Broken Roads

by Ira Wagler

  The border came at me right on schedule. And it wasn’t all that backed up. I pulled up to the guard shack and handed over my US passport and my Canadian birth certificate. Like I always do on the way up. You can’t keep me out, I’m telling them. I was born up here. (On the way back, of course, the Canadian birth certificate stays out of sight when I hand over my passport.) The guard was polite enough. Where was I going and how long did I expect to be in the country? “Not sure,” I told him. “I’ll be up for a few days, at least. Maybe a few days longer than that, if my father dies. He’s in a coma. So I don’t know.” The guard handed back my papers and waved me through. And this time, if I remember correctly, the day was cloudy and cold when I drove into the land of my birth. Not sunny and clear, like it often was going up there.

  I always take Highway 3 West. It’s two-lane, but it’s the most direct. It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other, the time it takes to travel either route over to Aylmer. I take the two-lane road because I like it. And I moved along, making good time. At this rate, I’d be out at the farm where Dad lived a few minutes before four. And now my mind was not on little things. Now I was focused, getting close. Focused on getting emotionally steeled up for what I was about to walk into. It was a new place I’d never seen before, the place I was going to. And it was a new road, too, getting there. Amish Black pulsed along, holding steady in the light flow of traffic. Tillsonburg, coming up. That’s getting close. Next town after that was Aylmer. Just east of Tillsonburg, there’s a silly little traffic roundabout. I detest those things. I also know I’m getting real close to my original home turf when I pass through this one. It came and went. Onward, westward.

  Carter Road was coming up. The next one would be Walker. That was where I’d turn, and then a mile or so to the drive that led to where Dad was. I signaled, then turned. The side road was paved, kind of. And driving along there, I did what I sometimes do when things are getting heavy in the air. I crossed myself. I admire and respect the sign of the cross as a gesture of communication with God. The Catholics got that one right. And I spoke in my heart to the Lord: God, I don’t know what exactly is coming at me. But you do. I know you are with me. Guide me. Guide my heart and guide my words. I trust you. I am not afraid.

  It was a long lane from the road back to the farm where Dad lived. And that lane was winding and bumpy and wet and muddy. I bounced along. As I neared the buildings, a long-top buggy came at me from the other way. The buggy pulled off into the grass as we got close. I stopped and rolled down my window. Who were these people?

  The buggy door rolled open. It was my cousin Edwin Wagler, the elderly widower. He was one of Abner’s older boys. The back door of the buggy opened, and Fannie Mae stepped out. She was Edwin’s sister and my cousin, too, of course. Fannie Mae had been Dad’s most faithful assistant with his writings and all four volumes of his latest works. She’d helped him get it together and keep it together, and she’d helped him get the books published and distributed all over the Amish world. It really was an astounding accomplishment for Dad, and he never would have gotten it done without Fannie Mae. I chatted very briefly with them both. Said hi, basically. And that I was here to see Dad. They assured me that my arrival was greatly anticipated at the house. I rolled up the window and drove on.

  I’m trying to remember now. It was a few minutes before four when I pulled up to the buildings and parked my Jeep off to the side on the grass. And it was also basically dark. I hadn’t connected that before, how dark it was that early. I walked across the yard and up the deck to the front door of my father’s house. The place was well lit. I could see people in there. I opened the door and walked in. I was immediately greeted with a big hug from my sister Naomi. She had arrived a few days before, and she and Rosemary were here now with Dad. Rosemary came, too, hugged me. Both of them couldn’t get done exclaiming, “We are so glad you came.”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “I wanted to, and here I am.” I walked around and shook hands with a few others seated in the small room. My niece Ida Mae. Her sister Naomi with her husband, Peter. And then I was at the door of the tiny bedroom. The doorway, rather. There was no door. This was the room where Dad had always had his desk set up before. They’d made it into a bedroom. The old bedroom, where he had always slept before, the same exact room where Mom had died, that bedroom had a nice bed for the people who came to be with Dad to sleep on. Usually two people came, maybe husband and wife. And one of them slept while the other one sat up with Dad. Anyway, that was why the little house was laid out like it was when I got there.

  I walked to the door to Dad’s bedroom. Rosemary followed close behind. A small bed was there against the wall. Rosemary’s husband, Joe, sat at the foot of the bed, on a chair. And I stood there at the head of the bed and looked down on the frail and wasted shell of the man who was my father. I didn’t recoil. Well, inside I did. But outside, I tried hard to make it so no one would notice. He was on his back, covered with a thin blanket. You could see only his face. This was the way of all flesh. I barely recognized him. His beard was a mere wisp, curled under his chin. His cheeks were gaunt and sunken, his eyes were closed tight, and he gasped for air through his nose and mouth. Well, maybe gasping isn’t the right word. He was breathing hard, as hard as I’d ever heard any man breathe. But he was breathing steady.

  And the others in the house told him, with forced cheer, “Dad, Dad, Ira is here. Ira is here.” They had told him I was coming. And they were pretty sure he had heard them. And now I was here. I went to the other side of the bed, tight against the wall. He could feel that hand, they said. So I held that hand in my own. It was scarred and old, his fingers frozen in place. But I squeezed it. “Dad, it’s me. Ira. I came to see you.” There was nothing, not a hint of response. I held his hand for a few moments, looking down on his tortured face, then gently set it on the bed. Somewhere about here, Simon and his wife, Kathleen, came over from the big house. They smiled and welcomed me. We shook hands.

  And they told me, all of them, as we stood there looking down, how the man had suffered. He was on his back, they couldn’t move him. There were sores. He had not eaten food in a week. And he’d had no water for the last three days. They could only swab his lips. If he swallowed water, it would instantly flood his lungs and drown him. This, then, was the ugliness of death. That was what Pastor Mark had called it, back when he prayed for Dad in church the Sunday morning before: “The family awaits the ugliness of death.” This was it. This was what the pastor was talking about. I sat down on a chair at the head of the bed, almost in a daze. And just about right then, they started singing, the others in the house.

  Their voices echoed through the small house, haunting, surreal, and beautiful. There were half a dozen people, maybe ten. And they were singing for my father in his pain. It was enough to make you weep. I know I wiped away a few tears. Lord, look at this poor, tired, broken shell of a man. Look how he suffers. Can’t you just come and take him? “How beautiful heaven must be,” they sang. I sure hope it is, to make this worth it. Oh my. Look at how hard he works to draw the air in and push it out. “There is rest, by and by,” they sang. How about sooner, rather than later, Lord? “Some sweet day when life is o’er, we shall meet above,” they sang. Yes. Yes, we will. But, Lord, look how hard he suffers.

  Sometime, early on, I had mentioned that I wanted a little time alone with my father. Of course. No one made any fuss. And soon Rosemary told the others, “Let’s go over to the house and give Ira a few minutes alone with Dad.” They all filed out and walked across the deck to the big house. I waited until everyone had left and the front door had shut. Now. Now I was alone with Dad just like I’d asked for. I stood and held his hand on that side. His right hand. The unresponsive one. I stood there, looking down at the wasted shell of a body that was right on the threshold, right on the precipice of death’s door.

  There were no tears. I did not weep. I simply held my father’s hand and looked down on his face. His eyes stayed closed, his mo
uth was open, and his labored breathing came steady but hard. It was work, every bit of air he drew into his lungs. I did not have a speech prepared. I knew what I wanted to say. The words would have to come on their own. And I simply spoke my heart in my native tongue. In our native tongue, the language I’d heard my mother speak from the moment of my birth. “Dad. It’s me. Ira. I came to see you.”

  And I told him then, “I’m here for your sons. Titus told me to tell you he can’t make it today. I’m here for him. I’m here for all the boys. They would come if they could. But they can’t. It’s time to go to where Mom is. You must go. There is nothing for you here, Dad, not anymore. You’re suffering a lot. You must go to Mom. You have to go.” And he may have been afraid. I don’t know. He never made any motion, never indicated that he was afraid or that he heard a word I said. Still. I spoke calmingly. “Du musht nett angst hava. [You don’t have to be afraid.] Mom is there, waiting. Jesus is there, too. You can go to them. Just let go. You have to let go, Dad. Let go of the pain. Let go and rest.”

  The others came back in soon. And I can’t recall the exact sequence of things. In such an eventful moment, some details will be a little foggy. The small details, I mean. At some point, Simon’s wife, Kathleen, came over with a great tray of food. And at some point, my sister Naomi’s husband, Alvin, arrived from their home in Arkansas. Just pulled right in, in his big red Dodge pickup. Made me a little lonesome for Big Blue, that did. The pickup I’d had before my Jeep. Alvin was shown to Dad’s room, just like I had been. He absorbed the brutal scene.

  And then we all sat around and ate and talked and caught up. Soon, plans were made for the evening and that night. Alvin and Naomi would go get her luggage from Rosemary’s, then go get a room at the Comfort Inn in Saint Thomas. Then they would come back to the house. At ten o’clock, my niece Naomi and her husband, Peter, would come, and my sister Naomi and her husband would leave. Meanwhile, my sister Rosemary and her husband, Joe, would stay with Dad until Alvin and Naomi got back around eight. And I chose to stay there in the house with them. I had just arrived. Might as well hang out here with Dad. He’s the man I came to see.

  People scattered. And then it was just me and Rosemary and Joe in the house with Dad. Just the three of us. Joe sat on a chair at the foot of the bed. I sat in a chair by Dad’s head. Joe and I visited sporadically about this and that. Rosemary sat in the tiny living room just outside the door, a few feet away, facing me. I talked to them both, first facing Joe, then facing Rosemary. And I sighed, a little dramatically. The way Dad was breathing, he’d be around a few days. Of that I had no doubt whatsoever. I sighed again. And I told Joe, “Well, whatever happens, I’m here until it’s over. I’m not going anywhere until Dad leaves.”

  Joe looked at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something. Dad had stopped breathing. He breathed again, then stopped. Rosemary looked in, staring keenly. “What’s happening in there?” she asked sharply.

  “He’s not breathing,” I said. I got to my feet. Joe did, too. Rosemary came through the door. We stood in line beside the bed, looking down at Dad. Me at his head. Rosemary in the middle. Joe at his feet. We stared at his face intently. Clearly, something unusual was going on. He breathed, then stopped. For what seemed like a long time but was only seconds, probably. Breathed, then stopped.

  Rosemary turned to her husband. “Joe, go get the others,” she said. Joe turned and disappeared. An instant later, the door slammed and he clumped across the deck to the big house, where Simon and Kathleen and their children were seated at the table, eating supper. My niece Ida Mae was with them. Joe ran up to the screen door. He never bothered to open it. He simply pounded hard. When everyone looked out, he motioned to them. Come. And he turned and ran back to the house. Everyone clamored after. In the back of my mind, I heard them rushing into the small kitchen toward us.

  They filed in, Simon and Kathleen and Ida Mae and some of the children. And Joe. We all stood, close around the bed. Dad had gasped a few times when Rosemary and I stood there alone together. “He is dying,” she said softly to me.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “He’s quit breathing before, you all told me.”

  “Not like this,” my sister half whispered back. “This is different.” I looked at Dad’s face. There was no recognition of anything, but simply an emaciated body gasping its last. The ugliness of death in a broken world, that’s what was coming down right before us. A few small catches of air when everyone stood there around him.

  We all saw him breathe his last breath. I had never seen a person die before, not up close like that. And now I watched my father leave. There was no struggle. He simply stopped breathing. Then his face set, and his body relaxed.

  It was over. My father was dead. David L. Wagler had left his earthly body.

  The Past and

  Dad’s History

  December 10, 1921. It was early winter, a long time ago. The cold winds swept in from the northwest and swirled through the raggedy little clapboard farmhouse, there in the Daviess countryside. Farmhouses back then were not insulated. It was just bare walls against the elements. I don’t know if there was snow on the ground back on December 10, 1921. There easily might have been. I asked Dad a few times over the years, “What was the day like when you were born?” He always was vague about any specific details. Which means he never asked about it much and didn’t know. Either that or the adults in his childhood world never took the time to tell him, because it wasn’t important. Still. One can wonder from here. And one does.

  The world was a vastly different place that many years ago. Unimaginably different. The murderous Great War had just ended a few years before. And the Spanish flu was just winding down, too, about the time Dad made his appearance. It was a hard place he was born into. It’s probably about as much a miracle as it isn’t, that he even survived at all. But he did. He was a sturdy son, of tough and hardy stock.

  He was born into a family that had its own dark mark of shame to bear, though. The Waglers of Daviess County, Indiana. I’m not sure if my father heard much about it when he was young. I know he never spoke about any of it to us. There had to be whisperings and knowing looks and gossip during his childhood. There just had to be. There was a dark blot on the family name. It had happened barely a generation before. Dad’s grandfather, his father’s father, Christian, was a deeply disturbed man. The pure Wagler blood coursed through him. I know a little bit about that blood. Near as we can piece it together this many years later, he recoiled, mentally and emotionally, from the harsh realities of life around him. Until he simply could not take it anymore. He shot himself in the chest in 1891, at age thirty-six.

  It was morbid, how he did it. He tied the gun to some saplings, ran a string from the trigger back around the sapling to his hand, and pulled the trigger. A very sick man, he told his young sons to come and see when they heard the shot, as he might have killed a “birdie.” Dad’s father, Joseph K., was one of those young boys who came running. The trauma of the scene was probably never fully wiped clean from the mind of the young man who grew up to be my grandfather.

  At least Christian didn’t physically hurt anyone else. A suicide is always a shameful thing in Plain cultures. There is dark sin buried somewhere, some curse from way back. That’s what people think to themselves and mutter to each other. It was exponentially more shameful back then than it is now. It took a generation or two to even begin to live down the stain of such a deep shame as that.

  Dad came along quite a few years after that stain was unleashed. And his father, Joseph K., had managed to work his way up in status to an upstanding member of the community, there in Daviess. He was somber, not given to silliness and cheap jokes. And he was a deacon in the church, yet. So the Wagler blood was struggling to return to respectability back in 1921.

  Christian’s widow, Mary, remarried and moved out of Daviess with her new husband. How she ever attracted another man remains a mystery to me. He had to come from a hard place, too, I always fi
gured. He was from Mount Ayr, Indiana, and they moved to Nappanee after they got married. And Dad told me a little story once when we were talking.

  He went on a trip with his father, Joseph K., and his mother, Mrs. Joseph K.—Sarah, I think her name was. They traveled on the train. Dad was five years old. So this would have been around 1926. The Roaring Twenties. I’m not sure where they went, but they stopped in Nappanee on the way home to visit Joseph K.’s mom, Christian’s widow. They lived right there on the outskirts of town, Dad told me. He and his parents arrived one day and stayed overnight. The next morning, Dad decided to take a little walk there in Nappanee.

  He strolled about in the fresh morning dew, a little Amish boy of five. Blithely skipped along. Dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and little barn-door pants and galluses, I’m sure. And then he wanted to return to his grandmother’s house. He lost track of which one it was, there in the row. The houses all looked the same to him. That’s what he told me. And so he just walked right on into the house he thought was the right one. It wasn’t. It was the wrong house. The woman of the place squawked in surprise to see a grubby little boy in her home. Dad was all embarrassed. He quickly ran out and over one house to the right place. I had never heard this story before. I wondered what the world looked like to a five-year-old child that morning long ago in Nappanee, Indiana.

  The house is gone now, on the farm where my father was born and lived as a child. I mean, the house that was there then. A new house was built sometime in the 1960s, I think it was. And the old barn still stands. And the well and water pump out front along the fence, buried and unused in the weeds. Those are there. And the public school Dad attended as a young child. Parson’s Corner. It’s still there, right close to the farm. Not sure what it’s being used for these days. But it still stands.