Broken Roads

by Ira Wagler

  Friday. This would be a big day. Well, all the days were big on that trip. You only got one father on this earth. It’s a big deal to get together and bury him when he dies. I headed east into Aylmer and stopped for hot black coffee. McDonald’s this time, and every time after that. A large for two bucks. Tim Hortons blew it with their thin weak water the day before. I headed east out of town, then north on Carter Road. Past the woods, then past the fields that had been the western edge of the farm I was born on. The western forty had been sold when we moved. A new homestead had been started by Omar Eicher and his wife back then. I’m not sure who lives at that place now. Might be English people. I drove on north to the next crossroad, where the school stood beside the Herrfort farm. I crossed that intersection, and there was the big gazebo-manufacturing warehouse where the funeral would be. The exact same place where Mom’s funeral had been. It had stood empty and unused for a few years. From what I heard, it took the menfolk a few days to get it cleaned up nice.

  I parked my Jeep out by the road and walked in. A few people were busy getting ready. An Amish funeral is an amazing event. A model of teamwork and efficiency. A temporary kitchen had been set up in the office entrance area. Cookstoves and tables, and a dozen married women and single girls milled around. They would serve lunch and supper today and for the next two days. Dad wasn’t here yet. The hearse should be out anytime. Stephen arrived, and Alvin and Naomi. I’m not sure if Rosemary was there right then or not. I can’t remember every detail of every minute. I walked around, inspecting the place. Lots of benches were already set up, with room for many more. Some young men bustled busily about. They greeted me. Asked my name. “I’m Ira,” I said. They smiled, as if they had heard that name before.

  I stood around with the young men, and we talked. Almost immediately, one of them got to telling me a story. I didn’t know his name. Later, I heard he was Paul Stoll, son of the bishop Peter Stoll. And he told me. A few years ago, Dad would drive around the community in his own buggy. Back when he could still get around. It was freedom, for him. Anyway, the young Stoll man was driving along in his own buggy one summer day. On the gravel road north of the graveyard. And off to the side, there was a field of watermelons. Some local Amish farmer was raising them to sell. Dad had decided he could use a few of those watermelons, so he pulled in with his buggy and got out. It was no big deal. The owner certainly wasn’t going to grumble if David Wagler stopped and picked a few melons.

  And the young man told me he was watching when Dad stumbled and fell. Right out there in the field. He couldn’t get up, so he started crawling along on his hands and knees toward his buggy. The young man stopped then, of course. He tied his horse to a post and walked out to help Dad get up. And there was my father, not particularly alarmed, moving toward his buggy as best he could. “There was David Wagler,” the young man said. “Crawling toward his buggy on his hands and knees. And he was pushing three watermelons in front of him.” I threw back my head and roared. If that’s not a perfect picture of who Dad was, I don’t know what is. I mean, he was going that way anyway. Might as well push along a few watermelons while he was at it. I told that story to my family many times over the next two days. We all howled every time.

  Minutes later, the hearse arrived. Those things are always big and black and long and bulky and spooky. This one had taken a lot of bodies on a lot of last rides. Two attendants got out and opened the back door. I hadn’t seen either one of them before. We greeted them and told them where to take the body. They pulled out a gurney. Dad was all covered up. They rolled him into the warehouse, then back into the little temporary plywood room where the coffin was set up. They disappeared behind the plywood. Stephen had arrived, and we lingered around. Waiting for the OK to walk in and see Dad. The attendants emerged ten minutes later or so and waved us in. Dad’s face had looked sunken and wasted the last time I’d seen him. I was curious. Real curious. Could the undertakers work some magic?

  Stephen and I walked into the little side room. The coffin was there, on two small sawhorses. We looked down at our father. He looked amazingly natural. His face had been filled out, however they do that, and his great beard was combed and fluffed and swept cleanly to his chest. He looked half-imposing, like he was going to get up and start managing things. Stephen and I stood there without a lot of words. Others drifted in, too, and stood around us. There were murmurs. “He looks good. So natural.” And he did.

  Friday was the viewing day for the locals. Anyone could come at any time, but the first day, it was just assumed that many people would be traveling to get there. So the locals come. Many came on both days. At noon, someone stood and announced that the food was ready. We all stood, and someone spoke a prayer, then people filed through. I didn’t eat, of course. Just drank black coffee. I visited with many people that day. Two stood out to me. Joe Stoll and Bishop Ike Stoltzfus. I had a real nice long visit with Ike. But I sat with Joe first. He smiled and smiled. I’m sure a lot of memories were flooding through his head. He was my cousin and Dad’s nephew, and he was in his eighties. He was also cofounder of Pathway Publishers with Dad.

  And I asked him, “We always heard that it was out in the threshing field that you and Dad dreamed up your vision of Pathway. Is that true?”

  Joe smiled again and settled in. “We were threshing at Johnny Gascho’s farm,” he said. Johnny is married to Joe’s sister, Martha. “Your dad had the team and wagon, and I was out in the field with my pitchfork, loading. And every time your dad came out to the field with his wagon, I made sure that I was pitching for him.” I listened, nodding. And he told me how they talked and schemed that day while threshing. Threw out their ideas. Later that next winter, he walked the half mile to my parents’ house on a bitterly cold December evening. Jake Eicher came, too. The three of them had a meeting. The first one. Jake told Dad and Joe that he couldn’t write, but he could keep the printing presses rolling. Jake offered an acre of land for the print shop. That night, my father’s impossible dream was officially launched.

  Joe told me one more little story. This one was from when he was a child of ten or so. Dad was at a Civilian Public Service (CPS) camp as a conscientious objector in World War II. Two of his married sisters, Mary and Anna, were living in Jerome, Michigan, at the time with their families. Anna, who was married to Peter Stoll, was Joe’s mother. And Mary was married to Albert Stoll, who was Peter’s older brother and Joe’s uncle. The families got a letter from Dad when he was in the camp. The letter was typed. Typing was considered very modern back then. Somehow, Dad had taught himself how to operate the typewriter they had there at the camp. And Joe told me that Mary and Anna were deeply grieved that their younger brother was slipping so badly. So modern. They would have much preferred to just read his handwriting. I laughed and laughed. The Waglers were staunch Plain people, even way back then. They had hard blood. Dad never backed down, though, when his older sisters admonished him. He always, always typed his stuff. I can still hear the clack and ding of his old manual typewriter as he hammered away at all hours of the day and late into the night.

  The day drifted on. The family arrived in spurts and fits. My sister Rachel, her husband Lester Yutzy, and many of their children flew into Detroit, then drove across the border from there. And soon after five, supper was served again. The thing about an Amish funeral is, everything is done for you. The food shows up, the funeral-service site is cleaned and organized and heated. The grave is dug by hand. The grieving family just sits back and experiences everything. It’s beautiful. We ate then, and I was hungry. I loaded a plate with salad and hot food. Everything was delicious. One little side note, though: I don’t think the Aylmer people eat a lot of meat, because it sure was sparse in those dishes. A tiny speck of ham floated around forlornly now and then. But it was all good. When you’re getting fed like that, eat and appreciate. That’s what I tried to do.

  Magdalena and her husband, Ray Marner, arrived then. Jesse and Lynda had driven in from South Carolina earlier. And
my family sat in two rows of chairs, facing each other, about eight feet apart or so. The line came down one side and back up the other and round and round. Sometimes it was busy, sometimes it wasn’t. I chatted with Marvin and Rhoda, who had arrived from Kansas. Titus and Ruth arrived late in the afternoon with their boys. They had started off early that morning and made good time.

  I repeated the story of Dad’s death to all my siblings as they came. Teared up a bit, in the memory and the telling. And we hugged and spoke of who the man was and his vast, almost limitless impact on our lives. Our father. He was gone. It seemed surreal and impossible. He was survived by all his children. It was nip and tuck there more than a few times over the years. Almost, one or two of us went before him. But he never had to know a loss like that, even though he reached ninety-seven.

  The youth came, too, after supper. Or maybe for supper. I can’t remember. They came, dozens and dozens of single boys and girls. They sat in rows in the main part of the great room. And they sang. Aylmer never did allow singing in harmony or parts. The original bishop, Pete Yoder, claimed that God was more pleased if everyone sang in one voice. In one key. So that’s what they do up there in Aylmer. And that night, it was beautiful. German songs first. Then English. And after half an hour or so, a minister stood with a German prayer book. I think it was Christian Stoll, Joe Stoll’s youngest son. He spoke briefly, then asked everyone to stand. We did. He read a long German prayer aloud. I appreciated again the rituals and traditions of an Amish funeral. It’s old, it’s rare, and it’s quiet and beautiful.

  The youth all filed through to view Dad and to shake hands with us. And the crowd dispersed after a while. People left. Soon it was time for us to leave. And we gathered in the little plywood room with Dad, all the family. His children who were there, and their children. We milled around a bit. “Why don’t we sing a song?” someone asked. And Alvin Yutzy led a few verses. Some of the voices were cracked, like mine, but we sang: “I will meet you at the eastern gate, over there.” We stood in somber silence then. Joe Gascho stepped up beside the head of the coffin, by the wall. It was time to close the hinged cover. (Lid seems a little harsh. So hinged cover it is.) And he said somberly, “It’s time to close the coffin. Titus, will you help me?” And Titus rolled up, and he and Joe gently lifted the cover and set it down. Rituals and traditions. We filed out.

  I drove to the motel soon. Almost everyone from out of town was booked there. The first night after Dad passed, I came in and chatted with the Indian owner. They had been told there was a funeral coming soon. Rooms would be needed. So they were looking for us. I got there that night and stood at the counter. Wagler funeral. What kind of discount can you give? Deal with me now. I got lots of family and friends coming in over the next few days. He gave me 10 percent off. I could barely get my room booked, because the phone kept interrupting us with my kin calling for reservations. We got it done eventually. The phone kept ringing. “I wasn’t kidding,” I told the man. My room was very nice. Recently remodeled. Clean as clean could be. The bed was firm, just as I like it. That first night, I hung out my clothes for an extended stay.

  We gathered in the conference room then. All the Waglers and their kin and their friends. I had asked the owner, back the first day, “Can we use the conference room every night? And make sure to rent the rooms around the conference room to my people, so no one gets upset.” He claimed he would. It didn’t quite work like he’d promised, but in the end, everything went pretty well, considering. Loud times were had. Calls were made to the front desk with irate complaints. Warnings were issued and it got quieter for a while until it wasn’t anymore. My people don’t take all that kindly to being shushed. We tend to get louder.

  Saturday. Moving along, about as slow as the actual days went. Every minute was loaded with so much. Emotions. Memories. Meeting old friends. It almost becomes a blur. Rosemary wanted us out at the viewing around eleven. I meandered out with my old friend and brother-in-law Marvin Yutzy. We always like to take a few minutes and talk alone. We chatted as we cruised around the community. I took him around the block from the east, past our old homeplace. Only two buildings remained from my childhood days there. The vast old frame barn and the block washhouse. Oh, and the old shop and machinery shed. We had just built that shed new the year we left. So only three actual physical things remained. It was like a different place. Still, I pointed out the pond where we’d played hockey and the north banks where I’d caught my first little mud catfish when I was about four. My sisters Rachel and Naomi had taken me fishing for the first time. I pointed out that spot.

  This day was pretty much a repeat of the day before, except there were more people. Friday was a little slow. Saturday was much busier. Everyone arrived from my family, the ones who’d had to travel a distance. All of them got there by Saturday afternoon sometime. My brother Joseph came with his wife, Iva, accompanied by several of his sons and his youngest daughter, Rosanna. He was quite ill from multiple myeloma, which he had battled for ten years. Not doing that well. He could walk some, his family also pushed him around in a wheelchair. He didn’t shake hands with anyone. He had to be extra careful about infections and germs. We welcomed every one of them as they came. This was it. This was Dad’s funeral. We would all make it. A lot of the grandchildren, my nieces and nephews, showed up, too. There are fifty-nine. Not all could make it, of course. But a lot did. Alvin and Naomi’s son Gideon Yutzy and his wife, Esther, and their infant youngest daughter flew over from their home in Ireland. From Dublin to Toronto. It used to be that people couldn’t go more than a few hundred miles for a funeral, what with news traveling slow and transportation issues. Now you can fly in from anywhere in the world, if you’re of a mind to.

  I invited three people by personally reaching out to them. Jerry Eicher, my cousin and author friend. John Schmid, the folk singer from Holmes County, Ohio. And Mark Ernest Burr, whom I last saw when I was a child in Aylmer. He was one of those “wacky” English converts who had in mind to join the Amish. It didn’t work. We’d reconnected online, Mark and my family, and it felt right to invite an old friend from another time to my father’s funeral. I told Schmid about it because he’d gotten to know Dad down in Florida. In Pinecraft, at Birky Square, where the singers come around every winter to play their stuff. Dad had loved John’s singing. He went to all his concerts that he could make. He particularly loved John’s ballad about Howard Gray, a boy who was bullied like Nicholas was in my first book. Dad always requested that song when he saw John singing. It’s pretty ironic, when you think about who my father was in my childhood, that he would openly listen to and enjoy any musical instruments. It was always in there, that desire and enjoyment. He just quashed it for many decades. It is what it is, I guess. Or was what it was.

  I invited those three people, not that anyone else would not have been welcome. In most Amish communities, you don’t need an invite to go to a funeral. Lancaster and its daughter settlements are the exceptions. Before I moved to Lancaster, I’d never heard of having to be invited to a funeral before you go. You just went if you wanted to. I was happy that all three of my friends showed up. Jerry and his wife came on Saturday. John and Mark didn’t make it to the funeral site until Sunday morning. I chatted with Jerry after we ate supper Saturday night. Another delicious but meat-challenged casserole. Jerry was strolling around, and I waved him toward a seat beside me. I thanked him for coming. He said he’d been seriously considering it, then my text had made the final decision for him. And we just caught up. I always ask for his take on the publishing world. The man has been around and has seen a lot. I respect his opinions. He asked how my book was coming along, of course. “It’s coming slow,” I said. “The thing is, I’ve known for a while now that there will be no closure for the book until we bury my father. Now that’s happening. Now I guess we’ll see what comes. I don’t know.”

  Jerry nodded. And he told me again, like he’d said before, “You should get a book published of a bunch of your best blogs.
That would sell.”

  I looked dubious. I listened, though.

  And he spoke about my father, too, Jerry did. He told me, “Your dad was way more influential than people realize. He had a tremendous impact.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know that.”

  Jerry went on. “Your father was flawed, and he knew it. He knew he was writing about the ideal, not reality. He knew that. He did it deliberately.” And Jerry made a fascinating observation. He has written a lot of Amish fiction in his time. More than a million copies of his books have sold. That’s a lot. And he told me that when he did research on some Amish community somewhere to get materials for a new novel, he soon noticed something. If an Amish community allowed its people to subscribe to the Pathway publications, like Family Life, that community had higher moral standards than the communities that didn’t allow the magazines. There was a clear distinction, Jerry claimed. The plainer hard-core communities always had more issues with bed courtship, alcoholism, and just overall corrupt morals. He mentioned tobacco, too. But I don’t consider tobacco immoral, so I don’t count it as a corrupt influence in any Amish community.