July 27, 2018

Notes From The Broken Road…

Category: News — admin @ 5:32 pm

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I wish Mom could see me now,
And how I’ve turned it all around.
Lately I’ve been going down
The right road.

Life’s a picture that you paint,
With blues and grays, and cans of canvas.
Heaven knows I’m not a saint,
But I know.

Jesus and Mama always loved me.
Even when the devil took control.
Jesus and Mama always loved me.
This I know.

–Confederate Railroad: Jesus and Mama
____________________________

An ordinary morning at work, the other week. Things were going on, about like they always do. I engaged a customer at the front counter, and then another. The phone rang. And a call came from a guy who asked for me. Well, I was on the line when he called, so I got a note to call him back. I glanced at the number, then the name. Jack, a hard-bitten old farmer from south Jersey. I’ve known him for a few years. Well, more than ten. I guess that’s a few, when you’re talking about random people who wander through your life. That’s how it was with Jack. We’ve done business. We know each other pretty well. I just hadn’t thought about the man in a while, because I hadn’t seen him in a while.

That morning, I figured. Jack’s probably looking for some materials, maybe some metal roofing. He’s always fixing something on his farm. Might as well get back to him right away, before I get hung up somewhere else and forget. I dialed the number he had left to call him back. In my headset, I heard the clatter of the ringing on the other end. Come on, Jack. Answer. The phone rang again. And again. He’s probably on his tractor and can’t hear. Soon it’ll go to voicemail. Come on, Jack. Answer.

About right then, he did. “Hello.” Jack. Ira here. Returning your call. “Oh, hi, Ira. Thanks for calling back. How you been?” I’m good. And you? And back and forth, like that. Just your normal interaction when doing business. And it was about what I figured, when we got to his reason for calling. He needed some advice about how to fix a big sliding door on his barn. I listened as he told me the problem. And as we talked it through, my mind drifted to another place. I was about half there, at my desk, chatting with Jack about his sliding door, and what I reckoned would take care of his problem. And I was about half out there, remembering the last time we had seen each other.

It was last summer. And it was a strange time in a lot of ways, last summer was. I mentioned that little fact as it was coming down. Or right after it came down. A major stressor was draining a lot of energy from my life. The whiskey. It all hinged back to the whiskey. I had reached a place where a decision had to be made, where something different had to be done. Well. I was reaching that place, late last summer. I’m on the wrong road, here. I’m not young, anymore. Looking back, a few things are clear in retrospect. I was sick and tired of feeling sick and tired. I was overweight, bloated like a fatted hog. My face was swollen, my eyes were puffy. It was a hard and relentless slog, every day. There had to be a better way.

And I was hedging around, looking at the situation from every angle. Near as I could, anyway. Kind of poking at it with a sharp stick, to see if any sleeping monsters would wake up. You calculate the cost, you make a choice. And this was a new door. That’s what it was. A new door to a new road. And I could turn from it or walk through. It takes a while, to get to what you know is the right choice when you’re standing in a place like that. At least, it does for me.

It was just so hard, to think about giving it all up. I had been close friends with the whiskey for a lot of years. Twenty-five, at least. It’s in my blood, it’s in my genes, to crave that soothing amber fire. To strain to hear, to absorb all the whiskey lullabies that amber fire can sing. Much of my genetic attraction to alcohol comes from Mom’s side of the family, that I always knew. We heard the stories about uncle Joe and how hard he drank. And I remember when he died, at about my age. He drank himself to death. That was pretty much the accepted narrative. The Yoder blood was strong in a lot of ways, but it was flawed and weak in others. This I always knew, because it never was a closely guarded secret.

But it wasn’t only from the Yoders that the insatiable drive to drink came from. There was a strong pull from the Wagler side, too. Just not out in the open. The Yoders were honest about who they were. They had few pretensions. The Waglers, not so much. We never knew it, growing up, but there was a time when Dad nipped at the bottle, too. Way back in his younger days there in Daviess, he did. His older brother, Ezra, was always saddled with the burden and the shame of being the wild child, the renegade drinker in the family. Dad told me once that when Ezra came home from the singing late on Sunday nights, he always threw his empty whiskey bottle onto a little threshold above the barn door when he took his horse in. (I can only imagine what kind of terrible rotgut it was that Ezra bought and drank. I’m sure it wasn’t the single malt scotch I got used to, a generation later. I always thought it would be fun to knock back a few with the young Ezra of long ago. He could tell me lots of things I never knew.) There was a big pile of those empty bottles up there on that ledge, Dad told me. And I never thought to ask. What about you? Were some of those bottles yours? He’d tell you yay or nay if you asked in the right spirit. He’d also sense it in a second if you were asking, trying to nail him, trying to trap him. And he wouldn’t tell you, then.

We heard the furtive, whispered stories somewhere along the way. Long after we were adults and had left home, the first such whispers came. At least the first such whispers that I remember. And we poked and prodded and dug around a bit. Were the stories true? Looking back from where I am today, there is little question in my mind that there was a time when Dad was no stranger to the bottle. Way back, in his younger years. The thing is, back in those days, I don’t think it was all that big a deal if you drank a little. I think it was more of an accepted thing in the Amish church, at least the Amish church in Daviess County, for there to be whiskey in the house. So it wouldn’t have been all that uncommon, for a man like Dad to imbibe. He sure would have been predisposed to, if the whiskey sang to him even remotely like it sings to me.

Waglers and whiskey. It’s a little startling for me to recognize that I’m not the first one of my blood to reach this door, to give it up. Because there is also no question that my father quit drinking, cold, long before I was ever born. He always talked against alcohol. Always wrote about how bad it was. Bad for your health, and bad for your soul, too. That’s what Dad would have believed. Maybe he was writing to himself as much as he was writing to his readers. I look at his life and his life’s work, and I get some small grasp of the man’s astonishing drive and strength. What he believed, he proclaimed boldly to his people, as no one had ever done before. He strode forward, confident and forceful and unafraid. What his hand found to do, he did with all his might. Such a man as that is who my father was.

That’s where I come from, a place like that. None of it is any excuse for how far I went with the whiskey, of course. And I’m not making any. It’s all about choices, whether you drink or don’t. I don’t judge it as a moral issue, even. It’s simply a choice. As it was always a choice for me during those last twenty-five years when I hit the bottle hard. A choice I never felt much inclined to change. Sure. There were a few dry blurps in there, but those were aberrations. Mostly, I was content to hold it close, to embrace my good friend. To invite the brooding spirits in. I pretty much had to, I believed, after I started writing. I had to keep the bottle close, or the writing wouldn’t come. Way down, I sure used that as an excuse to drink. And it didn’t take much to fool myself into believing it was actually true.

And so it went. Until last summer. I talked to a few close friends about it. That was the first step, looking back. Opening up to one or two friends I trusted enough to confide in. But I still don’t know where the drive came from to go there in my head, to consider seriously what it might take to walk away. Maybe I was getting old and tired. Or maybe the Lord was nudging me along. He moves in mysterious ways, like the hymn says, His wonders to perform. I don’t know why the resolve came to approach that door, let alone walk right up and step through. I just know it did.

It’s always hard, when you’re addicted to anything, to even think about giving it up. Doesn’t matter what it is. Food. Cigarettes. Whiskey. Work. (Oh, and drugs, of course. Still. Real addictions are about so much more than just drugs.) It’s scary and unnerving to force your mind to consider an alternative universe that doesn’t include the thing you treasure so deeply in your heart. That idol you can’t quite let go. And this wasn’t the first time for me, to quit a habit that seemed impossible to break. I remember years and years ago, when I was in a similar place. Only it was cigarettes I was trying to shake off, back then.

I remember the monsters of fear that snarled from the darkness. Don’t even try. You’re not strong enough. It wasn’t the thought of not smoking for a day, or a week, or even a month. That’s wasn’t what seemed so hopeless and overwhelming. It was the thought of not ever smoking again. Of giving it up forever. That’s what was so brutally hard to look at in the face. Of never again waking up and sipping that first hot cup of strong black coffee, and lighting a moist cigarette, dragging great draughts of delicious smoke deep into your lungs. Don Williams immortalized the ritual in his signature song. Coffee, black. Cigarette. Start this day, like all the rest…

The nice thing about bunny trails is, they’re all connected, and you can always circle around to where you started. So back to last summer, when I saw Jack last. I was in a strange place, in my head. A strange road. Unfamiliar. I don’t remember being scared, much. Quietly desperate, I’d say, would be more like it. It was a strange place. Large and fearful shadows loomed on every side, close and closing in. A jungle. That’s what it was like walking through. Or maybe wilderness would be a better word. It was a desolate place, and dark, in my head.

It seemed like I was out there, stumbling through unfamiliar terrain. There was a new door, up there ahead. Beckoning. Calling. Beckoning. I knew a choice had to be made soon. And I knew the right one would be hard. Still. I was drawn to the new door by some magnetic force. Come. Step through. Make this choice. Do it. There had to be a resting place, there had to be. I could shield my eyes from the sun with my hand and see. Way out there on that other mountain, there it was. That place of peace I was looking for. I could see it. Out there, over the valley. Which could mean only one thing. That valley had to be walked through. I could see it and sense it. But still. What you know has to be done is the hardest thing to do. Often, that’s how it is. And there I stood in the wilderness, in the jungle. Alone. Well, I sure felt alone.

And I thought about the last time we had seen each other, me and Jack, as we talked on the phone that day. A Saturday, when I was working. It was always sporadic, on a Saturday. Feast or famine. And right when they got there, Jack and his lady friend, not much was going on. I greeted them cheerfully. Jack. Pauline. What’s up today? It’s great to see you. Been a while. I hugged her. Jack’s handshake was firm and steady, like it always is. It’s so great to see you, I said. And we stood there and caught up. I think they’re officially just dating. They both were married before, and they had connected later in life. Salt of the earth people. They really are. They always tell me. When we’re going past on a Saturday, we look for your blue truck. Big Blue. If it’s not there, we don’t stop. This was back before the days of Amish Black, of course.

Over the years, since my book came out, they have bought at least a dozen copies to give as gifts to friends. I always made a big fuss, signing the books. Jack is an old ex-marine who saw action in the Korean war, I think it was. Or the Korean conflict. Whatever it’s called. He can tell you stories that make your blood run cold, of things he has seen. Over the years, we got to be good friends, me and Jack and Pauline.

And that morning, we connected like we always do. It’s so good to see you. What can I get for you today? And we talked about Pauline’s work at the township office and Jack’s work on the farm and my work at Graber. They told me. From here, they were heading to Gid King’s Farm Store over on the other side of White Horse. You can find tools and stuff there for better prices than you’ll ever see at any English store. I had told Jack about the place years ago, and now he’s a regular when he gets up here. I should hit old Gid up for a commission, I guess, for all the business I’ve sent his way.

They asked how the writing is going. I had told them I was fixing to work on the second book. I didn’t have a contract, yet. I was working on getting one. So they knew to ask. It’s really sporadic, I said. I got some good stuff coming, but it’s not real connected, yet. And then Pauline looked at me sharply. “How are you doing?” She asked. I guess she wouldn’t have had to ask. She could tell. I was swollen and heavy, my face was bloated, my eyes were puffy. Maybe she was just being polite. Or maybe she genuinely wanted to know. I figure she did. I’m not doing all that great, I told them. And I didn’t shrink from why. The whiskey. It’s getting to me. I love my scotch. And my vodka. Not an evening goes by that I don’t drink. And yeah, I’m still taking my Superfood vitamins. That’s probably one reason I’m still standing. But I’m kind of lost, here. I have to do something about the whiskey. I’m not sure what or how. I’ve tried quitting before. Nothing has ever worked. You asked, so I’m telling you. That’s how I am, right now.

They stood there and looked at me, and something lit up in their eyes. And then they told me their stories. They had both been exactly where I was, way back when. Hard-drinking bar hounds. And they had both quit, cold, decades and decades ago. Independently, before they even knew each other. Neither of them had touched a drop of alcohol since the time they swore it off. And standing there talking to me that morning, they didn’t spout wise, trite things like people do when they’re preaching at you. They just spoke the stories of what they had seen and lived. What had happened and how. I listened and I heard. Even at that moment, I sensed it was pretty amazing that two people such as this would show up in my life and tell me what they were telling me. These people had actually done what I knew I needed to do. Still. It sounded scary and a little hopeless. It would be a hard road. I listened as they talked. And I pondered their words in my heart.

It wasn’t magic, the things my friends told me that day about how they quit drinking. It didn’t go like it always does in those nice stories that end with a sweet little moral lesson. I didn’t swear anything by my Mother’s grave, and I didn’t go home that night and never touch another drop. I simply absorbed their stories and thought over what they had said. Processed. Calculated. They had done a hard thing and made it stick. I wondered if I could do that hard thing, too.

That little incident made such an impression that I couldn’t shake it from my mind. In the next week or so, I mentioned it to a few close friends. And at some point, I told the guys at Bible Study. It was just wild to me, that Jack and Pauline showed up out of nowhere and told me their stories when they did. I mean, I had known them both for years. And I had never heard these things before. We had never gone there, in our talk. I guess there wasn’t really any reason to.

And I’ve spoken it before, how it all fell into place, kind of on its own. Late next month, it will be one year since I have touched a drop of whiskey. I’m astounded at how fast the time has whooshed by. And right now, this moment, I am focused on that milestone. One year. It’s a big deal. One year on this broken new road. I have seen strange and beautiful things in that time. One year. And then, who knows? I’ll head on out for two. We’ll see how it goes, I reckon. Today is all I got, it’s all I ever had, and it’s all I will ever have.

And looking back over the long and lonely slabs of years that made up my journey to where I am today, I stand amazed at how many times it happened. How many times I have despaired because of the hard road that stretched before me as far as the eye could see. How many times I felt lost, how many times I have strayed far afield and could not find the way. And then, when it seemed like there was no door to open, here came a stranger or a friend, stepping from the shifting shadows. Here. This is the way. The right road. Walk this path. It has happened over and over. I don’t know why I even get surprised anymore. But I do, because my faith is weak. Still. Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

And life flows on, as life does. I’m working on getting some writing done. Now and then, I have to go back in my head to see and relive things that would rather be left alone, if you just did what you felt like doing. I’m seeing and feeling the pain of much of the past in a new way, when my head is actually clear. And sometimes a dark memory comes knocking on the door. It’s almost impossible to describe how free it feels to open the door and meet that dark thing face to face. Oh, you got a story, too? OK, come on in. I’ll see what it looks like and we’ll go from there. If you got no reason to come knocking, I’ll kick you out. I’m just saying. You better be real.

Once in a while, as the day ends and night flows in, once in a while there comes a time when you feel pensive and your mind wanders to places it doesn’t often go because it’s just too hard. But you go there anyway and you see the blurred face of someone you cared for more than anything and you wonder why life went the way it did. And you feel it again like you mostly don’t these days because you won’t let your heart go down that path, not often, because, well, just because. Still, you sit there and absorb it one more time, the bitter sorrow of a loss so deep, you can’t express it, you can’t write it, you can’t possibly speak it like it was. And you feel it all the way down, how alone you are.

Once in a while comes such a night as that. Now that I have a clear head.

This next thing may be connected to the other bunny trails, or it may not. Either way, it’s a little story on its own. Last week, I had a rare book talk. Well, rare in that such a thing hasn’t happened all that much, lately. A good friend of mine is connected to a little group that meets at the DuPont estate, down in Wilmington, Delaware. Winterthur, it’s called. I’ve heard of it, but I never got down there until that afternoon. We met in the Charleston Room on the third floor of the big house. The people who came were mostly retired. But they were sure engaged. All of them had read the book. We sat around in a large circle on stately chairs and it was all informal and relaxed. I opened with a brief statement of my history.

And then I just took their questions as they came. They came from all over, so there was lots of meandering down lots of bunny trails. And it came out then, the story of how I started writing on my blog way back when my marriage blew up. I gave a brief sketch of what happened without a lot of specific details. It was a failure on both sides, I said. It was as much my fault as my ex-wife’s that the marriage wasn’t what it should have been. Maybe more my fault. At this point, I can only say. It was what it was.

Off to the side, an elderly woman raised her hand. I acknowledged her. “You were so sensitive to Sarah (my Amish fiance’) in the book,” she said. “I wondered how you got there, when I read that. How you could be so sensitive to her loss. Now I see. It’s because you’ve been divorced since that all happened. You know what it is, you understand now what she went through.”

I nodded. Well, ma’am, I never really made that connection. But it makes sense, what you’re saying. You are certainly right about one thing. I know what it is to have loved and lost. Maybe that’s why I could write Sarah’s story like I did.

And back to that phone call with Jack. That morning, we talked for the first time since that day last summer when they stopped by the office. And I told my friend after we got done with business. I want to tell you. I’ve been dry since late August. I’m feeling pretty good. I’ll never forget how you and Pauline stood here and told me your stories. That helped me a lot. I have thought about it many times. It seemed like God just brought the right people into my life to point out the right way, right when I needed them.

Those hard-bitten old south Jersey farmers don’t get emotional and religious, much. But I’ve come to realize. A lot of them have a deep reserve of quiet faith such as I can only aspire to. My friend paused a bit, there on the phone, when I spoke about the right people showing up at the right time. And then he said, “Yep. That’s how God always does it. I’m glad to hear you’re doing good. I’ll tell Pauline. She’ll be glad, too. She’s mentioned you half a dozen times, since that time we talked. She was concerned about you.”

You do that, I said. And tell her I said hi. I love you guys a lot. Thanks for being there.

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June 29, 2018

Vagabond Traveler: Fortunate Son…

Category: News — admin @ 5:36 pm

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Something immensely bright and beautiful was converging in a flare of light,
and at that instant, the whole room blurred around him, his sight was fixed
upon that focal image in the door, and suddenly the child was standing there
and looking towards him.

—Thomas Wolfe
__________________

It was just the way things turned out. I didn’t make it down to see the man last winter, in Florida. I meant to and would have. But then it just didn’t seem to be working out to go. And I told my sisters at the time. If I’m needed down in Pine Craft to help care for Dad, I’ll take my turn. Be glad to. But if I’m not needed, I won’t come. It’s a long old way down there, and it would take up more than a week of my time. And as the winter dragged aimlessly on, it turned out I wasn’t needed. That’s fine, I said. I got stuff going on, here. And it was fine. I didn’t go. I assured my family, instead. I’ll visit my father this summer, up in Aylmer. Sometime in June. It seemed like a safe thing to say. A safe thing to plan. And yes, June seemed far away.

It’s been a strange year in a lot of ways. I got some intense latent pressures going on inside me and around me. No, those pressures have nothing whatsoever to do with alcohol. It’s other things, like “writing a book” and not knowing for sure what’s going on. It’s a new and different road. But even so, time moves right along. I was amazed at how soon June came rolling through the door. And a week or so in, I got to thinking. Father’s Day is coming up. Why don’t I go see Dad then? Not that the visit on that day would mean any more to him than any other visit on any other day. Still. If I’m going anyhow, I might as well go on that symbolic weekend. It was as good as any other. My plans formed and firmed up in my head.

And I thought about how I should maybe line up a rental with my old buddies over at Enterprise. I couldn’t decide for sure. I’m still irritated at them for that silly PC stunt they pulled off last winter. I don’t forget grudges like that very quick. And besides, I now drive a nice black Jeep. Why not take a road trip with Amish Black? Up to see Dad for Father’s Day. I mulled the thing over in my head, took and turned it every which way in my mind. I’m still mad at Enterprise vs. all those miles on my Jeep. But it would just be fun, to drive up there with Amish Black. Worth those miles. And that would show Enterprise. Back and forth and back and forth, I bounced it like a rubber ball. A few more days rolled by.

And sometime there in early June, the message came. Trickling through the family grapevine. Dad had some serious issues with the blood flow in his legs. And there was one night, there, when they had to rush him to the emergency room because of it. I’m not sure for what, I mean, why it was an emergency. For the pain, maybe. Anyway, the news sounded a little grim. And the message was silently conveyed, too. If you want to see Dad, you better get up there soon. It all fit, for me. I had planned to go, around now, anyhow.

My trip firmed up, then, with a little nudge from another source. I got a call from my sister, Magdalena, down in South Carolina. When was I going up? I told her. I was thinking the weekend of Father’s Day. Maybe heading up Friday, coming back Sunday. Same schedule I always have, pretty much, driving up there and back. And Maggie asked. Would I care if she and Ray came up as well, over that time? Of course not, I said. I’d love that a lot. Absolutely. Come. Let’s figure on seeing each other that weekend in Aylmer. And that became our plan.

It all became clear in my mind as the week arrived and the day approached. When I had to either make the rental reservation, or not. I would drive Amish Black. Our first road trip together. I like my Jeep a lot. And I drive it a lot. Locally, at home. I do that two-fingered wave at other Jeeps, now, all casual like. Just like a pro. You’d think I’ve been driving a Jeep all my life. But me and my first Jeep had never ventured out very far together. Not for overnight, anywhere. Now it was time. The miles would just be what they’d be. The decision wasn’t all that close, in the end. Because in my subconscious mind, I was going to drive Amish Black up to see Dad, ever since I bought it.

I don’t know what it is, with me and road trips. I’m a guy. You’d think I’d learn. Travel light. Just take what you need. But no. When the time comes to pack, I throw in everything I might remotely need. Always have done that. And that always includes way too many clothes. Thursday night. I’d be gone three days. One day up, one day there, and one day back. To any sensible person, that would mean I take along three shirts. Maybe two, plus the one I’m wearing the first day, to travel up. That’s all I’d need, really. This is what I thought to myself as I started packing that night.

At least I wasn’t taking that big old suitcase that always got dragged along on just about any trip in the past. This time, I figured, my camo duffle bag and a garment bag would do. I picked out a few short-sleeved shirts to take along. But then it went like it always goes. I poked around on the closet rack. It wouldn’t hurt to throw in a few long-sleeved shirts, too. It’s June. Summer was officially knocking at the door. But what if it’s cold, up there in Aylmer? It could easily be. I don’t want to sit around, all chilled and shivering. There’s room for more, here in the garment bag. I grabbed a few long sleeves. Six shirts in all. For three days. I mean, that’s just how it goes. The thing is, I always think. When I’m driving somewhere, why not throw in everything you might need? It won’t hurt.

And that’s how I packed for this little trip. Everything I might need, I threw in. And a small box of books, of course. I always take along a few copies of those to give away as gifts. And maybe to serve as a bribe, if I got stopped for speeding. Oh, my, officer. I sure didn’t realize I was going so fast. I’m just on my way to a book signing. What book? Here, let me show you, here. See? It’s the real thing. I’d be happy to give you a signed copy, if we can forget you ever stopped me. To be clear, here. This has never happened. I just always figured it might, if I ever get stopped for any reason. We’ll see. I probably would never write it, if it did, anyway. At least not until the statute of limitations ran out for bribing a cop. Back to the books in a box. I packed some up. And I loaded that box and a few other things on Amish Black that night, yet. Tomorrow morning, I would hit the road early.

And by a little after six the next morning, I was heading north and west. A quick stop at Sheetz first. I had gassed up the night before. This morning, a cup of hot black coffee and a bottle of Voss water. I don’t often buy bottled water, but when I do, it’s Voss. That smooth round bottle is the definition of cool. I always set one somewhere close to me when I give the rare book talk, these days. Amish Black was loaded, but the baggage didn’t make much difference, in the feel of driving. The skies were clear, the sun shone bright. Another perfect day to head on up to see my father. One more trip, one more time.

It’s been a couple of years, since I drove up to Aylmer to see Dad. I went up there for a funeral early last year. Dad was in Florida, so I didn’t get to see him then. And this time, this morning, something was heavy on my mind. Well, not heavy, as in hard. But heavy, as in persistent. I was relaxed inside, but deep down, well, some stress rippled through. Barely palpable, most times. But there. There was a little mission that had to get accomplished on this trip. It just had to. And I figured I had one shot to get it done. Pass or fail. I pondered the matter all that day on the road, off and on. Looked at it from every angle I could think of. And here’s what was going on inside me. And why.

Dad is old, now. I’ve mentioned that little fact before, many times. He’s ninety-six. Not many people get to where he is. My parents had eleven children. From those eleven children came fifty-nine grandchildren. And to those fifty-nine grandchildren were born around a hundred great-grandchildren. My father was the patriarch of such a vast and far-flung clan as that. And so things stood until a few years ago. A little baby boy was born in the Aylmer Amish community. Nothing all that unusual about that. Except this little boy was special. His lineage is as follows: My oldest sister Rosemary’s oldest daughter Eunice got married and had a family. Her oldest daughter Loretta grew up and married Jonas Eicher, the son of Jacob Eicher, Jr., the son of Jake Eicher, the fiery preacher of my childhood days, mentioned in the book. Jonas and Loretta Eicher had a son, a little boy. Jaylon, they named him. Jaylon Eicher is my father’s first and to date his only great-great grandchild. That’s five generations. All living, and all in the same community. That’s a rare thing in any setting, although maybe not so uncommon among the Amish as in the outside world. But even among the Amish, five generations in the same place, that’s not seen very often. It’s there, don’t get me wrong. But it’s always a big thing, and it’s always duly talked about.

And it’s there in Aylmer around my father. Five generations. I have fussed and fussed at my siblings, ever since little Jaylon was born. Well. I’ve fussed at anyone who will listen. We heard the stories. Dad is so proud of his great-great grandson. He loves to hold the baby. And I fretted and fussed some more. Somewhere, somehow, someone has GOT to get a picture of those two people together. To preserve it for history. Our family’s history. It has to be done. And time flowed on, then. The boy grew. No longer a little baby. He could walk. And it never was done, what I had fussed so much about. No picture from anyone, anywhere. Well, that’s pretty much what you’d expect, I guess. It’s easy to see how such a thing might never get done at all. The Amish don’t allow cameras, not in the Aylmer world, they don’t. And it’s really hard for anyone to slip in and sneak a pic. I mean, little Jaylon doesn’t just go hang out with his great-great grandpa all the time. They live clear across the community from each other, Dad and Jaylon. I doubt that they see each other often. The little boy probably barely knows who the old man is.

There has to be some way to make it happen, I thought to myself that morning, cruising along in Amish Black. There has to be. And I was calm, in my thinking. One thing I knew. You can’t force such an event. You can’t. You can only invite it in and wait. And I got to chatting with the Lord, there on the road that morning. Informally, like I always do. Just talking to a friend. God. You know how important this is to me, to get a picture of Dad and that little boy. I really, really think it needs to be done. Still. I’m good, either way, if it’s not supposed to happen. I’m calm in my heart. I won’t look for anything, much. But I gotta say. It sure would be nice if some of those impossible doors would open on this trip. Because if those doors don’t open for me now, they most likely never will. Which is fine, if that’s how it’s meant to be. I’ll keep walking, either way.

And that was about it, for that conversation. That’s kind of how I signed off. Sometimes I get formal and close our little chats with an “Amen.” Mostly, I don’t. Often as not, I’ll cross myself, winding down and signing out. I didn’t do that here. I just cranked the music up and kept focused on the road ahead as Amish Black bumped along. A short Jeep rides a little rough on the open road. This much is true. I guess that’s part of the “Jeep thing.”

North and north I drove. Then west and west. Sipping my black coffee and my Voss water. No food. It’s real simple to travel, when you don’t have to fret about where you’re going to stop and eat. Or what you’re going to eat. You stop for gas and to use the restrooms. That’s about it. On and on, west through New York. Then Buffalo, the Peace Bridge, and the border. The young guard was professional and polite. Going up is always easy. I just hand over my passport and my birth certificate. I was born up there. They can’t keep me out. The guy asked the usual rote questions. Anything to declare? Any alcohol or weapons in the vehicle? I usually declare that I got a bottle of scotch along, for my own use up there. Which was never any problem with them. Not this time, though. No alcohol, I told him. I got a few books along to give as gifts. He handed back my documents and waved me through. And back into the land of my birth I drove, in Amish Black. The sun shone bright in a clear blue sky.

Highway 3 West. That’s the road I always take after crossing the border. It’s two-lane, but it’s the most direct route. The traffic flowed right along, through small town after small town and light after traffic light. I was making good time. Magdalena had called the day before. She had checked out the Comfort Inn where I usually stay, over on the eastern edge of St. Thomas. The nice lady there told her. There was an air show, so all the rooms were full. And so Maggie had found a nice little B&B, right on the eastern edge of the Aylmer square. She asked me and I told her to reserve a room for me. Check-in was at 4 PM. So I was still in good time. A few minutes before four, I pulled in and parked at the Sweet Magnolia House. It looked to be a sweet little clean place. I knocked on the door. The nice lady innkeeper came and welcomed me. She had three guest rooms. Mine was at the very top, the third floor. A very nice little suite with a full bath and a king-sized bed. That will suit me fine, I told the lady. I dragged up my bags and hung my clothes in the closet. All those shirts. I’d use two of them. The other four would ride home in exactly the same shape they came. Just more wrinkled, I guess.

I chatted with the inn lady a bit and logged my phone into the wireless internet. My text messages came pinging in from the day. I don’t have cell phone service in Canada. Well, not for under $1.00 a minute, I don’t, so I consider that the same as no service. But I can communicate with texts, as long as my phone is connected to the internet. A message came from Ray, Maggie’s husband. What time was I planning on coming out to where Dad lived? She was cooking supper for around 5:30. I’ll be there, I texted back. After getting the combination for the front door lock from the inn lady, I boarded Amish Black and drove east. Then north a mile or so. Then left into the drive of my nephew, Simon Gascho. That’s where Dad lives, when he’s up there. They even moved the little Daudy house they built for him and Mom, over at Rosemary’s home. It was portable, on skids. So they just up and moved it. And now Dad lives in the same little house where Mom died, back in 2014. It’s just in a different location.

Simon lives at the very end of a long drive that accesses three households. I pulled in spewing great clouds of dust behind me and parked under a shade tree beside the minivan Ray and Maggie had driven up from South Carolina. It sure seemed dry around this place, I thought. I walked into the little house. And there he sat on his wheelchair. Dad. Maggie was bustling about, getting ready for supper. I hugged her and walked over to Dad. We shook hands.

“Ira,” he said. Yep, I said. And the usual, back and forth. “Did you have a good trip?” Yes. “How long was your drive?” Nine hours or so. “You must be tired.” Oh, some. Not too bad. His legs were wrapped in bandages, from under his knees down. And he was wearing some kind of Velcro booties. Otherwise, the man looked and talked exactly as he had the last time I saw him in Florida in February of last year. Over a year ago. I always hear. Dad is this and Dad is that. He’s sick and not doing well. But when I see him, he looks pretty much the same as he did the last time I saw him.

Ray came in from somewhere, and we shook hands and hugged. My brother-in-law. He’s a good man, the quietest of all my in-laws. The men, I mean. He’s quiet and steady. We sat with Dad and visited as Maggie bustled about. She was cooking supper over in the main house, on the kitchen stove. Fried tomatoes, she was making. I drooled. I grew up on fried tomatoes. It was a staple of my childhood world. I could not remember the last time I had a meal of fried tomatoes. Had to be decades. I can’t wait, I told Maggie. I’m hungry. Haven’t eaten all day. This will be my one meal. I ‘m still doing one meal a day.

And then it was time. Maggie set the small table, there in Dad’s kitchen. Dad sat at one end, in his wheelchair. Then me, then Maggie. Ray sat at the other end. The table was loaded with food. We bowed our heads. Dad prayed aloud, that old German meal blessing prayer in his cracked and faltering voice. And I thought about it, right then. It wasn’t that big a deal, at least not lately. But it was still remarkable. Dad was sitting at the same table as Maggie and me. And Ray. He had steadfastly refused to eat with any of us, not that many years ago. For Ray and Maggie, it had been a lot of years. Decades. Since the early 1970s. For me, well, he shunned me for a few decades, as well. And now, now all that was over. Washed like water, under the bridge and into the past. Now, we all sat together and ate supper together in harmony and peace.

I have always said. There are two ways of looking at such a scene as that. One, you can fret and stew about all those wasted years. We could have been eating together like this, always. Shunning is brutal and silly. As it was, when Dad shunned us. It is also painful and so wrong. Or, two. You can be grateful that you get to experience this at all, at any time. That’s what I try to do. Even this late in life, for Dad. Some hard core old Amish men never reach such a place as that. Dad has. You got to give credit where credit is due. Old age mellows all, I guess. It does, or my father would never have eaten at the same table as me and Maggie and Ray.

We chatted right along as we filled our plates. We slathered butter on thick slices of homemade bread and piled the fried tomatoes high on the bread in our plates. Maggie even had the classic pot of hot milk on the table. After we ate about half the bread and fried tomatoes, we poured the hot milk over the whole mess in our plates. Well, me and Dad did. Ray looked startled and Maggie passed. Just like magic, we had instant soup. It tasted exactly as I remembered it from all those years ago. After eating, we all paused and bowed our heads again. And Dad returned thanks again. We helped Maggie clear the table. Then Dad and Ray and I sat around, visiting. Dad peered out the front door, out to where Amish Black was parked under the tree. “What are you driving?” he asked. “What kind of funny looking car is that?” I laughed. It’s a Jeep, I said. It’s nice and black. Like a buggy. He chuckled. And he got real close. “Is it an Amish Jeep?” he asked. Yep, I said. Yep, it’s an Amish Jeep.

Soon after supper, I told Dad good night and left. I wanted to head over to my sister Rosemary’s place, yet, to say hi and visit a bit. My time here was very limited. Every minute counted with every person. Out the long drive, then north to the crossroads, where the blacksmith Levi Slabaugh lived decades ago. The place is sure built up from what it used to be. Even the house. Then east on the main drag through the community. I was surprised. The roads were gravel. They had been paved for decades, I thought. Something’s going on, I grumbled to myself as me and my Jeep bumped over to the next crossroads, then turned north again. My sister’s place loomed on the left. My niece Edna’s little bake shop first, then left into the drive. I parked in the lawn beside the house. The door opened, and Rosemary walked out. She smiled and we greeted each other with a hug. She asked how my trip up was. Great, I said. I just came from seeing Dad. We had supper. She was on her way out to feed and water her baby chicks. I walked out with her as we talked. She takes the chicks inside the house every night in a box. The rodents will get them if she doesn’t.

We walked inside then, where Joe had just come in from helping with the chores. I sat at the table and we talked. They’ve seen a few changes around there since I was up last. And Rosemary asked, all of a sudden. Would I like some fresh strawberries and cream? Fresh strawberries like we used to eat, way back. Mashed up and mixed with sugar. Of course, I said. I’d love some. I’m still in my eating window. I can have food until nine. She fetched a bowl and gave it to me. Then a fresh brownie, then the strawberries, then the thick rich cream. I simply feasted on that simple dish. I chatted with Joe as I gulped down the food. He’s not doing so much produce peddling in Tillsonburg, anymore. Now and then, he goes on his regular route. Mostly, though, he’s helping his grandson, Jonathan, who took over the home farm since I was last there. And that was a big part of the big changes. Jonathan is young and single, and he has about more work than he can handle. So Joe helps out with the chores and the milking every morning and evening. It all sounded like a very busy life. Just like it always is, I guess, if you’re an Amish person.

I made some noises, then, before leaving. I’d like to go see Dad’s great-great grandson, sometime when I’m up here. I’d sure like to see him with Dad. Rosemary looked suspicious about that. Just so I can see it, I said. I want to write about it. She wasn’t fooled, though. Not that anyone let on, much. I asked Joe about the chores he helps with every day. He told me. Jonathan changed the cow herd to mostly Jerseys. My eyes lit up. Jerseys. That’s the richest milk of all, right there. Oh, yes, yes, they both chimed in. The herd was just milked. The cows were out in the barnyard, ready to amble back to the pasture. Would I like to walk out and look? Of course, I said. So we traipsed out, the three of us, back behind the barn. And there, they milled about leisurely. About a dozen small Jersey cows, dark brown and light brown. Joe pointed out where Jonathan was fixing to add a new wing to the west side of the vast old barn. And we talked about what it is to farm and milk.

Moving along, then. Saturday morning. There was a whole lot to get done on this day. I had people to see, maybe more than I could fit in. And I was mulling over how would be the best way to get people together that night, so maybe Jaylon would be there. It seemed like a long shot. Oh, well. I’ll just walk into the day and see what develops. And unfolds. God. You know my heart. Help me this day to live fully, as You intend life to be lived. The nice inn lady came around when I clumped down the stairs. Would I like my coffee? I had told her when checking in that I don’t eat food but once a day. And nothing for breakfast but black coffee. People always look at you a little horrified when you tell them you eat once a day. Most simply can’t fathom such a thing, or how simple it is to live that way. I try not to preach at anyone. I just say I like it a lot.

The night before, I had told the nice lady I wrote a book. So there on the breakfast table, I got a copy from my messenger bag. And she made the proper noises of thanks when I signed and dated the book and handed it to her. This is where I come from, I told her. Here, in this Amish community out east of town. Here I was born. These are my people. I took a bottle of water from her fridge, then. Some Canadian brand. Not Voss. Good enough for what I had to have today. That Voss bottle ain’t gonna help my image any, where I’m going, anyway. I pulled into my father’s place about the time he had finished breakfast with Maggie and Ray. I sat on the small couch in the tiny living room. And we just talked, all of us, about whatever it was that came to mind.

I walked into the day, then. As I was getting ready to leave, Simon’s wife Kathleen came over from the main house. It’s right beside Dad’s little shack and connected with a deck. And she asked us. Would we like her to cook supper tonight for us and anyone else who might want to come? Maggie and I looked at each other. Shook our heads, almost in unison. No, we don’t want you to go to that kind of bother, I said. And the idea just slid right in, from somewhere. I told them. I will get pizza tonight for anyone who wants to come. I’ll buy the food, and Maggie can make salad. That way, we provide the meal. Why don’t we plan on that? And just like that, it fell into place. Supper tonight, here. Pizza, for anyone in the family who wants to come. Ira’s buying.

I told Dad I was heading out for a bit, then. “In your Amish Jeep?” he asked. Yep, I said. In my Amish Jeep. I drove over to Rosemary’s place, then, stopping first at Edna’s bake shop to order the pizzas I needed for that evening. Flavour-Rites, her shop is called. She is doing very, very well. The place keeps her frantically busy. Every morning, real early, she gets up to go bake what she figures to sell that day. Well, not every morning. But every morning she’s open. And she got licensed to sell meat, too, not long ago. Now she has a cooler in her store with natural organic sausages, wieners, and summer sausage. She makes ready-to-bake pizzas and ready-to-heat soups. And that’s where I figured to buy my pizzas for the great feast I had proclaimed. I told Edna what I wanted. How many pizzas did she figure I’d need? Six large, we settled on. Four fully loaded with everything. And two pepperonis. OK, I said. What’s my bill? I don’t want a discount. You worked hard, to make those pizzas. Charge me what you’d charge any old English man off the street. I got an American check, here, if you’ll take that. She nodded and said she would. I wrote the check and paid her. I got a bunch of running to do today, I said. I’ll come back for these late this afternoon, so I can take them back to Simons in time to get them baked for supper.

Over, then, to Rosemary’s house. She had coffee ready. And I sat there in the living room with my oldest sister, and we talked. Just the two of us. Joe had left real early to peddle strawberries in Tillsonburg. It had been a while, and he figured his regulars were wondering what’s going on. So we sat there and talked, me and Rosemary. About a lot of things. She told me stories of her life. And I told her stories of mine. It was a pretty rare moment for both of us. You never quite realize what it really is, such a moment, until you look back on it. I invited her over to Simons for pizza that night. And just as I was getting up to leave, our sister Maggie showed up. She had stopped by to spend some time with her sister. We all chatted for a few minutes as I finished up my coffee. Then I was on out of there.

Over east next, over to where my niece Eunice lives with her family. She married David Swartzentruber. I wanted to invite her to the pizza feast that night. I pulled in, and we greeted each other. I told her why I was there. Would they be able to come? She looked a little crestfallen. The men were just too busy, to get it made over there. Too much work lined up for the day. Well, I wish you would come, I said. And I asked her where her daughter Loretta lives. I knew it was real close. Loretta, married to Jonas, the parents of little Jaylon. I wanted to tell them I was expecting them over at Simons for supper tonight. Eunice laughed and told me where they lived. Just a few places down, on the same side of the road as she was. I want to see that little boy with his great-great grandfather, I told her. I want to see that.

I drove out and down the gravel road then, a few places down. And there was the pole building shop, like Eunice had told me. I pulled in and parked and strolled into the open doors of the shop. A handsome young bearded man came up from the back. Jonas. I wouldn’t have known him from anyone else. I don’t know if I saw him before. Probably did, somewhere. I smiled at him and spoke my name as we shook hands. He smiled back in welcome. I asked him about his shop, a one-man cabinet operation. He shyly pointed out a few things and nodded when I asked if he’s busy. Yep. And then I asked if his wife was home. And his son. I wanted to meet them. He led the way into the porch and into the little house they bought. Lovely little tidy place. And she stood smiling in the kitchen. Loretta. We shook hands and chatted for a few minutes. And then I asked. Is your son around?

They both smiled and nodded and pointed to a little side room. And there he was. A cute little boy, in a shirt and tiny barn door pants with galluses, playing with a toy wagon or horse or some such thing. I could see Eicher in his features. “Jaylon,” they called to him. The boy looked at me quizzically, as in, what’s this stranger doing here? He came to his momma, then, and she stooped to pick him up. And I told them. We’re having pizza tonight, over at Simons. Would you come? I really, really would like to see Jaylon with my Dad.

They looked at each other, like Amish husbands and wives do. They talk without talking. And Loretta let me know. It had been a long week. She was really tired. I understand completely, I said. If you can’t come, you can’t come. But I sure would like to see that boy with his great-great grandpa. You know I don’t come around often. Pressuring with a little guilt, there. I would use whatever means I had, as long as it wasn’t dishonest. And I simply told them. I’d really appreciate it if you could make it tonight. The food is on me. I’d be honored if you would come and partake. I don’t know what did it. Maybe they sensed that I would accept whatever came, maybe that relaxed them to where they didn’t feel pressured. They told me they would come for pizza. I wanted to pump my fist. Yes. But I didn’t. I smiled very calmly and thanked them. I’ll look for you, I said. And then I got into my Jeep and left.

And the next stop came. My old friend David Luthy. I had stopped briefly the night before and told him. I want to come visit tomorrow. He seemed receptive. I had heard through the Amish grapevine. The man wasn’t doing well since his beloved Mary had passed on early last year. There were whispers. He’s losing it. He just sits around. He’s not himself. He’s in the early stages of dementia. I thought it all sounded like a hard road. And I wanted to stop in and chat with my old friend. Me and Amish Black were running a little late as I pulled into his place and parked. Right around eleven. I walked over to the door of his historical library. I figured he’d be out there. I knocked, the door opened. And there he was. We shook hands as I stepped inside.

He’s aged a good bit since I saw him last at his wife’s funeral. He has the somber eyes, the full shock of gray hair, and the long magnificent gray beard of a full-fledged Amish patriarch. We’ve always gotten along well, which is a little strange, considering how our paths diverged. Still. The man is my friend. And I was there to see him, to see how he’s doing. We immediately began talking and catching up, pretty much where we had left off the last time we talked like this.

A brief tour of his library. That’s his natural setting. That’s how he visits best, when he’s showing you around his place. I had heard, from my contacts in Lancaster. David was shipping much of his collection down to his buddy, Amos Hoover, the Black Bumper Mennonite. Amos lives here in Lancaster County, and he stores his vast archives of historical documents up on the hill at Fairmount Library, over at Fairmount Homes. And David told me. Amos Hoover had been there just a few days before. They had boxed and loaded several tons of historical documents and shipped it all back east to Lancaster County. David still had a lot of good stuff there, though. We walked into the darkened room, there on the north side of the library. It’s where he stores old Bibles, old Ausbunds, and many reproductions of the famous Dirk Willems scene. The classic Anabaptist nonresistant hero who turned back and showed true Christian love to the guy who was hunting him down to kill him. Dirk rescued his pursuer, who had broken through the ice and was drowning.

A little bunny trail, here. I’ve always been a little skeptical of that Dirk Willems tale. Well, ever since I discarded the errors of Anabaptist theology, I have. I’m sure there’s something to it. But how did Dirk escape over the same ice that broke through when his pursuer followed? And when he turned back and pulled the poor guy out, how could that happen? Why didn’t the ice break under the weight of both men, when it had just broken under the weight of one? I don’t know. That’s one of the most famous scenes in all Anabaptist lore and legend. I heard that story from the time I could understand what was being preached in a sermon. David had probably close to a dozen reproductions and original pencil drawings hanging on the wall in that north room. I just looked and admired, of course. Didn’t express any doubts or skepticism whatsoever. Didn’t seem like the proper time or place.

David was in fine form that morning. The details of history rolled from him in a continuous stream as he expounded on this piece and this item and that book. After the north room, we walked through several other rooms with rows and rows of empty shelves. His life’s work is being transferred to another place, where it will be kept safe. I nodded and listened as he talked and talked. We circled around to the front door of the library, then. It was time to head on, I told him. I have a few other stops to make. We sat there on a bench, and I sensed that he wasn’t finished. And he wasn’t. Right then, as I was fixing to walk out the door, right then he began talking of his memories of his beloved Mary. And when that window to his past was opened to me, I stayed back and settled in to listen.

I won’t share a lot of the details, because what he told me was spoken in private. He told me of the journey from the beginning, when Mary was diagnosed with an aggressive form of liver cancer in the fall of 2016. The doctor’s verdict to them both, addressing Mary. You have months to live. There is nothing we can do. We can alleviate the pain, but that’s about all. David spoke then, of how she quickly sank lower and lower. And he told me her final words to him. A day or so before she died. He was wiping her brow when she woke up from her coma and whispered to his ears alone. It was a beautiful and powerful moment when it happened and it was deeply moving to hear the account firsthand. As we were winding down one more time, I made noises to leave one more time. But he wasn’t quite ready to let me go.

“Come inside, to the house,” he said. “I want to show you her things, and the last card she wrote to me.” Of course, I said. So I followed him across the drive into the big old two story house he had built for his bride, way back when they got married. I can’t remember that I was ever in your house before, I told him. Always before, when I stopped in, you and Mary met me on the porch. I never got invited in. I’m sure it wasn’t planned that way. It’s just how it happened.

It was a simple house, and simply furnished. He led me over to the far wall in the kitchen. On the china hutch, that’s where he had laid out some of Mary’s favorite things. A special cup and saucer she had treasured. A few other items. And the card she had written to him soon after the cancer came. David told me. He had never, never imagined that she would leave this earth before he did. And when she left, he figured he didn’t need to grieve. That’s what got him. When he finally went to the doctor to see why he wasn’t sleeping, he was told. You are suffering from suppressed grief. It’s OK to let it out. It’s OK to cry.

He showed me the corner bedroom, where Mary had spent her final days. This was the room, but not the bed she died on. He moved that out. And we talked about it and chuckled a little, of what it is for a man to live alone and cook for himself. I know a little bit about that, I told him. He knows my story. And there was one hilarious and embarrassing moment. He was showing me something there in the kitchen. I bent over, and my butt hit the glass chimney of a kerosene wick lamp sitting there on a stand. I had not seen it. The glass chimney crashed to the floor and shattered into a hundred pieces with a great clatter. I was horrified. Mortified. Embarrassed. Here the man had invited me into his house for the first time ever, and now I go and clumsily break his lamp. He waved it off, though, and laughed. I went and got the broom and dustpan and we swept it all up. “I’ll have a lot of fun, telling this story,” David said. I groaned, then laughed. I’m sure you will.

And with that, it was time to leave. On to the next stop. I was running a little behind, but that’s how it goes. It all worked out great, and the day rolled on. Jumping right over to late afternoon. By four, I was racing back from town to go pick up my pizzas from Edna’s bake shop. Country Flavour-Rites. I want to get that name out there. It’s well worth your time to get there if you’re anywhere close. Edna smiled and greeted me. She looked a little tired. She had just closed up at four. She and her helpers had fixed fresh new pizzas to fill my order. AND she had sold all the other pizzas in the cooler. The woman is a busy bee worker, I’ll say that. She fetched my six flat boxes from the back cooler and set them on the counter. And she added a few trays of tarts to the stack. “On the house,” she said. “This is my contribution to supper tonight.” Wow. I appreciate that a lot, I said. Thanks. And I set the flat boxes in the passenger’s seat of my Jeep and headed west and south across the community. Over to Simon’s place. Over to where Dad was. Over to where the others were coming tonight to eat. I felt it stirring inside me. The little man-child was coming, too. The moment was approaching. Something would happen. Or it wouldn’t.

I pulled up and parked outside the door of Simon’s house. Opened the passenger’s door and carried in the six large flat boxes. Kathleen smiled and smiled. She was mixing up a large salad to serve for supper, too. “I’m not sure how much to bake these,” she told me. “I’ve never heated prepared pizzas before, like this.” Maggie was bustling about, too. Oh, I’m sure you’ll figure it out, I said. And I thought about it, then. Do you have some place to keep ice cream, if I run to town and get it? I asked Simon, who was sipping some coffee before heading to the barn to do the chores. He shook his head. No freezer. They had an ice box. Well, that won’t work, I said. That’s not cold enough. I guess I’ll have to run and get the ice cream after we eat pizza. You can have a little break between the first course and dessert.

I wandered over to Dad’s little house, then, and sat on the couch. Dad was puttering about, not particularly doing anything. I can’t recall that I saw him writing at all on this trip. Of course, I wasn’t out there all that much, either. We visited, me and Ray and Dad. Maggie was in and out. Dad had requested fried potatoes and eggs for supper, so she was busy fixing that. At five, I took my multivitamin, to break my fast. And I snuck over to the big house and swiped one of those tarts Edna had donated for supper. Delicious, those things are. Just totally loaded with sugar. Soon it would be time for people to get here. On the couch, there, talking to Dad, I was strangely calm. I had done what I knew to do, to make things happen. It was out of my hands, now. I could do no more, except be ready.

And soon a buggy came in the lane, stirring a small cloud of dust behind. I watched. Was this Jonas and Loretta? The buggy pulled up. It was Edna and her mother, my sister Rosemary. They had arrived. Turned out Joe had gotten back from his peddling route in Tillsonburg. But he was just too tired to go away for supper. So Rosemary came with her daughter. That’s fine, I said. I’m happy you could make it. We sat around on chairs on the deck, talking. Inside, the six large pizzas were baking in the kitchen stove. Soon the food would be ready. I scanned the lane to the north. Just checking. And sure enough, there came another horse and buggy.

It was Jonas and Loretta and their son, Jaylon. And my niece, Eunice, Loretta’s Mom. They had arrived. They were here. They tied up the horse and came strolling up to the deck. I greeted them. Hey. I’m really glad you made it. Before you sit down, here, do you want to go see Dad? He’s inside his little house. They smiled and shook my hand. Sure. Might as well get in there and see if Jaylon still knows his great-great grandfather. And here was the moment, coming at me. I led the way into Dad’s little house. Jonas and Loretta followed with their son.

The scene is surreal in my mind. I suppose it will always be. Here it was. The thing I had talked to God about. The thing I had asked Him for. It was here. Now. In this little room, in this little house. Dad was sitting at his table. Dad, I said. He looked up. Look who’s here to see you. Your great-great grandson. Jaylon Eicher. They came for supper. He smiled and backed his chair away from the table a few feet. He smiled again. “Hello, little boy,” he said, in his most jovial voice.

They were ninety-four years apart, this man and his offspring. The boy was blood of my father’s blood, five generations removed. And Dad made a motion to his lap. I watched. Would the boy be held? His mother moved in and asked softly in PA Dutch. “May he hold you?” He squeaked in protest and clung tighter to his Mom. No. He did not want to be held. Not by this old man. Loretta paused. And then she set her son on the floor, a few feet from Dad’s chair. Jaylon stood there, lingering close to his Mother for a moment. Then he pattered with tiny steps to the back of Dad’s chair. Around and around. I slid over to the opposite side and slipped my iPhone from my shirt pocket. I had turned it on outside. Now I held it discreetly at the ready.

Jaylon toddled around the chair in a half circle, glancing furtively at Dad as he came. And Dad looked down at him. I saw the boy was going to do it, by the smile on his little round face. I lined up my phone and clicked as Jaylon Eicher smiled and waved at his great-great grandfather. Dad smiled and waved back. I glanced quickly at the screen and saw that I had caught a real slice of the moment. I wouldn’t check it out much closer until later. But I knew I had captured something special.

Dad and Jaylon

Back into my shirt pocket went the iPhone. And right that moment, the air kind of whooshed out of me, too, like a basketball deflating. I felt exhausted, all at once, as the realization sank in. It had actually worked. The Lord had honored the desire of my heart. God. Thank you. You opened an impossible door. I am grateful. And I am a fortunate son, to get to witness and preserve such a moment in my father’s life. History will judge that this picture was the reason for my trip. I have no children to carry on my name. I never will have. Still. If I get nothing else accomplished in life, two things will survive long after I am gone. Two things will speak to the fact that I lived and walked this earth. My book. And this photo.

The evening rolled along, then. And it was all beautiful and good. Simon and his sons carried out a table to a picnic spot west of the house, under some trees. And chairs. Lots of chairs and benches. The pizza was served piping hot and devoured with much acclaim. After eating a couple of slices and salad, I told the family. I’m running in to Aylmer to buy ice cream. Does anyone have a favorite flavor? And I was told. Just get what you want. So I did. Those tarts were delicious with ice cream, I gotta say. Sugar and all.

In the west, the sun sank into crisp and glowing skies as we sat around the fire and just talked. Yes, they had a fire. It wasn’t that chilly, but a fire seemed right. I nudged Dad with a few stories, or the start of them, and he finished the telling. Most of the details were just as I had remembered. You get Dad started, he’ll go back in time and relive all kinds of things. Sure, I’ve heard the stories before, but it’s always good to hear them again. Rosemary and Magdalena chimed in, too, with tales of the old “Halloweeners.” Back in the day, you hid your buggy behind the barn on Halloween Eve so the evil young local English toughs wouldn’t drag it off. The younger generations in Aylmer have no concept of how that was and how it went.

It gets dark late in summer, up there in Aylmer. They’re further north than most places in this country. And people made noises soon to go home. Rosemary and Edna left. And soon I saw Jonas and Loretta gathering their little son. They were ready to go home, too. I walked out to the deck with them and thanked them for coming. They smiled. They had enjoyed the evening. I said good-bye to little Jaylon, too. For as small as he is, he sure had been an important part of my day.

I helped push Dad back across the bumpy yard to his little house. And by 9:30, I was ready to head back to my room at the Sweet Magnolia. Get some sleep. I had a long drive tomorrow. I chatted with Dad a bit as he settled there in his little house. We shook hands, and I hugged Maggie and Ray good-bye. They would head out late this evening, starting for home. And then it was back to town for one more night.

Promptly at six the next morning, my iPhone alarm buzzed. I was half awake by then, anyway. I got up, showered, and dressed in a fresh shirt. The third one on this trip. That’s all I would have needed. Maybe next time I’ll bring less stuff. (That’s a joke.) I packed my bags and checked one last time to make sure nothing was left behind. Then I walked down the two flights of stairs. Grabbed another bottle of Canadian water from the fridge. No one stirred as I quietly stepped out onto the porch and softly pulled the door shut behind me. The Sweet Magnolia. Maybe I’ll see you again.

I loaded my bags on the back seat of Amish Black. My Jeep was gassed up and ready to go. The June skies were clear and blue as I pulled out to the road and turned east into the morning sun.

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