“You will recognize your own path when you come
upon it, because you will suddenly have all the
energy and imagination you will ever need.”
—Jerry Gillies
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A few comments on the pony episode last week. First, I do not hate horses, even though I state that in one of the Pictures pages on this site. I just don’t like them. There is a fairly substantial difference there, between dislike and hate. At least to my way of thinking. I have seen many horses, obviously intelligent, rippling with muscles, stepping proudly, in complete tune with the rider or driver, and have marveled at the sight. But I’ve never marveled enough to want something like that for myself. And in my job, I sell horse barns to serious horse people. I’ve seen and dealt with enough of them to know that a good percentage of them are more than half-whacked, off their rocker, coo-coo looney or whatever, and inhabit a world that tempts me not at all.

Every winter, Graber Supply has a sales booth at several horse events, one in Baltimore and one in Harrisburg. Horse World Expo or some such name. Big events. And there I stand and sit for three days, talking exclusively about horses and horse barns. I am very careful, of course, not to let my true feelings emerge. At the shows, I meet all kinds of horse people, from the recently smitten to the seriously afflicted. One year, one nice middle-aged lady announced solemnly to me that she can actually speak to her horses and goats. Actually speak to them and understand them when they speak to her. After this announcement, she paused and looked at me sharply for a reaction. I smiled assuringly, as if I heard this stuff every day and she wasn’t a whacked-out loon. She then said her goat had told her that he (the goat) wants a new barn to live in. Another sharp stare. No negative reaction from me. If you say so, ma’am, I’m sure that’s what your goat said. I politely discussed some possible options with her for ten minutes or so. After she had wandered off a safe distance, I circled my forefinger around my head and whistled silently to myself. Like I said, I’ve seen them all.

Second, from some private feedback, was every single little detail of the pony story true? Probably not, but the main details were. It’s called poetic license, the writer’s prerogative to fill in some of the minor details to keep the story interesting and move it along. Did the wire really “whang” when it broke, and snake back into the field? I wasn’t close enough to hear or see it, but I was nearby other times when animals crashed through single-strand electric fences, and that’s what happened then. So I used that detail in the story. I could have told you the basic facts in about three sentences. But how interesting would that be? If I wrote like that, I expect my hits counter would be hovering around 200 instead of 20,000-plus.

The “sketch” scenes so far have been fun to write, but a lot of work. I probably have about a thousand of them in my memory; after writing one, another one crops up in my mind. I expect to post occasional sketches, although some period of time may go by from one to the next. In my wake is strewn a vast tapestry of experiences and adventures, and I have always known that one day I would write them. Hang in there with me and we’ll see how far along we get.

Labor Day (Sorry, LeRoy, I call holidays by their names. Including Christmas and Easter) was a beautiful day. And a lazy day. I slept in and putzed around in the morn-ing, then went to the gym for a workout. It was open until noon. Now that’s a gym, one that’s open on holidays. Later I mowed the yard and trimmed some tree branches. Speaking of mowing, the new mower is turning out to be a bit of a disappointment. It’s a “mulcher” mower, which means the grass it cuts has nowhere to go; it just gets mulched under the mower. It’s just a fine-sounding name for being too cheap to install an opening on the side for the grass to exit. And the yard cannot have a drop of dew or rain on it, or the mower will plug up. It does have a little door on the back that I can tie open with a tarp strap (how redneck is that?), but then the grass shoots out straight back and pelts my feet and legs. Not a good sensation. I’ve longed many times for my good old $99 Wal-Mart special and rue the day it died.

About mid-afternoon I took a trip to the mall. Mall walking is a favorite activity of mine. The mall is a safe place for me; I can observe the crowd without being part of it. I like to go Saturdays and people-watch. All kinds. Here a heavy set couple holding hands. There a mother with her teen-aged daughters. Here a group of teenagers with no adult present. There a wildly dressed youth with spiked hair and chains with his nose-or-lip-pierced girl friend. Here a couple of tattooed bikers in boots that could stomp the bleep out of anyone. Young people, old people, in between people, and people like me, watching all the freaks. I wonder who all these people are and where they live and what they do in their everyday lives. Others are probably watching me and wondering the same thing.

Another good thing about the mall; I watch the seasonal sales and load up on clothes and accessories at huge discounts. This year the fall sales were great; I ended up with several short-sleeved shirts, very good quality, for about ten bucks apiece. Less than Wal-Mart, and way better quality. Few things give me more pleasure than buying quality goods at highly discounted prices.

I always buy a cup of coffee at the “Seattle’s Best” coffee stand. Half regular and half decaf. A buck sixty-five. Sit on a bench and sip it. It’s decent, but doesn’t beat my regular morning cup. There are about as many opinions about coffee as there are people. I was arguing recently with a friend about the finer points of a good cup of Java. My coffee habits are pretty simple; I go to the Sheetz convenience store just down the road every morning on the way to work and buy a 16-ounce cup of fresh black coffee. I drink it on the way to work. I like gas station coffee because every pot is brewed fresh from a pack of ground coffee beans that brews only one pot. So every pot is truly fresh. You buy a container of coffee and open it at home; by the time the container is empty a month (or two) later, the coffee is stale. I’ve reached this conclusion after many years of taste-testing and observation. And there’s no way you can convince me otherwise.

Coffee was a constant presence in our home when I grew up. Mom always had a perculator or some other kind of pot on the kitchen stove, brewing a fresh batch. She sipped coffee constantly, morning, noon, afternoon and evening. I started drinking the bitter brew when I was about 15 years old. There was nothing like walking into the house on a cold winter day and smelling Mom’s coffee the instant you walked through the door. Years ago I always stated boldly that if you can’t drink your coffee black, then you might as well not drink it. The bloviating and cocksure folly of youth, such a statement. I now usually drink it with a bit of cream.

College football opened with great fanfare last weekend. I was watching games from Thursday through Monday night. Most of the big schools scheduled sacrificial lamb teams to come in and get slaughtered for the first game. Michigan, the fifth ranked team in the nation, got quite a surprise when the lamb they played on their home turf refused to be sacrificed, but rose up instead and actually beat them at home, 34-32. It is considered the greatest college football upset of all time. I’m not a big Michigan fan, but felt bad for the team because the Michigan quarterback, Chad Henne, is from Lancaster County.

Of course, Pro Football kicked off Thursday night (9/6) and will be in full force this weekend. In Thursday’s game the Colts demolished the N’Awlins Saints. Looks like Payton and the boys are shaping up for another run at the Super Bowl. It’s a great time of year, summer ending, the nights cooling, and football kicking off. Nothing like it. I’m optimistic, but not delusional, about the Jets this year. Their coach, Eric Mangini, is a genius, but it takes more than genius to win it all. It takes a lot of great players as well.

This is your final notice about Graber’s Open House on Saturday, Sept. 8th. There was a great bustle and stir this week as the warehouse was emptied and cleaned, the floor buffed to a shiny gleam, and tables and chairs set up. We’ll have a ton of great food, grilled pork and all the fixings. And a soft ice cream machine. And door prizes. So come one, come all, come everyone. If you attend because of the invitation on this site, let me know so I can brag about it to my boss. I’m angling for some coporate sponsorship here.

OPEN HOUSE AT GRABER SUPPLY SEPT. 8th
EVERYONE WELCOME

YOU ARE WELCOME TO POST A COMMENT ON THE LINK ON THIS PAGE ONLY.

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“Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs in the receiving earth.”
—William Shakespeare; Henry V

“Blah, blah, blah”
—Ira Wagler

It is no secret that I dislike horses. Let me restate: I strongly dislike horses. I am not a horseman, never claimed to be, and have no interest in becoming one. That dislike probably flows from the fact that while growing up, I was stuck behind a horse on a buggy in summer, winter, frost and heat, while all those shiny cars on the road zipped by, the riders sitting in comfort from the elements and getting somewhere fast. And now, living in Lancaster County, I cringe every time I see a buggy sitting at a stop sign, the wild frothing horse all but lunging out into traffic every two seconds, the often helpless woman driver hanging on for dear life. These Lancaster Amish love their spirited horses. And they can have them. Horses are big, smelly, mean, and can eat a person out of house and home. And the stuff they eat, well, it comes out the back end and must be spread around on someone’s field, a mucky and dirty job if there ever was one. And talk about air pollution.

Of my ten siblings, only two know horses. My sister Rhoda could be a horse whisperer, she’s that good. And my brother Titus, when compared to the rest of us, is practically a horse guru, which is not saying much because he’s compared to the rest of us.

Our dearth of horsemanship stems from our father. He was a man of many skills and passions. In my memory, he has been, among other things, a purebred hog farmer, nursery stock grower, bookseller, author, founder and publisher of several successful magazines, farmer, and metal dealer. But he was never a horseman.

All through my childhood, I remember a long string of raggedy and unkempt horses; driving horses and the usual rag-tag group of riff-raff draft horses we worked in the fields. Dad actually fancied himself somewhat knowledgeable about horses, which made the situation all the more fraught with danger when Trader Don, the local horse dealer, stopped by with his latest offerings. After we moved to Bloomfield, Iowa in 1976, Trader Don was our good friend. With his great booming false laugh and “well, David, I’ve got a good horse for you today, har, har,” he was a way-too-frequent presence on our farm. Unfortunately, Dad had a particular weakness for Trader Don’s loud and easy flattery, and often took the bait. The quality of our horses actually deteriorated, a fact any real horseman would have considered impossible.

Trader Don was not easily deterred. I remember one winter day after about six inches of snow had fallen. Our half-mile long farm lane was impassible. Trader Don parked his truck and trailer on the ice-covered gravel road and trudged in leading two sleek, lately-fattened chestnut brown draft horses. Money must have been tight right then, because Dad firmly told him he was not interested. After some discussion, Trader Don conceded with a great show of defeat and began the long trek through the spongy snow back to his truck. It was almost dark, some light snow was spitting, and he had walked about 200 feet, when he stopped and turned.

“David,” he said, his loud voice carrying to the barn where I was watching and silently chortling, “what if I…..?”

Dad, walking back to the house, should have pretended not to hear. Unfortunately, he stopped and turned to respond, and so was lost. The horses stayed, and Trader Don tramped triumphantly back to his truck with a nice check in his pocket. The team, of course, turned out to be broken-backed smooth-mouths and less than worthless.

Somewhere along the line, in the early to mid-1980s, my oldest brother Joseph, whose farm was located halfway out our long lane, acquired a fat lazy white pony from Bishop Henry Hochstetler. A few months later, one fine spring day, the fat lazy white pony had a little white pony colt. Everyone was surprised. No one even knew that the fat lazy little white pony was pregnant. Everyone cooed and commented about the cute little white pony colt.

After some months, the little white pony colt was weaned from his mother. He ran wild with Joseph’s horses for about a year. Around that time, it happened that Joseph owed Dad a small sum of money for something or other. Craftily, behind our backs, he offered Dad the little white pony colt to pay for the small debt. Without consulting us, Dad agreed. And so the little white pony colt arrived unannounced one day. The details are foggy, but I think Joseph sneaked up with the pony and tied him to our hitching rail and “forgot” to take him home. My brother Nathan and I were shocked and outraged and voiced strong protest. We had no use for the pony and did not want him. But the deal was done. No going back. The pony stayed.

We immediately discerned that the little white pony colt was a vile-tempered little fiend. He seethed with pure evil and viciousness. He lurked about the other horses and caused much discord. He was ill-mannered and very bossy. All the other horses, though much larger, were terrified of the pony. We never even named the little pony colt. We just called him the “visht glay pony,” the wicked little pony. Maybe that’s why he had such a bad temperament, because he was insulted at having no name. Nathan made an attempt or two to break him, but was unsuccessful. And so the little pony colt remained wild.

That fall we harvested the corn from the thirty acres of river bottom along the road. Joseph harvested his little ten-acre patch across the lane from our field. As was the normal custom, after the harvest, we installed a temporary single-strand electric fence around the corn field so we could turn out the livestock to forage for fodder before we plowed.

Nathan and I installed the electric fence one bright sunny late October morning. The fence was very simple; a skinny little metal rod stuck into the ground about every thirty feet with a plastic attachment on which we hooked a single strand of plain wire. Animals respected the fence because it was hooked up to a battery-powered electric shocker. Anything that touched the wire received a strong jolt. Across the lane, Joseph was busy puttering about installing his fence as well that morning. Nathan and I finish-ed up just before lunch. We decided to turn out the horses before going in to eat. We kept back one riding horse on which to fetch the other horses after lunch.

The horses, a herd of about twenty, were milling about in the barn yard, agitated to a nervous pitch by the wicked pony. Somehow they sensed that they were about to be freed into a new field. They milled and stomped and snorted. Then Nathan opened the gate.

The horses erupted onto the corn field like a great whirling cyclone. The wicked pony instantly sprinted to the lead. The herd gathered speed as it galloped out across the river bottom. Specks of mud and foam and chunks of dry cornstalks spattered about. We realized immediately that no electric fence in the world would stop the horses.

Out by the road on his side of the lane, Joseph had just finished a satisfying morning of fencing in his own corn field. He’d harvested a good crop. Now the fence was finished. It was a lovely and cool fall day. Joseph trudged contentedly up the lane toward his house, his head bowed and seemingly lost in thought. He may have had nothing more on his mind than wondering what his wife, Iva, had fixed for lunch. He anticipated a hearty meal and a perhaps good nap afterward.

A distant muted but increasing rumble roused him from his reverie. He glanced at the sky. Rain and thunder on such a cool day? The rumble increased to a dull roar. He could feel vibrations in the ground. He lowered his gaze to ground level and halted in mid-stride. A herd of galloping horses was bearing down on him like a freight train, led by a little white engine, the wicked pony. Joseph stood frozen for several horrified seconds. Then, shaking free from the temporary paralysis of shock and surprise, he did what any sane farmer would do. The horses might still be stopped or diverted. He waved his arms and whooped like a maniac.

“Whooooooaaa, Hoooooaaaoo, Whoaaaooooaaa,” he hollered. He ran frantically to head off the horses.

Grudgingly, like stampeding buffalo, the horses veered slightly to the right to avoid the madly waving and sprinting figure before them. The wicked pony scooted along at least a length ahead of the pack, ears flattened back on its evil head. The bigger horses pounded along behind him. Straight toward the fence we had just built. The earth thundered and shook. Joseph ran frantically toward the spot they would hit, waving and shouting at the top of his voice. All in vain. Just before impact, he gave up and stopped and spread his arms helplessly and groaned loudly and dramatically.

Seconds later, the herd crashed into our fence at full speed. Tiny steel fence posts flew about like sticks in the wind or bowed over like tired trees, flattened to the ground. The single-strand wire, strained to a dangerous tautness, whanged like a pistol shot and parted. It snaked back like a live thing into the field. The horses never slowed even a fraction. They crossed the lane and instantly smashed through Joseph’s shiny new fence. More fence posts flew about and bent over; another wire whanged and snapped and snaked. Only the river could stop them; there the wicked pony navigated a wide looping turn. The herd veered back with him to the left, circled around a wildly excited Joseph and rushed out across the road, destroying his fence on that end of the field. They then circled right back into our field, scattering and demolishing even more fence posts. Several long stretches of wire were dispersed on the road and entangled in a hopeless mass over acres and acres of corn stalks in both fields. Joseph stood there in disbelief and shock, the morning’s work in ruins before him. Gone were all thoughts of a warm noon meal and refreshing nap.

Back at the barn, Nathan and I watched the disaster unfolding with disbelief, then doubled over with wave after wave of helpless laughter. Finally Nathan mounted Traveler, our trusty riding horse, and with our dog Clover, raced across the fields around the now-slowing herd of horses. There was a great confusion of shouting (from Joseph and Nathan), fierce barking from the dog, and minutes later the herd rumbled back at full speed toward the buildings and into the barn yard. Loud snorts and steam from the excited horses filled the air. The wicked pony strutted about, proud of his destructive powers.

After lunch, Nathan and I returned to the corn field and disentangled the mess of wire and posts and rebuilt the fence. Joseph labored away at salvaging his fence as well, muttering under his breath and making many derogatory comments about the wicked pony and all our other horses in general. About mid-afternoon, we released the horses into the field again. They were much calmer and did not stampede. They saw the fence and respected its electric charge.

The wicked little white pony was not among them. A short time before, Nathan had quietly disappeared up the hill behind the house into the woods, leading the pony and cradling a .22 rifle on one arm.

He returned alone. I didn’t ask. And he didn’t tell.

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NOTICE to all Waglers and Yoders (Bandys and Fish) from Daviess County, Indiana:
The John Yoder [FISH] ancestry books are now ready. Compiled by Ruth E. Schrock. Order from Olen Schrock: 3939 E 1400 North, Elnora IN 47529
$47.50 each plus $5.00 Shipping

WE WELCOME NEW LIFE………

Lindsey Jo [Wagler] Stoltzfus
Date of Birth: August 27, 2007
Proud Parents: Mark and Becky Stoltzfus
Bursting-at-the-seams proud Grandparents: Uncle Jess and Lynda Wagler

Uncle Jess with his first grandchild

Last fall, someone recommended that I read the book “Tobias of the Amish,” by Dr. Ervin Stutzman. Dr. Stutzman is Dean of Eastern Mennonite Seminary in Harrisonburg, VA. I enjoyed the book and wrote Dr. Stutzman afterward. Last week, Dr. Stutzman called and said he would be in the area over the weekend and would like to meet me. The only time that suited us both was Sunday afternoon. We met at the Park City Mall. We sat and talked for over an hour and Dr. Stutzman discussed the task of writing the book and the sequal, which will be published soon. He also encouraged me in my own writing goals. I very much enjoyed visiting with him and appreciated that he took the time from his busy schedule to meet with me.

With Dr. Ervin Stutzman at the mall

On Saturday evening, Aug. 25th, I hosted the annual “Ira’s Great Garage Cookout.” And no, it was NOT in honor of my birthday, it just happened the day after. We had a jolly time. A widely diverse group of friends from many backgrounds attended.

I grilled sausages and served basic side dishes. A wicked thunderstorm interrupted the festivities for about half an hour, then cleared up. The air cooled dramatically after that.

Ready to grill in my new apron, a birthday gift from Steve (Bear) Beiler

Satisfied appetites: Lillian, Rodney, Wilm

Money changing hands in a rousing game of High-Low

Amos, Rodney, Ira, Paul

Lillian, Anne Marie, Mary June, Larry

Checking out the new I-phone
Mary June, Kayla, Larry, Patrick

Wilm, Amos, Rodney

Paul and Freiman

My English good friend, Mark Markiewicz, showed up at 10.
Mark and his family were visiting from England.

College football season kicks off this weekend. Slurp, slurp.

A SAFE AND HAPPY LABOR DAY TO ALL.

YOU ARE WELCOME TO POST A COMMENT ON THE LINK ON THIS PAGE ONLY.