…He would appear at the table bearing a platter filled with some revolting
mess of his own concoction, — a mixture of raw vegetables, chopped up —
onions, carrots, beans, and raw potatoes — for he had the full strength of
his family’s mania concerning food, … and deep-seated distrust of every-
body’s cleanliness but his own.

—Thomas Wolfe
_________________

I didn’t feel particularly grumpy that morning as the day dawned. Well. Maybe just a little. It was my Saturday to work, which comes around about once a month. So no sleeping in. Which was fine. I’ll take my turn at work, just like everyone else. But, it was also going to snow. And I could see, looking out. It was fixing to start, right about the time I walked to my truck. Snow. Spitting white stuff. In April. So, yeah, maybe I was a little bit grumpy about all that. Still, it was a new day. And you just do what you do, when a new day comes.

The roads were dead when I pulled out in Big Blue and headed over to Sheetz for my coffee. Of a Saturday morning, the roads are usually dead here in Lancaster County. But they’re especially dead on a Saturday morning in April when it’s snowing. I pulled up and parked at my usual spot and walked in. The cashier, a kindly elderly lady, wears a name tag that simply says, Mom. She’s been around for about as long as I’ve been going there, and always smiles and greets me by name. A few years back, I watched for my chance. And one Saturday, around mid-day when it was slow, I snuck in a copy of my book and signed it and gave it to her. She beamed and beamed and smiled in wonder. Ever since then, she often asks how my family is doing. “How is your Dad?” Oh, he’s still writing, I say. She was all sympathetic, too, back when my Mother died. She offered me her sincere condolences. “I feel as if I know her,” she told me. This morning, she smiled in welcome as usual as I walked up to pay. Some of us have to drive to work in this snow, I grumbled. “You be careful out there on the road,” she admonished.

On over the back roads, then, toward the office. The snow swept down in great wet blobs. I took my time, meandering along. A few minutes before eight, I arrived and parked. Today would be a slow day, if there ever was one. It was. The phone rang sporadically. A few brave souls wandered in for materials. One local couple came in for a quote on a garage. They had just moved down from New York. I’m sorry it’s snowing here, in April, I told them. They laughed. “It’s nothing, compared to what we’re used to,” they said. And right at noon, as I was leaving, the snow stopped, and the spitting skies cleared up. Great. At least the afternoon could be salvaged, I figured.

I don’t usually get too torn up, on a Saturday afternoon. I putz around, run a few errands, and generally end up for coffee at the house of some of my good Amish friends. Well, at least when they’re home, that is. Lately, they haven’t been around that much. But this Saturday, they were there. And right at my regular time, around 2:30, I parked Big Blue outside their house. The husband met me, and we chatted for a few minutes before heading in. And he told me. The goodwife was very ill. Well, she was some better now, but earlier in the week, she had got so bad, they went to see the doctor. Bronchitis and pneumonia, is what the doctor had decreed. She was on antibiotics. And feeling a lot better. We walked in, then, for a cup of coffee. The goodwife sat on the couch, resting, looking a little wan. I greeted her cheerfully. What’s the matter? I hear you’re sick. “I was,” she said. “I’m feeling a lot better now.”

We just sat there and drank strong creamed coffee and talked. And the goodwife told me. She was feeling a lot better. At her low point, it was pretty bad. The antibiotics had helped a great deal. Almost immediately, boom. She was breathing better. And she asked me. “Are you stopping at Miller’s Health Foods this afternoon?” I am, I said. I always stop there of a Saturday afternoon to stock up on my veggies for my smoothies for the next week. I buy mostly organic stuff. And each morning, I blend it all up and drink it. Good stuff, right there. Delicious, too. So yes, I told her. I’m stopping by at Miller’s when I leave here. Can I get you something?

“Well,” she said. “It seems like I’m out of Thieves Essential Oil. Do you think you can pick up a bottle?” Ah. Thieves Essential Oil. Right here, I will concede. I don’t claim to know a whole lot about Essential Oils. I know there’s people out there who swear by them. And I remember that my sister Maggie used a good variety of Essential Oils when she was fighting her cancer last year. And now she’s cancer-free. I don’t claim to know much about any of it. Except Thieves. I know about Thieves. That stuff absolutely works. It’s a magic elixir. When you get a bad cold or you’re stuffed up and can’t breathe, just rub some on the back of your throat or on your chest. And swallow a drop or two. It will cure your ills, just like that. I’ve known since the Ellen days. She always had Thieves around and it always worked when you needed it.

And how in the world did an Essential Oil get loaded down with such a name as Thieves? Legend has it that it happened many hundreds of years ago. A plague was sweeping the land. Might even have been the Black Death. And people just died, whole families. Whole houses full of people. Everyone just collapsed and gurgled to death in the most horrible way imaginable. And when people got the plague and died, everyone else stayed far away, so as not to get infected. It was a brutal and fearful thing.

And somehow, it was soon discovered. There was a group of people going around, from house to house. Even into the houses of the dead they went. Fearlessly. And they robbed every place they walked into. Stripped the dead of their trinkets, even. And generally just helped themselves. And the authorities could not figure it out, what was going on. Why weren’t these vile thieves getting infected and dying, just like everyone else? And somehow, at some point, some of the thieves were captured in the act. And the authorities took them and imprisoned them. And asked the thieves. How can you walk into a plague-infected house, and not get killed for it? Why don’t you get sick and die, just like everyone else does? If you show us your secret, we won’t torture you, or tear you limb from limb. We’ll let you live.

And the thieves gave up their secret. Showed the authorities what they had. A mixture of herbs and oils. When you rubbed it under your nose, and swallowed a few drops, you would be protected from the plague. And all other sicknesses, too. And that’s where Thieves Essential Oil comes from. I believe there is a lot of truth in the legend. And I told the goodwife. Of course. I’ll be happy to pick up a bottle of Thieves for you. I’ll be back after a bit. They gave me some cash. And off I went.

Miller’s Natural Foods is a pretty nice store. Just east of Bird-in-Hand a few miles, just off Monterey Road. Well stocked with just about everything natural imaginable, and Amish-owned. I stop by almost every Saturday afternoon. Sometimes I bring along my Amish friends and sometimes I don’t. You’d think the Miller’s people would recognize me by now. But no one has ever given me the slightest indication that such a thing is true. I always walk in, grab a basket, get my veggies, and get out of there in less than twenty minutes.

And today I sauntered in, on a mission. Get my own stuff. And get some Thieves for the goodwife. I puttered around with my basket, back in the walk-in cooler. Kale. Spinach. Baby carrots. Brussels sprouts. All stuff I throw into my Ninja every morning. And then I wandered back into the store. Essential Oils? Where did they keep the Oils? Eventually I took my basket up front, to the cashier. A real nice elderly Amish lady. These Miller people sure run a productive place, I thought to myself. I’ve thought that often. And I chatted with her for a bit.

I’m here to pick up some Thieves for ______, I said, conversationally (and I named my friends). Instant recognition. The goodwife is very sick. “Oh, my,” the cashier fretted. “We are out. We’re getting restocked next week. But that won’t help someone who’s sick today.” Oh, good grief, I thought. That’s all I need. No Thieves. The nice lady brightened, then. And she told me of another little Amish store, just a few miles over there, across the fields. Not far at all. “She deals in essential oils. She should have some Thieves for you,” the nice lady said. I thanked her, and paid for my stuff. And off I went, in my truck.

The other Amish place was just where the nice lady had told me it would be. There was a big greenhouse with a little shack sitting off to the side. That must be the store. I poked around. No one seemed to be home. I stuck my head into the door of the store. No one. I walked in. Cool little shack, loaded with shelves all around. You gotta hand it to the Amish. They keep things pretty simple. And there was a shelf, with lots of little Essential Oil bottles. My. Someone could just walk off with a few of those, and no one would know the difference. There was a small counter. On the counter sat a large cowbell. And there was a little sign. Please ring bell. Hmm, I thought. I guess I’m supposed to ring it outside. No one’s gonna hear it in here. This is getting to be quite a production. I picked up the cowbell. Heavy, of solid brass, it was. I stepped outside. And I shook the bell up and down, hard. It clanged and clattered and pealed and bounced from the barns and houses all around. Goodness, I thought. That was loud.

A moment later, a robust Amish woman stepped out of a nearby greenhouse where she had been working and walked over to help me. The greenhouse must have been warm. She wasn’t wearing a coat. She was young, in her thirties, probably. A mother, I could see. Her face gleamed with a healthy glow. I’m sure she would have been barefoot, had it not snowed three inches that morning. She smiled at me as she got close. Open and friendly, is what her smile was. She figured I was just an ordinary English customer. I smiled back and greeted her. I wasn’t sure about ringing that bell so loud, I said. And then I told her what I was looking for.

Miller’s Health Food said you might have some Thieves Essential Oil that I could buy, I told her. They’re totally sold out. I’m here for ______ (and I named my friends). The goodwife is very sick. Instant recognition, again. But the robust woman looked a little perturbed. “I sell another brand. It’s called OnGuard. It’s the same formula as Thieves, just not that name. But I’m sold out, too,” she said. Oh, my, I said. What am I going to do now? My friends really need it. And the woman suddenly had an idea. “Let me go in the house and see if I have a partial bottle I can sell you,” she said brightly. “When you’re sick like that, it’s good to have what works.” She turned and disappeared.

She returned a few minutes later, smiling. She had found a partial bottle. Oh, that’s great, I said. Thanks so much. She wrote up an invoice. I paid her, and thanked her again. And then I took the precious little bottle of healing oil back to the place I had started from.
***********************************************

My motorcycle journey chugs along, real slowly, seems like. I’m fairly used to my beard now. It stays decently trimmed. And I’m letting my hair grow long. And it’s getting to where you’ll notice. The other day, an Amish contractor stopped by to break down a building he’s buying. The guy’s a good friend, I’ve worked with him for years. “My,” he said, peering at me sharply as he took a seat by my desk. “I haven’t seen you in a while. You’re starting to look like a hippie.” Ah, thanks, I said, beaming. It’s real nice of you to notice. I take that as a big compliment. One of these days when you walk in here, I’ll have me a real ponytail. That’s my goal, anyway. He allowed it would be a little different, to see such a thing, but totally OK with him.

So things are rolling along right nice. A few weeks back, I went and got my motorcycle permit. In PA, you have to get a beginner’s permit first. You gotta go in and take a written exam, and get 16 out of 20 questions right. Some time ago, I printed out the PDF instruction guide and study book. It all seemed pretty basic. Just common sense stuff, adapted to motorcycles. One theme runs through it all, over and over, again and again. THE OTHER DRIVER WILL NOT SEE YOU. THE OTHER DRIVER WILL PULL OUT IN FRONT OF YOU. INTERSECTIONS ARE VERY DANGEROUS. WATCH OUT FOR THE OTHER DRIVER. That Saturday, I headed on over to the DMV office to take the test. It was around midmorning, and I immediately thought. This place is packed out. I’ll never make it, through these crowds. I could feel it in the air, a panicked sense of pulsing fear. Great. I checked in and got my number. About an hour, the man told me. I walked to the back of the crowded room and found a chair and settled in to wait. And I waited. And waited.

I had brought along my study guide, since I figured there would be no way this would be a quick thing. On the back of the book were about 80 practice questions. So I just started in on those questions. All 80 of them. The ones I missed, I did over again. And again and again, until I pretty much knew that practice test like the back of my hand. Meanwhile, my number was creeping up, one agonizingly slow minute after another. An hour passed. Then two. I took the practice test again. And then my number was called. I picked up my bag and walked to the front. When you wear an Aussie hat and oilskin vest in a place like that, you can feel the stares hitting your back as you pass. What kind of loon is this? What’s he here for? I felt the questions and the stares.

The man behind the desk greeted me. I spoke back cheerfully. Did I want to take the test on paper or on the computer? I’ll take the computer, I said. You all seem to be quite busy today. He chuckled. “Yes, Saturday is our busiest day,” he said. “Tuesday comes right after. We’re closed on Mondays. On Tuesdays, you have all the people who lost their licenses over the weekend coming in, to get their work driving permits.” I felt bad for those people. I mean, this place was tense enough. If you got caught by some cop for having one beer too many, you’d have to come wade through this mess. Not to mention all the costs associated with a DUI. It’s a racket, is what all of it is.

The man took my application and my driver’s license and punched around on his computer. Then he directed me off to the right, to computer #7. “Just answer the questions. Then come back here. I’ll take your check then, but only if you pass.” Oh, well, I said. Here goes. And I walked over and sat down and signed in. The questions came up at me, blip, blip, blip. And I was hugely relieved to see that I recognized every single one of them, from my practice exam. In less than ten minutes, I answered the sixteenth question. The computer congratulated me. Sixteen straight. You have passed. A stab of relief shot through me. I walked back to the nice man. He printed out my permit, and I wrote him out a check for ten bucks. He handed me the precious piece of paper. Thank you, I said. Thank you so much. You have no idea how much this means to me. And I walked out, clutching my motorcycle learner’s permit.

Which means I can now ride on any road in Pennsylvania, at least during daylight hours. And only if I’m wearing a helmet and eye protection. Which is pretty wild. Which doesn’t mean I’m riding. Someone has to teach me how. I’ve never driven a motorcycle even so much as a foot. I’m signed up for an instruction class this summer, in July. A few months out, yeah, but it was the first opening they had that suited me. Once I get through that little ordeal, my real license will be issued. And then, I should be good to hit the road. And then, we’ll see if that Harley chopper was the real thing or just a grand illusion.

A few days ago, I got the link. From my friend, Dr. Sabrina Voelz in Germany. They had filmed my keynote presentation last summer at Plain People Conference. I posted the first part before, if I remember right. Sabrina kept telling me. We’re editing the Q&A session. We’ll make two clips. And just yesterday, I got the links. The first half, and the second half. It’s kind of cool, to see what I had to say preserved so professionally. It’s all a bit astounding to me. Just like being invited to the conference in the first place was astounding to me. My friends in Germany have been way beyond kind to this ex-Amish redneck who just happened to get a book published. I am grateful, and will always be.

A few words here at the end, a belated public good-bye to a good friend. Fifteen years ago when I came to work at Graber, John had already been the mechanic on duty for a number of years. He was retired from a full career as an airline mechanic, and the man was absolutely paranoid about the trucks under his care. He worked his own schedule, clocked in when there was work to do, and kept all the Graber delivery trucks in tip-top shape. It got so those roadside robbers, the DOT goons, learned to just leave our trucks alone, because they knew they would find no violations. Once, after an exhaustive roadside check, the DOT robber told my driver. “My compliments to your mechanic. I can’t find even a single small violation.” That was John.

He slowed down as he grew older, but still kept a fierce pride in maintaining our trucks. Gradually, then, his work load lessened as he clocked fewer and fewer hours. And a few years ago, he approached me one day and told me he was hanging it up, was giving his notice. He was 85 years old. We wished him well. It was different, not having our crack mechanic around, but life goes on. John stopped in to see us now and again, leaning on his cane and hobbling along slowly. Always, he looked a little older and a little frailer.

He passed away quietly in late February, the day before I checked into the hospital for my heart ablation. The next Saturday afternoon, there was a short viewing period before he was laid to rest. Along with a few of his other friends and coworkers from Graber, I stopped for a few minutes to see John one last time and say good-bye. He was all dressed up to go away. His normally grease-stained hands were clean and folded. The half-smile on his face spoke of a place he was seeing that our eyes cannot behold on this earth.

He was a man of integrity and a good friend. John P. Stoltzfus, Rest in Peace.

You cannot find peace by avoiding life.

—Virginia Woolf
__________________

The morning broke, and the sun rose and glistened over a bright and beautiful day. And I reveled in the feeling and the freshness of it all. It wasn’t that long ago, I thought to myself, when I didn’t know if such a day would ever come again. But now, here it was. And it stretched before me in the distance, as far as the eye could see. Maybe there won’t be another time, but there will be this time. This morning, this day, there will be one more journey down one more open road.

It’s an important thing, a wedding is. And with fifty-nine nieces and nephews all stirring around out there, there’s been no shortage of invitations coming at me. Right along, over the years, here comes another envelope in the mail. One more proclamation from one more far and fertile land halfway across the country. Behold. There will be a great wedding on such and such a day. A huge feast will follow. You are invited. In fact, we would be honored by your presence. Inherent in all that was this simple message. We’ll be offended if you don’t show up. And I was, like, Gahhhh. It all got to be a bit much for an eccentric old uncle like me to take in.

And no, it’s not because I’m a prickly old curmudgeon. I enjoy family gatherings as much as the next guy. The thing is, you can’t go to every wedding. Just like you can’t go to every funeral. Especially if they’re far away, and you got a job to go to every morning. All those factors figure in. So my normal response has been, thanks, but I won’t be able to make it. Randomly, now and then, I could make it. And did. And it was always an enjoyable thing to get together, to hang out. Always an adventure.

Friday morning. Good Friday. It sure works out well this time, I thought, as I headed on over to my friends at Enterprise to pick up the car I had reserved the day before. It works out well, because Good Friday is a holy day here in Lancaster County. Many businesses here shut down. You don’t work. But you can travel. It’s just another normal day, to all the outside world. Right at seven, as the place opened, I parked Big Blue and walked in. A new guy behind the little counter, there at the Ford place. He looked at me, all decked out in my jeans, canvas vest, and Aussie hat. I greeted him cheerfully. Beautiful day out there for a road trip. What kind of car you got for me?

He didn’t seem all that communicative. Cordial enough, and professional. Just not real talkative, like those guys usually are. “I have a Ford Focus for you,” he told me. “It’s pretty close to new, only seven hundred miles on it.” That’s great, I said. But I have to ask, because I always do. Do you have a Charger on the lot? He shook his head. “Sadly, I do not,” he said. That’s fine, I said. I always check, because I always upgrade if you got one. The Ford Focus will be just fine. Especially if it’s that close to brand new.

He got my paperwork ready and walked out to fetch the little car. And as we were doing the walk-around, he got communicative, all of a sudden. Those guys are usually pretty good, and this guy was stellar. Upsell. That’s what you do, when you’re renting a car to someone. Not the model or the make, necessarily. But upsell to trip-specific insurance.

He had asked who my insurer was, and about the deductible. Allstate, I told him. Now, he smoothly slid into his sales pitch. “I know you have great insurance with Allstate,” he began. “But we have insurance you can buy, just for this trip and just for this car. That way, if something happens, your Allstate coverage won’t be affected. It’s only $24 per day, and it would bring your total to such and such.” He named the price. And told me what those guys always say. “With this insurance, you are totally covered. We don’t care if you bring us back only the steering wheel. You’re covered.”

He was good. I’ll give him that. Real good. I came closer to biting than I have in a while. But still. I hedged. My truck coverage spills over to rental cars. I had checked that out a few times over the years. So I told the guy. I’ll pass, this time. He persisted. “Are you sure?” I guess that’s how they train them. Yes, I said. I’m sure. He handed me the keys. “OK, then. Have a great trip, and we’ll see you early Monday morning.” Thank you, I said. I will and we will.

The little Focus was what the man had said. Brand new. I parked my truck at the far end of the lot, and walked back to the car. I got in and adjusted the seat and mirrors to fit me. Well. The Aussie hat would have to go, at least while I was driving. My head pretty much scraped the ceiling as it was. That’s OK, though, I figured. And I headed home to load up. I had packed light. Just for a few days. At least I thought so. As always, when the time came to load, I threw in this and that. I might need a pair of sneakers. And an extra jacket. Lord knows what the weather will be out there in Ohio. It’s a weird state. I loaded a box with a dozen of my books, too. You never know when you’ll meet someone who wants a copy. By eight, me and the little Focus were on the road.

And it seems like such a strange and astonishing thing, but I gotta say it. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve felt so lighthearted and free as I did that morning, heading west. I’m not even sure how to put my finger on it, how to describe it. I guess it was just a state of mind. Whatever it was, it had been a while. And I felt the gratitude stirring deep inside me. Thank you, Lord, for this day. Thank you, for health and strength. Thank you, that I can go and spend time with my family. I will never take such a thing for granted again, and I will always be grateful for all of life. That’s what I felt and that’s what I thought and that’s what I spoke to the Lord that morning on the road.

The little Focus pulsed along, on and on into the morning and then into the day. It sure was a heavy car, for its size. I didn’t feel small at all, driving along in traffic. But when I stopped for coffee for the first time and got out, I couldn’t believe how tiny the car was. Oh, well. I reached in to the passenger’s seat and grabbed the Aussie hat and put it on and sauntered in. Inside, no one would know that I was driving a little toy of a car.

Onward, westward, I pushed along. And soon enough, I-70 came right up. I left the toll road after paying the exorbitant fee of 21 bucks. For a little car, to drive from Harrisburg to New Stanton. That’s highway robbery, I grumbled to myself. The thing is, that price will never recede, will never go down. Only up. I paid. And then it was on west, to Wheeling, WV.

And I thought about it, as the Focus slid along through the traffic. The wedding. It was a big deal to my sister Naomi and her husband, Alvin Yutzy. They had raised a long row of strong, strapping sons and one beautiful daughter. And the strange thing was, the children had all pretty much stayed with the church their parents raised them in. Not precisely, and not all, but still. Close enough. And looking back to where I came from, and how I could not stay at the place where my father was, it was a thing of wonder to me, how Alvin and Naomi had raised their children. Especially the sons. Somewhere, there had to be some communication going on when those guys were growing up. That’s all I could figure out. Sons get all restless sometimes, and will push on and out, from where they were raised. Get a little more modern than their parents. Walk a different path. Like I had. Unless…unless someone is talking and someone’s listening.

Whatever the reasons, almost all of Alvin and Naomi’s sons didn’t stray very far from how they were raised. They stayed pretty plain, which was and is a wonder to me. And now, one of the younger boys, Daniel, was getting hitched to Sheri Byler, a Conservative Mennonite girl from Holmes County. That’s where I was heading. Up west and north to Holmes. It’s been a few years since I’ve been there. I used to stop and see John Schmid, now and then. Back when. John and I still hang out a few times a year, when he comes through Lancaster County. And we always catch up, and he always invites me out to Holmes. The problem is, John travels a lot, working in prison ministry. And he’s not home a lot. We had chatted a few weeks back, and I told him I was coming for a wedding. He told me. “You’re welcome to stay at my house, but we won’t be home. We’ll be traveling that weekend. A concert in Missouri. But you can stay at my place.” He meant it, too. Ah, that’s OK, I told him. I’ll just get a motel room. It sure would be nice to hang out, and I sure would stay at your place if you were home. But I’ll just hang with family and friends at the motel.

Down around Wheeling, Highway 250 got some real sharp curves. I mean, you’re going one way this instant, here comes a hairpin, and you’re going the other way, pretty much. I don’t mind the road, though. It’s a scenic drive. By early afternoon, I got through the curves and headed on west. Then up Rt. 19 through Sugarcreek. Walnut Creek was next. It sure is hilly, out there in Holmes. I haven’t seen many places where they farm hills like that. But out there, they do. The Amish are about as saturated in that area as they are here in Lancaster County. I cruised on up Rt. 19. And there, just outside Walnut Creek, stood the Wallhouse Hotel. It jutted majestically from the farm fields all around. All five stories of it. Wow, I thought. They’re getting a little hifalutin’ in Holmes. That there’s a brand new place, looks like. And five stories high, yet. What’s next, a real skyscraper?

The Wallhouse Hotel was almost brand new, and pricey enough. I didn’t grumble, though. This place was chosen because it was real close to the church where the wedding would be tomorrow. I sauntered in, all sharp. The clerk greeted me politely. I need a room, I told him. For two nights. I didn’t make a reservation. And I need the AAA discount. He checked me right in. A big king bed in a room on the fifth floor. I took the electronic key and thanked him and trundled out a cart for my stuff. A guy should travel light with only a few bags, I knew. But when you’re going to a wedding, you gotta take some nice clothes on hangers. And you need a cart for that, when you’re moving from your car to your room. I loaded the cart and boarded the elevator. All around me, everything was glistening and new.

I pulled the cart up to Room 505, and fumbled around for my key card. And I looked at the door. Strangely, there seemed to be no slot of any kind to stick my card into. There was a little plastic box mounted right under the door knob. Looked like it had a lid, and a little indent to push it open. So I pushed. Nothing. I pried around. Nothing. This was getting frustrating. I mean, come on. There’s gotta be a slot for my card, somewhere. And I pried around that plastic lid every which way. Up. Down. Sideways, both ways. It simply would not budge. I stood back and pushed my Aussie hat about as far back as it would go, and scratched my head and just looked at the door. There has got to be a way to get that card stuck in there, somewhere. There has got to be. But there wasn’t. Not that I could see or feel, anywhere. A couple of times, I almost boarded the elevator to go back down to the front desk. But I didn’t want to leave my cart there, with my stuff. So I stayed, glued to the spot, and just fought that door. I talked to it, too, real sternly, which didn’t seem to make any difference at all. It was a maddening and frustrating thing.

About right then, a couple stepped from the elevator and strolled right up to me, to pass on down the hall. Heavy-set and bearded, the man was dressed all casual in shorts. I turned and practically assaulted them both. I can’t find a place to stick my card in, I said. I’ve almost torn this door down, and it won’t budge. Can you show me how to open the freakin’ thing? The man barely slowed his stride. “Try waving the card across the plastic thing, there,” he said. “I think some hotels have remote cards, now.” I looked at my card. There was no stripe on it, anywhere. So I waved it across the front of the plastic thingy under the door knob. The green light went on, and there was a sharp click. The door unlocked. I stood there and sputtered. I ain’t never seen such a thing. The heavy-set man had walked on past me, but he was sympathetic. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You’ll be alright.” I gaped after him. And I felt like I had just crawled out of a hole in the jungle, somewhere.

On into the room, then. A beautiful spacious place. King bed, fridge, all kinds of closet space and a large bathroom. I’ll enjoy my stay, I thought. After unpacking and relaxing for a few minutes, I headed on back down. I wanted to check out a few places before supper tonight at the community center. I stopped by the front desk on my way out. You people need to tell guests that you just wave your card to open the door, I told the clerks. There were two of them now. I almost tore your door off its hinges before someone told me how the card works. They both chuckled. What can you expect from a guy wearing an Aussie hat? That’s what I felt them thinking.

I drove out on Rt. 19 toward Berlin. A few years ago, I had a book signing at Gospel Light Bookstore. My friend, “Small” Hochstetler, owns and runs the place. He was around somewhere, the clerk told me when I walked in. And soon enough, he came bustling around. Even with my beard, he recognized me. He beamed and shook my hand. We stood there, close to the spot where I had signed my books, and just visited. With Small, that’s an easy thing. He’s never short of words.

I asked about Dad’s books. Oh, yes, he had them right up front, by the entrance. All three volumes. Dad had come around last spring, I think it was, and there was a book signing for him, too. Lots of people showed up. Small shook his head in wonder. The man just keeps writing and writing and producing and producing. After half an hour or so, we were winding down. Small paused and looked at me sharply.

“And what about you?” he asked. “Are you working on your next book?” Ah, well, I said. A thing like that, you can’t force it. It’s gotta come on its own, and if it doesn’t, I’m totally OK with that. But I’m thinking it will. By the way, did you know I almost died last November? Small had not heard. So I told him. My heart issues. How close it had come, to me leaving. I finished my story. I’m not afraid anymore, I said. Not afraid to die, and not afraid to live. I’m not afraid of another book, either, and what it is to write it. I’m telling you, I can’t help but talk about it to whoever will listen to me.

Small looked at me sharply again. “You need to write that story, then, if you’re not afraid,” he said. “For your next book, just write that.” I have, I said. I’m writing that story, all of it, on my blog. Once the book comes along, I’ll be able to go back and pick through and expand on stuff. That’s my game plan. Small seemed satisfied, then. He asked which blog told of my hospital stay, and I pulled it up on my iPhone and showed it to him. He jotted down the title and the date. It was close to closing time, which was at five on Good Friday. I took my leave and headed back to the hotel.

I settled in, then, and just rolled with the events as they came down. The evening before a wedding, there’s always s big old feast somewhere, provided by the groom’s parents. That’s how it’s been, anyway, in the past. And tonight, Alvin and Naomi were hosting a meal at the community center just outside Sugarcreek. I pulled in right at 5:30, right on time. The place looked pretty deserted. A few other vehicles were parked about randomly. My brother Jesse pulled up in a rented van about the same time I got there. He and Lynda emerged and we greeted each other. Where is everyone? Alvin and Naomi met us as we approached the front door. My sister smiled and smiled and greeted me with a huge hug. “I’m so honored that you made it.” she told me. Not a problem, I said. I wanted to come. I didn’t make it to most of the weddings in your family. This one was close. So here I am.

I shook hands with everyone all around. We lounged around and visited, then. Jesse tried to stir the pot by loudly praising Trump. “He’ll be the next president,” Jesse proclaimed. It might have stirred up a few people, but not me. I hope Trump wins, I said. Not that I vote, or anything. I just want to see him win, because I hate the establishment so much. And nothing is getting more tiresome than listening to all those pious Christians telling you. You can’t be a Christian and vote for Trump. That right there is enough to make anyone vote for him, even if you don’t vote. Which I don’t.

I saw my sister standing across the room, and went to chat with her. She was fretting. Over a hundred people had committed to come for supper tonight, and only a few dozen had showed up so far. Oh, well, give them some time, I told her. She looked me up and down and pronounced that I had good color and looked very healthy. I laughed. And I told her what I had told Small, earlier. I can’t not talk about it. I’m not afraid. I can’t tell you how not afraid I am. Not afraid to die. Not afraid to live. I’ve never been here before, in my heart. It’s the freest place I’ve ever seen. It’s a beautiful place to be. I’m getting my motorcycle license, I babbled, somewhat disjointedly. She gaped mildly at me. This was certainly a side of me that she had never seen before. I can’t help it, I said again. I can’t not talk about it.

The place filled up then, boom, just like that, as waves of youth swarmed in. And more guests, too, from out of state. My good friend and blood brother, Rudy Yutzy walked up, smiling. His load had just arrived. We hugged, and he asked about my heart and health. “I didn’t realize you were in such bad shape until after it was all over,” he told me. “Had I known, I would have been out there to see you.” It all ended good, I told him. And more people flooded in. Naomi wouldn’t have to worry about the food getting eaten. There was much shouting and greeting and hand shaking and hugging and back slapping. And we all feasted from the loaded potato bar. It was a very special time.

The next morning came, and the day flowed at us. A large group assembled in the lobby for breakfast. The Wallhouse sure served up some tasty food. Biscuits, gravy, eggs, bacon, all the usual greasy stuff. I ate a heaping plateful and sat at the table sipping coffee. A few local friends stopped by to hang out and chat. We all drank coffee and connected.

Rudy and his brothers wanted to go check out the old homestead of their great-grandpa, Reuben Yutzy. His claim to fame: he was probably the only Amish gun maker, ever, in all of history. He cranked out a good number of high quality muzzle loaders way back when. His guns are highly sought after, especially by his offspring. When one shows up for sale, it’ll bring $30,000 or so. His little work shop is still there on the farm, but just barely. It’s going to collapse and fall in very soon. A load of us headed out and checked out the work shop and took pictures. A few walked on back to the old graveyard on the hill, where Reuben is buried. And soon after 12, we headed back to the hotel to get dressed for the wedding.

By 1:30, we were assembled at the church. A large nice quiet sanctuary it was. The usher led me right to my seat, just a few rows back from the very front. A seat of honor, in the family section. Jesse and Lynda were already seated to my right. Steve and Wilma came in right after me. Of all the siblings, we three brothers were the only ones who had made it to this wedding. That’s just an observation, nothing more. Lord knows I’ve missed more than my share of such events over the years. I made it to this one pretty much because it was close and convenient.

We chatted as the place filled up. I’m suspicious of any Plain wedding service, I told Jesse. A lot of preachers like to hear themselves talk way too much. Jesse chuckled. Well, I said. With the Amish, you know the service is going to be three hours long. That’s just how they do it. But with the Beachys and Plain Mennonites, you got no idea of how long it will go. I sure hope this one’s short. We’ve all heard the five-point sermon on what a good marriage is. We don’t need to hear it again. Jesse glanced at the bulletin. “It looks like it’ll be fairly short,” he said. “There’s going to be lots of choir singing.”

The service began, then, and it was short and very lovely. An opening prayer, then a short admonition from some preacher. And Jesse was right. There was a good bit of choral singing from Daniel’s buddies from Faith Builders. That’s the Plain Mennonite school in western PA, where he and Sheri met. Daniel was on the school choir, and that choir does a real quality job. All A Capella. No instruments at all. As I’ve said before, I don’t agree with the hyper-Anabaptist teachings at Faith Builders. I get weary, listening to that kind of talk. But whatever they do there, they do with all their might. And their choral music has always been of the highest quality. I’ll give them that.

After the choir had performed a good many songs, the preacher man stood and delivered the main sermon. His words were sparse, his presentation blissfully short. And right soon, Sheri’s father, who I guess was a minister of some sort, stood to perform the vows. And almost precisely one hour after the service began, the happy couple was presented to the congregation as Mr. and Mrs. Daniel Yutzy. We all applauded.

There was a great and delicious feast, then, in the auditorium. I sat with my brothers at a family table way up front. We sure were honored all day, with the seating and the service. Afterward, people scattered to the winds. Rudy and his load headed back to Missouri, driving most of the night. I took my sister Naomi over to the bed and breakfast they had rented for their extended family. Most of her children and their families were there. We sat around and just visited for a few hours. And then I headed on back to the Wallhouse hotel for one more night.

The next morning the lobby was pretty much deserted, compared to how it had been the morning before. I packed my stuff and sat down for a nice loaded plate of greasy breakfast food. Then I went back up and fetched all my luggage. Loaded the car. And stepped back in to fill my water bottle and grab a fresh cup of hot coffee. I stopped on the way out to turn in my key card and get my receipt. And then I walked outside.

It was a beautiful sunny day. Easter Sunday. A day of new beginnings. A day to hit the road. I boarded the little Focus and turned to the east and home.
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Well. My computer woes seem to be over. After my disastrous experience with the Best Buy people, I took my brother-in-law Paul’s advice. I hunkered down and hooked up my old computer. It was familiar and it worked just fine. Paul didn’t forget me, though. On Thursday, the evening before my road trip, he headed on over with my new Asus model. He had used his Amazon connections, loaded Windows 7, and claimed it all was ready to go. I was a little skittish from how it had just gone with the other computer, but I welcomed him. And in about an hour, he had transferred my data from old to new. It all seemed to work fine. We checked out everything. This model did not freeze up. I paid the man and thanked him for his expertise and time. It’s a good thing to have good people in your life. And it’s a good thing to have good connections.