Had they not set their jaws, made sudden indecisive
movements, felt terror, joy, a numb impending ecstasy,
and waited, waited then – for what?

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

All right. Things have been a little out of joint, lately. A little skewed. And that’s an understatement. The last eight weeks seem like a blur to me. And I’m a guy that has seen plenty of blurred times, for one reason or another, back through the years. But none has ever come down quite like this.

Since my book went haywire on Amazon in March, I haven’t written a whole lot of anything, anywhere. Except on this blog. From that first day, and the following week, I was intensely focused on the numbers, all through March. And the numbers freaked me out. You don’t get that high in the rankings. You just don’t. But there I was. And it just froze my voice, to think of how many people were buying the eBook version of Growing Up Amish.

So I did what I always do, when my world gets whacked out of joint. Retreat to the blog, and throw out a new post now and then. Telling of how it is, and where I am. I made a few references, looking back, of how maybe I’ll soon be able to get back to some serious writing. Meaning, of course, getting back to work on the sequel. But I never did that, except for some disorganized pecking now and then. I never immersed myself, never went back to relive things. Which is the only way it’s ever going to come out. By going back there in my head, and telling it like I see it when it’s all happening again. It’s not a formula. It’s not based on a “theme.” It’s a thing that roils from somewhere deep inside.

And then March ended, and Amazon removed the book from its promotional discount list. Brought in their next one hundred, for the next month. And Growing Up Amish gradually drifted on down and out of the top hundred. The top three hundred. But it hung in there, in that general area, for a week or two. And I wondered. Oh yes, I wondered a lot. How many copies had moved in March? I emailed Chip. Hey, can you find out for me? He said he would make some inquiries. It might be a while, before the numbers come in.

And then two weeks ago, on a Thursday afternoon, a message from Carol Traver. Hey, Ira. We got the March numbers. Rough numbers. But close. Here they are. In March of 2012, Growing Up Amish sold right around 44,000 copies. 44,000. And Carol went on. That brings your total sales figures to approximately 120,000 books sold. 55,000 hard copies. And 65,000 eBooks. Congratulations, Ira. You’re in rare air. That’s what she said. Rare air.

There aren’t a whole lot of books out there that sell 44,000 copies in a month, ever. At any price. Or free, even. Those are some pretty elite numbers. Not for the #1 Bestseller crowd. But for an unknown writer like me, yeah, it’s rare air. And the book’s still percolating out there, right along. You want it when you write it, that kind of recognition. That kind of success. You dream of it. But you don’t think of what it will do to you, if you get there. It’s impossible to imagine or anticipate such a place.

What it did to me was freak me out completely. Fried my brain, pretty much. I stand mute. 120,000 copies sold. And with book sharing, a lot more than that number have read it. Slice off the ten to twenty percent who hated it, the 1 Star and 2 Star reviewers, and that still leaves you with a whole lot of readers who liked it. And Carol told me later that the sixth paperback printing had just arrived at Tyndale’s warehouse. Double the usual printing, 10,000 copies this time. Wild stuff.

Right now, under the weight of 120,000 expectations, I can no more concentrate on writing a sequel than I could concentrate on the most boring Amish preacher’s endless, droning sermon. Which, as anyone who’s ever sat fidgeting in frustration under such a sermon can (but probably won’t) tell you, is just impossible.

It’s all kind of strange, really. I’ve never been in a place like this before. Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s the coveted writer’s dream. First book does well enough so you have fans clamoring for a second. I know. I’ve read that, too. And seen it now, and felt it. But until you actually live it, there’s no way to grasp what it really looks like. For some, I suppose, it’s a vision of a bright new dawn. Another chance to show the world what you got.

For others, though, it’s something else. A feeling deep inside that it’s gonna be tough, to do it all again. Real tough. And it won’t be a matter of time. It will be a thing that either will come, or it won’t. More likely than not, it will. One just doesn’t know exactly when. But most times, from what I’ve seen as a raw newcomer, it never comes quite like it did the first time. And that’s why there are so many one-hit wonders out there. In music, in writing, and probably in just about every area of artistic expression. Because it’s tough to hit another home run, or maybe even just to hit a single, in the arena where the first one came down. At this level, at least, that much is true.

The money is very nice, and I have nothing against making a lot of it. I hope to make a respectable little chunk from the book. Actually, I hope my agent makes a fortune from Growing Up Amish, because if he does, so will I. But money has little to do with why I write. Because when it comes to writing, it doesn’t matter if I get paid or not. I’d do it anyway. And in the long run, it doesn’t matter that much if the sequel doesn’t come. Oh, sure, I want it, there’s no way to tell you how much I want it, to write and have published what is in my heart. I know the story line. I know what needs to be told. There is so much to be said. And yet, if it doesn’t come, it won’t be the end of the world for me.

Because I’ll always have this forum. My blog. Something previous generations did not have, and could not have remotely imagined. A place to tell it like it is, as it’s all coming down. A place to speak to the world, completely independently. And at this moment, this blog is the only place, the only forum in the world where I can write my voice. The only one. And so I figure if I can’t tell it to be published, I’ll tell it right here for free. Just like I would have told the story of Growing Up Amish, had Carol not somehow magically appeared to claim it for Tyndale. Not in its current form, I’m not saying that. But the essence of the book would have been told, right here, spread over time. As a good bit of it was, at least the early childhood stuff.

So one way or the other, the sequel will come down. In book form, if I can eventually calm myself to get it said that way. And I know I will. But if not, if somehow I can’t, I’ll just tell it right here. In time. Fragmented, sure. It wouldn’t be as easy a read, like the professionally edited first book was. But it will be written, in all its raw reality. At some point. Somewhere. It will be.

For now, I will write where I can speak. And that’s here on the blog. Every couple of weeks or so, I’ll post about what’s going on around me, and maybe throw out a sketch now and then. We’ll see what happens. When the real stuff starts rolling in, I’m telling no one. And I mean no one. Not until a good bit of it gets written. And then we’ll go from there.

And that’s how it is. That’s where I am right now.

In the meantime, the wild and beautiful road rolls on. Last Friday, I set out in a little rented Jeep Liberty for the 12 hour trek to Vincennes, Indiana. Yes, I drove. Some of my new readers out there may not know. I never fly except in extraordinary circumstances. Like a funeral or some similar short-notice thing where I have little choice. Not because I fear flying, but to avoid the TSA goons in airports. The TSA exists primarily to intimidate and harass innocent travelers, that much is not even debatable. We all know, deep down, that the TSA serves no legitimate purpose and that it does nothing to “protect” us. And I simply refuse to allow their goons to inflict themselves into my life. I’ll drive two days instead. Two days one way, I mean. And if I can’t find the time to do that, I just don’t go.

But this trip was only one day, one way. Totally doable. The Jeep bucketed along the interstate, and right at 5:30 that evening, I pulled into Vincennes. Checked in and got the keys to VU’s Guest House, a very nicely furnished mansion on campus. No one else was staying there, so I had the place to myself. After cleaning up a bit, splashing some water over my face, I headed out to meet some old friends for dinner.

My VU professors were my friends, way back when I was a student there. All of them. And this evening, I was meeting Dr. Bernard Verkamp, my first and only philosophy teacher. Recently retired, he instantly invited me to dinner when I called him a month ago. We’ll meet, he said, with some old friends. And indeed we did.

With Dr. Verkamp, Lynn Linkon McCormick, and Kathy Yoder Miller

Lynn Linkon McCormick arrived at the nice Italian restaurant a few minutes after I did. She still looked exactly as she did back in 1989, when I first met her. Young, exuding boundless energy. She is the carreer/guidance Counselor at Vincennes, and her face was the face of VU, back when I tentatively walked through those doors for the first time. Yes, she told me then. Yes. Come on in and enroll. You tested right out the top with your GED. We want you to come. And with her encouragement and assistance, I enrolled.

After an excellent meal and great conversation, I retired to the Guest House. A little ribbon of tension pulsed deep inside me. I was excited about the next day. But also a little freaked. After the honorary doctorate was awarded, I was expected to make a short speech. Three to five minutes, they said. That’s the time you’ll have. Which was great. That much I could do. I certainly didn’t want to drone on and on for twenty minutes. I should be good. But still, it bothered me. And that night, I sat up, scratching words on a sheet of yellow writing paper. Practiced. Timed myself. I’d be fine, if only I stayed relaxed. But I had never addressed a crowd of this size before. Around eleven, I went to bed and drifted off into fitful slumber.

I’ve written before, about my first graduation from Vincennes, back in 1991. How not a single person from friends or family showed up to witness it. This time, though, I wanted at least a few. So I invited my brother Jesse and his wife Lynda. They’d be honored, they claimed. They’d drive up from South Carolina. And I invited some of the Waglers, my surrogate family in Daviess. Dean and his sister Rhoda said they would be there.

Saturday morning. The day. I got up, and puttered about. Messed with my little speech, on the yellow pad paper. Spoke it over and over. Timed myself. Just under five minutes. Should be good. I do very little public speaking, and usually improvise a bit when the time comes. I’d do that today as well.

I will say this. Vincennes University rolled out the VIP treatment for me and my guests. All the way. At 11:30, we assembled for a banquet in my honor. President Dick Helton, members of the VU Board of Trustees, and other dignitaries. And of course, my guests. They showed up, right on time. Jesse and Lynda, and Dean and Rhoda. After the meal, a quick van tour of the campus, most ably guided by Assistant Provost Lynn White. The campus has exploded since my days there twenty years ago. New buildings, new programs. Including RED, a brand new performing arts center.

And then the time was here. Time to robe and get ready for the ceremony. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around academia. Fifteen years since I graduated from Dickinson Law. I’d forgotten how it is. All the pomp, all the seriousness of it. We mingled with the faculty in a side room. I was issued my robe and cap. It wasn’t a mortarboard cap, like I’d figured. Nah, this was a little 6-pointed thing, a doctor’s cap, I guess. And they came up and congratulated me, the faculty. The Trustees. You look at them from a distance, and it’s intimidating. But up close, they were just people. People who seemed quite genuinely thrilled to have me there.

And it all came down then, some of it in slow motion and some of it at lightning speed. Lining up to march into the arena. Waiting for the 400-some graduating students to walk in and be seated. And then marching out in procession up the center aisle to the stage up front. The basketball arena was packed out. Absolutely overflowing with at least 5,000 people. And my brain kind of went into cruise mode. You’re here. You’re being honored. Enjoy this moment.

After a brief opening ceremony, President Helton addressed the students with a ten minute speech. And then it was time to present the honorary doctorate. Mr. J. R. Gaylor, a Trustee, a great bear of a man with a deep, deep voice got up and stepped to the microphone. Whatever I have accomplished in my life, it was all laid out in the most glowing descriptions imaginable. He concluded. For these accomplishments in literature, law and business, we are presenting VU’s 2012 Honorary Doctorate of Letters to Ira Wagler. Everyone clapped as I stood. President Helton approached with the hood. I stooped a bit and he slipped it over my head and adjusted it. It flowed down my back. Then I was handed a huge framed diploma. Doctor of Letters. Then “the microphone is yours,” President Helton whispered. I nodded and stepped up, clutching my little slip of yellow lined paper. My speech.

Photos by David A. Fisher, Vincennes University.

Dean, Rhoda, Ira, Jesse, Lynda

The hooding.

Framed diploma. Doctor of Letters.

The speech.

In a moment like that, you either freak out, or you don’t. Fortunately, I did not, at least I don’t think so. I looked out over the heads of the graduates and began to speak. Sure, I stammered a time or two, getting started. Who wouldn’t? But as I settled in, my voice was at least not shaking.

It was no great thing for the ages, or anything like that. It was just me talking, for about four minutes. I spoke briefly of my experience at VU and how formative and foundational it was. How frightened I was as I approached my first classroom. Thanked my professors, who had all reached out and befriended me. Spoke then, of the book, and the miracle it is. Of the wild and beautiful road I’m on, and how this moment was a stop along that road. I encouraged the graduates to follow their hearts. And then closed with a short quote from Thomas Wolfe.

So, then, to every man his chance – to every man, regardless of his birth, his shining, golden opportunity…

Thank you, Vincennes University. Thank you very much.

And then it was over. As applause rolled through the stadium, I stepped back and sagged into my seat. And realized how tense and exhausted I was, as wave after wave of relief swept through me. The ceremony moved along then, as diplomas were handed to more than four hundred graduating students who marched across the same stage I had walked twenty-one years ago, back in 1991. Who knows where they will end up? Who knows what distant goals they will achieve?

No one knows. That’s the beauty of it. The human spirit unleashed has almost unlimited potential.

And that was Vincennes University, for me, on April 28, 2012. Whatever happens in the future on this wild and beautiful road, there will never be another moment quite like this one.

The years are walking in his brain, his father’s voice
is sounding in his ears…His living dust is stored with
memory…He has never been here, yet he is at home.

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

I live in Lancaster County. Smack dab in the heart of one of the largest Amish communities in the world. Not to mention the oldest. And coming from where I’ve been, I sometimes feel like the odd man out there, drifting in a sea of cultural blue bloods.

Since my readership has increased pretty drastically in the last few months, it might be good to tell of how that happened. Some of you out there are probably wondering. Lancaster County. What’s up with that? Did the guy ever really leave the Amish, as he claims? Why can’t he seem to shake them for good?

Well, yes, I left. For good, back there at the end of the book. I never returned to Bloomfield or to Goshen, except to visit. But never to try again. That was my final departure. And at that time, there was little about the culture that attracted me. I wanted to shake it all off, the last vestiges of those chains. I was free at last. After all those years of turmoil. Free. And it felt great.

And yeah, there was some resentment bubbling inside me. A little bit of anger. I didn’t wear it on my sleeve, but it was there inside my heart. And I spoke it now and then. These people were stuck in their backward ways. They were welcome to stay there. The memories were still so raw inside, and so fresh. I was done. Gone. For good. I would never look back, except in gratitude that I had finally escaped. That’s how I felt.

I settled in Daviess, hung with the Mennonites and Beachy Amish, and they welcomed me. Then in the summer of 1989, I came to Lancaster County. Not out of curiosity, but for strictly economic reasons. That fall, I was set to enter college at Vincennes. I had a connection in Lancaster. And he told me. Come on in. Wages are way higher. You can make some real money here. More than you ever will in Daviess. Come on in. And the decision was easy. I had been a rolling stone for most of my adult life. So it seemed like a good idea, to roll on some more. Lancaster. I’d heard so much about the place. Remembered how odd they had seemed, the people from there, way back when they visited us in Aylmer.

And so, in May of that year, I loaded my ugly tan-gold T Bird and headed east. Arrived in Lancaster safely. It’s a beautiful area. Old, for this country. Lots of history. Tiny narrow ribbons of paved roads wind and twist through the countryside. Countless tidy little farms dotted about. Ancient stone houses and great red barns, owned by the same family for generations. Real roots, here. None of the vagabonding like my father had done, decades ago. These people were planted here. Born here. Lived here. Died here.

And the strange Amish buggies with rounded tops and straight sides practically clogged the roads, hitched to wild, high-stepping horses. You couldn’t have paid me to ride those buggies on those roads. Still couldn’t. I almost felt like a tourist, seeing this brand of Amish for the first time.

And that summer I worked long hard hours and saved my money. But I didn’t meet a whole lot of Amish people. I had no desire to, really. Sure, I said hi when passing in the regular stream of commerce. Mostly, I hung out with the Beachy Amish youth at Pequea church. They were friendly and accepting, welcomed me. Invited me to their social activities. It was a good summer, and a short one. In August, I left for Daviess and Vincennes, still convinced that the Lancaster Old Order Amish were one strange bunch.

The next summer I returned to Lancaster. And again, I made no attempt to meet any Amish people, or get to know them. Still wanted nothing to do with them. The summer passed, and I returned to Daviess and my second and final year at Vincennes.

The third summer, that’s when things started shaking. And changing. I boarded with Ben and Emma Stoltzfus and their family. On their farm just east of Honey Brook, over the line in Chester County. Upstairs, in the third floor attic of the farm house. A cozy little place that would be my Pennsylvania home base for about the next five years. Ben and Emma became as close to my surrogate parents as any couple ever has. I treasure the memories of their kindness. And their love.

And one summer evening, after I’d returned from a long day of working in the sun, Emma had a message for me. Some Amish guy had called that day. David (not his real name). Asked lots of questions. Was I staying there? Was I David Wagler’s son? Emma told him yes, and promised she would tell me. And she did. I was supposed to call him back. Here’s the number to his phone shack.

I looked at the slip of paper and shrugged. This was about the last thing I needed, some Amish guy tracking me down. I had just broken away a few short years back. I knew plenty of Amish people, even a few I still considered my friends. Why would I want to get to know any more? I pitched the number. Didn’t return David’s call. He’d go away if I ignored him, I figured. Another nosy Amish man with all kinds of invasive questions. No way, I wasn’t playing that game. He probably wanted to admonish me for leaving. Tell me to go back, to “straighten up and settle down” where I should be, back in Bloomfield. I didn’t want to hear it. Not this time. That song had been played too many times. No more, I would listen to it no more.

And a week or so later, another message. Emma smiled almost apologetically and told me as I walked in, exhausted, from a hard day’s work. David had called again. Insisted that he wanted to see me. Again, I shrugged. Who was this wacko Amish man? So persistent. Well, I could be persistent, too. And again, I pitched the phone shack number. Ignored the man.

And then, David unlimbered the big guns. He didn’t call Emma again. Oh, no. He waited, craftily, until evening the next time he called about a week later. I don’t remember who answered the phone. But it was for me. It’s David. The Amish guy.

I gave up right then. Any man that persistent at least deserved an answer directly from me. So I walked into the front room, off to the side, kind of a parlor. Took the phone. Hello. And a calm pleasant voice spoke. Precisely stating the words. Good evening. This is David. Is this Ira? Yes, it is. A few brief polite pleasantries. Then, hey, would you stop by some Saturday soon? We would love to meet you, my wife and I.

And there I stood, stuck. No. I don’t want to meet you. No. I don’t need to be admonished by any new Amish “friends.” But I couldn’t just say that. Too rude. So I hedged. Yeah, that might work. What did you have in mind? Of course, the following Saturday afternoon suited David just fine. And, of course, I had nothing else planned. So, reluctantly, I agreed. Where do you live? It’s simple, David claimed. We live just off the highway….and he gave me specific directions. OK, I promised. I’ll be there this Saturday afternoon. He looked forward to meeting me, he said. I mumbled in response. We hung up.

That Saturday afternoon, I headed out, shortly after one. In my old T Bird. Someday, I will write of how just ugly that car was. Not the shape, necessarily. But the color. Tan-gold. It was just gag-me awful. I haven’t owned that many vehicles in my lifetime, but I have owned two of the ugliest colors in the spectrum. The old avocado green Dodge. And that awful tan-gold T Bird. Other than the color, though, the T Bird was a decent car. It got me to where I was going, for a good many years. As a destitute student. So I guess I should honor it a little more.

I drove down the crowded two lane highway toward Lancaster. Turned right onto David’s road. A mile or two in. And then I turned into his drive. Nice place. Clean as a whistle, like most Amish places in Lancaster County. Not even a wayward leaf on the ground anywhere. Neat freaks, like all Lancaster Amish people. I parked. Got out and walked toward the house. Strangely, I wasn’t particularly nervous. This meeting was coming down, and it would be what it would be.

David met me at the door. We shook hands and introduced ourselves. Then he welcomed me into his home. I walked in. Met his smiling wife, and their clan of quiet children. All of them milled about. I scanned the room, amazed. Stacks of books were strewn about everywhere. Not fluff books, either. Literature. Theology. Bestsellers. I was instantly impressed. And as I looked into their faces, I suddenly knew that they were genuinely happy that I was there, in their home. It wasn’t just their smiles. It was their eyes. There was no hint of judgment in them. None. Nothing but pure honest joyful welcome. I didn’t know such a thing even existed in the Amish world.

And that was my first taste of how it can be, and how it could have been so much earlier in my world. To be accepted as I was, who I was, by someone from my background, my culture. Truly accepted. And truly welcomed. There was not a shade of a cloud of any reservation. None. I don’t think I could quite grasp, quite wrap my head around what that meant to me in that moment.

I won’t claim that I was suddenly, magically relieved of my resentment toward the Amish in general, right then. I wasn’t. I won’t claim that I decided right then that Lancaster County would be my future home. I didn’t. I was a rolling stone. Heading off to Bob Jones University in South Carolina that fall. I had no idea where I’d end up. I didn’t think ahead that much. I was focused only on working summers to earn enough to survive another year of college without loading up on too much crushing debt. I’d settle where I’d settle, when the time came.

I will say that when I met David and his family, that was my first real taste of people from my culture who accepted me, even though I had chosen to walk away. And that was a profound and startling thing to me. A minor miracle. To realize that such people could exist. I thought I knew the Amish as a group, and all their mindsets. I didn’t. Because I had never been exposed to certain elements of the Lancaster County Amish before.

The blue bloods came through. That’s all I can say. They fully deserve the status they claim for themselves. They are the real thing. What the Amish could be and should be.

That said, they’re not all like David and his family, the Lancaster Amish. Not nearly all. Even here, most are more like the type of Amish I knew growing up. Especially down south. South-enders, we call them. They’re mostly grim and humorless. Hard core. I can usually tell, when I meet them. Who they are and what they are. By how they look. I can sense their spirit. And tell who they are, from certain shadows in their eyes.

That was right at twenty years ago, when David finagled me into coming to his home. After that first time, the place became a regular Saturday afternoon stop for me. I soon developed a deep, quiet friendship with his family. Off and on, I’ve been there, a character in their lives as the children grew into adults. Married now, some of them. With children of their own. There were a few stretches through the years where I lost contact with them for a while, but I always circled back. Back to a zone of comfort that welcomed me, offered shelter from the storms. Back to real true friends.

And in time, my mind relaxed as well. My journey looped back, back to my roots. And I settled in, where there was comfort and support. I will never be accepted as a true Lancastrian. No one not born here is. But I’m settled, in my head. This is my home. Today, some of my closest friends are Old Order Amish. Right here, around me, in Lancaster County.

It might make sense, or it might make no sense, to those who have broken away from restrictive religious backgrounds. That I hang so close to the culture that caused so much pain. It might be mostly an Amish thing, I don’t know. Years ago, my brother Joseph was traveling by bus somewhere through Texas. At the bus station in some big city, a guy walked up to him. Completely English. Spoke to him in broken Pennsylvania Dutch. He had left the culture decades before. Lost pretty much all contact with his roots. And sometimes he randomly drove over to the bus station just to see if some Amish people might be passing through. And that day, Joseph was. They visited for a while, and the guy left. Still then, years later, he could not deny his longing for some connection to his culture. Something in his heart moved him to do what he did. There is no way to really disconnect, however much one might want to.

I chose to circle back, to live among them, the Amish. I could have chosen not to, and that would have been perfectly OK as well. I certainly don’t live like them, their lifestyle. Couldn’t do that if I tried. And I have no desire to. When I go “home” to visit, I stay in a motel. Because after spending the day in what used to be my world, I’m always quite ready to return to modern conveniences.

I guess for me, the dividing line is this. If, back there in the culture you have fled, there are people who still accept you as you are, stop. Reconsider your thoughts. Not your path, your journey is your choice. Just open your heart to those whose hearts are open to yours, and you will likely see with new eyes where you’ve been, and where you’ve come from.

My people, and my culture, will always be a part of my identity. Always be a part of who I am, how I react, how I see things. And nothing will ever change that fact. I can deny it. Or accept it. Either way, it’s still true.

It’s important, I strongly believe, to face and make peace with the past. And all it ever was, good or bad. Whatever the flaws of those in that world, to accept them. Whatever the hurts, to forgive those who inflicted them. Whatever the wounds, to seek healing. Which can be no small thing, sometimes, I know well enough. It wasn’t a small thing for me, and my journey was a walk in the park compared to that of those who have endured and survived every imaginable form of abuse. But it can be done, and it must be done. For a whole lot of good reasons. But mostly, for the sake of your own heart.

Because a heart that refuses to be healed will never be truly free.