Crossing Over

by Ruth Irene Garrett

  I later learned that scientists believe Kentucky was once a shallow, prehistoric tropical sea, and that what I held in my hands were the remnants of tiny sea lilies called crinoids (or Indian beads), squidlike animals called cephalopods, shell creatures known as brachiopods, and corals and sponges.

  I returned home with a plastic bag filled with spirals, cylinders, cones, and shells, and deposited it on the front porch for a more detailed examination later.

  “Don’t lose those,” I told Ottie. “I’m going to find me enough of these fossils that I’m going to build me my own dinosaur.”

  I said it half in jest. Emphasis on the half.

  Twenty-One

  Are you ready to meet Jesus when He comes? . . . Are you making the scars in Jesus’ hands bigger if you keep right on going your way?

  —LETTER FROM BERTHA (SISTER)

  Bertha, my older sister by six years, had promised me when I left Kalona that she would write frequently to let me know how things were going with my family. Once every two weeks at least. Maybe even once a week.

  But since my departure almost four years ago, she had written only three times.

  I would later learn that she had lost her desire to write because my father insisted on reading every letter sent to me. It didn’t help that she is as timid as they come.

  Whereas I was determined not to be pushed down too far when I was growing up, Bertha lost the battle early on. She was constantly made fun of for being overweight, for having trouble with her feet, and for having bad eyes. By my family. By others.

  Not that I was small or didn’t have my own physical ailments.

  I weighed 170 pounds when I left the Amish. But for an active, big-boned woman like myself, it was a healthy 170. I could do almost anything a man could do on the farm, and certainly much more than Bertha was capable of doing.

  Like Bertha, I also had trouble with my eyes. But I faked it. While Bertha was wearing glasses, I was telling people I could see things I couldn’t see.

  A remark my father made to me once had me convinced wearing glasses was disgraceful. One time when I told him I couldn’t see something, he said in condescending fashion, “Awww, you just want to wear glasses, don’t you?”

  From that moment on—until I began teaching school—I was determined to make do seeing things with fuzzy edges, or not at all.

  I am now trying to undo the effects of indulgent experimentation with English food, a lack of regular exercise, and a happy marriage. Since leaving the Amish, I have put on a considerable amount of weight, so much so that I’m hesitant to reveal how much.

  I wish I had stopped the slide earlier, but it’s my responsibility. I walk two miles a day and survive on what amounts to a diet of bird feed. My determination and self-esteem will restore me to a farm-girl-healthy 170 pounds. I’m sure of it.

  And that is one of the biggest differences between myself and my sister. I do not like to fail, and when I was among the Amish I worked hard to make sure people respected me. My naturally outgoing nature also helped keep the wolves at bay, and my private study—absorbing any outside reading material I could get my hands on—gave me an intellectual edge that kept others off guard.

  I wish I could say it was all planned, but in truth these were inherent gifts. I had my destiny. She had hers.

  Not that she enjoyed her place of darkness. She once told me how people belittled her—from the owner of the Stringtown Grocery who paid her just a dollar an hour for a year and a half before bumping it a whopping fifty cents to the teachers who refuse to give her rides back and forth between work and home.

  Bertha teaches at an Amish school in Milton, about a two-hour car drive south of Kalona. Her fifteen dollars-a-day salary prohibits her from returning to Kalona regularly, so she boards with a local Amish family. She could become part of a car pool with teachers in nearby Bloomfield, about fifteen miles away, but the teachers tell her it’s too far to travel to pick her up en route to Kalona.

  She complains about these things, but there is also a helpless acceptance that further pushes her into a submission that is evident in every one of her mannerisms. She walks huddled and stooped, as someone might do fending off a subzero blizzard. She speaks softly, as people often do in libraries. And when she shakes hands, she does so limply and without conviction.

  She is, in the words of the Amish, a sorrowful old maid who is destined to remain unmarried—unless a widower chooses to have her as a caretaker for him and his children.

  So entrenched is she in yielding to oppression that she is among my harshest critics at times. And clearly, a frightened one. Such was the case in one of her letters:

  My Dear and Only Sister Irene:

  Lonely greetings sent your way.

  How do these lines find you? Since the last time you were at home, we often have to think about you! My thoughts have been I wish I could talk with you again, because I wouldn’t mind asking you some questions, but it’s not safe to write them down anymore.

  Mom and Dad don’t know I wrote, but I thought I should write you and tell you I got your letter. . . .

  Do you have all your questions answered? Are you ready to meet Jesus when he comes?. . . Are you making the scars in Jesus’ hands bigger if you keep right on going your way?

  Your only, lonely sister:

  Bertha

  I would dearly love to help her leave the Amish—to give her a chance at a fruitful and rewarding life. Because inside, she is a wonderful, caring person with a heart of gold who wrote this to me while I was still living in Kalona: “You’re the best sister a friend or sister could have.”

  Now that I’m gone, though, I worry that if I am too direct or forceful in my efforts to sway her, she will stiffen and back away. Perhaps forever.

  So I try to tell her how happy I am, and how one can live this new life without abandoning God and without risking the chance of going to heaven. In that way, I hope, she will summon the courage to take a bold step.

  Dear Sister Bertha:

  In God have I put my trust: I will not be afraid what man can do unto me. Psalm 56:11.

  The sun is shining today and it’s a beautiful day. It rained on Monday, so hopefully towards the end of the week I’ll be able to plant my garden.

  I don’t feel really perky as I got a sore throat and a cold, so I decided to write some letters. I’m sending your letter to the Milton address because you would still be there. I used the Iowa Amish Directory to find your address, so hopefully I have the right one. . . .

  Are Mom’s legs doing better? My suggestions may not go far, but for Mom’s sake I wish she would go see a specialist if they don’t get better. I worry about her health and I’m afraid she could get blood poisoning and lose her legs if she’s not careful.

  My life is so free, happy, and peaceful, you couldn’t imagine the difference, Bertha. My church is a loving Christian church and I’ve made many good friends. They love me and are friendly to me all the time. Nobody can imagine it, unless they live it or see it for themselves. I wish I could just come get my whole family so they could experience it. What a happy family we would be!

  I realize there may be little hope for that, but it doesn’t keep me from praying for it, because with God all things are possible. I didn’t think I could ever leave, but he was leading me and without his help I couldn’t have done it. The only thing that clouds my happiness is any pain it brought to anyone. It would really hurt me if I knew anyone made it harder for you, Mom, or anyone in my family because I left. You’re my only sister and I love you dearly. I’ll always be there for you or anyone else that needs me. . . .

  Love always,

  Irene

  I find it hard to believe that Bertha will ever leave the Amish, both because of her shyness and because of the Amish propaganda.

  The Amish tell their flock that English churches preach about heaven but not hell. They also say English churches twist scriptures to suit whatever needs come down the pike.

  Finally, th
ey tell members to beware of false prophets—and that would include people like myself who have left the Amish for the English world.

  It is incomprehensible that they can form such opinions without experiencing something first. It is equally disturbing that they feel so compelled to rule by intimidation.

  At one time, it would have been inconceivable for me to consider the Amish a cult.

  But now I understand the meaning of the word, and I think it’s possible they may be just that.

  I don’t hate the Amish for their transgressions. I feel sorry for them and worry about their spiritual welfare.

  I feel sorry for Bertha, too, and pray that one day she, along with my mother, will be delivered from their living hell.

  Twenty-Two

  (Du weiszt das keine hoffnung ist für ein gebanntglied. . . . Unser wunsch ist das du den Schöpfer suchen tust ob es zu schpot ist. Und der einzigste weg das wir sehen könnten das das getan sein kann ist zurück kommen wo du abgefallen bist und busze tun das übrige deines leben.)

  You know there is no hope for a banned member. . . . Our wish is that you seek your Creator before it’s too late. And the only way we see this can be done is come back to what you have fallen from and repent and be sorry for the rest of your life.

  —LETTER FROM EARL MILLER (UNCLE)

  My learning continued at an accelerated pace, both through travels Ottie and I took, and through achieving a dream I could only obtain in the English world—getting a General Equivalency Diploma.

  Both came easily.

  Ottie loves to drive, of course. It is the one way he can achieve comfortable mobility. And I love riding with him, taking in the sights, meeting people, absorbing all that is new.

  I am no longer as fascinated with the van as I once was. It is now like an old suit. Familiar and reliable, with pictures of me and Ottie propped on the dash, I in Amish attire and he in jeans and a flannel shirt. In the middle of our pictures is a passage from Psalm 119:73:

  “Thy hands have made me and fashioned me: give me understanding, that I may learn thy commandments.”

  We love taking trips to the country around Horse Cave, all the while listening to songs on the radio and holding hands. There are few moments more divine in our lives than sitting in the van, holding hands and watching the sun rise or set—God’s spectacular signatures on a day.

  We have our other favorite places we like to go, too. Key West is one of them. The Smoky Mountains another. And then there’s this little sliver of paradise in the middle of nowhere—Kentucky’s Marrowbone Valley. Locals call it the “Marribone,’’ no “w’s.” (There’s something about “w’s” in Southern speak; people don’t pronounce them.)

  The valley on Highway 90, southeast of diminutive spots in the road like Eighty Eight and Summer Shade, is rich with arrowheads and sparse with people, most of whom have decided to leave the hustle and bustle of big cities and forge a quiet life of simple pleasures. There’s the young couple with ten children who live off the land. The one-time police officer. The retired Air Force enlistee.

  It is here that we would like to live, too. On a plot of overgrown pasture next to the river. In a cabin or a house or both.

  We go to the valley frequently—to dream and plan. There’s one particular 4.2-acre site we have our eyes on that fronts the highway, has a little dirt access road, and claims part of the Marrowbone River. We’ve talked about clearing the land first—so we can see it, and so we can retrieve any fossils or Indian artifacts.

  Then we will build. And garden.

  The southern Kentucky region has long been a favorite of Ottie’s. He was born there and, even though he moved to Toledo, Ohio, a year later, he returned to visit relatives in the summers of his youth.

  When he was ten, Ottie and three cousins began exploring unmarked caves, including a large one behind the Glasgow City Jail. Inside the cave, in a spacious cavern, they found schools of blind fish no longer than a person’s pinky, and planks and chains that once confined slaves. With a bit of luck, they also found their way out after one of the boys dropped the group’s only flashlight and rendered it momentarily useless. When they finally retrieved it, searching on all fours, they knocked it a time or two and the light kicked back on.

  The boys also delighted in going to the country store at the Etoile crossroads, buying bottles of Coca-Cola and bags of peanuts and, after swallowing a quarter of their beverages, plunking the peanuts into the bottles. It was, for them, just the right concoction of drink and food to pass the time under a shade tree. That, and Moon Pies.

  Sometimes in the swelter of those 1950s summers, they would also tie sewing thread to the legs of June bugs and watch the big green insects cut circles in the air—until the bugs’ legs snapped off, freeing them from their bondage.

  When he wasn’t with his cousins, Ottie would go squirrel hunting behind Grandmother Garrett’s house, lugging along her .22-caliber single-shot rifle. He wasn’t much of a shot back then, and he was much too fascinated with the squirrels cavorting in the trees to ever lift the gun to his shoulder.

  Later, he moved with his mother Ersie, brother Benny, and sister Faye to Attica, Indiana, after his parents divorced, grew into a strapping high school defensive tackle for the Red Ramblers, and charmed the girls at sock hops with his dancing technique, learned at the hands of his mother and sister, who taught him for an hour every Saturday when Dick Clark’s American Bandstand aired.

  His mother, who died of cancer in 1992 at sixty, was a fan of Elvis and the Everly Brothers. There was also room in the home for the likes of Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash.

  These stories of English life helped form the basis for my education, although I realized purposeful learning meant so much more than absorbing folklore. I needed to get my GED.

  I took a sample test at Barren County High School in Glasgow in the summer of 1999 and was told I’d done well enough to skip adult education classes. Only my math scores were dubious, and I took home several floppy discs containing sample algebra questions so I could study them.

  On October 6, 1999, with little preparation, I took the real test—and passed.

  I finished in the 89th percentile nationally in writing, 74th in social studies, 71st in literature and arts, 64th in science, and 44th in mathematics. It was, I must admit, a pretty good showing for someone who’d only had a formal education through the eighth grade—and a somewhat limited education at that.

  All I can figure is that my hours of private study growing up and my year as a teacher gave me enough of a push to be successful.

  In any event, I was proud.

  I received a letter from the Kentucky Department for Adult Education and Literacy confirming my feelings, and my accomplishment:

  Dear GED graduate:

  I would like to congratulate you on passing the GED test. Your high school equivalency diploma is enclosed. I am honored to have this opportunity to reward your outstanding effort.

  Earning your GED marks an important milestone in your life, and your success is an inspiration to students across the Commonwealth who are currently enrolled in a GED program. . . .

  Congratulations once again on attaining your GED! I encourage you to continue this positive momentum as you pursue your future goals, and I wish you the best in all your endeavors.

  Sincerely,

  Reecie D. Stagnolia

  Acting Commissioner

  The formal graduation came on May 15, 2000, in the Barren County High School Auditorium—on the heels of President Clinton traveling the country, including Kentucky, in support of school reform.

  I wore a royal blue cap and gown and a smile the size of the Bluegrass State that night as I waited my turn among the ninety-two graduates. Someone sang a couple of gospel songs and a parade of speakers made sundry announcements, including one who mentioned something to the effect that 73 percent of high school seniors wouldn’t be able to pass the GED. A woman sitting next to me leaned over and whispered, “Man, she just made me feel smar
t.”

  I was feeling pretty bright at the moment, too.

  One of the speakers had told me earlier she was going to mention that I was once Amish. But when her time came, she became flustered and forgot. She later apologized to me in a letter, but I held no ill will. The important thing was that I had graduated.

  After the ceremonies, the celebration continued at a party at Faye’s house attended by friends and relatives. There were soft drinks, cheerful banter, and a cake that pronounced: “Congratulations Irene 2000.”

  It got me to thinking about going to college one day to ensure my future, perhaps to be a nurse or a youth minister. I like the idea of helping people, although I’m a little hesitant about being around injured people day after day.

  I once told Ottie: “If somebody comes into the hospital one day with their leg wide open, I’m not sure I want to be exposed to that.”

  Somebody told me I’d also have to witness an autopsy as part of my training, and I’m not sure I want to go through that, either.

  There’s a third career option that has some appeal: professional photographer, specializing in weddings, reunions, and portraits of families. With Ottie’s guidance, I have grown to enjoy taking pictures and even shot one of a restaurant fire that was published on the front page of the Glasgow Daily Times.

  Perhaps because I have no photographic images of my own childhood—something I deeply regret—I like the idea of creating memories for other people. A person can remember so much more through pictures, and they can derive years of pleasure simply by taking them out and reminiscing every so often.

  As I do with the pictures Ottie has taken of me.

  Perhaps one day I’ll be able to put pictures of my children in our photo album. Making babies has become a priority of ours—even more important than my career.

  The first two years out of Kalona, we had to be careful, because I hadn’t had any of the vaccinations English children normally get during their adolescence. The Amish are reluctant to get children vaccinated—because they distrust the English, because unfounded rumors have spread about deathly allergic reactions to the shots, and because the Amish are wedded to various home remedies.