The summer comes again, heat-blazing summer, humid,
murked with mist, sky-glazed with brutal weariness…

—Thomas Wolfe
_____________

It’s been one of those summers. Half gone, already, seems like. As is the year. Hotter than a biscuit in the East. Record temps. Much moaning about “climate change,” and how we’re all going to die in the next year or so, if something isn’t done. Strangely enough, AlGore remains silent. Mostly because of his masseuse problems, one would suspect. Not that I’d wish ill on anyone. But his troubles couldn’t have befallen a more deserving man.

Anyway, it’s flat out hot out there. And no, I don’t mean it’s warm. It’s hot. The paved parking lot at work shimmers in the sun. The work crews slog through the day, gulping gallons of cold ice water. And I am hugely thankful for my air-conditioned office job.

I’ve wondered sometimes, when looking at old photos from back a hundred years ago. People standing there in a crowd, in a small town somewhere, or a city. Outside in the summer heat. No air conditioning. All the men wearing suits, most wearing ties. And hats. The women bundled up in large billowy dresses, also wearing hats. It’s hot. You can see it. And back then, most people didn’t bathe every day. Maybe once a week. And their deodorants, if they even had any, certainly weren’t what we have today.

I’ve looked at the old photos and wondered. What it would have been like to stand in that crowd. And I can’t help but wonder how those people smelled. I bet it wasn’t very appealing. Likely quite rancid. Maybe that’s why the dainty maidens of the time carried smelling salts. Probably they needed it to revive themselves and to quench the stench.

Anyway, it’s hot. And I’ve been stressed. More stressed than I’ve been for awhile. More so than I’ve been since the spring of 2007, for those who remember that dark time. Different stress, certainly. But comparable in its intensity.

Stress from this and that. But mostly from working on the book. It’s not that I’m not producing. I am steadily working my way through the picture board chart. But still, seems like no draft is ever quite done, not good enough.

Now July 4th has come and gone. I hadn’t planned a whole lot, but ended up at two different parties in two different states. Which isn’t bad for someone who hadn’t planned a lot. Big Blue was cruising, puttin’ on the miles. First, on Saturday afternoon to my ex-brother-in-law Paul’s home in Lebanon. With a few close friends. We grilled steaks. Hung out late, playing Hi-Lo. I slept on the couch.

The next morning, it was west and south to Hedgesville, West Virginia. Dominic Haskin, my close friend, always throws a great party on the Fourth. This one was no exception, except it was for one day instead of the usual two. Again, lots of great food (but no pig roast). Hanging out by the pool. Chilling with the West Virginia crowd. And after darkness fell, real tube fireworks. Quite the show.

On Monday, it was back home again, in time to get a few hours of writing logged in. And that’s going to be my game plan for the duration. I have no plans for any trips, short or long, in the near future. Not until after late October. Then, maybe.

And so the summer slogs by. As usual, I’m assailed on all sides by a host of minor irritations.

This year, there was the Census. I don’t even remember the last one. Must have been ten years ago, but I wasn’t paying any attention back then. This time, I was.

First, I got the notice proclaiming the form was on its way. Big whoop. How many millions were spent, doing that? Days later, it arrived. I opened it suspiciously. Ten or twelve questions. Name. Address. Income. Blah, blah, blah. Near as I could tell, I was obligated to fill out only one. The first one. How many people live in your house?

So I carefully penciled in the number “1” and mailed it back. Nothing else. No other info. Take that, Census people. I heard nothing for awhile. Then, one evening, a tiny note tucked in the screen door. From a Census worker. Local. Call me, it said. Listed the full name and phone number and convenient evening hours. I glanced at it, then tossed it aside. Come and see me yourself. When I’m home.

A few weeks passed. I always glanced at my drive when pulling up, checking for any suspicious vehicle that might indicate a Census worker lurking in ambush. Never was. Then about three weeks after the first note, a second one. Stuck into the screen door again. Different name. Must be the supervisor, I figured. I was here, the note said. A telephone number. Call me, we can do this over the phone, it suggested cheerfully. And maybe a little hopefully. Again, it listed convenient evening hours, up until 9:30 or so. Unimpressed, I read the note, then tossed it aside with the first one.

And that was the last I heard from anyone. They know how many people live in my house, at least downstairs. That’s all they need to know. And no, I’m not paranoid. Well, maybe a little.

I’ve yawned my way through the long, exceedingly boring coverage of the World Cup. Along with most other Americans, I suspect. All the hype on Sports Center, all the breathless coverage, all the rah, rah, just swooshed right over my head. I don’t understand any of it. Don’t care to. Guess that might make a bit of difference.

Somehow, soccer seems to be by far the most popular sport in the world. Except in North America. Watching a squad of guys running back and forth across a vast field, kicking and head-butting a round ball, that will never be popular here. Never. Not like other sports.

So I yawned when the US team was unceremoniously booted out by Uruguay. Who even knows where that is? I yawn at the upcoming finals. I’ll yawn at the winner, as other countries riot. Bring on real football, American style. And how about them Braves? They’ve been on a roll ever since I publicly scolded them on Facebook a couple of months ago. A most timely happenstance on my part.

And speaking of FB, I have mixed feelings about it. So far, it’s been a good experience, mostly. Sometimes I catch myself surfing when I should definitely be writing. Overall, though, it’s a very good way to keep up with family and friends.

Fifteen years ago, we didn’t even have cell phones. Think about that. Think how different the Seinfeld show would have been, had the characters been equipped with even the most basic cell phones. But it wasn’t an option then. Which makes Seinfeld reruns seem increasingly quaint.

Now, we have cell phones that can access our FB and we can post pictures almost instantly. We’re wired, is what we are. And I don’t even do Twitter, and whatever other new stuff is surfacing out there.

It’s a good venue for quick thoughts and observations. Causes. Short political screeds. Bashing this guy, praising that one. It’s also great for connecting after a tragedy, and for info on deaths and funerals.

I’ve had to learn. On FB, to be careful when disagreeing with someone. Because no one can hear your voice inflections. It’s all written. So a sentence that’s read might seem a lot more harsh than the same words spoken. Because of voice inflection.

I know a few people who have left FB. Didn’t like how it was hogging their time. I respect that. I’d be tempted to do the same thing, except I write the occasional blog, and am working on a book. FB is a perfect medium to announce a new post and to update readers.

I wonder, if a blog like this would even be possible to launch now. I doubt it would attract a similar readership. But then again, it might. Content, I think, is what makes or breaks a blog. But still, it seems strange. When I launched this blog a little over three years ago, FB was barely a blip in the public’s consciousness.

I chuckle sometimes, at the stuff posted. Guys post pictures of the road, grilled steaks or ribs, prate about football, Nascar and boasts of the hunt, and taunts about politics. And battles about religion. Merrily whack each other, amidst much name calling. Thugs and such. Perhaps taking it too far, sometimes. Girls…well, some girl moans she’s having a bad day. Instant response: a cascade of, uh, support. Hang in there. You poor thing. Praying for you. We really must get together soon. And so on and on. Not that I have anything against any of it. Mostly, I don’t even read the stuff. Just saying, is all.

And no, I’m not grumpy. It’s hot out there.

When in Rome, do as the Romans do.

—St. Ambrose
____________

I had expressed some reservations when he enrolled. That summer two years ago. But he’s an adult, and if he wanted to attend, that was his business. Even so, I grumbled at him a little. Since then, we’ve communicated now and then, and he stopped by to visit a time or two. He really seemed to enjoy his classes, and was always eager to discuss and debate the issues. Although the source of his conclusions was always a bit suspect to me.

So when my nephew Gideon Yutzy emailed me an invitation to attend his graduation at Faith Builders, I didn’t give it much thought at first. Faith Builders, in Guys Mills, PA. A rare place where plain Beachy and Mennonite kids can go to get a couple of years of accredited education. For teaching, mostly.

I’ve always been suspicious of the place. Stems back to about the mid 90s, or there-abouts. For some reason, I attended a Faith Builders fundraiser. Don’t ask me why. Anyway, the main speaker that night, I think his last name was Zehr, stood there and did his utmost to guilt-trip the audience into giving to the cause. He railed rather disdainfully at wealth and wealthy people. I listened. Seemed like a strange thing, to clobber the wealthy even while asking them for support. Plus, he sounded like a raging socialist to me. A man who had no clue how the free market works, as people who scorn wealth generally don’t. My guard was up. Has been since that day.

And in the years since, I haven’t been that impressed by what I heard from graduates of the place. Aggressive hyper-Anabaptist apologetics, mixed with plain dress. Which is OK, if that’s what you want. But it’s not where I am.

So when I got Gideon’s invitation, my first thought was, fat chance. Why would I drive six hours one way to attend a graduation at a school I didn’t respect?

But then, suddenly, my mind went back to another time and place. Nineteen years ago. I was an eager graduate at Vincennes University, a Junior College in southern Indiana. Against all odds, I had obtained my GED, and attended Vincennes for two years, the last of which was fully paid by a merit scholarship. I didn’t make a big fuss about the graduation. But I invited my friends around Daviess. And my family. Not that any of the family would come, I knew that. But still. You invite them.

Graduation day came. In gown and mortarboard tassled cap, I proudly marched across the stage. Received my diploma. Associates’ Degree in General Studies, Summa Cum Laude. And I knew it before I marched. But I looked out over the audience anyway.

Other than my professors and a few friends I had made at the University, not a single friend or family member was present to cheer my accomplishment.

Not one.

It didn’t seem like that big a deal at the moment. And it didn’t really bug me that much. It was corn planting time in Daviess, so all my local friends begged off. They were in the fields and all. Of course I understood. Only much later did it hit me how fragile was my support structure at that time. Pretty much nonexistent. And I had no semblance of a safety net at all.

It was what it was. And I’m just saying how it was.

In the years that have passed, I vowed to myself that if any of my nephews or nieces or siblings ever graduate with any kind of degree, anywhere, I would make every effort to attend if remotely feasible.

Well, it was feasible to drive six hours one way to see Gideon graduate. And by Wednesday my plans were made. Friday morning, May 21, I set out with Big Blue. My niece Elaine Wagler accompanied me. She and Gideon have been close friends since childhood.

And off we went, north and west. A long, long drive. By 3 PM, we pulled into Guys Mills and found the school. An old high school complex. Gideon greeted us joyfully. It seemed to mean a lot to him that we had come to witness his big day.

He took us on a tour of the place. Classrooms, dorms, the library. Gideon’s eyes sparkled as he described his two years of education. The whole experience, the late night discussions, the required readings, the small tight knit classes. The close friendships.

Despite myself, I was impressed from the first moment. It was obvious that whatever they taught here, they taught it thoroughly.

That evening, the graduation ceremony. Everything on schedule, and it went down right on time. A well-coached little choir sang a song. Sixteen graduates stood there, beaming. As class president, Gideon gave a fine five minute speech. Even the main speaker, some Mennonite preacher from Canada, kept my attention and wrapped it up before he lost us.

Afterward, we all mingled about for almost two hours, the guests and the graduates. Apparently Gideon had talked about me some, because more than a few strangers walked right up and addressed me as Uncle Ira. They knew who I was, they read my blog. I smiled and nodded and shook their hands. Even had several very good conversations. Everyone was most polite and cordial. I was equally respectful, being on their turf and all.

And I came away with an entirely new perspective of Faith Builders. A clean little school. Whatever they do, they do it with quality and character. I’m still as suspicious as ever about what they actually teach there. And I still don’t agree with most of it.

But you know what? It doesn’t matter. I don’t have to. There’s room out there for every type and denomination. Including a plain Beachy Anabaptist Junior College. The professors at Faith Builders are struggling to instill the value of education into a culture that has traditionally rejected higher learning. Or at least viewed it with extreme skepticism. An unenviable job, much like rowing upstream in a strong current. What- ever the doctrinal flaws (from my perspective) at Faith Builders, that’s admirable. And I truly respect the place.

Congratulations to my nephew, Gideon Yutzy, on his graduation from Faith Builders. May he grow and prosper in whatever life holds for him.

Last weekend was filled with much excitement. First, on Thursday afternoon, I was interviewed for a full hour on the radio show, Amish Wisdom. My friend Erik Wesner guest hosted the show. We had a lot of fun with it. I knew Erik and managed to keep the conversation as between two friends. It turned out pretty well, if I do say so myself.

And right after that interview, I headed out with the old gang for the Pocono 500 Nascar Track in Long Pond, PA. Five of us in a motor home again, just like last year. Time for Redneck City. We felt a bit more seasoned and confident, after last year’s experience.

In a spitting drizzle, we pulled in and were set up by 9:30 or so. This year, we graduated to spot right at the backstretch fence. Unobstructed view of the track. As we parked and set up, we met our neighbors two spaces over. Two couples from Ontario, Canada, not far from the Aylmer area. A younger couple and an older couple. Seemed friendly enough, but a bit standoffish. I was surprised. Canadians are usually quite genial.

We ate a late dinner, then sat around chatting. By eleven or so, everyone bunked down for sleep. Except me. I sat outside with my laptop, enjoying the sounds and the surroundings. Listening to music and typing a few notes. The Canadians next door seemed to have retired as well.

I sat there for an hour. Then two. It was getting late. Time to hit the sack. And just about then, the Canadians’ camper trailer door swung open, and the younger man slowly lurched out. Heavy set, clad in shorts and T shirt. It was more than half dark, even with his trailer lights, so I pretended not to notice. He staggered to a lawn chair and sagged into it.

And he sat there. Doing nothing, except occasionally taking a sip of beer from his vast mug. Every now and then, he emitted a half groan, half bark. Don’t know if he was trying to get my attention or what. I didn’t stir, just kept an eye on him.

He continued his weird half groans, half barks. Obviously the man was completely smashed. He sipped now and again from his mug. And suddenly, without a sound and without warning, he leaned over too far. Before my startled eyes, he rolled right off his chair. Crashed to the ground with a great thud. I looked on with extreme interest while pretending not to. I’ve heard of people doing that, rolling off chairs while intoxicated. But I’d never seen it happen before.

He slumped there against the trailer, occasionally pawing about feebly with his hand, like a fat pig in slop. No way. He wasn’t getting up anytime soon. The trailer door then opened, and the elderly woman, perhaps his mother, emerged. She stood there swaying, analyzing the situation. She then walked up, mumbling incoherently, and grabbed his hand and tugged. He lay there, solid as a mountain. Didn’t move even a fraction. After several attempts, she gave up and disappeared inside the trailer. The fat man sprawled there, an unmoving, unmovable lump.

About then I decided it was time for me to go to bed.

He must have roused himself at some point, because by mid morning the next day, he emerged from the trailer. Didn’t look half bad, considering where he’d been the night before. We pretty much ignored each other for the duration, except for late Saturday night, when Paul had to walk over and ask them to turn down their music. Which they reluctantly did, eventually.

We settled in for three days inside the oval. We feasted on steak, fish, ribs, grilled over open flames. I probably gained a few pounds. I even got a bit of writing done on my laptop. Sadly, Buddy and his boys from New York never showed up. We were quite disappointed. Scoured the campground all around us with binoculars for any possible glimpse of his old yellow school bus or the little motorized bar. All in vain. Maybe the tanking economy affected him or something. Sure wish I could have met him again.

And then of course, there was the race. Or the races. Our trackside parking space allowed an unfettered view of the backstretch. We sat on top of the motor home in camp chairs and absorbed the sound and fury of the engines.

On Sunday, after the race ended at seven, we packed up and left for home. It was time. Three days at Redneckville was just about right.