My Amish Childhood Read online

  Kaboom! Like a real cannon it went off. And presto! Puffed wheat cascaded downward with white chaff flying everywhere.

  I was a curious fellow, and after hearing the constant boom in the distance, I visited one afternoon. Uncle John was a friendly enough chap around his relatives, and he was glad to show me the machine in action. The puffed wheat was delicious too. I talked Mom into buying some at once, and we had it for breakfast. It didn’t sustain us like oatmeal did, but it served as a refreshing break in our diet.

  In the meantime, my life at school mirrored the hurricane wreckage on the coast. Destruction and turmoil with no one to mount a rescue operation. I don’t know why I had such a hard time of things, but I did. I got into scraps all the time—mostly my fault, I’m sure. I was sensitive and touchy about everything. It was during this time the incident occurred that I shared earlier, where I cut up the papers that had drifted toward my desk and then returned them to the girl I had a crush on. What an odd way of showing my attraction! I was a mess.

  One Saturday I passed her below the schoolhouse hill just beyond the children’s home. I was on Lightfoot, and she was driving an open buggy with her little brother sitting beside her. With heart pounding, I looked straight ahead, not saying a word. In my defense, I couldn’t have uttered anything if I’d tried.

  “It’s Jerry,” I heard the little brother say loudly to the girl, stating the obvious.

  “Shhh…” She clamped her hand over his mouth and turned bright red.

  I rode grimly on.

  In an unrelated incident, I stormed home one day at lunch hour and declared I wasn’t going back to school after one of the girls said something to me on the playground. I can’t remember what it was, but I was dead serious. The whole world hated me, and I hated it back.

  Mom didn’t say much, but the next day I was back in school, trying to keep out of everyone’s way, which, of course, was the wrong thing to do.

  The only bright spots in my life were my constant weekend wanderings to the mountain and the fun I had at the pond. The stocked fish were growing large by that time. Mostly some sort of scrawny local breed that we caught by the dozen, full of bones and hardly edible. Catfish were what we were after.

  Uncle Mark had found the seed stock somewhere, dropping them in soon after the pond had been dug. Catfish that grew to thirty or forty pounds, we were told. They were monsters once they matured. Our mouths watered at the prospect of pulling one in on our lines.

  “They ought to be getting on up there in size by now,” Louis assured us. How he knew, I don’t know. But it sounded right. He laid out plans for their capture.

  I’m surprised Uncle Mark didn’t object to our constant fishing, threatening the stock like we were. But I suppose he figured we wouldn’t do much harm.

  And in that he was correct. But it was fun trying.

  Catfish are best caught at night, Louis informed us. And he had a secret bait that drew catfish from miles around. Some really good stuff, he asserted. We waited breathlessly for the revelation, expecting some complicated formula involving long-distance travel and great expense. It wasn’t anything like that though. It was really rather quite simple and repulsive at the same time. Also quite effective. We hung chicken guts on the clothesline for a week until they turned leathery soft and oily. The smell was enough to gag us at a dozen yards. It stayed on our fingers for days, even after vigorous scrubbings. With that on our fishhooks, we were ready for business.

  We camped out, fires burning along the shore. Our canvas tent was set up with candles inside for lighting. We were prepared for an all-night stay.

  Louis told us we didn’t have to stay up to catch the catfish. We were to take our fishing rod into the tent with us or lay on a blanket by the water. When a monster swallowed our hook, we would know it.

  I never caught anything worth speaking of, but I awoke many times to the sight of Louis flailing around in the darkness all tangled up in his fishing line, his form silhouetted against the starry sky as he wrestled a monster on the other end.

  We would leap up and stir the fire as we watched the fight. Louis would reel in line, and then the catfish would take it out again. Finally it would be over, and the fish was in the shallow water with its huge whiskers hanging off to the side, croaking in protest. Water flew when it thrashed its tail.

  They never quite reached thirty pounds. Close to twenty sometimes. And those were few and far between. Still, we were thrilled. The meat had few bones and made excellent eating.

  Good fishing was a subject for poetry, I figured:

  Boyhood dreams and boyhood ways,

  Stars within my heart that fade.

  When clear the heart, then clear the brain,

  When few the heartaches on me lain.

  The times beside a campfire bright.

  We fished until the morning light.

  Oh, sweetest thought on memories train.

  Of things all gone when manhood came.

  When free the hours I had to roam.

  In hill and dale and valley dome.

  When black the night and clear the stars.

  Are memories from boyhood hours.

  Oh, long gone days so dreamy bright.

  Are lost in manhood’s streaming light.

  And sorrows come as sorrows can.

  For all too soon, I am a man.

  Chapter 35

  Bishop Monroe was holding forth with great zeal at the church house, preaching repentance from sins and holding forth Christ as the answer to all of man’s problems. The spring instruction class for baptism started that April with my two school tormentors, Daniel and Paul, in attendance. They showed up one evening after dark, calling me out of the house to stand in the lane to speak with them. I was unable to say a word. I was worried, and I had no idea what they wanted. They had Daniel’s older sister, Rebecca, along with her boyfriend. Rebecca was a kindhearted soul whom everyone liked. And she was the one who had knocked on the door to ask me outside. Likely they figured I wouldn’t have come out without mediation from someone. And they were probably right.

  They had come to apologize, they said, for their actions over the years. I nodded in acceptance, more observant of their lighthearted gaiety than of the apology. But one did forgive when asked. That much I knew. And a person did apologize for his or her sins upon taking up instruction class. That much I also knew from listening to Bishop Monroe’s sermons. Their duty done, the group left, laughing among themselves, leaving me standing alone in the middle of our lane. I felt neither here nor there about the matter.

  I turned fourteen that May. I was a walking wanderer, alienated from most everyone in the community. I was slowly awakening to what I was: a social and community misfit who hated any public life or attention. I drew ever more inward, creating my own world and hanging out with Louis and Joseph Peachey, whom I considered my only friends.

  I was in this condition when God found me. I don’t know any other way of saying it. I didn’t go looking for Him. And no one spoke to me of my need for a personal Savior, other than the holding forth of Christ I was constantly hearing in the sermons on the church house hill. I didn’t respond to an altar call. And I said no sinner’s prayer. I never asked Jesus to come into my heart. I just opened the door when He arrived.

  Perhaps that seems too simplistic a conversion experience or even doctrinally dangerous. I intend neither. I’m just saying what happened. I was pursued by a love and conviction of sin that consumed me. Where I could find no fault before, there now lay glaring and weighty sins that crushed me. But it wasn’t the awareness of my sins that had my attention. It was God’s love that overwhelmed me. I felt lifted in arms so strong I knew they would never let go. I couldn’t believe it. It boggled my imagination because I knew who I was and all I had done. So deep and certain was this awareness, so total was this transformation, that it has served as the bedrock of how I understand God. Not that I’ve never doubted or wavered, but it is to this experience that I always return.
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br />   Jesus said that those who are forgiven much love much. I could add that those who are unloved by this world have the most to be forgiven for because the anger and hatred goes the deepest. I was one of those people. I know how impossible love can seem. I wept for days when Jesus found me. My heart was moved to depths of gratitude and worship from the wonders of His life and from the horrors of what I was and what I had done.

  Mom noticed and wanted to know what was going on with me. I stammered out the best explanation I could. Mostly about the things I’d done wrong. She agreed with me that they needed setting right. So I visited Grandmother Stoll’s place, leaving the few lempiras I had on her table to replace the ones I’d stolen years before. Unable to explain myself face-to-face, I’d talked to Mom, and she told me this was good enough.

  Rosa Sanchez and her chickens was harder, but I felt I had to do it. Calculating the value of the dead merchandise with Mom, we added some extra for good measure. I don’t think Rosa could make heads or tails out of my stammering explanation when I arrived. She did get the fact that I had been involved in killing her chickens though, but she probably wasn’t sure how. And she understood money, accepting it from me without hesitation. I left nearly bankrupt, but with a clear conscience.

  Aunt Sarah was horrified when Rosa told her, but Mom smoothed things over for me. She told Aunt Sarah what was going on, and that likely kept me from being accosted by the uncles in their just outrage.

  Danny Stoltzfus at the children’s home was the worst task. I walked in and told him I was sorry for disrespecting him and for not listening to him. I think he understood most of my little speech. He was nice as could be about it—compassionate and understanding. I shed more tears in front of him than I got words out, embarrassing myself into the ground. I felt like the idiot I was. But I completed the task and left.

  I was seized immediately with an intense desire to be baptized. Aware that this wasn’t possible, I still told Mom. Whatever I said concerned her enough that she spoke to Bishop Monroe. A few days later he showed up one morning while I was washing the cream separator beside the shop. I doubt if Mom told him I couldn’t talk, but I’m sure that was common knowledge by then because he didn’t ask me any questions.

  He said he’d heard that I’d recently become “born again.”

  I nodded, my head lowered. The tears starting to run down my face.

  He was glad to hear that, he said, speaking quite kindly. And he said my mom had said I was worried I needed to be baptized immediately or I might be lost again.

  I couldn’t remember having said that, but it was close enough. I nodded.

  “You don’t have to worry about that,” he said. “Baptism is only an outward symbol of an inward cleansing. It doesn’t affect one’s salvation at all. In our tradition, we like to take a little time. Have the person mature until he or she can make a reasoned, adult decision. We have had problems with young people who were baptized too quickly only to realize they weren’t converted at all.”

  This sounded fine to me as long as he said so.

  I appreciated his kindness and the fact he’d made a special stop to see me. But I didn’t say anything lest I embarrass myself further. The cascade of tears was sufficient already.

  “Once you’re around sixteen,” he told me, “you can ask to join instruction class. Okay?”

  I nodded and he left. I don’t think I said a single word the whole time.

  That fall, since I was through with my schooling, Dad informed me the time had arrived to begin working. Not that I hadn’t worked before, but now it would be full-time. This would mean no time during the day for mountain excursions or shooting pests in the mango orchard. I was not thrilled, to say the least. I showed up at the shop the next morning like I was supposed to. We started work around eight. Emil Helmuth still worked full-time for Dad back then, so there were three of us gringos in the shop. I quickly learned to plug my ears with tissue paper to avoid the pain of the shop noise, something neither Dad nor Emil ever did. They allowed the full volume of the motor and the clanging of metal to enter their ears at will. I figured it was a wonder they could hear at all.

  Each day trucks rolled down the lane. Mostly lumber vehicles in various states of disrepair. The wealthier sawmill owners also brought in their pickups. They’d quickly learned of Dad’s superior workmanship and quality over the shops in the capital. Besides, who wanted to endure that four-hour road trip?

  Dad’s tools in the shop included a band saw—a tool I’d already learned to use. Also an iron bender, twelve-inch grinder, drill press, metal pressing bench, keyway cutter, and an assortment of hand tools. A large metal table provided a working area to the rear and to the right of the shop.

  Dad, believing that repetition was the key to learning, assigned me to the wheel rim department. There were stacks of them in the corner of the shop. It was a task neither Dad nor Emil liked or were behind on. Honduran roads were a rough lot, creating a lot of wear and tear on everything, especially on the wheel rims of trucks. The bolt holes would become so worn they’d increase in size until they were dangerous to use. Rather than throw the rims away, the current worn holes were filled with a metal plug, welded shut, ground off smooth, and new holes were drilled between the old ones.

  This became my job. I cut, and welded, and ground, and drilled, working through an endless stack of rims. Week after week I came into the house in the evenings with my chest burned red from the heat of the welding rod. I showed Mom my wounds as evidence of my new accomplishments.

  Eventually, either from lack of worn rims or because Dad figured I was now qualified for other things, I was given more complicated tasks. Most involved welding. I soon learned not to carry both the positive and negative welding cables at the same time when moving from one spot to the other. Emil and Dad laughed themselves silly over the little predicament I found myself in one day.

  I’d headed across the concrete floor, carrying both of my welder cables to save time. The dial for the voltage on the welder could be adjusted, depending on what rod I was using to weld. I had it at around 120 to 130 volts that day.

  I always wore leather gloves, but that didn’t serve as enough protection apparently. Halfway across the floor, the negative and positive currents connected using my body as the conduit. The result was complete immobilization. I stood there with my arms arched out on each side, unable to let go of the cables. It was like a continuous tingling sensation. A strong, constant pulsating current running from one arm to the other through my shoulders.

  But I could still yell. “Turn off the welder!” I hollered over the ever-present roar in the shop.

  Emil didn’t look my way and neither did Dad.

  I yelled louder. “Turn off the welder!”

  Dad finally glanced up from the lathe, a puzzled look on his face. I must have appeared before his eyes like a jack-in-the-box with its lid freshly pulled.

  “Turn off the welder!” I yelled again.

  Comprehension crept across Dad’s face, but he was obviously still not understanding everything. Leaving the lathe he ran across the floor and threw the switch. Blessed relief came instantly, and I dropped the cables to the floor.

  Emil must have noticed Dad’s rush toward the welder because he came over now. The two gathered around me with worried looks as they rubbed my arms. After a while, I flexed my arms a few times and took a few steps. Everything still worked.

  That was when the laughter started—and continued for a good long while. Dad would be working hours later, sober-faced and intent. When he paused for a moment, he’d look over at Emil, and the whole laughter thing would start up again.

  Oh well. They hadn’t been the ones fastened to the welder cables with a solid current of electricity pulsating through their bodies. I did notice that Emil took extra care for awhile whenever he carried his cables around.

  Every noon hour, Dad shut down his shop for the lunch break. One day, while we were inside the house eating, we noticed a young boy who ofte
n brought small items to the shop for repair go racing past.

  The first few times no one thought anything about it. His father was well-known to Dad, and perhaps he needed to return home suddenly. But when it kept happening, Dad became suspicious. A thorough search of the shop revealed dust disturbed on a little ledge in the engine room. Apparently the little fellow had been instructed to hide there. And when we went inside to eat, he was to lift a small amount of money from the cash register and sneak out. The boy was hoping we wouldn’t miss it, I suppose. He’d lock the shop door behind him, and then go racing down the lane.

  Our first thought was to set elaborate traps over the next few lunch hours and confront the lad. But Dad thought better of it. Confrontation with Honduran thieves didn’t always produce pleasant results. Instead we made sure the boy was well watched the next time he arrived, and we escorted him outside before shutting down for lunch. The obvious message was sent: The gig was up. No hard feelings were incurred on either side.

  Chapter 36

  Uncle Mark, who was usually the leader in harebrained ideas, came up with another one that summer. He would raft down the Patuca River, located in the Province of Olancho east of us. This river meanders around the wilds of Honduras, eventually emptying into the Caribbean Sea on the northern Honduras coast. The Patuca wasn’t exactly of Mississippi River size, but it was big enough to raft on. It was also reported to contain some vicious rapids.

  David Peachey and Emil Helmuth eagerly signed up for the adventure. The three consulted what local lore there was, pored over the maps, and were sure everything would work out fine. The river enters the vast eastern Honduras jungle, whereupon the men knew they would lose contact with civilization. That was part of the excitement. Guides were necessary, they decided, and so one was found—a local named Manuel, who professed great familiarity with the river’s temperament and meanderings.