Read Online Growing Up Amish by Ira Wagler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ira Wagler
Tags: Religión, Adult, Biography, Non-Fiction, RELIGION / Christian Life / General, Biography & Autobiography / Religious, Biography & Autobiography / Personal Memoirs
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property. Even my brother Jesse quietly slipped home and hung around that day.
Later that month, two heavily loaded tractor trailers lumbered down the dusty gravel road and turned south toward Highway 3, leaving behind the only home I had ever known.
My childhood daysâmy Aylmer daysâwere over.
My youth and running-around days would be in Bloomfield, Iowa.
Part 2
10
As a child, I had always dreamed of driving a truck, a big old 18-wheeler, and hauling loads for days and weeks at a time along endless highways through distant lands. The trip from Aylmer to Bloomfield on that tractor trailer was, alas, as close as I ever got to realizing my truck-driver dream. Perched in the sleeper, I watched through the windshield, determined not to miss a thing. On and on we drove into the night, and then into the dawn.
After an exhilarating twenty-six-hour journey, during which I slept all of about two minutes, we finally approached Bloomfield, and the two tractor trailers slowly lumbered down the long drive of our new farm.
Our new home sat nestled on the south side of rolling hills, bordered by acres of woods to the west, pasture fields dotted with huge old oaks to the north, and the Fox River to the south.
The house was a tiny ranch. A large, sagging, ramshackle barn stood a few hundred yards away, and several ragged outbuildings lay scattered here and there. The centerpiece of the property was a brand-new dairy barn that had been raised a few months before by an all-Amish crew, complete with a brand-new stave silo that had been shipped in from Madison, Wisconsin.
Within a few hours, all our belongings were unloaded. The men carried the heavy furniture, mattresses, and boxes inside, while my mom and sisters directed everything to its proper spot.
It seemed surreal. After weeks and months of planning and high anticipation, here we were at a new home, in a strange new world. Aylmer was now forever behind us. The life I had known from birth was gone. Whatever the future held, it would flow from this place. It was impossible, at that moment, to absorb the enormity of that realization.
* * *
Bloomfield was a young community back then, consisting of only twenty or so families. It had been founded just a few short years before, in the early 1970s, by Gideon Yutzy and his sons. In terms of rules and restrictions, Bloomfield was moderate, kind of like Aylmer. One rule I didnât like was the mandate of âsteel-rimmed wheels onlyâ for buggies. In Aylmer, we had rubber-covered rims on the buggy wheels. I know that seems like a small thing, but it really makes a huge difference, both in wear and tear on the buggy and in terms of noise. Steel-rimmed wheels rattle and creak a lot more, and the horse has to work harder to pull the load.
But I digress.
Gradually, other families had trickled in from settlements in various states, and before long, Bloomfield became a fashionable destination for outcasts, misfits, and malcontents from other, mostly larger, communities. Families had come from fairly progressive places like Kokomo, Indiana, and Arthur, Illinois, and from such regressive areas as Fortuna, Missouri, and Buchanan County, Iowa. And from every shade between.
It was fall when we came. Late October. The mornings were white with frost, and the farmers were harvesting their crops. And over the course of those first few weeks, we quickly established a routine and rhythm of life in this new place.
Rhoda and Nathan trudged off each day to the little Amish schoolhouse, two miles away. Stephen, Titus, and I worked hard from dawn till dusk milking cows, plowing the fields, and repairing the tattered remnants of old rusty fences.
One of our first critical tasks was to enlarge the house. We staked out and built two wide new wings. A larger kitchen for Mom on one end. Bedrooms for the girls on the other. And a larger basement. Our days were so busy that we didnât really have much time to get homesick for our old world
Later that month, two heavily loaded tractor trailers lumbered down the dusty gravel road and turned south toward Highway 3, leaving behind the only home I had ever known.
My childhood daysâmy Aylmer daysâwere over.
My youth and running-around days would be in Bloomfield, Iowa.
Part 2
10
As a child, I had always dreamed of driving a truck, a big old 18-wheeler, and hauling loads for days and weeks at a time along endless highways through distant lands. The trip from Aylmer to Bloomfield on that tractor trailer was, alas, as close as I ever got to realizing my truck-driver dream. Perched in the sleeper, I watched through the windshield, determined not to miss a thing. On and on we drove into the night, and then into the dawn.
After an exhilarating twenty-six-hour journey, during which I slept all of about two minutes, we finally approached Bloomfield, and the two tractor trailers slowly lumbered down the long drive of our new farm.
Our new home sat nestled on the south side of rolling hills, bordered by acres of woods to the west, pasture fields dotted with huge old oaks to the north, and the Fox River to the south.
The house was a tiny ranch. A large, sagging, ramshackle barn stood a few hundred yards away, and several ragged outbuildings lay scattered here and there. The centerpiece of the property was a brand-new dairy barn that had been raised a few months before by an all-Amish crew, complete with a brand-new stave silo that had been shipped in from Madison, Wisconsin.
Within a few hours, all our belongings were unloaded. The men carried the heavy furniture, mattresses, and boxes inside, while my mom and sisters directed everything to its proper spot.
It seemed surreal. After weeks and months of planning and high anticipation, here we were at a new home, in a strange new world. Aylmer was now forever behind us. The life I had known from birth was gone. Whatever the future held, it would flow from this place. It was impossible, at that moment, to absorb the enormity of that realization.
* * *
Bloomfield was a young community back then, consisting of only twenty or so families. It had been founded just a few short years before, in the early 1970s, by Gideon Yutzy and his sons. In terms of rules and restrictions, Bloomfield was moderate, kind of like Aylmer. One rule I didnât like was the mandate of âsteel-rimmed wheels onlyâ for buggies. In Aylmer, we had rubber-covered rims on the buggy wheels. I know that seems like a small thing, but it really makes a huge difference, both in wear and tear on the buggy and in terms of noise. Steel-rimmed wheels rattle and creak a lot more, and the horse has to work harder to pull the load.
But I digress.
Gradually, other families had trickled in from settlements in various states, and before long, Bloomfield became a fashionable destination for outcasts, misfits, and malcontents from other, mostly larger, communities. Families had come from fairly progressive places like Kokomo, Indiana, and Arthur, Illinois, and from such regressive areas as Fortuna, Missouri, and Buchanan County, Iowa. And from every shade between.
It was fall when we came. Late October. The mornings were white with frost, and the farmers were harvesting their crops. And over the course of those first few weeks, we quickly established a routine and rhythm of life in this new place.
Rhoda and Nathan trudged off each day to the little Amish schoolhouse, two miles away. Stephen, Titus, and I worked hard from dawn till dusk milking cows, plowing the fields, and repairing the tattered remnants of old rusty fences.
One of our first critical tasks was to enlarge the house. We staked out and built two wide new wings. A larger kitchen for Mom on one end. Bedrooms for the girls on the other. And a larger basement. Our days were so busy that we didnât really have much time to get homesick for our old world
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