And now, because you have known madness and despair, and because you will
grow desperate again before you come to evening, we who have stormed the
ramparts of the furious earth and been hurled back, we who have been maddened
by the unknowable and bitter mystery of love, …and savored all of life, the
tumult, pain, and frenzy, and now sit quietly by our windows watching all
that henceforth never more shall touch us – we call upon you to take heart,
for we can swear to you that these things pass.

—Thomas Wolfe
___________________

Well, it’s been a little more than nine years since my first blog was posted, back in 2007. Nine years, and the journey has twisted and turned in ways I could never have imagined or foreseen. I try to stop and take stock once in a while. And I’ve written about it, a lot at first, then more sporadically as the months and years rolled on. If you go dig around in some of those early blogs, it won’t take you long to figure out what was going on. The catalyst, the event that pushed me out, that made me write my voice for the first time ever, in my life. The trigger. My marriage exploded, and my world blew up.

It was a brutal and bitter place to find my writing voice. I guess you don’t get to choose when something happens organically on its own like that. It just is what it is, and gets here when it gets here. And I hunkered down in those early years, and spoke from deep pits of darkness and pain such as I had never seen before and have not seen since.

And I muddled on through, those first few months. Ellen moved to a faraway city, way out west. I stumbled along at home. And that first summer, she filed the divorce papers from where she was. I didn’t fight anything. I signed where I needed to sign and sent the papers back. And I will say this. It was a numbing and painful time. But through all that, our divorce could not have been more amicable than it was. We never even hired any lawyers at all. Just signed an agreement written up by an attorney friend of mine. We listed her stuff, and listed mine. Before leaving, she lugged in some big old tubs and loaded them with her things and I carried the tubs out to the garage and stacked them there against the wall. And there they remain, and I got no problem with any of all that. There were a few pieces of furniture, too, that stayed. And I was OK with that as well. It was pretty strange, how relaxed it all came down in some ways, when I stop and look back at it now.

The divorce got finalized that fall, sometime in November, if I remember right. It was kind of funny how that happened. From here, anyway, it was. Back then, it wasn’t. I had gotten the official notice. On such and such a day, at 4:30 my time, the judge would call me from the bench. And we’d go through with the hearing. I dreaded the moment, but still, you just walk forward in a time like that. That’s all you can do. The day came. 4:30 came. No phone call. Then it was closing time, 5:00. I got into my truck and headed for home. Over the mountain. And as I approached the little town of White Horse, sure enough, my cell phone rang. Blocked number, I couldn’t see where it was coming from. I answered. Hello.

An authoritative female voice. “Is this Ira Wagler?” I hedged. Depends on who’s asking. “This is Judge (I don’t remember her name),” she said. “Is this Ira Wagler? Please identify yourself.” I was done hedging. It is, I said. I was driving right by the fire station, so I pulled in and parked. And we proceeded right on with the hearing. I answered a few questions, and I heard Ellen’s voice answering the same questions on the other end. It was all pretty laid back. And after ten minutes or so, the Judge was done. “I hereby declare you divorced,” she proclaimed. And then it was over. I hung up and just sat there for a moment.

It felt so very strange. I remember thinking. I’m divorced. Then, before driving on, I called my brother Steve. I just got divorced in the parking lot of the White Horse Fire Station, I told him. Steve had known it was coming, but he was just silent for a moment. He said something, then, I don’t remember what. And I told him. I’m sure it’s probably the first time in history that anyone got divorced in the parking lot of a fire station. We both chuckled. It was funny, when you thought about it. And then I drove on out toward home.

And the months moved on. I wrote and wrote. And raged and raged, once in a while. Mostly, it was rage against the pain that life is, so often. One thing I never, never did. I never blamed Ellen for the failure of our marriage any more than I blamed myself. It wasn’t her fault, any more than it was mine. Had I been the man I should have been, a whole lot of crap would likely never have happened. Not that it does much good to say that from here and now. But still. That’s how I always felt, in my heart.

And we never communicated much those first few years, Ellen and me. Once in a while, a strained email about some logistical thing. And when I settled on our house, then we communicated some, too. I got the house appraised, then remortgaged. And I bought out her half of the equity that was there. There weren’t a whole lot of pangs in me about all that. Some, sure. It was so final, so irrevocable, seemed like. With every step like that, the separation just got that much more firm, more deeply poured in concrete. But mostly, it all went well.

And I won’t pretend otherwise. The ghosts of who we were lurked there in the old brick house we had shared as our home. I stayed rooted there, because I was too stubborn to get pushed out by the memories of what had been, or the hauntings of what might have been. So now and then, I wrestled with the ghosts, when they came. Go away, I told them. Leave me alone. And mostly, they did. But sometimes they returned with a vengeance, and the battle started all over again. That’s just how it was.

The years just kind of slide together, here, in my memory. I can’t quite remember the dates of what happened when. Anyway, it wasn’t all that long after Ellen moved out west that the word trickled back. She’s dating some guy she met, there. About my age, the man was. His name was Tim. I brooded a good bit when I heard that. Still, you just keep walking. And I will say. I never, never blamed Tim for anything. He was just a guy who came wandering along long after me and my ex-wife had blown up our marriage. I always figured he’s probably a pretty likable man. But still…but still.

And I remember the turmoil inside me when I heard. Ellen and Tim were engaged. They were going to get married in July of 2010, if I remember right. That was the summer I was writing my book. So there was a lot going on. Still, as the date approached, I brooded a good bit. It wasn’t right, that I sat here all alone, while she went gallivanting around, and now she’s getting married again. That’s the concept that was so strange. From where we both came from, you just didn’t see such a thing. No divorce. And for sure, no divorce and remarriage. And the ghosts kept pushing themselves forward, into my mind. There she was, way out there. And here I was, back where our future dreams together had been launched, not all that many years ago. I brooded and drank and brooded and wrote. How a book ever came out of me that summer is more than a miracle.

The date approached, her new wedding date, I mean. And as it got close, I had to get out of the house. That Friday, the day before, I boarded Big Blue and headed west to Daviess, the land of my father’s blood. There was a little gathering going on that I figured to attend. Some old historic Amish house in Daviess was going to be torn down soon. And that Saturday, the place was open to all who wanted to walk through one last time. The house had been in my blood lineage, on my mother’s side, I think. Anyway, I just figured. Go hit the road and drive. Maybe you can get your head cleared.

It was a real good trip, more than I could ever have hoped for. I connected with the Freundschaft that Saturday, and hung out with friends and relatives. I thought of it now and then, but only fleetingly. Ellen is getting married this afternoon. Overall, it went better than I had dared to hope it would. And the next morning, early, I headed on back east toward home.

I got back late that afternoon. And I walked into my home. And it was one of the strangest things I have ever felt. The ghosts were gone. There was no vestige, no hint of their presence. Whatever had ever existed between Ellen and me, that time was past, now. It was so clear. Now she belonged to another man. Coming from where I came from, this was a very strange place to be. But there I was. And since that day, the ghosts of our pasts, Ellen’s and mine, have never returned. That’s not saying Billy the Ghost isn’t around. He might be, even though the tenant hasn’t heard him in a while, now. But he’s not associated with any of all that. If he’s there, he’s there for his own reasons.

And sometime later that year, Anne Marie began the last leg of her long journey home. And sometime in the spring of 2011, I think it was, Ellen flew in to see her good friend and say good-bye. We spoke over the phone a few times, leading up to her trip back. And she told me. “I want to come and spend time with Anne Marie while she’s still here, and we can still talk. When she passes, I won’t be coming to the funeral.” And we planned to meet, Ellen and me, while she was around. She needed to pick up a few things from my house, and she also asked me. Would I consider giving her the Bosch Mixer that my Dad had given to us as a wedding present? She sure could use it, for her own cooking.

Sure, I said. (And yes, I know what a Bosch Mixer is. It doesn’t matter.) You can have it. I’ll never, never use it. And we arranged a time, one evening after work, that she would come around and pick it up. I went straight home from work that afternoon, and waited. And soon, a little SUV zipped into my drive. I looked out and watched as Ellen got out and walked up to my house. I opened the door, and we hugged a little awkwardly.

She sat at the kitchen table, and I stood and leaned against the sink. And we talked. We were both a little nervous, of course we were. But we chatted right along. My book was just coming out that June, so she had all kinds of questions about what it had taken to write it. She knew from our past that writing a book had been one of those hopeless dreams I figured would never happen. So she knew how important it was to me. And we talked along about it, as I dragged out the Bosch. We packed the Mixer and a bunch of attachments into a sturdy cardboard shipping box she had brought. She would UPS it back to her home out west.

Since that time, I think, Ellen and I have looked after each other and cared for each other about as much as two people coming from where we came from could have. We emailed briefly now and then, about this and that. When Anne Marie passed away, I immediately called her. And we grieved together and talked about our memories of our friend.

And from that time, I’ve always said, pretty much. I don’t mind talking to Ellen and even seeing her here and there. I would be OK if I randomly ran into her and her husband, Tim. I’d be good with that, as long as I wasn’t expecting it. But then I always poured a little bit of concrete. I will not deliberately go to a place where I know they both would be. A day like that is a day that will never come.

And time drifted on. Two years ago, Mom passed away. And last year, Ellen’s father, Adin, died. We communicated both times. She contacted me before Mom’s funeral. And she told me. “Back when we separated, you told me you didn’t want to go alone to your Mother’s funeral. I promised then that I would come and go with you. Do you need me to?” I was deeply touched that she remembered. But I told her. I’m OK. Janice will be there, and she can walk beside me. Thank you for remembering.

And when Adin passed last September, I called her. And we simply spoke for a few minutes. I remember how you tried hard, so hard, to reach your Dad, I said. And he never would let you. He always rejected you. I never forgot how that was. And we grieved, there, for a few minutes, at the tragedy of all we had seen together. And we cried a little bit together, too.

And that was how things stood, back last November when I went into the hospital for what was to be a routine, one-day procedure. The night before, I got a call from Ellen. Somehow she had heard about it. Oh, it’s OK, I told her. I got some issues. But I’m not afraid of whatever will come at me. That was a mouthful. I had no idea of what was about to come at me. Over the next ten days, I found out. I was right about one thing, though. I never was afraid, going into any of it.

Ellen texted me a few times, there in those ten days I was in the hospital. And I always talked back about where I was. She was a nurse. And she cared that I was getting through and getting better. And then I got out. And all of life looked a whole lot different than it had before. I will walk forward into this new place, I said to myself. It’s a beautiful thing, all of life. And it’s a beautiful thing, to walk free through it.

It’s been a different road, since that time. One of the first things I did was cut out unnecessary noise. You come at me harsh, you come at me in a bad way and threaten me, I just cut you off, and all the noise and fuss you’re making. I don’t have to listen to a negative vibe. That was a new free little path for me. And life moved on, like it always does. I looked forward to it, and walked forward into it. Mostly, anyway.

And sometime earlier this year, I don’t remember when exactly, I got the usual invite from my brother-in-law, Paul Yutzy. Well, I guess he’s my ex brother-in-law, now. He’s Ellen’s older brother. We have remained close friends, through all the years of all the crap that me and his sister went through. After getting through such a thing, there’s not a whole lot out there that’s gonna make you see each other any different than you always did. He’s my friend. And he’s a good man.

And this year, the invitation rolled in like it always does. Paul’s White Party, in July. It happens out on his patio deck every year. The formal tables set up. He cooks up a great feast. And all the guests dress up in white. This year, I looked at the invitation. All other years, I was all ambivalent in my response. Maybe I’ll make it. Paul and I both knew I had no intention of showing up. That’s how it always was before. But not this year.

This year, the invite came. And this year, I looked at it in a way I never had before. Yes. I will do this. A White Party. I can wear my white pants, a white shirt, and my seersucker jacket. And my little white hat. I think that would work out just fine. This is the new me. Now, I will go to places like Paul’s White Party. That’s what I thought to myself, all excited and confident.

And I told Paul. I’m coming, this year, for the first time ever. I’m excited about it. I think he was a little surprised. But he didn’t let on. “Great,” he said. And that’s how we left it, early on. But then, a few weeks later, he had something to tell me.

I don’t remember if he called me, or just sent me a message. It’s not that important, either way. But somehow, he told me. “Ellen wants to come for the White Party this year. She and Tim are going to be here. Are you OK with that?”

And right there it was. The day I had told myself would never come. I would not walk deliberately into a place where I knew my ex-wife and her husband would be. It wasn’t something I got showed how to do, growing up. It was always the outside English people who got caught up in traps like that. And I remember hearing of such a thing here and there, and wondering how it could be. How can any former husband and wife be at the same place in peace, especially when a new spouse is right there, too? I’ve always wondered. And I’ve always thought. That’s for those people to figure out. It’s not me.

But now, it was me.

And I wrote back to Paul. I don’t have a problem with that. I plan to be there. And that’s how we left it as the date slowly drifted in and came at us.

The party was in late July. And as the day approached, I got to thinking. It might be real hot that evening, too hot for a suit coat. And then the week arrived. And man, was it ever hot all week. The sun scorched down every day, and the hottest temps of the week were forecast for Saturday afternoon. And then the day arrived.

It felt so strange, walking up to a new door like that. I felt no stress at all, and no flashbacks came at me all week. The actual morning dawned, and the day crept by. And by four I was dressed and ready. White pants, seersucker shirt, white hat. And Big Blue and I cruised on up north toward Lebanon and Paul’s big mansion.

I pulled in right at five and parked. I was a good bit early. I had planned it that way. I couldn’t stay late, because of other plans. So I figured to get there early and get some visiting done. I walked into the garage, where Paul greeted me. I’m early, I said. “That’s totally all right,” he said. I turned toward the house. And she came walking through the foyer and out into the garage. She was smiling.

It was Ellen. The woman I had married almost precisely sixteen years ago as I write this. It’s been nine years since it all blew up, and we’ve both aged a bit. I’ve aged the most, of course. I’m old, and gray-haired now. Gray-bearded, too. But she was still as beautiful as ever. Her smile was exactly as I remembered it. She greeted me, and her voice was the same, too. I smiled and spoke back. We walked to each other, and we hugged each other hard.

And it seemed like it all washed away from both of us in that moment. The horror and the hurt and all the pain and darkness of long ago. I swore back when it happened that the pain of it would sear me inside forever. And in a sense, I guess it’s always there somehow. It bubbles up now and then in the sadness of all the memories, and all that was lost. But you can reach a place where you look back and realize you have grown beyond any point you ever thought you could have. And you can walk calmly through a new door as it opens, in a day you swore would never come.

It all seems so strange, but that’s how it is. I can tell you that, from where I’ve been.

We chatted for a minute, then walked into the house. In the kitchen, Malinda was bustling about with two helpers, preparing the vast feast that would be served outside, later, on white tablecloths. I’m early, I told her. She smiled and welcomed me. Ellen and I sat at the table, then. I kept glancing around. “Oh,” she said. “Tim is upstairs, changing. He’ll be down in a few minutes.” And we just chatted along and caught up until I saw the man approaching from across the room. We are Facebook friends, so I recognized him. Tim. Ellen’s husband.

I stood and held out my hand. He gripped it hard. We looked each other in the eye and smiled. I’m happy to finally meet you, I said. “Same here,” he said. And he sat with us, and the three of us just talked about a lot of things. I told them about my hospital stay, and my heart, and how I’ll never be afraid again. And when Ellen wandered away for a few minutes, Tim told me almost shyly. He’d read my book, and he liked to read my blogs. I thanked him for taking the time. I’m always honored, I said.

And soon the other guests began trickling in. I walked about, greeting the people I knew and introducing myself to those I didn’t. When Ellen came around, I introduced her, too. This is my ex-wife, Ellen. Some people looked startled, but mostly everyone seemed very OK with everything.

The evening came at us, then. As we were getting seated, Ellen asked me. “Would you like to sit with us?” I hadn’t really thought about it, but I accepted. Yes, I’d like that very much. And we sat and ate together, the three of us. Me and Ellen and Tim.

Paul’s White Party is a big, big deal. He and Malinda had prepared an enormous and delectable feast. Five or six courses, I can’t remember. Salad, then soup. Then the main dishes, which included grilled salmon, lamb chops, and steak. The food was beyond delicious, the wine robustly red. And sitting right there, I sinned grievously again, with my feasting.

The hours wore on, and we were comfortable and relaxed. Right at eight, I told Ellen. I need to leave now. And I told her the reasons why. She understood, and Tim did, too. I stood and he reached over, and we gripped hands again. I wished him well. And then Ellen asked. “Can I walk you to your truck?” You may, I said.

I thanked Paul on the way out, and waved good-bye to my other friends. I went inside to grab my keys, and Ellen met me in the garage. We walked over to the open door. And we stood there and looked at each other.

And we wished each other well. I had a lovely time, I told her. I enjoyed meeting Tim. He’s a good man. I’m sure you guys have to work through things, like every couple does. But I wish you every blessing. “Thank you,” she said. “I had a lovely time, too.”

We were done. There wasn’t a whole lot more to say. We faced each other, and then we hugged. Good-bye, I said. “Good-bye,” she answered.

And then I turned and walked out to my truck.

It is not all bad, but it is not all good, it is not all ugly,
but it is not all beautiful, it is life, life, life…It is savage,
cruel, kind, noble, passionate, selfish, generous, stupid,
ugly, beautiful, painful, joyous — it is all these, and
more, and it’s all these I want to know…

—Thomas Wolfe
__________________

I remember hearing about it now and then, over the years. Every July, it came around. But I never paid it much mind, I have to say. The Yoder Reunion came from Mom’s side of the family. Those people were strangers to me, pretty much. And it just didn’t register in my head, that attending their annual gathering in Daviess might be an important thing to do.

I’ve touched on the subject, here and there. And there’s even a paragraph or two in my book about it. Dad didn’t get along well at all with Mom’s family. Which was fine. He didn’t have to. But it wasn’t fine, what he did about it. After John “Pappy” Yoder and most of his sons and daughters left the Amish for the Block Church, Dad cut them off from us. And he cut them off from Mom. It was a cruel and brutal thing to do. Her family could only stand by, helpless, as Dad pontificated to the whole world what it is to live right, and what it is to raise your children right, so they stay Amish. And Mom’s family mourned the loss of their Ida, or Idey, as they say her name in Daviess.

And we were raised as pure Waglers. The Yoder blood in us was never recognized or acknowledged. Oh, sure, we knew who they were, Mom’s siblings. They came around now and then, to visit, to see their sister. They were strangers to us. Dad built his wall high and wide. In one sense, he was doomed to fail. He should have known that one day we would set out on our own to break down that wall and find those he had shut off from us. But in another sense, he succeeded mightily in every way he could have hoped to.

Because Ida’s children never really got to know their blood kin. We were strangers to each other.

In 1961, the year I was born, they held their first get-together, Pappy Yoder’s family. I’m not sure if they even called it a reunion, those first few years. Just a family, the children and grandchildren, getting together and hanging out for the day. The third Saturday in July. That’s when they did it. I’m sure Mom was invited that first time. I’m sure she had an open, standing invitation every year. But she never got to go, not even once. My father’s wall stood tall and strong and searingly divisive. And it grew and grew every year, higher, wider, stronger. And time went on, like time does. And for decades and decades, it looked like the wall would stand forever.

And in all the years that passed since I left the Amish for good, I never attended the Yoder Reunion once. It’s not that I couldn’t have. It just never occurred to me that I might or should. I lived in Daviess briefly for two years when I attended Vincennes University. Back from 1989 to 1991. I don’t even remember hearing about the Reunion. I’m sure I would have been welcomed with open arms. I would have been too shy to show up, in any case.

And in the years since, I heard it now and then, probably from my sister Rachel. She stays on top of these things. “Are you going to the Yoder Reunion this year?” she would ask. “It’s the third Saturday in July.” And I always just looked at her strangely and shook my head. Nope, I got no inclination to go, I told her. I can’t see any reason to go. I don’t know those people. And I never went.

I guess sometimes it takes the next generation to see things clearly. And at least three men from that generation did. Maybe there were more, but I know of at least these three. Joseph’s oldest sons, John and David and Reuben. Good solid Amish names, right there. John and David and Reuben. In 2013, John somehow connected with my sisters, Rachel and Rhoda. They attended the Reunion, the three couples. Then last year, John went again, this time with his family and David and Reuben and their families. Around fifty people showed up for the Reunion. A pretty small group.

And as things were winding down, the Daviess Yoders looked at Joseph’s sons, all interested. Here was new blood. Ida’s grandchildren. They needed someone to host the Reunion in 2016. They talked to John and his brothers. And soon it was decided. David lives up north of Daviess, not far. In Worthington. He’s got a nice little wooded acreage. And he agreed to host the Reunion in 2016. The Daviess Yoders were delighted and maybe a little stunned. New blood. And now, a new host. From Ida’s family. That was pretty wild stuff, from what all they had seen over the years.

And so things were set, for this year. And I gotta hand it to those three nephews, Joseph’s sons. John and David and Reuben. They’re the ones who got me and my siblings all wired up to go. They sent word. Yoder Reunion at David’s place. Fill in the date. July 16, the third Saturday of the month. And I talked to my brother Steve about it, months and months ago. I’m going. If you want to go, let’s travel together. He allowed that he wanted to, and maybe his son, Ira Lee, too. And maybe even Clifford. Good, I said. Don’t sweat it, if the women don’t want to go. We’ll make a man trip out of it. And I didn’t think or fret all that much about it, as the months slowly crept by. Until last week. All of a sudden, the time was here.

We all met at Steve’s house right at six last Friday morning. I parked down by the shop. I had packed light again, for me. Just a bag, and three shirts wrapped in plastic. That should do, I figured. Clifford roared up in his Camaro. Then Ira Lee arrived, right on time. Diving a shiny black SUV he had rented the day before. We all had to fax in our driver’s licenses the day before, so we could take turns driving. I usually rent cars that look like they could be running moonshine. This black SUV was all chromed and flashy. It looked like a drug runner’s vehicle. Oh, well. It had Wisconsin plates. Maybe the cops will leave us alone, coming from a straight-laced state like that. We loaded our stuff in the back, and by a little after six, we were off, Ira Lee cruising at the wheel. Worthington, Indiana, here we come. Yoder Reunion, 2016, here we come.

We pushed along hard all day, each taking a turn at the wheel. Right at 4:30, we pulled into the wooded drive that led to David’s home place. It was a beautiful setting, with camping spots out under the trees. We pulled up and parked out by the shop, where the Reunion would come down the next day. We walked down to the house, where a few of my nephews lounged on the front porch. We joined them. Lots of people were on the road and getting close, we were told. Tonight would be Wagler family night. We leaned back and relaxed and got started with our visiting.

People drifted in, then. Marvin and Rhoda. Lester and Rachel. Ray and Maggie. Jesse and Lynda. Joseph and Iva had already arrived earlier. With Steve and me, that made seven of us. Seven of Ida’s children gathered for a singular event. David had rented an entire Bed and Breakfast, and late that afternoon, he led us over to check in. A beautiful old restored mansion, back a few blocks from the main drag in the small town of Worthington. All the rooms were self-sufficient and impeccable. I picked a corner room with a firm bed. Probably from back in the early 1900s, the old house reminded me of the scenes and settings in Thomas Wolfe’s stories of his Mama’s boarding house down South. I can’t imagine what an old restored inn like that is doing in Worthington, Indiana. I’m sure it’s gotta be a money pit. But there it was, and we were delighted to have it as our own for a few days.

Back, then, to David’s place for supper. Glen had loaded the smoker with two big old chunks of brisket way earlier that day. And there was a huge pot of country baked beans. And all kinds of fresh bread and butter, and great tub filled with cold chunks of cantaloupe and watermelon. Someone asked the blessing over the food, and then the Waglers gathered in to the feast.

Joseph was puttering around in his little battery cart. The man has seen and endured a lot in the past six years, fighting the disease that fights to kill him. He has approached the door of death more than a few times, right up close. And always, he somehow battled his way back. He got his food, and he and Iva sat at a long table off to one side. And as we got our food, we gravitated over to that table, all us siblings. And soon all seven of us were seated and eating together. We just chatted along, visiting about whatever. It was a beautiful moment, a thing all too rare and precious in the past.

I caught up with Marvin, my best friend from way back. We don’t get to see each other that often anymore, but when we do, we pretty much just pick up where we left off. He got to telling me. A month or so ago, he went up to Valentine, Nebraska, to attend the funeral of an old friend he knew real well back when he worked on the ranch, in 1979. Of course, I was all full of questions. How did the place look? Did he recognize anyone? Did he see the people I worked for that summer? He told me all about how it went, and a lot of our old memories of that time got mixed into our talk.

Out in the campground clearing, David had built a big fire ring. And we sat outside and settled around the fire as dusk closed in. And quite a fire it was. David and Glen had cut four-foot chunks off a big log. The middle of the log was hollow, just at the core. And they set the chunk up on end over the fire. The flames came shooting right out of the hollow middle. I’ve never seen such a thing done before. And we sat around talking. The two historians, well, there were three, but two sat there, talking. The three are Jesse and Reuben and Dorothy. Jesse and Reuben talked about the history of the Daviess Waglers. And they got to telling us.

I’ve mentioned it a few times before, over the years. My great-grandfather, Christian Wagler, shot himself in the head back in 1891 when he was thirty-six years old. His widow remained, and his sons and daughters. They buried Christian outside the graveyard, there in Daviess. Outside the fence. In those days, they didn’t mess around. They knew that Christian was damned forever, and that the shameful stain of his suicide would haunt his seed forever. And Jesse told us. The graveyard was eventually expanded, and Christian landed up well inside the fence. He got into the graveyard, Jesse said, without ever passing through the graveyard gate. We all mulled it over in silence for a moment. It was a strange and startling thing to contemplate.

The Wagler tales don’t stop with Christian. And it was Reuben, I think, who told us a story I had never heard before. Christian had several brothers and sisters. One of his brothers, John C. Wagler, died many years later, an old man. He decreed that he did not want to be buried in the same graveyard where his brother Christian was. He felt the shame of the family stain deeply, even after all those years. Maybe he was being over dramatic to prove a point. He was pure. He didn’t want to share any place with someone who had taken his own life. So they took John C. a few miles down the road and opened a new graveyard. The Wagler graveyard. And there he was buried, satisfied that he could rest in peace in this untainted ground.

Years and years later, John C’s own grandson did pretty much the same thing Christian had done. Knocked himself off, somehow. I don’t know what it is with these Waglers. They must have brooding blood. By then, the people paid little heed to John C’s wishes. Maybe they didn’t remember. Or maybe they just didn’t care much. They buried the grandson right there in the Wagler graveyard, close to John C’s grave. And since that time, it is said, there have been far more such troubled souls buried there close to John C. than ever were buried over where Christian was laid to rest outside the graveyard. That’s just the way it goes sometimes, I guess. Especially when you get all hifalutin’ about who you will or won’t be buried close to.

Almost exactly two years ago, little Abby left us. The anniversary of that tragedy was very much on Dorothy’s mind, on all our minds. When we met after I arrived, I hugged her hard. You’re my little niece, I told her. She laughed. “Yes, I am,” she said. And that Friday evening, right as the sun set, we had a little memorial for Abby. Not really all that formal. At the funeral, we had released hundreds of red balloons, red being her favorite color. And now balloons were handed out again. We stood around as all the little children got one. And then Dorothy led us, counting down from ten. And then we released the balloons again. Up and up, glinting red from the fire and from the setting sun, up over the trees, then north with the wind.

And then Dorothy opened a large package of Chinese candle lanterns. By now it was dark. And in the next twenty minutes, dozens of the lanterns floated up and up and headed north with the wind, glowing in many vivid colors in the darkness. After that, we all sat around the great roaring fire, and just talked and enjoyed the setting and each other. It was late when I settled into fitful sleep at the old refurbished inn. I must be getting old. Seems like my travel sleep is increasingly broken and not sound.

Saturday morning. The big day. The Reunion meal was scheduled for that afternoon at 4:30. This morning, there would be a big campfire breakfast. By 8:30 or so, we were sitting around the fire, sipping coffee. My nephew Andrew stood over the fire, tending to many pots and pans and a vast kettle hanging from an iron pole. I poked around, all interested. The vast kettle was filled with gravy, and Andrew kept stirring it vigorously. And then soon, he uncovered three or four flats of eggs. He cracked dozens of eggs into a big cast iron pan, and set it on a grate over the fire. Things were stirring, and things were looking good. Smelling real good, too.

And right at ten, we feasted on brunch. A kettle full of gravy, fresh biscuits, piles of scrambled eggs, and loads and loads of fried bacon strips. At a place like that, I sin grievously with my diet. It was Martin Luther, I think, who said: If you sin, sin boldly. That morning, I feasted boldly. It was simply the best breakfast I’ve enjoyed in a long, long time.

Afterward, Jesse and Reuben and Dorothy gathered whoever wanted to go to Daviess and tour the graveyards and Dad’s old home place. Steve went along, with his sons, Ira Lee and Clifford. Those two had rarely been to Daviess at all, I’m thinking. And they had never seen the places we keep talking about. So off they all went, the rented SUV sagging under the load.

The night before, we had discussed it. And that morning, John came around with the necessary stuff. A couple of large white posters. Blank. I helped Rhoda spread the two pieces on a table and tape them together. And she took a pencil and started drawing. And soon we could see the large family tree. John and Magdalena Yoder on the trunk. And then branches sprouting out, a branch for each of their children. Rhoda left plenty of space between the branches. That afternoon, the people attending the Reunion would sign their names below the proper branch. Rhoda is the artist of the family, and she drew a real nice tree. We felt pretty proud of our grand idea. And I just settled in and relaxed as midday came and went. The afternoon slowly wore on. Soon it would time. Soon the Daviess Yoders would come.

The chairs and tables were all set up in David’s shop, where we had feasted the night before. And the women soon began laying out the food. Grilled chicken, prepared by Marcus Marner and his wife, Joanne. And everyone who came would bring a dish of some food or other, David told us. That’s the rule of the Yoder Reunion. You bring food with you. And we were all pretty much set. And around 3:00 or so, the first people began to come.

I’m not sure I’ll be able to do it justice, the way things went and the way things felt that day. Guess I’ll just speak it as I remember it. If you come from Daviess, you can tell when you see other people who are from there. That’s about as simply as I can say it. The first cars arrived and people got out and lugged in great bowls and trays of food. We all smiled and shook hands and greeted each other. I knew the names of a few, I didn’t know the names of most. Still, it didn’t matter. I’m Ira, I said, as I shook hands. Ida’s son. Oh, we know who you are, most of them said back. And the crowd grew as the people arrived and drifted in. Amish people. English people. Daviess people. Daviess faces. Daviess blood. Daviess kin.

She arrived early and was greeted with great honor. The only person remaining from Mom’s immediate family. Aunt Sarah. She’s 91 now, and widowed. And spry and alert as ever. Way back, when she was young, she fell in love with an English man named John McGuire. They married, I don’t know when. The thing is, I never even knew a thing about her, growing up. I remember when I passed through Daviess, once, during my wanderings. I went to a cookout with friends one evening. And that night, I met my uncle Joe, Mom’s brother I never knew. And that night, this strikingly beautiful woman walked up to me and told me she’s my aunt. My Mom’s sister. It was Sarah. I was just flat out astounded.

And now, here she was. I had not seen her in a few years. We surrounded her and hugged her. She reminds me so much of her sister, Ida Mae, when she talks. My Mom. Everyone wanted to talk to her, so I tried not to intrude too much. Someone showed her the table with the family tree, and she took the pen and signed her original branch. That was a special thing. And the family tree will be a special thing for future generations to see.

And people kept coming. Walking in with trays and trays and bowls and bowls of food. And soon the table groaned under the weight of almost any kind or flavor of food you can imagine, at least food from Daviess. It all looked and smelled beyond delicious. I walked about, chatting here, shaking hands there. Jonas Schrock arrived with his daughter and some of his sons. He’s on oxygen now, and in poor health. He was the husband of Mom’s younger sister, Anna, who died a decade ago from cancer. Jonas was a transplant from Holmes County, and for many years he was a powerful bishop in his Plain Mennonite church circles. He was a kind man, from all I’ve ever heard. Now, I walked up and shook his hand and spoke my name. He nodded and smiled and smiled. It took a moment for me to grasp that the man could not speak. He sat in a chair at the end of a long table, and he mightily enjoyed the place and time he was in. You could tell by his smile.

People kept drifting in with food, and the shop filled up. And soon after four, David called everyone to attention. The food would be served in fifteen minutes. He had a little mic system hooked up, and it worked very well. And a few minutes after his announcement, two people were called up front to speak a few words. My cousin, Dick Yoder, Ben’s oldest son. He usually takes care of the announcements at the Reunion. And the other person who spoke a few words was me.

David had asked me, a few hours before. “Would you speak a few words, for our family?” Sure, I said. I’ll be happy to. Now I stood back, as Dick addressed the crowd. He welcomed everyone, and thanked David and his wife Barb for hosting this event. And then he called each family out by name. All of Mom’s siblings. And as the family name was called, those people stood and held up their hands. And this year, perhaps for the first time ever, Ida Mae’s name was called. And we stood and held up our hands, me and my six siblings. And all the grandchildren who were there. It was a beautiful and powerful feeling. This year, Ida’s children stood right where they belonged.

Then Dick handed the mic off to me. And there I stood. I had not jotted down any notes. And it took only a few minutes, to speak what was on my heart to say. I thanked the hosts, of course. David and Barb. And I spoke of how grateful I was to be here, at this Yoder Reunion. Ida’s children are here this year, I said. And I just plowed right on in. We all know the reasons Mom’s family never was represented here before, I said. Choices were made years ago that were bad choices, wrong choices. But they were what they were and now we are where we are. Whatever it all was, I am grateful for this day.

And I told them. One of the hardest things I had to deal with when I was coming to grips with who my father was, was the fact that he cut us off from Mom’s family. He built a big wall. He thought he was doing the right thing. And we can never change what was, we can never change the past. Today, we are here, Ida’s children. We are honored to be here. And then I told them. It’ll never be what it would have been. It’ll never be what it should have been. But it can be something.

David took the mic, then, and I walked back to where I had been standing. Stephen Schrock, one of Jonas’ boys who took his place as bishop, then took the mic and prayed the blessing over the meal. And then the people lined up to fill their plates. It was as delicious a spread of food as I ever hope to see. There’s something about Daviess food that always takes me home. It’s Mom’s cooking. And there ain’t no better cooking anywhere. And soon the tables were full, as everyone got seated. I lurked about at the family tree table, just kind of waiting and watching. And I took my iPad up to the second floor to snap a few pics.

A funny little thing happened later as I was strolling around. A group of four or five women sat there at a table. I may have known one or two, and I may not have. They knew who I was. “Ira,” one of them said cheerfully. “You know you look like a Yoder, right? You look like Ben.” Yes, I’ve heard that before, I said. I got no problem if I look like Ben. And then one of the other ladies turned to her companions. “No, no,” she said. “He looks like Pappy Yoder, don’t you think? He looks more like Pappy than Ben.” I was a little startled. And I told her so. All my life, I’ve heard I look like Uncle Ben, I said. But I’ve never, never heard that I look even remotely like old Pappy Yoder. I’m going to have to digest that. But I guess I have no problem if I look like Pappy, either. They all laughed, and I laughed, too. Then I drifted on. Wow. I look like my grandpa. How wild is that? I thought to myself.

The afternoon just slid on by, like such times do. At some point, then, after everyone had eaten. David took the mic again. “Everyone move out to the campfire,” he told us. “There will be homemade ice cream for dessert, and fresh peach cobbler baked over the open fire. The crowd soon drifted out. I sat on the couch, visiting with my cousin Stephen Schrock, and Marvin. We got to talking about a lot of things, and next thing we knew, dusk was settling outside. We walked out then to join the others.

The crowd had stayed. No one left for home early. People lounged about in lawn chairs in a large circle around the fire, eating ice cream and chatting. Off to one side, a little band had set up. David, his brothers Glen and Sam, Dorothy, our cousin Norman Stoll, and one or two others. They belted out a good many gospel songs. I hadn’t seen Dorothy play in years. She’s a natural with the guitar and she’s a natural singer. And you could tell as you watched and listened. She was singing for us, and she was singing for Abby.

Time drifted on, and it got late. I sat here and there, chatting with different people. At a place like that, you can’t talk to everyone. It’s just not possible. So you don’t worry about it, you just talk to those you run into. And it all wound down late. People slowly got up and gathered their chairs and left. Back to Daviess it was, for most of them. And by midnight, those of us staying at the old inn had settled down for the night. Tomorrow morning there would be a brief service, there at David’s place, for those who stayed, and for the Daviess people who returned. But we were heading for home before all that came down, me and Steve and his sons. What a day it had been, this third Saturday in July, 2016. This was a Daviess Yoder Reunion like none other had ever been before. And now it was over for one more year.

It will take a while, to digest what it all was and what it all means. For me, it was a beautiful and powerful thing to connect with my roots in a way I never had before. It was time. It was past time. But then, sometimes it takes some time to figure out the right way.

The walls of long ago can be torn down. The connections, the relationships will never be what they would have been. And they will never be what they should have been. But they can be something. It’s never too late to tear down a wall.

I like to think that the Pappy Yoder family, Mom and her parents and her brothers and sisters who have passed on, I like to think that maybe their souls can rest a little easier now. It was a long hard road, but Ida’s children have returned from exile, they have circled back to their roots. After all those years, after all those long and weary miles, they are back home where they belong.

Family is family, and blood is blood. And that’s about all there is to say.