Quaker’s meeting has begun.
No more laughing, no more fun.

—Children’s rhyme
_________________________

It’s fall again. Harvest time. Lancaster County’s Amish churches have now held their baptismal services. Next come the Ordnung’s services. Then two weeks later, Big Church. Then the flood of weddings in November.

But before that, one other tradition unfolds. They gather twice a year. Semi-annually. For one long day. The Amish Bishops of Lancaster County.

They came last week from all corners of Lancaster County. The neighboring counties of Lebanon and Perry. And from out of state. One hundred and forty-four of them.

It boggles the mind on several fronts. Or at least my mind. First, that there are so many of them. Around 150 Bishops total. Each usually is responsible for two districts. Do the math. Second, that they all actually assemble twice a year. To keep unified. On the same page. A united front. That’s admirable.

It must be quite a sight. A sea of somber gray-haired leaders, all gathered in one spot, standing about in their broad-brimmed black hats, stroking their beards. Humor would have been at a premium, I would imagine. Perhaps a few strained smiles and restrain-ed chuckles. I’d wager Big Blue there were no guffaws to be heard the entire day. Their frontless buggies all parked neatly in long rows. Had I known of it, I might have driven by in Big Blue and tried to snap a few pictures from the road. But my sources didn’t inform me until it was all over. Probably on purpose, but just as well. Wouldn’t want to antagonize the few connections I have around here.

Preachers’ meetings of all kinds still make me shudder, because where I grew up, they inevitably resulted in trouble for everyone. But apparently that’s not the case here in Lancaster County. They’ve been doing it for years. Quite successfully.

Lancaster County churches are quite diverse. Northern and eastern districts are generally pretty permissible. Progressive. But in the southern end, not so much. There, people tend to cling tightly to the old ways, and the old traditions. You see grown men running around the farm barefooted in summer. They raise lots of tobacco down there too. Like they always have. The Surgeon General can stuff it. Their forefathers raised tobacco, and by George, they will too. Not that I have anything against raising tobacco. Or smoking it.

And so they gather, the Bishops do, to meet formally and discuss the issues of the day that are affecting their churches. I know little of the structure of their meetings. Cultural secret, I guess. I suppose the hierarchy centers on their age, or how long they’ve been in office. At the end of the day, I’m sure each one sees things from his own perspective. Thus, they return to their flocks, some to emphasize one issue, some another. However it’s done, it works. Lancaster County is probably the most stable large Amish community in the world.

I don’t know if they do the same in northern Indiana. Meet regularly like that. If they do, I’ve never heard of it. When I lived there in the late 1980s, all the districts were unified, even though some were much more progressive than others.

It would be impossible to hold such an inclusive gathering in Holmes County, which consists of a patchwork hodgepodge of all kinds of groups who don’t fellowship with each other. Old Orders. Swartzentrubers. Andy Weavers. New Orders. New New Orders. Abe Troyers. And maybe a few other groups I’m missing. They co-exist. But they don’t fellowship.

But maybe they do hold similar but smaller gatherings in both Holmes and northern Indiana. I just don’t know. Perhaps my readers can enlighten me.

When I was a young man in Bloomfield, we had a saying: “Nothing good can come from a preachers’ meeting.” The truth of that saying was proved again and again.

Bloomfield had two or three districts back then. A full contingent of preachers and a deacon in each one. They usually met once a year, on a Saturday. An all-day affair. Everyone held their breath, because at church the next day, we would learn what they had decided would no longer be allowed. Picky little things. Bigger coverings for the women was an old tried and true favorite. And longer, baggier dresses. Always admonitions for the youth, their attitudes, the way they combed their hair, the length of their sideburns, whether the top buttons on their shirts were properly closed, blah, blah, blah.

It was always something. I can’t remember a single preachers’ meeting where they met and decided all was well and they could just go home. Guess they figured if they went to all the trouble of meeting, they might as well make a few “improvements.” A few of the younger, inexperienced preachers let their passions run, their pet peeves blossom into causes, then crusades. Their power swept to their heads and made them giddy. They always convinced the older graybeards to go along with them, when the graybeards should have known better. Taking away existing rights and privileges from members never goes down well. It’s always a bitter pill.

Of course, those who grumbled at the incessant rule changes were considered rebel-lious. The young preachers figured that if they decided as a unit to ban something that was allowed to that point, their proclamation was the equal to a word from God. There was always much braying about how they, the preachers, were actually our servants, and not petty tyrants. It was sin to grumble or resist.

One fateful year, the preachers decided that the youth would no longer be allowed to sing in four part harmony at the Sunday evening singings. It had always been allowed, and we enjoyed it. Then, just like that, because one or two of the younger preachers were against it, they decided to unilaterally ban it. Singing in harmony was prideful, they opined piously, stroking their golden beards.

Bloomfield had only two districts back then. That day, church was at our home. My buddies and I weren’t members, but we knew what was coming. Sure enough, after the last song, Bishop George announced that all members should remain seated.

Half an hour later, they were dismissed. Our friends who were members emerged glumly. No vote had been taken. The preachers had just decreed that four part harmony singing should no longer be done. But they didn’t go so far as to say it was absolutely outlawed. Just strongly discouraged. They fully expected their proclamation would be heeded.

We had other ideas. That afternoon, my buddies and I huddled in the shadows and craftily plotted our rebellion. After some somber discussion, we decided that when the English songs started that night, we would just go ahead and sing the four part harmony anyway. One of us would announce a song, lead it and force the issue. We knew that if the ban wasn’t confronted that first night, it would forever be too late. Once harmony singing was gone, it would never return. That’s just the way it worked.

After supper, the singing started. We filed in and sat down. German songs for the first fifteen or twenty minutes. Then the English songs.

The four of us, Marvin Yutzy, Mervin Gingerich, Rudy Yutzy and I sat together. I forget who announced the song or who led it. One of us. The song was “Living by Faith.” Which had clear harmony parts in the chorus.

In the first chorus, the four of us loudly bellowed the parts. Painfully off key, I’m sure. The rest of the youth, most of them church members, stumbled and stuttered a bit, then joined us. The first verse. The second. The third. Then the last. My father sat on a back bench, frowning rather darkly. To his credit, he didn’t make a scene. Then it was over. We sagged on the bench, triumphant. We had done it. All the rest of the songs that required parts singing that night were heartily sung the way we always had.

And so harmony singing was saved in Bloomfield. As far as I know, it’s still done today. But just that close, it was nearly lost. Four young rebels rescued it. With admittedly less than pure motives. But we knew demagoguery when we heard it.

And the trouble all started at one of those infernal preachers’ meetings.

***********************************

Last Saturday night I attended a birthday party. Anne Marie Zook’s 40th. Paul and Anne Marie invited a sizable group of friends to their house. Delicious food was served, grilled pork sausages and all the fixings.

Anne Marie is doing well. She’s still on her natural treatment program, fighting the malignant brain tumor that was diagnosed almost a year ago. Because of all the natural foods, she has more energy than she’s had at any time since I’ve known her.

She’s not out of the woods, by any stretch. But her last PET scan about two months ago showed no traces of the cancer. They live day to day, fully aware that circum-stances might change dramatically for the worse without warning. But hope is a beauti-ful thing, and they cling to that and their faith as the months and, God willing, the years pass by.

The baseball postseason is upon us. Around here, Phillies fans walk about with exaggerated swaggers. They’ve done it again, won their division in a tight race with a close finish. Gotta’ give them credit. Ryan Howard just might take them all the way.

The poor Mets choked again in the last game of the season, same as last year. I do take great solace in the fact that the vile Yankees are out of postseason play for the first time in thirteen years. Evil Jeeter walks around forlornly, unsure of what to do with himself.

My prediction for the World Series: The Rays and (how this pains me) the Phillies. Go Rays.

My condolences to all those in the south who are experiencing gas shortages. If the government would get out of the way and allow the market to function naturally, you’d have all the gas you needed. Remove the price controls, and watch it flow in. Sure, you’d pay higher prices for a week or two, but the prolonged shortage would never have materialized. It’s basic economics. Too bad our esteemed leaders are blithering idiots.

It’s been a tumultuous week economically. I’ve seen nothing that would make me retract anything I wrote last week. The next seven to fourteen days will be interesting and probably a little frightening. Something’s gotta’ give, and it will. The craven Senate passed the boondoggle bailout bill in the late hours Wednesday night. This afternoon the spineless House caved and passed the abomination into law. Our Congress has rarely sunk this low in its corrupt and shameful history.

We are entering uncharted terrain. Night is coming on. And after November, it looks like a child will be leading us into the darkness.

“Something wicked this way comes.”

—Shakespeare, “Macbeth”
_____________________________

I’m an alarmist. I freely admit it. If Chicken Little cries the sky is falling, I run for cover. If something bad can happen, it will. That’s my thinking. That way, I figure, if the worst comes, I’m not surprised. If it doesn’t, I’m happily wrong. The philosophy has worked pretty well for me. I expect blows, and life generally obliges.

Entertaining worst case scenarios is human nature, I suppose. Take Y2K. Back when all the world was supposed to crumple and civilization fall apart. Back to the stone age. Because of the computer chips that couldn’t recognize the date when everything turned to zeroes.

As 1999 slowly passed, I stressed about it. I believed the problem was real. Bad things were coming. With a group of friends, I purchased some buckets of long-term food. Grains and such. Stored them in the basement. Along with some candles for when the electricity went out. Blankets. A few guns. Held my breath as the date approached.

It arrived. New Years Eve. Ellen and I spent the evening at a friend’s house. At mid-night, we watched the ball fall in Times Square on TV. The crowd roared. Graffiti rained down. The lights stayed on. Nothing bad happened. And the world went on as before. After all the hype, nothing.

I was relieved, of course. But felt a little silly.

The next summer I sold my long term food buckets at a yard sale, at huge discounts. My next door Amish neighbor haggled with me over the price, then sent his son home to fetch the flyer wagon. (“John, geh holl da vegli.”) They loaded the five-gallon buckets. Two or three of them. Corn meal. Grain. Hard red wheat. Two bucks a pop. Later he graciously dropped off some delicious cornbread his wife had baked from the long-term corn meal bucket. Moist and flavorful. Best cornbread they’d ever had, he allowed. I could only nod and grit my teeth and smile and thank him.

Par for the course, I thought. And that’s how it went.

Since then, I’ve kept my distance from all doomsday scenarios. Oh, I’ve kept an eye on the chatter, everything from alien invasions to the end of the Mayan calendar in 2012. Which supposedly signifies the end of the world, or at least some major polar shifts.

All a yawn. Wackos. The world is full of strange, unexplained mysteries. No one knows the future, although many claim to.

Two years ago I quit watching political shows on TV. Just like that, cold. All the noise and crap, all the screaming. I mute all political ads. Life’s been much more peaceful.

But still, I read. My favorites on the web. Guys I like and trust. They’ve been scream-ing bloody murder for the last three years about the coming economic crash. The real estate bubble, they wrote, cannot be sustained. The big brokerage houses are cooking their books. Leveraging themselves into catastrophe.

I read them and thought they made sense. Meanwhile I was selling lots and lots of pole buildings at work. Easy financing. People were buying. Make hay while the sun shines. It was all good.

And so it went. Until this year. Tremors came as the housing market finally collapsed. Even then, most mainstream talking heads claimed it would be a short term dip, the economy was sound. All would be well.

Not my guys. They kept screaming. Wish now I’d taken a little more of their financial advice on which stocks to buy and sell and short sell. One could have made a small fortune. Always in hindsight, of course.

They started to fall last summer, the big companies. Bear Stearns. Fannie Mae. Freddie Mac. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. Foundations trembled. Big Players swayed. Then crashed to the ground in dust and ashes. Lehman, AIG, and just last night, Washington Mutual. The largest bank failure in our history.

Last week the entire financial system came to within one hair’s breadth of total collapse. Thursday was the ground zero day. In desperation, government officials leaked the word that the US Government would buy up all bad debt. Markets instantly rallied. Then soared on Friday.

But over the weekend, the bureaucrats had a bit of a hangover. How would they do it? Meetings were held. Strategies discussed. Somehow all that debt will be shouldered by taxpayers. Trillions, by the time it’s done. It’s insane. I’m not cheering.

The President looked a bit shaken when he addressed the nation on Wednesday night. He did his best to convince the unwashed peons, to overcome the massive resistance Congress is facing from we the people.

Leviathan. All of them. They are scared. No one knows what will happen. These things have never been done before.

To give credit where it’s due, the Republican House is showing a little backbone for a change. Balking at the massive bailout. Good for them. But I expect some shady deal to be worked out over the weekend.

The markets have reacted accordingly. Bounced up one day, down, down the next, then up again the next. Utterly irrational. Just like it acted in 1929, just before the Great Crash.

With all the media on radio, TV (which I DON’T watch) and the internet, there are Watchmen everywhere, each blowing his own trumpet of doom. Some say it will be this bad, some say, no, this bad. Some predict the “summer of hell” in 2009. And beyond.

Some cry blood and fire and darkness. Some croon “peace, peace, nothing bad will come.” But no one knows. It could be the worst or the best or somewhere in between. The cacophony makes the head spin. Who to believe? Who to trust?

One must sift through all the noise the best one can. Try to make intelligent decisions. Conclusions that make sense, when all the facts are weighed.

Ron Paul, my hero and practically the ONLY honest politician out there, believes we will experience economic upheaval similar to the Soviet Union’s collapse in the 1990s. Pretty scary stuff. I admire Mr. Paul and take his conclusions seriously.

Of all the major commentators, talk radio host Glenn Beck has been the most honest about what’s really happening. He doesn’t rant or rave. Just lays it out as he sees it. His prognosis is quite grim.

I don’t think he’s grim enough.

He sees many more giant corporations going down for lack of financing. Big names, big conglomerates. Loss of jobs, people out of work, the economy stagnant. Or in free fall.

Glenn Beck is a Mormon. Mormons believe in storing a full year’s supply of food at all times. The rest of us could take note and emulate them in that practice, at least.

From my own reading and from reaching my own conclusions, I believe things will begin to unravel dramatically in the next two to four weeks. Beyond anything any of us have ever seen. It will be a long, cold winter.

This time, though, I didn’t buy buckets of long-term corn meal and grains (not that I’d scoff at anyone who did). But I did do a few basic common sense things.

I buy all the water I drink at home. So over time, I have collected a few extra cases of gallon jugs. Stocked up the larder with tinned foods. Stuff I eat anyway, just a bit more. It doesn’t take much for one guy. This weekend, I plan to go out and buy a kerosene heater, the kind we used to have at home years ago. Not just because of bad economic times, but because every home should have one for winter emergencies when the power goes out. So far I’ve been lucky. I won’t count on luck anymore.

About three weeks ago, I depleted my checking account and paid off Big Blue. The truck is mine. Title in hand. It’s a good feeling. Great, actually. Whatever happens, I’ll have my truck. And a man and his truck can survive pretty much anything. Or that’s what I like to think.

So that’s how I see it. I hope I’m wrong again, as spectacularly as I was on Y2K. That the cases of water will be gradually used over time, the tinned foods as well. That the economy will come roaring back, freed of most of its problems, in the next year or so.

But I don’t think it will. Enough so that I’m telling you about it.

This Watchman has spoken. Blown his trumpet. For what it’s worth. Take heed. Or don’t. It’s your call.

************************************

On Tuesday evening, my parents stopped at Steves for the night, on the way home to Kentucky from spending the summer in Aylmer. They were accompanied by Raymond and Laura (my niece) Eicher and their two little boys.

They arrived for lunch and then Dad and the Eichers left to do some local shopping and visiting. Mom stayed at Steve’s house and rested. I arrived around 5 and sat down with her to visit.

Stooped and frail, now lost in the fog of Alzheimer’s, she nevertheless looks healthy physically. She recognized me, she still knows all her children. We sat there on the couch and I let her guide the conversation. She was unclear as to exactly where she was and how she got there. Dad, she said conspiratorially, had hitched up the horse and left to see some people. You know how he has business everywhere he goes. She hoped he would be back soon, surely in time for supper. I assured her he would.

And we sat there and chatted like old times, laughing freely and exuberantly, the conversation flitting here and there, guided by the vast well of her memories and experiences. We discussed the threads she chose; now she was a child in Daviess County, now in her Bloomfield years, now in Aylmer in my own childhood.

I made no attempt to jolt her to the present. It was bittersweet, yet I deeply treasure those moments in my heart.

One of these days, she won’t remember her children anymore.

Dad and the others returned then, and we gathered around to a sumptuous meal of roast turkey and all the trimmings. I helped Mom through the line, holding her plate and loading the food she wanted. We sat at the table and she enjoyed every bite.

After supper we sat around, Steve and my parents and I, and visited. Dad is quite alert and still with it at 87 years of age. He was particularly interested in my writings, specifically the Elmo Stoll posts. He’s read many of my blogs on printed hard copies.

Around 9:30 I got up to leave. Mom wasn’t quite sure where she was and kept insisting that they should go home to sleep instead of bothering these nice people. Dad told her it was too dark to drive the horse and buggy, and the hour too late. She seemed to accept that, at least momentarily.

I said good bye and walked out into the night. And so I left them.