Runaway Amish Girl

by Emma Gingerich

  Rhoda was one year younger than me and was a momma’s girl. She always acted like she was older than me and she tried to boss me around; she got away with it most of time. Rhoda never got into any trouble that resulted in punishment. Mem even told me once that people in church often commented on how cute Rhoda was. After that, I knew I would never be Mem’s favorite. Rhoda was a picture-perfect young lady. I envied her because it seemed like she had a free spirit and no guilty conscience to hide from the world. Except the one time when she threw away a little radio I secretly hid.

  After several weeks of frantically searching for my radio, and dreading God had somehow taken it away from me to teach me a lesson, I feared I was doomed. Sarah was the only one who knew I kept the forbidden piece of electronics, and she was concerned that if we continued looking for it, God would punish us for sure. I had hidden the radio in the attic, and because it disappeared in the summer time, the attic sweltered from the blazing summer heat.

  “Don’t you think the radio just melted and disappeared up here?” Sarah asked with a red sweaty face, staring straight at me.

  We had crawled up the stairs to the attic to look for the radio once more, but we did not make it all the way to the top before we turned around and climbed back down to the landing; it was just too hot.

  “No Sarah,” I replied. “If a radio melts then wouldn’t all those boxes up there catch on fire?”

  Then one day, after several months of searching and wondering what had happened to my radio, Rhoda overheard our conversation as Sarah and I continued trying to piece the puzzle together. She confessed she had thrown it in the ditch next to the road.

  “Why in the world would you that?!” I roared, trying hard not grab her neck.

  “It is evil to have a radio and you girls know better than to have one,” she answered calmly, as if it was no big deal. “You should be glad I was trying to protect us.”

  “Protect us? What do you mean by that?” Sarah growled.

  “I heard that the Hau can bring bad luck to the whole family when one of us does something we are not allowed to do,” answered Rhoda sweetly. Hau means God, or the “Good Man,” in German. In my family, there were certain things we did not speak about, and one of these was fear of causing God’s retribution if we did not follow the rules. No one said those exact words, but there was a mutual understanding it could happen.

  I did not say anything more to Rhoda. Instead, I snuck out to the ditch and found the radio where she had thrown it, but the rain had already ruined it. As I stomped the radio into the ground, I wondered what my sister really thought of me. I felt so guilty for having a radio when I knew it was wrong, and I could not help but agree with her that I was putting the whole family in danger. I prayed the Good Man would have mercy on my family, and if bad luck happened, I hoped it would only happen to me because it was my fault.

  Even though having a radio was wrong, listening to music was my number-one passion. Many nights I lay in bed completely under the covers and listened to anything I could pick up. I did not know the difference between a country and pop rock station—as long as there was music I was happy. Understanding the words of a song was impossible for me: I had only learned a little bit of English in school, but not enough to let me enjoy the lyrics.

  The music’s rhythm comforted me, but it also terrified me because I worried someone would burst into my room without warning. With so many people in the house, there was no telling when someone would decide to pop into my room. There was no lock on the door, but if there had been, it would have only made me look suspicious if I had used it. Since I knew I was doing something wrong, I wondered if I would wake up the next day and still be in good health. I became convinced something was bound to happen to me. I feared listening to this music would result in bad luck, so sometimes I would crush and throw away my own radio. Then if nothing bad happened to me, I would find a way to secretly buy another one. Every time I purchased another radio I could feel the cashier staring a hole in me. I automatically assumed all cashiers and store employees had been forewarned by the Amish men to report if they saw someone buying anything we were not supposed to have.

  Rhoda did not tell my parents about the radio she had thrown out, or there would have been consequences to pay. For that, I was grateful. But every time I got caught with one, Datt would preach to me about the sin I had brought down upon myself. Having a radio in Amish was forbidden, which was hard enough for me to understand, but asking questions did no good because no one would provide an answer that made any sense. I had gotten caught many times with a radio, and my parents would hold it over me for several days, and I would feel my household workload increase. They did not have to punish me because I already felt guilty enough for my actions. I was sure God was going to give me a disease, or I was going to end up in some sort of freak accident.

  I knew Rhoda had her reasons for doing what she did, but she surprised me by taking care of the matter on her own. As I got older and my irritation with the Amish way of life increased, my position as a good role model for my siblings deteriorated. However, I had a feeling Rhoda would someday be a great mother to her own children, even if they did not come from airplanes. Now as I think back on Rhoda’s faithfulness and dedication to the Amish rules, I wonder why I did not have that kind of commitment too. I stepped out of my comfort zone to find the one thing my heart was missing: freedom. Instead of getting married and raising a family like Rhoda will someday, I am now learning to support myself without the dominance of a man.

  Chapter 3:

  Life as a Teenager

  Trust that your soul has a plan even if

  you can’t see it all.

  ~Deepak Chopra~

  Sitting in a modern engine-driven combine gave me a high like I was on drugs or something. Never in my life had I thought I would be doing anything in a field without the use of horses, but the summer after I escaped from the Amish I jumped at the opportunity to work on a farm in North Dakota. I was thrilled to drive a combine to harvest wheat. Working with equipment other than horses was a new and exciting challenge for me, and I took the opportunity to do something crazy before I started a new semester in college.

  I had no problem learning how to drive the enormous piece of machinery; I only weighed 105 pounds, which made me feel like a little rat sitting in the huge tractor. However, after a couple days of practice, I drove the combine like a pro. At home, the whole family would spread out into the wheat field and set up bundles of freshly-cut wheat in shocks (little huts). It was hard work to pick up and carry those bundles, but we had to do it so the bundles could dry out before being fed into the thrashing machine powered with a big engine with a long belt connected to the thrasher.

  When I was still at home, I had always been more of an outside farm girl than a stay-in-the-house girl. I wondered how I could now drive a combine when I had all kinds of trouble guiding horses when I was younger. I loved being out in the barn milking the cows early in the mornings, or feeding the chickens and gathering eggs in the late afternoons. While I enjoyed those chores, I was also glad to hand those chores over to somebody else. In my house, the chores dribbled down the line as each child grew old enough to do them. The girls started by doing housework, such as cooking, cleaning, and taking care of babies, then graduated to doing chores out in the barn, which consisted mostly of milking cows and feeding chickens. The boys did the rest of the work, but they never helped with housework, which the Amish considered girls’ work. Once my younger siblings grew old enough to take care of these kinds of chores, I began helping with my family’s main income: weaving baskets.

  Besides weaving baskets at the age of twelve, I got the part time job of driving a team of horses during the haying season. The idea thrilled me! However, my brothers were not too enthused because they thought I was just a flimsy sister who needed to stay in the house where women belonged.

  On one hot summer day, I stood high on the wagon headboard driving a team of Belgian horses through t
he long rows of freshly-raked hay. I had to make sure the hay loader hooked onto the back of wagon was raking it up. Jacob, my younger brother, Sam, and the hired hand, Menno, stacked the loose hay with forks as it came up the loader. I wanted to prove to my brothers I was strong and could handle anything. Of course, when I was trying to prove my boyish skills, something always went wrong, and this time was no exception. While standing tall and breathing in the fresh smell of cut hay, something suddenly frightened the horses and they bolted. Unfortunately, my big girl panties were just not big enough to handle the spooked horses. I screamed for help while yanking the reigns with all my strength. Menno dashed forward from the back of the wagon and grabbed the lines from me, but it was too late. The huge load of hay slid off the wagon, dragging my brothers and I with it, burying us as we hit the ground.

  No one got seriously hurt, just some bumps and bruises, but it shook us all up. The boys blamed me for making the horses run away. I do not know how I scared them, unless they saw my dress flapping around from the wind. More likely the boys did not like me driving, so they blamed me for the runaway regardless, so I would quit driving. So I did. I did not drive any more for the rest of the haying season, and the bad luck did not end there; it followed me around for the next several years.

  §

  The next incident occurred soon after I finished school, when I was around fourteen years old. Everyone only received an eighth-grade education, then we stayed home and worked full time. At fourteen, my parents allowed me to go to town without another adult to run errands. On this particular day I had to go to the hardware store to buy some supplies for our basket shop. I took my two-year-old sister, Lizzie, with me so Mem could get a little break.

  I drove a horse named Smokey. He was supposed to be safe for the girls to drive, but as he walked through town he suddenly spied a water sprinkler in someone’s yard. With no warning, he threw his head up and took off galloping down the street. This was so unexpected I could not get control of him soon enough. It did not matter how hard I pulled on the reigns, Smokey did not slow down. It seemed like he held the bridle bit between his teeth so he would not feel it when I pulled on the lines. What a smart horse, I thought.

  We flew through a stop sign with a blur and crossed a busy highway so fast I did not have time to scream at the car we almost smacked into. Not that screaming would have done any good. Smokey ran straight into the backyard, turning just enough to miss the car sitting in the driveway and the corner of the garage. The horse almost ran into a clothesline, but he managed to stop short. Lizzie fell sideways at the sudden stop and bumped her head against the side of the seat frame. It jerked my head so badly it took me a second to realize what had just happened. Smokey stood quietly, and I realized if he had not stopped short of the clothesline, the damage that would have caused would have been on a whole different level.

  As I came to my senses, I had to figure out how to calm down my hysterically-crying little sister. Smokey stood very still and looked around nervously. His hindquarters shook as if he thought I was going to punish him with the buggy whip. I spoke to him gently to calm him down. Smokey had kicked grass up from the lawn, exposing dirt where the horse’s feet had scraped it away.

  As Lizzie calmed down, I assessed the situation: because of the size of the yard and the proximity of the house and the clothesline, there was no way I could turn around or back out the buggy. My next option was to unhitch the horse. However, I could not climb down from the buggy and leave Lizzie sitting by herself, and if I took her with me, I could not hold on to Smokey. I closed my eyes and hoped when I opened them again I would wake up in bed and this would only be a bad dream. Unfortunately, when I opened my eyes again the bad situation was as real as ever.

  I glanced toward the house and saw a man standing at the back door. He was on the phone. Yikes! He is already calling the police! I thought. He disappeared back into the house. This is not good. He is not even going to see if I need help. During a time like this it would have been nice to have a cell phone to call my parents for help. Do not even think about phones right now, think, think, think of a way to get out. A few minutes later the man left his house and walked over to the buggy.

  “I apologize for not coming sooner,” he said. “I was on an important call when I saw this horse and buggy flying into the yard.”

  My chest hurt from my heart beating so fast, and my nerves sang with the tension of the situation. “So did you call the police?” I asked in a scared voice, almost choking.

  He looked at me over the top of his glasses and smiled. “There is no need to get police involved,” he said. “I can help you.”

  “I-I- I am sorry this happened,” I stammered. “Something scared the horse and he made a mad dash down the street.”

  “I understand,” he said, still looking at me over the rim of his glasses. “Don’t be sorry, accidents happen all the time and you and your sister are very lucky girls that you didn’t get hit crossing the highway.”

  I was relieved he was one of the few city people who did not mind Amish people and their horses. At the time, some people in the town complained about the horse poop on the city streets, and they even tried to pass a city law requiring horses to wear diapers. The Amish elders did not agree with it, so it never happened. As a result, some people were not very friendly with the Amish anymore.

  The man held on to Smokey while I unhitched him from the buggy. I could not turn the cart around by myself so we tied Smokey to the clothesline post. With the man’s help, we turned the buggy around and hitched Smokey to it again.

  As soon as we got back on the road, Smokey was very skittish; any little noise made him jump. I was scared to drive home, especially since I was still in town. I needed to make one more stop at the grocery store, but I was not about to take the risk of Smokey acting up again. I decided it would be best to turn around and go back home and hope Mem would not be too upset for not bringing home the groceries.

  That night I told my family what had happened, but they did not seem to grasp the idea of how scary it had been to fly across a busy highway and mess up a stranger’s back yard.

  “I am not very happy about it since it’s so far to town and we are pretty busy here at home,” Mem said while peeling potatoes for supper at the kitchen sink, “but I guess we will go tomorrow again to get groceries.”

  Datt stood at the kitchen door smoking his pipe, and the look on his face told me he thought I was a reckless person. Finally, after staring at me for what seemed like ten minutes, he said, “You probably weren’t minding your business or it wouldn’t have happened.”

  I wanted to say, Okay whatever you say, Datt, but I kept my mouth shut. There was no use trying to explain why it had happened; whenever he puffed his pipe he always seemed to drift off with the smoke to a faraway land. I had my baby sister with me, so of course I was minding my business. I did not want something to happen to her. I felt so sorry for Lizzie. She had been scared out of her skin, and on the way home I had made her sit close to me to help her feel comfortable again.

  §

  It was not long before another incident made me begin to wonder if Datt was right about me not paying attention to my surroundings. This incident did not involve traffic or a runaway horse, but rather a mailbox. That time I drove an ugly, stupid, and stubborn horse named Minnie. No one liked to drive Minnie, and on that particular day she walked extra slow. I did not blame her, though—she had twelve miles to get me where I was going.

  I had to go to my datt’s twin brother Jacob’s family to help them prepare for the church service that Sunday. The services rotated from one family’s house to the next, and it was tradition the girls help close relatives get ready for church on one day during the week.

  Preparing to have a church service at our house usually took a whole week. The house had to be cleaned from top to bottom, not only because we wanted it clean, but also so people would not complain about spotting a speck of dirt, which would have been embarrassing.


  After completing the cleaning by Wednesday, the baking started on Thursday. The women began by baking bread to make the bean soup for Sunday’s dinner. It took roughly twelve loaves just for the soup, and another twelve for lunch to eat with jams and jelly. On Friday they made buttermilk cookies and snitz (dried apple) pies, which is standard Amish practice. The cookies and pies were set aside for the little children to snack on during the church service. The adults would eat whatever was left over, after the dishes were washed. The men never helped with the dishes, but yet they got a snack too. I never could understand that concept.

  I was not excited about helping my Uncle’s family because I was not enthusiastic about cleaning and baking at someone else’s house when we could not even keep up at home. But I went anyway.

  About an hour after I left home, I was driving along the shoulder of a busy highway when it started to rain. When I reached down to grab a cover off the floorboard, Minnie edged farther onto the shoulder of the road, pulling the cart with her. When I looked up again, the front wheel rolled right up to a mailbox shaped like a pig. I quickly jerked the lines to stop the horse, but it was too late: I hit the piggy mailbox with a hard crunch. The lid, shaped as the pig’s nose, fell open, the cover twisted, and the whole mailbox rotated sideways with a loud squeal.

  I did not know what to do. All the houses were on the opposite side of the road, so I did not think anyone saw the accident, so I kept on driving. I knew everyone would realize a buggy hit the mailbox because the wagon wheels left fresh tracks in the moist sand leading away from the twisted pig. I did not see any other buggies on the road, so I thought I would have a good chance no one would ever find out who did it. They would especially not suspect it was me.

  Once I got to my Uncle Jacob’s house, the whole morning seemed out of whack. I tried to concentrate on helping my cousins clean the wooden floors and windows upstairs, but the image of the mailbox would not leave me alone. What should I do about it? I worried.