Growing Up Amish - Ira Wagler [83]
31
After an exhausting three-day trek, my bus finally reached Daviess. Nathan was there, waiting for me, grinning. He was doing well. He had rented a small house in Odon, bought an old T-Bird, and made friends. He was getting established in the area.
I hung out with him until the weekend. Then, on Saturday, we loaded all my stuff into his car and drove north. Four hours—the amount of time it took to reach the new land where I would try it all over again. I was running on pure adrenaline, fighting the rising panic inside me, focusing only on this final brutal sprint.
Looking back, I don’t know how I did it. Given my history, this attempt was doomed to fail. I had left the Amish four times over the years. Each time brought its own degree of serious trauma, and there was not a single time I had returned with joy. Not one. Mostly it had been homesickness and nostalgia that lured me back. Or economic stressors. And after each return I realized almost immediately that I did not want to be there.
But I was stubborn. Something of my father’s blood stirred in me. Unwilling to admit defeat, still trapped inside that box in my head, I would do what needed to be done. The Amish way provided my only chance at salvation, of this I was convinced. I knew it in my heart, and no one could tell me otherwise.
I wonder now if my father would have been proud, had he known how deeply his influence and his teachings had invaded my soul. How strongly his presence and the craving for his approval and his love haunted me. Despite all I had experienced through the years, I was returning one more time.
Nathan’s old T-Bird pulsed along, heading north around Indianapolis toward Ligonier. Closer and closer. Our conversation was muted and terse. Nathan could not understand what I was doing or why, but he would do what it took to get me there.
And then, way too soon, we were pulling up to the farm. Phillip and Fannie walked out to greet us, smiling in welcome. Their farm was a tidy little place with a rather ramshackle farmhouse. They were childless, so there was plenty of space in their house, and they very much looked forward to having me around.
Nathan helped me carry my bags inside and upstairs to my room, then politely declined Fannie’s invitation to stay for supper. After visiting for a bit, he turned toward the door, ready to leave.
I fought back wave after wave of panic. After Nathan left, I would be stuck here on this little farm, with no way to get around. Trapped in a strange land, where I knew no one but my cousin and his wife.
I walked Nathan to his car, shook his hand, and thanked him. He got in, started the engine, and shifted into gear. The car slowly pulled out, tires crunching on the gravel lane. I watched as he turned onto the paved road and then was gone, heading back to his world in Daviess.
I turned back to the house, where Phillip and Fannie stood smiling. I walked toward them, smiling in return, but my heart was sinking. In that desperate moment, I was as lost as I’d ever been.
* * *
The days and weeks that followed are blurred in my mind, as are some of the things that happened while I struggled to settle into this strange new place. It was Amish, but it was vastly different from Bloomfield—or Aylmer, for that matter. I had always lived in small communities of one or two districts. This settlement was massive, stretching many miles in all directions. These people had been here for many generations. Some of their habits and customs seemed strange to me. Small things, probably indiscernible to anyone from the outside. Differences in dress. The area is one of the few where galluses are optional for men in many districts. Distinctive head coverings for the women. Even the cadence of their talk seemed odd. Other than that, I can’t put my finger