“…… we never shall come back again, we never shall come back along this road again as we did once at morning……let us look again before we go…..there the shallows of the rock-bright waters of the creek, and there the sweet and most familiar coolness of the trees — and surely we have been this way before……”
—Thomas Wolfe

“We are the sons of our father, and we shall follow the print of his foot forever.”
—Thomas Wolfe

Sixty-five years ago, in 1942, as the global conflagration that was WWII approached its climax, my father, David L. Wagler, was a Conscientious Objector. The federal government at that time had devised a policy where young COs could serve time laboring on projects not associated with the War. Dad’s main stint of service was at Boonsboro, MD, where he spent 2-1/2 years on a fencing crew and later at a desk job. Before that, he spent nine months at a CO camp in Sidling Hill, PA. With a group of about 150 other young COs, he worked on the PA Turnpike. They were housed in barracks at a former CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) camp.

Sidling Hill as my father knew it

Camp life at Sidling Hill. The young man outside the mess hall is not my father.

My father was young, 21 years old, in the prime and passion of his youth, when he arrived at Sidling Hill on Nov. 6, 1942. He had married my mother, Ida Mae Yoder, on Feb. 3rd of that year. She visited him once at the camp, during Christmas, 1942. What he experienced, felt and saw as a CO has never been accurately recorded. Growing up, we always knew that he had worked at a camp during the War, but it meant little to me until recent years. On Monday, June 18, 2007, he finally returned to the site of the camp for an extensive tour for the first time since he left it in 1943.

My father is 85 and my mother is 83. Despite their age and limitations, they both very much enjoy getting out and about. They traveled to Aylmer, Ontario, Canada for my nephew Lester Gascho’s wedding on June 14. On Saturday, June 16, there was a “Botschaft” (a weekly Amish newsletter) scribe conference in Millersburg, PA. Dad, who has written for the “Botschaft” since its inception in the 1970s, wanted to attend. But they needed someone to travel with them from Canada to Millersburg. So Dad’s niece (and my first cousin), Fannie Mae Wagler, agreed to accompany them.

Dad had long planned to visit Sidling Hill when the opportunity arose. The stars seemed to align for Monday, June 18. So, a month or two ago, he contacted Carl DeFebo, Manager of Media and Public Relations for the Turnpike and arranged to meet him Monday morning for a tour of the camp and the section of the Turnpike he had worked on so many years ago. The camp is accessible by public road, but a 12-mile abandoned stretch of the Turnpike is now closed to the public.

Several weeks before they came, Dad called my brother Steve to discuss his plans and see if anyone here wanted to accompany them to Sidling Hill. Steve and I both decided to go. Because of Dad’s complicated shunning policies (both Steve and I left the Amish church), he would not stay at either of our homes or eat our food. But he would stay with (and eat food prepared by) Steve’s son-in-law and daughter, Curtis and Ella Mae Lapp.

AT CURTIS AND ELLA MAE LAPPS, SATURDAY EVENING, JUNE 16, 2007
(TO MY KNOWLEDGE, THESE PHOTOS ARE THE FIRST EVER TAKEN OF MY PARENTS TOGETHER AS A COUPLE. MOST OF THE CLOSEUPS WERE TAKEN WITH A CELL PHONE CAMERA.)

Dad is still wearing his name tag from the Botschaft conference that day.

Mom and her great-grandson, Johann Lapp

Ella Mae, Mom and Dad. The women were shelling peas.

Mom, Dad and Steve

On Saturday evening at 7 o’clock, they arrived at Curtis and Ella Mae’s home. Steve and Wilma went over to visit. I stopped by as well. Dad knows about my marriage situation, but it has been kept from my Mom. She couldn’t grasp it anyway, we figured. I was a little nervous she would ask where Ellen was. Sure enough, sometime during the evening, she claimed she had recently gotten a nice letter from Ira and Ellen (she had not) and suddenly asked, “Where is Ellen, anyway?”

“She’s working,” I said.

“Oh,” Mom replied, unperturbed, “she must work a lot.”

“Yes,” I said, “she does.” Someone, I think it was Wilma, asked her a question about something else and the conversation shifted to other things.

AT STEVE AND WILMA’S HOUSE SUNDAY NOON

Steve, Mom and Dad at the picnic table

Steve assisting Mom at the table

Carrie and her Grandpa at the table. Note the shots taken from behind a tree.

Dad and Mom relaxing after a sumptuous Sunday meal

Dad enjoying the last remnants of fresh (and delicious) pie

Mom

On Sunday, we all had lunch at Steve’s house. The food was prepared by Ella Mae. She trucked everything over in boxes and baskets. We ate ouside under the shade trees on the stone foyer. The food was served on a picnic table, cafeteria style. After lunch and coffee, Dad and I sat outside by ourselves and visited about various things, including my marriage. He was calm and surprisingly nonjudgmental. He asked about my web site and how it works. I even offered to show the site to him on Steve’s computer. He chuckled and politely declined.

I told him I would love to have a picture of him as a young man. I asked if there were any, and he replied that there may be, but he had never knowingly posed for a photo. He said he used to have a picture of Mom as a young lady when they were dating.

“She was beautiful, and what do you call it, photogenic. She was photogenic.” he said.

I asked if he had destroyed it, and he claimed he had not. But he said he doesn’t know where the picture is now; somehow it got misplaced over the years. Maybe someday we’ll find it. I then told him I would be taking pictures with a digital camera the next day at Sidling Hill.

“To record it for history. Not for pride.” I explained.

“Just don’t expect me to pose for any,” he said. I said I wouldn’t.

Mom sat inside the house with Steve and Wilma. Seeing us sitting outside, she asked a perceptive question. She knew more than we thought she did.

“Does he live alone?” she asked, pointing at me.

“Right now he does,” Wilma answered. And Mom left it at that.

I stayed until after 3 o’clock, then went home. Around 4:30, my parents left for Franklin County (west of here and not far from Sidling Hill) to stay with some Amish friends for the night. We agreed to meet at the Sidling Hill Plaza along the Turnpike at 8 AM Monday morning.

On Monday morning at 5:30, Steve and I set off for the Sidling Hill Plaza. We arrived early and went inside for coffee. Steve ate some high-carb breakfast rolls that looked like lumps of dough (to state it politely) drowning in white frosting. He admitted they were tasteless. I told him if he would only take Superfood, he wouldn’t need to eat such junk.

At 7:45, my parents arrived. Promptly at 8:00, Carl DeFebo showed up. He was a pleasant young man (about my age) and an amateur historian, which explained why he was so willing and even anxious to meet and accompany Dad to the camp. We met at a small pavilion beside the parking lot. Carl unrolled several large maps and he and Steve and Dad plotted our route to the camp.

THE SIDLING HILL ADVENTURE BEGINS.

Dad, Steve and Carl poring over maps and plotting our route

Mom waits patiently for the excursion to begin.

Carl led our three-vehicle convoy out a back entrance from the Plaza. He importantly placed his orange “State Official” light on top of his van so no one would bother us. We bumped out the back onto a long winding highway. After a few miles, we turned off onto a gravel road. Dust billowed behind us. On and on for miles into the hinterland. Carl had never been to the camp, so Steve, who had, took the lead. Finally he announced, “there it is,” and there stood an old log cabin. The Director’s cabin, it was the only building that has been preserved. Across the road from the cabin, a gravel lane led to the camp. There was nothing but trees of all sizes and thick brush. Dad, who was riding with Carl so they could visit, got out of the van, and promptly announced that he didn’t recognize the place at all.

Camp sign

The Director’s cabin, well preserved since 1942

Entering the camp

Dad examining evidence

An old concrete footer.

Dad and Steve discussing the old stone chimney in the background

Dad, Mom and Steve examining the old root/storm cellar

Checking out the old stone walkway, hidden in the leaves

The best closeup of Dad (and my most daring shot with the digital camera)

We walked into the camp on the crunching gravel, Dad limping along slowly. His bearings gradually returned to him, and he pointed out where certain buildings had stood, as he remembered it. I discovered a long concrete foundation hidden in the bushes down toward the creek, and he said it was the fifth in the row of bunkhouses. He had slept in the second one. We walked around. Steve and I asked questions. We found a few more concrete foundations and pillars. We found an old stone chimney. Carl located an old stone walkway. Dad wanted a stone from the walkway, so when Carl wasn’t looking, Steve uprooted a foot-long rock and placed it in the trunk of the car for Dad. Buried in the brush to one side of the Director’s cabin was an old root/storm cellar. It was very well preserved except for the roof, which was completely gone. Dad was delighted to discover several straight rows of large pine trees. He calculated that the trees were 65 years old and he had perhaps helped plant them.

“It was so long ago,” he said.

Exploring further, Dad pointed out the spot where they had played ball. Once the other young men had begged him to come play ball with them. He wasn’t much of an athlete, but he decided to play. In a collision during the game, he sprained his ankle and was laid up for days. He was assigned to desk work during that time.

As we explored, Mom was content to sit on a nearby bench with Fannie Mae. I had brought along a few bottles of water and gave her one. Dad tramped about a lot, and with his gimpy knee, Steve and I were mildly concerned he would overdo himself. But he didn’t. He was excited and eager the whole time. About an hour after arriving at the camp, we were done. We loaded up and headed out.

The abandoned stretch of the Turnpike is not accessible by vehicle, but the gravel road passed within 50 feet of it in places. So on the way out, Carl stopped the convoy and we all got out and walked on the abandoned highway. It was half-spooky; a four-lane highway completely unused, empty and deserted, sloping and rolling into distant mountains. Dad very much wanted to see the old abandoned tunnel that was several miles down from where we were on the Turnpike, but since we could not get access with our vehicles, we had to give that up. Dad didn’t let on, but we felt he was disappointed.

Dad and Carl

Looking down on the abandoned Turnpike

Ira, Mom, and Dad walking onto the Turnpike

Dad leaving the Turnpike for the last time

Dad told us how the work crews from the camp would go out each day along this very road and plant grass and trees beside the Turnpike. One particular bank was quite long and steep, and the crews worked hard for three weeks preparing, seeding and landscaping the bank. The very night after they finished, a great thunderstorm crashed through the area, dumping inches of rain in a short time. The resulting washoff created massive gullies, instantly ruining three weeks of sweat and labor. The next day and for days thereafter, their Director sent them off to work in the opposite direction so they wouldn’t see the futility of their toil at that spot.

Fannie Mae took good care of Mom at all times.

Mom in the van waiting to leave. “I think I’ll just take your picture,” I said, and did.

At the outlook point; the last stop

Our final stop was at an outlook point about four miles west of Raystown along Rt. 30. We parked and viewed a stretch of the old Turnpike winding past a lake and through the mountains in the distance. Soon Dad made moves to leave, as he still wanted to travel to Boonsboro, MD that day and visit the old farm on which he had served as a CO from 1943-45. As a family, we thanked Carl for his time and hospitality. Dad thanked Steve and me for coming. We said good-bye to Mom and Fannie Mae. And then they were gone.

We watched them leave. It was over. Despite the ravages of age and time, and the barriers of distance, he had returned. It is unlikely that he ever will again.

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Appendix: Communication with Carl DeFebo

From: Ira Wagler
Sent: Wednesday, June 20, 2007
To: Defebo, Carl
Subject: Thanks from Ira

Carl:

Thanks so much for taking the time Monday to show us around the Sidling Hill Camp. It means a lot to us that you took the time because it was important to an old man you had never met before. We will always treasure that day with our Dad and Mom.

I have attached a few pictures I took that day. Thanks again.

Ira Wagler

_____________________
Carl’s reply:

Ira,

I was happy to do it, and I had a wonderful time meeting your family. Your dad is a treasure, and I enjoyed hearing his stories about working on the turnpike. When I write about those days, it’s nice to have a real person, someone I know personally, who had some role in bringing this historic highway to fruition.

Thanks for the photos, I’m glad you sent them along.

Take care!

Carl
________________________________________________________________________

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________________
I. THE END OF LIFE
—Thomas Wolfe
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“They had been young and full of pain and combat, and now all this was dead in them: they smiled mildly, feebly, gently, they spoke in thin voices, and they looked at one another with eyes dead to desire, hostility, and passion……and their memory was all of little things.”

“They no longer wanted to excel or to be first; they were no longer mad and jealous; they no longer hated rivals; they no longer wanted fame; they no longer cared for work or grew drunk on hope; they no longer turned into the dark and struck their bloody knuckles at the wall; they no longer writhed with shame upon their beds, cursed at the memory of defeat and desolation, or ripped the sheets between convulsive fingers. Could they not speak? Had they forgotten?”

“……They had known pain, death and madness, yet all their words were stale and rusty. They had known the wilderness, the savage land, the blood of the murdered men ran down into the earth that gave no answer; and they had seen it, they had shed it. Where were the passion, pain and pride, the million living moments of their lives? Was all this lost? Were they all tongueless? …..Or were they simply devoured with satiety, with weariness and indifference? Did they refuse to speak because they could not speak, because even memory had gone lifeless in them?”

“Yes. Words echoed in their throat but they were tongueless. For them the past was dead: they poured into our hands a handful of dry dust and ashes.”

-Thomas Wolfe “Of Time and the River”

Available at Amazon.com
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_______________________________________________________________________
II. LIFE
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On Saturday evening, June 9, I hosted another one of my famous garage cookouts. It was about as perfect a June night as one could want, clear, cool and just a bit windy. This time, no family, just a diverse (not the PC version of diverse, just diverse) group of friends, some of whom had never met each other. Patrick and Mary June Miller, Vern and Rosie Stoltzfus, Steve and Ada Beiler, and Sam and Cathy Gingerich, all with their respective families. The total number of people, including children, was around twenty-five. My house is located on a ¾ acre lot on the corner of Rt. 23 and Voganville Road. There is a lot of road traffic and limited space in the yard for children to play. But they did an admirable job in playing with the various balls (football, beach ball, soccer ball, tennis ball) I have lying around, even though the balls had a pronounced inclination to roll across Voganville Road on their own accord. Occasionally there was a great clatter with the resounding roar of a little one reacting to getting whacked about while playing, falling down, or whatever. But it was good.

Master Griller (by self-acclamation)

Once again, I grilled “Steve Beiler” organic sausages, both smoked and unsmoked. They are simply the best around, in my opinion, and certainly the most nutritious. Each family graciously brought a covered dish, including fresh garden salad, Ohio potato salad (if you have to ask, you don’t know what you’re missing), a camp-cooked multi-bean goulash and carrot cake and ice cream, my favorite dessert. So there was ample food for all. Afterward, we all lounged around outside the garage and drank coffee and laughed and chatted and just had a good old time. Or I guess it was a good time, as nobody left until after 10 PM. As an added bonus, I was able to skillfully nab (all right, beg) some of the leftover food, so I’m good for the week. (The blue cooler still awaits any food donors in the garage. Just thought I’d mention that.)

After the enjoyable and pleasantly exhausting evening, I retired late and slept in until the shameful hour of 10 o’clock Sunday morning. No church for me, I decided, stumbling around bleary-eyed. I meandered about and cleaned the mess in the garage and generally communed with myself for the day and read the Sunday News and watched the rain-delayed Pocono 500 (which was won by the oily and resurgent Jeff Gordon). One has to have a do-nothing day every once in awhile.

The third and final Triple Crown Race, the Belmont Stakes, was run during the cookout. Again. We had just begun eating, when the starting gun sounded at about 6:30. Most of the men huddled around my little TV in the garage, while the women calmly sat outside eating, pretending our behavior was completely normal. At 1-1/2 miles, the Belmont is the longest of the Triple Crown races. The horses seemed to be almost trudging at the halfway point. At the end the filly Rags to Riches just pulled out by a nose in front of Curlin, the Preakness winner. She was the first filly to win the Belmont since 1905, more than a hundred years. Now THAT’S the last of my horse-racing stories until next year.

Did everyone hear about the new Nascar driver with Amish roots? For real. Working his way up the ranks, he is. Quite the crowd favorite, too. Yonie Beiler or Yonie Stoltzfus or some such Lancaster County name. His racing rig is pictured below. And we all know pictures don’t lie. I understand he gets a 1-to-50 lap handicap. His pit stops are unusual only in that he changes horses, not tires. It’s quite the sight; four Amishmen plunging around unhitching one horse and hooking up another. In 14 seconds. And he has to keep his flashing lights on at all times. Just like on our Lancaster County roads.

Amish Nascar
Thanks to Mark Markiewicz for forwarding this photo.

Baseball Update: Believe it or not, the Phillies swept the Mets last week (June 5-7). In New York. Even more unbelievably, I was cheering them on. I figured if the Mets lost, the Braves could creep up into first place. But no such luck. The Braves just putzed around and lost two out of three and five of six. And Bobby Cox, I think, has just set the record for most evictions for a head coach. But the season is long, not half over yet, and much baseball remains to be played. And I see that the ancient and decrepit Roger Clemens cast aside his walking cane long enough to win one for the Bleepin’ Yankees (may they rot). You gotta hand it to ’em, they never die until the stake is driven forcefully through their vile, black hearts. Hopefully the evil empire will be decimated this year well before the World Series.

General Sports Notes: The Anaheim Mighty Ducks pulled it out and won the Stanley Cup in five games. Not that anyone noticed. Hockey has spiraled from obscurity into oblivion since the unfortunate strike of 2005. In the eternally long but now blessedly shortened NBA playoffs, the Cavs were unceremoniously swept by the Spurs. Too bad, you Ohioans. In my opinion, basketball is the most unwatchable, imbecilic game ever devised. I can’t imagine anyone getting excited about it, but that’s just me.

Someone, I guess it was my nephew Andrew, commented that the Super Chip I installed on my truck will void the warranty. My response: What warranty? I bought the truck used from a private party. It has 56,000 miles. So no warranty exists. Besides, if you install a Super Chip on a warrantied truck, you can place all the settings back to factory standards when you take the truck in for service or trade-in, and no one can tell you ever installed the Super Chip. My last tank of gas got me 13-1/2 plus mpg, so I’m still very enthused about it.

Last week (actual date: Sunday, June 3), this site had its 10,000th hit. Whoever it was did not contact me, so I celebrate the milestone with the anonymous “man behind the mask,” even though the hit might have been made by a woman or a child. Thanks again to all my readers. Now let’s go for 20,000.

The 10,000th hit

Since March, I have expended considerable bachelor-strength energy in keeping my domicile habitable. (A little legalese there. It means “I’ve spent some time and effort keeping my house clean enough to live in.”) The flower beds remain untouched and are returning to the wilds. In the house, dust bunnies frolic and scamper to and fro, feeding on who knows what (dust, I guess). I am struggling to decide whether or not I should just tame them and keep them as pets. But I do swipe a broom about now and then, much to the dust bunnies’ disgust. Meanwhile, the ancient clothes-dryer has taken to squealing like a stuck pig lately; I am afraid to use it lest it burn down the house. And that’s about all I would need in my life right now. But at the cookout, none of the women seemed too horrified at inside-the-house conditions. Either that, or they hid their horror well, probably so I wouldn’t suggest a neighborhood “cleaning day” and they’d feel obligated to come back and help.

On June 8, I observed my 2-year anniversary being alcohol free. Not a drop. To celebrate such a monumental achievement, I mixed and enjoyed a large Fruited Plain drink (JUST KIDDING).

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