Growing Up Amish - A Memoir Part 4

The departure of Peter Yoder and Nicky Stoltzfus marked the end of an era in Aylmer. The old guard was gone. It was time for a new dawn.

And so two ordinations were held in Aylmer about a year apart. The first was that of Elmo Stoll. The second, Simon Wagler. They were both very younga"in their upper twenties, maybe thirtya"and were greatly burdened with their callings.

Of the two, Elmo Stoll rapidly rose to a position of prominence. Soon after his ordination, he finagled his way to a pinnacle of influence and unquestioned power such as Aylmer had never seen before and has not seen since.

Elmo had a grand vision of how things should be. He was a natural leader, a gifted man. A spellbinding speaker and preacher, he moved aggressively to solidify his power. He quickly overwhelmed and swept aside the kindly elder preacher, Jake, and began to deliberately dismantle the structural safeguards that Peter and Nicky had left behind.

A hard-core Amish firebrand, Elmo set out to please a furious, frowning G.o.d, a G.o.d who just might be placated if enough sacrifices were made for his favors.

Suddenly, stricter rules were in place, and things that had always been allowed in Aylmer were proclaimed sinful and forbidden.

Wire-rimmed gla.s.ses only, no more plastic frames.

Longer dresses.

Bigger head coverings for the women.

Buggy interiors painted black.

And the builders, the few that remained, were forbidden to accept jobs that required any transportation other than a horse and buggy, which greatly restricted their range and their livelihoods.

It was never enough, though. Elmo was restless and driven. He never stopped tweaking the church rules and was always dreaming up more stringent requirements.

At first, most people grumbled and complained a good bit. But Elmo was a very persuasive speaker, and as he preached in mellow, lilting tones, smoothly conveying his vision of how things should be, members of the community began to see things as he dida"albeit begrudgingly and sometimes despite themselves. And thatas the way it went.

But under the surface, a lot of the common folk seethed and simmered quietly. Especially the youth, who watched helplessly as their few remaining rights and privileges slipped away, replaced with ever more-demanding rules and restrictions.

I was a gangly, knock-kneed kid then, just entering my adolescent years. And even though I wasnat directly involved, I heard the murmurings of dissent, the stories swirling around me: The preachers did this, and they said that. How awful and unfair was that?

Did you hear? Now Elmo wants to outlaw volleyball. He doesnat think boys and girls should play together because it might lead them to have l.u.s.tful thoughts. Or some similar lunacy. It never stopped. And before I even had a chance to form my own opinions, any natural respect for the preachers and their edicts that I might have had was duly crushed.

My relations.h.i.+p with Dad wasnat much better.

My brothers and I hung together, in silent revolt against his rather strident admonitions. Thatas pretty much how he communicated with us. Not by discussion but by dictates.

And so he lost us, one by one, as we entered our teenage years.

Always frantically busy, always overwhelmed with his writing duties at Pathway, I donat know if he even noticed.

Of course, every once in a while one of us would do something wrong, and he would catch wind of it. Then he would launch into one of his long, angry lectures, and we would simply hunker down and take it, knowing that the storm would eventually pa.s.s.

And it always did. Within hours, he would be back at Pathway, absorbed in the details of his daily work. And we would return to our state of quiet rebellion. In retrospect, it was doomed to faila"his relations.h.i.+p with his sons. There was no way he could win.

Not after we were old enough.

Not after we could stand up to him.

Not after we could leave.

9.

After Maggie and Jesse left, it was a great relief to my father when, at age nineteen, my brother Stephen decided to join the Amish church.

Itas a huge deal, the decision to become a member and begin afollowing church,a because among other things, it means that the chances of that person leaving are greatly diminished. All Amish parents pray that their children will make that choice. Unfortunately many Amish youth make the choice not of their own volition but to fulfill the expectations of those around them.

Joining the church takes about four months. On a Sunday morning, after the singing starts, the preachers get up and walk solemnly to a separate conference room, or Obrote. After the preachers leave the room, those who are taking instructions for baptism rise and follow them to the conference. There, the preachers admonish and instruct the applicants. After half an hour or so, the applicants return to the congregation. The preachers confer among themselves for another fifteen minutes or so, then rejoin the congregation.

During the time it takes to join, applicants must not only be on their best behavior but also be prepared to walk the gauntlet and take gratuitous swipes from anyone and everyone. To smile and accept even the most shallow yet stinging criticisms. Att.i.tude is everything, and even the slightest sign of resentment might be enough to delay or even deny baptism and members.h.i.+p. Everyone scrutinizes the applicants closely, looking for the tiniest faults, and when admonished, the applicants must submit humbly. Promise to do better. And then walk the line even more flawlessly.

The pressure can become unbearablea"especially if applicants are known for having engaged in rowdy behavior in the past. Then they are watched all the more closelya"and admonished all the more incessantly.

Poor Stephen chafed under these conditions. He was constantly being rebuked: His hairstyle and sideburns were too worldly. His beard was too thin, too trimmed. And so forth, on and on.

Slowly, silently, he simmered. Until he could not take it anymore. At some point, in total secrecy, he began to plan his escape.

It all came down one fine winter day. My parents had left that morning with an English neighbor to do some shopping. They would be gone all day. My sisters, too, were gone. So only three brothersa"Stephen, t.i.tus, and Ia"were at home. We worked through the morning hours, and at noon, after eating, Stephen disappeared upstairs. There he packed a baga"some clothes, his meager stash of cash.

Then he left. Walking across the snow-covered fields to the south, through the woods to Highway 3. From there, he hitchhiked east. And just like that, he was gone.

Before he left, he handed t.i.tus a note to give to Dad. That afternoon, t.i.tus and I worked uneasily around the farm. We did our evening ch.o.r.es until darkness fell. Around six thirty or so, the car pulled in. Our parents had returned.

We helped carry in the dayas haul: bags of groceries, store-bought ice cream for supper, even some candy and hardware items. Dad proudly unveiled a brand-new Homelite chain saw.

aSo Stephen can cut wood with it,a he said. Quickly busying ourselves with the bags and boxes that needed to be put away, neither t.i.tus nor I responded.

The table was set for supper, and Mom bustled about, stirring a pot of soup on the stove. Then t.i.tus nervously disappeared upstairs. When he returned, I knew he had the note. He approached Dad in the living room.

aHereas a note from Stephen,a he said.

I felt very sorry for t.i.tus, for the hard thing he had to do. It wasnat right that Stephen asked such a thing of his brother. But then again, what are brothers for, if not to do the occasional hard thing for you? t.i.tus stood there bravely, unflinching, looking right at Dad.

aWhat . . . what do you mean?a Dad stuttered uncomprehendingly.

aA note,a t.i.tus repeated, thrusting it at Dad. aA note from Stephen. He left today.a aAh, my. Oh, no,a Dad groaned, his face darkening. Mom, sensing something was amiss, walked into the living room.

aWhatas wrong?a she asked sharply, sensing doom.

aStephen left today,a Dad told her. aWe donat know where he is, or where he went.a I lurked behind a curtain in the living room and heard the exclamations of dismay and grief as my parents absorbed the news. Dadas face was twisted into a furious frown. Mom stood frozen in shock, mouth agape.

All the joy was gonea"the treats they had brought us from town, the ice cream and candy, the new chain saw. Dad proclaimed he wasnat hungry and stomped off to his office. Supper forgotten, her soup simmering forlornly on the stove, Mom walked about with heaving shoulders, sobbing and entreating no one in particular to tell her where her son had gone.

But no one could tell her. Because we didnat know.

Soon the news flashed through the community. Another of David Wagleras evil boys had left. Now he had lost three of his children to the world. First Maggie, then Jesse, and now Stephen. Everyone clucked. Why, Stephen had been taking instructions for baptism, with such vile plans lurking in his heart. How fortunate that he had not been baptized.

For my parents, it was one more embarra.s.sing burden to bear. As it always is for Amish parents when a young son leaves. (Or a daughter, although daughters leave much less frequently.) Somehow, even though mostly unspoken, the feeling is that it reflects badly on the parentsa abilities. And their methods of raising children. Maybe if they had been stricter, it wouldnat have happened. Maybe if they had broken their sonas will way back when he was a child. Maybe this. Maybe that. The regrets, the mental guessing games never stop. When Stephen left, people in the Aylmer church offered sympathy, but who knows what they really thought? Or said among themselves.

Stephen ended up settling in Welland, a small town about an hour east of Aylmer, where he found a job in a factory. He came home to visit now and then, but only when he knew my parents wouldnat be around, and he vowed never to return home to staya"as long as we lived in Aylmer.

Dad, meanwhile, was in a real bind. Stephen was gone. t.i.tus would be nexta"he was certain of it. And even though I was only fourteen, he knew that eventually my turn would come. So he made a decision: We would all leave.

Dad loved Aylmer. Of all the places he had ever lived, Aylmer was closest to his heart. Somehow, he connected with the place as he had connected with no other. Leaving was a hard and bitter pill for him, but eventually he gave in to the inevitable and did what he thought he needed to do to preserve his family. He decided to find another suitable community and move there.

And so, he and Mom took off on the Greyhound bus to find another place to live. They had heard of a fledgling settlement in south central Iowa called Bloomfield, so they went there. Checked out the available farmsa"and the church rules, of course. Shortly after they returned home, they went to visit againa"this time accompanied by my brother Joseph and his wife. And this time, my father bought a three-hundred-acre farm in Bloomfield, two miles directly north of the small village of West Grove. Just across the old rickety wooden bridge that spanned the Fox River.

The news sent shock waves throughout the Amish world. The great man, the famous writer David Wagler, was leaving Aylmer. It was practically unfathomable, thatas how closely his name was intertwined with Aylmer. Tongues wagged. People clucked. He had wild sons. Couldnat control them.

Now he was leaving the place he loved. Moving to the obscure, upstart settlement of Bloomfield, Iowa.

All to try to keep his remaining sons Amish.

Weall see how it goes.

Weall see if it works.

Thatas what they said.

And as if to mock their words and hidden thoughts, Stephen returned home and quietly got to work, getting ready for the move to Bloomfield. They knew, all those Aylmer people, that he planned to join the Amish church there. Officially, of course, they were happy for him. But silently, they seethed.

In September, Dad ended his time at Family Life. In the future, he would contribute as a writer, but he would no longer be editor. That job went to the young preacher Elmo Stoll, the de facto leader in Aylmer.

In his last editorial, my father said good-bye to his readers. Of course, in true Amish fas.h.i.+on, he carefully hinted at the real issues without actually addressing them. He said that he had devoted much of his time in the past to Family Lifea"to the point, he added, that he may have neglected a few other important things. Now it was time for him to devote himself to another kind of family life.

A nice play on words, his official statement. Fraught with symbolism, but pretty much devoid of meaning, at least to usa"his family.

The Aylmer leaders and Dadas peers at Pathway supported his decisiona"at least publicly. They spoke kind words. aCome back and visit,a they said. aAnd weall come see you in Bloomfield, too.a But privately, they all must have wondered why David Wagler could not control his wild, unruly sons.

I was fourteen, going on fifteen, that summer. It was an exciting time. And a little scary. I knew great changes were coming. I was about to leave the only home I had ever known. The only community. The only world. Not to mention all my friends.

Despite my excitement and antic.i.p.ation, there was a strong sense of sadness, too. I knew that all too soon, in mere months, our lives would change forever.

But the date had been set, and there was no turning back. We planned to leave in late October 1976. My father had lived in Aylmer for twenty-three years, the longest he had lived uninterrupted at any place in his life. But he did not shrink from what must have been a gallingly difficult task. Instead, he solemnly and steadfastly wrapped up his business affairs and prepared to leave.

For my mother, too, leaving was a bittersweet thing. One doesnat live for twenty-three years in the same house, only to leave it blithely. She had seen and endured so much here. The place held a lifetime of memories for her. She had arrived with a family of five small children. Now there were eleven. Not all at home anymore, of course. But here, in this house, she had borne six children, mothered them, and befriended them.

Dad sold the farm that summer, and in early October, we held a sale. Dadas auctioneer friend, Les Shackleton, officiateda"his trip-hammer voice booming from the portable speakers. A vast array of belongings had to be sold. Machinery, cattle, horses, buggies, household goods, general junk. It was a huge event. People came from miles away, from many surrounding communities, to attend the great disposal sale of David and Ida Mae Wagleras property. Even my brother Jesse quietly slipped home and hung around that day.

Later that month, two heavily loaded tractor trailers lumbered down the dusty gravel road and turned south toward Highway 3, leaving behind the only home I had ever known.

My childhood daysa"my Aylmer daysa"were over.

My youth and running-around days would be in Bloomfield, Iowa.

Part 2.

10.

As a child, I had always dreamed of driving a truck, a big old 18-wheeler, and hauling loads for days and weeks at a time along endless highways through distant lands. The trip from Aylmer to Bloomfield on that tractor trailer was, alas, as close as I ever got to realizing my truck-driver dream. Perched in the sleeper, I watched through the winds.h.i.+eld, determined not to miss a thing. On and on we drove into the night, and then into the dawn.

After an exhilarating twenty-six-hour journey, during which I slept all of about two minutes, we finally approached Bloomfield, and the two tractor trailers slowly lumbered down the long drive of our new farm.

Our new home sat nestled on the south side of rolling hills, bordered by acres of woods to the west, pasture fields dotted with huge old oaks to the north, and the Fox River to the south.

The house was a tiny ranch. A large, sagging, ramshackle barn stood a few hundred yards away, and several ragged outbuildings lay scattered here and there. The centerpiece of the property was a brand-new dairy barn that had been raised a few months before by an all-Amish crew, complete with a brand-new stave silo that had been s.h.i.+pped in from Madison, Wisconsin.

Within a few hours, all our belongings were unloaded. The men carried the heavy furniture, mattresses, and boxes inside, while my mom and sisters directed everything to its proper spot.

It seemed surreal. After weeks and months of planning and high antic.i.p.ation, here we were at a new home, in a strange new world. Aylmer was now forever behind us. The life I had known from birth was gone. Whatever the future held, it would flow from this place. It was impossible, at that moment, to absorb the enormity of that realization.

Bloomfield was a young community back then, consisting of only twenty or so families. It had been founded just a few short years before, in the early 1970s, by Gideon Yutzy and his sons. In terms of rules and restrictions, Bloomfield was moderate, kind of like Aylmer. One rule I didnat like was the mandate of asteel-rimmed wheels onlya for buggies. In Aylmer, we had rubber-covered rims on the buggy wheels. I know that seems like a small thing, but it really makes a huge difference, both in wear and tear on the buggy and in terms of noise. Steel-rimmed wheels rattle and creak a lot more, and the horse has to work harder to pull the load.

But I digress.

Gradually, other families had trickled in from settlements in various states, and before long, Bloomfield became a fas.h.i.+onable destination for outcasts, misfits, and malcontents from other, mostly larger, communities. Families had come from fairly progressive places like Kokomo, Indiana, and Arthur, Illinois, and from such regressive areas as Fortuna, Missouri, and Buchanan County, Iowa. And from every shade between.

It was fall when we came. Late October. The mornings were white with frost, and the farmers were harvesting their crops. And over the course of those first few weeks, we quickly established a routine and rhythm of life in this new place.

Rhoda and Nathan trudged off each day to the little Amish schoolhouse, two miles away. Stephen, t.i.tus, and I worked hard from dawn till dusk milking cows, plowing the fields, and repairing the tattered remnants of old rusty fences.

One of our first critical tasks was to enlarge the house. We staked out and built two wide new wings. A larger kitchen for Mom on one end. Bedrooms for the girls on the other. And a larger bas.e.m.e.nt. Our days were so busy that we didnat really have much time to get homesick for our old world of Aylmer.

All in all, we really liked Bloomfield. Things seemed more relaxed here. Less tweaking of the rules than there had been in Aylmer. And even though there were vast cultural differences among those who had moved here, the leaders seemed to have a pretty good grip on thingsa"at least early on.

We a.s.similated with our new peers pretty easily, though we quickly realized that the people of Bloomfield were not like those in Aylmer. These people had emerged from varied communities with strange customs and even stranger surnames. Names like Lambright, Beachy, Hochstedler, Gingerich, and Yutzy. To us they sounded funny. But these people were real. And they seemed cool enough. Mostly, anyway.

That made for an interesting mix of young people. I was a part of this group. These were my people. And although I sometimes felt detached and alone, I mingled, immersed myself in the vibrant details of life around me.

I enjoyed the singings, mostly. The buggies clattering as we gathered, around six thirty or so, on a Sunday night. Small knots of youth drifting toward the house, where supper would be served. Hanging with my buddies as we gathered. The house father calling everyone to attention and all heads bowing for silent prayer.

Then the serious business of eating the evening meal: mashed potatoes, noodles, some form of hamburger-laced ca.s.serole, baked beans, potato salad, and bread. Then dessert and coffee and more hanging out, with boisterous talk, local gossip (who was dating whom), and conversation about hunting, fis.h.i.+ng and trapping, or work on the farm.