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of Aylmer.
    All in all, we really liked Bloomfield. Things seemed more relaxed here. Less tweaking of the rules than there had been in Aylmer. And even though there were vast cultural differences among those who had moved here, the leaders seemed to have a pretty good grip on things—at least early on.
    We assimilated with our new peers pretty easily, though we quickly realized that the people of Bloomfield were not like those in Aylmer. These people had emerged from varied communities with strange customs and even stranger surnames. Names like Lambright, Beachy, Hochstedler, Gingerich, and Yutzy. To us they sounded funny. But these people were real. And they seemed cool enough. Mostly, anyway.
    That made for an interesting mix of young people. I was a part of this group. These were my people. And although I sometimes felt detached and alone, I mingled, immersed myself in the vibrant details of life around me.
    I enjoyed the singings, mostly. The buggies clattering as we gathered, around six thirty or so, on a Sunday night. Small knots of youth drifting toward the house, where supper would be served. Hanging with my buddies as we gathered. The house father calling everyone to attention and all heads bowing for silent prayer.
    Then the serious business of eating the evening meal: mashed potatoes, noodles, some form of hamburger-laced casserole, baked beans, potato salad, and bread. Then dessert and coffee and more hanging out, with boisterous talk, local gossip (who was dating whom), and conversation about hunting, fishing and trapping, or work on the farm.
    As eight o’clock approached, my friends and I often filed back into the house early, so as to grab the treasured back bench against the wall. There were two reasons for this: We’d have a wall to lean against, and we could get away with more monkeyshines. Bloomfield didn’t use tables at the singings, just rows of benches. A row of boys, a row of girls, a row of boys, a row of girls.
    At 8:00 sharp, the first song was announced. As the minutes crept by, we sang and sang. It seemed to me sometimes, as the harmony swelled and my spirit soared, that I could never leave, never forsake this ancient heritage, this priceless legacy. That no sacrifice would be too great to draw these things inside and keep them in my heart.
    Shortly before nine thirty someone announced and led the parting song. After its last notes faded, the young men got up from the benches and walked out single file. The singing was over for one more week.
    We milled about outside. Socialized and chatted for a while. Those who were dating were the first to hurry away. In Bloomfield, courting couples tended to leave posthaste for the girl’s house, because dates were decreed over at midnight.
    Then, one by one, my friends and I hitched up our horses and left, a long convoy of buggies with blinking orange lights.
    * * *
    Gradually, even more families arrived. Bloomfield was suddenly the “hot” place to be. And soon enough, the single district was bulging at the seams.
    It had gotten too big.
    And that meant only one thing: It was time to divide it.
    Every Amish district must have its own contingent of at least two preachers and a deacon. A newly created district meant there would have to be ordinations to fill these positions.
    And so it was decided. A dividing line separating the two districts was drawn, and an ordination was scheduled. As the day drew nearer, the young married men in the community grew increasingly somber and burdened.
    Church was at our house the Sunday of the ordination. The winds whipped and swirled that afternoon, and storm clouds gathered. Inside, a large group of people were sitting in row upon row of wooden benches. We were having a Communion service, or “Big Church,” as we called it. It was an all-day affair.
    But this particular service was different, because at the end, a new preacher would be ordained. Every corner of the house pulsed with