The big day dawns, October 3, 2013. This is a pivotal day in my life. I take one last look at the bedroom that has been mine for the last few years. There were nights I battled loneliness in this room. I haven’t had a hug in years; the only thing to hug here was pillows. There were also nights where I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, thinking about the huge responsibility of selling a backlog of vegetables for the growers who were depending on me.
Other nights as I lay back on my pillow in the deep night hours after finally finishing at the dock, I could hear the comforting night sounds drifting through the open window, the nearby chirping and stirring of a summer farm night, and off in the distance across the fields the rumble of the diesel engine at the dock. Occasionally also a ThermoKing would roar to life or shudder to a stop on one of the trailers. Or one of the drivers would arrive and hook up to a loaded trailer, the deep-throated growl of diesel pistons as he pulled out of the yard and shifted gears down the country road, downshifting to turn north onto Carter Rd, then pick up speed again, and finally roar past our house with a huge whoosh, leaving the quiet night behind him again. I’d drift off to sleep here and wake up the next morning, often just in time to catch breakfast with the rest of the family and then head off to start another day of selling vegetables.
I turn and close the door to a chapter in my life. Another one awaits. An exciting, gigantic, irreversible leap.
A huge crowd gathers that day. Witnesses before God that Tina and I now vow to do life together, till death doth part. The beautiful old wedding hymns get sung. There’s lots of good food and the gifts pile up. And then it is evening. The last song is sung. The last handshake is done. The crowd is gone. I hitch up and Mr. and Mrs. Stoll head off into the night down College line towards our new home. I grasp the lines in one hand and gingerly feel for Tina’s hand, we smile at each other in the darkness — our first physical touch.
The house we now called home was where my Gascho great-grandparents lived out their final days together. An old house nestled among giant evergreens. Somewhere a downspout creates a loud dripping on rainy nights. We gradually adjust to this new and exciting life. It’s pretty special to walk across the yard doing chores and see this lady in the window wave at me. My woman! My wife! I love you.
The honeymoon that Fall consisted of husking acres of corn together. Day after day we hitched the team to the gravity wagon and worked our way up and down the rows. Mostly yellow ears, occasionally we find a red one and we get to pause for a kiss. We finally finish the last row sometime in November. The following day it snows, and we’re glad that job was done… too much longer and it may have started rubbing at our relationship in the wrong direction.
My great grandfather’s dying words had been, “Haltet fest” (holdfast). A gigantic task, with the constant threat of worldly influence and the perpetual erosion of the Amish way. In that first year, I frequently marveled at how good it felt to have my own house and home. All the struggles and challenges of my teen years were finally behind me. Within a few months, I upgraded to the expected four-inch brim on my Sunday morning hat. I was in good standing with the church. An upstanding member and family unit in the community. I was committed to preserving the Amish way for future generations.
My job at the dock also put me in a position of influence and responsibility in the community. Gone were the days of being a miserable nobody. Thank you, Lord, for your goodness toward me!
P.S. You may wish to read the next post First Time Parents.