Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [41]
Few things in life are more irritating than a boring Amish preacher who likes the sound of his own voice and doesn’t pay attention to the time. And there are plenty out there. Sometimes the hands on the clock seem to stand still, or even go backward, resulting in what feels like an endless day and restless guests.
Another major irritant often occurs when the deacon, whose only job is to read a bit of Scripture, forgets his calling and decides to deliver an impromptu sermon of his own. Some deacons have been known to ramble on for up to twenty minutes. Whatever good they might imagine results from their words disappears in the hostile gaze of seething listeners whose only wish is that the speaker read the assigned verses and sit down.
Everyone is greatly relieved when the bishop instructs the couple—if they still feel as they did that morning—to tread before him. They then rise, walk carefully up to him, and stand in front of him. At this moment, the Nava Hocca stand at attention. This is their official purpose, to “witness” the ceremony. After a prayer, the bishop administers the vows, places the couple’s hands together, and pronounces them man and wife. Then they return to their seats as such. From that moment until death.
After we turned sixteen and joined the youth, or Rumspringa, we looked forward to weddings because we could ask a girl to the table for the evening meal and singing. This was not considered a date, and the girls rarely turned down an invitation. It always created a buzz, to see which guy would escort which girl. More than a few married couples began their relationship at the evening wedding feast of someone else.
That’s how it goes at Amish weddings, with a few minor variations, depending on the community where it’s all coming down.
Before Rachel’s wedding, we spent weeks getting ready. Junk machinery that had been littering the yard for months, sometimes years, was pulled up the hill behind the woods and out of sight. All the barns were cleaned. And the house, well, the house was scoured from bottom to top, scrubbed, wiped, mopped, and cleaned until it was glistening. It was a busy, frantic time, but when the big day arrived, we would be ready.
It’s an important event, a wedding. Simple, but important. There are many relatives to invite, and in our case, many guests from Aylmer. We hoped they would come so we could show them how progressive a Bloomfield wedding service was.
Guests began trickling in the day before the wedding in large passenger vans loaded with people and luggage. The exceptions were, of course, the Aylmer people, who came by bus or train, as they were not allowed to hire a van driver for overnight trips, due to the dictates of preacher Elmo Stoll’s regime.
We were happy and excited to see everyone. And, of course, we were busy preparing, right up to the last minute.
Then the day was upon us. The benches for the service were set up in Joseph’s house, and the tables for food were set up in our house. Dad walked about importantly. Mom beamed and fussed and worried. And I was a table waiter. Looking back, it was a plain affair, but to us, it was huge. Things seemed to be going very well for the Wagler family in Bloomfield.
I don’t have a lot of specific memories of that day, other than the fact that Rachel and Lester were properly married, and a large crowd of guests assembled to witness and celebrate the event.
I do have vivid memories of what came down the day after the wedding.
17
After the wedding, my uncle and his family stayed for a day or two to visit. His son Eli was a year older than I was, and we had always been close friends. On those rare times we got together, everyone could be sure of one thing—somehow, someway, we would get into trouble. When we were kids, it was usually just harmless pranks: passing around comic books and bragging about which brand of car was the best. (Eli was a Ford man. I liked Chevy.) And a few other verboten things, things so trite they actually