He was buried alongside my brother and sister—Tobias and Miriam—beneath a stone almost twice the size of theirs. “Tobias J. Miller,” it reads. “April 23, 1913, May 18, 1996, 83 Y., 25 D, Gone But Not Forgotten.”
I wrote a poem to be read at his funeral. It was more for the benefit of others than for myself:
Dear husband, father, grandfather,
It is hard to see you go,
It was hard to see you linger,
And to see you suffer so.
Father, we have many memories,
How you helped in work and play,
Precious memories always linger,
Of our happy childhood days.
You have helped so many people,
Always willing, a hand to lend,
You have labored hard and long,
For family, church, and many a friend.
Jesus saw you growing weary,
So he sent an angel bright,
Softly whispered, “Come with me,”
To the realms of pure delight.
Dear grandfather, how we miss you,
And our hearts are sore with grief,
But we trust that you are resting,
In his arms of sweet relief.
Rest forever, rest in peace,
For your work on earth is done,
May we all meet you in heaven,
Where there is no setting sun.
My family chose not to use the poem at the services, picking instead some other published passages. And that was okay with me.
Although I felt sadness that day, his death was more a benchmark of my roller-coaster life. Things were moving so fast I could scarcely breathe.
Ottie’s divorce had become final in April 1996, removing the stigma of being attracted to a married man. But when the notice appeared in the newspaper, people within the Amish community became suspicious about his intentions.
My father told me I’d have to stop working at Ottie’s house. “That’s gotta quit,” he said, scowling. My deacon vowed to talk to me if I didn’t comply. Meanwhile, Amish who had been using Ottie as a driver began telling him they no longer needed his services.
My oldest brother, Elson, also planned to intervene.
“I was going to talk to Irene about the connection they had,” he would later say. “I saw some love there that was not supposed to be—a young girl like that falling in love with a guy that age, you know.”
One of my uncles even got into the act. He spread information around the Amish community that he had seen Ottie and me look at each other in an intimate way.
Truth be told, it was more than just the divorce feeding the frenzy. It was us.
When Ottie was out of town, I’d use a phone tucked in a barn along the way to school to dial the motel numbers he’d left for me.
When he was in from the road, we’d meet before school—he in the van, me in the buggy. We’d pass along Johnson-Washington County Road about 7:00 A.M. and stop at a little dip where we thought no one could see us. We’d talk briefly, then move on.
Sometimes, if we mustered enough courage, we’d also meet at the school before the children arrived at 8:00 A.M.
Our after-school rendezvous were riskier still. I’d drive the buggy into town and hitch it inside a white shed off A Place, little more than an alley between 4th and 5th streets. Ottie would come down A Place in his van about 4:30 P.M. and I’d jump in the back and lie down until we were out of town and out of sight.
We’d drive south, traverse the English River on an old, one-lane iron bridge, and find a place to park in the country, where we’d talk mostly. About our separate lives. About Ottie’s travels.
One of my strongest memories is the time he described driving west on the flatlands of eastern Colorado and seeing what looked like a long, gauzy band of clouds on the horizon.
“But what they were, when you got closer, were the Rocky Mountains—the most spectacular range of peaks in North America,’’ he said. “Snow-capped sentries that seem like they go on forever.”
“I would love to see them one day,” I said.
“I would love to be there with you when you do.”
On the days when we met up at A Place, I’d tell my family I was late getting home because I’d gone downtown to buy school supplies. Notebooks, paper, pencils, and the like.
That meant we had to time everything meticulously. We figured forty-five minutes was the most we could spend together before Ottie drove back to town and dropped me off. At 5:15 P.M., I’d run into Reif’s, buy the supplies, jump in my buggy, and head home.
There was the matter of getting it all done before the stores—and the town—closed at 6:00 P.M. More important, dallying any longer would’ve surely raised suspicions.
As it turned out, we were not as careful as we’d thought. Word began filtering through the community that we had been seen once too often chatting in the middle of the road or conversing at the school.
Against this backdrop of intense surveillance, things were not getting any better at home. My father was executor of my grandfather’s estate, and anytime my mother would ask him about it, she would be reprimanded. The tension that pervaded our house was unbearable.
Fortunately, a long-planned vacation was about to provide some relief—and then some. The week after my grandfather died, Bertha, I, and a cousin and her husband acting as chaperones set out with Ottie for a one-week trip that was to take us to Tennessee, Virginia, and Ohio. But when we got to Tennessee, Ottie, knowing I’d always longed to see palm trees and clear-blue tropical waters, mentioned Florida was within reach. So off we went to Key West.
We drove Duval Street from one end to the other, over and over, watching the drunks, the transvestites, the sidewalk artists, and the motley-attired crowds. When we tired of that, we traveled the fragrant side streets of small homes, scampering geckos and lovers kissing under giant, twisted tree limbs.
Many Amish might have considered it hell on earth, and it certainly was a side of the English world I couldn’t have imagined in my wildest dreams. But the energy of the place was fascinating. And I was away from Kalona—and my father.
Later that night, after discovering we couldn’t get a motel room in Key West on Memorial Day weekend, Ottie parked by the beach and we slept in the van until the big southern sun began its climb over the Atlantic. Ottie and I went for a walk on the beach that morning and watched the seagulls hover like helicopters in the breeze. We didn’t hold hands, because Bertha and my cousin and her husband were watching from the van. We didn’t even look at each other when we talked, lest someone should conclude we were acting too chummy.
But the stroll was nevertheless romantic, and Ottie told me it could be this way all the time—only better.
I knew what he meant.
On our way back from Key West, we stopped in Berlin, Ohio. Bertha, who like Ottie had always had trouble with her feet—arthritis, I think—wanted to see Dr. John, an Amish doctor who’d developed a good reputation for treating such ailments.
She had initially planned to stay only a day or two, but decided to stretch it to two weeks when she secured lodging with an Amish girl in nearby Sugar Creek. Ottie then arranged for Bertha to work during her visit at a printing company he had done business with.
It looked like Ottie and I would finally be able to spend some unsupervised, unhurried time alone.
Ottie had booked three rooms at the Berlin Village Inn. One for me, one for him, and one for my cousin and her husband. Bertha would have shared my room if she hadn’t extended her stay.
Ottie told me ahead of time that if I didn’t want to come down to his room that night, he’d understand.
“But if you do come down,” he said, “you’re mine and you’re staying the night.”
For the first time, I was free of apprehension. I had already asked for God’s forgiveness—many times. And I was secure in the knowledge that I had amply demonstrated my trust in him.
Psalm 32:7–10: “Thou art
my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance. I will instruct thee and teach thee in the way thou shalt go: I will guide thee with mine eye. Be ye not as the horse or as the mule, which have no understanding: whose mouth must be held in with bit and bridle, lest they come near unto thee. Many sorrows shall be to the wicked: but he that trusteth in the Lord, mercy shall compass him about.”
Maybe, I told God, what I’m about to do is a sin. Maybe, under any other circumstance, it is wicked. But I have prayed to you, and I have asked for your guidance, and here we are. How could something so sweet and true be so wrong, so misguided?
I put a housecoat over my nightgown, walked to Ottie’s room, knocked softly, and looked around to make sure no one had noticed me, especially my cousin and her husband. When he opened the door and let me in, I felt like I was finally home.
We sat in bed for hours, clothes on, talking, embracing, holding hands, kissing, experiencing the aura of two beings as one. Then I took my head covering off and let my hair down—something Amish women reserve only for their husbands.
Ottie asked if he could brush my hair, I consented, and a spectrum of passion I had never felt before enveloped me. I could see the love and affection in Ottie’s eyes as he ran the bristles through my hair. I could feel him gently caressing me with his other hand and lightly pressing his lips against the nape of my neck. I could hear him telling me he loved me and that he’d protect me.
At twenty-two I felt safe and secure, special and sublime.
And later, sometime in the middle of the night, when we’d lost track of time, the brush fell to the floor and we made love. Naturally. Unrehearsed. Unrushed. Without fanfare.
In the afterglow, a warm feeling of contentment washed over me, and we held each other for the rest of the night. Awake.
Neither one of us wanted the dawn to come.
Ten
I’d like to sum things up this way. What you did, we feel, was way wrong. But what Dad does to Mom or they do toward each other—and have done for years—is way wrong, too. Their own mistakes are making it hard for everyone around them. My constant plea and prayer is that we can all see our mistakes and truly repent.
—LETTER FROM WILBUR MILLER (BROTHER)
Freedom came to me June 8, 1996, a Saturday, ten days before Theodore Kaczynski was indicted by a California grand jury in the Unabomber case.
At about 9:00 that morning, Ottie gathered up Bertha and me and drove us to his house, where we retrieved some of his paperwork—research for a national directory he was compiling that listed people who drove for the Amish.
Because my father had prohibited Bertha and me from working at Ottie’s house, the alphabetizing of the directory would have to be done at the farm. My father had also issued a warning: He wanted to talk to Ottie that evening, presumably about severing ties with him as the family’s driver and prohibiting further foot treatments.
“What’s up with your father?” Ottie asked after we’d arrived at his house and I’d told him about the warning. “What does he want to see me about?”
“He keeps ranting and raving that your divorce was in the paper and that people are talking,” I said.
“Well, what’s he gonna do? Stop you guys from working for me altogether? Stop me from driving for the family?”
“I think that’s what he’s up to.”
“This is beginning to look like they’re trying to get me out of the settlement,” he said. “And you know, Irene, if that happens, I won’t be able to see you anymore.”
“I know, but I don’t know what to do.”
In the hollow space between us, sitting there on the couch in his house, there was the paralyzing realization that we might never make love again, might never share each other’s company again, might never see our dreams through.
“There’s only one thing to do, Irene,” Ottie blurted suddenly. “We need to leave today. We’ll leave, we’ll get married in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, we’ll settle down near my family in Kentucky.”
“Can’t we do this in a couple of weeks?” I protested. “Can’t we have time to plan?”
“I don’t think so, Irene. Now is the time.”
“I . . . I . . . can’t,” I struggled, searching for another solution. “You know I can’t leave the Amish. You know I can’t leave Mom, and you know I don’t want to hurt the rest of the family.’’
But no sooner had I said it that I knew instinctively Ottie was probably right. The timing was good; both of my parents had gone to town and would not be at the farm to interfere. Waiting, meanwhile, would run the risk that we’d be caught, either by our own ineptitude, circumstance, or my older sister speaking up.
I trusted Bertha implicitly, but she was the weaker of the two of us. She had been bad-mouthed so much by my father and others in the community that she had lost what little self-esteem she might have once had. It wouldn’t take much to twist her arm into talking.
Another thought also occurred to me: Maybe my leaving would finally wake up the Amish community to the troubles at our house. Maybe, in an odd way, my leaving would actually help my mother.
Even so, I couldn’t bring myself to tell Ottie I was ready to go. The desire notwithstanding, the words simply wouldn’t form.
We packed up his documents, returned to the farm, and began unloading them with Benedict’s help. Out of my brother’s sight, I took a few dresses from my closet and put them in the van. Just in case, I thought.
Earlier, when Ottie had come to pick us up, I had also boxed up my crystal swans and put them in the van. I had begun to worry they would be discovered and figured Ottie could hide them better than I could. Subconsciously, the reason might have been far weightier.
When we were done unloading Ottie’s papers, he suggested we go for a drive to continue our discussion. And so we did. Ottie up front in the driver’s seat; Bertha and me in the back, as always, trying not to draw undue attention to a single English man in the company of two single Amish women.
My sister said little during the drive, occasionally interjecting mild protests in her soft, insecure way.
Once, she raised the issue of adultery. Ottie’s divorces. His ex-wives still being alive and such.
“Is this really right?” she said.
“I’m tired of everything, Bertha,” I told her. “I can’t take it anymore.”
Another time she said, “Don’t you ever take your head covering off.”
But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell her I already had. I just looked straight ahead until I came face to face with Ottie in the rearview mirror. He shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “What will it be?” And I nodded.
I couldn’t say, “Yes, I will marry you,” or “Yes, I will go with you.” But I’d managed a nod, and Ottie knew what it meant.
On the way back to the farm, I jotted a note to my mother on a scrap of paper. Two paragraphs, maybe three. Something to the effect of, “I’m leaving with Ottie; it’s not your fault; you’ve been a good mother to me; I love you; Irene.”
I knew that even if an opportunity had presented itself, I wouldn’t have been able to tell her in person. The anguish creasing her face would have been too much for me to bear. At the same time, I felt obliged to let her know what I was doing.
We let Bertha off in front of the mailbox, I handed her the note, and we exchanged unceremonious Amish farewells.
“Goodbye,” I said.
“Goodbye,” she echoed.
She began crossing the dirt road to the farm. As she did, my father, who had returned from town, appeared from inside the barn, some sixty yards away. He looked at Bertha, then at the van. When he saw I was not getting out, he began walking toward us.
We didn’t let any grass grow beneath the wheels.
Ottie headed down Gable Avenue, turned right on Johnson-Washington County Road, then made another right north onto Highway 1. Up the hill, out of sight, into the unknown.
Worr
ied that we might be followed—that the police might be summoned by the Amish—we took the back roads out of Kalona. We could have taken the traditional route. Iowa City, then Interstate 80. Instead, we circled south and caught Highway 61 into Missouri and Illinois, bound for Glasgow, Kentucky, home to many generations of Ottie’s family.
“Irene, honey, you’d better look back,” Ottie said somberly, “because it could be a long time before you see the farm again.”
“I know,” I said, deciding against a last glance. “Please keep going.”
I didn’t want to subject myself to any more emotion than I was already feeling. Besides, it’s hard for a person to move forward when they’re looking backward.
Later, Ottie tried to lighten the mood when he reminded me I’d be able to assemble a new wardrobe.
“You can go shopping and buy anything you want. Satin and silk, frills and pastels. All the things you like.”
“Yes,’’ I said, smiling.
“And we can travel, and be alone, and one day, perhaps, raise a family.”
“I know,” I said.
“But if you’re gonna be my wife, you’re gonna have to do one thing. You’re gonna have to shave your legs. You’re not Amish anymore, you know.”
“Right here? Right now?”
“Yep,” he said, and he pointed to an electric razor he had brought along, one of the few possessions he had extracted from his house before we left. “You can use that if you like.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Then he handed it to me, this English gadget of modern convenience, and I rolled down my leggings and began shaving the thin strands of hair from my calves.
I was nervous, just a little bit scared, and missing my family, despite our differences.
At the same time, Kalona all of a sudden seemed a long ways off.
Eleven
The only way I could come to you is if you come home with us. I don’t think I could take it to see the one who inflicted so much pain and grief and made you commit adultery and to live in sin in the prime of youth!
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