Growing Up Amish

by Ira Wagler

  And so I did. We barreled out the lane and onto the road, gravel spitting behind us. Come on, old green Dodge, don’t let us down now. I turned right, shot past the waiting pickup, and roared full speed down the road.

  It was a time before cell phones, or we would have been caught dead to rights. I turned the car south, fishtailing a bit on the gravel, then onto the paved highway. We flew toward Route 63, the pickup in hot pursuit.

  Eli and Willis kept a close eye on the pickup right on our tail, the man inside motioning us to pull over. I paid no attention, just focused on the road ahead. I kept driving, right through the community, past several Amish homes, and up to Route 63 South. More often than not, a cop would be sitting at the intersection there. If one was there today, we would go to jail for sure.

  Then, a stroke of luck—no cop. I turned south and floored the accelerator. The old green Dodge rocketed along, with three desperate, panic-stricken boys inside. After ten miles or so we approached the Missouri line, and the pickup, up to now riding our tail, slowed and stopped, then turned around and headed back north. I slowed the car to the speed limit, and we all sagged in our seats, breathing huge sighs of relief as our heartbeats slowed to normal speed. We had escaped.

  After an experience like that, there isn’t a whole lot to say. We actually shook it off as just another event in the normal course of things. That’s how screwed up we were. Of course, back in Bloomfield our reputations took another serious hit as the story—greatly embellished, I’m sure—made its inevitable rounds.

  We were officially outlaws.

  Renegades.

  Wild Amish youth.

  And we were lost. We knew it—at least I did. We didn’t talk about it, but we knew that if something happened and we were killed, we would straightaway enter the fiery pits of hell and burn forever because we had left the safety of the protective box. We had scorned our birthright. Left the Amish. If we died, the punishment for such blasphemy would be more severe than we could possibly imagine. We knew that, beyond any shadow of a doubt. But we plunged on anyway. Grimly focused on what we felt we had to do. If God struck us down, well, then, so be it.

  It takes a desperate mind to be willing to take such risks against such eternal consequences. But we were beyond desperate.

  * * *

  For the next two months, Eli and I bummed along. Our cash flow improved some, but mostly the times were lean. We had a saying, “If we’re too broke to buy a pack of smokes, we’re truly broke.” We reached that point a time or two. But mostly, we survived okay.

  We worked at odd jobs around the Arthur area for a month, hanging out with Willis and his buddies. Then Eli and I decided to pull up and go to Daviess County. We didn’t know many people there, but at least my brother Jesse lived there. We said good-bye to Willis and left Arthur, heading south and east.

  We found Jesse’s place and showed up at the door of his trailer home. Although surprised and not all that pleased to see us, he gave us shelter and some work, cleaning up an old burned-out house site he had bought in a nearby village. We meandered along for several weeks with no long-term plans, and everywhere we went, the whispered stories of what we’d done back in Bloomfield preceded us.

  On the weekends we ran with the Daviess Amish youth. We made a lot of friends because we had a car. Many a time, the old green Dodge creaked along on the narrow gravel roads, loaded to the gills with rowdy Amish youth.

  After another month had passed, we realized that we were pretty much spinning our wheels. We didn’t want to face it, but it was becoming clearer with each passing day—our options were running out. We could continue down this bleak and desolate road, struggling for survival. Struggling for our daily bread. Or we could return to our homes, where at least we would be warm and sheltered and fed. Mine in Bloomfield and Eli’s in Marshfield. Initially, we recoiled from the thought. But gradually the conditions of our surroundings closed in. We had no support. Not from any source, not from anywhere. No prospects for a brighter future out here, outside the box. Our only option was to go back. Back to our respective homes. Back again, to the Amish life. We’d had a lot of excitement on this little run. We’d seen and done things we’d never seen or done before. It was time for some rest and some stability.

  Eli left by bus one morning for his home in Marshfield, and I drove home to Bloomfield. It’s impossible to describe that feeling, of approaching home after an infamous extended foray like that. Had I been honest with myself, I would have admitted that I did not want to go. But I was not honest with myself. Besides, the economic conditions of surviving out there were tough.

  And thus ended my second desperate flight from home.

  18

  I returned late that Saturday night, after dark. Pulled the car right up the drive and parked. Dad was surprised to see me, as were all the others. I was tired, so tired. But they all welcomed me.

  I already knew that Marvin, Rudy, and Mervin had started joining the church a few weeks before. I wondered if it would be too late to join with them. Not because I had suddenly seen the light and turned over a new leaf. Not because I had turned from my sins in a dramatic conversion. But simply because I wanted to be with my buddies.

  And so, the very first day after returning home, on that Sunday morning in church as the preachers walked solemnly from the room, I got up with my friends and followed them.

  It’s an impossible jolt to the mind, the thing I was attempting—running wild, from town to town and state to state for months, then abruptly changing back. And not only that, but changing to the point that I was joining the church. I should have known better than to try. And the church leaders should have known better than to allow me to try.

  The effort was doomed from the start.

  At least I finally discovered what goes on inside the preachers’ conference for baptismal instruction. It’s all pretty formal. The applicants, my buddies and I, sat there solemnly as each of the preachers, beginning with the bishop, instructed and admonished us for about five or ten minutes. Nothing unique or personal. They never addressed us directly or spoke our names. They barely even glanced at us. Mostly they spoke pious clichés and vacant generalizations: “We thank the Lord this morning for his blessings. Today, we have much to be thankful for. We have life, and health, and the church to guide us. And this morning, we are thankful that the future of the church will come through young people like all of you. We are so thankful that you have made the choice to come and take instruction and admonishment and be baptized. This is one important step in your lives that you will never regret.” And so forth, and so on. And so on.

  But their words, although relevant and at least partially true, were devoid of life and passion. After about half an hour, they wrapped it up, and we were dismissed to return to the congregation.

  So we went through the motions and waited for the internal revelations. The mental transformation, where all would be clear to us. Where we could see and walk the path our parents wanted for us.

  Sadly, it was not to be.

  A mental choice, absent real internal change, is no choice at all. We couldn’t force ourselves to be something we were not. That just couldn’t happen. And it didn’t.

  Most of the group stayed with it, but Marvin Yutzy and I ran into trouble almost from the start. We weren’t quite ready to give it all up, not just yet. And the more we resisted, the harder the preachers crushed their heels on us.

  We were closely watched.

  And strongly criticized, everything from our attitudes to how we combed our hair. And, of course, the classic gripe—our sideburns were too long. Like countless others before us through the years, we simmered under the pressures. Hung together. Sneaked around. And as the weeks passed, we knew—at least I knew—we could not continue. Marvin might have made it had I not been in the picture. But as my best friend, he remained intensely loyal. Whatever happened, we were in it together.

  The preachers saw it coming. So did our parents. They did all they knew to do t
o stop it (which wasn’t a whole lot). They fussed and scolded. Pleaded and threatened. We were deluged from all sides. We should just straighten up and behave. Decide to do right. But their words seemed empty, like so much sound and fury, signifying little of value to us.

  And so things continued uneasily for a few months until it all came to a head one Sunday night at the singing.

  Church had been at our home that day, and the singing was that night. After supper, we hung out as usual, and as eight o’clock approached, we filed into the living room to sing. Marvin and I sat together, not quite at the back. We were having a merry old time, whispering and laughing between the songs and during the singing. We weren’t greatly disruptive, but our actions triggered a furious response from my father.

  As we whispered and laughed, I caught sight of him now and then out of the corner of my eye, motioning fiercely. Be quiet. We paid no attention.

  Finally, he could not take it anymore. During the next song, he got up, walked to the bench in front of us, and motioned people to move aside to make room for him, and plunked down. If we wouldn’t behave, by George, he was going to embarrass us in front of everyone. The song faltered along, and he rocked back and forth on the bench, throwing back his head and roaring loudly, off-key.

  We sat frozen in disbelief, too stunned to react. Then, in one motion, we stood and walked out. No one followed. I was so angry that I shook. We hitched up my horse and drove off toward West Grove. Once there, we tied the horse behind Chuck’s Café and called some English friends from the pay phone. They came out from Bloomfield and picked us up.

  We hung out with them until late, raging against my father. After midnight, one of them took us back.

  The next Sunday, we stopped following church. As the others got up and walked after the preachers to receive their instruction, we remained seated.

  People stared, but we just sat there, grim and rebellious.

  We hung together, the two of us. We were closely watched as evil young men, and we were instant suspects as the source of all things bad that happened in the community.

  Late one Sunday night, a few of us were hanging out at the schoolhouse, just horsing around, when one of my buddies who was joining church was somehow pushed into the front screen door. After a choice phrase or two, he proceeded to tear the door right off its hinges. I don’t know why. Of course, the next day, shock waves reverberated throughout the community, and Marvin and I were instantly and conveniently blamed, although neither of us had had anything to do with it.

  Tongues wagged: “The wild, wicked young boys tore up the schoolhouse.” “What will they do next—burn someone’s house down?” “How can it be?” “What can be done?” Everyone clucked sadly and dramatically. One young preacher even began spreading the rumor that we had admitted to the damage.

  Marvin and I were indignant. Things were getting out of hand. Should we just hunker down, or should we confront the situation head-on? After discussing our options, we got together one night and went to visit the young preacher.

  We rattled into his drive and tied up the horse. Although stunned to see us, he greeted us politely enough, if somewhat stiffly. We visited for a brief strained minute about other things. Haying. The weather. Then we bravely plunged into our subject matter. We told him he had been mistaken and that we had not damaged the schoolhouse door. But we did not betray our friend who had done it. The preacher was in a bit of a quandary. He was convinced in his mind that we’d done it, but there we stood, telling him we hadn’t.

  We were polite, but firm and insistent. And innocent. He stroked his long reddish beard thoughtfully, perhaps trying to imagine how he could incorporate this experience into a fire-and-brimstone sermon the next time he preached. But we remained polite and respectful, giving him nothing about which he could wring his hands over and preach. No shocking behavior, no back talk. After some moments of consideration, he gulped and cleared his throat several times.

  Then he said carefully and deliberately, “I can believe it, and I want to believe it, and I will believe it, that you didn’t do it.” His stern visage did not soften, not even a fraction.

  We thanked him and left it at that.

  He was true to his word, whether he actually believed us or not. For that one statement, at least, I have always respected him.

  19

  As I’ve said, when I look back, I believe Marvin might have stuck it out had I not influenced him. But being the true friend he was, he hung in there with me. Gradually we made our plans to leave once again, saving up a few bucks where we could. I even sold my shotgun for some quick money.

  I’m not sure that we would have chosen to leave, had the walls of our world not been closing in around us. I mean, I’d left twice already and returned. Marvin had left once and returned. It’s not an easy thing, to pick up, pack up, and head out. And it’s not an easy thing to return. Either physically or emotionally. In a sense, I guess, we were acting like bugs on a hot stove top. Moving around instinctively to the edges, where there was less heat. And right then, the heat was on in Bloomfield. It might be less so in, say, Florida.

  They all knew we were going, our families, even though we never came out and said so. They could tell. Then one evening, after everyone else had already retired, I got up to get ready for bed. Dad was sitting on the couch, reading The Budget. As I walked by him, he cleared his throat, his classic method of triggering a conversation. I stopped and looked at him.

  “Ahem.” He cleared his throat again. “I have a question for you.” He paused. I stood there silently, looking at him.

  “Will you be around over the winter and to help with farming in the spring?”

  That was it. A simple question. But I was astounded. It was the first time in my life that Dad gave even the slightest indication that I might have a choice in the matter. It was the first time in my memory that such a subject was broached without all the strident admonitions of how I should straighten up, behave myself, and settle down.

  I stood there, gaping at him. Speechless. What had gotten into the man? He was asking me if I was going to leave or stay home to help with the farmwork.

  In retrospect, I think, it was the first time ever that he spoke to me as a man. Man to man. And that’s why I was so surprised. Sad to say, I did not rise to the occasion. I stuttered a bit, hedging. I knew I was leaving. Our plans were firming up every day. It was just a matter of weeks now.

  Finally I spoke. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. It was a lie. Of course I knew. And he knew I knew. I just wasn’t brave enough to tell him straight out. I wasn’t used to being treated as if I had a thought of my own. Or choices. But he let it go.

  “Well, it would be nice if we knew whether or not we’ll need to hire some help this spring,” he said. Then he turned back to his paper. Still stunned, I went off to bed.

  * * *

  We left a month or so after that, in January 1981. Again. The third time for me in as many years. My deeds and choices were rapidly cementing my reputation as a hard-core rebel. And yet, through it all, I can honestly say that I harbored little anger in my heart. Some, sure. But mostly sadness. And increasing desperation. Each time I left made it that much harder to imagine ever returning for good.

  We left, this time, in the full light of day. No sneaking out at night. No notes under the pillow. And no disappearing during the day without any word or warning. I still remember the heaviness in the house that day. Mom flitted about, not saying a lot, making sure I had some clean clothes packed. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there wasn’t much sense packing Amish clothes because where I was going, I wouldn’t need them. So I let her pack some in my suitcase. Dad didn’t formally say good-bye; instead, he disappeared into his little office to write. Rhoda, my younger sister, chatted amiably, but I could see she was tense and sad. She told me to be careful and gave me a candy bar, a precious treat, to eat on the road. Nathan lurked about somewhere, out of sight. Silent. Watching.

  I wasn’t partic
ularly joyous; all I wanted was to be out of there. Away from this oppressive place. To new experiences in new lands.

  After lunch, one of my English friends drove in with his car. I picked up my bags and walked out. Marvin had found his own way to town. We met in Bloomfield, boarded the bus, and headed south. Our destination, Florida, seemed like a good place, especially during the middle of an Iowa winter.

  We traveled to Sarasota, Florida, and the little suburb of Pinecraft, which for decades has been a winter hot spot for vacationing Amish and Mennonite people—and for wild Amish youth. We knew few people when we got there. Even so, we soon found a room and jobs.

  Our money was tight, as always. And the first few weeks were tough. During the day, we toiled in the hot Florida sun, mixing mud and slinging heavy concrete blocks on a mason crew. And gradually, as the days and weeks passed, we settled in.

  We pooled our funds that summer and bought an old 1971 Mercury Cougar, an old-style powerhouse with a 351 Cleveland engine. Being Amish farm boys, we had no clue what a 351 Cleveland was, but everyone seemed impressed when we bragged about it.

  With our own wheels, we were as free as we’d ever been. We worked shirtless in the sun all that summer. Hard, lean, tanned to a deep, deep brown, and impossibly fit, we were in the prime and passion of young adulthood.

  And life was pretty good. We lived in a tiny one-room shack, a converted garage behind someone’s house. It was truly small, probably twelve by fifteen feet, with a tiny bathroom and shower, a bed in one corner, and a pullout couch. But it was our own. We made friends among Amish youth from other settlements across the land and found they were a good deal like us. On weekends, we partied hard. (This was back when the legal drinking age was still eighteen.) We hung out in bars on Saturday nights until they closed, then drove home, solidly impaired, yet always arriving unscathed. In those bars I imbibed and enjoyed shots of Wild Turkey whiskey for the first time and marveled at the way it made me feel.