Growing Up Amish (7 page)

My relationship with Dad wasn't much better.

My brothers and I hung together, in silent revolt against his rather strident admonitions. That's 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 don't 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 pass.

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 fail—his relationship 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.

It's a huge deal, the decision to become a member and begin “following church,” 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. Attitude is everything, and even the slightest sign of resentment might be enough to delay or even deny baptism and membership. 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 unbearable—especially if applicants are known for having engaged in rowdy behavior in the past. Then they are watched all the more closely—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 brothers—Stephen, Titus, and I—were at home. We worked through the morning hours, and at noon, after eating, Stephen disappeared upstairs. There he packed a bag—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 Titus a note to give to Dad. That afternoon, Titus and I worked uneasily around the farm. We did our evening chores until darkness fell. Around six thirty or so, the car pulled in. Our parents had returned.

We helped carry in the day's 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.

“So Stephen can cut wood with it,” he said. Quickly busying ourselves with the bags and boxes that needed to be put away, neither Titus nor I responded.

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

“Here's a note from Stephen,” he said.

I felt very sorry for Titus, for the hard thing he had to do. It wasn't 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? Titus stood there bravely, unflinching, looking right at Dad.

“What . . . what do you mean?” Dad stuttered uncomprehendingly.

“A note,” Titus repeated, thrusting it at Dad. “A note from Stephen. He left today.”

“Ah, my. Oh, no,” Dad groaned, his face darkening. Mom, sensing something was amiss, walked into the living room.

“What's wrong?” she asked sharply, sensing doom.

“Stephen left today,” Dad told her. “We don't know where he is, or where he went.”

I lurked behind a curtain in the living room and heard the exclamations of dismay and grief as my parents absorbed the news. Dad's face was twisted into a furious frown. Mom stood frozen in shock, mouth agape.

All the joy was gone—the treats they had brought us from town, the ice cream and candy, the new chain saw. Dad proclaimed he wasn't 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 didn't know.

Soon the news flashed through the community. Another of David Wagler's 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 embarrassing 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 parents' abilities. And their methods of raising children. Maybe if they had been stricter, it wouldn't have happened. Maybe if they had broken their son's 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 wouldn't be around, and he vowed never to return home to stay—as long as we lived in Aylmer.

Dad, meanwhile, was in a real bind. Stephen was gone. Titus would be next—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 farms—and the church rules, of course. Shortly after they returned home, they went to visit again—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, that's how closely his name was intertwined with Aylmer. Tongues wagged. People clucked.
He had wild sons. Couldn't 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.

We'll see how it goes.

We'll see if it works.

That's 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 fashion, 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 Life
—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 us—his family.

The Aylmer leaders and Dad's peers at Pathway supported his decision—at least publicly. They spoke kind words. “Come back and visit,” they said. “And we'll come see you in Bloomfield, too.” 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 anticipation, 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 doesn't 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. Dad's auctioneer friend, Les Shackleton, officiated—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 Wagler's 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 days—my Aylmer days—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 windshield, 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 shipped 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 anticipation, 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 didn't like was the mandate of “steel-rimmed wheels only” 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.