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Of Drywall and Stepladders

 

The job was renovating a church house, and a nasty job it was. Dusty, dirty, itchy and not a straight line or square corner on the whole building. The studs were spaced anywhere between a foot and four feet on center and no two were the same. They were hardwood of some sort that resisted the insertion of a drywall screw like an Amishman resists change. Every piece of drywall was a work of art. Modern art, that is, with all its bizarre angles.
Well Peter and I were installing one such work of art above a door way and the piece was unfortunately still not in complete conformity with the shape required by the church in question. I was standing on a stepladder. Now it has always been my belief that you can’t hurt yourself falling from a five foot stepladder and I stepped up a bit higher to give the erring piece of drywall a solid crack in an effort to get it to fit in with the crowd. It rebelled, jumped off the wall, hit my stepladder and sent it cavorting in the opposite direction from me. I fell over backwards and hit the floor, HARD! My left arm managed to get twisted around behind and under me and I landed on top of it.

 

I got up and thought for a second that I had left my arm on the floor but then realized that I hadn’t because it was very much still a part of me and was screaming in pain like a drunk tom cat in a brawl. The rest of the fellows gathered round looking very concerned. We assessed the damages and I managed to convince myself that the shoulder was dislocated. My thought process was that you can’t break a bone falling from a five foot stepladder, but we decided to go to a local clinic and take an X-ray, just in case……

 

As luck would have it the first clinic didn’t have anyone that knew how to run the machine. Why you would have a machine with no one to run it is beyond me. And besides, how hard is it. I mean I could do it in my sleep after all the X-rays I’ve taken lately. Anyway, next stop took the X-ray for us.  I was pacing around the room behind the nurse like an elephant on heroine, waiting for the results to show up one her computer screen, ( it took half of forever…) when it did show up I took one look and said,”Shucks!! I don’t even need a doctor to tell me that’s broke.” The bone was broken clean off right below the ball in the shoulder. So much for my faith in stepladders.

 

So we headed for the Bloomington hospital where they took some more X-rays, gave me a sling, an appointment for the next day and a prescription for pain medication and sent me home.

 

I barely made it through the night and was at the end of my string, or so I thought. The pain was intense and the pain medication made me so dead stupid I couldn’t get my ass into the recliner from a foot away. Anyway, I headed for the hospital in the morning full of hope. They were going to do whatever it took to fix this once and for all. Sure I would still have pain but the waiting was over.

 

That’s the way my Amish brain is programmed. Do what it takes. Get it done. Now.

 

Not so with the health care system.

 

They did a CAT scan and sent me home with another appointment with a doctor to make an appointment to do surgery.  I broke my arm on Thursday. This was now Friday. The appointment to make an appointment was on Monday. Probable surgery on Tuesday. Two days short of a whole blink’in week!! Oh, and they gave me another everlasting prescription to the blessed oblivion found in utter stupidity.

 

I didn’t say anything, but if the nurse could have heard my thoughts she’d have turned a horrible hue of green and red.

 

I was raised Amish. Amish aren’t supposed to swear and I generally avoid it at all costs but I do have a very diverse list of expletives to choose from in special occasions.

 

I must confess that the combination of painkiller wearing off, frustration and pain turned into one of those special occasions. I’ve apologized to God and my wife, fortunately they were both very understanding.

 

To make a long story short I now sit in the recliner with my arm in a sling and a homemade splint fabricated of gauze wrap and several of the children’s blocks. The nurse was so taken up with prescriptions she never thought about something so low tech as a splint. I can’t lie down because my arm hurts in that position and I can’t sit because my rump hit the floor pretty hard too. Life consists of an unending search for the the least uncomfortable position.

 

Having said all I did about the health care system I will say I appreciate them for all that they do. I’d be in a bad way if they didn’t exist. It just seems to me that the humanity and common sense have been completely washed out of the system. That, and you have to either be dying, or exceptionally good at acting like you are in order to get any kind of attention.

 

I am, unfortunately, only good at the opposite.

 

Oh and worst of all, my friends have taken to sympathizing with my jokes instead of laughing at them. And that….. is unpardonable.

In the Eyes of a 5 Year Old

Church when I was 5 was never something I looked forward to. First of all there was the big rush in the morning to be ready in time. (Sunday was anything but relaxing) Then we would all pile into the buggy and rattle off to wherever the services were held that day.

 

The men would stand in a big circle in the barnyard or in a shed if it was cold or raining. Everyone went around the circle and shook hands with every one else. I would become just plain tired of standing there while the elders did their thing. To me it all looked pointless but I never doubted that there was a reason for it all. I was only 5 after all, and the ways of the elders was unfathomable.

 

Then after everyone (hopefully) had arrived the Bishop would make his way to the house or wherever the services were being held, followed by his ministers. Then the older men would straggle in, then the rest of the men in the order of their age. Last of all came the young boys. Through my 5-year-old eyes they appeared to be evil giants of some sort. I’m not sure why I had this feeling about them. Possibly because my parents did not approve of all the things that the young folks did. Not that anything really bad every happened in Aylmer….. Hrrmm, Cough Cough…… At least nothing that couldn’t be swept under the rug. (There were a lot of rugs, big ones.)

 

After everyone was settled onto the pine benches, the Bishop would say his thing, wishing God’s blessings on the day and could someone please give out a song to sing. It was always said exactly the same way. Then the song leader of the day would give out a number, in German of course, and the singing would start. It was a slow sleepy kind of singing. Something handed down from the mists of time. It could be the most disgusting sound or it could be downright beautiful. What made the difference I am still not sure.

 

As soon as the first line of the song was sung the Bishop would get up and go out for Abraat. (council) The ministers would follow him like so many sheep. In my 5-year-old perceptions they appeared stern, distant, not unkind, but certainly to be feared. There was something, something mysterious, something to be dreaded like a deep dark secret, about that line of men filing out to the do whatever they did while we sang.

 

We sang until the ministers came back in, which was a long time for a 5-year-old, and then as soon as the current song was done one of them would get up to deliver the opening sermon. The opening sermon was supposed to be short, 15 minutes at the most culminating in a prayer. Unfortunately, some of the ministry had more to say than could be said in that time period and so it often lasted longer. That was never a huge deal with me because I always zoned out and went off into my imagination. Which was quite lively.

 

One day the minister got started expounding on the topic of “Redda mitt Gott” (Talking with God). Well the word “redda” in German is not often used in our day-to-day Pennsylvania Dutch so I didn’t understand it in the context it was used. “Redda” is also very similar to the word “raat” (wheel) in German. I pondered the quandary ( I’m a weirdo btw and think completely in visual imagery) and finally created the solution to the problem. In my mind I saw a great big wheel like one of those old water wheels only it had handles in place of the paddles and on one side of the wheel was the grand old gentleman who was delivering the sermon, on the other side was God himself. Together they were turning the wheel by pulling on the handles. The wheel was on a shaft and the shaft went off into the distance, obviously turning the mysterious gears of God’s great kingdom. Wheeling with God. My translation of the sermon that day.

 

It took me a long long time realize that the church and God don’t always pull in the same direction on the Great Wheel of Wheeling with God.

 

After prayer the deacon got up to read a chapter from the scriptures. Sometimes he spoke a few words and sometimes he too had a problem with talking too long. Made for a long service if all the ministers felt very inspired. Or, may I say it, had a bone to pick.

 

After the deacon was done with his thing another minister got up to deliver the main part. This lasted for an hour or so depending on how much time the other speakers had taken. This was considered the main spiritual meal of the day, but a lot of folks partook of it by settling down for a good nap.

 

After that there was Zuegniss. Where the minister who had delivered the main part asked a few of the other ministry to corroborate what he had said. After which we sang another song, usually a fairly joyous one, as in anticipation of freedom, and then, Yay! Church was out.

 

I think no true blooded Amish would admit it but the best part of the day was the noon meal and the conversation that flowed around it. The children playing, the adults talking in scattered groups, the atmosphere of friendliness and community, the deafening buzz of conversation. That really was what Amish was all about. It was not about the abstract and vague doctrines or dialogs about the correctness and importance of the Ordnung. Not that the sermons were all bad, they were just too stern and severe. Too distant. Jesus was all about life and love after all. And he told us to live as he did.

 

Fast forward 25 years. That little Amish 5-year-old now sits in front of a MacBook Air, an iPhone on the desk beside him. The desk is covered with the paraphernalia of the modern office, printers, cords and routers. Less than a year ago he first laid hands on a laptop. In that time he has gone from innocent Amish to software developer/consultant/contractor, and in a way, he is more Amish than ever before.

 

His children are playing on the floor behind him. Playing just like he did when he was 5. With pencils, paper, scissors, glue and most of all, a copious imagination. 25 years have passed and everything is different, but really nothing has changed.

 

The unwritten Amish creed states that those who embrace technology lose their faith. They always get trapped up in porn or some other form of dark evil. I’m sure there is porn on the internet, and all kinds of evil, but I’ve never seen any. I have had interaction with plenty of Amish who use technology just like I do and I simply fail to see it happening. Technology will change the Amish culture. Drastically. But I don’t see them loosing their faith in the process. The leadership has gotten faith and culture mixed up that’s all.

Billy and the Pallet Cart

I used to work with a young fellow whom we shall call Billy. He was a very likable young fellow of about 17, and I really enjoyed working with him, possibly because he had an affinity for getting into the most hilarious situations.
My cousin (the one from Lindsay) and I were repacking zucchini. Repacking zucchini was one of the most detested jobs at Stoll Family Farms. It was very time consuming, you had to pick up every blink’in zucchini and scrutinize it to make sure it didn’t have spots plus if it had a runny nose you had to chop it off.  In short it was boring as a wet rag in a dark hole.

 

As I was saying, Lindsay Cousin and I were working away, bored to death in a doghouse. I faintly heard some racket from Billy’s direction but I paid it no heed. It was quite normal for Billy to make a tremendous amount of noise. It was when he didn’t make noise that it was time to pay attention.

 

My Littlest Uncle was working away in the cooler on some other job of great gravity. All was relatively quiet except for the dull roar emanating from Billy’s general location. But no one paid him any mind.

 

My Other Uncle’s Oldest Daughter, (I called her Queen Anne when I wanted to annoy her and so she will be called in this story) had to leave the cooler on some errand of importance. In her travels she passed Billy in the midst of his difficulty. He was having trouble with his pallet cart. It simply would not go into the skid. He pushed harder, harder yet, and again. Pulled the cart out and took a run at the skid. Still no go. How long this had been going on no one really knew, Billy was not one to give up easily. However, Queen Anne passing in her travels took one look at the situation and immediately divined where the trouble lay.

 

But….. Now what? For her to accost the boisterous Billy might be construed as showing an interest in him. That would never do. Dear me!! What a situation. Billy kept hammering. Queen Anne, after a moments reflection, fled to the cooler and agitatedly said to the Littlest Uncle,”Why doesn’t he look at the other end of the skid??!!” Littlest Uncle left his job of great gravity and followed Queen Anne outside to where Billy was doggedly determined to blast his pallet cart through the skid with dynamite if that was what it took.

 

Littlest Uncle got a look of great amusement on his face, then concealed it (barely) with a look of great compassion and took Billy by the hand,” Come let me help you,” he said. He led Billy around to the other end of the skid, and behold, the problem, another pallet cart was inserted into that end keeping Billy’s cart out.

 

Billy let out a great roar of disgust. All that hard work for nothing.

 

And we…. Lindsay Cousin and I, we literally laughed ourselves into oblivion. There is something about going from utter lethargy to utter hilarity in several seconds that is dangerous to human existence.

The Old Outhouse

Way back when in my early years of working for Stoll Family Farms, I was probably 16 or 17 at the time, my friend and I would go swimming in the creek that ran right behind the warehouse. At one point in time we used to go swimming almost every day. I’m not sure how we got away with it as it was a rather public place and the Amish tend to frown on the lack of clothes that swimming generally entails.
Well one day when got back we were a little slow in changing out of our swimming trunks. It was hot or something. We got started running in circles on the concrete floor. That turned into a real racing game, which turned into something else and, yeah we were just in no hurry to get back into our clothes.

 

Somehow or the other we got separated from our clothes by the presence of a staid old Amish gentleman. Someone who would have been mortified to see us in our skins.  While the elderly gentleman was hollering, “Hello! Anyone around?” we retreated around the corner and up the stairs into the room where the boxes were stored. After some muttering under his breath about the lack of staff he decided to get what he came for himself. Well it so turned out he had come to get boxes. Wooops!!!! Fortunately there were a lot of nooks and crannies and we knew them all. We managed to escape detection but it was way too close.

 

There was an old outhouse out behind the barn that got used for all calls of nature. Trips to the out house were of a rather secretive nature. Somehow we started a tradition of throwing rocks onto the metal roof whenever we saw one of our buddies slip into the outhouse. One day my friend got smart. He made a run for the outhouse but instead of stopping he kept on going, circled the barn and came back up behind us and watched us belabor the roof with stones for a while before making his presence known. We were not impressed!

 

Then one the day we broke that tradition, permanently. My friend was sure he saw me enter the outhouse and made the most of the opportunity. But then the door opened and an elderly spinster rather cautiously emerged. Needless to say he beat a very hast retreat.

 

We worked a crazy schedule. It was nothing unusual for me to start work at 10 am and quit at 3 am the next morning. All that made for long days and having enough food to last the day was sometimes a problem. Incidentally, that was where I learned to cook. One day, because we wanted to make a point, we caught a sparrow in the barn, cooked it inside a squash and ate it. Then peddled the story to make it look like we were starving.

 

Every night after everything was done we had to take inventory for the book keeper. A most dreaded job. It was 2 am and we were weaving through the isles tired to a state of drunkenness, trying to get an accurate count of 30 different kinds of produce. There were several boxes of product simply missing. Gone. My uncle (at that point in time he was younger and could still be very funny) declared up and down and sideways that a Green Dragon had eaten them, all the while looking furtively at the dark dragon ridden corners. We reported the missing boxes as eaten by the Green Dragon. Unfortunately we failed to convince the book keeper, probably because it was no longer dark when she got there.

 

Several days later my cousin and I were at CAM sorting clothes when behold! A stuffed Green Dragon, spitting image of the one Uncle had seen in the dark corners, came down the clothes tube. Well that Dragon went home with us, lured by promises of all kinds of vegetables to eat. We perched him in a corner where Uncle was sure to see him and waited.

 

A little while later Uncle came by with a stern, I told you so look on his face. “See!”, he said, “I caught him!! He was in a box of half eaten squash. We are going to have to hang him.” And so we did. With a piece of fishing line fastened to the kerosene line for the lights.

 

Not long after we had simply too many squash. As if they had appeared out of nowhere. We concluded that the Green Dragon had repented and returned the squash he stole. How he managed that while dangling from a fish line we never did figure out.

Full Throttle

Most people have the idea that the Amish lifestyle is very laid back and simple. They speak yearningly of the good old days when life was not so complicated. Well, I hate to bust your bubble but the Amish lifestyle is anything but simple.

It is a total rat race. It is always going as fast as you possibly can, only to see your neighbor whip by with his pickup truck. It is working all day as hard as you can, wet with sweat, only to see your neighbor move his pile of manure in one evening with a front end loader. And his pile was twice as big as yours. It is a constant searching for loopholes in the system. Ways to hack it. Ways to make life easier without breaking any church rules and getting into hot water.

You make your horse go as fast as you can, then you give him steroids. (Lets not talk about the side effects…) You fill the wagon to over flowing and add one more. You feed the thrashing machine till the belts slip. Then you tighten the belts and feed the machine till the engine smokes black. And of course, sometimes you over do it and break something, but if you don’t max things out you aren’t getting anything done.

I’ve often wondered why we are wired that way. Seems to be bred into our genes. Life is about taking things to the limit. We seem to think that everything has built in safety features. Just like our church rules for example. We seem to need to know where the limits are. If you never stall the engine you will never know how much power it has. Or more importantly, how much smoke it can produce.

One place this tendency really shows up is when we go traveling. We feel like we aren’t getting any good out of the vehicle we are paying for unless it is full to the brim. Goodness! I’ve been in vehicles so full we had to take turns to fart.

Another simply complicated situation I remember was us trying to move a truck with a long cable and a forklift. The truck was 6 inches too far from the dock and we could not load it. Unfortunately, there were no “english” folks around to drive it for us. The forklift we had was properly neutered to keep it from going farther than the end of its umbilical cord, (lest someone drive it to town to get a coffee) and therefore couldn’t get to the truck. Hence the cable. If I remember correctly the operation ended in failure because of a torn cable. In retrospect I’m suspicious it was because we forgot about the parking brake. We ended up waiting until someone came to move it because, driving a truck 6 inches, was considered a crime.

Or how about the fellow who took a backhoe and disabled the transmission so it is no longer self propelled, and therefore Amish “legal”. He then hires someone to pull the backhoe from one residence to the other and does custom manure loading for the community. Yep, he handles manure with a backhoe. Beats a pitch fork any day.

Life on the outside can be frightfully scary. No longer can you expect a man in a black hat with a long beard to tell you if you go too far. No longer can you take everything and max it out to the uttermost with the assumption that there will be a built in safety feature. That you will run up against a fence somewhere before you pitch over the edge into hell. Life is now my responsibility.

Not that it has ever been anyone else’s.

Weirdly enough, the things I miss most are the stupid moments. The horse on steroids dancing a jig on the roof, the neutered backhoe rooting around in the manure pile, the clogged trashing machine the moment before it breaks, the frantic forklift desperately yanking on the cable attached to the stalwart truck……

That my friend, is the epitome of Amish. Simple in a brilliantly complicated heartwarming way.