a deadly revival. Little black rings circled my drops of poison, everywhere I placed them. The drops disappeared, the ants kept coming. I refreshed their supplies daily, bought more Terro, and refreshed supplies again. Near as I can tell, there’s about as many ants as before; when one staggers off to die, another springs forth to replace him. But at least now they are all congregated around my offerings. In out of the way places, not on the table or around the food or in the fridge, which they had somehow infested.

And so my house was about as ready as it was going to get for Janice, the cleaner. Then, on Monday, alas, an email. Apologetic. She couldn’t make it. Had to cancel her ticket. Some things had come up at work and the schedule wouldn’t allow it.

My first reaction: Disappointment, of course. I haven’t seen Janice in more than two years. In Florida, in February, 2007. So I’d been looking forward to hanging out and catching up. Now, none of that. Oh, well.

My second reaction, closely following the first: Drat. All that house cleaning, for what? Sheesh. Next time I’ll wait until she’s on the plane. Could have left it like it was. Messy. Comfortable. Cluttered. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Oh, well. Again.

*************************
Almost twenty-six years ago, back in 1983, on a hot August day, a child was born to my brother Steve and his wife Wilma. Their second. A little boy.

It was August 24th. My birthday. We were filling silo that day at my brother-in-law Alvin Yutzy’s farm. As I struggled to lift the heavy bundles of corn stalks from the ground and heave them onto the wagon, I muttered to whoever was working with me, “They’d better name him Ira.”

That’s a bit of an Amish tradition, although not poured in concrete. If a niece or nephew is born on your birthday, walla, you have a namesake. But Ira is a pretty rare name, even among the Amish. It’s really more of a Jewish name. So I wasn’t sure if my brother and his wife would do it. Burden their young son with a name like that.

But they did. Named the boy Ira Lee. I beamed with pride. Now, even if I never had a son of my own, there was someone to carry on my name.

I left Bloomfield for good around the time Ira Lee started grade school. After that, we had only periodic contact. For the first ten years or so, I faithfully sent him a greeting card each year on his birthday, a crumpled $5.00 bill tucked inside. Which was a princely sum for both me and him.

In the mid 1990s, Steve and his family moved east into Lancaster County. A rare thing for Midwestern people to do, move into the furious rat race that is Lancaster. But they did. Settled here. Successfully. Ira Lee finished his education, graduating from Faith High School. And in the next few years, acquired an Associate’s Degree in Business.

He grew into a tall, quiet young man. Taller than me by several inches. The stubborn independent Wagler streak runs in him. He often did things on the spur of the moment, in a manner that befuddled his Lancaster peers. He’s traveled the country. Toured Europe on a shoestring budget. Excels in sports. He is an accomplished writer, as those who have enjoyed his hilarious Harmon stories well know.

He is my nephew. My namesake. I’m proud of him.

This Saturday, at one o’clock, he will marry his fiancé, the lovely Rosa Miller.

I wish them well, as they join their hands and lives for their future together. May God bless their new home, in ways beyond their imagination.

They have honored me by assigning me duties as an usher at the wedding. I’m very proud to accept. For a brief time, at least, the usher is the most powerful person at a wedding. He can seat you at a spot where you can actually see and hear what’s going on, or banish you to the back benches, where there is wailing and much grief.

So to any who are attending, I’m always open to some discreet persuasion. Grease my palm with, say a $20, and I’ll get you a seat of honor, up front. Sass me, stiff me, and you’ll be seated at the back with all the bawling babies. So far back you won’t even know you’re at a wedding.

Such raw power could surge to one’s head and make one giddy. Hope I can handle it.

It’ll be fun. I can’t wait.

*****************
Last week’s post created a firestorm, resulting in an astounding forty-six comments. A record. Left all others in the dust. And that’s not even counting the dozen or so private emails I got from readers practically weeping with relief that someone had finally expressed their own frustrations.

This week I’m celebrating the wedding. And hanging out with family and freundschaft and roaring and having a good time. In the near future, perhaps even as soon as next week, I may dig in a little to examine and analyze the reasons the “Heathen” post struck such a nerve.

“Is it a book,” he would whisper hoarsely to any aspiring young
author, at the same time rolling his eyebrows about – “is it a book
that you would be willing for your young daughter to read?” Mr.
Stoat had no young daughter, but in his publishing enterprises
he always acted on the hypothesis that he did have, and that
no book should be printed which he would be unwilling to place
in her hands.

The result, as can be imagined, was fudge and taffy, slop and goo.

—Thomas Wolfe: You Can’t Go Home Again
____________________________________

I don’t know why I did it. I should have known better. Actually, I did know better. But for some reason, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Can’t imagine what I was thinking.

The three Elmo Stoll blogs have been percolating out there ever since I wrote them. The occasional comment still appears. I still get private emails from readers now and then. So I got to thinking. Why not see if I can get them published somewhere? Done properly, in a little book, with some editing and perhaps a bit of expansion here and there, it would sell. By the thousands. I know that.

I ran the idea by a couple of friends. One of them offered to drop off a hard copy at a decently large publishing house, where he knew some people. The company and its location will remain anonymous. But the company is “plain.” Owned by either Amish or ex-Amish. But very modern and certainly capable of professionally producing the little book.

The next day, my friend called. He was at the publisher’s office. With Joe (not his real name), one of the staff there. I was placed on conference call. The three of us talked. Joe seemed like a knowledgeable fellow. Asked pertinent questions. What did I have in mind?

I told him. The three blogs, edited and perhaps touched up here and there, and com-bined in a book, would sell. “It’s different writing,” I said. “Unlike anything you’ve read before. And I’m not sure your company will want to publish it. It might jeopardize your relationship with other plain clients. Check it out. If you turn it down, that’s perfectly OK.” I gave Joe my email address and cell number and left it at that.

A week passed. Then two. I knew what was happening. That the company would not publish the Elmo story. And that was all right. They have a lot a “plain” clients. No sense offending any of them. Business is business.

And then one morning my cell phone rang. Unknown number. I answered. It was Joe. After exchanging brief pleasantries, he hemmed a bit. He’d read my stuff. And read it again. And passed it around at the company, to get others’ opinions.

He had decided they would not publish it. “That’s perfectly fine,” I said. “I told you when we talked before that you might not want it. Appreciate the time you took to consider it.” I prepared to hang up.

But Joe wasn’t done. He hemmed and hawed a bit more. Then spoke. “Some people I showed it to here thought it was sacrilegious,” he said firmly.

He should have let it go. Let it rest. Had he done so, this post would never have been written. But he didn’t. Somehow, someone had stuck a burr under his saddle. And his bronc was plunging out of control, bucking wild.

And I should have ignored the comment and hung up. Told Joe that we’re not going there. Boy, should I ever have. But I didn’t. I engaged.

“Sacrilegious?” I asked. “What do you mean, sacrilegious?”

Bolder now, Joe plowed on. “The ordination,” he said. “That is a holy thing. And the way you described it, it was, well, it was not a holy thing.”

“I saw what I saw. And I wrote what I saw. I was a little kid, but I remember. What’s wrong with that?” I said defensively. Another huge mistake. It only made him bolder.

“Some here have suggested you wrote this to divert attention from your own life choices,” he said, his voice dripping now with holiness and unctuous hostility.

I realized where he was going. He was my judge and jury. And in that instant I knew the man had read the things I’d written from the heart and gleaned not the slightest shred of understanding, was incapable of grasping even a glimmer of the true human condition of his own culture. Incapable, or deliberately blind. This man, who would contract for publication the driest didactic tomes and untold volumes of doggerel poetry, doomed to unread purgatory on dusty shelves.

In submitting my writings to him, I had cast pearls before swine. Anger and frustration surged through me.

In the past, he could have read Thomas Wolfe and Ernest Hemingway and Sinclair Lewis and F. Scott Fitzgerald and a host of other truly great writers of that age and yawned in boredom and disdain. Because of the narrow prism of his blinkered lenses. And because he would judge all they had said from inside the impenetrable walls of his cultural shell.

He had just trotted out that old Amish canard. That rusty, time worn antique, that sly stiletto, that cheap poisonous accusation. The one I’d heard countless times before in previous lifetimes. In my youth. What you are saying cannot possibly be legit, because you have forsaken your own birthright. And you are motivated to point out the flaws of others to detract from the glaring sins that are your own.

There is no defense against such slander. You can’t prove a negative. (When did you stop beating your wife?) Whatever one says in response only proves the accuser’s point.

He sat there, gloating, firm and smug. I could feel it through the phone. He had me.

I should have shut it down right there. Politely. Firmly. And hung up. But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Probably because I wasn’t mentally prepared for such an attack from a supposed professional. Maybe because I clung to a tiny wisp of hope that I could explain, could make him see. Besides, I simply could not believe what I was hearing. So I stayed on defense.

“This is the first time I heard anything like that about any of my writings,” I countered.

“That’s what people here are saying,” he repeated smugly. I could feel his spirit on the attack as he closed in like a shark. “We feel that you have disrespected the church, the church that is holy and perfect before God.”

And that was just the beginning. On and on he rolled, rebuking me for an endless list of offenses. Furious frowning God. What does the family think or say? Why was I so harsh on Aylmer?

I said little. There was really nothing to say. A pause, then. Insufferable piety oozed through the phone.

“Are you Amish?” I asked.

Joe balked a bit, then admitted that he was. “But around here, we are Christians. That’s what’s really important.” he added piously. Inwardly, I groaned. How many more clichés would the man spout?

One more, apparently. A big one. “I’ve checked your web site,” he continued, as if talking to a child. “And you say you are a Christian. But I wasn’t able to tell from your writings. Of course, I didn’t read them all. But the ones I read, I had to wonder. Are you a Christian?”

“Look,” I flared. “I’ve experienced a lot in my life. A lot of tragedy and a lot of grief and loss. I try to tell the stories as they happened. Honestly. I don’t preach. I don’t close out each writing with a syrupy didactic little lesson. Where everything all works out. Because sometimes it doesn’t. I let people figure it out for themselves. That’s what literature does. I’m not saying I write great literature or anything. But that’s what I try to do. As best I can.”

I may as well have been talking to a wall. He would not, could not hear my words. His voice oozed with high holiness and sanctimonious judgment.

“But are you a Christian?” he persisted obstinately.

“I am,” I said.

I could feel his response in the silent pulsing tension. He knew I was lying. That I was a heathen.

He’d just called me one. With his asinine questions.

A few stilted oily preening comments then, in closing down the inquisition. He insisted I should look him up, when I’m “in the area.” He would like to meet me, he claimed patronizingly. We hung up. The interrogation was over.

The great ten-ton gate of final judgment clanged shut with a mighty thud. I was found wanting. And stood condemned.

Blind rage surged through me. I stumbled back to my desk and tried to regroup. To figure out what had just come down. To process the fact that an Amish man miles away had just sliced and diced and dissed me. Had spit me out. Rejected not only my writings, but me as a person. Before God. With all the pious judgment and concrete assurance of the most spotless Pharisee. It was tough to absorb. Fortunately, the office phones rang steadily, and I was soon immersed in the daily grind of my work.

But the rage seethed and bubbled in me. That night. The next day. And the next. And then, about the third day, the light began to penetrate the darkness that clouded my mind. And I began to see.

A lot of things. Why I had allowed a man I had never met, and have no desire to meet, to trigger such a strong reaction in me. Why I had delegated such power to him.

It wasn’t Joe as a person, but what he represented. And the host of dormant memories that were unleashed from the recesses of my mind, and descended like a flood. Of the dark underbelly of the culture from which I emerged so many years ago. The sinister powers of that shadowy world, powers that will not see or speak the truth about certain things. Or allow them to be seen or spoken.

Universal things, the ebb and flow of life, the pride and passions, the pain and loss, the flaws and triumphs, the faults and failures, and the good things too. That are the stuff of human experience, regardless of time, location or culture. Things that have rarely been honestly told by anyone who has emerged from an Amish background.

They stand guard at the gates today, those in the network of that power, of which Joe is but a tiny cog. And blandly pretend to honor the memory of a man like Elmo Stoll, all the while demonizing and condemning those who truly do honor his memory and his name. By being honest about who he was.

They refuse to acknowledge, those guardians at the gates, one important point about themselves and their history. It’s not all darkness. And it’s not all light. Nothing human on this earth is. To pretend otherwise, and to demand obeisance to such pretense, is disingenuous at best, deliberately obtuse at worst.

That doesn’t necessarily make them evil. Not in and of itself. It just makes them wrong. A culture that refuses to tolerate honest examination from others, even its “wayward” sons, cannot truly know itself.

As the realization of these truths sank in, I calmed down a good deal. I’d seen it all before, many times. In the past, years ago. Other hapless questioners, crushed like bugs. But somehow, you never think it will happen to you. That you will be the one in the crosshairs. As I now am. Squarely.

I don’t feel sorry for Joe, but I cut him some slack. Not that I’m excusing the ambush. He chose to do what he did. To blindside me with his condescending unctuous litany of tired worn out clichés he passed off as original thought. But I don’t doubt that he did what he thought was right. He’s probably a decent guy, a loving husband, a caring father. And a sincere Christian.

He just happened to be the one who broke the final straw. At least six times this year, my bona fides as a Christian have been called into question. In similar fashion, but electronically via email or on this site. (Comment #26 on the last Elmo blog is a real doozy. Scroll to the last comment.) Once on another public forum. You can shake it off. For awhile. But there comes a time when such scurrilous, intellectually lazy attacks must be confronted.

Not so long ago, had something like this happened, I would have reacted with a rash of impulsive vows. Not to ever allow something like this to happen again. I will be on alert for even the slightest hint of attack. Suspicious. On guard. But as my good counselor Sam has patiently reminded me these many years, such negative vows tend to close the heart, to choke off the vibrant flow of life and passion. And end up hurting the one determined not to get hurt. In this case, me.

I trust Sam. He looks out for me. So I won’t make such a vow. But I won’t be a sheep led to slaughter either. I learned from this little episode. Even so, it’s possible, even probable that some day, somehow, another ambush might sneak through. From another “Joe.” If it does, I plan to confront it and cut it off. Politely. Cut it short before it escalates, as this one did.

It’s tough, to be rejected by your culture. Years ago, while on the wheat harvest, I worked for a man whose father had emerged from the Hutterite Colonies as a youth. The father was now old. I forget the exact details, but somehow he purchased a piece of equipment from the Colony he had forsaken decades before. Might have been at a public auction. When the time came to settle up, the Colony leaders would not accept his money. He had left them and was considered a heathen. The father was deeply affected by their rejection. Thrown for a serious mental loop.

I remember at the time wondering why. How it could have affected him so deeply, so negatively. Why he allowed it to bother him so. Why he gave them such power. Why he didn’t just shake it off.

I don’t wonder anymore.

This, then, is where it stands. Joe’s attack and its aftermath clearly shed light on some core truths. Among the Amish churches, there exists a strong element that is almost entirely hostile to me. Certainly not all of them. But a substantial percentage. The guardians at the gates. And their minions. The “Joes” of the world. To them, my writings are a toxic poison. To be resisted on every front. And quashed as necessary.

Oh sure, they’ll read the stuff. Can’t help themselves, I guess. It’s good to know what the enemy is up to, and all that. So they read. And shake their heads and seethe inside and murmur to each other, wondering how such a scandalous thing can be.

There are no more illusions. If anything I write is ever published, there will be a horrendous social and cultural cost. And no “plain” publisher will ever touch any of my writings with a ten foot pole.

I’m not making any vows. Sam taught me that lesson well. A heart filled with rage and tension and conflict and bitterness can produce only the fruits of that seed. I won’t live like that. And I don’t want to be defined by such a harvest.

Tomorrow is promised to no one. I don’t know the future, or whether “The Shepherd Chronicles” will ever see the light of day. It might happen. And it might not. For now, it needs some extensive reworking and editing. We’ll see what develops.

And so, it seems, I’ve reached a milestone. One that I’d perhaps not anticipated, but is really not that surprising in retrospect. The realization that any person who writes the stories of his past, his youth, his life as he lived it, and the characters around him, will pay a price. From those who take exception and offense at the writer’s conclusions and perspectives. It’s been thus always. And, I suppose, will always be so.

I have to choose. I can shut it down, shamed, chastened, and allow my voice to be silenced, or at least subdued. Or I can continue the work that has sustained me through the shadows and fog of these past two years. Writing as the muse strikes, writing the things I’ve seen and lived and learned and felt. As honestly as I’m able. And posting it on this blog that is open to all who wish to read. Including those who scan closely with critical eyes to search diligently for some reason, some slight justification, to disparage and denounce my motives, my character, and my faith.

Those who know me should have no qualms; they should know well the choice that beckons.

There is only one.

Get a bicycle. You will not regret it if you live.

—Mark Twain
___________

He was gliding along, between the cars parked along the street and the traffic in the downtown metropolis of New Holland. Hunched over the handle bars of his speedster bike. Dressed in some sort of flashy striped outfit, aerodynamic helmet firmly strapped to his chin. Moving along at a good clip.

I was about the third vehicle back. The lead car had to swing just over the center line to pass him, and with the opposing traffic, it was a bit of a problem. At last the lead car inched by, then the next one. Then it was my turn. I poked along behind him, waiting for an opening. Then slid by him. At last. Now to move.

But no. Just ahead, the light turned red. The two cars ahead of me dutifully stopped. As did I. In the rear view mirror, I saw the Lance Armstrong wannabe sliding smoothly in the two-foot space between the stopped traffic and the sidewalk. Right past me he slid, and lined up with the lead car, waiting for the light to turn green. When it did, he bolted out like a startled jack rabbit, leaving all of us behind. For about two hundred feet. Then we all had to fight our way past him. Again.

The traffic light gods were aligned against us that evening. And there was nothing to be done about it. As we approached the next light, it turned red as well. The town council should hear of this. How uncoordinated the lights are in New Holland. Once again, the bicyclist snuck up silently and passed us, lining up with the lead car. Again, he bolted out ahead of the pack. His personal Tour de France. This was getting old.

For the third time, we all had to creep around, careful not to hit him. By now, I was silently fuming. If another red light stopped us, I would block his path with Big Blue, I decided. Fortunately, for the health of all drivers involved, we left the cyclist behind for good. Still hunched over, still pedaling furiously, oblivious to all the world but himself.

I don’t know who they are, where they come from, or where they are going. But with spring and warm weather, they appear suddenly, randomly and mysteriously, darting dangerously in and out of the heave maze of traffic along Rt. 23. Once in awhile, they assemble in great packs, clogging Lancaster’s back roads like so many gaudy peacocks. Multicolored. But the outfits greatly resemble some unknown (to me, at least) prototype. Underlooping handle bars. A tortuous looking little narrow sliver of a seat, actually mounted higher than the handle bars. Butts higher than hands. Wow. Somewhere, the ubiquitous water bottle strapped to the frame. And that’s just the bike.

The riders without fail are lean mean human machines. In spiffy tight suits and goggles and flashy helmets. Muscular, and fit beyond belief, pedaling furiously and grimly to get to who knows where.

The unfortunate motorist who gets stuck behind a pack of bicycles has limited options. He must stay alert, because individual bikes tend to dart and veer from the pack for no discernable reason. Lancaster’s back roads curve and meander up and down many hills. So all one can do is creep along behind and pray that the pack leader might arbitrarily decide to swerve off onto an even narrower side road. Which is exactly what happened one night last week after I followed a vast pack for more than a mile. Grumbling all the while, of course. Bike packs, I decided, are a greater irritant than even Lancaster County’s famous Putzers that consistently clog the roads in summer.

I’ve briefly considered nudging Big Blue into a pack, just to see what might happen. Would the pack scatter, collapse, or turn on us and beat Big Blue to a pulp? I’ve never found out, because something has always told me such an act, however tempting, would probably not be very wise.

It’s not that I have anything in particular against bicycles. Really. One of my fondest childhood daydreams revolved around the very simple concept of just owning a bike. In Aylmer, we couldn’t have them. Weren’t allowed to ride them, even.

Of course, we did have a pony. A fat, waddling utterly safe little nag, named Cricket. And while Cricket could move at a decent clip when he had a mind to, he couldn’t outrun a bike. In adulthood, I’ve discovered most children would rather have a pony than a bicycle. Which to me seems very odd. Guess we didn’t realize how good we had it back then.

Our English neighbor kids, the Lauer boys, sure had bikes. This was back in the early 1970s. Big balloon-tired heavy things. Banana seats. High rise handle bars. They tooled down the gravel road and hung out at our farm once in awhile. My brothers and I stood there and practically drooled. And when Dad wasn’t around, we learned how to ride them. Dreamed of a day when we might actually have one of our own.

Unfortunately, when that day finally arrived many years later, I didn’t want one any-more. Too busy keeping my flivver supplied with gas and oil, which it consumed in roughly equal quantities.

But I don’t have anything against a bicycle or a person riding a bicycle. The Old Order Mennonites (OOMs) traverse every road in Lancaster County on their bikes. Even the busiest highways. Sometimes their youth ride in great packs as well. The guys in their spitzy little hats, the girls in flowing checkered dresses.

But they ride for the most basic of reasons: to get somewhere. Not to show off the latest gadgets. Or for exercise. Or to develop muscles. They tend to ride plain but sturdy bikes, the ever present cardboard box strapped on the rack behind them, loaded with groceries or hardware. They pedal along sedately, sitting bolt upright. No butts higher than head or hands with these folks. Most importantly, they seem to realize that roads are primarily for cars and trucks, and stay out of the way. Show some respect. Warms the heart of any motorist, to share the road with such thoughtful cyclists.

The OOMs have even designed and manufactured little two wheeled tow carts, which are attached to the back of the bike. Cute little things, with a bubble plastic cover from which their small and infant children stare serenely as they glide by.

The OOMs do have a dangerous habit of biking on the road after dark. With no head-light and only a small blinking red rear light. A few weeks ago, as I was leaving a friend’s house one evening, I came within a hair’s breadth of creaming a young OOM as he swooshed by. Some instinct, or perhaps a prompting from above, made me stop at the end of the drive before pulling out onto the road. Had I not, someone would have landed up in the hospital. It freaked me out pretty badly.

It’s not the bike as such that I resent (as the Amish say, it’s not the car that’s evil, it’s what you do with it.). It’s how it’s used. And a light two wheeled contraption muscling for road space against vastly heavier motor vehicles is simply suicidal. That’s all there is to it.

So in the obstacle course that is good old Lancaster County, we have it all. Buggies. Putzers. Cyclists. And packs of cyclists. All running amok through the peaceful land.

***************************
Anyone whose head hasn’t been buried in the sand has heard the latest Great Freakout Panic. Swine flu. Oh, boy, it’s a wonder we aren’t all dead, by the breathless reporting. I’m not saying it’s not serious. And I’m not saying it couldn’t develop into a pandemic. But it seems to me the noise is a bit overloud. In my paranoid opinion, the politicians will hype this into a national emergency to implement universal health care, or some sort of other equally evil mischief.

And speaking of politicians, this week that weasel of a rat of a slime ball, PA Senator Arlen Specter, finally admitted his true colors and switched over to the vile Democrats. (And no, I’m not being disrespectful toward those in power over us, I’m calling a spade a spade.) No surprise, really, he’s always been a wacko liberal. Along with the equally vile Al Franken, he will give the Dems a veto-proof majority in the Senate. I can say with pride that I NEVER voted for the man. He is an abomination (or Obamanation), and I hope he gets his butt kicked in next year’s election. Raw power is all he craves, and it would be sweet to see him lose it.

All of a sudden, the heat wave hits, and it feels like summer. Not that I’m complaining. Temps were in the 90s for a few days this week. And I’ve got an urge to go on my first hike of the season. If the weather holds, I may head to my favorite Tucquan Glen trail this Sunday.

The Tucquan Trail

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
and I say it’s all right.
It’s all right.

The Beatles, lyrics: Here comes the Sun
_________________________________

I’ve heard it said that extended lack of sunshine causes depression. And I certainly believe it can. Or at least a deflation of spirits. For me, it triggers moodiness, and a deep sense of brooding. Plenty of reason for all that this spring. The sun hasn’t been around much.

Until last weekend. After about three straight days of incessant drizzling rain last week, right into Thursday afternoon. Farmers were the only ones cheering; I guess they needed it. After work, as usual, I was exercising at the gym. Still had some office-related errands to run, so it was an expedited session. A quick workout, a stint in the hot dry sauna. I walked out, refreshed. To an entirely new world.

The clouds had departed and were fleeing to the east and south. The sun was slanting to the western horizon. It was clear, and warm. The air was clean, crackling, fresh. The grass shimmered wet, a dark sea of Irish green. Specks of mist rose here and there from the ground.

I stopped. Stood there beside Big Blue and drank it all in. Breathed it. Absorbed it.

Which in itself was unusual. I’m the guy who always measures the pain and loss of things. Mulls the past. Lost time, lost days, broken relationships. Laments what no longer is, what might have been, what should have been, what should be.

And I’ve always been the type who bristles when someone says, “Have a nice day.” Don’t tell me to have a nice day. I’ll have one if I want. Won’t if I don’t want. Keep your annoying cheeriness to yourself.

So I don’t know why it struck me as it did. Maybe it was the exhilaration after a good workout. Maybe it was the approaching end of the week, the anticipation of a few beautiful summer days of doing my own thing. Maybe I was just so happy and relieved to see the sun.

But I stopped, soaked it all in. The intense colors. The moment. I almost felt high, as in stoned. And spoke the words aloud. “It’s so good to be alive.”

And it was. Gloriously so.

I don’t do that very often, pause and reflect consciously like that. On something so basic. Always too wrapped up in the cares of the day, and the problems of tomorrow. Can’t remember the last time I did something like that, really. But it was and is just a great thing to be alive. Despite all the economic uncertainty stalking through the land. Despite what life might have in store this year, for any one of us. Despite all the troubles, all the unknowns rolling and shifting about under the surface of things. Despite the frustrations and pain of the past few years.

Standing there in that instant of profound awareness, I felt deeply grateful. I still do. For simple things. To see spring finally break free. To soak in the sun. To feel so alive. To BE alive.

*********************
Used to be I did most of my grocery shopping at Giant, our local grocery chain. Not so much anymore, as Lancaster County is blessed with a myriad of “bent and dent” stores. One of the best is about half a mile from my house. So I shop there for my meager needs, mostly. Still go to Giant for some of the stuff not available at the discount stores.

I was horrified a few weeks ago, after a long absence from Giant. At the prices. Every-thing’s zoomed up, and I mean zoomed. I have only myself to feed, and not a family of four or ten. I don’t see how people make it.

At the office, I always run down to a nearby grocery store/restaurant and pick up a salad for lunch. Gets me outside for a few minutes. (And no, I’m not a yuppie. I eat salads to keep my weight down.) I’ve gotten pretty familiar with the restaurant staff. “Salad bar’s closed,” they holler when they see me coming. All in jest, of course. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

One day a few weeks ago, I noticed that Jane, the excellent salad bar prep lady, seemed a bit uptight. I prepared my takeout salad as usual, just under a pound or so. Jane weighed it and stuck the price tag on top. I glanced at it. It was high, much higher than usual.

“Jane, you punched in the wrong code,” I admonished. “Look, it’s almost five bucks. No way I got that much salad. Unless you’ve been watering the lettuce again. Here, weigh it again.”

Jane looked grim. “The manager just put the price up this morning,” she half snapped. “And everyone’s been yelling at us. Can’t help it. It went up a buck a pound.”

I gaped. And growled. A buck a pound increase. No way. I wouldn’t stand for that. I asked to see the restaurant manager. Jane grimly fetched him. A shifty-eyed young guy. He smiled inanely at me.

“Look,” I lectured. Firmly. “You can’t just go increasing your salad price by a buck a pound. That’s 30%. We’re in a Depression here. Prices should be going down, not up. A slight increase I can deal with. But not a buck a pound. You’ll drive away your regulars.”

“I’ll take your advice into consideration,” he lied, still looking shifty. Smiling smarmily. I knew nothing would be done.

Back at the office, I fumed. “This will not stand,” I raged to Patrick, my boss. “I’ll eat at McDonalds before paying five bucks for a salad.” A bit of hyperbole there. You couldn’t pay me to eat the junk at McDonalds.

The next day, and the next, salad prices remained the same. I raged at Jane. Well, not at her, at her manager to her. “Go to the store manager,” she advised me the second day. “He’s the boss over the restaurant manager. We’re tired of it too. Everyone yells at us, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Go take care of it for us.”

No further prodding was needed. Couldn’t have other customers yelling at the help and getting everyone upset. So I promptly marched to the customer service counter in the main grocery store. Asked to see the manager. Of the entire store. I wasn’t going away quietly. The nice customer service lady dialed the manager and told him some-one wanted to see him. She smiled at me brightly. He’d be right down.

Sure enough, he soon walked up, a tall lean mustachioed guy. Smiling. Shook my hand. What could he do for me?

I showed him my tiny sad excuse of a salad, which I’d just paid for. “Look,” I said. “I come in here every day of the year. Every weekday, anyway. I like your store. I like your restaurant, and the staff who works there. But I just paid five bucks for this itty bitty salad. Because the restaurant manager increased the price by a dollar a pound.”

I paused. He stood there, smiling. He was good. I continued. “I won’t be coming in here every day anymore, if that price increase stays. I just won’t. Ain’t gonna do it.”

“Tell you what,” he said smoothly. “Why don’t we just give you this salad today?” He turned to the nice customer service lady. “Give him a refund.”

Oh, boy. Now I’d done it. He thought I was a freeloader. I protested. “That’s not why I asked for you, to get a free salad. I’m just telling you the price increase is outrageous. And it will drive away regular customers.”

He was good. Waved off my protests. Promised he’d see what he could do. Shook my hand again and thanked me. Smiling all the while. Genuinely, too, it seemed. I shame-facedly took my refund and left. The salad was particularly crisp and tasty that day, though. “Free” works a lot of magic.

The next day Jane and her coworkers were all smiles. The salad price had dropped. By fifty cents a pound. I’d won half the battle, anyway. And I could live with that. And so I have. I still make my daily trips to Jane’s salad bar.

The squeaky wheel gets the grease.

Update on Anne Marie. About two months ago, she had her first MRI scan since the brain tumor operation in December. The results were quite good. No visible new growth. A copy of the results was sent to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore for review.

Johns Hopkins was very slow in responding. After emailing, calling and waiting for more than a month, Paul and Anne Marie finally received their opinion. No radiation recommended as of this time. Anne Marie was encouraged to continue her natural program. JH will also review each new MRI scan in the future.

Paul and Anne Marie were delighted. Disbelieving, but delighted. That an institution like JH would recommend no radiation, and a natural treatment.

Anne Marie, of course, looks great as always. Radiant and healthy. Bouncing around with more energy than most people could imagine. She’s busy planting her garden and caring for Cody and Adrianna. I am still a regular welcomed Sunday night guest at their house on most weekends.

Earth Day came and went Wednesday, along with all the expected asinine prattling from politicians, leftists and a host of other wussy do-gooders. Every day is Earth Day, the more pious ones love to gush. Gag me. To combat them, I lit all the lights in my house for a couple of hours and idled Big Blue on the drive for awhile. Just kidding. These people will not stop until we all live in caves. Or at least simplify, like the Amish.

This weekend is the great annual Gospel Express fundraiser auction at Mel’s Stables in New Holland. A huge tent set up for the auction, another huge tent for tons of good delicious Amish and Mennonite food. Not good for you, but good. Nelson and the boys will be whooping, hollering and singing, to raise funds. I always stop by on Saturday around noon to grab a good old Lancaster County grilled sausage sandwich. And to see a few friends and chat with lots of acquaintances that I see about once a year, there at the auction.

Baseball and the Phillies mourn the loss of legendary announcer Harry Kalas, who “died with his boots on” in the broadcast booth. The league and the team paid proper respects. It’s ironic that his team won the last World Series of his lifetime.

Years ago, I used to watch the Phillies just to hear his stentorian tones. No one, but no one, could deliver that trademark line like he could. “That ball’s OUT’A HERE!!!!”

“And they called back to him forgotten memories: Old songs, old faces,
old memories, and all strange, wordless, and unspoken things men know
and live and feel, and never find a language for…”

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

I didn’t think I’d go at first. When my Amish friends invited me to the youth singing at their home a few weeks ago. Scheduled for the following Sunday night. I wouldn’t know anyone. And everyone would stare. Deep down, I’m really a pretty shy guy. So I told them thanks, but I probably wouldn’t attend. I’d keep it in mind in case anything changed, I assured them. That’s what you always say, when trying to maneuver out of an invitation to somewhere you don’t particularly want to go.

Sunday night rolled around, and I had second thoughts. Got a hankering to go. Or a notion, as my Dad would say. The singing started at 7:30. I could slip in a little late. So I changed into “going away” clothes and headed out.

My friends live only a few miles from my house. As I approached, dusk was settling. Line after line of gray/black buggies sat parked neatly in a nearby field. Lancaster buggies. Rectangular boxes with distinct rounded tops. I inched into the drive, drove Big Blue into the field and parked beside a temporary volleyball court.

I heard the soaring voices as I approached the shop where they were singing. Walked up to a back door and slipped in unseen. Took a chair behind the men. The shop was long and low. Two bench-tables had been set up. Girls sat on one side of each table, boys on the other. Benches lined the remainder of the floor behind each table, benches filled with row after row of Amish youth. Girls on one side of the room, boys on the other.

They were singing German songs. Fast tunes, with some English choruses. The music swelled and rolled and echoed from the shop’s low ceiling. Perfect four part harmony. About 150 youth, singing their hearts out. Someone noticed me and handed me a song book. I found the page and sang along. Scanned the room around me.

Everyone was singing. The youth, the married men, the women. Even the children. Everyone was absorbed in the moment, or so it seemed. They were a part of this system. This group. This community. And suddenly I was struck by a deep brooding sense of loss and sadness.

They belonged.

I didn’t. I was an intruder.

The song ended. Another was promptly announced and someone started it. Off they soared again, the swelling rolls of harmony pealing through the building and outside into the night.

It was breathtakingly, hauntingly beautiful and it took me back. I sat there, silent, lost in the moment and in the mist of memories from the past.

**********************
Back twenty-seven years or so, to one of a thousand summer nights in Bloomfield, Iowa. A small Amish community at that time, consisting of two districts. The youth all gathered as one group for the Sunday evening suppers and singings.

They were a diverse group, assembled from a wide swath of Amish communities, big and small. Bloomfield was just a young pup of a settlement in those days. Families had moved in from fairly progressive places like Kokomo, Indiana and Arthur, Illinois. And from such regressive areas as Fortuna, Missouri and Buchanan County, Iowa. And every shade between.

It made for an interesting mix of young people. They developed into groups, loose factions, as those with similar interests gravitated to each other. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

A tall lithe young man walked among them. Dark complexion. Wild shocks of curly, coal black hair. Always a ready smile. Intelligent. Good natured. Quick to laugh. Outgoing, intensely loyal to his friends.

His brooding brown eyes absorbed all that went on around him. The things he saw and lived and felt, he considered in his heart and carefully stored in the recesses of his memory.

There was sadness too, in those eyes, and a hint of something restless and lost. He was a part of this group, these youth. These were his people. Yet, he sometimes felt detached, alone.

These were his people, but he knew there was so much more beyond this world, out-side its secure borders. And its ancient ways. Out there, waiting for him. He’d left once or twice, short spasmatic excursions into that other world, then returned. Tasted the forbidden fruit for a time, before nostalgia and homesickness drowned out reason and turned his face again to the place from whence he came.

But he found home wasn’t quite the same. It would never be again. Could never be again. And he could never truly return. Even as he participated in the community, its life and customs. He loved the camaraderie, the feeling of belonging. But, wherever he was at any given moment, the grass always seemed greener on the other side. When he was home, he heard the siren’s song of the outside world. When he followed that song into that outside world, the memories of home tugged at his heart and pulled him back.

Even so, he lived in a perpetual state of vague undefined optimism. He would live forever; he had no grasp, no concept of the rapidly accelerating flow of the river of time, and the years. The nebulous dreams, the joys, the pain, the turmoil of youth stirred in him. Always the thought, the dream, the knowledge, the great promise of a shining tomorrow. Where the intense passions and desires that burned in him would be soothed, requited.

Always he grasped, with tenuous grip the anticipation of something, something great and grand and fine. Something beyond. Always tomorrow, with its visions of splendor and a shining city. Always the dreams of adventures in strange and distant lands, to come home again after wandering the far country, tired, satiated, ready to settle down in peace and solitude in the quiet land. Always a brighter future of happiness and contentment, always just beyond the tip of his outstretched hand.

But that tomorrow never came. It would never come.

And so he mingled in, immersed himself in the vibrant details of life around him.

He enjoyed the singings, mostly. The buggies clattering as they gathered, around 6:30 or so, on a Sunday night. Rattling steel rimmed wheels on the gravel roads. The horses unhitched and tied up in the barn or at flatbed wagons strewn with chunks of hay. Small knots of youth drifting toward the house, where supper would be served. Hanging with his buddies as they all gathered in. The house father calling everyone to attention, all heads bowed for silent prayer.

Then the serious business of eating the evening meal with his friends. A long bench-table set up in the kitchen, laden with large pots of starchy foods. Mashed potatoes, noodles, some form of hamburger-helper laced meat, baked beans, potato salad and bread. And they filed slowly past and dipped great globs of sustenance onto plastic picnic trays. Walked outside to sit under shade trees or benches in the yard, and wolf their food.

Then dessert and coffee and hanging out, the swaggering boisterous talk, the local gossip, who was dating who, swapping tall tales, or adventures about hunting and fishing and trapping, or work about the farm.

Sometimes they played volleyball after supper, over makeshift nets, with rubber hoses as boundary lines, or baler twine. Shouting, leaping, hair flying as they played. Not a whole lot of strategy involved; everyone just merrily whacking the ball over the net.

As eight o’clock approached, a quick trip to the barn for “business,” then everyone standing about combing and patting down unruly heads of hair. He and his friends often filed in early, so as to grab the treasured back bench against the wall. Two reasons: they’d have a wall to lean against, and they could get away with more monkeyshines, unnoticed in the back. Bloomfield didn’t use tables at the singings, just row after row of benches. A row of boys, a row of girls, a row of boys, a row of girls.

At eight sharp, the first song was announced. And they sang. He didn’t consider himself much of a singer (he wasn’t), but he enjoyed it. Some nights, it was fun and inspiring. Other times, it was something less. All depended on how the evening started. And on the room’s acoustics. A small room with low ceilings, the singing swelled and echoed. A large room or heaven forbid, singing outside, and it just did not go so well. The first forty-five minutes they sang German songs, then English songs for the final half. In four part harmony, a practice Aylmer had never allowed, and one that was almost banned in Bloomfield.

And the minutes crept by, and they sang and sang. The old classic hymns. And the more edgy stuff. “No, no it’s not an easy road.” “You gotta walk this lonesome valley.” And it seemed to him sometimes, as the harmony swelled around him and his spirit soared and he consciously reveled in the mellow waves of song, that he could never leave, never forsake this ancient heritage, this priceless legacy. That no sacrifice would be too great to draw these things inside and keep them in his heart.

And the evening passed, and 9:30 approached. Someone announced and led the parting song. After its last notes faded, the young men got up from the benches and walked out single file. The singing was over for one more week.

They milled about outside. Socialized and chatted for awhile. Those who were dating were the first to scurry away, the young men to hitch up their horses. Each one pulled up to the walkway, where his date would hurry out, wrapped in a black shawl, head covered in a bonnet, and step up into the buggy. And off they clattered. In Bloomfield, courting couples tended to leave post haste for the girl’s house, because the date was decreed over at midnight.

And one by one, he and his friends hitched up their horses and left. Out onto the graveled or blacktopped roads, a long convoy of buggies with blinking orange lights.

When there was no opposing traffic, they sometimes raced their horses. Turned the highway into a drag strip. The challenger pulled up close behind, then lurched out to pass. And the challenged gradually released his reins, the horses opened up into full stride. Side by side, at breakneck speed, the buggies rocking dangerously, the horses straining with every possible ounce of muscle and sweat. Until one or the other pulled ahead and the loser conceded. Sometimes a car approached in the distance; the challenger was expected to pull back in line.

Then onto the gravel road, and up and down the hills surrounding his home. And eventually up the half mile long lane to the house. He and his brothers, laughing and discussing the day’s events. Scoffing at this thing, chortling at that. One of them led the steaming horse to barn or pasture, and they all gathered around the kitchen table for a few minutes, snacking on whatever goodies they could scavenge, before retiring for the night.

This was who he was. In time, he would conclude this was all there was.

And it was not enough.

*********************
I sang along again that night with the Lancaster youth. The first time in more than a decade that I’d attended a Sunday evening singing. Around nine, the parting hymn, and it was over. The young people sat around and visited, the few I knew came and shook my hand in welcome. Soon the buggies trickled out and headed down the road.

And I sat there for a spell and visited with my hosts. Thanked them for their gracious hospitality. Someone asked if the singing that night had stirred in me old memories of my youth. I nodded.

“It was so long ago,” I said.

“C’est La Vie, C’est La Vie – That’s just the way it goes (That’s life).”

—Robbie Nevil, lyrics: C’est La Vie
____________________________

I thought about it a few weeks ago, when I wrote it. That maybe I shouldn’t brag. Shouldn’t litter my blog with vain boastings. But I went ahead and did anyway. Now there’s plenty of time to repent at leisure.

Two facts used to be true. One: I hate cities. All cities, big or small. Two: I’ve never ever, ever been issued a ticket for any traffic violation. Of any kind. Never. It was a matter of some pride to me. Well, actually, a lot of pride.

Of those two facts, one still remains true: I hate cities. All cities.

It all started innocently enough last week. Thursday, it was. I had scheduled a day of continuing legal education. The annual requirement that I attend X amount of hours of legal classes, to maintain my law license. This one was in Harrisburg. Downtown. In the Harrisburg Hilton Hotel.

No problem, really. Harrisburg is a small city. Many would consider it not a city at all. I’d been downtown before, just not recently. That morning, I slipped in and parked in a large parking garage for the day. Went to the class and hung out with about eighty equally bored attorneys. Listening to a passel of state bureaucrats droning on and on about bidding on state building contracts. At least they served a decent lunch.

The afternoon inched on, and at last it was over. Free to go, shortly after four. I walked back to the garage, boarded Big Blue and paid my parking fee. Then turned left around the block and left again, on one-way streets and out of town.

I reached the light where I needed to make a last left onto my road out. A sign up at the light firmly proclaimed, NO LEFT TURN. No left turn? I couldn’t turn right, it was one-way. I had to turn left, or cross the bridge over the Susquehanna and beyond. I’d probably never find my way back. Wander forever, lost in the savage wilderness. Traffic was sparse. So just before the light turned red, I swung Big Blue to the left and stepped on it. Breathed freely. I was on my way out of the wicked city.

It was a trap. And just like that, he was on my heels, like a baying Blue Tick hound. Lights flashing, siren yawping. A cop. He’d been waiting. And he had me. Boy, did he ever have me.

I remained amazingly calm, as I stopped, right on the busy highway. No shoulder. As the cop emerged from his flashing chariot, I reminded myself of my own advice to my readers a few weeks back. He walked up to Big Blue’s window. Medium height. Fit, a bit stocky. Gray-haired, hatless, peering at me sternly.

“Your license. Proof of Insurance. Registration.” He said curtly. I said nothing. Fumbled for my driver’s license and handed it to him. Reached into the glove compartment for the Insurance and Registration. Unfortunately, in the past 18 months, each time new insurance/registration papers arrived, I just piled them all together in the envelope without removing the old ones. I had a serious jumbled mess.

I handed him the Proof of Insurance. “What else do you need?” I asked. And those were my only words. For a second, I thought about explaining to him that I wasn’t familiar with the city. That I had chosen to turn left instead of crossing the river, because I didn’t know the area. That I was forty-seven years old and had never ever gotten a ticket of any kind for any violation, and couldn’t he just let me off? Just this once?

But nah. It wouldn’t do any good. He was out to generate revenue for the city. He had me, dead to rights. Something told me he would savor and enjoy such desperate pleas. And I darn sure wasn’t going to beg any favors from the law. So I said nothing.

He stood there and I sifted through my papers until I found the proper document. And sifted and shuffled. For at least two minutes. I said nothing. He said nothing. I finally handed over the Registration. Still said nothing.

Discomfited by my silence, he finally spoke. “I stopped you because you didn’t obey the traffic sign,” he said querulously. I said nothing. He walked back to his car. Sat there and sat there. Probably checking out the red check marks that appeared beside my name, on my computer records (and no, I’m not paranoid).

At last he emerged and walked up to me with a little yellow paper. A ticket. He handed me my license and documents, then the ticket. “Follow the directions on the back,” he said gruffly. I took everything from his hand and placed it on the seat beside me. And said nothing. Not a word. He turned and walked back to his car. I shifted Big Blue into gear and got out of there. He got into his car and popped back into the spot from where he’d waylaid me. His trap.

Couldn’t blame the guy. Just doing his job. Although it was a trap. But that’s what cops do. I couldn’t do it. Ruin a guy’s day for a minor traffic offense.

I glanced at the ticket. $109.50. For one illegal left turn. Now that’s tyranny. Highway robbery by the state.

I got the ticket because I’d bragged publicly about my perfect driving record. I’m convinced of that. Things have a way of balancing out. Oh, well. It was great while it lasted. And all good things must end, and all that. An illegal turn is probably one of the most benign tickets possible. If any ticket can be benign.

I bet I took the prize for being one of the least communicative traffic stops in that cop’s career.

And I still hate cities.

*****************
A few thoughts on last week’s post. It was intense, brutal to write. And draining to read. I sure couldn’t produce something like that every week. Wouldn’t want to. Always, after immersing myself into something at that level, it takes a few days to shake off the encroaching fog of brooding sadness that settles in. But I knew when I heard the devastating news that Monday morning that it would have to be written. For my own benefit, to work it out of my own system, if for no other reason.

The angel th