Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [32]
Once I was outside, Jock, our faithful mutt, met me. He seemed surprised and a little startled, but he made no sound.
“Shhh, Jock. Good boy,” I whispered. He shook himself and wagged his tail, whimpering excitedly. Leaning down, I scratched his ears in farewell.
Into the darkness I went, down the concrete walks and out the drive. There was no moon that night and no stars. I had no flashlight, so I could barely see, but my eyes gradually adjusted as I continued on my way, out the long half-mile lane to the road, the gravel crunching beneath my feet.
Halfway out, I passed my oldest brother, Joseph’s, house. It loomed dark and quiet. And then it, too, was behind me.
Finally I reached the gravel road. I paused for the first time and turned. Took one last look across the fields to the house where my family slept. The kerosene lamp Mom kept burning at night flickered dimly through the kitchen windows.
Then I turned my face to the south and walked. There should be no traffic on a deserted country road at this early morning hour. At least that’s what I hoped. Two miles. That’s how far it was. Two miles to the highway and to freedom.
I walked into the night, my senses honed to their finest edge. In my eager mind, the great shining vistas of distant horizons gleamed and beckoned. A world that would fulfill the deep yearning, the nebulous shifting dreams of a hungry, driven youth. And it would be mine, all of it, to pluck from the forbidden tree and taste and eat. I could not know that night of the long, hard road that stretched into infinity before me. That I was lost. I could not know of the years of turmoil, rage, and anguish that eventually would push me to the brink of madness and despair.
And so I strode on through the night, crunching along the gravel road, the duffel bag swinging at my side. Up the steep hill, down, and then up again past the crossroads leading to the schoolhouse. Far ahead, the lights of West Grove flickered in the darkness. To the left stood an old graveyard filled with silent, looming tombstones. Focusing straight ahead, I continued to walk, past the old church on the left and Chuck’s Café on the right. Then on to Highway 2.
Other than a few pole lights along the highway, it was pitch black. There was no traffic. None at all. I turned east and walked the final quarter mile to my buddy Dewayne’s house.
Dewayne Cason had moved to West Grove from Ottumwa a few years before. In his upper twenties, Dewayne was a tobacco-chewing mule skinner whose favorite activity was hunting coon at night on muleback. I had tagged along with him from time to time, bumping along on the back of one of his trusty mules, following his baying hounds as they trailed and treed the occasional coon. Every once in a while he would give me odd jobs around his little farm, paying me a few bucks here and there to help him out. He was a colorful character and a good friend.
Dewayne worked at the John Deere factory in Ottumwa and drove twenty-some miles back and forth every day. When I first made plans to leave, I asked him if he could take me along one morning and drop me off at the bus station. He readily agreed, probably thinking nothing would ever come of it. But my plans jelled, and I told him I’d be there Tuesday morning.
He was the only person, other than myself, who knew of my plans. I didn’t even tell my buddies. It was too dangerous. If it were discovered that they had known my plans and remained silent, they’d get in serious trouble. It was simply not safe to tell anyone. I had hinted about the thing I was considering, but I never told anyone in my Amish world of my actual plans. Not a soul.
I walked up to Dewayne’s darkened house at about three thirty. So far, so good. I had met not a single car in the two-plus-mile walk. In the house, everyone was sleeping. I sat on the steps of Dewayne’s front porch and waited, clutching my duffel bag. An hour passed. Then two. Light