At night, full of the vigor and energy of youth, we crashed through fields and the thick underbrush on wooded lots, following the baying of our c.o.o.nhounds. Waiting for the excited chop of the hounds after a c.o.o.n was treed. Rushing up with our flashlights and rifles, the crack of the .22, and the plop of the body as the c.o.o.n fell from the tree to be attacked by the ravenous hounds. Somehow it was fun. For us, those were good, clean activities, and we enjoyed them to the fullest.
But acceptable activities like hunting and staying out late, while fun, simply werenat enough, maybe precisely because they were acceptable. And so the battle lines were drawn: the six of us against the world. Or at least against our world.
We were restless, driven by the pride and pa.s.sions of youth, and unsure of what we really wanted, and we set out on a path of our own choosing. We werenat particularly rough or rowdy, but we did like to party a bit and have a good time.
On Sunday afternoons, we hung out at the park, sipping beer that wead bought from Bea, the clerk at the little convenience store in Drakesville. And we smoked cigarettes, not necessarily because we enjoyed it, but just because we thought it looked cool to smoke.
Among each other, hanging out, we told rowdy jokes. Mimicked the preachers with mock sermons while laughing uncontrollably. And, of course, dismembered our adversaries with bold talk. And thatas what it was, mostly. Brash, noisy, bold talk. Sometimes we even showed up a bit tipsy at the singings. Made all kinds of unfortunate scenes with our loud hilarity, much to the horror of the house father and other stodgy guests.
Sometimes, when there was no opposing traffic on the road, we raced our buggies. The challenger would pull up close behind, then lurch out to pa.s.s, gradually releasing the reins until the horses opened up into full stride, side by side, at breakneck speed, the buggies rocking dangerously, the horses straining with every possible ounce of muscle and sweat, until one buggy or the other pulled ahead and the loser conceded.
And, of course, we all harbored contrabanda"transistor radios and eight-track tape players. Getting caught with such contraband had definite and potentially severe consequences. At the very least, whatever was found would be confiscated, and the owner would receive a good stiff bawling out.
One weeknight, after running around with my buddies, I got home very late, probably around two or three in the morning. I was tired, and I made the mistake of leaving my tape player in the buggy, along with our collection of tapes, which we kept stashed in a fifty-pound paper Nutrena Feeds bag.
The next morning after breakfast, when I reached into the back of the buggy to retrieve the feed bag, it was gone. Dad must have been on the prowl bright and early. I figured he must have seized the bag and burned it in our water heater stove.
He never said a word to me, just smiled a secret little smile. There were probably thirty or forty tapes in the bag, two or three hundred dollarsa wortha"an acc.u.mulation of much furtive buying and trading, now reduced to ashes.
I was highly irritateda"furious, actuallya"but did not even bother to confront my father. Instead, the following week, I seized one of Dadas old shotguns, a Savage pump-action 12-gauge with a tendency to misfire. I took it to Jimas Auction House in town, sold it for $150. Kept the money. And smiled a secret smile. I figured Dad and I were about even.
As our little group of six developed a rather tough, unsavory reputation throughout the Bloomfield settlement, we got bolder. We stepped over the lines, daring the preachers to come after us. Of course, we were careful never to step too far. We just kept nudging those lines, always applying pressure just over the acceptable boundaries.
Every once in a while, the older youth tried to straighten us up. Lectured us and admonished us not to act so silly.
aStop trying to be so wild.a Their efforts were entirely fruitless. And it got so that most people just left us alonea"except for our parents and the preachers. They never stopped lecturing, and they never stopped scolding. The problem was, they never told us why we needed to behave.
Everything was preached from a solid foundation of what had always been. Amish this. Amish that. We live this way because thatas the way it is. We live this way because itas the way our fathers lived. We live this way, and we walk this path because itas the only way, the only path weave ever known.
It was our birthright. We were speciala"the chosen ones who preserved and honored athe only true way.a With some prodding, there might be a reluctant admission that yes, others not of our particular faith might make it to heaven, but only because they were not born Amish and didnat know any better. Those who were born in the faith had better stay, or they would surely face a terrible Judgment Day. Thatas what we heard. What we were told by our parents and what we heard in the sermons at church.
But they never explained why. Why we were special. Why we alone knew the only true path. Only that we were and we did.
That sure made for some messed-up minds and messed-up lives. Not for the dronesa"those who accepted without question what they were told. But for anyone with a speck of spirit, it could get a little crazy.
Think about it. You are in a boxa"a comfortable box, but a pretty confining one. You wonder whatas outside. You peek out a bit now and then, and peer around. But deep down, you know that if you step outside that box, you are speeding directly down the highway to h.e.l.l and could arrive at any instant. Boom, just like that.
That kind of pressure is a brutal thing, really, a severe mental strain. And itas the reason that in most communities, when Amish kids run wild, they usually run hard and mean. Because once that line is crossed, there are no others. Nothing they can do, short of returning, can make any difference.
Believe otherwise, as do the Mennonites and the Beachy Amish, who drive cars and prattle on about being saved, and the devilas got you right where he wants you.
Thatas what we were taught and what we believed.
Compared to what goes on in many other communities, my friends and I were pretty harmless, really. We werenat destructive. We didnat terrorize people. But somehow, we managed to frequently trigger a great outpouring of dramatic groans and intonations from parent and preacher alike: aHow could my son act so wickedly?a aDee boova sind so loppich. So veesht.a (The boys are so naughty. So wicked.) aYou know better. Why canat you just be good and behave like other boys? Such decent boys, so nice, and such upstanding members of the church.a They were nice and upstanding, all right. And utterly dull.
We gagged at such drama. Ignored the incessant scolding. Despised the pious boys. Hunkered down and persisted in our awickeda ways. The more our parents and the preachers tried to crack down and suppress us, the harder we akicked against the goads.a Whatever discipline they designed and threw at us, we resisted. They plugged a leak here; the water slipped through over there. They tried to separate and divide, and it drew us that much closer to one another.
Iam not condoninga"or bemoaninga"what we did. Itas just the way it was. And history is not undone just because one pretends it didnat happen or destroys the evidence.
And yet somehow when I look back on those times, I canat bring myself to be too harsh on anyone involved on either side. Oh sure, on occasion I can still dredge up mild resentment at a few pious, nosy, long-bearded busybodies who made a mission of trying to straighten out other peopleas kids. Who secretly harbored their own dark skeletons in their own closets. But overall, the years have tempered the rage and frustrations of our youth. And, I hope, softened the deep pain we inflicted on those closest to us at the time.
Although far from perfect, our parents had given up a lot. They had uprooted their lives. Moved to this new settlement in hopes of establishing a community where the youth would be respectful and behave, not drag in all the bad stuff, the wicked habits practiced in other places. I couldnat see that then. I can now.
And looking back, not that far from the age my father was at the time, I remember the vast chasm that separated us. The harsh, hollow words that echoed in anger and sadness across the great divide. Words spoken but not heard. Words better left unsaid. I was a hothead, strong willed and filled with pa.s.sion, rage, and desire. Stubborn. Driven. As was he. I was my fatheras son.
I misbehaved. He fumed and hollered.
I seethed. He lectured and fussed.
I sulked. He watched and worried.
Mostly though, our communication was pretty much nonexistent.
In reality, my father had reason to be concerned. He knew all too well the blood that ran through mea"blood that could never be tamed by force, only by choicea"and a will that would not bend.
He knew. He wouldnat have admitted it, or ever told me. But he knew.
Perhaps he felt a slight chill inside, a silent premonition of what was to come. Or maybe he actually believed it would all work out now that we had moved away from Aylmera"that the sacrifices head made would be rewarded.
If he dida"he was wrong.
Tensions flared and faded between us, as confrontation after confrontation surged and subsided. The mental strain escalated to an almost unbearable level.
13.
Gary Simmons, a squat, chunky young man dressed in western clothes, a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, and boots with spurs, showed up unannounced at our farm one day with Trader Don, the local horse dealer. Don introduced him to us as Gary Simmons, a rancher, in the area looking to buy some horses.
Gary shook hands with a firm grip and looked you in the eye. He spoke with a distinct western accent and had a great booming laugh. His pretty, young wife, Joyce, stuck close to his side and smiled.
Dad didnat really have any suitable horses to sell, that much was decided in about two minutes. Our horses were a pretty raggedy bunch. Don and Gary hung around and chatted. Eventually Dad drifted away, back to the office and his typewriter, where he was pounding out his next article for Family Life. Soon, I was the only one standing there talking to Don and Gary. Turns out Gary hailed from Valentine, Nebraska, and managed a ranch there.
I asked him about it. How big was the ranch?
Fifteen thousand acres, he said. He ran the ranch for a group of cattle investors from Kansas.
Wow. Fifteen thousand acres. The number boggled my mind.
Then, quietly, out of Trader Donas hearing, I asked, aDo you ever have any use for some good help out there?a I donat know why I asked, but I did. I didnat really have any plans or anything.
Gary chuckled. aOh, you bet,a he answered. aIf you ever need a job, call me. We always have an opening for good help. We can always use another good hand.a Soon after that, they left. I mulled over what he had said about needing good help. Maybe, just maybe, one day I would call him.
Itas not that I particularly liked horses or considered myself a horseman. But like most teenagers, I had often dreamed of being a real cowboy. Iad seen the pictures, read the Westernsa"stories by Louis LaAmour. Zane Grey. Max Brand. Before, it had always been a minor dream, but now a doorway had cracked open. It might not be a bad experience, to head out west and work on a ranch.
The idea, and the beginnings of a plan, had been planted.
One evening about six months later, from the phone at the local Amish schoolhouse, I called Gary Simmons at his ranch.
Somehow I slept, though fitfully, waking now and again to glance at the tiny alarm clock beside my bed. The entire house slumbered in silence.
I dozed off for a time and then jolted awake again. The little fluorescent hands on the alarm clock glowed eerily. Two oaclock. One last time, I slid my hand beneath my pillow and felt for the note. It was still there, exactly where Iad placed it last night after scribbling it on a sc.r.a.p of paper the day before and where my father would find it at dawn.
Quietly, slowly, so as not to wake my brothers, I shifted in the bed, lifted the covers, and stepped onto the cool concrete floor. I felt my way through the pitch-black darkness to the door, opened it, and slipped out of the bedroom.
I took a few quick, quiet steps to the left, into the furnace room, which housed my fatheras great brick-and-steel contraption of a homemade wood-burning stove. Dug around in the large lidded wooden box where Mom stored her winter blankets. Located the little black duffel bag Iad packed the day before, lifted it out, and set it on the floor.
Then I slipped into the clothes I had hidden awaya"a plain, old green shirt and a newer pair of denim barn-door pants. No galluses. Where I was going, I wouldnat need them. I laced my feet into a pair of tough leather work boots and then picked up the duffel bag. I was ready.
Upstairs, on the main floor of the house, my parents slept, unaware. With a keen ear for any unusual sounds, I walked softly to the door, gently turned the k.n.o.b, and pulled it open, oh so slowly. The hinges protested in a faint, almost imperceptible squeak. I stepped outside into the night and quietly pulled the door shut behind me.
Once I was outside, Jock, our faithful mutt, met me. He seemed surprised and a little startled, but he made no sound.
aShhh, Jock. Good boy,a I whispered. He shook himself and wagged his tail, whimpering excitedly. Leaning down, I scratched his ears in farewell.
Into the darkness I went, down the concrete walks and out the drive. There was no moon that night and no stars. I had no flashlight, so I could barely see, but my eyes gradually adjusted as I continued on my way, out the long half-mile lane to the road, the gravel crunching beneath my feet.
Halfway out, I pa.s.sed my oldest brother, Josephas, house. It loomed dark and quiet. And then it, too, was behind me.
Finally I reached the gravel road. I paused for the first time and turned. Took one last look across the fields to the house where my family slept. The kerosene lamp Mom kept burning at night flickered dimly through the kitchen windows.
Then I turned my face to the south and walked. There should be no traffic on a deserted country road at this early morning hour. At least thatas what I hoped. Two miles. Thatas how far it was. Two miles to the highway and to freedom.
I walked into the night, my senses honed to their finest edge. In my eager mind, the great shining vistas of distant horizons gleamed and beckoned. A world that would fulfill the deep yearning, the nebulous shifting dreams of a hungry, driven youth. And it would be mine, all of it, to pluck from the forbidden tree and taste and eat. I could not know that night of the long, hard road that stretched into infinity before me. That I was lost. I could not know of the years of turmoil, rage, and anguish that eventually would push me to the brink of madness and despair.
And so I strode on through the night, crunching along the gravel road, the duffel bag swinging at my side. Up the steep hill, down, and then up again past the crossroads leading to the schoolhouse. Far ahead, the lights of West Grove flickered in the darkness. To the left stood an old graveyard filled with silent, looming tombstones. Focusing straight ahead, I continued to walk, past the old church on the left and Chuckas Caf on the right. Then on to Highway 2.
Other than a few pole lights along the highway, it was pitch black. There was no traffic. None at all. I turned east and walked the final quarter mile to my buddy Dewayneas house.
Dewayne Cason had moved to West Grove from Ottumwa a few years before. In his upper twenties, Dewayne was a tobacco-chewing mule skinner whose favorite activity was hunting c.o.o.n at night on muleback. I had tagged along with him from time to time, b.u.mping along on the back of one of his trusty mules, following his baying hounds as they trailed and treed the occasional c.o.o.n. Every once in a while he would give me odd jobs around his little farm, paying me a few bucks here and there to help him out. He was a colorful character and a good friend.
Dewayne worked at the John Deere factory in Ottumwa and drove twenty-some miles back and forth every day. When I first made plans to leave, I asked him if he could take me along one morning and drop me off at the bus station. He readily agreed, probably thinking nothing would ever come of it. But my plans jelled, and I told him Iad be there Tuesday morning.
He was the only person, other than myself, who knew of my plans. I didnat even tell my buddies. It was too dangerous. If it were discovered that they had known my plans and remained silent, theyad get in serious trouble. It was simply not safe to tell anyone. I had hinted about the thing I was considering, but I never told anyone in my Amish world of my actual plans. Not a soul.
I walked up to Dewayneas darkened house at about three thirty. So far, so good. I had met not a single car in the two-plus-mile walk. In the house, everyone was sleeping. I sat on the steps of Dewayneas front porch and waited, clutching my duffel bag. An hour pa.s.sed. Then two. Light flickered in the eastern sky. Sunrise. About now, they would be waking up back home. About now, my note would have been found. A tinge of fear flashed through me. I was only two miles away. What if Dad decided to come up to West Grove and look for me? Come on, Dewayne.
I heard him then, b.u.mping about inside. He opened the door, saw me, and then hollered back inside to his wife, Debbie, aHeas here.a From inside, Debbie, who was due any day with their second child, said something I couldnat understand.
Dewayne had slept in and was running late, but we eventually got into his old beater pickup and roared east on the highway to Route 63, through Bloomfield, then north, toward Ottumwa. Dewayne mumbled and swore about how he would be late for work. aOf all mornings to have to drop someone at the bus station.a When we finally arrived in Ottumwa, he pulled up to the bus depot and braked. aTake it easy, Bud,a he said, extending his hand. aAnd good luck.a I grasped it, thanked him, and stepped out with my duffel bag. He roared away to his job at the John Deere factory.
Hope he doesnat get written up for being late, I thought.
I walked into the station and, half timid, half scared, approached the counter. aHow much for a ticket to Sioux City, Iowa?a I asked. After handing the man behind the counter just shy of thirty bucks, I realized that the bus would be leaving in about an hour. So, with my ticket clutched firmly in my hand, I sat on a bench in the station and waited.
And waited.
I was totally focused on what lay ahead. Not once did the thought cross my mind that I should just give it up and go back home. Not once. My only fear was that Dad would hire a driver, rush up to Ottumwa, and intercept me. I wasnat sure Iad have the strength to face him down. He might compel me to return. So I waited, fearfully scanning the street now and then for any sign of him.
The hour pa.s.sed, and then, finally, the bus pulled up outside and hissed to a halt. I walked up, stepped through the sliding door, and gave the driver my ticket. A few minutes later, the bus shuddered and slid out of the parking lot, onto the street, through town, and then to the highway.
I was out. Free. I wondereda"fleetinglya"what was going on back home. But not much. I was too excited. I looked out the window at the rolling landscape as the bus rumbled along through town after town, stopping at stations here and there. Noon came and went, and by midafternoon, we approached Sioux City and pulled into the station. I got off and inquired about the next bus to Valentine, Nebraska. It would leave the next day, about midmorning. I bought a ticket and then walked around town to find a motel room.
I had left home with one hundred and fifty dollars, money from a horse I had recently sold. Well, it was a small horse, a half pony, really. And it was worth much more than that, but I needed the money to get away, so I took what I could get.
I found a ramshackle motel and booked a room, my first stay at any motel. It was a hovel, reallya"cheap, smelly, and damp. But to me, it seemed like a great, grand thing, a huge adventurea"a motel room in a big city.
My lodging for the night secured, it was time to venture out and buy some clothes. My shirts were fine, I figured. But I really wanted to get rid of those barn-door pants. I walked around downtown, gawking through store windows until I spotted a clothing store. When I walked in, the worn hardwood floor creaked under my feet.
The clerk was a middle-aged man with a tiny gray mustache. He was stooped over a bit from years of service on the floor.
aI need a pair of jeans,a I told him.
aCertainly,a he replied, smiling. He showed me shelves loaded with stack after stack of blue jeans. But I had a problem. I had no idea what size I wore. Timidly, I mentioned that fact to him.
Iam sure it must have seemed strange to him that I didnat even know my own size, but he didnat blink an eye. Instead, he just smiled kindly, pawed through the piles of jeans, pulled out a few different sizes, and held them up to my waist.
aIad suggest you try this size,a he said. 32x32. I took the jeans from him and walked into a fitting room. Down went the barn-door pants. And for the first time in my life, I slipped into a pair of store-bought English jeansa"Lee branda"with a real zipper in front.
They were probably a little short, but I didnat know any better. I thought they fit perfectly. Real blue jeans. I admired myself in the mirror. Then I walked out of the fitting room, picked up another pair the same size, bought them both, and walked proudly out the door and back to my motel. For the first time ever, I was not conscious that I was any different from anyone else around me, because I wasnata"except for my haircut. But I would get that taken care of soon enough. I felt great. This was definitely something I could get used to.
I spent the evening watching TV in my motel rooma"a huge treat. I finally drifted off to sleep, trusting that Iad wake up in due time the next morning. I knew nothing of wake-up calls from the front desk. That night I slumbered, exhausted from lack of sleep and the tension of the previous night. And somehow I blocked it all outa"everything Iad left behind at home. I managed not to think about my parentsa"especially my mother, who was undoubtedly worried, sick to death, not knowing where I was.
I was seventeen years old. A minor. And I had pulled it off. I had just left home. Run away in the middle of the night.
14.
The next morning I boarded a bus and headed west into Nebraska. The rolling farmland flowed past outside, followed by the sand hills of the north central part of the state. By late afternoon, we pulled into Valentine. Clutching my duffel bag, I stepped off the bus and looked around hopefully. No one was waiting.
I had called Gary the week before and told him I was coming. Where was he? I waited nervously in the bus station for about fifteen minutes. Then a Suburban pulled in and parked. A short, burly man in a cowboy hat got out. He swaggered up to the door. It was Gary. I walked outside, and he grasped my hand.
aWelcome,a he said, smiling. We walked to where Garyas wife and three young daughters sat waiting. aAre you hungry?a he asked. aHow about the Pizza Hut?a Of course I was hungry. A young Amish kid is always hungry, and Pizza Hut sounded just fine.
aIad like that.a After eating, we headed out to the ranch, thirty-five miles due south of Valentine.