“The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless
of age, gender, religion or ethnic background, is that we
all believe we are above-average drivers.”

—Dave Barry
_______________________________________________

The little mini van snuck out in front of me as I crossed Rt. 30 on my way home from work. I usually head out over the mountain to avoid the town of Gap and its clogged, suffocating late afternoon traffic. Down the mountain, through winding curves and hills I followed the mini van, impatient as its driver braked and slowed drastically for every little curve. And every little water puddle. Two miles or so, then it finally turned off. The road ahead was clear. Relieved, I punched Big Blue’s accelerator and we surged forward into freedom.

But no. A quarter mile ahead, another little mini van slowly lurched onto the road like a giant slug. I almost immediately caught up with it. The driver poked along, braking and slowing for every little curve, and sometimes for no discernible reason. Coasted slowly to the stop sign in White Horse, then waited until there wasn’t a car approaching within half a mile in either direction before creeping left onto Rt. 340. The same direction I was going. I expelled a long sigh and calmed myself. It just wasn’t my day. Not when even the mini vans were plotting against me in relays like this. After the mini van obstinately took the next right, onto my road, of course, I accepted the fact that I would be late for the gym.

Putzers, I call them. Idiot drivers. Cell phone yakkers. Constant brakers. Turn-signal ignorers. Lancaster County’s roads are clogged with the entire spectrum, every imag-inable type. And you take your life in your hands every time you venture out. It’s a war zone out there. Drive these roads and you are by definition a Road Warrior. Whether you know it or not.

Mel Gibson in “Mad Max 2 – Road Warrior”

I arrived in Lancaster County for the first time in the summer of 1989. I was almost immediately attracted to the place; its picturesque farms and little country businesses woven into the fabric of the land. Everyone rushed about, hither and yon, busy, busy, busy doing this and that. The people too, were friendly enough, although they kept saying, “We’ll have to get together sometime,” when they didn’t really mean it. I quickly realized this phrase was just a quaint, regional expression of general good will and good vibes, and meant absolutely nothing. Like answering, “Fine,” when someone asks how you are. When you’re not. It’s not a lie. It’s just an expression.

Throughout my college years, I returned each summer to work construction. After graduating from Bob Jones, I officially moved to Lancaster County as a resident in 1993. It has been my home since.

I’ve never had my sense of directions here. Literally, I mean. To me, south seems like west. I’m always mildly amazed that the sun rises from what seems to me the south-ern sky. In my mind, I know Lancaster city is straight west of my house. But to me it seems north.

I like Lancaster County. I consider it my home. And so, as a resident for fifteen years now, I figure I’ve earned the right to air a few pet peeves.

The County’s population increases every year. Substantially. It’s getting a bit crowded. A lot of people like me move in from who knows where. And a lot of people not like me, from nearby large cities. They all need places to live. And the Amish, of course, keep expanding their numbers through large families. Someone must have neglected to inform them the world is overpopulated. (Just kidding. I’m glad they have large families. I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.) Currently, I think they have an astounding 150 church districts in the area. Those numbers will continue to grow.

Then there are the Lancaster County roads. Little ribbons cut into the picturesque countryside. No ditches. No shoulders. No square grids. And not that well maintained. They meander here and there, curve this way and that. No master planners involved here. From Peters Road, which began hundreds of years ago as an Indian trail (or was it a cow path?), to the thousand other little side roads. All clogged with vehicles, almost all the time.

It could be different. Back in the 1970s, there was a great visionary plan to build a four-lane highway from New Holland to Lancaster. They even built the overpass bridg-es and laid out the road bed. Then for some reason, they stopped. Abruptly. And there it all sits, idle. Even has its own name, The Goat Path. Guess farmers graze goats on it. The political battle continues sporadically, with endless opinion surveys and much heated rhetoric, pro and con, at public meetings.

All the while, purists pontificate about “preserving the land.” There ain’t no such thing. The best use for land is whatever the market decides. A crop of new homes in a field is as beautiful as any other crop. Or a new road. Right now, the Lancaster County market would dictate a nice four-lane highway to help unclog some of the side roads. But market forces are suppressed. I’ll be surprised if they ever get the road built. At least in my lifetime.

Then, of course, there are the drivers.

Of all driver types, the Lancaster County Putzer is by far the most irritating. Putzers come in all shapes and sizes, man, woman or youth. They do tend to favor the mini van as their vehicle of choice. And perhaps it is a statistical fact that more women than men drive mini vans. But a Putzer can be driving the latest model SUV, or even, and I shudder to admit this, a pickup truck. Putzers often are tourists, especially during the summer months. But the local Putzer club proudly exists, expanding its bulging mem-bership rolls annually, it seems.

The Putzer will do just that, putz along, usually five to ten miles per hour below the posted speed limit on the back roads. And on the main roads, too. Tourist Putzers slow down or stop completely to gawk at a passing buggy. Other undeniable attributes that will help you identify a Putzer instantly: Braking for every little bump or mud puddle. Slowing down a quarter mile before the stop sign. Creeping along behind a buggy when there’s a double yellow line but they could otherwise pass safely. Weaving while yakking on the cell phone. Sitting there for twenty seconds after the light turns green, then creeping slowly forward through the intersection just as it turns red again, leaving a long line of fuming motorists behind them. And generally doing everything otherwise imaginable to provoke a normal driver over the edge into madness and blind rage.

Another habit that particularly incenses me. This one’s not restricted to Putzers. And that’s not using your turn signal. Especially when I’m trying to make a turn onto a busy road and a vehicle turns into the road I’m on without signaling. Had he signaled, I might have sneaked out into the traffic. Always a major, major irritant. It’s about the only time I wish I were a cop. I’d happily issue tickets (for points) for failure to signal.

And not a week goes by that I don’t flash my lights at idiots who forget to turn on their headlights at dusk. They come at you from the mists like ghosts. Morons.

And then there are the buggies (Did you Amish readers think you’d get off scot-free?). Pop over a hill, and there’s a buggy, plugging along. I can’t fault the buggy drivers for not using the shoulders on the back roads; there are none. But I’ll tell you that if you keep driving along those busy highways with your buggies half on the roomy shoulder, half on the busy traffic lane, someone will take off your wheels. Sooner or later, it’s just gonna happen. On the positive side, it seems that in recent years, the lighting systems for night driving have improved vastly. LED lights, or whatever they’re called. Overall, I have few problems with buggies on the roads, other than occasional good-natured grumbling. Goodness knows I’ve spent enough years riding in one. I’d hate to see the day when the horse and buggy were no longer allowed on public roads.

Lest anyone think I’m this crazy nut of a driver, let me clarify. I consider myself a sane, decent driver. Superior, even. For decades, friends have told me that when they met me on the road, I ignored their waves. I didn’t ignore them; I just didn’t see them. I keep my eyes on the road. Period. I’ve never been ticketed for even one traffic violation (knock on wood). Not for speeding, not for anything. I’ve been stopped by a cop only once, about fifteen years ago, for speeding. Fortunately, when he saw my “Rush is Right” bumper sticker, he didn’t even bother to check my driver’s license. Just told me to slow it down a bit. I was grateful.

Putzers, like the poor, will be with us always, I suppose. At least until the Rapture. Then maybe they’ll get Left Behind to putz at their leisure. (That’s a joke. Hope you Pre-Millennialists have a sense of humor.) Until then, we’ll just have to deal with them the best we can. Drive defensively. Expect anything. Stay alive. And clear the air by venting occasionally.

The Post Frame Builders’ convention was held in Columbus, OH, this week. Usually a lot of people show up from all around the country. I’m sure this year was no exception, especially with this central location. I had long looked forward to attending with my boss, Patrick Miller, and seeing a lot of old friends and some new ones. Including John Schmid, who provided the musical entertainment at the convention.

But no, the Harrisburg Horse World Expo is this weekend, so guess who’s spending four days hobnobbing with whacked-out horse people again. Yep, me. In the middle of a winter snow and sleet storm, yet. Duty calls and all that. Some carry one burden and some carry another. No one can accuse me of not being a company man. Hopefully, Mr. Schmid will look me up as he promised when he comes to Lancaster this summer. I’ve never met the man.

In last week’s comment section, I stated my intention to write an essay about Elmo Stoll. It triggered a minor earthquake from my readers, publicly and privately. But just hold your horses. Such an essay will take some time and a lot of preparation. Includ-ing research, an outline, and mining the depths of my own memories. And taking the time to do it right. I would not look for it before late spring/early summer.

Elmo was my first cousin, the son of my father’s older sister Anna and her husband, Peter Stoll. Elmo’s presence invades many of my childhood memories. He was a brilliant, gifted man. A superb writer. An outstanding orator. A born leader of men and movements. And deeply, tragically flawed, as such men often are. Any honest essay, at least from me, will include a frank discussion of all those attributes, whether positive or negative.

Finally, NASCAR opened its season last Sunday with the great thunder of The Daytona 500. Someday I want to attend that event. It was a great race, high speeds, lots of drafting, several minor pileups. Ryan Neman (Helloooo, Newman) won it for the first time. My hero, Little E, looking strange and a bit uncomfortable in his #88 car and green outfit, came in ninth.

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“They are gone now, those giants of the earth in the
world of my youth…..the preacher whose powerful,
high-strung voice reverberated like a gong through
the assembled congregation in countless sermons
over the years..…”

—Ira Wagler, “At Dusk in Winter”
__________________________________________

The mid-Spring winds whipped and swirled around the house that afternoon. Brooding clouds roiled overhead, threatening more showers. Inside the house, a large group of people was sitting upon row after row of backless wooden benches. Many nodded off, then guiltily jerked awake and tried to focus on the speaker. He droned on and on. The hours passed. As he concluded, a tautness, a strained tension swept through the assembly like a living thing.

It was Sunday afternoon at our home in Bloomfield, Iowa. The date: May 7, 1978. I was sixteen years old. We were having communion service, or “Big Church,” as we used to call it. An all-day affair. But this particular service was distinct from most of the semi-annual Big Church services. Because at the end, around four o’clock or so, a new preacher would be ordained.

Bishop George, the elder statesman, and his minions finally wrapped up the regular Big Church service by distributing the bread and wine. Then church members washed each others’ feet as the last song was sung. As the last note died away, everyone sat there quietly, expectantly. The whole house pulsed with palpable tension.

Bishop George, a slight bald man with a long gray beard, stood to recite the rules of the ordination. He and the other preachers would retire to a separate side room, which happened to be my parents’ bedroom. One preacher would open the door a crack and place his ear in the opening. All members would vote by whispering their choice into the preacher’s ear. A tally would be taken. Any married man with three or more votes would be in the lot.

Bishop George and the preachers retreated into the room and closed the door. And the voting began. The older men went first. Walked up to the door, paused briefly, then whispered their choices, and returned to their seats on the backless benches. Then, in accordance with their age, the younger married men, the young unmarrieds, the women and finally, the single girls.

I was not a member. So I didn’t vote. My buddies and I, normally a wisecracking surly bunch, watched somberly. Wide-eyed. No smart-alecky actions. No smirks. The air was heavy, oppressive.

It took awhile. Then, after the last member had voted, the door shut on the cloistered preachers. They tallied the votes. Minutes passed. Then Deacon Menno popped out of the side room door and gathered five Ausbund song books. And popped back in. Everyone pretended not to notice, but all eyes took a careful count. There would be five men in the lot.

Minutes later, the preachers filed out in somber procession. The tension escalated. The time was at hand. They took their seats on the bench along the wall. Deacon Menno arranged the five song books on a little table. Each book was tied shut with a thin white string. Then Bishop George got up. Cleared his throat.

“There are five brothers in the lot,” he announced in his high, squeaky voice. “They are ….” And he slowly, concisely pronounced the five names. The chosen men, seated at various points among the other men of the congregation, sagged visibly as each one heard his name.

Then slowly, one by one, they got up. Instructed their wide-eyed young children to remain seated on the bench while Daddy left for a few minutes. And walked the long path alone up to the little table with the books. Each man chose a book and picked it up, then sat on the bench before the table. Soon all five were seated. Five books. Five men. Waiting in suspense.

After a short prayer, Bishop George slowly approached the bench, where the five men sat. He took the book from the first. Untied the white string. Opened it.

Nothing.

The first man almost collapsed with relief. Bishop George handed back the book and took the book from the next man’s trembling hands. Fumbled with the string. Untied it. Opened the book.

Again, nothing.

The three remaining men viewed the situation with increasing alarm and accelerating heartbeats. The congregation looked on. No one moved. No one breathed. Original odds were one out of five. Now it was one out of three. Bishop George approached the third man and held out his hand. Took the book. Untied the string. Opened it.

Again, nothing.

Now it was down to one out of two. Two young men. What passed through their minds at this instant remains known only to them. They sat there, frozen with the pressure. Mercifully, Bishop George did not prolong their agony. He approached the fourth man and held out his hand. Took the book. Untied the string. Opened it.

Inside the front cover of the book was a little slip of white paper. Bishop George’s hand shook slightly as he took the little slip of paper. He looked down at the young man before him and made a slight motion with his hand. Pointed his right index finger, sig-nifying, “You are the one.”

The young man slowly struggled to his feet. And there, before us all, Bishop George ordained him, proclaiming him a minister of the gospel from this day forth, until his death. The young man briefly lost control of his emotions; his body shook and racked with quick, choppy sobs. Only briefly, then he stood there quietly, his head bowed. Accepted the office, and the duties he would henceforth carry.

The other men in the lot, vastly relieved at the outcome, now clustered around the young man who had just been ordained, and comforted him. The preachers, too, all of them, came and welcomed him into their midst.

Then it was over. The congregation was dismissed. The young man sat down on the bench. He looked around him, at all the shadowy figures meshing in a hazy blur. He was now a preacher. Until his death. His life would never be quite the same. Never.

Nor would my family’s. The young man ordained that day was my oldest brother, Joseph. He was thirty years old.

And that’s how it all comes down. How an Amish preacher is ordained. He gets up that morning, just a regular member of the church, and goes to the service with his wife and children. He returns home that evening, ordained for the rest of his life. A preach-er. Lots of work, for no pay. Just like that.

The whole thing takes less than an hour. Wham, bam. And there is no counseling session, no discussion with the ordained to see whether or not he has a calling. If the lot hits him, he had a calling. If it doesn’t, he doesn’t, at least until the next ordination. If a man feels he has a calling and is so proud as to express that, he never, and I mean never, gets ordained. Nobody votes for him.

It’s the only system the Amish have ever used, and is based on the account in the New Testament where the Apostles replaced Judas after he betrayed Jesus. Matthias was chosen by lot.

The system has its flaws. But overall, it works amazingly well. A quiet young man who never had much to say will be ordained, and, with no training whatsoever, gets up to preach a month later. Sink or swim. Somehow, he swims. And over the course of years, develops into a gifted speaker and a powerful preacher.

Of course, the reverse is also true. I’ve heard many a sermon from preachers who could not speak publicly. Who spent the first ten minutes of their sermons bemoaning the “heavy load” of their calling. Men who sank, overwhelmed. Who should never have been ordained, in my opinion. The worst of these are the ones who don’t realize they are sinking. And go on and on, saying nothing. Not sound and fury, signifying nothing. Then you’d at least have sound and fury. But saying nothing, signifying nothing.

But the lot chose them. Like it chose Matthias the Apostle. But, if I’m not wrong, we read nothing more of Matthias, other than that he was ordained by lot. So perhaps he wasn’t that great a speaker, either.

When I was a child in Aylmer, we had three preachers in our little church that consist-ed of a single district. Peter Yoder, the Bishop. Nicholas (Nicky) Stoltzfus. And Jacob (Jake) Eicher. In my childish world, they seemed like giants of thunder upon the earth. They still are, in my mind. I can close my eyes and see them, and hear their voices still. Preaching extemporaneously, with no podium and no notes.

Peter Yoder was of medium height and girth, a gentle man with a gentle voice. Ordained at around twenty years old, he was a Bishop before he turned thirty. A remarkable thing. He was married to my father’s older sister, Martha. They never had any children, but adopted two little girls, sisters, after they moved to Aylmer. Betty and Mary.

He putzed around on small farm and had a little harness shop. The shop always reeked of the fine new leather he used for mending harness. It was attractive to children because Uncle Pete had a shelf filled with boxes of candy bars. For five cents apiece. He also sold cheap, tinny pocket watches, hanging on display, mounted on a cardboard poster. The boys in our family got one of those pocket watches on our eleventh birth-day. (We were allowed to shoot the .22 rifle on our twelfth.)

Over the years, Peter developed a stellar reputation as a trouble-shooting Bishop. He traveled extensively to other communities to help settle church disputes and other problems. His grave and gentle demeanor established his credibility and gave weight to his words.

In 1972, along with several other families, he and his wife moved to the new community of Marshfield, MO. Before moving, they held an auction on their farm to dispose of excess goods. Peter’s old plug of a driving horse, Ichabod, was purchased that day by Solomon Herrfort (Sept. 14th post).

Peter never got too excited while preaching, although occasionally he worked himself into a ghost of a mellow rhythm. His voice never carried like some, but I did not dislike hearing him. A gentle man. With a gentle voice.

He died in the early 1990s, while I was a student at Bob Jones. In Aylmer. And was buried there. My sister Maggie and I considered making the long journey from South Carolina to attend his funeral, but I was hesitant to leave my classes, even for a few days. I have always regretted that we didn’t go.

Nicky Stoltzfus was my least favorite of the three. A tall, gaunt man with a long, long majestic beard that curled out at the tip, well below his chest. He had hollow eyes, hidden under bushy brows. He always sported just a shade of stubble above his mouth, just a hint of a mustache. He believed there was nothing wrong with having a mustache. Which was anathema to the established Amish church, a cause of much dispute.

The real scholar, the theologian of the three, he preached by far the deepest sermons. In a bone-dry voice. Never raised. Paying little heed to the time, which made him very unpopular with the children. Nicky believed in extreme simplicity and often preached while barefooted. I don’t know if such a thing would even be legal now, what with all the laws about health and cleanliness and such. As a child napping with my head on my father’s lap in church, I often wished Nicky would just shut it down and sit down.

Influenced perhaps by his Anabaptist roots, Nicky sincerely (and perhaps a bit eagerly) anticipated the imminent persecution of Christians like himself. Late one night, he and his wife Lucille, enjoying the peaceful slumber of the just, were rudely awakened to a great clattering of chains outside in the dark. Nicky and Lucille were terrified, and knew that the Communists had arrived and were coming for the preachers first. Rising and moving with quiet haste, they snuck out the back door with their daughter Millie in tow and fled into the fields. In the dark. Barefooted, probably, with no time to pack any-thing. Sadly (or fortunately), it turned out that Nicky’s large Holstein bull had broken through the barnyard fence and amused himself by banging his nose chain against the gas barrel out beside the shop, causing the great clattering that had roused them from their slumber.

Nicky moved out of Aylmer in 1970. Like a wandering vagabond, he drifted to a number of remote and plain communities over the next twenty years. He ended up in Rich Hill, MO, where people can still hide out in the hills and not be bothered. When old acquaintances stopped by to see him there, Nicky’s first concern was to find out how they were traveling. If they were traveling by car, he admonished them for their worldly ways. To avoid unpleasantness, people took to parking their cars some distance away and walking to his house from there. (What, me? Nope, I just walked here. Yep. From Pennsylvania. And yes, it was a long and dusty journey. A cold drink of water would be nice.)

He passed away recently; I’m not sure exactly when. In his final years he lost his sight. Was completely blind. But even then, still he preached while sitting on a chair. Drawing his sermons from the vast, internal wellsprings of his fertile mind.

Jake Eicher. A frustrated engineer at heart. Jake’s hands were always stained black with the ink and grease he handled on his job as Pressman for Pathway Publishers. He printed all the issues of “Family Life” for probably the first ten years. Kept the clanking, hissing presses rolling, often by sheer ingenuity.

A fiery man with flat, straight-hanging hair and bushy beard, Jake preached in a powerful high-strung voice that invaded the last crevice in the remotest corner of the largest house. I’ve heard it said of Jake, perhaps unkindly, that he had one good sermon in him and that we heard it many times. Probably true. But the man could keep the children awake and alert. He was my favorite, and the favorite of most children. We never napped when he rose to take the floor. He usually stood behind his chair for the first few minutes, warming up, then pushed the chair aside and strode a few steps, back and forth through the open doorway separating the two rooms, waving his arms as the mesmerized congregation absorbed the high rolling thunder of his voice. There were few like him.

He too passed away, sometime in the mid-1990s, I think. I did not hear of his death until weeks after he was gone. He was bedridden for several months before he died, and could not speak. During this time, they say, he often wept, sobbing like a child.

Bishop Pete Yoder. Nicky Stoltzfus. Jake Eicher.

They were preachers. Giants on the earth in the world of my youth. But, in retrospect, common men, with common human flaws. Who lived their lives in strict accordance with their simple faith. Men who have now passed on. Men, chosen by lot, who labored faithfully and tirelessly without complaint for decades in their Master’s vineyard. Men who transferred the mantle of their calling to those who followed, in the same manner they themselves were called.

Like my brother. Who in turn has already assisted in ordaining those much younger than himself. Men who will carry on after he passes to his own reward. And so the continuation flows through time like water, from one generation to the next. As it has for the last three hundred years. As it will for as long as the Amish church endures.

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