I was born in 1989. It was the golden era of the Aylmer community. My grandparents had returned from their brief move to Honduras a decade and a half earlier. Great Grandfather Pete who died a foreigner in that distant land had made several attempts at trying something different, and always it came back to the Aylmer Amish life. This was the apex of society, the best of the best. Aylmer was free of the vices that plagued many of the more strict communities, there was no smoking or drinking, the youth didn’t do any rumspringa stuff, hands off courtship was the norm and strictly enforced. In Aylmer we were also free of the modern distractions that more liberal churches allowed, we didn’t have bikes or cars. Of course, radio, and TV were completely unheard of and unthinkable.
Finally, there was Pathway Publishers. Hundreds of thousands of lives were being shaped and guided towards the holy life by the monthly magazines, Family Life, Young Companion, and Black Board Bulletin. There was an entire suite of school books. Plus many many family-friendly books for all ages.
Aylmer, the city on a hill.
I arrived one chilly and dark night in April. Too soon and ahead of my time. I was a pitiful little guy. Tiny little hands. Wee little feet. The fuzz of a premature baby covered my face. Would I survive?
I did. After a few weeks at the hospital, I was allowed to quarantine at home. Life in the little house in the old orchard at the Cephas Kauffman farm took on a new normal. My parents had an abrupt and early transition to parenthood.
Life on the farm was as good as it gets. Dad and Uncle James worked together, plowing, cutting firewood, cooking maple syrup, planting, mowing hay, cultivating corn, threshing, filling silo, husking corn, and hauling manure. The work was all done by hand and with horses. Twice a day the two couples milked the 20 some cows. Every few days the milkman arrived to haul off the accumulated bovine lactate. A cheque was left once a month. There was also a small farrowing barn. The pigs provided some extra cash. Life was simple. What is simple is good.
Alas, the wind of change is inevitable and relentless. Within a year after my abrupt entry, the community was shaken to the core. Great Uncle Elmo who was bishop in Aylmer, and an influential and widely respected author suddenly pulled up stakes and moved with a number of families to try something different, something that was not quite Amish. The Aylmer community itself would not ever be the same again.
Old Bishop Jake Eicher passed away shortly after, none of his sons ever matched his revered rank. With Elmo and Jake both gone the task of shepherding the three districts fell to a young thirty-something, a Stoll, son of Joseph.
The community worked tirelessly to keep the lights on and the world at bay. Another young man was hit by the lot. This time my uncle Daniel. He too stepped up to the gigantic task of Bishop.
It was the last days. The Lord may return at any moment! Oh that there might still remain a few righteous to greet Him and return to glory with Him.
The relentless wheels of time chugged on, and on. Change, persistent and unyielding chipped away at “the way things have always been”. The year I turned five we moved to a rented farm. The old Herrfort place, across from Grozdats. We moved into the new part of the house, it was light and airy. There was an old brick section towards the road which we opened up only when we had church at our house. That part of the house was intimidating to a five-year-old. Decades and decades of untold stories reverberated from its walls. The steep staircase and sloping ceilings of the upstairs rooms… the dark and dungeon-like basement complete with stone walls and barred windows.
There was a nice but small barn and several dilapidated sheds and lean-to barns also. We fixed up an area and got a barn full of baby calves. One day a rabid fox visited the barn, that was frightening and caused numerous nightmares.
Because the barn was small we decided to bale hay rather than put it up loose like we always had at the big farm. Now, the way this was done was the baler was parked in the barnyard, a motor was set up off to the side with a belt to the baler. Then loads of loose hay got hauled up to the baler and forked into its hungry mouth.
This was a new and exciting adventure for me. I was all over, watching and figuring things out as Dad and several of his brothers worked at setting up the baler. Suddenly I spied a curiously tiny wheel that wasn’t even touching the ground. “Dad, what’s that wheel for?”
Dad paused his work and looked, “Oh, that’s for English people to bale out in the field.” He continued his work.
I sat back to process this bit. “English people… they didn’t go to heaven right... That small wheel must be a tool of the devil!!”
I overheard one of my uncles say something to Grosdat about my bare head. “Ah, a straw hat was NOT English. I’d better go get mine!” (Runs to the house), “There, now I was Amish. And on the straight and narrow way”.
Well, time moved right along. Summer days turned to fall, followed by winter. Spring always comes at some point and the years came and went. One day, about five years later I am spending some time at my Mom’s parents. A highlight of staying there was running around and playing with Cousin Joseph.
We ran out back behind Uncle Marvin’s collar shop, Joseph and I. There was a solar wax melter back there, we stopped for a gummy treat of wax, honey, and slumgum. Yum! Then as the team and wagon rolled by we yelled for a ride. Uncle Sam helped us up, and down the farm lane we bumped and rattled.
Nothing would have prepared me for the sight at the field. Unbelievable. Neat and straight across the field marched fluffy windrows of hay. Butterflies flitted about and cottony clouds moved across the sky. The sun was in its proper place. But, off to one side, there were rows that were not fluffy. Bale after bale lined up and down across the field. And moving steadily along one windrow was Grandpa with the team and a baler. The small wheel bump-bumping along as the pickup hungrily gobbled at the windrow ahead.
I looked at Joseph. And back at the field of hay. “What is going on? What is Grandpa doing!!”
“Oh, he’s baling hay.”
“B-uut, but why is he doing that in the field?”
“Well, the ministers said it’s ok to do so now.”
My mind was reeling, here is Grandpa driving up and down the field in broad daylight sinning a steady stream of bales, and the ministers said it was ok!! Unbelievable.
This really was the last days. Drift and the erosion of the good life were as sure as the waves at the beach. I vowed that I would preserve the perfect golden age. As long as I lived there’d be at least one person who knew how to farm and do things by hand. At least one individual would still be able to sing the old and majestic tunes that had been sung by generations. I would preserve the faith. Single-handedly if need be.
One day in church as I felt the weight of “keeping the faith” it dawned on me that the church was to be God’s Church, not mine. And that He has kept the church over the centuries without my help. I can actually release this and trust Him with it all. I was around 15 at the time. This was a huge realization for me, yet I still carried a burden and responsibility well above my age. And that lifestyle was an idol to me for many years.
It is still a stretch for me sometimes to look back and see where I have come from and compare that to the life I now live. There is a hint of nostalgic sadness to think that my children don’t know the joy of snuggling down into a tall load of sweet-smelling hay, the steel wheels rumbling far below.
But then I see my little five-year-old biking furiously up and down the drive, sliding to a stop or jumping over a ramp he set up. In my childhood, I could hardly have dreamed of such fun.
And I know that he will not need to battle all the same battles I did. He will have other things to battle. And God will be there for him and come through just as surely as he has for me.
P.S. You may find this post about the Herrforts by Ira Wagler interesting. Ode to Nicholas: A Song for the Unsung.