Broken Roads

by Ira Wagler

  Rosemary had told me. At seven thirty p.m., the youth would come and sing. They arrived. There was no room for them in the house, so they lined up, standing in the attached washhouse. The door between was open. And right on cue, they began. It was chillingly, chillingly beautiful. And everything got all quiet in the house as everyone just sat and listened. A few German songs first. Then a few English ones. All about heaven and leaving this vale of tears for that beautiful place. “Dad picked out those songs,” my sister Rachel whispered to me. “Well, someone may have helped him.”

  And as the singing soared around us, I turned to Nathan, who was sitting beside me. Whispered, “Do you want to go in to see Mom with me?” He nodded immediately. So the two of us got up, filed around, and walked into the bedroom. I shut the door behind us.

  It was all so surreal, hearing those singing voices fading in and out, and being there in that bedroom with Nathan and Mom. The door opened then, and Jesse stepped in to join us. We just stood around the coffin, and I reached down and stroked her face. Her poor frail body had seen and suffered so much. She looked peaceful, though, lying there. The undertaker had done a real good job, the family told me. He had made her sunken face and cheeks stand out almost like normal. Jesse left us then, and Nathan and I just stood in silence beside our mother for a few more minutes. Then I propped the door open, and we walked back to our seats.

  Just before nine, the crowd was dismissed. A preacher I didn’t know got up and stood at an open doorway between two rooms. Spoke in a loud, firm voice. Everyone got real quiet. And he spoke for a few minutes, giving a short devotional and sharing a few memories of Mom. The Amish don’t focus on the name of the deceased. Or much of what they ever did while here. False praise, they call that. But still, a little of that is OK. This preacher spoke of death and how it must come for us all. The important thing is to be ready. Then he asked us all to stand as he read a High German prayer from a little black prayer book.

  The next morning, I dressed in my white shirt and black suit and shoes. The funeral would start at nine. There was a private service at seven thirty a.m. at the house. I arrived just as it was about to start. The coffin had been moved into the living room. A few benches were lined up in front. Mostly for my dad and siblings, although anyone from the extended family was welcome. We sat there as my cousin Simon Wagler, Abner’s son and a preacher, stood to speak. He still sounded the same as he had when I was a child. A good voice that carried well. And he, too, made mention that at Amish funerals, they don’t falsely praise the departed. But he had many memories of Aunt Ida Mae, and he shared a few. About how she was always so cheerful, always smiling, and always hard at work. Some brief admonitions followed, then we knelt for prayer, again read from that little black prayer book.

  And after that, the pallbearers came and closed the lid. And they carried Mom from the house. The funeral would be about half a mile north. In a huge shop where gazebos were manufactured. Everything had been cleared out, and countless rows of benches had been set up. I arrived around eight thirty or so, along with most of my siblings. They had a special section for all of us, right up front by the coffin. We settled in by age, all my siblings and their partners and I. Aunt Rachel was given a seat of high honor among us. The place filled up to the brim. Hundreds and hundreds of people. All filed in silently, all were directed to their seats. All had come to honor Mom.

  There is no singing at an Amish funeral. Just two or three fairly short sermons and a prayer. A few minutes before nine, local bishop John Martin stood. And the service began. The funeral service for Mom. John preached hard and sat down right on time. Then another bishop stood. Tim Coblentz, from Mays Lick, Kentucky. My parents had lived there, in his community, for a few years with my brother Joseph. So Tim knew them. The poor man had a bit of a cold but somehow made it through.

  By ten fifteen a.m., the preaching was done. We knelt for a long prayer, and then were seated again. And they began filing past the coffin, all the assembled masses. It takes a good bit of time for six hundred people to get through. That’s how many they told me were there, later. Six hundred. That’s a pretty huge crowd. And finally it reached my family section. They filed through, all the grandchildren, many with children of their own. Slowly, some lingering to look at the woman they have always known as “Mommy.” And then it came to us, the children. From the oldest down, we went. One by one, and we each had a brief moment alone with her. I reached down and stroked her tired face one more time. And then we were seated. And Dad struggled to his feet, and hobbled slowly to where his wife lay, waiting for him.

  He stood there, half bent, over her. He looked so tired and so alone. He reached down and covered her small hands with one of his. And then the children, just the children, got up and went up front to join him.

  It’s always a deeply moving and touching thing, the family surrounding the coffin of a departed one. We stood there, huddled around, and wept with our father. It was the first time since 1971 that all of us were together, that close to each other like that. It’s just how it happened back then. A few of the older ones left the Amish. And somehow, it never worked out in forty-three years that all of us were together at the same place at the same time. That’s a long, long time, and it’s a real shame. But it is what it is. We were all together there, around my mother’s coffin. And after a few intense minutes, we turned and walked back to our seats. And soon the service was dismissed.

  The pallbearers loaded the casket into the hearse then. Well, it was a buggy. Specially built. To function as an everyday buggy. But also to function as a hearse. And the train of buggies lined up behind. We wouldn’t join that line, those of us with cars. No. This day, we respected the place, the community that cared for Mom all these years. The Aylmer community. We puttered about, those of us in cars. And then we headed over on the main drag through the community. A different route than the buggies were taking. And we pulled right onto the gravel road leading to the graveyard. Plenty of cars and vans were already parked. I parked in line. And we got out and walked to join the crowd.

  The grave had been dug the day before, right in the driving rain. But it had been covered up with plywood. That old Daviess adage still holds in Aylmer, I think. Don’t ever let it rain into an open grave. If you do, someone else in the community will die within three weeks. They hadn’t let the rain in. And today, the day of the funeral, there was a canopy set up. Right over the grave. I can’t imagine that such a thing had ever been done before in Aylmer. But today, they did it. For Mom.

  We gathered under the canopy, the family members who had gotten there in cars. Waiting for Mom to arrive in the buggy. The pallbearers stood around. And I approached them and talked to them. “The sons would like to help fill the grave,” I said. It wasn’t a request. I was just telling them.

  And they told me, “That will be no problem. Just wait a bit after the coffin is lowered. We get down, two of us, on the wooden lid. And we fill all that dirt in by hand.” They do that in Aylmer. I’m not sure if that’s a universal thing or a remnant of a tradition from Daviess. But they step down, right on the lid of the box enclosing the coffin. And the other two pallbearers hand down the dirt, shovelful after shovelful. The two standing on the box fill in the edges. And then the top. It’s all done carefully. “Wait,” they told me, the pallbearers. “Wait until we step up out of the grave. Then we’ll hand the shovels to you and your brothers.”

  And I passed the word around to the family. My brothers and I will step up and help shovel the dirt in. If any of you nephews want to step up, too, get in line. This is Mom. We need to get involved, to cover her up.

  The buggy train arrived soon. And parked off in the little lot out on the south side of the graveyard. The hearse pulled right in. And the pallbearers unloaded Mom and set up the casket on the west end of the grave. Opened it up for the last time. There would be one more viewing. Sometimes it seems like they almost overdo things, the Amish. We’d all viewed her back at the service. And now we’d all vie
w her again. They lifted back the coffin lid. And there she lay again. Open to all the world for one last time.

  This, this is what I’d asked Janice to come for. At my Uncle Abner’s funeral, the children had all walked up, one by one, with their families. But strangely, that wasn’t how it came down for Mom. The crowds filed by one last time. And then it was time for the family. Janice stood beside me. But we didn’t walk up one by one. We walked up in line. We filed through. And then Dad stood there alone and covered Mom’s hands with his again one last time. Then he hobbled back to his seat. The Amish funeral director stepped up. Folded down the coffin lid. I craned and caught a last glimpse of Mom’s face as the lid closed. He stood there with his screwdriver. And drove in the screws. Then he stepped back. The pallbearers approached and lifted the coffin. They had set two boards across the open grave. They set the coffin on those boards.

  Then they set the straps under the coffin. Lifted it a few inches. The director removed the boards set across the hole. And then the pallbearers lowered her into the earth, into the wooden box down at the bottom of the grave. They rolled up their straps. And reset them through the handles on the box lid. Then they lowered the lid. And again retrieved their straps.

  Two of them got down into the grave then, just as they had told me they would. The other two handed down shovels full of dirt. The two men standing on the box carefully placed that dirt around the edges. And then they carefully placed dirt above the lid they were standing on. It was a somber and respectful thing. Minutes passed, and still they were handing down shovels full of dirt. And placing it carefully where it needed to go.

  Then the moment came. The lid was covered. The two men in the grave scrambled out. This was our time now, our time, my family’s. I whispered to Stephen, who was standing right beside me, “It’s time to step up.”

  He whispered back, “Are you sure it’s all right?” I didn’t answer. Because the man closest to me was turning to me, just like he had said he would. Handing me his shovel. I stepped up. And Stephen stepped up. The pallbearers stepped back. We walked to the other side of the grave. I stabbed my shovel into the mound of soft, sandy dirt. And turned and dropped that dirt onto Mom’s new house.

  It was purely symbolic, what I had in mind. It wasn’t like we had to cover her grave all the way to the top. Just a few shovels thrown, that was all I wanted to do. Steve was off to the left side of the grave. I was on the right side. And after about a dozen throws of dirt, I stopped. Turned back to where the family stood. And motioned to Nathan. Come. He stepped up, and I handed him the shovel. And right then, Steve handed his shovel off to Jesse. I stood back, among the family. And right before my eyes, the most beautiful thing unfolded, the most beautiful thing that I’ll ever remember about my mother’s funeral.

  They started lining up, and they stepped up, one by one. First, the sons. Then the sons-in-law. A moment only to shovel, for each of them. It could have stopped with us, the immediate family, Mom’s children and sons-in-law. But it didn’t. All of a sudden, the nephews were lining up. And stepping up to take their turns with the shovels. The men of the family. They came and shoveled the earth onto the grave. And then suddenly four of my sisters stood in line: Magdalena, Naomi, Rachel, and Rhoda.

  Such a thing had never happened in Aylmer before. Never. I don’t think the sons stepping up had ever happened before. And now here came the daughters. And more nephews and then the nieces. All stepping forward to bury their mother and grandmother. I look back on the whole experience, and this moment was the most precious of all the moments. A purely beautiful thing of respect and love. I almost choke up, thinking about it even from here.

  And eventually, the family was done. The last ones handed the shovels back to the pallbearers. And Mom got covered up real quick right after that happened. And then the ceremony was over. I left soon after it ended. Too soon, I think. Because the grandchildren broke out in song right there beside the grave. I missed it, the singing.

  And here, I publicly thank the people of Aylmer. It was a vast communal effort just to take care of Mom during her last few years on this earth. Of course, most of that burden fell on my sister Rosemary and her family. It was a hard and wearying thing for them, but they never complained. They just did what they needed to do to show Mom that she was loved. And to make her as comfortable as possible. The people in the community, the people of Aylmer came and helped, too.

  And during Mom’s final days, they came at night to sit with her. There is a deep aversion in the Amish culture. You don’t allow anyone to die alone. It’s important that the dying person has people around. And all through the night, every night, they took turns in six-hour shifts. That takes effort, and that takes commitment. They came through, strong and shining, the people of Aylmer. And I thank all of them from the bottom of my heart. All of them. Thank you for caring for my mother. Thank you for loving her, even in that helpless state.

  We all gathered back at the big shop for the noon meal. The Aylmer people fed us, a huge horde of people, for two days. I walked through the line, got my food. Ham-and-cheese sandwiches, noodles, mashed potatoes, and potato salad. And I sat way off in one corner by myself to eat. But not for long. Soon, very soon, people wandered by to see me. I was a little startled at such attention.

  The first person was an old man, gray and half-stooped. I recognized him. He sat on the next bench over as I ate. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I know who you are.”

  And he spoke half-apologetically. “I’m sorry that you had to carry my name all your life. I’m Ira Stoll. I was working on the farm the day you were born. You were named after me.”

  I laughed. “Don’t apologize,” I said. “I used to hate my name. But I don’t anymore. Actually, I like it. I’m proud of it. It’s pretty unique.” And we talked about the things he saw, the world he knew, way back when I was born. It was a special moment.

  Nathan and I had one last thing to do on that day as late afternoon approached. We had talked about it and agreed on a plan. And we walked out and got into the Charger. Drove over to Aylmer and stopped by the flower shop at the west side of the square. We walked in. The place smelled just lovely. And we picked out two beautiful red roses. “Do you want anything with these? Baby’s breath?” the attendant asked.

  Nathan shook his head. “Nothing. Just the roses.” She wrapped them in separate plastic sleeves. Nathan paid her and thanked her.

  The skies were spitting random drops of rain as we pulled up to the graveyard. The place was empty and deserted, all cleaned up. The canopy was gone. I parked off to the side of the road, and we got out. Nathan handed me my rose. This wouldn’t take long. We climbed over the low wooden fence and walked to the grave. We stood side by side in silence for a moment. Then we stooped together and placed the roses on the soft earth above our mother.

  Nathan spoke to her. “You were a good mom,” he said. “A good mom. You had a hard life. I’m so glad you can finally rest now.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You were a good mom. I’m glad, too, that you are at peace now.”

  And then I turned to Nathan and told him, “Of all her sons, of all her children, we hurt her the most, you and I. We caused her the most turmoil, the most anguish, the most pain. Of all her sons.”

  He nodded. “Yes. We did.”

  We stood there, heads bowed, for a few more seconds. And then we turned and walked back to the road.

  Behind us, Mom slept peacefully in her new house, where the cold and bitter winds could never reach her.

  A Day That Will Never Come

  You look, when something happens, how long it takes to circle around to the other side. When Ellen and I separated in 2007, that was a brutal time. The divorce got finalized later that year, sometime in November. And we never communicated much those first few years. Once in a while, there’d be a strained email about some logistical thing. And when I settled on our house, then we communicated some, too. I got the house appraised, th
en remortgaged. And I bought out her half of the equity that was there. There weren’t a whole lot of pangs in me about all that. Some, sure. It was so final, so irrevocable, seemed like. With every step, the separation just got that much more firm, more deeply poured in concrete. But mostly, it all went well.

  And I won’t pretend otherwise. The ghosts of who we were lurked there in the old brick house we had shared as our home. I stayed rooted there, because I was too stubborn to get pushed out by the memories of what had been or the hauntings of what might have been. So now and then I wrestled with the ghosts, when they came. “Go away,” I told them. “Leave me alone.” And mostly, they did. But sometimes they returned with a vengeance, and the battle started all over again. That’s just how it was.

  The years kind of slide together here in my memory. I can’t quite remember the dates of what happened when. Anyway, it wasn’t all that long after Ellen moved out west that the word trickled back. She was dating some guy she met there. About my age, the man was. His name was Tim. I brooded a good bit when I heard that. Still, you just keep walking. And I will say, I never, never blamed Tim for anything. He was just a guy who came wandering along long after me and my ex-wife had blown up our marriage. I always figured he was probably a pretty likable man. But still…but still.

  And I remember the turmoil inside me when I heard. Ellen and Tim were engaged. They were going to get married in July of 2010, if I remember right. That was the summer I was writing my first book. So there was a lot going on. Still, as the date approached, I brooded a good bit. It wasn’t right that I sat here all alone while she went gallivanting around, and now she was getting married again. That’s the concept that was so strange. Where we both came from, you just didn’t see such a thing. No divorce. And for sure no divorce and remarriage. And the ghosts kept pushing themselves forward into my mind. There she was, way out there. And here I was, back where our future dreams together had been launched, not all that many years ago. I brooded and drank and brooded and wrote. How a book ever came out of me that summer is more than a miracle.