Crossing Over (12 page)

Twenty-Two

(Du weiszt das keine hoffnung ist für ein gebanntglied. . . . Unser wunsch ist das du den Schöpfer suchen tust ob es zu schpot ist. Und der einzigste weg das wir sehen könnten das das getan sein kann ist zurück kommen wo du abgefallen bist und busze tun das übrige deines leben.)

You know there is no hope for a banned member. . . . Our wish is that you seek your Creator before it's too late. And the only way we see this can be done is come back to what you have fallen from and repent and be sorry for the rest of your life.

—L
ETTER FROM
E
ARL
M
ILLER
(U
NCLE)

M
y learning continued at an accelerated pace, both through travels Ottie and I took, and through achieving a dream I could only obtain in the English world—getting a General Equivalency Diploma.

Both came easily.

Ottie loves to drive, of course. It is the one way he can achieve comfortable mobility. And I love riding with him, taking in the sights, meeting people, absorbing all that is new.

I am no longer as fascinated with the van as I once was. It is now like an old suit. Familiar and reliable, with pictures of me and Ottie propped on the dash, I in Amish attire and he in jeans and a flannel shirt. In the middle of our pictures is a passage from Psalm 119:73:

“Thy hands have made me and fashioned me: give me understanding, that I may learn thy commandments.”

We love taking trips to the country around Horse Cave, all the while listening to songs on the radio and holding hands. There are few moments more divine in our lives than sitting in the van, holding hands and watching the sun rise or set—God's spectacular signatures on a day.

We have our other favorite places we like to go, too. Key West is one of them. The Smoky Mountains another. And then there's this little sliver of paradise in the middle of nowhere—Kentucky's Marrowbone Valley. Locals call it the “Marribone,'' no “w's.” (There's something about “w's” in Southern speak; people don't pronounce them.)

The valley on Highway 90, southeast of diminutive spots in the road like Eighty Eight and Summer Shade, is rich with arrowheads and sparse with people, most of whom have decided to leave the hustle and bustle of big cities and forge a quiet life of simple pleasures. There's the young couple with ten children who live off the land. The one-time police officer. The retired Air Force enlistee.

It is here that we would like to live, too. On a plot of overgrown pasture next to the river. In a cabin or a house or both.

We go to the valley frequently—to dream and plan. There's one particular 4.2-acre site we have our eyes on that fronts the highway, has a little dirt access road, and claims part of the Marrowbone River. We've talked about clearing the land first—so we can see it, and so we can retrieve any fossils or Indian artifacts.

Then we will build. And garden.

The southern Kentucky region has long been a favorite of Ottie's. He was born there and, even though he moved to Toledo, Ohio, a year later, he returned to visit relatives in the summers of his youth.

When he was ten, Ottie and three cousins began exploring unmarked caves, including a large one behind the Glasgow City Jail. Inside the cave, in a spacious cavern, they found schools of blind fish no longer than a person's pinky, and planks and chains that once confined slaves. With a bit of luck, they also found their way out after one of the boys dropped the group's only flashlight and rendered it momentarily useless. When they finally retrieved it, searching on all fours, they knocked it a time or two and the light kicked back on.

The boys also delighted in going to the country store at the Etoile crossroads, buying bottles of Coca-Cola and bags of peanuts and, after swallowing a quarter of their beverages, plunking the peanuts into the bottles. It was, for them, just the right concoction of drink and food to pass the time under a shade tree. That, and Moon Pies.

Sometimes in the swelter of those 1950s summers, they would also tie sewing thread to the legs of June bugs and watch the big green insects cut circles in the air—until the bugs' legs snapped off, freeing them from their bondage.

When he wasn't with his cousins, Ottie would go squirrel hunting behind Grandmother Garrett's house, lugging along her .22-caliber single-shot rifle. He wasn't much of a shot back then, and he was much too fascinated with the squirrels cavorting in the trees to ever lift the gun to his shoulder.

Later, he moved with his mother Ersie, brother Benny, and sister Faye to Attica, Indiana, after his parents divorced, grew into a strapping high school defensive tackle for the Red Ramblers, and charmed the girls at sock hops with his dancing technique, learned at the hands of his mother and sister, who taught him for an hour every Saturday when Dick Clark's
American Bandstand
aired.

His mother, who died of cancer in 1992 at sixty, was a fan of Elvis and the Everly Brothers. There was also room in the home for the likes of Patsy Cline and Johnny Cash.

These stories of English life helped form the basis for my education, although I realized purposeful learning meant so much more than absorbing folklore. I needed to get my GED.

I took a sample test at Barren County High School in Glasgow in the summer of 1999 and was told I'd done well enough to skip adult education classes. Only my math scores were dubious, and I took home several floppy discs containing sample algebra questions so I could study them.

On October 6, 1999, with little preparation, I took the real test—and passed.

I finished in the 89th percentile nationally in writing, 74th in social studies, 71st in literature and arts, 64th in science, and 44th in mathematics. It was, I must admit, a pretty good showing for someone who'd only had a formal education through the eighth grade—and a somewhat limited education at that.

All I can figure is that my hours of private study growing up and my year as a teacher gave me enough of a push to be successful.

In any event, I was proud.

I received a letter from the Kentucky Department for Adult Education and Literacy confirming my feelings, and my accomplishment:

Dear GED graduate:

I would like to congratulate you on passing the GED test. Your high school equivalency diploma is enclosed. I am honored to have this opportunity to reward your outstanding effort.

Earning your GED marks an important milestone in your life, and your success is an inspiration to students across the Commonwealth who are currently enrolled in a GED program. . . .

Congratulations once again on attaining your GED! I encourage you to continue this positive momentum as you pursue your future goals, and I wish you the best in all your endeavors.

Sincerely,
Reecie D. Stagnolia
Acting Commissioner

The formal graduation came on May 15, 2000, in the Barren County High School Auditorium—on the heels of President Clinton traveling the country, including Kentucky, in support of school reform.

I wore a royal blue cap and gown and a smile the size of the Bluegrass State that night as I waited my turn among the ninety-two graduates. Someone sang a couple of gospel songs and a parade of speakers made sundry announcements, including one who mentioned something to the effect that 73 percent of high school seniors wouldn't be able to pass the GED. A woman sitting next to me leaned over and whispered, “Man, she just made me feel smart.”

I was feeling pretty bright at the moment, too.

One of the speakers had told me earlier she was going to mention that I was once Amish. But when her time came, she became flustered and forgot. She later apologized to me in a letter, but I held no ill will. The important thing was that I had graduated.

After the ceremonies, the celebration continued at a party at Faye's house attended by friends and relatives. There were soft drinks, cheerful banter, and a cake that pronounced: “Congratulations Irene 2000.”

It got me to thinking about going to college one day to ensure my future, perhaps to be a nurse or a youth minister. I like the idea of helping people, although I'm a little hesitant about being around injured people day after day.

I once told Ottie: “If somebody comes into the hospital one day with their leg wide open, I'm not sure I want to be exposed to that.”

Somebody told me I'd also have to witness an autopsy as part of my training, and I'm not sure I want to go through that, either.

There's a third career option that has some appeal: professional photographer, specializing in weddings, reunions, and portraits of families. With Ottie's guidance, I have grown to enjoy taking pictures and even shot one of a restaurant fire that was published on the front page of the
Glasgow Daily Times.

Perhaps because I have no photographic images of my own childhood—something I deeply regret—I like the idea of creating memories for other people. A person can remember so much more through pictures, and they can derive years of pleasure simply by taking them out and reminiscing every so often.

As I do with the pictures Ottie has taken of me.

Perhaps one day I'll be able to put pictures of my children in our photo album. Making babies has become a priority of ours—even more important than my career.

The first two years out of Kalona, we had to be careful, because I hadn't had any of the vaccinations English children normally get during their adolescence. The Amish are reluctant to get children vaccinated—because they distrust the English, because unfounded rumors have spread about deathly allergic reactions to the shots, and because the Amish are wedded to various home remedies.

The Amish have a variety of concoctions they use to “cure” everything from acne to heart trouble—and in the case of my mother, open sores on one's legs. They're passed from community to community through Amish newspaper articles in
The Budget
or
Die Botschaft.

I can't vouch for many of the remedies. They're simply too odd. Like ingesting nine plump, steamed raisins a day to clear up acne. Or using strange-sounding products like Watkins Petro Carbon Salve (for corns), Silent Nitezzz (for snoring), and a light-green, slippery Chickweed Healing Salve (“Good for all skin disorders; skin cancer, cuts, burns, and poison ivy”). Or eating cayenne peppers and kelp to calm an irregular heartbeat.

But some of them work; I know from firsthand experience. A honey-and-flour paste does wonders for drawing out splinters and bee stingers.

There's nothing homespun, though, for measles, chicken pox, whooping cough, and the like, and every year in Amish schools across the country there are uncontrolled outbreaks of disease. Fortunately, I contracted only one of them—chicken pox. I'm not prepared to take the same chances with my own children.

I got my first shots at twenty-two—from a pediatrician of all things—and he told us to hold off on unprotected sex for two years to make sure the immunizations had taken properly. And so we did.

But lately we've been wondering—with no pregnancy in sight—whether we'll be able to have children. We've visited doctors and are trying a few twenty-first-century remedies. I am so preoccupied with the idea of having children—two at least, maybe four—that I'm willing to do whatever it takes.

Ottie, who already has four children of his own either grown or living with their mothers, would also like more children, though he worries he might not live long enough to see them to adulthood.

But we're working on that, too. Ottie has begun a diet and exercise program in earnest, with plans to get down to 350 pounds by Christmas 2001. So far, so good. He's lost fifty-three pounds in the first eight months.

If we can't have children together, I suppose we could have foster children or adopt, although both options have their unpleasantries.

It would be hard to get attached to a foster child, only to have it yanked away at a moment's notice. And if I went to an adoption home, I wouldn't be able to pick just one. I'd want them all.

I wouldn't be able to stand the hurt look on the faces of the children who weren't chosen.

Twenty-Three

How could you do such a thing and bring your family so much sorrow? Don't you get lonesome for your nieces and nephews? These have been some of the questions in people's minds and many people are concerned about your soul.

—M
ARY
A
NN
M
ILLER
(C
OUSIN)

I
had expected that my leaving Kalona would lead to a ban and an estrangement with my family. What I hadn't expected was how the news would spread among the Amish beyond Iowa, eventually seeping insidiously into my life as an English woman in Kentucky.

For a time, it merely amounted to stares of disfavor whenever I encountered Amish in stores or restaurants who had heard of my departure. Some would even turn away.

But what happened at an Old Order Amish grocery near Three Springs, northeast of Glasgow, was a shock of much greater proportion.

I had shopped the store before without incident. On this particular day, however, searching for seed potatoes and kohlrabi, I was confronted by the store owner shortly after I entered.

“Are you Ottie Garrett's wife?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I can't sell to you then. You know how it is. We just can't do it.”

I returned to the van, told Ottie what had happened, and he drove to the front of the store and honked. The owner, fidgeting a bit, came out and approached the driver's side window.

“Hello, Ottie,” he said.

“What's the problem?” Ottie inquired.

“You know the Amish way. I can't sell to her because she's in the ban. It's got nothing personal to do with you, Ottie. It is with her that we have an issue.”

“But you've served her here before.”

“Well, I didn't realize until recently who she was. You know I can't do it, Ottie. You know that.”

We paid a visit to the settlement's bishop five minutes up the road, but he was of little help. He talked about how the rule was something passed down through generations—a frequent excuse for Amish inflexibility—and that it was not within his power to make an exception.

“I wish it wouldn't be that way,” he said, “but it is.”

I could have forced the matter, as some X-Amish have done. I could have gathered my produce and walked to the counter. Because a ban requires other Amish to refrain from taking things from the hands of a shunned person, they would have neither accepted my money nor recovered the produce. They would have let me walk out of the store without paying.

But, of course, I couldn't do that. It wouldn't have been right. It would have been tantamount to stealing.

We also could have sued the owner. In the English world, it could be viewed as a form of discrimination. But we didn't do that, either.

We have, for the time being, filed it away as yet another example of the rigid, punitive society in which the Amish dwell. Where an Amish storekeeper in Kentucky worries that any lapse in vigilance will bring the wrath of Amish in Iowa.

Since leaving, I've also had chance encounters with people I had known as an Amish woman. Former friends and acquaintances across the country.

I try to avoid such occurrences during our sightseeing travels, which sometimes take us to—or through—Amish settlements. The meetings are too awkward, too strained. The Amish don't know what to say to me, and I don't know what to say to them.

And when the Amish do speak, it's often something like: “Oh, your poor family. What they must be going through.''

The prospects of such tension prevent me from moving about freely in Amish areas. A similar tension is also what kept me from my family in the first year. I was afraid to face my father's anger, afraid to witness a further deterioration of my mother's health, and afraid to feel the standoffish behavior I knew some of my siblings would exhibit. I wasn't even sure any of them would consent, without condition, to see me.

For all the times someone has told me I'm courageous, there have been many others when I've been decidedly less so.

Shortly after the ban was lifted by the Lutherans, though, I did make a side trip to Kalona while Ottie, I, and a friend of mine were en route to Minnesota. No one was at the farm that day, and I was later told that my mother, father, sister, and three of my brothers had gone fishing.

Elson and Wilbur, though, were at their respective homes and I visited both. Elson was, as always, cordial and understanding. At Wilbur's, I was never invited in, and I spent the entire time chatting with relatives under a tree. The conversation was stilted and painful.

In one place, I felt like a sister. In the other, I did not.

I once wrote a poem about traveling, not so much for myself but for Amish drivers and their human cargo:

As we go on this trip, O Lord,

And we leave our friends and family dear,

Keep us all in your loving care,

Whether we travel far or near.

 

Protect us all from misfortunes and harm,

Let thy blessing rest upon us,

Lead us on the path we should go,

With your love, mercy, and kindness.

 

Lord, help us see your wondrous works,

Which were wrought by your powerful hand,

Rivers, mountains, valleys, and oceans,

Reveal the beauty throughout all your land.

 

Keep us till we are safely home,

To meet our beloved with joy and peace,

Lead us safely to our heavenly home,

Where love, joy, and happiness never cease.

It was, I thought at the time, a simple, comforting yarn for any hurdles encountered along one's journey. But no piece of prose, no passage from Scripture could prevent the dread I felt before going home, or the bittersweet aftertaste of the visit.

There is a saying: “You can never go home.” And in my case, it's true. Although I may be able to physically return, home will never be the same.

I am now an outsider—one of those people I once avoided, and once criticized unknowingly.