Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [48]
They all knew we were going, our families, even though we never came out and said so. They could tell. Then one evening, after everyone else had already retired, I got up to get ready for bed. Dad was sitting on the couch, reading The Budget. As I walked by him, he cleared his throat, his classic method of triggering a conversation. I stopped and looked at him.
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat again. “I have a question for you.” He paused. I stood there silently, looking at him.
“Will you be around over the winter and to help with farming in the spring?”
That was it. A simple question. But I was astounded. It was the first time in my life that Dad gave even the slightest indication that I might have a choice in the matter. It was the first time in my memory that such a subject was broached without all the strident admonitions of how I should straighten up, behave myself, and settle down.
I stood there, gaping at him. Speechless. What had gotten into the man? He was asking me if I was going to leave or stay home to help with the farmwork.
In retrospect, I think, it was the first time ever that he spoke to me as a man. Man to man. And that’s why I was so surprised. Sad to say, I did not rise to the occasion. I stuttered a bit, hedging. I knew I was leaving. Our plans were firming up every day. It was just a matter of weeks now.
Finally I spoke. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. It was a lie. Of course I knew. And he knew I knew. I just wasn’t brave enough to tell him straight out. I wasn’t used to being treated as if I had a thought of my own. Or choices. But he let it go.
“Well, it would be nice if we knew whether or not we’ll need to hire some help this spring,” he said. Then he turned back to his paper. Still stunned, I went off to bed.
* * *
We left a month or so after that, in January 1981. Again. The third time for me in as many years. My deeds and choices were rapidly cementing my reputation as a hard-core rebel. And yet, through it all, I can honestly say that I harbored little anger in my heart. Some, sure. But mostly sadness. And increasing desperation. Each time I left made it that much harder to imagine ever returning for good.
We left, this time, in the full light of day. No sneaking out at night. No notes under the pillow. And no disappearing during the day without any word or warning. I still remember the heaviness in the house that day. Mom flitted about, not saying a lot, making sure I had some clean clothes packed. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that there wasn’t much sense packing Amish clothes because where I was going, I wouldn’t need them. So I let her pack some in my suitcase. Dad didn’t formally say good-bye; instead, he disappeared into his little office to write. Rhoda, my younger sister, chatted amiably, but I could see she was tense and sad. She told me to be careful and gave me a candy bar, a precious treat, to eat on the road. Nathan lurked about somewhere, out of sight. Silent. Watching.
I wasn’t particularly joyous; all I wanted was to be out of there. Away from this oppressive place. To new experiences in new lands.
After lunch, one of my English friends drove in with his car. I picked up my bags and walked out. Marvin had found his own way to town. We met in Bloomfield, boarded the bus, and headed south. Our destination, Florida, seemed like a good place, especially during the middle of an Iowa winter.
We traveled to Sarasota, Florida, and the little suburb of Pinecraft, which for decades has been a winter hot spot for vacationing Amish and Mennonite people—and for wild Amish youth. We knew