by Ira Wagler
At The Gasthof, I usually arrived and clocked in at four o’clock in the afternoon. 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. Around five o’clock, the floodgates 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 mull over such esoteric questions. A typical waiter or waitress was responsible for five to seven tables. I took to the work quite naturally, and a good night netted anywhere from $80 to $110 in tips. For four or five hours of work, that wasn’t a bad wage. Especially back in 1989.
A server has one responsibility. Make the dining experience as relaxed and enjoyable as possible for the customer. And as 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, chat a bit. 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 something. And I responded instantly when they did. Refilled drinks and coffee without being asked. Removed dishes when done. Smiled, regardless of the situation, no matter how rude the customer. Thanked them when they were leaving. Invited them back. Picked up the tip they left, and slipped it into my apron. I was always aware. Don’t act too eager picking up those bills. 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 high school and college girls. I listened to more dating problems and discussions about guys (from the girls’ perspectives) 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. After hours, we’d often go out for pizza or meet at someone’s house just to hang out. And swap tales from the battlefield.
And looking back at those times of hanging out, I will say this. Kids are kids, wherever they are. Amish or English. You hang out. You have fun. You talk about your world. Whatever world that is.
The Gasthof had many Amish workers and servers. And many Amish customers. At that time, most local Amish customers did not tip. They still don’t, in the more backward communities, because they don’t know enough to do so. I hang my head now in shame and remember the dozens and dozens of servers I stiffed over the years when I was Amish. I simply didn’t know. And once I learned, it was like getting clobbered over the head by a two-by-four. Oh, good grief, I thought. How naive could I possibly have been for all those years? The thing is, you don’t know what you don’t know until you do know. And no one can dictate when that time gets here.
If you got a table full of Amish, you simply counted it as a loss, when it came to tips. And told the hostess you’d had your turn in the rotation. Once, for breakfast, a 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 goodwill. 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 years ago. It may be different now, at least in the more progressive Amish settlements.
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 was responsible for 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, idealistic, and full of energy and goodwill that would be difficult to dredge up 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 made sure their drinks were always filled. The food served hot. I gave them free desserts. Slowly they softened. The grumpiest old lady, the one with the wire-rimmed glasses, even smiled a time or two. After they left, the waitress who was originally supposed to serve them almost collapsed in gratitude. She came and hugged me hard. And 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.
And soon enough, I got through my first semester. Then my first year. My confidence grew exponentially, almost weekly. I soon knew I could conquer whatever this journey brought my way. It was the first time ever, in my life, that I had been exposed to people and surroundings from such a broad spectrum. Yeah, Vincennes was pretty much a local college. But it was still a new and exciting experience for me, simply because the world I had come from was so vastly, vastly limited. And here I was, venturing way out there into strange new lands such as my people had never known or seen before. Not the people from my world, in the past.
That first year, Dr. Bernard Verkamp, my philosophy teacher and good friend, got me to apply for a full scholarship for my second and final year at Vincennes. The Galligan Scholarship in Philosophy. I remember that name because the plaque they gave me hangs on the wall beside my desk. I never framed any diploma I ever got from anywhere. Except the honorary doctorate of letters Vincennes awarded me after my first book got published. That hangs on the wall by my desk, because that thing came framed. And that’s the only reason it’s hanging anywhere.
Back then, I did what Dr. Verkamp told me to. Filled out an application. I wrote a little essay about what education, and philosophy in particular, meant to me. Of course, I mentioned my background a few times in the essay. I come from the Amish. From the backcountry. I never had a day of high school. And now I’m at your college. I mean, am I dreaming, or what? And oh yeah, I really enjoy and value my philosophy classes, too. Which was not a lie. I enjoyed Dr. Verkamp’s classes immensely. I enrolled in one of his classes every semester I was there.
There was an interview, too, that I had to do with the scholarship board. I was very relaxed, and the board seemed impressed when I left. Dr. Verkamp confidently told me I should be a shoo-in.
And I remember, too, how I bragged a little the next time I saw my father. That first summer after the first year at VU. I remember that he asked all about my college classes. Once, I took home a few of my handwritten essays that had been turned in, graded, and returned to me. Dad took them and read them. He seemed impressed. This was a real essay that had been submitted in a real college. He asked a lot of questions about what I was studying and such. And after that first year, that summer, I told him the news. I got a full scholarship for next year for college. He asked about it. And he laughed almost before he could catch himself. Saving all the money on tuition, that made sense to him. He seemed a little proud. Or maybe I was just imagining.
And it seems so strange, looking back. Strange how deeply I craved the man’s approval. I knew he could never really come out and say it, that he was proud. And I knew that when I came around, there would be at least one obligatory admonition. The usu
al stuff he always dredged up from somewhere. From what his father had told him, maybe, long before. I don’t know. But it was always the same, what he spoke. “Me and Mom feel that you should just come back and make your things right and be Amish. You really have no need to go to college. What good is that going to do you?” The man persisted in this singular message for more than a decade after I left, after he knew there was no way I would ever return. He still spoke those rote words, I guess because he thought he had to. Or at least that he should.
The second year at Vincennes rolled by. Sometime that fall, I think it was, Dr. Verkamp asked me for my father’s address. He wanted to write a letter. I never poked around much as to what he meant to tell Dad. But Dad sure told me what Dr. Verkamp had written him, the next time I went home. And Dad actually beamed as he showed me the letter. My philosopher friend had been most gracious. He’d told Dad that I was among the very best and brightest students he had ever taught at the college level. I felt some pride when Dad told me that.
My relationships with all my professor friends deepened. I was probably a little selfish, but they didn’t seem to mind when I stopped by their offices to just talk about whatever. My brain was open, and my mind was hungry. I had always read a lot. I mean, Dad always had a lot of books around. But there was never any real place to talk to others about what you were reading, not in any structured way. And these professors had a trove of accumulated knowledge that I wanted to grasp as my own. They heard and absorbed my excited questions, saw my hungry eyes. And they spoke to me as an equal, almost. Intellectually, I mean.
Dr. Phillip E. Pierpont, the dean of humanities, seemed like a stuffed shirt the first time I saw him. Formal, mannered, pompous, impeccably dressed in suit and tie. And then I took his class. It must have been Classical Literature, because I remember reading portions of The Iliad and The Odyssey. Dr. Pierpont knew his stuff. The man was a fantastic teacher. Always formally dressed in suit and tie. He was known to give hard tests. I was so engrossed that I barely noticed. I knew the answers because I was keenly interested in the subject matter. I stopped by his office regularly and got to know his staff quite well. Dr. Pierpont had three lovely assistants. They always greeted me cheerfully. Of course, I bantered right back. I even had my own chair, which someone labeled with my name on the bottom of the frame.
Dr. Pierpont advised me, both as a professional and as a friend. And he was determined that I should apply at Notre Dame. He was a devout Catholic, and Notre Dame was about as big a thing as he could imagine for me. He even wrote a lengthy letter of recommendation. I was touched and honored. But I wasn’t sure. Notre Dame? That sounded a little out there. I still wasn’t far enough beyond where I’d come from to trust myself in such a secular setting. And yeah, I know. Notre Dame is a religious school. But to someone who came from the Amish, that place was a vast and darkly gleaming city of secular academics and worldliness.
“I just don’t know,” I told Dr. Pierpont. “I think I need something a bit more structured.” From my plain Mennonite circles, I had heard the name of another school. Another college. Down south a ways. Bob Jones University. I’m sure Dr. Pierpont was horrified when I told him. He had to be. I had just emerged from Hickville, and now I was deliberately walking back in. That’s what he thought, I always figured later. But his training kicked in. Formal and mannerly is what he was. So he never let on. Through all my days at Vincennes and during my later transfer to Bob Jones, my good friend Dr. Pierpont enthusiastically supported me in any way he could. He was a kind and decent man.
In the spring of 1991, a new day approached for me. Graduation. I was marching summa cum laude with an Associate’s Degree in General Studies. I guess that degree and fifty cents (at that time) would have bought me a cup of coffee. But still. I was excited and eager. This was a big deal for me. And back in Daviess, I told my friends, “I’m graduating.” I told my family too, the Amish ones in Bloomfield, Iowa, and the others where they were scattered. “I’m graduating.” Not that I expected anyone to show up, really. But I still wanted to share my good news in my world. I’m graduating from Vincennes University.
I didn’t make a big fuss about the graduation. But still. You invite your people.
Graduation day came. In gown and mortarboard tasseled cap, I proudly marched across the stage. Received my diploma. Somewhere, there is a faded picture of me standing there on the stage, shaking the hand of whoever was president at Vincennes back then. I was smiling and clutching my diploma.
The first in my family to even remotely dream of such a thing, let alone do it, I knew before I marched. But I looked out over the audience anyway. Other than my professors and a few dozen staff and students I had befriended at the university, not a single friend or family member was present to cheer my accomplishment.
Not one.
For me, it didn’t seem like that big a deal at the moment. And it didn’t really bug me that much. It was corn-planting time in Daviess. My local friends were in the fields and all. Working twenty-hour days, getting the crops in. They begged off, but you do what you have to do. I came from the Amish. Of course I understood. The farm work comes first. Only years later did it hit me how fragile my support structure was at that time. And there was little semblance of a safety net at all.
It was what it was. And I’m just saying how it was.
In the years that passed, I vowed to myself that if any of my nephews or nieces or siblings ever graduated with any kind of post-high-school degree, anywhere, I would make every effort to attend if it was remotely feasible. And I have. Mostly.
Summer in Lancaster
I live in Lancaster County. Smack-dab in the heart of one of the largest Amish communities in the world. Not to mention the oldest. And coming from where I’ve been, I sometimes feel like the odd man out here, drifting in a sea of cultural blue bloods.
And yes, one might well ask, Lancaster County—what’s up with that? Did the guy ever really leave the Amish, as he claims? Why can’t he seem to shake them for good?
Well, yes, I left. For good, as I wrote at the end of my first book. I never returned to Bloomfield, Iowa, where most of my Rumspringa unfolded. Or to Goshen, Indiana, which is the last place on earth where I ever was Amish. I never went back to either of those places, except to visit. But never to try again. I made my final departure. At that time, roughly the spring of 1988, there was little about the culture that attracted me. I wanted to shake it all off, the last vestiges of those chains. I was free at last. After all those years of turmoil. Free. And it felt great.
And yeah, there was some resentment bubbling inside me. A little bit of anger. I didn’t wear it on my sleeve, but it was there inside my heart. And I spoke it now and then. These people were stuck in their backward ways. They were welcome to stay there. The memories were still so raw inside and so fresh. I was done. Gone. For good. I would never look back, except in gratitude that I had finally escaped. That’s how I felt.
Back when I’d first enrolled at Vincennes, in the summer of 1989, before my first fall semester, I came to Lancaster County. Not out of curiosity, but for strictly economic reasons. I needed money for college. I had a connection in Lancaster, a good friend. And he told me, Come on in. Wages are way higher. You can make some real money here. More than you ever will in Daviess. Come on in. And the decision was easy. I had been a rolling stone for most of my adult life. So it seemed like a good idea, to roll on some more. Lancaster. I’d heard so much about the place. I remembered how odd they had seemed, the people from there, way back when they’d visited us in Aylmer.
And so in May of that year, I loaded my ugly tan-gold T-Bird and headed east. Arrived in Lancaster safely. It’s a beautiful area. Old, for this country. Lots of history. Tiny narrow ribbons of paved roads wind and twist through the countryside. Countless tidy little farms are dotted about. Ancient stone houses and great red barns, owned by the same families for generations. Real roots, here. None of the vagabonding like my father had done decades ago. These pe
ople were planted here. Born here. Lived here. Died here.
And the strange Amish buggies with rounded tops and straight sides practically clogged the roads, hitched to wild, high-stepping horses. You couldn’t have paid me to ride those buggies on those roads. Still couldn’t. I almost felt like a tourist, seeing this brand of Amish for the first time.
And that summer was a time of labor and sweat. I worked long, hard hours five days a week, sometimes six. I wanted to work to save. And I wanted to work to forget. I used those long, hard days to leave behind what was lost and to lay up for the future. And those three months were amazing, looking back. But I didn’t meet a whole lot of Amish people. I had no desire to, really. Sure, I said hi when passing in the regular stream of commerce. Mostly, I hung out with the Beachy Amish youth at Pequea Church. They were friendly and accepting, welcomed me. Invited me to their social activities. It was a good summer, and a short one. In August, I left for Daviess and Vincennes, still convinced that the Lancaster Old Order Amish were one strange bunch.
The next summer I returned to Lancaster. And again, I made no attempt to meet any Amish people or get to know them. Still wanted nothing to do with them. The summer passed, and I returned to Daviess and my second and final year at Vincennes.
The third summer, after graduating from Vincennes, that’s when things started shaking. And changing. I boarded with Ben and Emma Stoltzfus and their family. On their farm just east of Honey Brook, over the line in Chester County. Upstairs, in the third-floor attic of the farmhouse. A cozy little place that would be my Pennsylvania home base for about the next five years. Beachy Amish people who drove cars, Ben and Emma became as close to my surrogate parents as any couple ever has. I treasure the memories of their kindness. And their love.
And one summer evening, after I’d returned from a long day of working in the sun, Emma had a message for me. Some Amish guy had called that day. Elmer. Asked lots of questions. Was I staying there? Was I David Wagler’s son? Emma had told him yes and promised she would tell me. And she did. I was supposed to call him back. She gave me the number to his phone shack, which was where the Lancaster Amish had their phones back then. In a little shack, off on its own outside somewhere. Just as long as it wasn’t too handy.