“A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter,
is not a nice person.”
—Dave Barry
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In 1989, my life was in a state of flux and turbulent transition. The year before, I had broken away for the final time from the Amish church, and moved from Goshen, Indiana south to Daviess County. There I became a proving member of the regressively conservative Mt. Olive Mennonite Church (which in and of itself could provide a few stories, and probably will some day).

In the summer of 1989, I loaded up my trusty little tan/gold (what an awful color) T-Bird and headed for the greener pastures of Lancaster County, PA. There I worked long 12-hour days in the dust and heat, doing construction work for wages far superior to any I could earn in Daviess County.

At summer’s end, I reloaded my trusty car and trundled back to Daviess to start college classes at Vincennes University. I had just turned 28 years old. About ten years behind the average student, I figured.

When I arrived, Daviess County was buzzing with a great deal of gossip and speculation. A group of visionary investors had just opened huge new restaurant complex on the outskirts of Montgomery. Named The Gasthof, it featured Amish-style cooking and had a large gift shop. One of my friends told me they were still hiring servers. Waiting on tables was something I’d often considered, but never done. Now, as a full-time student, I definitely needed some cash flow. Intrigued, I decided to apply.

I walked in one afternoon. The place was simply breathtaking in its vastness. Rough timber-framed with wooden pegs. Post and Beam throughout. Seating space for several hundred diners. Two banquet rooms, including one on the second floor. And the aforementioned gift shop. After ogling the place, I inquired about a job and met with Gene and Mable Bontrager, the managers. We hit it off right away. I was hired on the spot for Friday and Saturday evenings. Wear a white shirt and black pants and black shoes. Come Tuesday evening for training and orientation. Half the minimum hourly wage plus tips. And so began my career as a waiter, one that I would follow through four years of college.

At the Gasthof, I usually arrived and clocked in at 4 PM. The place closed at nine. During the first hour or so, things were usually slow. We paced nervously. Where were the customers? We needed work. And tips. Between 5 and 6 PM, the flood gates opened. Suddenly the place was swarming. No more nervous pacing. Hammer down, all night. The next four hours were a frantic race to keep up, to feed as many people as possible and get them back out the door, fat and happy. I could never figure out where all the people came from. This wasn’t Lancaster County. Not that there was much time to consider such esoteric questions. A typical waiter or waitress was responsible for five to seven tables. I took to the work quite naturally and quickly rose to become one of the most productive and favored waiters on staff. A good night netted anywhere from $80.00 to $110.00 in tips. For four or five hours of work, that’s not bad wages. Especially in 1989.

A server has one responsibility: make the dining experience as relaxed and enjoyable as possible for the customer. And smooth as possible. The better you can do that, the better the tip. Well, not always, but as a rule. Be unobtrusive but available. Does the customer want conversation? If so, converse. If not, fade back and respect privacy. Don’t interrupt too often. Keep your eyes on your customers. I often stood leaning against a wall, seemingly doing nothing, but scanning my tables constantly for the slightest sign a customer needed me. And responded instantly. Refill drinks and coffee without being asked. Remove dishes when done. Smile, regardless of the situation, no matter how rude the customer. Thank them when they are leaving. Invite them back. Pick up the change they leave and slip it into your apron. Don’t act too eager doing it; your other customers are watching.

At The Gasthof, the servers developed a real rapport with each other. There were a few other male servers, but most were waitresses, high school and college girls. I listened to more dating problems and discussions about guys (from the girls’ perspective) than I could have imagined possible. Breakups. Pursuits. Fights. I heard it all in excruciating detail. By remaining quiet and emitting an occasional sympathetic grunt, I soon developed a reputation of being quite wise. And so I heard even more problems. A sympathetic ear with an occasional sympathetic grunt multiplies exponentially what you hear, believe me. But it was all good. The experience, I mean. Not the problems. Often after hours, we’d go out for pizza or meet at someone’s house just to hang out. And swap tales from the battlefield.

The Gasthof had some launching and growing pains during its first year, and in the ensuing turmoil, Gene and Mable Bontrager were abruptly and rudely dismissed. The loyal wait staff, which universally respected and loved them both, stirred with revolt. At the meeting where their dismissal was announced, I was elected to ask some of the hard questions. The staff fumed and stewed. But somehow the management held us together. All of us stayed. In coming months, we often looked back and reminisced fondly on the Bontragers’ brief tenure. They were good people. And they got a raw deal.

After the Bontragers, we had a slew of unsuccessful managers. Each one came in, was received suspiciously by the staff, and was gone within a few months. One such mustachioed shyster, I forget his name, turned out to have an outstanding warrant for his arrest. He was led unceremoniously from the restaurant in handcuffs by state cops one day. I wasn’t there to see it, but heard all the juicy details on my next shift. We never saw him again. He may still be locked up, for all I know. Another manager, an older guy named Tom, was brusque but efficient. He constantly scolded the girls, and more than once I stood up to him on their behalf. But he taught me one thing. After one shift, as we were getting ready to leave, right in front of my co-workers, he barked, “Ira, wear a T-shirt under that white shirt.” I was embarrassed, but learned something I never forgot. No one had ever told me before.

The Gasthof had many Amish workers and servers. And many Amish customers. At that time, and it may have changed by now, most Amish customers did not tip. So if you got a table full of Amish, you simply counted it off as a loss. And told the hostess you’d had your turn for the round. Once, for breakfast, one waitress served a table of ten or so Amish customers. As they were leaving, she saw no one had left anything. Then one little old Amish man came limping back, beaming, and thanked her for her service. She held her breath. Would this be the exception? With a grand flourish, he handed her a quarter. Beaming with good will. She stammered an astounded thank-you. It was not an insult, they simply didn’t know to tip. They paid for the food and probably felt that was costly enough. But that was fifteen years ago; it may be different now.

One busy Saturday evening, the hostess hunted me down in a panic. She pointed out a trio of sour old ladies who had been overlooked unintentionally for more than half an hour. They were mad. And the waitress who had that table was afraid to approach them. Would I serve them? What could I say? Sure. I approached. They sat stonily like a trio of grim judges. I apologized for the delay and asked if they were ready for some good food.

“We don’t know if it will be good,” the oldest one snapped. She was rotund and wore wire-rimmed glasses. “We haven’t tasted the food yet and the service so far has been terrible.” The others sniffed in disdainful agreement.

Undeterred, young and idealistic and full of energy and good will and that would be difficult to summon now, I decided to accept their outraged grumpiness as a personal challenge. And so I gave them the most perfect service of which I was capable. Even though the evening was extremely busy, I hovered. I made sure their drinks were always filled. The food served hot. I gave them free deserts because of the earlier mix-up. Slowly they softened. The grumpiest old lady with the wire-rimmed glasses even smiled a time or two. After they left, the waitress who had originally been responsible to serve them almost collapsed in gratitude. I found two shiny quarters on the table. I consider that tip among my most memorable ever. From an insurmountable negative to a positive two quarters. You take what you can get.

In 1991, after graduating from Vincennes, I transferred to Bob Jones University in Greenville, SC. Before I left Daviess County, the Gasthof crew held a good-bye party for me one Sunday afternoon. Most of those present I have not seen since that day. My trusty and aging T-Bird got me back to Lancaster County to work for the summer. I traveled to Greenville a few months before classes began to tour the University and line up a job. I walked into the local IHOP just a few blocks from campus. The owner met with me and promised a job when I returned in August.

In August, after registering for my classes, I returned to the IHOP to claim my promis-ed job. The owner met with me at a table. He acted somber. He had no openings. And no job. I stared at him. No job? But you promised. He could not look me in the eye. “Tell you what, why don’t you enjoy that coffee? It’s on the house today,” he said, and fled. I seethed and simmered, shook the dust from my shoes as I left, and never returned. I boycott IHOP to this day.

I then began the brutal process of walking into local restaurants, asking for a job. At about the third one, Swensen’s Ice Cream Gazebo, I was welcomed by the manager. He told me I could start that weekend. The place was not The Gasthof, but it was something.

Swensen’s was comparable to Friendly’s Restaurants, a well-known chain of ice cream eateries. It had high quality ice cream and a sandwich menu. A different clientele from The Gasthof, that’s for sure. The manager, Rusty, was a local Redneck who claimed to bleed orange for the Clemson football team. He was a good-hearted and simple man. He also claimed to have a brother named Billy Bob, but I never met him.

With Rusty, the Redneck manager

Outside Swensen’s at night

At Swensen’s, we had a saying that pretty well held true, “If the people at the table pray before eating, there goes your tip.” Not always true, but generally. Some such people left a small tip. Some left a tract printed like a fake $50.00. Or worse, a fake $100.00. A very few left a good tip. Most left nothing. And we served many large groups like that. Usually, much swearing ensued after their departure. All the tracts were instantly thrown into the trash can.

Once, a young mother brought in her three young children for ice cream. I waited on her and took her orders, ice cream for each child. About that time, the children started fussing and scrapping with each other. She firmly told them once, then twice, to settle down. They did not, but continued whacking each other. One started crying. She called me back to the table, apologized quietly and asked me to cancel the order. She then took her children and left. Just like that. I was impressed. Most mothers would have urged me to hurry up with the ice cream so the children shut up. I never forgot her. I’ll bet her children never forgot that lesson. I’ll also bet that today they are well-adjusted, mannerly adults.

Rusty the Redneck manager loved to lurk about and watch his servers work. He knew what was going on. He dubbed me and another BJU student, both squeakily clean-cut and above reproach, his Apostles.

The Apostles; From L, Dave Bell and Ira. Spring, 1992

Once, while serving a table of young urban coffee drinkers, a full cup of coffee slipped out of my hand and crashed onto the table. The coffee splashed and splattered all over, a good deal of it landing on the person I was serving. I was so horrified that I began to laugh before I could stop myself. Fortunately, the fine young urban coffee drinkers found the situation hilarious as well. I apologized profusely. They left a $5 tip. You just can’t never tell. Rusty saw it all come down and shook his head and placed the story into the category of unbelievable Acts of his Apostles. I overheard him retell it many times to his friends.

Waiting on tables is hard, brutal work. I always worked the late shifts, and most times after clocking out, I could not relax or unwind for hours. I often was doing homework at 2 or 3 AM, unable to sleep. It was hands down the most stressful job I’ve ever had.

Since my experience as a waiter, I always tip heavily. I can imagine almost no sce-nario where I wouldn’t tip. If the server hit over me the head or deliberately poured hot coffee over me, I might consider leaving something less than usual. In the early 1990s, I took a local Lancaster girl out to eat one night. We had such a lively conver-sation that I completely forgot to tip. I remembered after dropping her off at her home. Horrified, I raced back to the restaurant and arrived just as it was closing up. I asked for the server by name; she was just clocking out. I handed her a $10 and apologized humbly and sincerely. She looked dumbfounded but appreciative.

The server is at the very bottom of the chain. All who walk into a restaurant feel superior to the lowly waiter. Some customers feel they have a right to be condescending, rude, demanding, or just flat-out mean. I had less troubles with such customers because I’m a big guy and generally amiable. But many of my co-workers throughout the years were younger, less experienced and easily intimidated. Students, working for pocket change. Scared single mothers, struggling to survive, out there just trying to put bread on their own tables, to provide for the child or children at home. I remember them especially, their hard, tired faces run together, their lives and circumstances blend as one.

As for the customers, I have seen them all. And served them all. The harried and abrupt doctors. The lawyers and their spouses and snooty friends. The professionals. The businessmen in suits. The parents with the sulking teens. Parents with screaming kids. Grandparents with screaming grandkids. The coffee klatch ladies. Groups of students. The Goths, the Grungers, the tattooed bikers. Cops and thugs. The young couples, out for a date. The young couple on the first date. The doctoral student from Bob Jones who was so distressed at our contemporary music he waited for his food outside (upset his spirit, he said). The Amway guy who boasted an international import/export business (and had a card to prove it). The guy who asked me to microwave his pie and ice cream for exactly fifteen seconds. The local politico trawling for votes. The whiners and the grumblers and the “special request” freaks. The polite and the rude. The demanding and the passive. From every background, every culture, every lifestyle. I have seen them all and served them all.

For me, waiting on tables provided a sufficient part-time income for a specific time frame in my life. The experience provided many good memories, but few profound conclusions. Perhaps in some small way, the moments we shared, as the server and the served, provided my customers a brief and enjoyable respite from the quiet drudgery of an otherwise mundane day.
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To those it concerns:
A certain house in the Albuquerque, New Mexico area will be infested with demonic activity this weekend. Address the matter to the Lord as your heart leads you.

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“I, I will be King
You, you will be Queen
Though nothing, nothing will drive them away
We can be Heroes
For just one day.”
—The Wallflowers, Lyrics: “We can be Heroes”
___________________________________________________

On Monday morning, Pastor Dave called me at work. A friend had bought four tickets to see Rush Limbaugh Thursday night in Philly. They needed one more person to fill out the group. The tickets cost $80 each. Would I like to go? I thought for about two seconds. Of course I would. I’m honored you thought of me, I said.

Rush Limbaugh. Probably the most hated and the most admired man in modern Amer-ican culture. And the most feared by his enemies. A powerful voice blasting over the radio airwaves for three hours a day, five days a week. A man who over the years has influenced me in countless ways, a man I deeply admire and respect. An icon. The King of radio. A real hero. At least to me.

I remember the first time I heard him. In 1992, I think it was, when I was a destitute and struggling student at Bob Jones in Greenville, SC. I lived in a dilapidated trailer house in a dumpy trailer court with a strange roommate named Jim. A part-time stu-dent and an electrician, Jim had many eccentric habits, like walking around barefooted with a stocking cap on his head, muffler tightly wrapped around his throat and drinking hot tea while sniffling from a bad head cold. The problem was in the head, not the feet, he claimed. I couldn’t have agreed more. Jim was technically my landlord; he rented the trailer and sublet a room to me. A more tight-fisted landlord has not had the pleasure of my acquaintance. Each month’s utilities were carefully calculated and split to the last penny.

Once he laboriously prepared a long list of subjects just before he called a girl he liked, so he wouldn’t run out of things to talk about. Later I heard him on the phone with her, painstakingly working his way down every item on the list. The conversation did not seem to be going well, with many long awkward pauses, so I’m not sure all the subjects were discussed.

But I digress. Back to Rush and the first time I heard him. One day at noon I was huddled at the rickety kitchen table in the dilapidated trailer, eating a meager lunch between classes. Jim had an old radio sitting there. I turned it on, figuring I wouldn’t be charged extra for the electricity. A deep booming voice filled the room. The guy made a lot of sense. And was funny. I listened, intrigued. Just then, Jim wandered in from his class.

“Oh, I see you’re listening to Rush,” he said, reaching for his account book to note the fact (just kidding).

“Rush who?”

“Rush Limbaugh, the guy on talk radio who’s getting so famous. He’s on at more than a hundred radio stations. He’s great,” Jim replied. “Although I don’t agree with quite everything he says. I’m not sure he’s a Christian,” he added piously. I rolled my eyes as I chomped my food. I remember thinking that Rush sure is a funny-sounding name.

Although highly dubious about anything Jim might recommend, I continued listening to the booming voice on the radio. About a week later, I was hooked. I have been a Ditto Head ever since.

That was fifteen years ago. Since then, I have been an unabashed and loyal fan through thick and thin. At some very hostile places, including law school, where admitting you listened to Rush was tantamount to confessing a grave and dark sin. I not only confessed, I did so publicly with great gusto and did not repent.

Rush has strong beliefs and viewpoints. He articulates them clearly, passionately and unapologetically. His rollicking theme song announces his coming to the faithful. His parodies are scathing and hilarious, his humor devastating. From him I have learned to be skeptical and to question the source of any governmental claims or special-interest statistical studies. Numbers can be massaged and manipulated to fit any particular agenda. I learned to be deeply suspicious of government in general. To value the freedoms we have, even though they are eroding at an alarming rate. To despise the arrogant elitists who would dictate to the unwashed what is good for them and how they should behave. I also learned that I don’t agree always with Rush on every point, but that he’s well worth listening to anyway.

Kings have feet of clay. So do heroes. And so does Rush. He’s had his share of troubles. And more than his share of detractors and demonizers. The drug scandal of a few years ago, when he entered a drug treatment center for addiction to Oxycontin. He’s churned through three marriages and is currently divorced. Endured countless personal attacks. Including a presently unfolding full-court press by the Dems, doing their desperate best to convince the country that Rush does not support the troops. Congressman Henry “Nostrilitis” Waxman has his investigation team combing Rush’s archives. Investigating a private citizen with the full power of a hostile and intimidating government. The Dems can’t compete with him in the arena of ideas, and so seek to shut him up by any means they can. They will fail.

Camille Paglia, the only feminist author I admire (or worth reading) summed up the Dems’ attack on Rush as follows: “The latest example is the near-delusional campaign to turn popular radio host Rush Limbaugh, who has unwaveringly supported the military for nearly 20 years, into an anti-military antichrist. If Democrats are serious about ideology-based government regulation of talk radio, then the party is fast abandoning its fundamental principles, central to which should be constitutionally protected free speech.” (Salon.com) Speak it, sister.

Through it all, the man rolls on. His steady, even keel and good cheer in the midst of violent personal and political tempests have inspired me many times in my own dark days.

—(Those were heady times at Bob Jones. The 1992 Presidential race was in full swing. Another one of my heroes, Patrick J. Buchanan, who was nipping at President George Bush Senior’s heels like a pesky, yapping dog, arrived at the campus for a campaign speech. The auditorium was packed out to capacity at around 6000 people. Mr. Buch-anan and his sister, Bay Buchanan, were escorted onto the stage by a contingent of somber wingtip-and-suit-and-tie clad BJU leaders. Mr. Buchanan took the podium. He delivered a fiery speech. We all erupted in applause again and again. His closing line I will always remember verbatim: “….we have it on the highest authority that the truth, crushed to earth, will rise again.”

I was thrilled to the core of my soul. I had read Mr. Buchanan’s columns for years as a young Amish boy on my parents’ Iowa farm. His was the first high-level political event that I ever attended. I felt that he was a great man and I was awed to have been in his presence.

That year, Mr. Buchanan, in a speech at the Republican Convention in Houston, coined the term “culture war.” He was widely denounced and excoriated for the term and for the “harshness” of his speech. But time has proven his words prophetic. The culture war had indeed begun. It has been raging unabated ever since. And the outlook remains grim, as the conservatives have abandoned beachhead after beachhead in a rearguard action from secular assault.)—

Yesterday (Thursday), at 5 PM, I met Jim Stoltzfus, Leon Lapp, Jr. and Dave Nissley at the Parkesburg Wal Mart parking lot. Jim had bought tickets for the Rush show and also provided the ride to Philly in his SUV. The four of us had a jolly time riding to the city, laughing and catching up. I have known Jim and Leon for many years, since the Pequea days in the early 1990s, but had not hung out with them for a long time.

Jim navigated skillfully right into downtown Philly, where we found parking for the evening for sixteen bucks. We had a bit over an hour to kill, so we walked around to find a little restaurant for a bite before the show. We chose the Good Dog café, which was actually a little dive bar on the bottom floor with the restaurant on the second floor. The long bar was loud and full, just the kind of place I will work at someday, when I decide to scratch my bartending itch. The food was affordable and excellent.

Friends in the city.
Jim Stoltzfus, Leon Lapp Jr., Dave Nissley

Jim, Ira, Leon. I’m wearing my “Gitmo” Orange shirt.

Ira and Leon

After the meal, we walked the two blocks to the Academy of Music on Broad St. A four-wide crowd half a block long was already lined up, filing slowly into the theater. The Academy is a lovely, old historic place. We had tickets for the first balcony. There were four balconies. Sadly, the tickets stated in plain and threatening language that absolutely no photographs were allowed to be taken, and that all cameras would be confiscated if discovered. So I left mine in the vehicle.

We found our seats, and it was time for the show. The MC walked out and delivered a short rah-rah speech, then without further ado introduced RUSH. The place echoed with thunderous applause as he walked onto the stage. There he was in person, the man whose voice I had faithfully listened to for fifteen years, in almost every setting imaginable. He started out with a repertoire of jokes and funny stories that may or may not have actually happened to him. Many included Hillary as the main antagonist. Rush actually met her at a friend’s wedding a number of years ago. These jokes and stories were soon interspersed with more serious subjects, and he hit at the Dems time and again for the latest “phony soldier” scandal and the real damage they would do to the economy if elected to power. The crowd interrupted many times with cheers and several standing ovations.

It took Rush about fifteen minutes to really get warmed up. After that, he hit his groove and seemed very comfortable and relaxed. He spoke without notes for about ninety minutes. As he closed, we all rose to our feet for about the fifth standing ovation. Rush walked to the front of the stage and shook hands with a few lucky fans. He kissed the hand of one lovely young lady and made a great show of examining her left hand and feigning disappointment that she was married. The crowd roared.

We left the city and I was home by midnight. I was glad to have seen my hero in the flesh, the man who had accompanied me through many years of my life. Like many other memorable experiences, this one was once and done. I felt honored to have been in the same room with him, but will likely not go to another of his events.
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My boss, Patrick Miller and his wife, Mary June, attended the MetalCon convention in Las Vegas last week. The show consists of a vast array of vendors associated with the metal forming industry. Patrick and MJ stayed in a hotel in a downtown casino. Unfor-tunately, on Thursday evening, Mary June was mugged by two young thugs right out-side the well-lit casino. Patrick was just a few feet away, but inside the door when it happened. He heard his wife’s screams of distress and rushed out and chased away the two thugs. They did not get Mary June’s purse, the target of the assault, but they did manage to hit her hard in the face several times. She was rushed to the emerg-ency room at a local hospital and required a number of stitches above her left eye. She is doing well, but will deal with the emotional after-effects for some time, I am sure. Check out their own account at Mary June’s blog. I think of the words written thousands of years ago and marvel at how some things never change: “Confuse the wicked, O Lord, confound their speech, for I see violence and strife in the city.” Psalm 55:9

In the NFL this weekend, my Jets play the thug Eagles. The Jets languish at 1-4, a game ahead of the 0-5 Dolphins. A sorry state indeed. On Monday at work, I plan to either gloat incessantly or wear ear plugs, depending on the outcome.

J-E-T-S, JETS, JETS, JETS

Last, but certainly not least, the young upstart Cleveland Indians unceremoniously drove a stake through the evil hearts of the vile Yankees last Monday night (Oct. 8th). Now I can watch the League Championships and the World Series in peace. The Yankees looked shocked and sad. May their demise be long and painful, their winter desolate and cold, their thoughts bitterly haunted with what might have been; may none have compassion upon them. With great exuberance I celebrate, I dance and sing, “The wicked witch is dead, the wicked witch is dead.” At least until next year.

Special thanks to Dorothy (my niece) Miller for the box of delicious baked organic goodies. Breakfast for at least two weeks.

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