We continued climbing the mountain. As the day dragged on, our large group made little progress on its leisurely journey. Some of them had never been up this high, and every so often they had to stop for the view. I enjoyed that too so I didn’t complain. Plus we had two days for the venture.
By afternoon we splashed across the “gold” stream, stopping again for exclamations and running the sand through our fingers. Even with the sure knowledge that this wasn’t gold, the fascination of it still lured us. We filled our canteens in the stream—at least the ones of us who thought of it. Drinking water at these heights was considered safe according to prevailing wisdom. And we never suffered any side effects that I know of. The water we feared was contaminated by people, animals, and laundry washing, which was far below us now.
A final, high ridge lay just below the woods line, and we arrived around dusk. There was no thought given to pushing on higher with the little daylight we had left. We were tired, and many boys were now burning up with thirst. If we needed further reason to stop, this was also a spectacular view for the night. Even I had never been up this high. The valley lay before us bathed in the late evening sunlight. The glory of Honduras lay in front of us to behold. Felix, a local boy who had converted to the Amish faith, joined me in the wonder of it. Round, effusive, and perpetually happy, Felix was enthralled.
“Que linda! [How beautiful!]” he said over and over again. “I didn’t know Honduras had anything like this to offer.”
I drank it all in, spreading my blanket out under a few tall trees that grew on the hilltop, preparing to settle in for the night. But it was not to be. Water became a pressing problem, and the last stream we passed lay way below us. No one wanted to return there or drag all the canteens back up the steep slope.
Somehow I ended up in the search party for a better solution. “There has to be water up here somewhere,” I said. And when no one disagreed with me, I proceeded to put a plan into action. Below our hill was a deep ravine, and it was much closer than the stream behind us.
“There’s water down there,” I claimed.
Several of the boys talked the matter over and decided I could be right.
“I’m going,” I said. “Who’s coming with me?”
Felix volunteered, and we gathered up everyone’s canteens, draping the straps over our necks. Down we went, hanging on by our hands and feet. At the bottom there indeed was a small stream. Not much, but enough to fill all the canteens with water. Clean and clear water, cold from the mountain spring it must have come from.
Back up we went on our hands and knees, and we distributed the canteens to their owners. The whole thing quickly became a shuffled mess. No one could remember whose canteen belonged to whom. Or perhaps they didn’t care, slurping greedily out of the first canteen they could grab ahold of. I watched in horror. Later, as my own thirst increased, I discovered my intense squeamishness in never drinking out of the same glass as anyone else vanished. I did keep insisting that a certain red canteen was mine though.
“La cantina roja is mia!” I told Felix.
Felix thought this usage of the word “cantina” absolutely hilarious. Apparently in its Honduran usage, “canteen” had never come to mean only a water container—referring instead only to the local liquor establishment.
Felix never let me live down this mistake. Not that I held it against him. Even today, though I don’t see him that often, we have shared laughs over la cantina roja that invoke shocked looks from bystanders that necessitates a quick explanation from Felix as to the meaning of our inside joke.
Eventually everything quieted down on the mountain, and the lights of the huts came on below us, twinkling in the darkness. After dusk they went out, one by one, until only the moonlight remained to bathe the valley with an ethereal glory bright enough that we could read under the full moon.
I lay there taking a long time to fall asleep.
In the morning we pressed on, hacking our way through dense undergrowth, at times resorting to being on our hands and knees for the climb. By late-morning we arrived at the top…or thought we did. We couldn’t really see out. We only got a few glimpses of the valley through the trees.
We carved our initials on the mountainside and looked for what lay on the other side, which would be the most convincing evidence we had indeed reached the top. And sure enough, another valley lay below us. And beyond that were rows and rows of mountain ridges as far as the eye could see.
It was soon time to leave because we had to make our way home on foot before dark. Going down was much faster than coming up. We paused at our camping ground for one last look at the valley, taking in the majesty and the glory.
I’ve been back to Honduras numerous times, but I’ve never climbed that far up again. I’d like to someday. Perhaps I haven’t because I’m afraid it won’t be like I remember through the eyes of my youth, back when the world was an open book begging to be read and I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough.
Once we arrived back home, the Stoll boys promptly informed their parents of the suspender transgression.
Mom, once she heard, approached me, demanding to know whether I’d joined in.
“No,” I told her. Quite virtuously, I’m sure, now that the gravity of this sin was apparent. “I’d never think of doing that.”
Mom sighed with relief. “I’m sure glad to hear that. And don’t you ever part your hair like those boys do either.”
I had no plans to. Besides, I didn’t care how my hair was combed as long as it stayed where I wanted it to. My brothers and I had devised our own system of keeping our hair combed forward in place. We purchased a local concoction called Sol de Oro. It was a wax that we smeared into our hair. It gave off a spicy smell and kept things where we put them. We also looked like wax figures, but who cared? At least our hair was combed correctly.
Much later, we became the joke of the local Amish community when we landed in Belle Center, Ohio. I’m sure they thought, “These strange Amish boys with their waxed heads.” Our dresser drawers were faithfully stashed with our supply of precious Sol de Oro, which we’d brought up with us from Honduras. What we planned to do when it ran out, I don’t know. Luke Miller, a local Amish boy and a ringleader in the Ohio community, finally took compassion on me. He told me his sister Lois wanted me to stop using wax on my hair because she thought I might actually have fluffy hair. His sister was older than I was and not in danger of any romantic interest. Just observing, I guess. I listened and came to church the next Sunday with hair that floated all over the place. I had no idea what to do with it.
“Part it in the middle,” Luke told me, which was what most of the other Amish boys were doing.
So I did.
Mom never said a word. Perhaps she had more important things on her mind by then. More likely she felt secure being surrounded by a solid Amish community. Apparently she saw no need to suspect parted hair as the first sign of her son sliding into the liberal ditch.
Chapter 29
By the fall of 1973, the date of Uncle Stephen’s family leaving was firmly established. They would be gone by the spring of 1974. I don’t know when the deal was brokered, but Dad committed himself to buying Uncle Stephen’s place. The land adjoined ours and had three or four times the acreage of our small farm. Imagining Dad as a farmer was difficult, but he would prove up to the task. That is, eventually—and with Fausto’s help.
For the present, plans were made to rent out the place. Cousin Ira with his new bride, Lizzie, would move in. Their wedding had occurred back in May of 1972. At the time they were making do by living in one of the cottages that had come with the original farm.
Knowing that he would soon be installed in Uncle Stephen’s former place, Cousin Ira was seized with a harebrained idea. He would introduce goats into the Honduran culture. Were not goats hardy creatures? he reasoned. Didn’t goats eat anything—well, almost anything? So why not turn the garbage-strewn Honduran yards and highways into tasty goat milk? It was a pl
an destined for smashing success…at least Cousin Ira thought so.
The Heifer Project, Inc., a stateside charity livestock program promoting the introduction of quality animals into foreign countries, would be the means for implementing his plan. Through them, quality breeding goats could be obtained at much-reduced prices. The shipment of twenty-three goats arrived soon after Cousin Ira and his wife moved into Uncle Stephen’s old place, and Ira was in business.
When it came to the reproduction of his goats, Cousin Ira’s plan worked to perfection. The animals multiplied like mice, and they soon overran the hillsides of Uncle Stephen’s farm. Fences were no impediment. As a result, the goats were constantly into the neighbors’ produce. Uncle Joe was hardest hit, but he bore the suffering with great patience. This was, after all, a worthy project.
At least the Amish thought so. The locals were the ones who didn’t. They had never heard of creatures like goats. And hearing the hoarse cries emanating from Cousin Ira’s goat-covered hills did nothing to persuade them. Personally, I disliked the smell the most. And Mom refused to come close to either goat’s milk or goat’s meat. And the locals totally agreed. I never heard of a goat being stolen, even when they ran open and unguarded everywhere. And stealing is the ultimate test in Honduran culture on a subject’s desirability. An opinion expressed with zeal for the Holstein cattle the Heifer Project kindly assisted the Amish in obtaining.
A prize bull and some heifers were flown in and turned out in Leroy Hostetler’s pasture. A few mornings later Leroy found a pile of hide, bones, and entrails rolled out in the grass where the bull once walked, courtesy of Honduran opinion on prized Holstein cattle. Something like “Better is a piece of meat in the pot today, then a pasture full of hardy calves tomorrow.”
Mom’s opinion of Cousin Ira’s goats also extended to the owner. The two never got along for reasons I couldn’t quite fathom. Perhaps because they both believed in fully expressing their minds, saying things to each other they would have refrained from uttering were “more worthy” human beings in earshot. Mom informed Cousin Ira in no uncertain terms that his pants were a disgrace to mankind. That is, his way of wearing of them was. I have to admit his pants were of the raggedy sort in their own right. But it was downright immodest, Mom told him. The way he pulled his suspenders so tight that the top of the pants ended up around his middle.
Cousin Ira informed Mom that she was a meddlesome woman, and that she should stay on her side of the fence if she didn’t like his personal appearance. Somehow the quarrel never reached into their community life or into the business of renting the place. But in walking back to our cultivated river bottom, a walk that required going past the hill on which sat the rented house, Mom found ways to avoid meeting Cousin Ira. The sight of him seemed to loosen her tongue no matter how hard she tried to keep silent.
October seemed to be the month for tragedies in the community. It had been in October of 1970 that Uncle Stephen was injured. Then in 1971, Grandfather Stoll died in October, followed by Miriam Peachey’s passing away from cancer in October of 1972.
Now tragedy came calling at Uncle Joe’s house in October of 1973. Their tenth child, a daughter whom they named Eunice, was born on October 9. I didn’t exactly keep track of babies being born in the community, but this one registered—mostly for what followed after the birth.
The eldest daughter, Rosanna, I believe, came up the hill to tell us the great news. Her mom had delivered a baby girl the night before. Rosanna beamed with the news even above and beyond the normal joy Rosanna constantly radiated. I didn’t pay that much attention. Not until we were soon told that baby Eunice was sickly. The next day already jaundice had set in, and the baby had turned quite yellow. This was nothing to be concerned about, Uncle Joe thought. Lots of babies had jaundice.
To me a yellow baby sounded ominous. They weren’t that good-looking to begin with.
Then we were told that Uncle Joe had rushed the baby to the doctor in the capital city. The mother was still not well enough to travel, so Uncle Joe had taken Rosanna along to help care for the baby—no light matter considering the four-hour bumpy bus ride. Uncle Joe reported later that when they boarded the small bus he asked if Rosanna could sit in front with the sick child. Upon hearing this, the bus driver not only immediately agreed, but made the announcement to the rest of the passengers. This produced quite an outpouring of sympathy from the busload of locals. So much so, they were even willing to forgo the usual halfway stop, where a light breakfast was normally consumed, to ensure quicker arrival at the capital. Not an easy sacrifice, as anyone who has made that trip knows.
Arriving in Tegucigalpa, the baby was rushed into the offices of the same child specialist who had taken care of my illness. At least this time he was more proficient than he had been in my case. Blood tests were taken, and the awful news learned. Uncle Joe had arrived too late. Little Eunice had an extremely high bile pigment in her blood from an RH factor in the parents. Her blood should have been changed immediately, but by now the damage had been done to her brain cells. Changing her blood was too late.
Understandably, Uncle Joe was guilt-ridden, as surely Rosanna must also have been. But it is the parent who carries the heaviest burden of the responsibility. And to make things worse, Uncle Joe was the medical expert in the community. This should have happened to someone who didn’t know better, but not to Uncle Joe. I can’t imagine the anguish he felt. But the father and daughter somehow rallied. The doctor thought the baby might not survive the night. Still, Uncle Joe admitted her to the hospital, and they stayed in the capital until the morning, unable to communicate with the family at home. The Guaimaca buses didn’t run again until the next day.
Uncle Joe made peace with God that night, but he didn’t get far with himself. The agony of his mistake bore into his soul. If the baby were alive by morning, she would be crippled or brain damaged, not unlike a cerebral-palsied child, the doctor had said.
The two returned to the hospital in the morning to find baby Eunice still alive. They left the baby and walked out to where the buses loaded for Guaimaca. There they providentially found a group of visiting Mennonite students with their own rented bus headed out to the community. Of course they could ride along. And of course they were all sympathetic. As the bus bounced and wound around the hilly dirt road, the students sang, no doubt trying to offer what comfort they could. Singing the old song they all knew from memory: “Farther along we’ll know all about it. Farther along we’ll understand why.”
Uncle Joe must have wept as those young voices filled the bus. His arms were empty, and he would have to explain why to the rest of the family when he arrived home. Yet who could explain such things? How did one give an answer for a baby lying back in the hospital? Once healthy and now turned into a vegetable? The mistake avoidable. And yet there must be reasons that lay on the other side. Reasons too high for mortals to comprehend. Explainable someday by the God who named the stars. To think otherwise is but to harden the soul until it feels no more.
Arriving home, the younger children, eager for news, came running out to meet the returning pair, and the truth had to be told. What was said to them, to the mother, to the rest of the family, I don’t know, but it couldn’t have been easy.
Baby Eunice was soon brought home and placed in the sunlight for the prescribed amounts of time during the day to drive the last of the poison from her blood. She would live, but she would never be like other children.
School opened that October with me in the seventh grade with Fred Yoder teaching the upper-graders. He was down from stateside for a school year on sort of an Amish mission trip to instruct us youngsters in the finer points of education.
I planned to write a large chapter on him, reflecting back on how much that school year meant to me. But it has all flown away now that I’m here. I can’t find a single solid thing to mention. I do know I almost worshiped the man. It was just one of those unexplainable things. Now I have no idea why that year with him as my teache
r was so special. I met teacher Fred years later and approached him almost trembling as I introduced myself. He didn’t remember me. After all, I was one face among many. A tall, scrawny boy who caught a glimpse of a man he wished he could become.
The big event that November was Uncle Stephen’s cattle auction, a thing hardly known in Honduras. But we were gringos who knew the value of auctions. And surely, the Amish men thought, the Honduran culture could stand the enlightenment.
A search was made, and the only auctioneer in the country engaged. At least he claimed he was the only auctioneer. The date was set months in advance, and fliers were distributed. I believe even radio announcements from the big stations in Tegucigalpa were used—though, of course, none of the Amish listened to radio unless they were rebellious teenagers.
On the day of the auction, a crowd showed up, mostly white gringos living in other parts of Honduras. Some local farmers did come with money. Bleachers were set up on the side of the knoll south of Uncle Stephen’s house. Each cow was led past the auctioneer’s elevated platform, its pedigree read, and the minimum bid named. From there the bidding soared. Nothing remained unsold. The country had apparently been hungry for quality livestock from reputable sources.
I sat watching, fascinated. I spent a few lempiras on drinks and tasty food being offered by the Amish women. I’m sure they made a sizable haul themselves. By late afternoon a thunderstorm rolled in, and the crowd began to scatter. The auctioneer was beside himself, no doubt seeing his five percent fee dwindling away.
My Amish Childhood Page 17