Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [64]
The days slowly passed, the fourth week eventually arrived, and I took her home again. And again, four weeks after that. And that’s the way it went until her eighteenth birthday, which we both welcomed and celebrated. We were excited and relieved. Now, we could see each other every two weeks. Twice as often as before. And we did.
And time went on. Titus and Ruth continued their relationship, and their plans firmed up. In June 1984 they were married at Ruth’s home. Bishop Henry Hochstedler officiated in a wedding ceremony unlike any seen before or since in Bloomfield. A bearded Amish groom in a wheelchair, his betrothed standing by his side. It was a long day, and a tiring one for Titus. But by that evening, he was a married man.
At our home farm, north of West Grove, we had built a house for Titus and his bride, just south of Mom’s huge garden, between Joseph’s place and our home. It was a simple bungalow with ramps outside for wheelchair access and large decks in front and rear. Titus was very much involved with its design. It was his dream house for his new world—wider doorways, a small spare bedroom, a large pantry, and heavily insulated walls. Titus even designed bookshelves recessed into the walls of his living room to accommodate his rapidly expanding library.
It was a neat little nest of a home, perfectly suited to their needs. And after their wedding, the two of them settled in.
* * *
I struggled on with the farming. My efforts were halfhearted and pitiful, really. Still, I soldiered on. No labor of love for me, just doing what needed to be done—planting crops, cultivating corn, hauling manure, milking cows, and grumbling at my raggedy, unkempt horses.
But it was not altogether hopeless. Even as the farm slowly crumpled around me, it still produced. The crops grew. Hay was harvested, and the cows produced milk, which was shipped and sold.
Whether or not you are a farmer, there is something magical about tilling the earth, seeding it, and watching the fruits of your labor sprouting from the earth. Something magical about turning the river bottom with a plow and seeing the dark rich ribbons of dirt flowing endlessly from the plowshare. Doing it the way it was done a hundred years ago, with jangling teams of steaming horses leaning into the harness. Hour after hour in the elements of sun and wind and clouds, day after endless day, the sweat and toil and tiredness of it all.
And so the seeds were planted, and the days passed. The tilled earth rested there, silent. We watched for the first green shoots. And one day, as the sun beat down in the humid air, they magically appeared. Tiny corn plants, sprouting from the earth. Barely a wisp of green at first, impossibly fragile. Then suddenly shooting up like weeds. In the following days and weeks, the plants strengthened. And grew and grew.
And in the muggy heat of summer, after the sun had set, we could look out across the river bottom and behold a sea of whitish green leaves, shimmering in the shadowy light of the full moon. If we listened closely, we could hear the crackling, faint and spooky but distinct, like muffled pistol shots. The sound of cornstalks growing in the night.
I saw it, felt it, and heard it all that summer.
And through it all, two bright spots blazed in the weary labor of my world. Two things to which I tightly clung for my own sanity. Every chance I had, I hung out with my English friends in West Grove. And there was Sarah.
Almost daily, usually around midmorning or sometimes after lunch, I straddled Fry, our riding horse, and we jogged the two miles south to Chuck’s Café. Frankly, that’s one big reason the farming wasn’t going as well as it could have. I spent too much time hanging out at the café, loafing. In a sense, every minute I spent there was a wasted minute when it came to the farm. But I didn’t really care. I hungered