And which of us shall find his father, know his face, and in
what place, and in what time, and in what land? Where?

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

Some childhood memories are vague and murky things. Shifting shadows, barely visible through the misty fog of years, recalled from many decades of snapshots stored in the mind. So many events and characters are as clear to me as if they happened yesterday. And yet, some things are so remote that no amount of careful consideration can rouse them from the slumber of the past.

And when it comes right down to it, some of the faces that were around me each day are no longer clear in the setting in which I knew them. The mind is a tricky thing. As are memories. This fact was recently brought to my attention in startling fashion.

The Aylmer community of my childhood was blessed (or afflicted) with a long train of outside seekers. Young English men who wandered in, no one knew quite from where, and made known their desires to join the Amish church. There in Aylmer. And always, a place was found for them. A place to stay. To live, to acclimate into this new culture.

In retrospect, I feel a bit sorry for them. In all earnestness they came, starry eyed and sure that they had found the great golden utopia on earth. To adopt the simple, plain lifestyle. Faith reflected by works. The true and honorable road to a rather harsh and severe God.

It takes a certain personality to pursue such a path to such a point. And a good deal of inner strength. They all had the personality and the will, no question about that. Some of them, I suspect, were about half mad as well.

And most of them lasted a good while. Six months or so. Some few hung around for a year or more. But none of them ever really had a chance to make it. In time, most of them strode merrily and zanily from the beaten path of accepted Amish norms, triggering furious frowns and sharp rebukes from the stern Aylmer leaders. And all of them eventually departed, sadder and possibly wiser. Not one of them, as far as I know, actually made it all the way through to full membership. Which is neither a good thing nor a bad thing. It’s just symbolic of how it went back then, and how it tends to go today, in similar quests. Mostly, anyway. There are always exceptions, I suppose. There usually are.

I remember a host of their names and a few of their faces. From the times they lurked about in Aylmer, so different, yet so honestly convinced that this was the right path for them. It’s tough, to try to join the Amish from outside. Almost impossible. The harsh plain lifestyle. Always, the language barrier looms, an almost impenetrable wall. And we weren’t exactly that kind to them or accepting of them, either, truth be told. Which is neither here nor there. It was what it was. A long tough road.

And yet, you gotta hand it to these guys. They tried. They didn’t make it, but they tried.

They’re still out there, most of them. Somewhere. And amazingly, or maybe not, some few of them read this blog. At least upon occasion. A connection from way back for them, I suppose. In a distant, seeking, innocent phase of their lives. They are welcome. I wouldn’t mind meeting them and just talking, catching up on the years that have passed since those long ago days. I’m sure all of them would have some stories to tell.

Last week, one morning, I opened my email. A message, with a picture attached. The sender’s name was one I had not heard in probably thirty years. One of those “outside” guys who hung around Aylmer, way back. For a few months, maybe six or so.

He wrote a short note. He had enjoyed the pictures of my family on my blog. And by the way, he had located an old photo from some archives. From that time, back in Aylmer. It was attached.

I opened it. And there it was, in clear color. An Amish man, leaning against a wall, grimly staring straight ahead, while some Beachy guy stood there gazing at him with admiring, worshipful eyes.

Clearly the man was a Stoll. Dark, humorless, like a smile would be sinful. Huge beard, with just a hint of a mustache. That was always a big thing in Aylmer. They hedged around, always allowed the mustache stubble to grow, just a bit. Sheared it now and then with a hand clipper. Somehow it must have made them feel unique, superior. An Aylmer hallmark, was the mustache stubble sported by many (not all) of the married men.

Convinced the man was a Stoll, probably Stephen Stoll, the deacon, I posted the picture on Facebook. Who is this man? Opinions and queries flowed in almost immediately. A Stoll, for sure, said the Waglers. Yep, looks like Stephen all right. Must be Stephen. I even went so far as to state affirmatively that this was the man who read Scriptures aloud in church on Sunday mornings. So it was settled, we thought.

But not so fast. Some feedback from the Stolls themselves. Notably from Sam and Ruth Eicher. Ruth is Stephen’s sister. It’s not him, she claimed. And she should know her own brother.

And then the Eichers made a startling comment. It might be David Wagler. Your father. He wore glasses. Had a gold tooth. I was appalled. No way. Not that man, staring so darkly at nothing in particular. It wasn’t Dad. Couldn’t be. Didn’t resemble him at all.

I recoiled from the suggestion. The Aylmer men of my youth were a pretty somber, humorless bunch. Grim. Stern. Took themselves far too seriously. Freely lectured other Amish communities about their glaring sins and shortcomings. Almost all of them were like that. And it all got a little tiresome to those of us who lived among them, those of us who knew their flaws, their faults and failures.

We called them Bears, the dark Aylmer men. Behind their backs, of course. A rather nefarious term, but totally accurate, we felt. Because they grizzled and growled incessantly. And their grim, bearded visages, well, they literally resembled bears. I take full credit for coining the description, along with my brothers, Stephen and Titus. It was so apt and so natural that it instantly stuck. Even today, in certain circles of former Aylmerites, if you describe someone as a Bear, it is instantly understood exactly what you mean.

But somehow, I always held Dad a bit apart from the others. Sure, he could be dark and humorless too, and was, plenty of times. But he wasn’t a Bear. He was my father. Somehow, that made it different, at least to me. I didn’t pause long to consider why it would be so. It just was.

There were no pictures of him from that time. None that we knew of. So there was nothing to which to compare this picture. Except our memories. And they sure didn’t jive with this.

And the matter kind of died, there on Facebook. Those who claimed it was a Stoll seemed to have the upper hand. The Eicher/Stoll camp was silent. Seemed to have been beaten back. And then in the calmness of one morning this week, a startling observation from none other than my older brother Jesse. Grandpa Jess, from South Carolina.

He had studied the photo. And reached a conclusion. The man in the picture was Dad. Jesse did not have any doubt. I was shocked. And that’s stating it mildly.

That man, leaning against the wall, back in 1968 at my uncle Pete Stoll’s public disposal auction before leaving for Honduras, that dark man symbolic of so much that was so wrong with Aylmer, that man was my father? It could not be. But I looked closely. Studied the picture. Gradually the thought gained acceptance from my recoiling mind. It could indeed be him.

I am now convinced it is. This picture shows my father’s face.

This is the only known photo of him from that period of his life. In 1968. He was going on forty-seven years old. Two years younger than I am today. The year before, in 1967, he and Joseph Stoll had launched Family Life, the monthly magazine that would propel my father into the limelight as one of the most famous and influential Amish figures in the world.

It’s astounding, the picture. And it almost takes my breath away. This is how he looked and who he was, a lifetime ago in another place. This is the man, then, who loomed so large in my childhood world. And beyond. The man whose rich, mellow voice prayed the morning and evening prayers in a rhythmic lulling flow. The man whose deep, rich baritone led many a song in church. The man who gently rocked and soothed his restless toddlers into calm slumber on his lap, crooning “Sweet and Low,” as the sun sank in the western skies.

This man, standing there in an ordinary moment in an ordinary day of his life, more than forty years ago. This man, my father.

Only those born and raised Amish up to and including my generation, and maybe the generation following, can understand what this picture truly means, what a rare treasure it is. Today, it’s not that big a deal anymore. What with digital cameras on cell phones, many if not most Amish people are photographed one way or another. At one time or another. But not back then. Back then, the stars had to align. And even then, the results were rarely so clear, like this.

Back then, Amish history was almost exclusively spoken and written, not visually recorded. It’s impossible to grasp the significance of this particular photo. There are simply no others out there of my father. Not from way back. At least none I’m aware of. Not from his youth. Not from his running around years, or from his camp years during WWII.

Why, then, could not we, his children, glance at the photo and instantly recognize him? Because there is no reference point from which to compare him, at that time. The very fact there are no pictures makes him a stranger to us. We remember him in later years, after we were adults, and he had aged a good deal. After the memories from our childhoods faded.

We, his sons and daughters, will cherish it always, this frozen moment of my father from so long ago. As, I suspect, will future generations of his offspring.

Now, if someone out there could only come up with something similar of my mother.

*************************************
More photos from the day of Pete Stoll’s sale. The same day Dad’s picture was taken. Amish back then weren’t the “hot” item they are now; the headline erroneously describes them as Mennonites. We’ve come a long way, baby. Thanks to Sam and Ruth Eicher for these photos.

The three Amish men, from front to rear: Uncle Abner Wagler, Alva Eicher, Stephen Stoll (Yes, I’m quite certain that is Stephen, this time. Note his sizable mustache. More distinct than Dad’s, even. )

Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing,
of just going along, listening to all the things you
can’t hear, and not bothering.

—Pooh’s Little Instruction Book
_________________________

I had every intention of posting last week. Had the time, and all, what with all that other writing completed, at least for awhile. But of an evening, as I settled in at my computer, ready to crank it up and crank it out, well, I just sat there. Stared blankly at the screen. Tinkered around. Checked Facebook. Checked it again. Putzed around on other sites. Drudge. Watched football. And so forth. I never did get anything started, writing wise.

I was simply exhausted. Mentally drained of words. Just flat out tired. Far more so than I had ever come close to realizing when in the thick of it all. Just flat out tired, from all the stress and strain, the mental tension of the last six months.

And winding down from it all was just a bit odd. So I didn’t write. At all, for two full weeks. Had no desire to.

I’m not sure how much energy there is this week, even. But hey, I gotta start back up sometime.

Thanks to all who took the time to read the last post. And to all who took the time to comment, both on the blog and privately. I’m proud of the feedback. Almost sixty individual posted comments. A record, all time, for my blog. Wow. You all are still out there, in case anyone had any doubts. I appreciate it a lot, your loyalty and your interest.

I was impressed with a number of the title suggestions. Although I don’t think the Tyndale people were impressed enough with any particular title to change their minds. So the prize money and free book won’t be awarded to anyone.

To me, “Look Back, Amish Son” spoke strongly, especially with that cover photo.

In the meantime, Carol Traver at Tyndale returned some very positive feedback on the completed manuscript. I now await their edited version, which should be returned to me by around Thanksgiving. We’ll see what they’ve done to my stuff. And then, it’s back to work again. I’m winding down now, just to wind right back up again before long. For the final stretch. It’ll all be over by Christmas. That’s what they tell me.

It’s been an interesting summer, in real life. Or would have been, in a normal summer. A lot of stuff flashed by, and I hardly noticed. The entire summer, mostly.

In late July, though, there came a day when my awareness was honed to its keenest edge. Because of events unfolding two thousand miles away, the old ghosts returned to the house. I knew that they would come, and did not stay to face them.

Instead, I shut down my writing and rented a car. Headed out on a quick road trip to Daviess. Not a short road trip, just a quick one. To attend a historical gathering, which happened to be scheduled at the most opportune time. Twelve hours on the road. In Daviess for about eighteen hours. Then twelve hours back.

It was a good trip, very productive. One of these days, when the muse strikes right, there will be a full length blog on what I learned about my great-grandmother. Detailed history on my mother’s side. Fascinating stuff, at least to me.

The trip did the trick too, of keeping my mind focused away from the ghosts back home. When I returned, some fragile essence of them remained, both in the house and in my head. A diminishing presence, however. Not that scary anymore, thankfully. Since that time, the ghosts have drifted off. They didn’t flee. Just floated out of my life.

They have not returned. I don’t expect them to.

Last week, an odd thing happened. Odd, and maddening. I got home from the gym, Tuesday night, I think it was. My message machine was blinking. So I listened. A cheery Amish-sounding voice. He’d heard I was writing a book. He was writing one too, and wouldn’t mind chatting.

Sounded innocent enough. So I called the guy back. Amos (not his real name, but solidly Amish) answered almost immediately. Must have a cell phone, I figured. We chatted a bit. Mostly he talked and I listened. He had self published a book some years back and was now working on another one.

“Who’s your publisher?” I asked.

He hedged. “I’m talking to Harvest House.” Sounded plausible. He continued. “Who’s your publisher?”

“Tyndale,” I said. “I think they might have a better distribution network than Harvest House.” In retrospect, a silly thing to say. The conversation lagged. It was time to hang up.

“It’s hard work, writing,” I ventured. Figured we’d have that much in common, at least. But no.

“Oh, it comes out right along for me,” Amos allowed confidently. Uh, all right, then. We hung up. And that was that. Or so I thought. A bit strange, but I thought nothing more of it.

Then, a day or so later, an email from Carol Traver, my Tyndale contact. The lady who made it all happen for me. She had some questions to discuss about my manuscript. But she opened with an odd paragraph. She had exchanged some nice emails with my friend Amos, she wrote cheerfully. He would be sending in some stuff for them to look at.

My friend Amos? I didn’t even know the guy. But I realized instantly what he had done. Checked out my blog, probably, and gotten Carol’s name there (I never mentioned her in our conversation). Then googled her email address. Then wrote her, claiming to be my friend. And couldn’t she just maybe check out his manuscript? Since he was my friend, and all.

She had told him to send it in; someone would check it out.

I was apoplectic. Absolutely outraged. I had worked long and hard to break through. And after years of labor, weary toil and setbacks, I had managed to land a deal with Tyndale. It was a long tough road of perseverence, interspersed with a few miracles. And some help, sure, from my friend Jerry Eicher, who used his contacts to get it all started. But he’d read my stuff, and liked it.

My relationship with Carol and her company is something I highly value. And deeply respect. I will never, never take it for granted. Never.

I will never send any Tom, Dick or Amos their way, with my blessing and my name. Not if I don’t know them, and especially not if I’ve never read a word they wrote. That would be sheer lunacy.

And here this guy was trying to leapfrog into the publishing world of Tyndale, by misusing my name to open a door that otherwise would be barred to him. What colossal nerve. Or colossal stupidity.

Amos is a cheap, freakin’ shyster. And even that term is too kind.

We got it all straightened out. One of my good friends, who knew Amos, managed to muscle him into sending an apology to Carol. And confess what he had done. I assured her that I would never sic anyone on her like that. She was most gracious, as always. I suppose there isn’t too much they haven’t seen, there at Tyndale.

I’m still outraged. And mortified by it all. But in a sense, I’m glad this happened early on. For me, it was eye-opening, a valuable lesson for the future.

The next “Amos” who calls will be cut off at the pass. This strategy will not work again (not that it worked this time). Not with Carol. And not with me.

It’s a bit hard to grasp, that Thanksgiving is almost here. Where has the year gone? I’m starting to sound like an old geezer, I know. But seriously, it seems like only a few weeks ago, it was spring. This year, on Thanksgiving Day, I’m looking forward to football, and a huge feast at my brother Steve’s house.

November, of course, means that the wedding season is in full swing here in Lancaster County. Every Tuesday and Thursday, they gather. Huge crowds, assembling on local farms in temporary buildings and tents. From the early hours, before daybreak, great hordes of buggies clog the roads. You have to dodge them incessantly on the way to work. Come flying over a little hill, and there’s two or three of them lined up, plugging along with their little blinking lights. It’s hard to pass a long line of buggies, what with opposing traffic and all. At such moments, I do grumble savagely upon occasion.

Why can’t Lancaster be like all other Amish settlements in the world, and hold weddings year round, instead of squashing them all into one long intense stretch in November? Blue blood Amish tradition, I guess. One doesn’t mess with such things.

Least they could do, for all the bother they cause, is bring me some of the wedding food. All that good old home cooked starchy stuff, topped off by the one concoction that reflects true genius.

Roasht. I drool, just thinking about it. I don’t know who invented it, but someone should be selling the stuff. I get to savor it about once or twice a year. And it seems like since there’s so much of it around right now, it would be a good time to nab some. From somewhere. But alas, my prospects remain bleak. Guess I just don’t know the right people.