“Tradition is a guide and not a jailer.”
—W. Somerset Maugham

“If you obey all the rules, you miss all the fun.”
—Katherine Hepburn
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Recently a friend of mine told me about a conversation he had with his young teenage Amish neighbor. The Amish kid told him about all the contraband he had accumulated. An MP3 Player that could store and play 1500 songs. A laptop computer with wireless card satellite internet access. And a cell phone, the kind you buy off the shelf with prepaid minutes. I asked my friend if the Amish kid’s father knew of these things. He does not. A day of reckoning cometh. Sometime, somewhere, soon, it will all hit the fan. For both the kid and for the culture.

The young will defy and test the previous generation’s boundaries and push them to the limits. It has always been so and will likely always be. This is particularly true in the Amish culture, with its austere lifestyle, where the rules prohibit all things modern, all things sinful such as music, radios, and television. And now the computer and the internet. Like my friend’s neighbor, young people with a spark of life and an ounce of willpower simply will not accept their leaders’ noble vacant admonitions forbidding the touching of “unclean things.” Not without experimenting, experiencing and deciding for themselves.

In my day, we were no different, only the technology was quite primitive. We thought we were really doing it with the little transistor radios. Available in various colors, with a little carry strap. AM and FM channels. Several of my older brothers had them even while we lived in Canada. We would huddle in the hayloft and listen to hockey games, always keeping a sharp lookout for Dad. My brother Steve listened live to the great Canadian-Russian hockey playoff in 1972, which Canada won in miraculous fashion in seven games.

I bought my first transistor radio in 1978, when I was sixteen, at Place’s General store on the west side of the square in Bloomfield. In a time before Wal Mart, Place’s was our most convenient source of contraband, although we had to be very careful, as many other Amish also shopped there, and might witness our furtive purchases. And proclaim the news with great fanfare. Which would create a community-wide scandal. And wouldn’t be good for anybody.

Other than newspapers and magazines, the little transistor radio was my first real window to the outside world. On it, I listened to country music. KWMT out of Fort Dodge, Iowa. 61 Country from Kansas City. 99 Country from Centerville. I hid my radio in the hay loft in the old west red horse barn and often listened for a few minutes when doing chores. Each radio came with a tiny ear plug, which transmitted tinny-sounding music. With this, I often listened late into the night while lying in bed. The old country singers still take me back to that time when I hear them. Johnny Cash. George Jones (who can still make me weep). Haggard. Waylon and Willie. Tanya Tucker. Loretta Lynn. Crystal Gayle (what ever happened to her?). The Statler Brothers. The Oak Ridge Boys. And many, many others.

With the transistor, we became huge college football fans, cheering for the Hawkeyes. They were actually ranked in the top ten a few times back in those days. One of my most memorable football moments unfolded as I huddled behind our old white corn crib with my brother Nate on a fall Saturday afternoon, listening to the closing seconds of the Iowa-Michigan game, probably around 1982. Iowa kicked a field goal as time expired, winning 13-10. “The kick is up, it’s on its way…IT’S GOOD!!!! IOWA WINS!!!
IOWA WINS!!!” We danced and whooped and shouted like maniacs.

During the late 1970s, the 8-track tape player was cutting edge technology for our music. The gang of six guys I ran with had one or two among the lot. My best friend and future brother-in-law, Marvin, was very skilled and efficient in adapting the 8-track players to our large 12-volt buggy batteries. Marvin could also repair any torn tapes with glue and little bits of sticky tape.

Panasonic 8-Track tape player exactly
like the one we had, color and all.

Getting caught with such contraband had definite and potentially severe negative consequences. At the very least, whatever was found would be confiscated, and one would receive a good stiff bawling-out. And perhaps be grounded from going to the singing for a week or two. After we grew a bit older, the only negative was the disappearance of the radio or tape player. Once or twice, my transistor radio just disappeared. Nothing was ever said.

One night I got home very late, probably around 2 or 3 AM. I had the tape player in the buggy, and our collection of tapes. We kept them in a fifty-pound paper feed bag, Nutrena Feeds brand. It was so late and I was tired, so I did not hide the bag in the barn like I normally would have, and should have. Next morning after breakfast, when I reached into the back of the buggy to retrieve the bag, it was gone. Dad had been on the prowl bright and early.

He never said a word about it, just smiled a secret little smile. There were probably thirty or forty tapes in the bag, two or three hundred dollars’ worth. An accumulation of much furtive buying and trading. Now reduced to ashes. I was highly irritated, furious, actually, but did not even bother to confront my father. Instead, the following week, I seized one of Dad’s old shotguns, a Savage pump action 12-Gauge with a tendency to misfire. I trundled off with it to Jim’s Auction House in town and sold it for $150.00. And kept the money. And smiled a secret smile. I figured we were about even. And that’s the way it went.

We hung out at the Drakesville Park on Sunday afternoons. Sometimes at one of our homes or at the local Amish school yards. Listened to music and smoked. Maybe had a beer or two, although I never enjoyed beer much and still don’t. Occasionally we got a bit rowdy and did stupid things. I’m not condoning what we did. Or bemoaning what we did. It’s just the way it was. And history is not undone just because one pretends it didn’t happen, or destroys the evidence.

At the school yard on a Sunday afternoon.
A very rare photo.

Late one Sunday night after the singing, a few of us were hanging out at the school house, just horsing around. One of my buddies was somehow pushed into the front screen door. After a choice phrase or two, he tore the door right off its hinges. I don’t know why; to him, it must have seemed like a natural thing to do at the time. Of course, the next day, shock waves reverberated throughout the community. The wild, wicked young boys had torn up the schoolhouse. What would they do next, burn someone’s house down? How can it be? What could be done? Everyone clucked sadly and dramatically.

My friend Marvin and I (considered the two most rebellious boys at the time) were instantly and conveniently blamed, although neither of us had anything to do with it. Tongues wagged from one end of the community to the other. One young Preacher even began spreading the rumor that we had admitted to the damage. Marvin and I were indignant. Things were getting out of hand. Should we just hunker down, or confront the situation head on? After discussing our options, we got together one night and went to visit the young Preacher.

We rattled into his drive and tied up the horse. Although stunned to see us, the very thugs currently the subject of so much talk, he greeted us politely enough, if somewhat stiffly. We visited for a brief strained minute about other things. Haying. The weather. Then we bravely plunged into our subject matter. We told him he had been mistaken, and that we had not damaged the school house door. But we did not betray our friend who had done it. The Preacher was in a bit of a quandary. He was convinced in his mind we’d done it, but there we stood, telling him we hadn’t.

We were polite, but firm and insistent. And innocent. He stroked his long reddish beard thoughtfully, perhaps trying to imagine how he could incorporate this experience into a fire-and-brimstone sermon the next time he preached. But we remained polite and respectful, giving him nothing he could wring his hands over and preach about. No shocking behavior, no backtalk. After some moments of consideration, he gulped and cleared his throat several times.

Then he said carefully and deliberately, “I can believe it and I want to believe it and I will believe it, that you didn’t do it.”

His grim, stern visage did not soften. Not even a fraction. We thanked him and left it at that. He was true to his word, whether he actually believed us or not. I have always respected him for that statement, although in the ensuing years I have respected him for little else.

After I left the area and the Amish, my nephews continued the tradition of contraband. By that time, they could buy little TVs that were as small as or smaller than our old transistors had been. So where we listened to music and football games, they were watching concerts, baseball games and Nascar. I’m sure they had their own music systems as well, cassette tape players smaller and of much higher quality than any-thing we could have imagined.

Today, as exemplified by my friend’s teenage neighbor, Amish youth buy MP3 Players that can store more than a thousand songs. And can play movies on a tiny screen. The MP3 Player is about the size of a credit card. Easily concealed. Easily transported. That, combined with the wireless laptops and prepaid cell phones, pretty much ensures that technology will continue to invade and affect the Amish culture. Deeper and deep-er. I can’t imagine, long term, that it will not have a drastic impact on the continuity of the Amish as a people. The best and brightest and most inquisitive will explore. And taste. And enjoy. Many will not stay, or will keep bits of the technology, like cell phones and MP3 Players, with them even as they join the church. Which, if the church is supposed to be separated from the modern technology of the “world,” kind of defeats the purpose.

Eventually, because of technology, the Amish church itself, or a good portion of it, will not be able to maintain its current identity, as it exists today. That the church will survive I have no doubt; there will always be conservative elements that will hold back. Hard core traditionalists may even retreat into the ever-receding hinterlands and regress ever deeper into the old ways, merely for the sake of preserving them. But overall, the Amish will morph into something other than what we now see. Within a generation or two. This I believe. I don’t celebrate these conclusions. I don’t lament them, either. It’s just the way it is. And will be.
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Last Monday and Tuesday, Pennsylvania pretty much shut down for its annual state-wide holiday; the opening of deer season. Many rural schools even close for the day. We had a skeleton crew at work as most of our yard guys, and yes, even some from the office (no names will be mentioned), left for the mountains. There they shacked up in primitive, leaky cabins and cooked their own food. Slept on bad, hard beds and got up hours before daylight.

They joined a million nimrods throughout the state and tramped and stumbled and crashed about in the woods, all in pursuit of the innocent little wide-eyed Lyme-diseased bambis. This year they endured a full ten hours of solid and incessant drizzle on opening day. More power to them, I guess. It’s certainly not my cup of tea, although I do enjoy a bit of deer bologna upon occasion.

Congratulations to all you MIZZOU fans out there. Enjoy the view from the mountain peak while it lasts.

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“Blue color is everlastingly appointed by
the Deity to be a source of delight.”
—John Ruskin
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It wasn’t the most logical thing I’ve ever done. Certainly not the most necessary. But it was something I have considered for some time. And decided to do, for the first time ever, in my forty-six years.

I bought a new truck. A 2007 Dodge 1500. With a Hemi. Brand new. Fully loaded. With a sun roof. And a sliding rear window that opens with the push of a button. The color: a bold Electric Blue.

My truck has seen more rain than sunshine.
Hopefully not a harbinger of things to come.

As many of you know, I had made an attempt for a Dodge earlier this year at the New Holland Dodge dealer. And how it went with young Adam, the high-pressured salesman from Philly. This time, events began to unfold when I saw a sales extra in the news-paper featuring various dealers with end-of-the-year specials. I glanced at it. Lancaster Dodge, located on Manheim Pike, had some pretty hefty discounts on the new left-over 2007 models. So I called one day.

The salesman’s name was John, and he claimed they still had half a dozen models in stock. An hour later I was there. John met me. An older guy with graying hair, with a pronounced New Yawk accent, he was the exact opposite of Adam. Laid back. A bit gruff. Not very talkative. But friendly and helpful. He reeked of cigarettes and coughed with a smoker’s hack. He showed me the remaining 2007s. All extended cabs. A bright red one. A black one. Two silver ones. Two blue ones. All almost exactly alike, except for minor details.

I tried to act suave and disinterested. I could take it or leave it. I didn’t have to buy. I owned my 2004 Chevy HD 2500, free and clear. It was a good truck. If I can’t get a good deal, I’ll run my truck until it won’t run, I told John. It should last another 100,000 miles. He smiled and looked wise and thoughtful. And remained quiet, as I convinced myself to buy a new one.

I closely checked out two of the new trucks. The red one was out. Too loud. Not me. The black one was too, well, Black Bumperish. Or too Amish. But the silver and blue trucks beckoned. Almost exactly alike, except for one detail. The one blue truck had a remote start system. The remote start button was installed right on the key head. John showed me how it works. Just press the button twice, quickly. The truck lights blink twice, then suddenly the motor fires up with a powerful growl. John emphasized the fact that if anyone would get into the truck somehow, after it was remote-started, it was theft-proof. If you so much as touched the brakes or any other controls without inserting the key, the truck would instantly shut down. I was impressed.

John and I sat down in his office to negotiate. I told him what I would spend. He took notes. Then he disappeared, like they all do, into the mysterious office of the “financial officer” to see what they could do. He returned with figures that didn’t quite match what I offered. I growled and grumbled. John smiled genially and commented in his New Yawk accent. The truck was on sale at more than a twenty-five percent discount already. There wasn’t too much there to adjust, he insisted. We walked out to look at the trucks again. By this time, I focused exclusively on the blue one. I sat in it. Started it up. Again. John pointed out all the little extras, including the sun roof (which I don’t really consider an extra). It also had one other small detail the others didn’t: free Sirius satellite radio for one year.

We returned to his office. I asked how soon they could have the bed liner and the “nerf bar” side steps installed on the truck. But not a tarp cover for the the truck bed. I don’t think tarp covers look manly. Plus, they are actually unhandy. By Monday, he said. I looked out the window at the truck, glistening in the sunlight. I crunched the figures in my head. And made the decision.

“Draw up the paperwork,” I said. John smiled a friendly smile and discreetly coughed his smoker’s hack.

Why did I do it? It’s so unlike me, to go do something like that. Just like that. Several reasons. And the decision wasn’t as impulsive as it sounds. I had been contemplating it seriously for a long time.

I bought the Chevy 2500 in late February-early March, just weeks after we returned from the Florida Nightmare. It was an outstanding truck, and I got it for an outstanding price. I liked it, except for its atrocious gas mileage. But somehow, while driving it, I was always reminded of those awful, frantic horrible days, days of darkness, stress and foreboding. Days before the dreadful truth emerged from the depths. Days when two families, or parts of them, still clung to a shred of hope that did not exist and had long since fled. The truck was tainted in my mind. And by late summer, I had pretty well decided that, one way or another, sooner rather than later, the truck would have to go. Too much negative baggage.

So that’s why I did it. And because I wanted to. And could.

I picked up my truck the following Monday after work. I signed all the documents and politely declined all the extra warranties and undercoating options the financial officer presented to me. Then John took me to the truck, gleaming with chrome step side bars and a new bed liner. He showed me all the digital controls and how to work them. We shook hands and thanked each other. I drove proudly off the lot and into the future. Long live Electric Blue.

Blue jeans, Blue truck
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On Thanksgiving Day, we enjoyed a few hours of sunlight between incessant rain showers. I spent part of the day at Steves and enjoyed a fantastic and bountiful feast. Turkey and all the trimmings. Wilma’s brother and family, Rudy Yutzys from Brook-field, MO, were in for the holiday.

A bountiful feast, Thanksgiving at Steves

Rudy and I go way back. I first met him in 1976, when we moved to Bloomfield, Iowa. I was fifteen years old. We shared many adventures as young, restless teenagers. And got into various degrees of trouble together, along with our other buddies. He was one of the “infamous six” young sixteen to eighteen year-olds who left for Nebraska to work as cowboys and ranch hands back in 1979, about which I will write in more detail one day. Those were wild and reckless times. I remember at one point he had the fastest horse in the community, a great giant of a beast, that no one could beat. We did a lot of buggy drag-racing on the way home from the singings on those long-ago Sunday nights.

It was good to see him and his family again, and catch up on old times.

“Your time is short, Turkey.” Rudy and Marietta

Rudy and Ira

I am not an art connoisseur, although I do know and respect a few local artists. Much of the stuff displayed as modern art makes absolutely no sense to me. Or to anyone else either, I suspect. The drivel published as art criticism today often consists of nothing more than incomprehensible gibberish. Which makes it all the more remark-able that when I paged through a book of art at the Barnes and Noble Bargain Counter recently, I was so impressed that I did something I’ve never done before. I shelled out fifteen bucks for it.

The artist, Jack Vettriano, was born in Scotland. He is self-taught. And extremely popular, it turns out. The book title: “Lovers and Other Strangers.” His characters step out in scenes straight from the 1940s and 1950s. All the men wear suits and ties and often hats, even on the beach. They have greasy swept-back hair. The women are dressed for a night out. The men look mildly menacing, the women unapproachable. Everyone smokes or drinks, or both. Gloriously refreshing, that. I’m not sure if I’m breaking copyright laws here, but I’ve posted a few of my favorites. Prints and framed copies are widely available. Google his name for pricing.

“Dance Me to the End of Love”

“Contemplation of Betrayal”

“Seaside Sharks”

The Patriots continue their destructive swath through the NFL, demolishing opponents ruthlessly and efficiently. I will actually be cheering for the Eagles this Sunday. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, and all that. My only hope now is that someone, maybe one of the thug Eagles, will break both of Brady’s legs. As a law school classmate (and a thug Eagle fan) used to holler during football games, “Hit him! I wanna see bone sticking out of that leg!” At this desperate point, I’d gladly settle for one broken leg. Evil, evil runs amok. If the Patriots continue performing at current levels, I will probably not even bother watching the Super Bowl, for the first time in twenty years.

“Darth Vader” Belichick plotting his evil course

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