Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [44]
Regardless of how bad conditions might have been at home, they weren’t as bad as that. But home was off limits to us now, after the stunt we’d pulled, leaving as we did with no word or warning. Besides, Dad had an ironclad rule: No son of his could live in his home and own a car. The line was clear. And I had crossed it. So the thought of returning didn’t even enter my mind, even though my “home” was only a few miles away.
After a week or so, our funds depleted, we decided to head to Arthur, Illinois. Willis Herschberger, one of the old gang of six, agreed to go with us. He came from Arthur and knew the place and the people. Maybe we’d be able to find work there.
And therein lies another paradox—Amish kids who leave and yet don’t. Instead, they hang around their own communities or, as in our case, head for larger communities where their language is spoken. Where there is some sense of familiarity, even though they remain outside the boundaries of acceptance in the Amish culture.
Some invisible force draws them, as it drew us. Some sense of belonging, even outside the lines. And some sense of security, a sense that if everything fell apart, at least we would be among our own people. That is a strange thing, one that cannot really be defined.
We planned to leave the next Sunday morning. I don’t remember who had the idea, and it doesn’t matter, but before heading out, we decided to tour past Amish places. We knew everyone was in church, and we figured we could find a place to steal some gas. The Amish wouldn’t call the cops. We knew that. In our clouded minds, it actually seemed like a good idea at the time.
We cruised slowly through the neighborhood. Found where church was that day and then headed to the other end of the settlement, to Jake Schwartz’s farm, up on the north side. That would be the place, we figured. There were no close neighbors with prying eyes. We approached and pulled in cautiously, just in case someone was home.
No one was. We located the gas barrel behind a shed and backed up the car. Then we discovered a lock on the nozzle of the hose. One of us—I can’t remember who—ran to Jake’s shop and returned with a hacksaw. We made short work of the padlock and threw it into the bushes. Then I removed the nozzle and began to fill the tank. We stood nervously, waiting for the tank to fill.
Then Willis looked out toward the road. “Uh-oh,” he muttered.
I looked up from where I was filling the tank.
Out by the road, a pickup truck had pulled up and stopped. A neighbor. He had seen us and come to check on what was happening. The three of us stood there, momentarily frozen, our hearts tripping fast. We were discovered. Caught. Maybe the neighbor had already called the cops.
I snapped the nozzle back onto the tank. Shut the gas tank lid on our car. We scurried around frantically. Eli and Willis both leaped into the car. One of them went for the passenger’s seat, the other into the backseat. That left me to drive. Frantically, I circled the car. “I don’t want to drive! I don’t want to drive!” I hollered.
Eli and Willis were having none of it. “Get in and drive!” they shouted back in unison.
And so I did. We barreled out the lane and onto the road, gravel spitting behind us. Come on, old green Dodge, don’t let us down now. I turned right, shot past the waiting pickup, and roared full speed down the road.
It was a time before cell phones, or we would have been caught dead to rights. I turned the car south, fishtailing a bit on the gravel, then onto the paved highway. We flew toward Route 63, the pickup in hot pursuit.
Eli and Willis kept a close eye on the pickup right on our tail, the man inside motioning us to pull over. I paid no attention, just focused on the road ahead. I kept driving, right through the community, past several Amish homes, and up to Route 63 South. More often than not, a cop would be sitting at the intersection there. If one was there today, we would go to jail for sure.
Then, a stroke of luck—no cop. I turned south and floored