My Amish Childhood Page 4

  Our first cottage in Honduras.

  Grandfather took it upon himself to teach me the Spanish numbers in those early days. I remember sitting with him on the couch saying, “Uno, dos, tres,” and liking the sound of the words.

  Dad threw together a wooden-framed building in three weeks. An enlarged cottage, actually, set on running boards instead of a foundation. It served its purpose. A well driller was eventually found in Tegucigalpa, and when he finished, water was hooked up to Mom’s sink. That was as far as the plumbing went though.

  We would use the outhouse for the four years we stayed in that house. It was a stinky place set up in the backyard just before the land dropped off in a gentle slope. A place that holds no fond memories for me. I also became acquainted with chamber pots at this time, what we simply called “the pot.” To empty one in the morning was an intensely vile experience. Once we moved into the new house a few years later and returned to the blessed existence of indoor plumbing, none of us had the slightest desire to repeat the bathroom experiences in the cottage.

  Most of the locals had neither outhouses nor chamber pots. And they toted the water they needed from the abundant streams in the area. Their washing was also done there if they lived close enough. Otherwise they set up a washboard outside their shack and slammed their clothes against it or hammered the clothes clean with a rock on the spot.

  Laundry day in Honduras.

  The Amish brought along gas-powered washing machines in the crates they’d shipped into the country. When our crate arrived, Mom had her Maytag set up in an overhang behind the shop which, by then, Dad had finished, along with our small well-house.

  Sometime later, a chicken house was built below the outhouse. I believe it was on stilts to give the chickens some protection from predators and some shade. All around the community in those days buildings were popping up like tents as more people moved in. Most of them were designed to be future pigpens and chicken houses, but for the time being they would serve as temporary people housing. All were built by energetic and enthused Amish builders.

  Being in a foreign land, no one thought to ask the locals why they built with adobe instead of wood. I suppose the Amish assumed the reason was poverty—an assumption later proved wrong. The locals did build with adobe because it was cheap, but mainly they did so because of termites. All the early Amish buildings were built completely out of wood—and untreated wood at that. No Amish knew yet about the termites or, if they did, that the insects could and would fly to the houses. And fly they did. And quickly. The termites ended up everywhere and began eating at once.

  Later efforts would be made to treat the termite-infested houses but with little success. I have recent pictures of those first buildings that are now crumbled to the ground. In some places there are only bare concrete slabs bearing mute testimony to what had once been. Today the gringos are much wiser and build with concrete blocks and use treated wood when wood is absolutely necessary.

  There were other lessons to be learned. Some of them learned a little quicker. One of the first lessons was that this was a land of scams. Men would bump into a person on the streets, and the small glass bottle they’d been carrying would shatter on the ground. Wails would ensue, along with loud cries for help. Dramatic protestations were made over the great loss. This had been the only medicine the household could afford, a man would say. His child lay home sick, near death’s door, and the doctor had said this was the only hope. Now the last lempira had been spent. And as God was their witness, they had no place to turn. Could the gracious gringo please have compassion?

  As this tale was told and retold in the community, the Amish became wise to such schemes. When it happened to Uncle Mark, he continued marching down the street after the bottle shattered on the street. Not content with only foiling the scam, Uncle Mark stopped at the corner to peer back at the hapless fellow. Perhaps he was suffering from momentary doubt. What if this fellow really was in need? Had the suffering perhaps been real this time? But as Uncle Mark watched, the man stood there studying his broken medicine splattered on the sidewalk. After long moments, the man shook his head in disgust and reached into his coat pocket. Out came another bottle. And down the street he went, looking around for his next victim.

  Such stories didn’t stop the Amish’s compassion, but it did drive home the need to distinguish between the real and the pretend. And, sadly, the real existed in great quantities.

  By October of that year, Uncle Joe and Uncle Stephen had arrived, as well as others of the Stoll family.

  Our small parcel of land lay near the middle of the Sanson farm. The buildings were set along the lane that serviced the main house where Grandfather Stoll lived. Uncle Joe and Uncle Stephen, being farmers, took larger portions of land to the south of us. Uncle Joe set up on the east, and Uncle Stephen to the west.

  North of us, near where the lane turned west toward his place, Grandfather Stoll would lay out the grounds for his children’s home, a place where children could get support, clothes, food, and a safe place to sleep if they needed it. This was situated at the foot of what we called “the hill”—a small knoll stuck in the middle of things. By now Grandfather Stoll had adopted two local children, Conchita and Inez. At least those were their names for the years we lived in Honduras. Years later, in Canada, they changed their names to Esther and Jonathon. These two were the beginnings of Grandfather’s dream of rescuing local children.

  Years later, in the 1990s, my brother John would return to this same spot with his wife, Ruth, and their two small children. By then the children’s home buildings had been rebuilt, and John eventually had his own two-story house raised at the foot of the hill. They served in the Honduras Amish community for more than thirteen years before returning stateside in 2008. One of our ministers said he’d never met anyone other than his own father who had such a heart for missions as did John. I could have told him John received the gift from his grandfather.

  By fall, Dad had his machine shop up and running. It was a larger version of what he’d had in Aylmer. This one was complete with a full complement of welders, metal cutters, drill presses, and eventually a high-quality lathe. He could now repair or replicate the basic sawmill machinery and truck parts made of metal.

  Business wasn’t that great at first, so Dad set his entrepreneurial spirit to work by making hay wagons. Not one to aim low, we had wagon frames sitting everywhere in the shop yard. Dad quickly flooded the local market. He resorted to selling at a steep discount, eventually moving all of them.

  Dad used a Ford 2701 diesel truck engine to run his new generator. Quite a step up from running concealed generators in storage sheds at Aylmer. Now nothing had to be hidden. The engine ran with a mighty roar and could be heard almost back to Grandfather Stoll’s place. I don’t know why generators were now allowed. Somewhere it had been decided in the ordnung, I suppose. Or perhaps it just happened, as many such things seemed to. At last my Amish dad was set up with his fully electrified machine shop. By the time we left Honduras, he would put over 18,000 hours on his beloved diesel engine.

  The tale is often told of how the men from the young Amish community were having a meeting one evening. They were gathered on top of the knoll within sight of our place. The church house had been built there. The meeting was to explore business ideas for the many newcomers to the community. As the evening progressed, it became evident that new industries were difficult to execute in this foreign environment.

  The conversation dragged into the late-evening hours. Then off in the distance the sound of Dad’s diesel motor fired up, filling the night air with its roar. Dad had become bored and left, stopping in at the shop to work awhile before retiring. Amused, the men looked at each other and dismissed the meeting.

  Dad’s shop in Honduras.

  “That’s our answer,” one of them is quoted as having said. “Enough of this talk. It’s time to get busy like Sammy Eicher.”

  Grandfather Stoll was already ahead of the others in gettin
g busy. He’d knocked together a store building out by the main road. He sold everything having to do with grocery items—at least those that existed in the area. He also sold some local produce from the community, although the real market for that was in Tegucigalpa.

  My Uncle Abner ran a route into Tegucigalpa twice a week. He would leave early in the morning, well before any of us were up, with the sideboards raised high on a flatbed truck, and the bed loaded to the top with fresh vegetables of all sorts, plus sour cream and eggs. Almost anything that could be raised would sell in the capital.

  As for me, being too young for steady work, I wandered around the community after school and on weekends, visiting Grandfather Stoll’s store often—mostly to drink Pepsi. Real Honduras Pepsi that was much better than what was sold stateside. Many are the theories why this is still true—from the use of glass bottles to the difference in sugar content. The latter sounds the most plausible to me—but who knows?

  Chapter 8

  The first Amish school was held that winter in Grandfather Stoll’s basement. Aunt Sarah was our teacher. We only had a few books and bits and pieces of curriculum someone brought with them from Canada. It passed for my third-grade education. I sat at my little desk in the small room and looked out through the screens at the towering palm trees. We scribbled in our books, but my mind was mostly elsewhere. Already I roamed Grandfather’s orchard with abandon, exploring through the mango and orange trees, occasionally walking all the way to the back fields where the creek ran in a deep ravine. Uncle Mark, who was part of the community from the beginning, took some of us children there the first time. To me it was like the edge of a great jungle. He led us on a trail to the dam. It was an overgrown path, through which little sunlight filtered, beginning where the mango orchard ended and following the rushing little creek. We arrived eventually at the concrete dam an amateur builder had poured across the creek—a rough-hewn model of architecture but beautiful to our young eyes.

  Here lay the deepest swimming hole around at the time, filled with cool, refreshing water and hidden below a leafy canopy. You could do a decent dive, just not too deep. I went as often as I could find someone to go with me. Going way back there, even I didn’t travel alone.

  We walked everywhere at first. Back and forth between our place and Grandfather’s house mostly. No one seemed to mind. Walking was a pleasure, and everything was close at hand. Grandfather’s place lay to the north of us, with Uncle Joe and Uncle Stephen’s places to the south. The other farm, La Granja, which would soon be purchased, adjoined Sanson to the east. All were within a handy walking distance, and hardly worth the effort of hitching up a horse to travel. Dad did eventually modify one of his wagons for our transportation. A sort of flatbed with the center lowered for seating, pulled by Molly, one of the Belgians that had been flown in.

  To the south of the community’s two farms lay the town of Guaimaca. Many Amish residents walked that far too. That is, the vigorous ones, mostly those from La Granja. They’d come from Amish communities in Northern Indiana and were a little strange to us. They had a more vigorous step than did the Stoll clan. It was as if they carried a more optimistic view on life.

  I didn’t go to Guaimaca in those early days, preferring to stay close around the home place. But once I was older and had my own horse, going to Guaimaca was a weekly or better affair. I took a twisty back trail through the woods at a steady trot and an occasional gallop. Out to the main road, past Grandfather’s store, and up a small incline between the first two foothills, dashing through the wooded river sections, splashing across the streams, imagining giants and ancient warriors chasing after me. Then a turn to the left and I would be cutting across people’s backyards, sending chickens flying, until I burst onto the main street of town. No one ever seemed to mind.

  My first horse fit my dreamy view of life in those days, appearing as if by magic one day. I was standing in front of our wooden cottage looking toward the south at nothing in particular when a man appeared leading a gangly little steed. I turned my gaze in wonder upon such an object, my heart pounding harder.

  Oh, for a horse to ride! It seemed completely impossible. Dad hadn’t made any promises about buying a horse, and I had no hope that he would. I just knew the ugly thing was beautiful to my eyes. I asked the man if he was selling the animal. I used the Spanish I had acquired by then to finesse the conversation. He said he was, and I raced to find Dad.

  When Dad came back with me, I breathlessly followed their talk.

  Yes, the man said, he wished to sell the horse. And yes, he would take American dollars. In fact, he would only take American dollars. A fact I’m sure the seller made up on the spot, but it sounded like a decent bargaining tool.

  Dad did a perfunctory check of the offered animal. Not looking very hard, I don’t think. And neither did I. I wanted a horse, and this one could obviously be ridden. That was all that mattered.

  “Fifty-five dollars,” the man said, closing in on his sale.

  Back then that was double in the local currency—110 lempiras. Dad hesitated but made the purchase. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! I led the horse to the wooden fence and climbed on bareback.

  I didn’t know a thing about riding horses, never having been on one before. So I suppose it was by divine grace I didn’t have a fire-breathing stallion for my first horse. At least I didn’t break any legs or arms falling off its back.

  I loved that horse. I never gave him a name that I can remember. I’m not sure why, but none of the reasons had anything to do with lack of affection. Under my care, and with good food and plenty of rest, this one fattened up some. I wasn’t yet into traveling to the mountain, so he was only used around the farm and for errands into Guaimaca. I would soon know the back trail to town by heart.

  Grandfather received his bishop miracle. I never heard or read how the contact was made, but a New Order Amish bishop by the name of Wallace Byler appeared in the community for a visit. Apparently he hit it off with Grandfather because he would return to provide the vital church leadership any new Amish community needs. Ministers had to be ordained, communion services had to be conducted, and eventually a local bishop set in place.

  In the meantime, Amish families kept arriving, filling the available land on both Finca Sanson and La Granja. Our hopes rose high, and our spirits were comforted. Many took courage as all the signs pointed toward the Amish experiment on foreign soil working out for the best interest of all parties. I was approaching nine years of age, and I honestly didn’t care about the logistics and community workings—other than the excitement of having other Amish people around. I was enjoying life on my own terms, which was not always for the best. Sadly, stealing and lying soon became a regular part of my life. Not a major part, I suppose, but little spots on the apple. And I remember having absolutely no troubled conscience about my devious activities. Depravity seemed to rise unbidden and remained unrebuked by me. But I did know right from wrong because I was careful to hide my erring ways from everyone around me.

  One tale from that era can only be retold with shame. Grandfather Stoll had taken on another of his charity projects, a boy from over the mountain. Neil, I believe, was his name. There were no plans for adoption, but Grandfather’s heart went out to the lad because of his hard-luck story. His father had abandoned the family—a common enough story in that area—and the mother had taken up with another man. The boy wasn’t wanted.

  In Neil’s eyes, nothing fit the bill for a new start quite like taking up with an Amish family. We were gringos in the eyes of all the locals, and we were rich beyond most of their wildest imaginations. We lived a way of life they could only dream of. Neil was no doubt attracted by the lifestyle, but he also loved Grandfather’s kindness, something he had known little of.

  Grandfather Stoll wasn’t totally into Neil staying long-term, so repeated efforts were made to take him back to his home. Trips were made over the mountain, and the boy was left with his family. But Neil kept coming back. And Gra
ndfather’s heart was too soft to force him out.

  Enter me. For some reason I took a disliking to the boy. I have no idea why. He was older than I was and didn’t encroach on my territory that I remember. But I figured out how to get rid of Neil when a large amount of money went missing. I was already slipping single lempiras from Grandfather’s billfold when he sent me on errands, figuring they wouldn’t be missed. So I knew about stealing, and I knew how much it was disliked.

  I volunteered the information that I knew Neil had taken the missing money, that I’d seen him with it. It wasn’t true. I had no idea who had really taken the money.

  Vigorous denials followed from Neil. He had nothing to do with the theft, he said. He emptied out his pockets. He swore in the presence of God and the Holy Mother. But it was to no avail. Amish people don’t like lying and stealing, but they like it even less if you don’t confess once you’re caught. And with me as the witness, Neil was guilty in their eyes. So Grandfather hardened his heart and Neil was gone. And I felt nothing but satisfaction in a job well done.

  Soon my stealing expanded. I slipped small amounts of cash from the register at Grandfather’s store on the days I helped him tend the counter. I used it to buy small snacks and the prized Pepsis I loved. Grandfather had too big a heart to ask Mom if she’d given me money. And Mom was generous anyway, so no doubt he assumed she had. I even stole from the aunt I loved the most—sweet, trusting Aunt Mary with her heart of gold. I did my dastardly deeds on the Saturdays when I rode along in the wagon with her into Guaimaca, where Aunt Mary ran a small route selling garden produce, butter, mantiqea [a local version of sour cream], and homemade ice cream. The drill was always the same. I kept small amounts of what I collected, buying food with it as we drove along even though Aunt Mary paid me at the end of each Saturday as a small gift for my time. Again, I had no qualms. It wasn’t until years later, when I met goodness under the conviction of the Holy Spirit, that my conscience came alive. Then it didn’t take anyone to teach me what evil was. I knew I was a living example.