We sat there silently through the eternity of the next
few moments. There was nothing more to say.

—Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish
_______________________________

They call it the waiting game. The death march. And probably a few other choice descriptive terms they didn’t bother to mention. The most stressful time in the entire process of writing a book.

It’s that long dead stretch after the manuscript is finished, and there’s nothing more for the author to do. Nothing, that is, but wait. Wait for the publisher to plod through all the steps. Galleys. Final edits. And then that final endless wasteland. After all the editing, waiting for the release date.

They warned me of it, the Tyndale people. I chuckled quietly to myself. How silly, I thought. How could anything be more stressful than writing a book? Especially a book as improbable and, yes, as impossible as my own? Think of the stress of that. Seemed pretty obvious to me. After it was all done, I’d relax. Chill for a few months.

I’ve been idle now for some time. Except for a few final changes that were inserted into the manuscript after sporadic email exchanges and couple of brief conversations with Susan Taylor, my editor. It’s done. The book is done. No more edits from me, no more nothing.

Of course, they were right, as they pretty much have been throughout this process. They’d seen it countless times before. It always happens, like a formula, I suppose. They knew well the time would come for me.

And now the season of stress has arrived, rolling in like some winter storm. I should have known better than to doubt them.

It’s the strangest form of stressful tension I have ever experienced. Not the brutal bitter intense stuff in which I was immersed four years ago. You brace up for that, lower your head and doggedly trudge forward until things get better.

This is a solid, steady undertow, deep inside the pit of my stomach. Just there, roiling incessantly, like calm but crashing waves. Wearying in its quiet persistence. I try to focus on other things. My job. Working out feverishly at the gym. Hanging with friends now and then. Writing this blog. And yet, it’s the first thing that greets me each morning, that tension deep inside. Silent, heavy, a thing always present in every waking moment.

Not that I’m grumbling. I most definitely am not. Just saying how it is. I’d a lot rather experience all this tension than to never have had the chance to do so.

Now that the writing is done, I’ll huddle down in my hovel and stay a spell. Won’t bother the Tyndale people. They are doing what needs to be done. If they need my input, they’ll let me know. I’m only one of a dozen or two half-freaked, whacked-out authors my contacts are managing. The least I can do is to be the silent one.

Fortunately, though, I can express myself right here.

In my opinion, the Great American Novel was written decades ago. You Can’t Go Home Again, by Thomas Wolfe. Pure genius. And the truth of that famous line is still as powerful today as it ever was.

From certain rumblings, from one certain quarter, Wolfe’s creed will hold true for me as well, it seems. Which is not that surprising, really. It’s been thus, for those who penned their thoughts and memories of their past, probably since written language was developed. But still, it’s a bit jolting to experience first hand.

One can write in the most sensitive manner of which one is capable, and yet, because of intense cultural pressures, all that sensitivity will simply be ignored. No grace whatsoever for the chronicler. None. The minutest detail will be closely scrutinized under a microscope to uncover the minutest error, however trivial.

All the hurtful, damning details left untold are discounted as less than nothing. Because of a few paragraphs, honestly told, that are so insignificant that no one would otherwise have even noticed. And thus unfolds a great drama, a production of offense, complete with harsh accusations of dark ulterior motives. It’s all so trivial. And I’m so far removed from that mindset that I can no longer comprehend it. Not in any rational sense.

And, of course, an alternative scenario is trotted out to disprove my own, a “memory” so far removed from what really happened that it borders on delusion. It’s all a bit of a mess. Wouldn’t have to be. But it is.

They are tricky things, memories. And sure, I might be wrong on some details, here and there. But the things that happened in my life in a myriad of defining moments, the essence of them, those are locked inside my mind. As vividly as if they happened two minutes ago. And on those details I will not budge. Never.

It’s maddening, really, the inordinate fussing from a single place. And deeply frustrating. Maybe I should have included a smattering of all the stuff left unsaid, so there would be a real reason to fuss. And yet, I could not write those prurient details. Because they are not important in the retelling; they are merely a “tickling of the ears,” and serve no other purpose.

I have never written that kind of stuff. And I won’t start now. But it’s tempting, to think of what might have been written that wasn’t.

And, perhaps in the passion of the moment, without allowing for the necessary time for proper reflection or cooling down, words were written in slashing lines and sent to me. On paper. Words that probably would have been better left unwritten. Words that I will always have. Always. On paper. And every single syllable, every single such strident reactionary communication sent to me is filed away, perhaps to be woven into some future story at some distant date. That’s just how it is.

Just a word of warning there, for anyone who might be contemplating the launch of their own vendetta. Don’t do it. It’s not worth the hassle, the effort, or the energy. Trust me on this. Don’t go there.

A place that for decades (but not in recent years) in the past I had considered as “home” is now all but lost, as in reality it has been for some time, I suppose. And possibly some family ties might end up frayed as well, if things are pushed to that point. However one looks at it, that’s just plain senseless and silly. And totally tragic. Not that I want to be overly dramatic. My family is my family, and will always be. And my blood is my blood. Nothing will ever sever that.

I have my flaws, I know. My list of more or less ordinary faults and failures. And my life story, well, it pretty much mirrors the classic tale of woe that Amish preachers have always recounted with great relish.

The wayward son, who would not submit. Who insisted on going his own way. Out into the world. Who went to college, and then law school. And then married an “English” woman (Not born English, but thoroughly so in every other respect). Nothing good could possibly come from that. And on that point, it might seem they were right, at least to their way of thinking. No one can deny the factual evidence.

But now, suddenly, shockingly, after all these years, he’s speaking about his past, the wayward son. Writing it, for all the world to read. About who he was and where he was. And the characters around him, including those he loved and those who loved him.

It must be a bit of a jolt, for those back there in my past, still comfortably cocooned in their own little world.

How dare he? Look at who he is.

I’m divorced. That’s the first line they will always use, dramatically intoned, of course. And nothing more needs to be said. What can a man like that possibly have to say that could be of any value? I should be holed up, huddled in my shell, grateful and visibly humbled that anyone could possibly dredge up the vast amount of Christian charity it takes to even deign to acknowledge my existence. (Well, maybe that’s a bit overwrought. But hey, I was on a roll there.)

Anyway, despite what they might think or admit to saying, there is something more to be said. Actually, a lot more to be said. Even by one such as me. About how it was. And how it went. Way back when.

My defense: I have tried to be honest. About who I was, and who I am. And about those around me, in all their humanity. At an admittedly steep cost sometimes to others.

Which might not be fair to them sometimes. But I can’t see any other way to tell it.

Always, I’ve tried to be honest. In my blog. And in my book. Although I suppose my readers will have to make the final call on that.

The Tyndale people were right, as usual. The long wait is all they claimed it would be.

The stories of our great feats were told and retold,
and grew more fantastic with each telling.

–Ira Wagler: Growing Up Amish
____________________________

For decades now, the story has resided among the most retold, and perhaps the most embellished, of classics in the seemingly bottomless repository of the Wagler family annals. I’ve always suspected it might be humorous only to us. It certainly is vastly more hilarious when related in Pennsylvania Dutch, the language in which it all came down. I also always knew that someday, somehow, I’d write it. Or try to. The time now seems right.

It was back in the early 80s. Sometime during the summer after my second flight from home, which was a short, intense excursion lasting only a few months. That summer, my cousin Reuben, from Marshfield, Mo., was staying with us in our home there in Bloomfield. Marshfield didn’t have much of a youth group, so Reuben was allowed to come spend the summer with us, hanging out with my brothers and me. He worked construction with my older brother Stephen.

That summer, my right arm was secured in a sturdy plaster cast, bent at the elbow and supported by a sling. Broken, snapped in two in a farming accident. But that’s another story. It was pretty cumbersome, the cast and arm sling, but it sure got me out of a lot of farm work. So it wasn’t entirely a bad thing.

We hung out with our cousin, me and my brothers. Enjoyed his company probably about as much as he enjoyed his time of freedom away from home. We didn’t particularly get into a lot of mischief, at least not the serious stuff.

I don’t know who first saw the notice in the paper. Stephen or Titus, probably. Pancake Day in Centerville. A day of feasting and celebration, for some reason or other.

Such small town festivals were off limits to us, and had always been. Such shallow revelry was not for us. Too worldly. Plus, there would be live music, a band of some sort. Definitely of the world. Not acceptable to the Amish people of Bloomfield. Not back then, at least. Or now, either, unless there’s been some drastic changes in the last twenty five years. Which could be possible, I suppose.

The three of them, Stephen, Titus and Reuben talked about it. How it would be fun to go. And then, right on cue, it was discovered that Dad would be gone that day. All day. Probably to a farm auction somewhere in the area. He loved auctions. Always returned with loads of stuff, mostly junk. And when he left for a sale, it was just assumed that he would be gone until that evening.

So the boys crafted their bold plan, and followed through. Somehow, it was decided that I wouldn’t be allowed to go. Maybe my broken arm had something to do with that. After Dad left that morning, I watched enviously as they rattled out our long drive and drove up to West Grove. There, they tied up their horse somewhere, probably at Henry Egbert’s place. Then they stood beside the highway and hitchhiked west. And soon enough, some English guy stopped and picked them up. They bounced about excitedly as the twenty miles flowed by. And soon they arrived in Centerville.

They walked to the square. And it was all they had expected. A great festival, with flags waving, a large crowd milling about. A center stage. The live band played. Then the mayor made a rousing speech. Then the band played again. And, boy, were there pancakes, pancakes, everywhere. More than they could possibly eat. And sausages. The boys stuffed themselves and loafed about, drinking it all in, deeply savoring this rare worldly treat.

And by mid afternoon, they returned. Safely back to our home farm. Dad was still at the auction. They breathed a sigh of relief. They had pulled it off. And the story might have ended there, in which case it would have been long forgotten as not worthy of being told. But further events unfolded, and thus a tale was born.

That night, after supper, we all sat around, reading and chatting. Dad was sitting on his favorite chair, leafing through the local paper. One little ad caught his eye.

“Har, har,” he chuckled. “Looks like they had Pancake Day in Centerville today.”

It was an offhand comment, totally random. The boys hunched down, silent. They certainly had nothing to add. Dad turned the page of his paper.

And then, from the kitchen, Mom piped up.

“Pancake Day,” she exclaimed. “Why, these boys were there.”

It was like an elephant had suddenly lumbered into the room unannounced, and collapsed the house. Deathly silence followed. Dad’s face twisted into a serious frown as he absorbed the shocking news. Stephen and Titus groaned inside. I said nothing. Hey, I didn’t go. I was innocent. A frozen moment passed.

“What!” Dad roused himself from the rubble and shook off the dust. “I hope not. I hope no one in this house would have done something like that.”

Stephen and Titus remained silent. And in the normal course of things, the issue would probably have flared briefly on the spot, then died. Dad would have scolded a bit, and then left it. But Reuben was the wild card in the room. In his family dynamics, back in Marshfield, economics were always factored in. His father, Homer, was a practical man, not given to lofty rhetoric. Reuben stirred and looked at my brothers. Why weren’t they speaking up?

They sat there, obstinate and stonily silent. Obviously, they were not about to defend themselves. So Reuben rashly plunged in.

“They were totally free,” he chirped. “The pancakes were free.” Surely uncle Dave could see the sense in that. Free food was free food. Sadly, his reasoning made not the slightest impression on Dad. It probably made things even worse in his mind, that one would sin so grievously, just because something was free.

His face darkened into an even more serious frown. He pursed his lips into the famous Wagler “schnoot.” But he didn’t say much, not right then. But we knew we hadn’t heard the last of the matter. We soon drifted off downstairs to our bedroom in the basement. There, we roundly scolded Reuben for inserting himself into the conversation. And then everyone retired for the night.

The next morning after breakfast, that’s when it would all come down. That’s when Dad always delivered his important admonitions, after reading the Scriptural passage. Because that’s the only time we were a captive audience. We couldn’t just get up and walk out. At least, we never did. Never crossed our minds. So through the years, we heard many rather strident lectures, sitting there at the table after a tense and strained breakfast.

And we were right. Dad was in a particularly fine fettle the next morning, having stewed over the matter the entire night, apparently. And after reading a short section of appropriate Scripture, he launched his offensive.

It was the usual stuff. He and Mom were shocked and disappointed that the boys had attended Pancake Day in Centerville. Me and Mom. That’s what he always said. Why, Pancake Day was such a thing of the world. Live music, yet, and all the bad stuff associated with worldly entertainment. There was no reason that any Amish person should ever attend such an event.

His lectures were always circular. Always, by the time he was done, he had repeated himself at least twice, maybe three times. That morning was no different. On and on he rolled. And then he closed it out with the piece de resistance.

“It’s certainly not necessary, to go to Centerville for pancakes,” he intoned. “Why, anytime you want pancakes, just come into the house and ask Mom, and she will make you all the pancakes you want.”

And that statement would have been fine. Or at least unchallenged, had he stopped right there. But he just couldn’t quite let it go. Couldn’t stress his closing point enough. Round and round he went, in a wide looping circle. Just in case there might be some slight chance we hadn’t grasped, hadn’t absorbed his message as we should have.

“Anytime, anytime you want pancakes, you just come into the house and ask Mom. Anytime. She will gladly make you all the pancakes you want, much better pancakes than they have in Centerville.”

And yet again. “Anytime, just anytime. Mom will gladly make you pancakes anytime.”

Through the entire lecture, we all sat silent. No one made a peep. Not a word.

“Anytime, anytime.” Dad closed it out. Then he settled back, somewhat smugly. The lecture was over. His decree firmly impressed upon us all.

But then, alas, someone spoke.

“Not anytime,” said Mom.