“Fame is a fickle food – Upon a shifting plate.”
—Emily Dickinson

“Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.”
—Benjamin Franklin
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My father was a famous man, in his world and in his time. As a writer, he was widely known throughout the vast majority of Amish and Mennonite communities in North America and even some foreign lands. He was a well-known “Budget” scribe for many years before I was born. But after he co-founded Pathway Publishers in Aylmer and launched and edited the monthly magazine “Family Life” in the late 1960s, his name became legend.

“Family Life” was (and is) a very nice little magazine if you like didactic stories in which the protagonist always repents after harboring heretical notions of leaving the Amish faith, or some such similar crisis. And the wayward son always returns in true humble repentance to court the plain but upstanding girl who is actually very beautiful inside, which as we all know is what really counts anyway. A glad light springs from her eyes as she modestly welcomes his return. Or maybe the glad light springs from his father’s eyes. I can’t remember. Whatever. The fiction was all pretty formulaic and predictable.

To be fair, a lot of useful practical stuff was also published. Farm tips and such. Inter-esting and well-crafted editorial opinions from my father and later, Elmo Stoll. And David Luthy’s in-depth historical research on extinct Amish communities always was and remains of the highest caliber.

Unrealistic, certainly, a lot of the magazine was (and is), but nice. And widely read, with great gusto and satisfaction, across a broad spectrum of Amishland. Nothing like it had ever been done before. I give my father a lot of credit; he had a vision and pursued it to heights even he could not have imagined. I should note that a pocket of hard-core conservative Amish people resented and resisted my father’s efforts, especially “Family Life.” These people felt that one should read only the Bible. Any supplemental reading was unnecessary and possibly detrimental. These people still exist out there.

Growing up, and for years after leaving, I could never admit my last name, Wagler, to any person remotely connected to Amish background without being asked if I knew David Wagler. I always admitted reluctantly that, yes, I knew him. Reluctant, not because I was ashamed or anything, but because it just got old, really old, really fast. The questions always continued: Are you related? Again, a grudging affirmative. More persistent and increasingly excited questions followed. Eventually the truth always emerged to reactions ranging from rapturous exclamations to clutching at the heart, and fainting (just kidding on those last two).

In the mid-80s, my brother Nate and I lived in Sarasota, Florida for a few months over the winter. We enjoyed chatting with old folks we met around Pine Craft. One elderly man from Arthur, Illinois, asked the usual litany of questions and finally got us to admit who we were. After our confession, he leaned on his tricycle in stunned silence for a few moments. He seemed drained.

I couldn’t resist, so I said playfully, “Just think, now you can go back home and tell everyone you met David Wagler’s sons.”

He stood mute for another moment, still leaning faintly on his tricycle. I thought he might not have heard my comment. Then he quavered, “They probably won’t believe me anyway.”

And that was about as classic as it got. Nate and I still chew that one.

The Aylmer community considered itself an example for the lesser elements, the “shining city on a hill,” from which grave noble proclamations could be issued on how one should live. The proclamations were particularly harsh on the communities that allowed tobacco use and/or “bed courtship.” And on fathers who worked away from home instead of farming. On spending money eating out in restaurants. On how one’s children should be raised and disciplined. Much of the latter, especially, was written by authors who had no children or whose children were very young. In those heady years, a lot of concrete (with rebar enforcement) was poured into some very deep footers.

Fame begets pilgrimages from admirers. Many people flocked in to see for themselves the perfect church. My earliest memories include strangers in the house, company from other communities, people who stopped by for a meal or for a day or for the night.

They came from all over. In vans and in cars. On the train and on the bus. From the small communities dotted about in the various Eastern and Midwestern states. From Michigan. From northern and southern Indiana. New York. Wisconsin. From the hills of Holmes County, Ohio. And yes, from the blue-blood enclaves of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

They had a wide variety of dialects and dress. Daviess County, Indiana (my ancestral home) people talk fast and sloppy, with many English words mixed in. Holmes County people converse in a slow drawl, taking forever to get anything said. Even their English taxi drivers spoke Dutch. And Lancaster, well, those people used old German words we had never heard before and had no idea what they meant. We thought the Lancaster people the strangest. They were certainly the most unlike us. Men wore wide, flat-brimmed black hats and the women sported funny little heart-shaped coverings. We heard rumors that even their buggies were quite distinct from those in most other communities.

Guests frequently arrived unannounced, often just minutes before meal time. Mom always scratched together enough food for everyone. Cheerfully. Only later in life did I ever consider how inconvenient it must have been at times. My sisters, too, have commented sometimes how they would bake a cake or some other delicacy, only to see it wolfed down by hungry guests they never saw again.

Some left their impressions, positive or negative. Once, when I was about four years old, a couple stayed with us for the night. The man was salt and pepper-haired, with a sharp pointy little beard and piercing eyes. I was terrified of him for some reason and thought he looked quite evil. The next morning, as they were getting ready to leave, he looked right at me and asked if I wanted to go along home with them. They needed another little boy, and I would be just the ticket. I was horrified and speechless and wildly shook my head. He was, of course, only joking, but I didn’t know that. It left a lasting impression.

My sisters sometimes wearied of all the intrusions. And all the extra dirty dishes that needed to be washed after the meals. After one late evening meal, a guest lady offered to help my sister Rachel with the dishes. Rachel graciously told her not to worry about it, that she was company. The lady replied, “Oh, that’s all right.” She helped with the dishes. For some reason, we thought that line was hilarious and we chewed it for years. “Oh, that’s all right” became a sarcastic little retort at our home.

Once, several couples from Lancaster stopped by for a late afternoon meal. Only Dad and Mom ate with them. They had cold peach soup, which consisted of cold milk, peaches and soggy lumps of bread. We had heard of cold peach soup, but never eaten it. Such things were common in Lancaster County, we heard. They all sat there primly, visiting and eating the cold gooey mess like they enjoyed it. We children lurked behind the curtains and peeped in to actually view the atrocious concoction being consumed. Nobody collapsed after eating it, so it must have been OK.

Single men made the pilgrimage to Aylmer, emerging from the hills of who knows where, on a mission to find a wife. Wild-eyed and shock-haired, they came, sometimes lurking about the community for a week or two. I remember few names. None, as far as I know, was successful in his mission. One long-bearded youth once stayed with us for a few days. The first day, he asked for a basin of water and towels, then disap-peared behind our large barn to “wash up.” I don’t know why he didn’t just use our bathtub. Maybe they didn’t have running water where he came from.

My brothers and I were a pretty rip-roaring, uncouth bunch. Tow-headed, raggedy, gallused and barefooted little savages. Always ravenously hungry. When we sat to eat at the table, we turned our full attention to the business at hand. (When we ate cereal with milk, we scrunched down over the plate and the spoon never stopped rotating. By the time it came back up to our mouth, we’d swallowed the last gulp. We greatly prided ourselves on this rare ability.) Such eating habits caused many strained, tense mom-ents when we had company.

After the meal was blessed, we piled great heaps of food onto our plates. Dad and Mom and the guests began eating at leisure, conversing between bites in moderate, measured tones. Not us. We went “slurp” and our plates were empty. In minutes. The food gone, just like that. We then sat back and dawdled on the bench, waiting im-patiently for everyone else to finish so we could have some dessert. Many a guest cast startled, discomfited glances that our embarrassed parents could not ignore. Many a time Dad chuckled grimly and said, “The boys eat too fast.” So we did. The guests just smiled politely. I’m sure they were usually horrified.

When we had overnight guests, devotions after breakfast always provided their own little ritual. Dad reached back and got the Bible and the Prayer Book and invited the guest husband to lead. It was standard accepted protocol for the guest to humbly protest and urge Dad just to do it.

“We usually have devotions. You can read a passage of Scripture and then lead the Morning Prayer,” Dad said.

“No, no, you are at home here, you go ahead,” the guest protested.

“No, you are company. Go ahead.” Dad persisted.

And so it went, back and forth, like a carefully orchestrated dance. This ritual was followed to the T, regardless of which community the guests came from. It must have been a universal Amish thing. I can’t remember a single time when the guest accepted the proffered duties without protest. I suspect it would have been considered prideful. I’m sure the ritual still unfolds today exactly as it did back then.

After two or sometimes three such rounds, the guest always reluctantly allowed him-self to be persuaded. We boys listened keenly, as the man would be severely judged by the tone and quality of his delivery. Especially the Morning Prayer, which is usually intoned with some measure of inflection and rhythm. If the prayer was powerful and loud and rhythmic, we were impressed. If it was dull and slow and squeaky, we napped. We soon learned not to judge before actually hearing the prayer. The most unassuming quiet little man might well have the most impressive intonation, his voice reverberating throughout the house. Conversely, a giant of a deep-voiced man might well prove disappointing, with a weak and barely audible delivery. Either way, we often discussed the man and his method in detail later, while working or choring. Sometimes we imitated a particularly impressive rhythm. It was actually a compliment, of sorts.

Today, my father is still well known and actively writing, but his star is receding. The middle-aged to elderly still speak of him, but the younger generations increasingly know him not. I deeply respect his accomplishments, but sometimes wonder how far he could have gone had he not been hampered by Amish rules and restrictions. And whether he could have found a broader audience for his writings.

I still meet people who tell me they visited our home in Aylmer, back in 1969 or 1971 or some such remote date. I rarely remember specific guests. But if they say they were there, I’m sure they were.

Overall, I consider our hosting experiences as a positive thing. Our little world was quite provincial and inhibited. These people from all the various communities greatly expanded our exposure to other places and practices different from those we knew. Our guests provided lots of fun for us children. And lots of stories.
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The New Year arrived uneventfully. I stayed up to watch the NYC ball drop on TV. On New Year’s Day, I putzed about. Ate my annual meal of pork and sauerkraut from the Leola Fire Hall. Watched an endless stream of college bowl games. GO, LSU. Beat the Buckeyes.

The NFL playoff picture has emerged. The vile Patriots took it on out with the refs’ help and ended at 16-0. My only hope now: that some team will travel to Foxboro and stomp the (bleep) out of them in the playoffs. I am not optimistic.

The Iowa caucuses were held last night (yawn). I’m about as uninterested in the process as I’ve ever been for more than twenty years. I don’t like or trust a single candidate except one. Ron Paul. And he has about as much chance of winning as I have, and I’m not running. Although I didn’t raise $11 million dollars in two days like he did. One positive development; Hillary got stomped by Obama. Her policies would actually be less harmful to the country than his, but the thought of a screeching Nurse Ratchet delivering the annual State of the Union Address for four years just over-whelms my mental capacity to process or comprehend as even a remote possibility.

This week I received an unusually spiteful and vitriolic email from a now-former friend excoriating me for my whiny “Woe is me, poor little Amish boy” post last week. All carefully couched in “I’m your friend and want the best for you” language, of course. Kind of caught me off guard. I thought it was perfectly valid to reflect at year’s end on events that had transpired, positive or negative. And yes, I got a bit melancholy in the last post. That’s my temperament. If you read this blog on a regular or irregular basis, you know that.

My response to the vitriolic email: “If you don’t like what I write, don’t read it.” Instead of reading it and getting all worked up about what I should or shouldn’t write, how I write it, and whether it’s whining. Seems like a pretty basic concept to me. I can’t force anyone’s mouse to click on my site. It takes a hand to hold and direct the mouse. A finger to click it. Onto this site. Perhaps it’s time for another reminder: It’s just a blog, folks, for crying out loud. Oh, and one more thing. It’s MY BLOG.

Constructive criticism I can take (or try to); spiteful vitriol I will not tolerate. Not any-more. That now-former friend and his household are hereafter banned from comment-ing on this site. And I don’t want to hear any howls about free speech. This is the free market. As defined by me. I can’t keep anyone from posting anything, but I can delete any posted comments. I will delete his and those I suspect might be. And any follow-up personal emails he might send. I’m just done with all the mind games about my writings.

Finally, despite my Grinch status, I had a fine Christmas. Thanks to Steve and Wilma for providing several sumptuous meals, to my sister Naomi for the box of outstanding homemade candy, and to my sister Maggie for the box of baked goodies, including my favorite, tarts.

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“There is no pain, you are receding.
A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move, but I can’t hear what you’re saying.

When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye.
I turned to look but it was gone.
I cannot put my finger on it now.
The child is grown, the dream is gone.
I have become comfortably numb.”

—Pink Floyd, lyrics, “Comfortably Numb”
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We approach the threshold. The new advances; the old recedes. This year, 2007, only days away from being ushered out the door. Like the classic sketch, the long-bearded old man, frail and stooped and leaning on a walking stick, tottering with exhausted steps toward the exit. My reaction: good-bye and good riddance. I welcome and cele- brate the little infant baby that is 2008.

It’s been a pretty crappy year. That’s stating it mildly. The Chinese Year of the Pig. And I’m glad it’s over. While the events that unfolded throughout the year may not yet have reached their apex, at least the year has reached its end. It is written that our days are as grass; our lives bloom and blossom, then wither and fade like flowers bereft of the sun. I have never been one to wish for time to accelerate, to wish the days to pass faster than they naturally do anyway. But this year was different. I am so very, very ready for it to be gone, to take its slot in the annals of dark history. May there never be another like it.

It’s actually been a tough, brutal, turbulent year. From beginning to end, and every day between. A year of loss, of heartbreak, of letting go, of pulling up strength where there was little or none. Of absorbing blow after bitter blow, the world I knew crashing down around me in dust and ashes. Of getting up and facing each day, of inching, moving forward because that was the only choice; there was nowhere else to go. Of plucking and eating the bitter fruit born of a poisonous seed.

I learned a lot. About the depths of depravity in the human heart. About how life works. Really works, I mean. One can read volumes of all the platitudes ever pub- lished and still have absolutely no grasp at all of how things really are, or can be when the going gets tough. When things happen, when events take on an orbit of their own, when one’s existence spirals out of control.

I used to have a lot of answers, about a lot of things. I don’t anymore. I’m deeply suspicious of anyone who does or claims to have.

A life can get reduced to shambles pretty quickly. Any life. Anywhere. Any time. It doesn’t matter if you are a pillar of the community, or some druggy lurking out on the fringes, or somewhere in between, which is where most of us are. It doesn’t matter if you are a multi-millionaire or a pauper, or somewhere in between, which is where most of us are. Once events are triggered and released, the boom gets lowered, and there ain’t no stopping it. It smashes everything in its path. And everyone in its path. It’s all the same. For everything and everyone.

It gets messy. Despite all the Christian teachings, all the ultimate truths ever pro- claimed from all the pulpits in the country. Or in all the Sunday School classes. Just so much chatter, really. The harsh reality stands in stark contrast to the sweet, syrupy, sugary goo that pervades so much of what we hear in church. The real truth I will tell you: sometimes things don’t work out, and not everyone lives together happily ever after. Sometimes hard things are done, hard choices are made. One does what one must to survive, and lives with the consequences.

That’s the way the cookie crumples. And pop! goes the weasel. And all that.

Portions of this past year remain hazy in my mind. Probably a choice on my part, a protective reaction. And while I don’t want to rehash the things already stated before on this site, there were times I felt stranded in the middle of a vast, barren wasteland. Hopeless, hearing the voices of those around me, but ultimately alone.

Time crawled. Minutes seemed like hours, hours like days, days like weeks, weeks like months, and months like years. The year a decade. And now it ends.

I learned a lot. About my friends. About who they were, and who they are. The ones who stood with me in the trenches on the darkest days, silent perhaps, but solidly there nonetheless. Which ones had integrity. And which one was utterly devoid of even the slightest shred. And remains devoid. And integrity lost is not easily regained.

Like Paradise lost. That which was, now dimly seen only in fleeting glimpses. The result of choices. Ripple effects. Consequences. Abandonment. Desolation. Hard, bitter real- izations. Hard, bitter, brutal facts. A new reality. The years will not dim the lessons learned. Or diminish the bleak but abundant harvest the future will impose.

Tomorrow is a new day. And as I face the New Year, I have become comfortably numb. I’m not sure if it’s from general weariness or from actually having worked through some things. Probably a little of both. Time will tell. Time always tells.

I do look forward to 2008. A fresh slate. For good things. At least some of the time.

I will, I suppose, spend some time absorbing and adapting to the new realities un- leashed this year. Opening and examining the foggy realms that my subconscious mind has suppressed. Including the rage, which has seeped into every pore of my soul and will do some real damage if not faced and dealt with. I have heard all the advice, all the yada, yada, yada, all the formulas. I know what needs to be done. For my own sanity. But knowing and doing are two very different things, almost like two opposing forces.

I am comfortable in my job. I like my work. And the people I work with. The New Year will bring some major projects, beyond the size and scope of anything we have ever done before. So we are optimistic that 2008 will be a good year. The company will continue to do what it does best.

For me, the first practical order of business will be to lose the five-plus pounds gained over the holidays. Too much good, rich food, and too many legitimate excuses to indulge. No more. Back to the salads. Back to the gym, the jump rope and the tread-mill for extended workouts.

Sometime in 2008, I want to travel with Big Blue, just me and my truck and the road. Visit family scattered from Kentucky to Kansas and points between. Take some time, a few weeks at least, meander my way through some back roads, travel some uncrowd- ed highways. Stop where I want, when I feel like it. Converse with inhabitants of road- side dives. Talk with grizzled old men. Listen to their tales, glean their wisdom. Sift through their stories of fantastic imagination. Blog from the road.

Sometime, perhaps in the next year, I will need to decide the next step, where to go with my writing. Until now, I have been blogging with hastily-crafted little blurbs. What you read each week is the result of six to eight hours of writing and intensive rewriting. Sometimes more. At some point, I will have to decide whether to strive for the next level and what that level is. As I see it, little that I have posted is of publishable quality, although some of it might be with a bit of polishing, a few more rewritings.

I figure with about two years of uninterrupted labor, I could produce the foundation of the core essence that clamors to be told. For now, I plan to keep blogging weekly; the discipline of doing that is clearly what I need at this time. But at some point, that stage will pass. And I will either stop or move forward. I’m actually pretty fatalistic about it. Either my story will get written in time, over time. Or it won’t. In the big scheme of things, what’s one more voice? Or one less?

One generation passes; the next moves in to take its place. On Christmas night, my father’s older sister, Anna (Mrs. Peter) Stoll, passed away peacefully in her sleep in her home in Aylmer, Ontario. She was ninety-six years old and simply worn out. The funeral was this morning, Friday, Dec. 28th. My parents made the long journey from Iowa to attend.

While I was tempted to go, I decided not to. Just too much baggage in my life right now. Although I’m sure my cousins (Anna’s children) would have been kind and gracious, there nevertheless would have been a large white elephant looming in every room I entered. And who wants to deal with that at a funeral? So for their sakes and for my own, I thought it best to stay away. Choices. Ripple effects. Consequences. In life, and at the end of life.

And now, in this last post of the year, I wish you, my readers, a great New Year. I consider the vast majority of you my friends. Some of you are not. And that’s OK. But I thank all of you for taking the time (whether regularly or sporadically) to read my blog. I appreciate that more than I can express in words.

I anticipate good things. I wish them for each of you as well. Through one more season of summer, winter, frost and heat. May your face be warmed by gentle sun- light; may the winds more often than not be at your back. May the rains that fall in your life be refreshing, and bring new growth.

May the tears of you who weep be wiped away. May healing come to the wounded and joy return to those who mourn. May they who walk in darkness emerge again into the light they have abandoned.

As the year unfolds, join me in greeting each new day with wonder and appreciation. Be thankful. To God. In all things. And treasure life for the rare and precious gift it is. It’s not always beautiful. Or clean. Or easy. But it’s always worth living. Always.

HAPPY NEW YEAR.

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