Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [67]
And it went okay around the farm, at least at first. Marvin and I were busy setting up our little operation. We planned to farm as our fathers had before us. We milked a dozen or more cows by hand and kept a few sows to raise and sell market hogs. We planted crops on the rich, black river bottom and harvested hay from the northern hills. Our grain bins and barn lofts were filled to the brim with the fruits of our labor.
And every Sunday night after the singing, I took Sarah home. We were a steady couple now. One of those things that just was. But I felt the pressure of the next step closing in. After dating “steady” for a certain period of time, a couple is expected to proceed to the next level.
And one Sunday night, because I sensed the time was overdue for what was expected of me, I decided to do the right thing and ask the question.
I was nervous when we arrived at her house. I mean, who wouldn’t be? Our talk of little things ebbed and flowed. And there was a time of silence. I held her there, in my arms, looked outside into the night, and then down again into her face.
“Sarah,” I whispered. She tensed and looked up at me intently.
“Yes?” she whispered back.
I fumbled for the words that were not in my heart. Words I knew I needed to say sooner or later. And it was already later. So I spoke what was expected, what she wanted me to say, what my entire cultural world craned to hear.
“Will you marry me?” I asked.
She smiled; her face glowed. She tightened her arms around me. Her blue eyes sparkled. Shone with joy.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes, yes. Oh, Ira. Yes.”
I held her, looked down into her face. Her eyes were closed. She was at rest in the arms of the man she loved, the man she trusted. She was betrothed. Safe. Protected.
Except, of course, she was not. I was not the man she thought I was. I was not safe. I glanced out into the darkness through the shaded windows. There was nothing to see but the deep gloom of the night. No moon, no light, no stars. Nothing.
I was trapped inside the box, and the lid was closing. There was nothing I could do. I was lost.
That’s how I felt on the night I asked Sarah to marry me.
Midnight arrived at last, and she saw me to the door and hugged me good night. I walked out to where the Stud waited patiently at the hitching rail, untied him, got into the buggy, and we rattled home through the night.
It is always a secret thing when an Amish couple get engaged. They know, and the immediate families, but that’s it. There is no formal announcement. Plans are made furtively and secretively. And, of course, there are no rings. Gold and silver jewelry would reflect pride. The Amish have never worn wedding rings. The groom may give his betrothed a gift, maybe a fancy dish or some other trinket that might or might not actually be useful. I can’t remember that I gave Sarah anything. I may have, and probably did. I just don’t remember.
About a month before the actual wedding, at the close of a regular church service, the bishop formally announces the upcoming event. “A brother and sister have expressed their desire to get married.” He names the couple and announces the wedding date, and during those few short weeks leading up to the grand event, the couple bask in the good wishes of friends and neighbors.
I had asked Sarah to marry me. And in the days that followed, we talked about a distant date. Next year, maybe next summer. That would give me some time. Time to adjust to the idea, time to prepare myself mentally. Time to force myself to go through with it, as I had done a few years before when my baptismal date loomed. I had every intention of going through with it. Maybe not right then, but soon. When the day came, I would be ready. Of that I was fully confident.
27
It arrived innocently enough, the dark thing. One day, as I was preparing to go somewhere in my buggy, probably to church, I harnessed my faithful stallion and hitched him up. I soon realized something was seriously wrong with my horse. His