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there. Checked out the available farms—and the church rules, of course. Shortly after they returned home, they went to visit again—this time accompanied by my brother Joseph and his wife. And this time, my father bought a three-hundred-acre farm in Bloomfield, two miles directly north of the small village of West Grove. Just across the old rickety wooden bridge that spanned the Fox River.
    The news sent shock waves throughout the Amish world. The great man, the famous writer David Wagler, was leaving Aylmer. It was practically unfathomable, that’s how closely his name was intertwined with Aylmer. Tongues wagged. People clucked. He had wild sons. Couldn’t control them.
    Now he was leaving the place he loved. Moving to the obscure, upstart settlement of Bloomfield, Iowa.
    All to try to keep his remaining sons Amish.
    We’ll see how it goes.
    We’ll see if it works.
    That’s what they said.
    And as if to mock their words and hidden thoughts, Stephen returned home and quietly got to work, getting ready for the move to Bloomfield. They knew, all those Aylmer people, that he planned to join the Amish church there. Officially, of course, they were happy for him. But silently, they seethed.
    In September, Dad ended his time at Family Life . In the future, he would contribute as a writer, but he would no longer be editor. That job went to the young preacher Elmo Stoll, the de facto leader in Aylmer.
    In his last editorial, my father said good-bye to his readers. Of course, in true Amish fashion, he carefully hinted at the real issues without actually addressing them. He said that he had devoted much of his time in the past to Family Life —to the point, he added, that he may have neglected a few other important things. Now it was time for him to devote himself to another kind of family life.
    A nice play on words, his official statement. Fraught with symbolism, but pretty much devoid of meaning, at least to us—his family.
    The Aylmer leaders and Dad’s peers at Pathway supported his decision—at least publicly. They spoke kind words. “Come back and visit,” they said. “And we’ll come see you in Bloomfield, too.” But privately, they all must have wondered why David Wagler could not control his wild, unruly sons.
    * * *
    I was fourteen, going on fifteen, that summer. It was an exciting time. And a little scary. I knew great changes were coming. I was about to leave the only home I had ever known. The only community. The only world. Not to mention all my friends.
    Despite my excitement and anticipation, there was a strong sense of sadness, too. I knew that all too soon, in mere months, our lives would change forever.
    But the date had been set, and there was no turning back. We planned to leave in late October 1976. My father had lived in Aylmer for twenty-three years, the longest he had lived uninterrupted at any place in his life. But he did not shrink from what must have been a gallingly difficult task. Instead, he solemnly and steadfastly wrapped up his business affairs and prepared to leave.
    For my mother, too, leaving was a bittersweet thing. One doesn’t live for twenty-three years in the same house, only to leave it blithely. She had seen and endured so much here. The place held a lifetime of memories for her. She had arrived with a family of five small children. Now there were eleven. Not all at home anymore, of course. But here, in this house, she had borne six children, mothered them, and befriended them.
    Dad sold the farm that summer, and in early October, we held a sale. Dad’s auctioneer friend, Les Shackleton, officiated—his trip-hammer voice booming from the portable speakers. A vast array of belongings had to be sold. Machinery, cattle, horses, buggies, household goods, general junk. It was a huge event. People came from miles away, from many surrounding communities, to attend the great disposal sale of David and Ida Mae Wagler’s