“And they called back to him forgotten memories: Old songs, old faces,
old memories, and all strange, wordless, and unspoken things men know
and live and feel, and never find a language for…”

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

I didn’t think I’d go at first. When my Amish friends invited me to the youth singing at their home a few weeks ago. Scheduled for the following Sunday night. I wouldn’t know anyone. And everyone would stare. Deep down, I’m really a pretty shy guy. So I told them thanks, but I probably wouldn’t attend. I’d keep it in mind in case anything changed, I assured them. That’s what you always say, when trying to maneuver out of an invitation to somewhere you don’t particularly want to go.

Sunday night rolled around, and I had second thoughts. Got a hankering to go. Or a notion, as my Dad would say. The singing started at 7:30. I could slip in a little late. So I changed into “going away” clothes and headed out.

My friends live only a few miles from my house. As I approached, dusk was settling. Line after line of gray/black buggies sat parked neatly in a nearby field. Lancaster buggies. Rectangular boxes with distinct rounded tops. I inched into the drive, drove Big Blue into the field and parked beside a temporary volleyball court.

I heard the soaring voices as I approached the shop where they were singing. Walked up to a back door and slipped in unseen. Took a chair behind the men. The shop was long and low. Two bench-tables had been set up. Girls sat on one side of each table, boys on the other. Benches lined the remainder of the floor behind each table, benches filled with row after row of Amish youth. Girls on one side of the room, boys on the other.

They were singing German songs. Fast tunes, with some English choruses. The music swelled and rolled and echoed from the shop’s low ceiling. Perfect four part harmony. About 150 youth, singing their hearts out. Someone noticed me and handed me a song book. I found the page and sang along. Scanned the room around me.

Everyone was singing. The youth, the married men, the women. Even the children. Everyone was absorbed in the moment, or so it seemed. They were a part of this system. This group. This community. And suddenly I was struck by a deep brooding sense of loss and sadness.

They belonged.

I didn’t. I was an intruder.

The song ended. Another was promptly announced and someone started it. Off they soared again, the swelling rolls of harmony pealing through the building and outside into the night.

It was breathtakingly, hauntingly beautiful and it took me back. I sat there, silent, lost in the moment and in the mist of memories from the past.

**********************
Back twenty-seven years or so, to one of a thousand summer nights in Bloomfield, Iowa. A small Amish community at that time, consisting of two districts. The youth all gathered as one group for the Sunday evening suppers and singings.

They were a diverse group, assembled from a wide swath of Amish communities, big and small. Bloomfield was just a young pup of a settlement in those days. Families had moved in from fairly progressive places like Kokomo, Indiana and Arthur, Illinois. And from such regressive areas as Fortuna, Missouri and Buchanan County, Iowa. And every shade between.

It made for an interesting mix of young people. They developed into groups, loose factions, as those with similar interests gravitated to each other. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

A tall lithe young man walked among them. Dark complexion. Wild shocks of curly, coal black hair. Always a ready smile. Intelligent. Good natured. Quick to laugh. Outgoing, intensely loyal to his friends.

His brooding brown eyes absorbed all that went on around him. The things he saw and lived and felt, he considered in his heart and carefully stored in the recesses of his memory.

There was sadness too, in those eyes, and a hint of something restless and lost. He was a part of this group, these youth. These were his people. Yet, he sometimes felt detached, alone.

These were his people, but he knew there was so much more beyond this world, out-side its secure borders. And its ancient ways. Out there, waiting for him. He’d left once or twice, short spasmatic excursions into that other world, then returned. Tasted the forbidden fruit for a time, before nostalgia and homesickness drowned out reason and turned his face again to the place from whence he came.

But he found home wasn’t quite the same. It would never be again. Could never be again. And he could never truly return. Even as he participated in the community, its life and customs. He loved the camaraderie, the feeling of belonging. But, wherever he was at any given moment, the grass always seemed greener on the other side. When he was home, he heard the siren’s song of the outside world. When he followed that song into that outside world, the memories of home tugged at his heart and pulled him back.

Even so, he lived in a perpetual state of vague undefined optimism. He would live forever; he had no grasp, no concept of the rapidly accelerating flow of the river of time, and the years. The nebulous dreams, the joys, the pain, the turmoil of youth stirred in him. Always the thought, the dream, the knowledge, the great promise of a shining tomorrow. Where the intense passions and desires that burned in him would be soothed, requited.

Always he grasped, with tenuous grip the anticipation of something, something great and grand and fine. Something beyond. Always tomorrow, with its visions of splendor and a shining city. Always the dreams of adventures in strange and distant lands, to come home again after wandering the far country, tired, satiated, ready to settle down in peace and solitude in the quiet land. Always a brighter future of happiness and contentment, always just beyond the tip of his outstretched hand.

But that tomorrow never came. It would never come.

And so he mingled in, immersed himself in the vibrant details of life around him.

He enjoyed the singings, mostly. The buggies clattering as they gathered, around 6:30 or so, on a Sunday night. Rattling steel rimmed wheels on the gravel roads. The horses unhitched and tied up in the barn or at flatbed wagons strewn with chunks of hay. Small knots of youth drifting toward the house, where supper would be served. Hanging with his buddies as they all gathered in. The house father calling everyone to attention, all heads bowed for silent prayer.

Then the serious business of eating the evening meal with his friends. A long bench-table set up in the kitchen, laden with large pots of starchy foods. Mashed potatoes, noodles, some form of hamburger-helper laced meat, baked beans, potato salad and bread. And they filed slowly past and dipped great globs of sustenance onto plastic picnic trays. Walked outside to sit under shade trees or benches in the yard, and wolf their food.

Then dessert and coffee and hanging out, the swaggering boisterous talk, the local gossip, who was dating who, swapping tall tales, or adventures about hunting and fishing and trapping, or work about the farm.

Sometimes they played volleyball after supper, over makeshift nets, with rubber hoses as boundary lines, or baler twine. Shouting, leaping, hair flying as they played. Not a whole lot of strategy involved; everyone just merrily whacking the ball over the net.

As eight o’clock approached, a quick trip to the barn for “business,” then everyone standing about combing and patting down unruly heads of hair. He and his friends often filed in early, so as to grab the treasured back bench against the wall. Two reasons: they’d have a wall to lean against, and they could get away with more monkeyshines, unnoticed in the back. Bloomfield didn’t use tables at the singings, just row after row of benches. A row of boys, a row of girls, a row of boys, a row of girls.

At eight sharp, the first song was announced. And they sang. He didn’t consider himself much of a singer (he wasn’t), but he enjoyed it. Some nights, it was fun and inspiring. Other times, it was something less. All depended on how the evening started. And on the room’s acoustics. A small room with low ceilings, the singing swelled and echoed. A large room or heaven forbid, singing outside, and it just did not go so well. The first forty-five minutes they sang German songs, then English songs for the final half. In four part harmony, a practice Aylmer had never allowed, and one that was almost banned in Bloomfield.

And the minutes crept by, and they sang and sang. The old classic hymns. And the more edgy stuff. “No, no it’s not an easy road.” “You gotta walk this lonesome valley.” And it seemed to him sometimes, as the harmony swelled around him and his spirit soared and he consciously reveled in the mellow waves of song, that he could never leave, never forsake this ancient heritage, this priceless legacy. That no sacrifice would be too great to draw these things inside and keep them in his heart.

And the evening passed, and 9:30 approached. Someone announced and led the parting song. After its last notes faded, the young men got up from the benches and walked out single file. The singing was over for one more week.

They milled about outside. Socialized and chatted for awhile. Those who were dating were the first to scurry away, the young men to hitch up their horses. Each one pulled up to the walkway, where his date would hurry out, wrapped in a black shawl, head covered in a bonnet, and step up into the buggy. And off they clattered. In Bloomfield, courting couples tended to leave post haste for the girl’s house, because the date was decreed over at midnight.

And one by one, he and his friends hitched up their horses and left. Out onto the graveled or blacktopped roads, a long convoy of buggies with blinking orange lights.

When there was no opposing traffic, they sometimes raced their horses. Turned the highway into a drag strip. The challenger pulled up close behind, then lurched out to pass. And the challenged gradually released his reins, the horses opened up into full stride. Side by side, at breakneck speed, the buggies rocking dangerously, the horses straining with every possible ounce of muscle and sweat. Until one or the other pulled ahead and the loser conceded. Sometimes a car approached in the distance; the challenger was expected to pull back in line.

Then onto the gravel road, and up and down the hills surrounding his home. And eventually up the half mile long lane to the house. He and his brothers, laughing and discussing the day’s events. Scoffing at this thing, chortling at that. One of them led the steaming horse to barn or pasture, and they all gathered around the kitchen table for a few minutes, snacking on whatever goodies they could scavenge, before retiring for the night.

This was who he was. In time, he would conclude this was all there was.

And it was not enough.

*********************
I sang along again that night with the Lancaster youth. The first time in more than a decade that I’d attended a Sunday evening singing. Around nine, the parting hymn, and it was over. The young people sat around and visited, the few I knew came and shook my hand in welcome. Soon the buggies trickled out and headed down the road.

And I sat there for a spell and visited with my hosts. Thanked them for their gracious hospitality. Someone asked if the singing that night had stirred in me old memories of my youth. I nodded.

“It was so long ago,” I said.

“C’est La Vie, C’est La Vie – That’s just the way it goes (That’s life).”

—Robbie Nevil, lyrics: C’est La Vie
____________________________

I thought about it a few weeks ago, when I wrote it. That maybe I shouldn’t brag. Shouldn’t litter my blog with vain boastings. But I went ahead and did anyway. Now there’s plenty of time to repent at leisure.

Two facts used to be true. One: I hate cities. All cities, big or small. Two: I’ve never ever, ever been issued a ticket for any traffic violation. Of any kind. Never. It was a matter of some pride to me. Well, actually, a lot of pride.

Of those two facts, one still remains true: I hate cities. All cities.

It all started innocently enough last week. Thursday, it was. I had scheduled a day of continuing legal education. The annual requirement that I attend X amount of hours of legal classes, to maintain my law license. This one was in Harrisburg. Downtown. In the Harrisburg Hilton Hotel.

No problem, really. Harrisburg is a small city. Many would consider it not a city at all. I’d been downtown before, just not recently. That morning, I slipped in and parked in a large parking garage for the day. Went to the class and hung out with about eighty equally bored attorneys. Listening to a passel of state bureaucrats droning on and on about bidding on state building contracts. At least they served a decent lunch.

The afternoon inched on, and at last it was over. Free to go, shortly after four. I walked back to the garage, boarded Big Blue and paid my parking fee. Then turned left around the block and left again, on one-way streets and out of town.

I reached the light where I needed to make a last left onto my road out. A sign up at the light firmly proclaimed, NO LEFT TURN. No left turn? I couldn’t turn right, it was one-way. I had to turn left, or cross the bridge over the Susquehanna and beyond. I’d probably never find my way back. Wander forever, lost in the savage wilderness. Traffic was sparse. So just before the light turned red, I swung Big Blue to the left and stepped on it. Breathed freely. I was on my way out of the wicked city.

It was a trap. And just like that, he was on my heels, like a baying Blue Tick hound. Lights flashing, siren yawping. A cop. He’d been waiting. And he had me. Boy, did he ever have me.

I remained amazingly calm, as I stopped, right on the busy highway. No shoulder. As the cop emerged from his flashing chariot, I reminded myself of my own advice to my readers a few weeks back. He walked up to Big Blue’s window. Medium height. Fit, a bit stocky. Gray-haired, hatless, peering at me sternly.

“Your license. Proof of Insurance. Registration.” He said curtly. I said nothing. Fumbled for my driver’s license and handed it to him. Reached into the glove compartment for the Insurance and Registration. Unfortunately, in the past 18 months, each time new insurance/registration papers arrived, I just piled them all together in the envelope without removing the old ones. I had a serious jumbled mess.

I handed him the Proof of Insurance. “What else do you need?” I asked. And those were my only words. For a second, I thought about explaining to him that I wasn’t familiar with the city. That I had chosen to turn left instead of crossing the river, because I didn’t know the area. That I was forty-seven years old and had never ever gotten a ticket of any kind for any violation, and couldn’t he just let me off? Just this once?

But nah. It wouldn’t do any good. He was out to generate revenue for the city. He had me, dead to rights. Something told me he would savor and enjoy such desperate pleas. And I darn sure wasn’t going to beg any favors from the law. So I said nothing.

He stood there and I sifted through my papers until I found the proper document. And sifted and shuffled. For at least two minutes. I said nothing. He said nothing. I finally handed over the Registration. Still said nothing.

Discomfited by my silence, he finally spoke. “I stopped you because you didn’t obey the traffic sign,” he said querulously. I said nothing. He walked back to his car. Sat there and sat there. Probably checking out the red check marks that appeared beside my name, on my computer records (and no, I’m not paranoid).

At last he emerged and walked up to me with a little yellow paper. A ticket. He handed me my license and documents, then the ticket. “Follow the directions on the back,” he said gruffly. I took everything from his hand and placed it on the seat beside me. And said nothing. Not a word. He turned and walked back to his car. I shifted Big Blue into gear and got out of there. He got into his car and popped back into the spot from where he’d waylaid me. His trap.

Couldn’t blame the guy. Just doing his job. Although it was a trap. But that’s what cops do. I couldn’t do it. Ruin a guy’s day for a minor traffic offense.

I glanced at the ticket. $109.50. For one illegal left turn. Now that’s tyranny. Highway robbery by the state.

I got the ticket because I’d bragged publicly about my perfect driving record. I’m convinced of that. Things have a way of balancing out. Oh, well. It was great while it lasted. And all good things must end, and all that. An illegal turn is probably one of the most benign tickets possible. If any ticket can be benign.

I bet I took the prize for being one of the least communicative traffic stops in that cop’s career.

And I still hate cities.

*****************
A few thoughts on last week’s post. It was intense, brutal to write. And draining to read. I sure couldn’t produce something like that every week. Wouldn’t want to. Always, after immersing myself into something at that level, it takes a few days to shake off the encroaching fog of brooding sadness that settles in. But I knew when I heard the devastating news that Monday morning that it would have to be written. For my own benefit, to work it out of my own system, if for no other reason.

The angel thing dropped into my lap about mid week. And just topped off the story line. I tried not to insert myself, just narrate those particular details. Such a story could only emerge from the Amish or similar related plain groups. In my opinion, anyway. Signs and wonders are a staple of their cultural history. I make no judgment as to what was actually seen, if anything. Or if, as some believe, only the child’s eyes were opened to see what others could not see.

My source was close to the event, and credible. After hearing the details, I double-verified two facts. One, that the child claimed to have seen angels. And two, that he told his mother of it before anyone knew anything of the accident. Both those things happened. It’s remarkable, any way you look at it.

And in its own way, it provides some solace to the grieving families. Let them grieve, let them ponder these things in their hearts, let them grasp and hold on to what small comfort they can from the ruins of this tragedy.

The story surged into the Amish world and went viral Saturday night as it was read aloud on the Amish chat line (Who even knew there was such a thing?? Someone’s come a long way, baby.) to more than 900 Amish/Plain people. A friend called me as the reading started. I got on the line and listened. It was mildly startling, to say the least, to hear my written words read aloud in a halting Dutchified voice. But the reader did an OK job, considering his audience of 900 silent listeners hanging onto every word. Afterward, they tried to figure out who wrote it. Nobody seemed to have any idea. I briefly considered identifying myself, but thought better of it. Wouldn’t want to be responsible for any heart attacks.

The post got a record number of hits. Just shy of 3500. By far the highest weekly count ever. By now, I would guess there are few Amish in North America, with the possible exception of the Swartzentruber groups, who have not heard the angel story. Either from my blog or from their own sources.

For the affected families, after intense shock and the rush of funerals, now comes the aftermath. Of days and weeks and months and years. Of jolting awake in the middle of the night, thinking it cannot be true, cannot have happened. Of getting up each day and realizing it was not all just a bad dream. Of facing and dealing with the new reality again and again. Of the empty places in their homes and lives that will haunt them for years.

They need our prayers and the community’s support. And will for a long, long time.

The boys of summer are back. Finally. Baseball has arrived. Slurp, slurp. The season opened Sunday night, when my Braves whacked the Phillies (World Champs, no less) 4-1. The Phillies managed to get their lone run in the bottom of the ninth. The Braves took two out of three, and should have swept. But lost the third game late. They will have closer troubles this year again, I fear.

For a few days, at least, I could crow at work, lord it over the arrogant Phillies fans.

I’m no basketball fan, but this year I watched all of ten seconds of March Madness. In the championship game, I tuned in to check the score. North Carolina was blowing out poor Michigan State. So back to baseball it was. Thank goodness March Madness is over for one more year.

A blessed Easter to all my readers.

Welcome to the world: Alexia Magdalene Miller. Born March 28, 2009. Welcomed by Lowell, Dorothy (my niece), Kali and Hunter.

Alexia Magdalene Miller