Broken Roads

by Ira Wagler

  August 4, 2000. A small crowd of guests gathered at a beautiful little wedding chapel in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. Quaint, cute, rustic, and almost impossibly small, the chapel sat nestled in the remote and wooded hills a few miles outside of town.

  We had decided this would be the simplest way to get married. Leave town, tell our friends and family, and let come who may. Rent a chapel, rent the preacher. No fuss, no hassle, no six months of all the strain and stress and planning almost universally associated with weddings.

  And it made sense to do that. We were both independent. Had lived on our own. I was a bit older, at thirty-eight. She was just shy of twenty-five. We were both transplants in the area where we lived. People would have to travel anyway to get there. Besides, neither of our sets of parents would attend our wedding, because it was too modern, too English. We didn’t really think about it that much. It’s just how it was. And that made the decision easier. Get out of town. Get it done. Then return.

  And so the plans were made. And the date set. Friday, August 4, 2000. Twenty days before my thirty-ninth birthday. She located the chapel and made the calls. Planned the details. I shuffled about and tried to stay out of the way, emerging when needed, clutching my credit card to make the reservations I was told to make.

  The date approached. Our excitement grew. Especially hers. I was more even-keeled, stoic. I had been comfortable on my own. I’d always figured I wouldn’t marry until I met that one exceptional woman. If she never came, I wouldn’t worry about it. I was pretty happy as I was.

  We packed her car and headed out the day before the wedding. Drove south. After a full day’s drive, we arrived in Tennessee, at the house rented by my brother and nephews for the occasion. A great party ensued, with much celebration.

  The wedding day dawned. Beautiful, clear, cloudless. We rushed about in final preparation. Drove to the courthouse and picked up our marriage license. Went back to the house. Then to the chapel. The service would be at four that afternoon.

  We met the pastor, a slight elderly man with a shock of gray hair, dressed in a long black robe. He carefully wrote down our names, and we chose the vows we would use. She then disappeared into her dressing room with her bridesmaids. I would not see her again until she walked the aisle toward me.

  The groom retired to his dressing room. That was me, on the only day in my life that I ever was a groom. I donned a new black suit. New shoes. New shirt. And a new tie, trimmed in black and gold and burgundy. I swore I would never wear the tie again after the wedding but would always keep it as a memento of that day.

  Guests arrived and wandered into the little chapel and seated themselves. About eighty in all. My siblings. Her siblings. A few friends. But not our parents. Not hers or mine. They refused to attend such a worldly affair. We’d never expected them to come. But they also refused to wish us well or bless the union. Well, it was both the fathers who were hard core. Our mothers simply loved us and always, always accepted us as much as they could get away with. Still, the fact remained that our parents would not attend or wish us well. That was pretty much like they released the equivalent of a curse instead, I’ve always thought. It just was. Our fragile bonds of marriage would have been stretched tight enough without all that extra pressure.

  And then it was time. The elderly pastor led the groom and his attendants into the chapel through the little door in the rear. The pastor stood behind the podium. I stood to his left, the groomsmen spread to either side.

  The music started. The little nieces walked up first, carrying baskets. Spreading silk flower petals along the aisle. Then came the bridesmaids, one by one.

  The wedding march. All rose and turned, their eyes glued to the door. And she entered, a vision in white, a wisp of veiling obscuring her lovely face. Her older brother by her side, she walked up slowly and stood before the pastor.

  “Who gives this woman to be married?” the good pastor intoned dramatically.

  “Her family and I do,” her brother answered almost inaudibly.

  She stepped up onto the little platform and faced me. We held each other’s hands. Looked into each other’s eyes.

  The pastor had performed a thousand such little ceremonies for people he’d never seen before or since. With practiced ease, he opened with a prayer, then read a short passage from the love chapter: 1 Corinthians 13. His calm voice rumbled through the tiny chapel. He then turned his attention to the excited, eager couple before him.

  He addressed the bride. “Love your husband. Meet him at the end of each day with a smile. Comfort and encourage him as a man. The man. Your man. Be true to each other.”

  And then the groom. “Honor and love your wife. Look to her as you did during your courtship days. Let not sorrow cloud her brow or her eyes be dimmed with tears.”

  And then we exchanged vows. Slipped the rings onto each other’s hands. By the power vested in him by the state of Tennessee, and before God, the pastor pronounced us husband and wife. Together we lit the large unity candle as Michael W. Smith sang her favorite song. And no, I don’t remember what the song was.

  The pastor then presented us to the assembled guests as husband and wife. And we walked out hand in hand as Aaron Tippin belted out one of my all-time favorite country songs, the words I chose to have engraved on the inside of my wedding band: “For you, I will.” We stood at the entry of the little chapel and received accolades and congratulations from all our friends. The entire service had lasted nineteen minutes.

  After the reception, during which everyone was amply fed, a group of our friends escorted us to a nearby nightclub for champagne and dancing. In the glitz of the nightclub lights, we laughed and celebrated with uninhibited exuberance.

  As the night hours slipped away, we held each other close and slow-danced across the gleaming hardwood floor in the soft strobing lights. Our futures, our entire lives, lay before us. Together from this day.

  We knew we would grow old together. That God’s gentle hand would reach down and touch us and bless our lives with children. That we would live to see our children grow. That our sons would be as plants grown up in their youth and walk the land, tall and strong and confident. That our daughters would be as cornerstones and bring us great joy and honor.

  That we would live lives rich and full of years. Until that inevitable hour when death called one of us away. And separated us.

  This we knew in our hearts. As we danced the hours away on that enchanted, magical night.

  Stone Angel

  I remember the breath and feel of that Saturday afternoon decades ago. Cool and cloudy, pretty much a normal March day. I remember it as a special day, unlike any I had seen before or have seen since. Because Ellen and I were going to check out a house someone had offered to us for sale. We wanted to see if it would be suitable for our first home.

  We didn’t have a lot back in those days. Not even the credit scores needed for a standard home loan. And this was back when credit was easy, compared to now. The thing was, August was coming right up, real soon. And the wedding date. We needed a place, a home to live in. I mentioned as much to one of my Amish customers one day, and he told me he had a house he’d sell us. It would be just what we needed, he thought. Not only that, he’d finance it for us, too. We were eager to see it. It would have to be pretty rough not to suit us, we figured. And that March afternoon we picked up the Amish man and took him over to check it out.

  It was a nondescript house, really, right along the main drag on Route 23. Just a big, square, hip-roofed, two-story building on a small slanted lot. With a big old block garage off to the north side. But we were excited. And we walked through the place eagerly. It was pretty basic: four rooms and a stairwell leading down to a dank basement. And a small enclosed porch on the north side, with a very tiny bathroom with a shower stall on one end. The kitchen was fine just like it was, Ellen thought. And sure, the house was old and a little battered here and there, but we could see a home in it. Just tear out and replace some ugly old shag ca
rpet, and it would be all we could ever dream of. We told the man we’d take it.

  It was big and solidly built of bricks, the kind of house you see all around the area here. With a great many very large dull windows in every wall. “Good grief,” I grumbled. “Why so many windows? Didn’t they have electricity back then?” And these were old-style wood-framed windows, too, from all the way back to when the house was built in the late 1920s. Windows that would have to be replaced before too long. But you don’t think about things like that, not when you’re reaching out to grasp something you’ve never done before. We were young and eager, as any engaged couple would be. And we were impressed with the house. The upstairs was a rental unit, which would provide income to help pay the mortgage. That left the downstairs for us. It was functional, and that’s about all it was. But we didn’t need fancy. All we wanted was a home to call our own.

  The price was good in the free market, the terms were good as well. And within a few days, we signed an agreement of sale for the place. After the wedding, we’d transfer it to joint ownership, as husband and wife. I handed the man a check for $5,000, money that Ellen had carefully scrimped for and saved. There was nothing even close to that much money in my account. I had wandered pretty much all my life. And believe me, from what I’ve seen, that old saying is right on. A rolling stone does not gather any moss. I can tell you that firsthand.

  The closing date arrived, and we settled. The man signed over the deed, and we signed the mortgage. And I took it to the county courthouse, where such things are filed and recorded. That’s where the real estate records reflect countless tales of dreams born and later shattered. As our own record would show soon enough. And one Saturday shortly after that, a few of my redneck buddies helped me move in. And I lived here by myself. Ellen was over all the time, of course, and we scraped together some furnishings for the house, for when we would live in it together. A new pale-green couch from a discount warehouse. An old table and some chairs, scrapped from an auction somewhere. Just your odd mixture of stuff to live with, stuff that makes a home.

  After the wedding, she moved in. Here we were, set up in our own little home. And the neighbors hovered with watchful eyes. We greeted them, got to know them a bit. And they told us this old house had a pretty bad reputation over a lot of years. Tenants drifted in and out, came and went. And things got rowdy pretty often. Lots of yelling and cursing and fighting going on. It was not unusual, the neighbors claimed, to see cop cars at the place with lights flashing just about any time of the night. We just listened and smiled. Calmingly, I think. That kind of rowdiness was over in this house, we felt. No way anything like that will ever happen while we live here. And the neighbors seemed pleased and welcomed us.

  The house was old and in disrepair. It had once stood grand and proud. But now, not so much. A lot of the mortar was missing in the brick joints. Long strips and little pocked places here and there. There was plenty of empty space between the bricks in the walls of the house. And all those windows were just flat-out worn out. A few were stuck, you couldn’t even open them properly. And they were all old and leaky.

  But it was soon visible to anyone who knew the place before. This time it was different. Not because of me, because I was pretty comfortable with the way things were outside. I’m a guy. Hey, if the place is half cleaned up, I’m cool with it. Just as it is. I’m not in competition with anyone to have the nicest place. I don’t understand that mind-set.

  Being that laid back is generally not acceptable to a woman, though. And Ellen had a few ideas about how we could improve the place, make it look better. The unkempt row of raggedy shrubs on the west side of the front porch, those had to go. “I want to plant flowers there,” she said. Yes, dear. I borrowed a skid loader, and a friend helped me rip out the shrubs one Saturday morning. And then the flowers needed planting.

  And over here, more beds to till and mulch. It all had to be mulched. I never was aggressive about such things, but I did what I was told. And after the flowers came a garden. A little sliver of land, right on the west side of the garage. Probably ten by twenty feet, if that. I rented a little Honda tiller and broke and tilled the soil. And she planted her seeds. And soon the earth blossomed and brought forth its bounty. Tomatoes, lettuce, and all manner of other stuff. By the work of your hands and the sweat of your brow shall you eat. And we worked and ate the fruits of our labor. Those days were good. And the memories of them are good.

  And we lived here, in this old house of formerly unsavory repute, for close to seven years together. Good years, some of them, and turbulent years, too, some of them, especially toward the end. Let’s just say that two deeply hurting and flawed people could not see past each other’s wounds and flaws. And things just went the way they did.

  And yeah. I look back sometimes and wonder, When did it start? It’s hard to pinpoint the spot where I would have realized our marriage was in trouble. A thing like that starts out gradually, most times, I’d say. The first few years went as first years do for newlyweds. We both worked. I dressed in suit and tie every day and went to my attorney’s office. She worked as a licensed practical nurse while going to college part-time to earn her registered nurse’s degree. A real nurse. Ellen was a natural, beloved by everyone she cared for.

  We wanted children. Ellen would have made an excellent and natural mother. We tried to make it happen. And somehow, Ellen could not get pregnant. No baby. We grieved that. Well, she did more than I, probably. Still. I would have welcomed fatherhood, had that reality come knocking. I would have walked into it. I don’t know. I’ve always thought I’d be a decent father. Probably a little more laid back, just because my own father tended to be uptight. No way I can tell how it would have been, though. Because it wasn’t.

  I don’t know what else to tell about the seven years that passed. Somewhere in the middle, there was a little hiccup. My first realization that we had serious marriage issues. We separated for about six months. Ellen moved in with her older sister Arlene, who lived an hour west of our home. And we got back together on the first day of spring that year, the year of our rebuilding. We had come through some hard things. We had battled back. Now our eyes were bright with hope for the future.

  It didn’t last. I guess there was no way it could have. There were too many wounds in both our pasts, I think. A few years later, everything blew up again. For good, this time. Yeah, there are a lot of things that could be said about how it all went. Some bad choices were definitely made. Bad decisions. And there was a lot of pain and betrayal, too. I wandered in darkness and in rage for a while. And today, well, today, it’s a little strange. I don’t have a lot of details to tell. Still. From here, from where I am, still in this old house, I will say a few words about the aftermath.

  I’m divorced. That fact alone makes my writings go down hard in a lot of places. Who can speak truth from a place like that? It’s simple enough, such reasoning. It’s a lockstep thing, that reaction. I’m divorced. The first in my family to reach that wretched milestone. Among the first in a long broad lineage of purest Amish blood. How can you possibly get to that point without hearing the echoes from all those voices from way back? That’s how they told you it would go. And they may have been right. If you walk away from the safeguards you were taught, bad things will happen. And there’s a whole lot of judgment coming at you from certain quarters when you do and it does. And a whole lot of Scripture spouted about how it all is sin. But not a lot of talking, eye to eye. Not a lot of listening, either.

  And I concede. It’s true. I walked away from a lot of the stuff I was told and taught. And yeah, things blew up on me, big time, here and there. But that doesn’t mean bondage is superior to freedom. It’s not. And it never was. Rattle those chains of the law all you want, and tell me how sweet it is to be imprisoned and safe. We all choose how we will live. And I choose to walk free. I will face the battles life throws at me. I will take some pretty heavy hits from those battles now and then. That’s how life is when you rea
lly live it. I will show you the scars from those hits, those wounds, tell about them. I will walk on.

  I’m not quite sure how it all happened, the thought process that brought a stone angel to our house. A little stamped concrete statue, mass-produced in China or some such place where labor is cheap. It’s not like any stone statue could have much meaning to me. Except maybe this one. Maybe this stone angel meant more than I thought.

  And it’s strange, when I look back at it now, how it went with me and Ellen. Strange how we functioned in those final months before our parting, that heavy season of silent, almost unfathomable sorrow. We both knew what was coming. And it was a hard thing to face and walk through every day. But still, we got along. It’s not like you can ignore each other when you see each other every day. When you live together in the same house. Things were tense and very sad, but you had to keep walking. And we did. Just kept living. And even laughing some. And one Saturday afternoon in December, we decided to go to Park City Center mall to do some shopping. It was my idea to go. And she may have needed a few things, maybe some Christmas gifts, and probably some things to take with her when she left. That date was looming, coming right up in March. “Mind if I go with?” she asked.

  “Of course not. Come on. We’ll go in my truck,” I said. And off we went together to the mall.

  We wandered about, mostly window-shopping, chatting amiably. And we drifted in and out of stores. I forget the name of the particular store where the angel was. It’s not there anymore, hasn’t been for years. A place where they had all kinds of odd and fascinating stuff. And I saw it standing there on display. A stone angel, about three feet high. Looking into the distance, wings folded, tiny hands clasped in prayer. I stood there, just engrossed. And it stirred in me shades of Thomas Wolfe, my hero. His famous first novel and the stone angel in his father’s shop. Even his descriptive words applied, I thought: “Its stupid white face wore a smile of soft stone idiocy.”