Growing Up Amish by Ira Wagler Read Free Book Online Page A

have heard my comment. Then he quavered, “They probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
    Today, my father is still well known in the Amish world, though his star is receding. The middle-aged to elderly speak of him, but the younger generations increasingly know him not.
    Dad wrote steadily for many decades, producing many thousands of pages. Some of his stuff was good, some was okay, and some was, well, hard-core Amish polemics. Writing was his life’s focus, and he neglected many other important things in pursuit of his passion—including, to a large extent, his wife and his children. That’s not a judgment. It’s just a fact.
    He was a strong, driven man, and I deeply respect his accomplishments. But I wonder sometimes how far he could have gone had he not been hampered by Amish rules and restrictions. And whether he could have found a broader audience for his writings.
    I have often tried to imagine what my father would have been like as a young man. Knowing him for the dreamer he is, I have wondered what he thought as he listened to his friends share local gossip and their meager dreams and humble goals.
    Like me, I’m sure he was always painfully aware of how much more there was beyond the boundaries of his unsophisticated world.
    Perhaps, lured by the modern conveniences of the surrounding society, he longed to drive one of the roaring roadsters that passed his plodding team and wagon in the heat, leaving him strangled and choking in swirling clouds of dust.
    Perhaps, tempted by the throbbing dance music wafting from the pool hall in town, he allowed himself to briefly roam far and free from the mental chains that bound him.
    Perhaps at times he questioned his roots and his background and the value of the traditions his elders clung to so tenaciously.
    Perhaps he chafed at the narrow confines of the simple, unquestioning Amish theology that demanded his abject submission to an ageless tradition that taught any other path would lead to eternal damnation in the fires of hell.
    Perhaps all these things and more occurred, calling to him, daring him to forsake forever the seemingly senseless traditions that confined him.
    Perhaps.
    But unlike me, in the end, he chose to stay.

8
    On the outside, Amish communities seem stuck in time, immune to change. But in reality, even places like Aylmer are in a constant state of flux. Nothing stays the same.
    Events unfold. Below the surface, things are always happening. Disputes arise. Tensions flare. People come and go. By the time I was ten years old, some minor tremors had shaken the little community that was my world.
    In 1968, my uncle Peter Stoll, a great jovial bear of a man and one of Aylmer’s founding patriarchs, abruptly decided to leave and move to Honduras.
    Honduras.
    Halfway across the world.
    His goal was to start a new Amish settlement there, help the natives live better lives by teaching them Amish farming methods, and gain converts. This was a strange and startling thing, coming from an Amish man. The Amish traditionally live their beliefs quietly and don’t go around proselytizing a whole lot.
    But Peter Stoll was different: softhearted and driven by a fervent desire to help the less fortunate. And once gripped by his vision, he didn’t waste a lot of time tolerating second-guessers. In short order, he sold his farm, held a public auction to dispose of excess goods, and set off for Honduras, thousands of miles away.
    A few other Aylmer families got caught up in Peter’s vision and moved with him. Their departure really shook me up, especially because several of my classmates and good friends left with them.
    Just like that.
    Gone.
    Out of the community, and out of my life.
    There must have been something in the air around that time, because no sooner had the Honduras settlers left than our austere, barefoot preacher decided to scratch the itch that had been bothering him as well.
    Long considered somewhat of a fringe