Growing Up Amish

by Ira Wagler

  13

  Gary Simmons, a squat, chunky young man dressed in western clothes, a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, and boots with spurs, showed up unannounced at our farm one day with Trader Don, the local horse dealer. Don introduced him to us as Gary Simmons, a rancher, in the area looking to buy some horses.

  Gary shook hands with a firm grip and looked you in the eye. He spoke with a distinct western accent and had a great booming laugh. His pretty, young wife, Joyce, stuck close to his side and smiled.

  Dad didn’t really have any suitable horses to sell, that much was decided in about two minutes. Our horses were a pretty raggedy bunch. Don and Gary hung around and chatted. Eventually Dad drifted away, back to the office and his typewriter, where he was pounding out his next article for Family Life. Soon, I was the only one standing there talking to Don and Gary. Turns out Gary hailed from Valentine, Nebraska, and managed a ranch there.

  I asked him about it. How big was the ranch?

  Fifteen thousand acres, he said. He ran the ranch for a group of cattle investors from Kansas.

  Wow. Fifteen thousand acres. The number boggled my mind.

  Then, quietly, out of Trader Don’s hearing, I asked, “Do you ever have any use for some good help out there?” I don’t know why I asked, but I did. I didn’t really have any plans or anything.

  Gary chuckled. “Oh, you bet,” he answered. “If you ever need a job, call me. We always have an opening for good help. We can always use another good hand.”

  Soon after that, they left. I mulled over what he had said about needing good help. Maybe, just maybe, one day I would call him.

  It’s not that I particularly liked horses or considered myself a horseman. But like most teenagers, I had often dreamed of being a real cowboy. I’d seen the pictures, read the Westerns—stories by Louis L’Amour. Zane Grey. Max Brand. Before, it had always been a minor dream, but now a doorway had cracked open. It might not be a bad experience, to head out west and work on a ranch.

  The idea, and the beginnings of a plan, had been planted.

  One evening about six months later, from the phone at the local Amish schoolhouse, I called Gary Simmons at his ranch.

  * * *

  Somehow I slept, though fitfully, waking now and again to glance at the tiny alarm clock beside my bed. The entire house slumbered in silence.

  I dozed off for a time and then jolted awake again. The little fluorescent hands on the alarm clock glowed eerily. Two o’clock. One last time, I slid my hand beneath my pillow and felt for the note. It was still there, exactly where I’d placed it last night after scribbling it on a scrap of paper the day before and where my father would find it at dawn.

  Quietly, slowly, so as not to wake my brothers, I shifted in the bed, lifted the covers, and stepped onto the cool concrete floor. I felt my way through the pitch-black darkness to the door, opened it, and slipped out of the bedroom.

  I took a few quick, quiet steps to the left, into the furnace room, which housed my father’s great brick-and-steel contraption of a homemade wood-burning stove. Dug around in the large lidded wooden box where Mom stored her winter blankets. Located the little black duffel bag I’d packed the day before, lifted it out, and set it on the floor.

  Then I slipped into the clothes I had hidden away—a plain, old green shirt and a newer pair of denim barn-door pants. No galluses. Where I was going, I wouldn’t need them. I laced my feet into a pair of tough leather work boots and then picked up the duffel bag. I was ready.

  Upstairs, on the main floor of the house, my parents slept, unaware. With a keen ear for any unusual sounds, I walked softly to the door, gently turned the knob, and pulled it open, oh so slowly. The hinges protested in a faint, almost imperceptible squeak. I stepped outside into the night and quietly pulled the door shut behind me.

  Once I was outside, Jock, our faithful mutt, met me. He seemed surprised and a little startled, but he made no sound.

  “Shhh, Jock. Good boy,” I whispered. He shook himself and wagged his tail, whimpering excitedly. Leaning down, I scratched his ears in farewell.

  Into the darkness I went, down the concrete walks and out the drive. There was no moon that night and no stars. I had no flashlight, so I could barely see, but my eyes gradually adjusted as I continued on my way, out the long half-mile lane to the road, the gravel crunching beneath my feet.

  Halfway out, I passed my oldest brother, Joseph’s, house. It loomed dark and quiet. And then it, too, was behind me.

  Finally I reached the gravel road. I paused for the first time and turned. Took one last look across the fields to the house where my family slept. The kerosene lamp Mom kept burning at night flickered dimly through the kitchen windows.

  Then I turned my face to the south and walked. There should be no traffic on a deserted country road at this early morning hour. At least that’s what I hoped. Two miles. That’s how far it was. Two miles to the highway and to freedom.

  I walked into the night, my senses honed to their finest edge. In my eager mind, the great shining vistas of distant horizons gleamed and beckoned. A world that would fulfill the deep yearning, the nebulous shifting dreams of a hungry, driven youth. And it would be mine, all of it, to pluck from the forbidden tree and taste and eat. I could not know that night of the long, hard road that stretched into infinity before me. That I was lost. I could not know of the years of turmoil, rage, and anguish that eventually would push me to the brink of madness and despair.

  And so I strode on through the night, crunching along the gravel road, the duffel bag swinging at my side. Up the steep hill, down, and then up again past the crossroads leading to the schoolhouse. Far ahead, the lights of West Grove flickered in the darkness. To the left stood an old graveyard filled with silent, looming tombstones. Focusing straight ahead, I continued to walk, past the old church on the left and Chuck’s Café on the right. Then on to Highway 2.

  Other than a few pole lights along the highway, it was pitch black. There was no traffic. None at all. I turned east and walked the final quarter mile to my buddy Dewayne’s house.

  Dewayne Cason had moved to West Grove from Ottumwa a few years before. In his upper twenties, Dewayne was a tobacco-chewing mule skinner whose favorite activity was hunting coon at night on muleback. I had tagged along with him from time to time, bumping along on the back of one of his trusty mules, following his baying hounds as they trailed and treed the occasional coon. Every once in a while he would give me odd jobs around his little farm, paying me a few bucks here and there to help him out. He was a colorful character and a good friend.

  Dewayne worked at the John Deere factory in Ottumwa and drove twenty-some miles back and forth every day. When I first made plans to leave, I asked him if he could take me along one morning and drop me off at the bus station. He readily agreed, probably thinking nothing would ever come of it. But my plans jelled, and I told him I’d be there Tuesday morning.

  He was the only person, other than myself, who knew of my plans. I didn’t even tell my buddies. It was too dangerous. If it were discovered that they had known my plans and remained silent, they’d get in serious trouble. It was simply not safe to tell anyone. I had hinted about the thing I was considering, but I never told anyone in my Amish world of my actual plans. Not a soul.

  I walked up to Dewayne’s darkened house at about three thirty. So far, so good. I had met not a single car in the two-plus-mile walk. In the house, everyone was sleeping. I sat on the steps of Dewayne’s front porch and waited, clutching my duffel bag. An hour passed. Then two. Light flickered in the eastern sky. Sunrise. About now, they would be waking up back home. About now, my note would have been found. A tinge of fear flashed through me. I was only two miles away. What if Dad decided to come up to West Grove and look for me? Come on, Dewayne.

  I heard him then, bumping about inside. He opened the door, saw me, and then hollered back inside to his wife, Debbie, “He’s here.”

  From inside, Debbie, who was due any day with their second chi
ld, said something I couldn’t understand.

  Dewayne had slept in and was running late, but we eventually got into his old beater pickup and roared east on the highway to Route 63, through Bloomfield, then north, toward Ottumwa. Dewayne mumbled and swore about how he would be late for work. “Of all mornings to have to drop someone at the bus station.”

  When we finally arrived in Ottumwa, he pulled up to the bus depot and braked. “Take it easy, Bud,” he said, extending his hand. “And good luck.” I grasped it, thanked him, and stepped out with my duffel bag. He roared away to his job at the John Deere factory.

  Hope he doesn’t get written up for being late, I thought.

  I walked into the station and, half timid, half scared, approached the counter. “How much for a ticket to Sioux City, Iowa?” I asked. After handing the man behind the counter just shy of thirty bucks, I realized that the bus would be leaving in about an hour. So, with my ticket clutched firmly in my hand, I sat on a bench in the station and waited.

  And waited.

  I was totally focused on what lay ahead. Not once did the thought cross my mind that I should just give it up and go back home. Not once. My only fear was that Dad would hire a driver, rush up to Ottumwa, and intercept me. I wasn’t sure I’d have the strength to face him down. He might compel me to return. So I waited, fearfully scanning the street now and then for any sign of him.

  The hour passed, and then, finally, the bus pulled up outside and hissed to a halt. I walked up, stepped through the sliding door, and gave the driver my ticket. A few minutes later, the bus shuddered and slid out of the parking lot, onto the street, through town, and then to the highway.

  I was out. Free. I wondered—fleetingly—what was going on back home. But not much. I was too excited. I looked out the window at the rolling landscape as the bus rumbled along through town after town, stopping at stations here and there. Noon came and went, and by midafternoon, we approached Sioux City and pulled into the station. I got off and inquired about the next bus to Valentine, Nebraska. It would leave the next day, about midmorning. I bought a ticket and then walked around town to find a motel room.

  I had left home with one hundred and fifty dollars, money from a horse I had recently sold. Well, it was a small horse, a half pony, really. And it was worth much more than that, but I needed the money to get away, so I took what I could get.

  I found a ramshackle motel and booked a room, my first stay at any motel. It was a hovel, really—cheap, smelly, and damp. But to me, it seemed like a great, grand thing, a huge adventure—a motel room in a big city.

  My lodging for the night secured, it was time to venture out and buy some clothes. My shirts were fine, I figured. But I really wanted to get rid of those barn-door pants. I walked around downtown, gawking through store windows until I spotted a clothing store. When I walked in, the worn hardwood floor creaked under my feet.

  The clerk was a middle-aged man with a tiny gray mustache. He was stooped over a bit from years of service on the floor.

  “I need a pair of jeans,” I told him.

  “Certainly,” he replied, smiling. He showed me shelves loaded with stack after stack of blue jeans. But I had a problem. I had no idea what size I wore. Timidly, I mentioned that fact to him.

  I’m sure it must have seemed strange to him that I didn’t even know my own size, but he didn’t blink an eye. Instead, he just smiled kindly, pawed through the piles of jeans, pulled out a few different sizes, and held them up to my waist.

  “I’d suggest you try this size,” he said. 32x32. I took the jeans from him and walked into a fitting room. Down went the barn-door pants. And for the first time in my life, I slipped into a pair of store-bought English jeans—Lee brand—with a real zipper in front.

  They were probably a little short, but I didn’t know any better. I thought they fit perfectly. Real blue jeans. I admired myself in the mirror. Then I walked out of the fitting room, picked up another pair the same size, bought them both, and walked proudly out the door and back to my motel. For the first time ever, I was not conscious that I was any different from anyone else around me, because I wasn’t—except for my haircut. But I would get that taken care of soon enough. I felt great. This was definitely something I could get used to.

  I spent the evening watching TV in my motel room—a huge treat. I finally drifted off to sleep, trusting that I’d wake up in due time the next morning. I knew nothing of wake-up calls from the front desk. That night I slumbered, exhausted from lack of sleep and the tension of the previous night. And somehow I blocked it all out—everything I’d left behind at home. I managed not to think about my parents—especially my mother, who was undoubtedly worried, sick to death, not knowing where I was.

  I was seventeen years old. A minor. And I had pulled it off. I had just left home. Run away in the middle of the night.

  14

  The next morning I boarded a bus and headed west into Nebraska. The rolling farmland flowed past outside, followed by the sand hills of the north central part of the state. By late afternoon, we pulled into Valentine. Clutching my duffel bag, I stepped off the bus and looked around hopefully. No one was waiting.

  I had called Gary the week before and told him I was coming. Where was he? I waited nervously in the bus station for about fifteen minutes. Then a Suburban pulled in and parked. A short, burly man in a cowboy hat got out. He swaggered up to the door. It was Gary. I walked outside, and he grasped my hand.

  “Welcome,” he said, smiling. We walked to where Gary’s wife and three young daughters sat waiting. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “How about the Pizza Hut?”

  Of course I was hungry. A young Amish kid is always hungry, and Pizza Hut sounded just fine.

  “I’d like that.”

  After eating, we headed out to the ranch, thirty-five miles due south of Valentine.

  Gary took me to the bunkhouse, a decrepit, old, two-story structure with a livable basement. A lanky cowboy lounged there. His name was Leonard Paris, and he was from New Mexico. I unpacked my bag and hung my few clothes on a wire stretched across a corner of the room. That night I slept in the bed that would be mine for the next five months.

  The next day I called my sister Rachel back in Bloomfield. She taught at one of the two Amish schools there, and each schoolhouse had a community phone. I called her collect and told her where I was. We chatted. She spoke carefully, choosing her words. She said things weren’t good at home. The community was abuzz with shock, and my parents were taking it pretty hard.

  Years later, she told me that Dad had refused to pay for my collect call. He said she had accepted it, so it was her responsibility. To me, that’s a strange and puzzling thing. I had called to let her know where I was and that I was okay. Surely it was worth the cost of the call to Dad, to know that. But he refused to pay, so she paid from her meager teacher’s salary. I still owe her for that.

  The first few days and weeks at the ranch were a blur. The trauma of leaving so abruptly, so secretively, was washed away by the excitement of my new surroundings. I was rough, uncouth, and raw, fresh from the primitive Amish life that had been the only one I’d ever known. I was eager, but quite naive. A remote ranch in the sand hills of northern Nebraska was probably about as ideal a place as any for my first transition to English life.

  In the next few weeks, I acclimated to my surroundings. Leonard Paris was an amiable fellow. He immediately took me under his wing and very patiently taught me the things I didn’t know. He was rough around the edges, but he was a gentleman. He didn’t swear much, and he always said please and thank you at the table during our shared meals with Gary’s family. I watched and learned and emulated.

  I quickly adapted to the ranch work and the brutal schedule. Calving season had just begun, and we had to get up every morning at two or so to check for problem births. Then it was back to bed for a few more hours of sleep before getting up at six for the real day’s work.

  Leonard regaled me with tall tales of New Mexico and
his father’s ranch there. He was a true horseman, born to the saddle. His favorite phrase, after telling a tale, was “We have more fun than people.”

  Gradually, I settled into the rhythm of English life. We worked from dawn to dark. I was used to working, so that was no problem. I just wasn’t used to being on my own. But I was learning. And it wasn’t as if I could get into much trouble on the ranch.

  My pay was room and board and a hundred bucks a week. Four hundred a month. Not a lot, even back then. I was fed well and worked hard. In many ways, it wasn’t that much different from what I was used to back home.

  Of course, I had to learn to drive a truck—an old green and white 1972 Chevy. I had never driven a truck before, or any other motor vehicle for that matter. Leonard carefully coached me and allowed me to drive from the bunkhouse to the main house for meals. Within days I was confident and comfortable behind the wheel.

  The first month passed, and payday approached. And boy, did I ever have places to put that money. I needed a new pair of cowboy boots and a real cowboy hat. I also needed some shirts, more jeans, and maybe a real belt buckle with a horse or a bull or some such appropriate cowboy icon.

  That Friday, Robert, the head of the investment group from Kansas that ran the ranch, stopped by with our paychecks. It was a gray, cloudy day. Robert handed Gary his check, then Leonard his. Then he turned to me.

  “Here you are, first paycheck,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” I replied, taking it from him.

  His eyes glinted mischievously. “It’s a nice check,” he said. “How would you like to double it?”

  I stared at him, uncomprehendingly.

  “We’ll flip a coin,” he continued. “Double or nothing.”

  He would have done it too. I considered his proposition for about two seconds. I held the slip of paper in my hands and looked at it. My first paycheck. Four hundred bucks. A small fortune for me. I could double it. Or I could end up with nothing.