Growing Up Amish (20 page)

26

Marvin and Rhoda's wedding came in October, four months after Titus and Ruth were married. This time, the wedding was at our home. The service was held in our large machinery shed. Sarah and I were honored to be Nava Hocca. And that day, for me it truly was an honor—my best friend married my sister.

They bought a little trailer home and set it up on the hillside west of our house in the woods. And there they lived in contentment and quietness. A new, young Amish couple, starting up their own household, and soon their own family.

Dad, worn and tired, decided to divest from farming and spend more time writing. He offered to rent the farm to Marvin and me as partners. I was excited. If I was ever going to farm, it would be with my best friend. Maybe we could make it work, the two of us together.

And so Dad held a public auction to sell his stuff. Marvin and I were given full rein to purchase what we needed, all on credit. And boy, did we ever load up that day. We bought cows, machinery, horses, and equipment. Not everything Dad owned. Much was purchased by the public, outside buyers. But we bought what we thought we needed.

In his own unpolished way, Dad did want what was best for his children. Wanted to help us as he could. And he did, as he could. Gave generously, to a fault almost. But he would help only his children who remained within the boundaries of the Amish way and lifestyle. His assistance was entirely conditional upon the decisions his children made.

And so Marvin and I took over the operations on my home farm. The Wagler-Yutzy Farm, we called it. It sounded so professional, and it seemed as if it would work out. We labored long and hard in the fields. All was going as it should have, as the Amish formula of life foretold. It was also a time unlike any in my family's history, before or since.

For my parents, it was the beginning of a golden age that would last for more than a decade. They were surrounded by their married children. Six of them. Titus and Ruth lived a few hundred yards down the lane. Halfway out to the road, my brother Joseph and his wife, Iva, had settled with their family. My sister Naomi and her husband, Alvin Yutzy, and their family lived a half mile south. Stephen and his wife, Wilma, and their family set up house a mile south. Rachel and her husband, Lester Yutzy, and their family were a mile west across the fields. And Rhoda and her husband, Marvin, lived in a trailer up the hill on the home farm.

In some small sense, it was my father's empire. The Waglers were an influential force in Bloomfield, and he was the undisputed anchor of that force—the aging patriarch surrounded by his offspring, approaching the sunset of his years. There was no way he could have known that all too soon it would all be gone. Had he known, I suspect he would have treasured and appreciated those days far more than he did. Or maybe not.

My mother, too, could not have imagined what the future held in store. And just as well she did not and could not know. Surrounded and honored by her children and grandchildren, she glowed when her daughters came home to spend the day with her, sewing and canning and quilting, doing the things Amish mothers and daughters do. Those times, I believe, were among the happiest of her life.

The stage was set, or so it seemed. Set for the act in which I would soon play an important role. Where I would show that one could settle down after tasting of the world to the extent that I had. I was dating a lovely girl that I would one day marry. I was set up on the home farm with my best friend and brother-in-law. All that remained, all I had to do, was walk forward through that open door. Accept the path prepared for me. And live the life so many around me wanted me to live. In quietness and confidence and contentment, and all that.

And it went okay around the farm, at least at first. Marvin and I were busy setting up our little operation. We planned to farm as our fathers had before us. We milked a dozen or more cows by hand and kept a few sows to raise and sell market hogs. We planted crops on the rich, black river bottom and harvested hay from the northern hills. Our grain bins and barn lofts were filled to the brim with the fruits of our labor.

And every Sunday night after the singing, I took Sarah home. We were a steady couple now. One of those things that just was. But I felt the pressure of the next step closing in. After dating “steady” for a certain period of time, a couple is expected to proceed to the next level.

And one Sunday night, because I sensed the time was overdue for what was expected of me, I decided to do the right thing and ask the question.

I was nervous when we arrived at her house. I mean, who wouldn't be? Our talk of little things ebbed and flowed. And there was a time of silence. I held her there, in my arms, looked outside into the night, and then down again into her face.

“Sarah,” I whispered. She tensed and looked up at me intently.

“Yes?” she whispered back.

I fumbled for the words that were not in my heart. Words I knew I needed to say sooner or later. And it was already later. So I spoke what was expected, what she wanted me to say, what my entire cultural world craned to hear.

“Will you marry me?” I asked.

She smiled; her face glowed. She tightened her arms around me. Her blue eyes sparkled. Shone with joy.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, yes. Oh, Ira. Yes.”

I held her, looked down into her face. Her eyes were closed. She was at rest in the arms of the man she loved, the man she trusted. She was betrothed. Safe. Protected.

Except, of course, she was not. I was not the man she thought I was. I was not safe. I glanced out into the darkness through the shaded windows. There was nothing to see but the deep gloom of the night. No moon, no light, no stars. Nothing.

I was trapped inside the box, and the lid was closing. There was nothing I could do. I was lost.

That's how I felt on the night I asked Sarah to marry me.

Midnight arrived at last, and she saw me to the door and hugged me good night. I walked out to where the Stud waited patiently at the hitching rail, untied him, got into the buggy, and we rattled home through the night.

It is always a secret thing when an Amish couple get engaged. They know, and the immediate families, but that's it. There is no formal announcement. Plans are made furtively and secretively. And, of course, there are no rings. Gold and silver jewelry would reflect pride. The Amish have never worn wedding rings. The groom may give his betrothed a gift, maybe a fancy dish or some other trinket that might or might not actually be useful. I can't remember that I gave Sarah anything. I may have, and probably did. I just don't remember.

About a month before the actual wedding, at the close of a regular church service, the bishop formally announces the upcoming event. “A brother and sister have expressed their desire to get married.” He names the couple and announces the wedding date, and during those few short weeks leading up to the grand event, the couple bask in the good wishes of friends and neighbors.

I had asked Sarah to marry me. And in the days that followed, we talked about a distant date. Next year, maybe next summer. That would give me some time. Time to adjust to the idea, time to prepare myself mentally. Time to force myself to go through with it, as I had done a few years before when my baptismal date loomed. I had every intention of going through with it. Maybe not right then, but soon. When the day came, I would be ready. Of that I was fully confident.

27

It arrived innocently enough, the dark thing. One day, as I was preparing to go somewhere in my buggy, probably to church, I harnessed my faithful stallion and hitched him up. I soon realized something was seriously wrong with my horse. His head hung low, and he did not snort or paw about as usual. After we returned home later that day, I led him to his stall and wiped him down. Brought him some good hay and feed. Petted him and soothed him. He nibbled listlessly at his food.

Maybe he had a cold or something. He'd surely get better soon. In the following days I kept an eye on him, led him out each day for water and a bit of exercise. Spoke to him soothingly. But he did not improve, and as the days passed, I became increasingly alarmed. Just once, I hitched him to a light two-wheeled cart and drove him up to Chuck's Café. He seemed to have lost his sense of balance and staggered alarmingly. After we made it home, I led him back to his stall. It was time to call the vet.

But even then, I hedged. I could not and would not bring myself to make that call. Time heals, I figured. Just give the Stud some time. He'd be himself soon enough.

He wasn't, of course. The days passed. Then the weeks. His health did not improve. Instead, he became increasingly listless and lifeless. And the day arrived when he could no longer stand when I walked into his stall to feed him. He lay there, on his side, his eyes dull and glazed, his breath coming in slow, rasping gasps.

Now it
was
time to call the vet. I should have done it long before. I rode up to Chuck's Café after lunch that day. The crowd there greeted me boisterously, as usual, but I did not respond. Every person there got somber and quiet. My horse was sick, I told them. I needed to call the vet. Mrs. C waved me to her wall phone and I dialed the number. It just so happened he was in my general area, his secretary told me.

He arrived early that afternoon, a young guy from Centerville. The Stud was still on his side in his stall, unable to even get up on his feet. The vet examined him. Poked and prodded him here and there. Pried open his mouth, stared down his throat. And then the vet stood and turned to me somberly.

“He's done. Your horse is not going to get better,” he told me. “There's nothing I can do. We may as well put him down.”

I stared at him. I heard the words. He spoke what I had feared would come. And now I'd have to decide. I looked at the Stud, my proud horse, helpless on his side, breathing hard. It could not be. Of all the bad luck I could imagine, this was probably the worst. Something I could not have fathomed or foreseen.

I could just let my horse die on his own,
I thought.
A natural passing.
But as I looked down at his proud head, now sweating with fever, I knew I could not do that. He was as good as gone. There was no sense in prolonging his agony. I turned to the vet.

“Just give me a minute,” I said. He nodded, turned, and walked out of the barn.

I knelt there in the dust and straw beside my horse, cradled his fevered head in my arms, and stroked his long, coarse black hair for the last time. I spoke no words, just knelt there in silence and sorrow. Minutes passed. The vet waited patiently outside. I stood, then bent and stroked the Stud's forehead one more time. Then I turned and walked out.

“Do what you have to do,” I said to the vet.

He walked into the barn carrying an ominous little black satchel. I crouched inside the doorway of the barn, watching. He set down his satchel and opened it, took out a large syringe fitted with a wicked-looking needle, and a plastic bottle filled with clear liquid. He stabbed the needle into the bottle and filled the syringe. Then he stepped over to my horse, wiped a spot on his neck, lifted the syringe, and plunged the long needle into the hard muscles in the Stud's neck. Slowly he depressed the plunger, and the evil liquid flowed into the Stud's veins.

In mere seconds the Stud's entire body relaxed visibly. He never even quivered. Just relaxed. Then his proud eyes closed in final sleep. It was over. My horse was dead. His body lay there, stretched in the dust and straw, limp and quiet.

I got up and walked outside.

After the vet had cleaned up and left, I hitched a team to our work cart, backed up to the barn door, uncoiled a long rope attached to the cart, and tied it to the Stud's rear hooves. I clucked to my team, and the horses snorted nervously at the smell of dead flesh behind them before lunging forward. Then off we went up the hill to the west side of the house, and down again on the other side, to a soft, shaded spot beside a tree-lined creek in the northern field.

After untying the rope from the Stud's hooves, I drove back to the barnyard, gathered a massive hedge-wood corner post, a posthole digger, and a chain saw, and returned to the spot where the Stud's body lay.

The soil by the creek was moist and soft, and within a couple of hours, I had dug the hole. A grave for my horse. I shoveled the damp earth over him and piled it high.

Dusk was settling around me as I sank the post into the ground and tamped the dirt around it. I fired up the chain saw and cut the Stud's date of death into the post. Then I fastened his halter and his lead rope around the post. And with that, it was finished.

I stood there, a solitary figure in the lengthening shadows. The sun sank low, then disappeared. In the settling night, bats flitted and zipped about. In the southern skies, a white half moon appeared, then the first stars. From the brushy hillsides all around, whip-poor-wills whooped and called. I stood there, silent, unmoving for some time. Finally, I stirred, picked up my gear and turned toward home. I slept that night in utter exhaustion—a deep, dreamless slumber.

My horse was dead. He'd passed, after wilting into a weak and helpless shell, for no discernible reason. And was now properly buried, by my own hand. A signal event, unexpected and tragic, followed by a symbolic act. In my exhausted and traumatized mind, it seemed like a sign. There was nothing left to keep me here. Not even my horse.

* * *

Those around me sensed and felt my despair, but they seemed helpless to offer any comfort or assistance. There was no rage. No lashing out at anyone, no seething. I don't remember the exact moment that I realized I could not do it. A few months later, I suppose. Or maybe I always knew it, deep down, but could not face it honestly. Whatever the case, I fully and finally realized and admitted to myself that if I married Sarah, I would one day leave her. Period.

My final withdrawal from her was painful and protracted. Instead of confronting my options and making decisions, I continued mentally drifting away from her. She sensed she was losing me for real this time and fought hard to hold me. Still, I avoided the matter as much as possible because I didn't want to hurt her. What I didn't realize was that my actions and eventual choices would hurt her far worse than they would have, had I just told her how it was.