A good portion of the men of the extended Wagler clan have an intemperate inclination in their youth to cast away the time-honored teachings of their fathers and forge their own trails, often winding up at desolate and obscure destinations. What their hands find to do, they do with all their might, with little visible regard to costs or consequences. The blood runs wild and harsh, and they will stubbornly and silently follow their chosen paths through brambled fields and over steep and rocky terrain to the black and bitter end. Behind them, a twisted mass of emotional and spiritual wreckage marks the only vestige of their passing. Barring intervention or a miracle, they are lost.

My nephew, Mervin Wagler, was one of those. To me, Mervin was always a quiet spindly kid; I had fled the Amish scene long before he sprouted into a seething young adult. The fourth son of my oldest brother, Joseph, an Amish preacher in Bloomfield, Iowa, Mervin wrestled with the latent demons that seem to stalk the Waglers: a keenly intelligent and inquisitive mind balanced with a robust but vulnerable conscience, choked to rebellion by the intolerable confines of unbending Amish law. Eventually, after an exhausting internal struggle, he was driven by a fierce and powerful determination to hack and smash his own course his own way, even if his soul might be required as the ultimate price. As is so often the case for young men who depart from the Amish lifestyle, there were no barriers after the major step of leaving home.

Mervin Wagler (Left) and Steven Marner

After choosing to follow that familiar destructive pattern, Mervin rapidly surrendered to the seductive lullabies that lured him deep into the savage and hopeless underworld of hard-core drugs. By his late teens, he was hooked on meth. He wandered, lost and alone, through a desolate spiritual wilderness few of us ever traverse, from which fewer still emerge to tell. But God’s Love never withdraws from or rejects a seeking heart, and through a series of miraculous events, Mervin did escape from that bleak and lifeless wasteland. At the age of 25, he has detailed the account of his unique and astounding journey in his first published book, “The Odyssey of a Heart: Innocence, Drugs, and the Pursuit of Freedom.”

The book is a bit rough in patches and could use a little more editing. Some will find it overly didactic. Despite that, it is honest, raw and piercing throughout in its description of the pitch-black abyss of hopeless despair, followed by the incredible, almost incomprehensible joy of salvation and new life in Christ. Mervin holds nothing back, and writes simply and candidly of his prolonged struggle to truly break free from the bonds of addiction after his conversion. His observations will bring every reader to a fuller understanding of how to deal with those lost souls who seem utterly unsalvage-able. He writes with conviction of what it means to grasp each moment of the here and now and live with a full heart. This book will be beneficial to all adult readers, especially young adults. It should definitely be read by every Amish father. I also recommend it to those (of any age) who are (or know someone who is) attracted to or already inhabiting the dangerous and baneful world of hard drugs. The book is available at Amazon.com on the following link: Amazon.com; Mervin’s book This link will be permanently listed on my Links page as well. As he matures and polishes his writing craft, I look forward to a stream of increasingly productive material from Mervin in the future.
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After deciding to keep my gas-guzzling truck, I made the decision last week to install a Super Chip on the truck to get better mileage. AJ Williams, one of my workers at Graber Supply (and a semi-professional rodeo rider/roper) installed one on his dually GMC diesel and told me he gets 20 mpg since installation. So last Saturday (5/26), I set off with my mechanically-minded, gearhead buddy Paul Zook, to the Liberator Specialty Shop in Carlisle, PA. I wanted Paul along just in case; I know nothing of these things and could easily be ripped off.

The Super Chip is a little digital gizmo that plugs into the electronic schematics of your truck and you can manipulate the computer for better mileage or more power. Paul seemed impressed, so I bought it. I told Shawn, the installer, that I wanted economy settings all the way. As he installed it, he explained how the gizmo works. He punched all the settings in their proper modes. I also bought a High Performance Green Air Filter made of cotton, not paper like regular air filters. It is supposed to allow the truck to breathe much easier and will last forever with annual cleaning. Total cost: Just over $500.00. By my calculations, if I save 10 gallons of gas a week for five months, it will be more than paid for. I immediately noticed that the gas gauge crawls to the left much more slowly than before. As of the time of this post, I am getting 14 mpg, a dramatic improvement from the 10 to 11 mpg before. And this is local driving with much starting and stopping and turning. Anyone can purchase and self-install the Super Chip. It is available at the following link: Liberator Performance

We may soon have a new Nascar driver to cheer for. Last Saturday, Patrick Miller, investor at Graber Supply (and my new boss), went to the Pocono 500 track and rode a stock car around the track for several laps. Patrick claims the experience was quite heady, even with the G-forces of the hard turns, but some doubt remains as to whether his wife, Mary June, is quite ready to allow him to pursue a new career as a stock car driver.

Patrick Miller

On Monday afternoon, I hiked the Susquahannock State Park, which is located south and east of the Buck in southern Lancaster County. Monday morning was still dreary and overcast from the previous night’s rain, but by the time I got to the park, the day was clear but muggy. A large flock of Amish youth was picnicking and playing ball at the park, as Memorial Day this year also happened to be Pentecost Day (Pingst Montag), an Amish religious holiday. Small knots of Amish girls rolled and swept along like waves from point to point, giggling and chattering. The park has several hundred acres of woods and half a dozen trials. I started down a trail skirting the park’s perimeter. About ten minutes in, just after the trail turned tough and steep, I heard children’s voices approaching from the opposite direction. Around the bend came a bent and weary Amish lady with four young children, the smallest probably four years old. They seemed startled to see me. “Interesting trail,” the Amish woman remarked tiredly. “Yep,” I replied, resisting the urge to say something in PA Dutch and truly freaking her out, “steep too.” They clamored away. How she got those kids down and up that rugged, rocky trail is beyond me.

I stumbled across this stone structue in the woods, away from the trail.

Straight up.

Though the trails are marked in the park, I always seem to wander off the path. Same thing happened this time. I did follow a path, but suddenly realized there were no painted trail markers on the trees. I kept going until the trail ended in some farmer’s meadow. It was a deer path. I decided to strike out through the woods until I stumbled across a marked path. It took some doing. I went straight down a ravine, crossed a small creek, then straight up again, smashing cautiously through thick brush and many sharp and cutting brambles, stepping over logs, and generally attracting who knows how many deer ticks with Lyme’s disease. Finally I stumbled onto a trail and followed it for another fifteen minutes. Eventually, two hours after entering the woods, I straggled from the brush, right beside a ball field where the flock of Amish boys was slugging it out with much hollering and whooping. I visited briefly with an Amishman standing off to one side. He told me the youth group comes every year on “Pingst Montag” and divides up into teams and plays round robin until only one team is left. Dirty and scratched, with soaked shoes and muddy pants from fording the creek and sloshing through mud holes, I walked the half mile to where my truck was parked and left. Upon arriving home, I threw all my clothes, including my hiking shoes, into the washer and took a long and thorough shower to get rid of any ticks.

A flock of Amish on the ball field.

Anyone following the Stanley Cup playoffs? It’s about the only time of year that I pay any attention whatsoever to hockey, although my brothers and I grew up as rabid hockey fans in Canada. I transferred my affections to football over the years, I guess. This year the Ottawa Senators are playing the Anaheim Mighty Ducks for the Cup. I’m for the Mighty Ducks, because any team that has to bear such a moniker (they probably get derisive comments from opposing teams) all season long deserves to win it all. As of the time of this post (6/1), the Ducks are leading 2 games to none. But I really have no duck, I mean dog, in this hunt.

Before the next post, my site should get its 10,000th hit. That is a remarkable achievement for a site that was launched eight weeks ago on Good Friday, April 6th. I continue to be amazed that so many of you keep coming back each week, and I am grateful to each and every one. I would still post regularly if far fewer read this, but it makes my task of writing a weekly blog a lot easier knowing that you, all of you, are out there. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And I should mention again that anyone is welcome to comment. You don’t have to agree with me; disagreements are interesting. Use your own voice and don’t be intimidated by other commentators and hifalutin’ writing. And you don’t have to write a dissertation. (Unless you want to, of course. This is cyberspace. There’s room in the comment section for a book.) All comments are deeply appreciated. Finally, if the person who makes the 10,000th hit emails me his or her picture, I will post it on my next blog with great fanfare.

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Memorial Day is upon us, which means summer has arrived, although one wouldn’t know it from the weather we’ve had lately (except this week, which has been flawlessly beautiful). Memorial Day to most of us means a long weekend, and for many in these parts, a trip to the mountains for a few days. But it would behoove all of us to remember and reflect upon the reasons behind Memorial Day and what we are commemorating. And for those of us who have moved on from our Anabaptist roots, flying the American flag would be a fitting and respectful tribute to our Armed Forces and our Veterans.

Regardless of our backgrounds, and many of my readers have a solid foundation of strong, doctrinal teaching of nonresistance, we would be wise to remember that many thousands have died fighting in numerous wars so we could (at least arguably) retain the freedoms we have. Blood is often the price of freedom, and too many Anabaptists cannot or will not recognize that fact. Worse, many (especially the activist pacifists) are aggressively condescending and arrogant about their beliefs, which naturally does not go down well with those who have fought or lost loved ones in war. I can easily understand why there is resentment and hostility against those who freely harvest the bounties and rewards of freedom, but refuse to defend it and despise those who do.

My father was a conscientious objector during WWII. He worked in camps and helped landscape the Pennsylvania Turnpike while others his age were off fighting overseas. I am not proud of that fact. But I’m not ashamed of it either, and I respect him for it. It is to this country’s credit that it has historically (at least since WWII) made provisions for COs to serve in noncombatant roles during war. The USA and Canada are among the few countries in the world where nonresistant sects can worship and live as they see fit, relatively unmolested by government. If that ever changed, and real religious persecution prevailed, I believe the Lord would unleash His wrath upon the land.

In her comment last week, Rosie asked what kind of music I like. I never grew up with music and so am very ignorant of what is “supposed” to be good. I don’t much like contemporary Christian music at all. I appreciate some classical music (Handel’s Messiah, etc.) and enjoy symphonies, although it’s been awhile since I’ve attended one. Of all musical genres, rap and some hard rock are the only ones I cannot tolerate.

I like classic country: Waylon, Willie, George Jones, Johnny Cash, etc. and when I was a teenager, I worshiped Tanya Tucker. I don’t care for today’s country music, too touchy-feely. Men whine and cry and are not manly. The women screech and moan and coo and writhe. Dwight Yokum is one of the few current country singers I respect, and he has been out of production for a few years.

I also love classic rock: Fleetwood Mac, Bad Company, Tom Petty, The Eagles, Peter Gabriel, ZZ Top and others. In my opinion, the Eighties was the most productive decade for rock. Some particular songs that always move me include, among others: “Feel Like Makin’ Love,” by Bad Company, “I Ain’t Missin’ You at All,” by John Waite, and “I Need You Now,” by one-hit wonder Alias.

I also like Celtic music, especially Enya’s mysterious and haunting lyrics. Loreena McKennitt’s lilting “Mummer’s Dance” always evokes deep and strong emotions and stirs long-buried memories of childhood reveries.

Then there’s jazz. I like almost all classic jazz and a lot of the more modern smooth jazz, and all jazz that emphasizes the saxophone. No particular artists come to mind, but I often have jazz on as background music while writing (when there’s no baseball game to keep an eye on). Jazz is the only form of music that I enjoy more when performed live.

I recall a funny incident involving music (or, to be more accurate, musical tastes). In the mid-80s, while on the wheat harvest with Dean Wagler of Daviess County, IN, we stopped in the Hutchinson, Kansas area for the weekend. The Kansas Beachy youth at that time (fairly or unfairly) were considered a tad progressive and, shall we say, liberal. In the brief time we were there, I remember overhearing earnest and solemn conversations like, “what do you see yourself doing in five years, etc.?” (Such discussions were nonexistent in my circles. I was lucky to think or plan ahead five weeks.) Don’t get me wrong, the Beachy youth were kind, although mildly patronizing, to a long-haired, uncouth, jeans-clad bumpkin like me.

Then, for no particular reason that I could discern, a nice clean-cut young man (So help me, I don’t remember his name. He wore Kakis and had a shiny new belt.) asked me what kind of music I like. I never could figure out if he was trying to trap me, embarrass me, or just having a benevolent conversation with an obvious misfit. After stuttering a bit, not used to such a question, I stammered that I liked Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer,” a popular, then-current, completely rollicking but generally sense-less rock song. Shocked silence ensued. Gasps were hastily stifled. A delicate Beachy-youth lady or two may have fainted. You could have cut the disdain with a knife. Later I overheard the nice clean-cut young man comment that he would like to see Alice Walker’s “The Color Purple,” a very “in” movie among Hollywood’s liberal elites. His friends nodded that they would like to see it too. A healthy glow returned to the wan faces of the delicate ladies who (may have) fainted, although the timely application of smelling salts may also have contributed to their recovery. (Unfortunately, fainting couches were already out of style back then.) I said nothing, but thought to myself that I probably would not want to see the movie. I never did. That was 20-plus years ago. Today I regularly hear “Sledgehammer,” a now-classic rock song, on the radio and at the gym, while “The Color Purple” has been unceremoniously dumped into the ashbin of occasional late-night (interpretation: no one watches) channels on TV. The test of time has spoken.

The subject of salesmen seems to have overrun last week’s Comment section like a windswept wildfire. So, while there may be some danger of stirring the embers into an inferno again, I will exercise my prerogative as editor and opine with what I trust will be the last word on the subject.

There are good salesmen and bad salesmen. Our perception of salesmen depends on our experiences with them, and our perceptions, whatever they are, are completely valid. More than once, years ago, I was approached by a well-dressed man in suit and tie, who had a “distribution” or “consulting” business, who wanted to discuss an outstanding business opportunity with me. Always he stated how he was impressed with my bearing and personality and how he could see I had much potential. Always, without fail, after the little chalkboard was set up and many diagrams scrawled about its surface, the man turned out to be an Amway salesman with a pyramid scheme. One such salesman even trotted out a set of cassette tapes, which I took unwillingly, and then could not understand (after I had dutifully listened to them) why I would not leave law school and sell Amway. After the second or third such experience, it never happened again, because I nipped the approach in the bud before it could blossom. Once, while I was working as a waiter during my college years, a customer proudly told me that he owned a worldwide import/export (where are you, George Costanza?) business, including a base in the Netherlands. I was impressed until he handed me his card, which had his name, the Amway logo, and several countries printed on it (including the Netherlands). He did not tip well, either.

That’s the negative. The positive is that there are many good salesmen, and we all need them. One salesman we deal with a lot at Graber Supply (step up, Ethan) is the epitome of what constitutes a great salesman. He represents an array of vendors and knows his products inside/out and upside down. He is always only a phone call away and responds quickly to any problems, be they logistical, quality control or backlog. He is service oriented, cheerful and resilient. We trust him. He knows his market and keeps abreast of the latest developments in the field. For what he does, because of how he does it, he is probably one of the top, if not the top, salesman in his field in the country.

But there are also other harsh realities. When approached by a salesman, we have no obligation to believe him (or like him) or to purchase anything from him until he proves that #1: he is who and what he claims to be, and #2: his product is what he claims and we are convinced (by him or ourselves) that we need the product more than the money required to purchase it. We actually have absolutely no obligations whatsoever to the salesman. We don’t have to give him time from our busy day; we don’t have to listen to him, respect him, or even be polite. We owe him nothing; respect must be earned. The market has no feelings and a salesman must understand this or he will fail (or have a nervous breakdown). He must simply move on to the next opportunity. Other than having no feelings, the market has one other very basic, but critical rule for salesmen: Sell or starve (or get into another line of work). So the pressures can be intense. “And that,” to quote Forrest Gump, “is about all I got to say ‘bout that.”

PREAKNESS NOTES: Some may wonder why I get so excited about the Triple Crown races if I hate horses so much. It is kind of strange, come to think of it; maybe it’s the $1 million-plus purses for the winners. In any case, last Saturday’s Preakness was absolutely the most exciting horse race I’ve ever seen. Calvin Borel, the jockey for Street Sense, rode a perfect race, lurking unconcernedly in the middle of the pack until about three-fourths of the course was run. I was getting very nervous for him. But then he unleashed Street Sense and surged through the crowd and easily took the lead. He passed Curlin, another favored horse, as if he was standing still. But then something happened that I have never seen before. Usually when a horse gets passed, especially if the pass is quick and effortless, as this one was, the passed horse just gives up. Curlin did not, but suddenly flattened his ears and moved into super-high gear. Calvin Borel (who reminds me of a tenant I used to have upstairs, who will remain unnamed) glanced back and could not believe it when he saw Curlin bearing down. Curlin kept surging, and at the finish, it was too close to call. I thought Curlin had won, and he had, by about two inches. Had the track been ten feet shorter, Street Sense would have won. It was wild, I tell you. The Belmont Stakes is next month, and that will about do it for my horse-race fever for this year.

Random Notes: I have managed to maintain my weight at between 199 and 200 pounds. (I know such wild fluctuations are not healthy. I should probably cut down on my ice-cream bingeing, but every life needs some little sinful joys.) My last weigh-in at the gym last Monday was 199. I’m very happy about that….If the weather holds over the weekend, I want to hike on Monday. I may do one of the State Parks in the southern end of the county. Safe holidaying to all.

A sign of the times…..

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