t.i.tus, he concluded, would never walk again. And then Elmo smoothly switched into fund-raising mode, imploring those who had read Dadas stuff for all those years, who appreciated his efforts and his work, to send what money they could spare to help with the mounting hospital and rehab bills. It would be a chance for them to express appreciation to my father for his years of tireless labor as a defender of the Amish faith.

We read Elmoas words in that issue and marveled. The man could tug at the heartstrings, thatas for sure. But would his efforts produce any a.s.sistance for us?

We didnat have to wonder long. Within days the letters started arriving and continued for days and weeks after that. And weeks after that. Stacks and stacks, as many as fifty to one hundred letters and cards in a single day. Short scrawled notes, expressing sympathy and support. Little cheerful homemade cards, sometimes roughly colored by a childas hands. And always, a bit of money. In some, as little as a dollar bill. Most others held more. Checks of fifty, a hundred dollars. A few for as much as a thousand or more.

We were astounded and grateful. Traumatized by all that had just happened, we marveled at the blessings that literally poured in. And thatas how the eighty thousand dollars was paid. Eighty thousand dollars, the total for t.i.tusas hospital and rehab bills.

It was remarkable, the way it all worked out. An incident like that is probably almost unique to the Amish culture. Not exclusively, but almost.

Before the accident, t.i.tus and Ruth Yutzy, Marvinas older sister, had been planning to get married. To settle in as a Bloomfield family. And as the reality sank in for us, it sank in for Ruth, too. The man she loved, the man she planned to marry, would never walk again. Not only that, he would require a lot of care. Every day. For the rest of his life. For her, it was a brutal time, a time of testing the true measure of her love for t.i.tus.

Amazingly, or maybe not, Ruth never wavered. She was by his side as he was rushed to the hospital the night it happened. She stayed by his side throughout his long journey from hospital to home. And their relationship survived even those treacherous, rocky waters. I donat know what he would have done, or how he would have made it, had she left him. But she didnat.

And for t.i.tus, too, it was almost beyond endurance, the thing he was now forced to bear. The desolate landscape in which he found himself. The rest of us were still back in the world he had just left. A world to which he desperately wanted to return.

In both our worlds, we knew he never would. We couldnat grasp it. But we knew.

t.i.tus had always been active, always excited about life, and always busily pursuing his next grand project, his next shining city just beyond the bend. t.i.tus was always optimistic. Always strong, always striding forward. And now all that was gone. All he had ever known. Snuffed out in an instant. He would never walk again. Itas tough to get your mind around a thing like that.

The months pa.s.sed, despite the fact that each day seemed like a week. t.i.tus gradually gained enough strength to balance himself on a wheelchair. Learned to feed himself. Learned to gain as much freedom as a person in his position could attain. And then the day arrived, in late November, that he came home. We had prepared the house, widening doorways, pouring a new concrete walkway that snaked back and forth up the grade of the hill to the house.

We rolled him up on his wheelchair, wan and white and weak from the long ordeal. He smiled and smiled. He was home for the first time since that August night so long ago. We soon adapted to the reality of having him there. It affected all of us deeply.

We had a special buggy built for him. A top buggy, with a standard seat up front for the driver. But the back part was empty and bare. The rear wall of the buggy was hinged and latched so it could be dropped down and used as a ramp. We pushed t.i.tus up in his wheelchair, lowered and attached the safety bar, and strapped his chair down. It would be a death trap in an accident, but it worked. Fortunately, there has never been an accident with the rig. Not to this day.

As for me, I worked halfheartedly on the farm. There was no one else to do it, now that t.i.tus was unable to. Stephen had married Wilma Yutzy, Rudyas older sister, a few years before, a few months after Rachelas wedding. He and his bride moved to an eighty-acre farm a mile south of ours. Of course, his little farm blossomed. Whatever Stephen set his hand to always blossomed.

So the job of tilling the home farm fell to me, and I unwillingly took up the yoke. I had turned twenty-one on my last birthday, which is the coming-of-age year for most Amish youth. After twenty-one, the money you earn is your own. I had planned on working construction with a local carpenter crew, but now those plans were dashed. And besides, one other thing bothered me.

I had left home three times as a teenager. Had been gone for well over a year and a half, thereby depriving Dad of the labor that was rightfully his. So I offered to work for an extra year at home for no pay. No one suggested that I should. I just offered on my own. That seemed like the least I could do, the right thing, the manly thing, what with all the other stuff Dad had going on right then. Dad was surprised, befuddled even, but he accepted my offer with the understanding that during slow times on the farm, I would still do some construction work and pocket that pay myself.

And thatas what I did. Labored an extra year on the farm at home for free. And to be honest, things about the farm rapidly deteriorated that year. I detested farming and everything a.s.sociated with ita"horses, cows, plowing, planting, milking, and all the attention to detail that is required for a successful operation. Still, I struggled on, trapped by circ.u.mstances beyond my control. Trapped as a member of the Old Order Amish church. Just trapped in general. Maybe G.o.d was punishing me for my wild and wicked past.

Meanwhile, my social life in the Bloomfield community continued. Marvin and I continued to hang out. Our close friendship had endured. We had journeyed together now for years. To distant lands and back again. And we had stuck together through it all. Not that we talked about it much. But we were quietly comfortable around each other, as old friends are.

One Sunday evening at the singing, Marvin and I loafed around, talking about nothing important, just inane chatter. Suddenly he turned somber and gulped a few times.

aCan I ask you something?a he asked, his voice flat and serious.

aSure,a I said. aWhatas up?a He paused. Then, aWould you ask your sister Rhoda if she would have a date with me?a I wasnat too surprised. Over the years, Marvin and I had hung out in each otheras homes countless times. We were practically members of each otheras families. I was instantly and instinctively pleased. He would make a fine brother-in-law.

aSure,a I answered. aIall ask her this week. You want to bring her home next Sunday?a He nodded nervously. And we switched back to normal settings. To be truthful, I didnat know how Rhoda would react. She was now a beautiful girl of eighteen. The hounds bayed close and distant. Undeterred, she had already sent more than one would-be suitor packing.

The following week, I asked her if she would date my friend. I was about as nervous as Marvin had been when he asked me to ask her for him. This could be a touchy thing. Amazingly, or maybe not, Rhoda didnat seem too surprised. After only a moment of reflection, she agreed. The following Sunday night after the singing, Marvin proudly escorted her home in his new top buggy. My best friend and my little sister.

Within months, they were going steady. I watched them with a tinge of sorrow. As their relationship grew, my friendship with Marvin took a backseat. It was still as strong as ever, but now my friend had more important things on his mind, things that demanded his immediate attention. Now both of my best friends, Marvin and Rudy, were dating. Maybe it was time for me to make a move as well. Start dating. Settle down for good.

I already knew exactly which girl I would ask.

22.

Nathan was the silent son. The youngest child, he never really connected with the rest of us, except on a surface level. Even when Nathan was a little boy, my father, perhaps exhausted from lifeas heavy and incessant demands, pretty much ignored him.

Whether or not he meant it that way, Dad didnat seem to know or much care that Nathan even existed. No one noticed, at least not to the extent that one would see it reflected in the child. But from Nathanas earliest days, Dad planted, firm and deep, the seeds for the bitter fruits of rage and confrontation once Nathan reached adulthood.

Stephen, t.i.tus, and I had always hung together growing up. We were known as the athree little boys.a Nathan, tagging along five years behind me, played and hung out with our sister Rhoda. The two of them were fast friends, and they did everything together as children.

Nathan was sociable enough and made friends in Bloomfield. But compared with his loud, rather opinionated, older brothers, he always seemed shy and withdrawn. He turned sixteen a few months after t.i.tusas accident. As the baby of the family, Nathan was close to his mother. He hovered over her and protected her.

Dad didnat hara.s.s him that much, not the way he had hara.s.sed me years earlier. Mostly he scolded and admonished Nathan for minor infractions now and then. Always quiet, Nathan quickly drifted further and further from his home ties, such as they were. Of us all, only Rhoda made much of an effort to understand him.

And by a few months after his seventeenth birthday, Nathan had crafted plans to leave. Somehow he contacted my old buddies in Valentine, Nebraska. They were eager for another good Amish worker from Bloomfield. And so, like me, he would set out to see for himself that other world. Only he was a bit younger than I was when I left.

But he would not do what I did. He would not sneak away at night. Maybe he still remembered Momas shock and tears the morning of my first absence, or the evening we disappeared in the old green Dodge. Maybe he just couldnat bring himself to treat her like that. Or maybe he had other reasons altogether.

He told me one morning, a warm, balmy day in February, that he would leave after lunch. An English buddy would park out at the end of our long lane. Nathan would walk out to meet him. And leave. Just like that. In broad daylight. At seventeen. He would do that.

Despite myself, I was intrigued and ashamed. Intrigued that he would actually walk out during the day. And ashamed at my own cowardly departure years before. I had sneaked away, not done it openly, like a man.

I worked about the farm that morning, but it was tense. The hours dragged. Finally noon arrived. Mom had cooked our meal. We sat around the table and ate in our normal state of restrained tension.

After the meal, Nathan disappeared into his bedroom. That wasnat unusual. We always took a short nap after lunch. He quietly showered and packed his things in a light duffel bag. Mom was outside puttering around, maybe hanging laundry on the line. I donat remember.

Finally Nathan emerged from his bedroom and walked up to Dad, who was sitting in the living room.

aIam leaving,a he said shortly, abruptly.

Dad looked up at him, uncomprehending. Then it slowly dawned on him what Nathan had just told him.

aWhat? No, you should not do that,a he said, his face darkening into a serious frown.

Nathan just grunted and walked out, duffel bag in hand, and shut the door behind him. Dad rose from his chair and followed him to the door. He stood there, looking out, unsure of what to say or what to do.

And then Nathan approached Mom, working outside the washhouse. From a distance, I watched. I could not hear the words he spoke to her. Her face, at first turned up to him in a smile, suddenly collapsed in sorrow and fear. No, no. She mouthed the words. Spoke them. I drifted nearer.

Then Nathan turned and walked away from her. Down the gravel drive, the long half mile to the road.

He had gone only a hundred feet or so when she began to call his name, beside herself with horror. Fear. And love.

aNathan, Nathan, come back,a she cried. aNathan! Nathan!a He was her youngest son, her youngest child, her baby. And in that instant, my mind flashed back through the years to another place and time. Back to our childhood in Aylmer. The morning when he left for his first day of school. She had packed his little lunch box, and he walked proudly out the door with Rhoda and me. It had been hard for her to see him go, to release him, even then, her six-year-old son, in first grade. As we walked down the gravel road toward school, Mom had stood at the porch door on the west side of the house, watching. And every hundred yards or so, Nathan turned and waved at her. She waved back at him, smiling through her tears. He trudged on with us, then stopped and turned again. She was still standing at the door. He waved. And she waved back. And so on, until we walked out of sight.

And now she stood heartbroken, in a frenzy of dread and fear and grief, and watched her youngest child walk away again. Not to school, from whence he would return that afternoon. But away from her, from our home, away into a cold and fearful world she had never known. A world in which she could not protect him, care for him, or watch over him while he slept. Her little boy, her baby.

And this time he did not turn and wave.

aNathan, Nathan,a she cried, sobbing. aDonat go. Come back. Come back home. Nathan! Oh, Nathan!a He hesitated only slightly but did not break his stride. Head low, he walked on. Not looking back.

As the distance separated them, her voice faltered, but still she called. Sobbing almost uncontrollably, she stood there. Calling and calling his name. Calling for him to return.

And thatas why most Amish youth leave at night, the ones who go, with only a note under the pillow to announce their absence. Because they donat have the strength to walk that brutal road as Nathan did. Because they could not endure the mental trauma or live with the searing memories that could haunt a man for life.

In the house, Dad stormed about aimlessly, fuming. In the yard, my mother stood there, still sobbing softly, watching the receding figure of her son.

He reached the road and got into his friendas waiting car. They disappeared to the south in a cloud of dust.

I approached my mother. Stood there silently. And then, for the first and only time in my life, I held her in my arms.

aYou have to let him go,a I said, my voice breaking. aYou have to let him go.a She tensed in my arms, trembling, looking into the distance to the south, focused entirely on what she had just lost. Then she pushed me away and walked blindly back into the house.

23.

At home, we settled into postaccident life, life with the anewa t.i.tus. t.i.tus was extraordinarily brave. Or perhaps just resolute in the face of the new reality that was his world. And we were brave too, all of us. We stoically accepted the tragedy. I donat remember even once seeing any of us breaking down or weeping aloud. We kept everything, the shock and horror of it, firmly locked inside. Dealt with ita"except we never really did. In time, a dull sense of resignation seeped through us, followed by acceptance, and we proceeded forward from that point to the present day.

The months crept by. Day followed day, and week followed week. I plodded through the motions of farming that year. Tilled the earth. Planted corn. Milked the cows by hand. Rhoda was right there, by my side. Helping where and as she could, even in the fields. And when she wasnat with me, she was inside, comforting t.i.tus and helping Mom as best she could.

She was strong and resilient, my younger sister. Always of good cheer, even when there was little cheer to be found. But she prevailed and, over time, helped sustain us all with her inner will and her strength.

From what we heard, Nathan was surviving well, working hard in the vast wastelands of the sand hills of Valentine. His experience was quite different, though, from mine. I was part of a group of buddies. He was alone. And that, I think, is one reason that he returned within a few months of leaving. He would lurk about silently at home for about a year before finally leaving for good.

Having tasted the outside world more than once now, I instinctively held on to what remnants I could of that world, most notably making and maintaining friendships with surrounding English people. And Chuckas Caf in West Grove was the natural site for that, the best place to establish real contacts with the local English.

Chuck and Margaret Leonard ran the caf and service garage. It was a ramshackle little place, but comfortable and welcoming. Margaret, or Mrs. C as we called her, a.s.sisted by her married daughter Linda, bustled about in the kitchen, cooking meals for all the hungry locals. A caring woman, Mrs. C always asked how t.i.tus was doing and clucked in sympathy. Chuck, clad in old, grease-stained, dark green coveralls, fussed and swore in his little shop, words flowing from him in a disjointed stream as he labored at repairing tractors and trucks for the local farmers.

I was hungry for an outside connection, and this simple, solid, southern-Iowa family never blinked but, rather, accepted me as one of their own. I was welcomed into their home as well. I stopped by many times to watch a bit of Sat.u.r.day afternoon football. Or after hours, just to chat and gossip. I even developed a friendship with Father Mark, their priest, who enjoyed hanging out at the caf in his spare time, relaxing with the common folk.

Every chance I got, I rode up with Fry, our old riding horse, tied her to a telephone pole in the churchyard across the road on the corner, then sauntered into the caf through the rickety, spring-loaded screen door that closed behind me with a flat, thwacking sound. I usually knew who would be there from the vehicles parked out front. I reveled in the boisterous greetings, the comfortable pleasantness of the place, the chatter, the ribald jokes, and the rowdy conversations. And we just hung out, drinking coffee and swapping tales of this and thata"sometimes based in truth, sometimes not.

To me, the little caf was a safe haven in a surreal and uneasy world. I deeply treasured every minute of my time there. Dad instinctively resisted the fact that I hung out at the caf. He sternly and frequently admonished and warned me about the world that I could never quite let go. But I paid him no mind. And eventually, the fact that I hung out at Chuckas became just a fact of life. Not accepted, necessarily. But something that was unique to me and could not be changed.

At that time, there was another fact of life we took for granted. A tradition that Dad had planted in our family. I donat know if the same thing was done at his home when he was growing up. Maybe so. But after each of the boys in our family reached adulthood and joined the church, he was presented with a brand-new top buggy and a horse of his own to do with what he would. He could choose the buggy builder and pick his horse, and Dad paid for it all.

Not every youth in Bloomfield got a brand-new buggy from his father, although many did. It was something we took for granted, the Waglers of Bloomfield. Something we did not and could not appreciate for what it was. I canat remember hearing even one of my brothers thanking Dad for that gift. I know I didnat. It never even crossed my mind. He owed it to me, I thought, and I would take what was mine. Maybe it was just a sign of the lack of communication among us. It would have been the right thing to do, to thank hima"the honorable thing. Iam sure we would have done it had we known that. But we didnat.

At any rate, after joining the Bloomfield Amish church, it was time for me to order my new buggy. To his credit, Dad held off on that purchase until after Iad actually joined the church. And because of my numerous adventures, my numerous flights from home, I was much older when I got my buggy than any of my brothers were when they got theirs.

At the time, Bloomfield had one buggy builder, Menno Kuhns. He was originally from Nappanee, Indiana. (That fact always reminded me of the little fat boy I had so mistreated way back when, in Aylmer.) In Bloomfield, Menno farmed and worked part time in his buggy shop. He had built my brother Steveas buggy and many others in the area. He was a craftsman, and his products were st.u.r.dy and well built. But I thought his buggies were too wide and looked a little odd. Besides, his production was sporadic at best. If you ordered a buggy from him, it might be completed in four weeks. Or ten. You could fuss all you wanted. Menno smiled kindly and continued moving at a snailas pace as he found the time. Head get it done when he got it done, which was unacceptable to me.

So I chose another builder, one with a stellar reputation. Mulletas Buggy Shop in Milton, twenty miles or so to the south. The Milton Amish church at that time was much larger than the Bloomfield church. Theyad been there longer and the community boasted more established businesses. But Milton was separated from us. More conservative. Much more hard-core Amish. They wouldnat even fellowship with the Bloomfielders. We were way too modern. Way too worldly. So they would not drink the wine or eat the bread of Communion with us. But they sure would do business with us. Money talks, I guess, in ways the bread and wine cannot.

We despised the Miltonites. Scorned them as a group. Especially their youth. Milton Jacks, we called them. They were novices, hicks, many of them, who desperately cultivated a awilda reputation. We looked at them with tired eyes, my buddies and me. If you have to prove you are wild, then by definition you really arenat. Thatas how we saw it. Let your deeds, not your words, do your talking, and your boasting. No Milton Jack had ever accomplished the feats we had pulled off.

We considered them caricatures, our Milton peers. Phonies. Fakes. Kids obsessed with image, utterly devoid of substance. Their actions more often than not sank into idiotic farce. We heard the stories of how they acted. Drink a few sips of beer, then start smashing things. Mouthing off, threatening people. Because in their weird world, thatas how wild Amish kids were supposed to act. So thatas what they did. They were destructive and uncouth. We never had much to do with them. Even so, we were always deliberately polite when we met up with them. But we never bragged. And to the Milton youth, we were legends.

Dad and I headed over to Mulletas Buggy Shop one day with an English driver. Mr. Mullet, the proprietor, greeted us with a shopworn air. Friendly but curt. He was a slightly rotund man with a mere wisp of a beard, and a worn leather ap.r.o.n tied around his waist. I figured he probably couldnat grow a bigger beard or he would have, being from Milton and all. I told him what I wanteda"the buggy style and interior finisha"and he warmed up a bit. As he should have. I was ordering a brand-new buggy. I forget the exact cost, but it was at least several thousand dollars. Quite a sale for Mr. Mullet, and quite an investment for my dad.

Amish and buggies go hand in hand, like cookies and milk. Buggies are Amish. Distinctive, certainly, from community to community. At least, to the discerning eye. Yet regardless of style, buggies are globally recognizable as pertaining to one particular group. The Amish.

But that symbol is not the same vehicle it was way back when nearly everyone still used them a hundred years ago. Not when you strip it down to its structural essence. The Amish have greatly improved and engineered the simple carriage over the last few decades. Solid framing, more safety features, better lights. Itas really quite amazing. Such a simple vehicle on the surface, hiding so much technology.

Amish youth usually drive a single seater. One seat, plus a shelf at shoulder height behind you, and thatas it. The buggy is wired for lights and has a small dash for the light switches. Most are lined with faux velvet of various bright hues.

Mr. Mullet took our order. A standard youth top buggy, in the style common in Bloomfield. Wired for lights. My brother Stephen would install those, after I got the buggy home. For the interior, I chose black velvet fastened with silver tacks. Still clinging to a vestige of my outlaw past, I instinctively went with black. Like Johnny Cash. The Man in Black, whom I deeply admired.

The buggy, Mr. Mullet allowed, would be ready in about six weeks. Dad wrote the check for the down payment and handed it to him. He thanked us, and we left. I was excited.

In the meantime, I was using the top buggy t.i.tus drove before his accident. Also a Mullet model, t.i.tus had received it a few years before. And I appropriated his horse, the stallion he drove on the night of the accident. t.i.tus knew horses, had an eye for them. The stallion, or the Stud, as we called him, was a fine specimen. Deep chocolate brown, almost black, with a flowing mane of coa.r.s.e, coal black hair. Energetic, muscled, nostrils flaring, the horse could flat out move. I won more than a few road races on the way home from the singings on Sunday nights. The Stud was one of the few horses I ever loved. And the last.

24.

Life in the community plugged along. Our world with the wheelchair-bound t.i.tus became the norm. Gradually, slowly, he regained a bit of strength, rebuilding his wasted arm muscles. He could not endure much activity of any kind. He rested long and often. Our brother, and my good friend, now existed in this new, frightful state. He mostly held up well, at least publicly, and with us. But once in a while we could see the flash of desperation and fear in his eyes.

The weeks flowed on, and the months. t.i.tus and Ruth continued dating. Ruth was at our house a lot, since t.i.tus could not go to hers. At least not often, because of all the complications involved. They seemed genuinely happy when they were together.

Marvin and Rhoda were dating right along as well. Going steady. They, too, seemed happy and excited. I looked on with some envy. Felt the yearning, the deep longings stirring inside. Maybe I could find it too, what they had.

Love. Settling down. Contentment. Maybe. Maybe all that could be mine someday. I had my horse. My new buggy was on its way. Soon it would be time to make my move. Providing, of course, that no one else had s.n.a.t.c.hed up the girl I wanted.

And then, right on schedule as Mr. Mullet had promised, my buggy was finished and ready to pick up. We headed over to Milton with Henry Egbert and his old truck and trailer. The buggy sat there in the shop, black and gleaming. The soft interior black velvet glistened in the light; the silver tacks sparkled. I walked around it, inspected it. Breathed deeply the pleasant smell of new canvas, fresh paint, and the velvet interior. I was very pleased with my new wheels. We loaded the buggy and strapped it down and headed home.

Now I was set. My own horse. My own brand-new buggy. All I needed now was a girl.

Even though there were two districts in Bloomfield, the youth still a.s.sembled for the singings as one group. At the time, there were probably about seventy-five youth. Roughly half were girls. Girls of every size and shape and height. Shy girls and talkative girls. Girls who were desperate and girls who allowed themselves to be pursued and courted. Lovely girls and plain girls. Bloomfield, like any Amish settlement of similar size, had the gamut of them all, including the one I was eyeing.

She was still quite young, having just turned seventeen. Too young, really, for a serious relationship, but she was a vision to beholda"at least to me. Her eyes were blue, and her smile bright and genuine. Her blonde hair waved forward from under her covering, then swept back. She was smart and beautiful. Not overly talkative, but not shy either. She could hold her own in pretty much any setting.

Iad known her for years. Watched her blossom from a spindly kid into a lovely young woman. Been around her and her family. I was comfortable among them all, except maybe when we were alone together, she and I. Which rarely if ever happened.