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“Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears away from us
all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see
ourselves as we really are.”
—Arthur Golden

On August 3rd, my family observed the 25th anniversary of an event that deeply affected all of us, although few of us have ever expressed it much. My older brother, Titus, on that warm and muggy Iowa night in 1982, dived into a pond on his future father-in-law’s farm and hit the bottom head first. He never walked another step. He was 23 years old. My father has written a book about the event and its aftermath, “Through Deep Waters,” and I will not rehash here the details of the accident. But on this particular day, this year, it struck me anew that Titus has now existed on a wheel chair for more years than he walked. And that’s something to ponder and absorb.

Titus Wagler in rehab in Waterloo, IA, 1982-83.
From L, Rhoda, Titus and Friends.

In my opinion, the Amish have a one of the strongest and most efficient support structures in existence. The community rallies around and provides whatever physical and financial support is needed, and did so for us. But the system is also lacking in at least one very important aspect. It offers no real way to cope with the emotional after-effects of tragic events, especially unexpected ones. This is not a criticism, but an observation. It’s just the way it is. Things are not said. Communication is sparse or nonexistent. Feelings are quashed. One is expected to accept and bear one’s burdens in silence. One does. And the years move on. I still look back sometimes and think it cannot be that my brother cannot walk. It’s just a bad dream, a thing that we have all accepted over the course of many years. It’s not really true.

But it is true. And will always be.

At the time, I was a troubled and unsettled young man, a few weeks shy of my 21st birthday, and I will never forget that day or the days and weeks that followed. I remember the night it happened quite clearly. It was dark, and I had already gone to bed. I was not asleep. A vehicle came barreling into our long lane at a high rate of speed. My window was open and I could hear the engine roar and tires crunching on the gravel. Shadows from the vehicle’s lights bounced and pitched on my bedroom walls. It slid to a halt in our driveway. A truck door slammed. A staccato of footsteps up the walks, then a great clattering of footsteps up the stairs. I was annoyed. Didn’t whoever it was know that it was bedtime? People were trying to sleep here. Then my sister Rachel’s voice, speaking a rush of words so fast I could not grasp what she was saying. A terrible accident. Titus. Dive. Pond. Hospital. Bad. Can’t feel anything. My Dad’s voice, calm and disbelieving, then hurrying steps in the house as he and Mom prepared to leave with Dick Hutchins, the “English” man who had brought Rachel to our house. I got up and went out. I was quickly told what had happened. They left. I returned to bed but did not sleep that night.

The next morning we learned that Titus had been flown to Iowa City in a helicopter. A helicopter. It must be bad. Dad returned later that day. Mom stayed at the hospital. Dad looked drained. He tried to put on a good face, but I could tell he was shaken. The doctors’ diagnosis had been grim. Titus was paralyzed. They would do what they could. Feeling might return. But they thought not. In fact, the head doctor stated affirmatively that it would not. We listened in a haze of disbelief. The words were clear, but we could not grasp them. The first full day passed in slow motion.

The second morning dawned. We got up and did the chores, then ate a somber break-fast. No one was really hungry. Only four were present; my sister Rhoda, my brother Nathan, Dad, and me. Dad would leave that day for Iowa City. As was the custom in our home, after breakfast Dad took his German Bible and read a passage out loud. We then knelt for Morning Prayer, which was always recited from a little black prayer book. Dad didn’t use the book, because he knew them all by heart. He got through the five-minute prayer with no trouble until the end, which closes with the Lord’s Prayer. With barely a pause, he began the familiar refrain, his rich, mellow voice rising and falling in the rhythmic, comforting flow we’d heard a thousand times before.

“Our Father Who art in Heaven…..Hallowed be Thy Name…..Thy Kingdom come…..”
“Unser Vater in dem Himmel…Geheiligt verde dein Name…Zu uns komme dein Reich..”

Abruptly, his voice broke and he faltered. He struggled silently for some moments. Through the vast gulf that separated me from him at the time, and in the grip of my own shock and grief, my heart cried out for him. A tough, stoic, hard-bitten old Amish man. Broken. Hurting. In anguish before God. For his son. Fighting emotions he could not show. He wept silently and cleared his throat. Began speaking again, then stopped. Silence. Struggle. Cleared his throat again. But then he said the words, and I have always believed from the bottom of my heart that he meant them with all of his.

“…..Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.….”

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In 1998, I lived in a little ramshackle trailer house along Peters Road in the Welsh Mountains. I stayed there for almost two years. In retrospect, it was one of the best periods of my life. I putzed around on about an acre of ground and had a large yard to mow. Soon after I moved there, I went to Wal Mart with my friend Allan and bought the cheapest lawn mower there for the whopping price of $99.99. It was no-frills, not self-propelled, light and quite sufficient. No bagger, no gizmos, just a motor and blade. I used that mower exclusively to mow my yard since. Every spring when I took it to my young Amish small-engine repairman, Nathan Stoltzfus (who I’ve known since he was a child) to get it serviced for the summer, he always chuckled and asked if this was still my Wal Mart mower. I always proudly said “yes, and good as ever.”

Sadly, as I was mowing last Saturday, there was a loud clunk and clatter as the mower hit a large rock. The engine revved up all by itself, but nothing seemed to be happen-ing. I finally diagnosed the problem; the blade had fallen off. Even more alarming, a small hole was knocked into the platform beside an engine mount. I couldn’t believe it. After all these years. After surveying the carnage, it became clear to me that an era had passed. I observed a moment of silence, then loaded it on my truck and trundled off to Nathan’s shop. He wasn’t there, but his boss was. He said the mower was not repairable; the shaft was bent. I looked around the shop and picked out a nice little green mower that was serviced and sitting there waiting for a new owner. Price: $125.00. It’s light and not self-propelled, no bagger, no gizmos. But it’s a bit heavier and clunkier than my old one. I took it home and finished my mowing. And so a new era begins.

Last Friday evening, I went with a friend to the late show and finally saw The Simpsons at the new theaters in Lititz. Very nice, the seats are comfortable enough to camp in. The movie was about what I expected, a string of slapstick events tied to a longer plot. The producers take equal opportunity pot shots at the entire spectrum of sacred cows, so there’s plenty for everyone to laugh at and/or to take offense, if so minded. I was very surprised that Ned Flanders, the sappy fundamentalist Christian, was generally treated quite sympathetically.

The dog days of summer have been unleashed. The sun beats in full force. Heat, heat, heat. I am thankful each day for my air-conditioned office. I can’t imagine doing much outside activity of any kind, including hiking or camping. The strain of the heat is showing in baseball too, where many journeyman pitchers are being knocked about a good bit. The Braves could use a few good upgrades to their bullpen and a new closer. They’ve lost more than one game lately in the late innings.

Speaking of baseball, Barry Bonds finally did it, and I didn’t even see it live. It was a late game against the Nationals in San Fran, and I watched his first at-bat, then went to bed. He clobbered the historic home run in his next at-bat. The baying bloodhounds of the press have been persistently denigrating him in the worst way for his supposed steriod use. Bonds is surly and defiant. He may have used steriods. It’s not been proven. I used to depise Bonds, but I’m so sick of the press preaching to me about how terrible he is that I have actually been rooting for him. (The Michael Vick lynching is even worse. I’ll opine about that another time.) Way to go, Barry. Whatever else is ever said or written, the fact remains that you have hit more home runs in the major leagues than any other player in history. And no one can ever take that from you. Except the guy who breaks your record.

It’s a bit hard to grasp and very exciting to think that in less than a month, football season will be in full swing. That’s always the first reminder to me that summer is ending; fall and the harvest season will come soon. NFL Preseason has begun. I love to watch the Pros, but am also a big fan of the college game. No particular team in college, although I cheer for Iowa when I can because I lived there years ago. At work, the Eagles fans are stirring with their usual clamor about how great the team will be this year. That’ll last until about the third or fourth week, at which time McNabb or some other indispensible player will collapse and be out for the season.
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NOTES AND NEWS

OPEN HOUSE AT GRABER SUPPLY SEPT. 8th
EVERYONE WELCOME

Congratulations to Glen and Leann on their engagement
A March wedding is planned.

Lester and Rachel (my sister) Yutzy and family visited our area over the weekend. They live in Hutchinson, KS and were in VA last Saturday for a wedding. They stayed at Steves and we had many gatherings over the weekend. Monday evening I hosted everyone for ice cream and coffee. We all sat around out by my garage and just hung out and had a great time catching up and recounting old times and discussing the world’s problems. Lesters left for home Wednesday morning.

Sunday lunch at Steves

Rachel, Lester, and Ira

Titus and Sheri

Ira Lee and Rosa

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