Crossing Over

by Ruth Irene Garrett

  The Amish have a variety of concoctions they use to “cure” everything from acne to heart trouble—and in the case of my mother, open sores on one’s legs. They’re passed from community to community through Amish newspaper articles in The Budget or Die Botschaft.

  I can’t vouch for many of the remedies. They’re simply too odd. Like ingesting nine plump, steamed raisins a day to clear up acne. Or using strange-sounding products like Watkins Petro Carbon Salve (for corns), Silent Nitezzz (for snoring), and a light-green, slippery Chickweed Healing Salve (“Good for all skin disorders; skin cancer, cuts, burns, and poison ivy”). Or eating cayenne peppers and kelp to calm an irregular heartbeat.

  But some of them work; I know from firsthand experience. A honey-and-flour paste does wonders for drawing out splinters and bee stingers.

  There’s nothing homespun, though, for measles, chicken pox, whooping cough, and the like, and every year in Amish schools across the country there are uncontrolled outbreaks of disease. Fortunately, I contracted only one of them—chicken pox. I’m not prepared to take the same chances with my own children.

  I got my first shots at twenty-two—from a pediatrician of all things—and he told us to hold off on unprotected sex for two years to make sure the immunizations had taken properly. And so we did.

  But lately we’ve been wondering—with no pregnancy in sight—whether we’ll be able to have children. We’ve visited doctors and are trying a few twenty-first-century remedies. I am so preoccupied with the idea of having children—two at least, maybe four—that I’m willing to do whatever it takes.

  Ottie, who already has four children of his own either grown or living with their mothers, would also like more children, though he worries he might not live long enough to see them to adulthood.

  But we’re working on that, too. Ottie has begun a diet and exercise program in earnest, with plans to get down to 350 pounds by Christmas 2001. So far, so good. He’s lost fifty-three pounds in the first eight months.

  If we can’t have children together, I suppose we could have foster children or adopt, although both options have their unpleasantries.

  It would be hard to get attached to a foster child, only to have it yanked away at a moment’s notice. And if I went to an adoption home, I wouldn’t be able to pick just one. I’d want them all.

  I wouldn’t be able to stand the hurt look on the faces of the children who weren’t chosen.

  Twenty-Three

  How could you do such a thing and bring your family so much sorrow? Don’t you get lonesome for your nieces and nephews? These have been some of the questions in people’s minds and many people are concerned about your soul.

  —MARY ANN MILLER (COUSIN)

  I had expected that my leaving Kalona would lead to a ban and an estrangement with my family. What I hadn’t expected was how the news would spread among the Amish beyond Iowa, eventually seeping insidiously into my life as an English woman in Kentucky.

  For a time, it merely amounted to stares of disfavor whenever I encountered Amish in stores or restaurants who had heard of my departure. Some would even turn away.

  But what happened at an Old Order Amish grocery near Three Springs, northeast of Glasgow, was a shock of much greater proportion.

  I had shopped the store before without incident. On this particular day, however, searching for seed potatoes and kohlrabi, I was confronted by the store owner shortly after I entered.

  “Are you Ottie Garrett’s wife?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, I can’t sell to you then. You know how it is. We just can’t do it.”

  I returned to the van, told Ottie what had happened, and he drove to the front of the store and honked. The owner, fidgeting a bit, came out and approached the driver’s side window.

  “Hello, Ottie,” he said.

  “What’s the problem?” Ottie inquired.

  “You know the Amish way. I can’t sell to her because she’s in the ban. It’s got nothing personal to do with you, Ottie. It is with her that we have an issue.”

  “But you’ve served her here before.”

  “Well, I didn’t realize until recently who she was. You know I can’t do it, Ottie. You know that.”

  We paid a visit to the settlement’s bishop five minutes up the road, but he was of little help. He talked about how the rule was something passed down through generations—a frequent excuse for Amish inflexibility—and that it was not within his power to make an exception.

  “I wish it wouldn’t be that way,” he said, “but it is.”

  I could have forced the matter, as some X-Amish have done. I could have gathered my produce and walked to the counter. Because a ban requires other Amish to refrain from taking things from the hands of a shunned person, they would have neither accepted my money nor recovered the produce. They would have let me walk out of the store without paying.

  But, of course, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t have been right. It would have been tantamount to stealing.

  We also could have sued the owner. In the English world, it could be viewed as a form of discrimination. But we didn’t do that, either.

  We have, for the time being, filed it away as yet another example of the rigid, punitive society in which the Amish dwell. Where an Amish storekeeper in Kentucky worries that any lapse in vigilance will bring the wrath of Amish in Iowa.

  Since leaving, I’ve also had chance encounters with people I had known as an Amish woman. Former friends and acquaintances across the country.

  I try to avoid such occurrences during our sightseeing travels, which sometimes take us to—or through—Amish settlements. The meetings are too awkward, too strained. The Amish don’t know what to say to me, and I don’t know what to say to them.

  And when the Amish do speak, it’s often something like: “Oh, your poor family. What they must be going through.’’

  The prospects of such tension prevent me from moving about freely in Amish areas. A similar tension is also what kept me from my family in the first year. I was afraid to face my father’s anger, afraid to witness a further deterioration of my mother’s health, and afraid to feel the standoffish behavior I knew some of my siblings would exhibit. I wasn’t even sure any of them would consent, without condition, to see me.

  For all the times someone has told me I’m courageous, there have been many others when I’ve been decidedly less so.

  Shortly after the ban was lifted by the Lutherans, though, I did make a side trip to Kalona while Ottie, I, and a friend of mine were en route to Minnesota. No one was at the farm that day, and I was later told that my mother, father, sister, and three of my brothers had gone fishing.

  Elson and Wilbur, though, were at their respective homes and I visited both. Elson was, as always, cordial and understanding. At Wilbur’s, I was never invited in, and I spent the entire time chatting with relatives under a tree. The conversation was stilted and painful.

  In one place, I felt like a sister. In the other, I did not.

  I once wrote a poem about traveling, not so much for myself but for Amish drivers and their human cargo:

  As we go on this trip, O Lord,

  And we leave our friends and family dear,

  Keep us all in your loving care,

  Whether we travel far or near.

  Protect us all from misfortunes and harm,

  Let thy blessing rest upon us,

  Lead us on the path we should go,

  With your love, mercy, and kindness.

  Lord, help us see your wondrous works,

  Which were wrought by your powerful hand,

  Rivers, mountains, valleys, and oceans,

  Reveal the beauty throughout all your land.

  Keep us till we are safely home,

  To meet our beloved with joy and peace,

  Lead us safely to our heavenly home,

  Where love, joy, and happiness never cease.

  It was, I thought at the time, a simple, comforting ya
rn for any hurdles encountered along one’s journey. But no piece of prose, no passage from Scripture could prevent the dread I felt before going home, or the bittersweet aftertaste of the visit.

  There is a saying: “You can never go home.” And in my case, it’s true. Although I may be able to physically return, home will never be the same.

  I am now an outsider—one of those people I once avoided, and once criticized unknowingly.

  Twenty-Four

  I miss those egg hunts we had last year. Remember? Those were fun. Even what was on the inside. I also miss those thrilling, exciting, and very fun Pictionary games. That was usually one highlight of school.

  —A FORMER STUDENT

  Occasionally, a letter would arrive that would lift my spirits. If it wasn’t from Elson, it would be from relatives on my mother’s side, or from former students of mine.

  Like Elson’s letters, the students’ correspondence were breezy, filled with information about the weather, and school, and pleasant recollections. No preaching. No judgments.

  One student wrote to wish me a happy twenty-third birthday, although she didn’t quite say it that way. She wrote: “Remembering your birthday.”

  In a letter spotted with smiley faces, she also told about a harsh winter, a couple having a baby, making paper balls in school, and a student who had to repeat third grade.

  Another student wrote extensively about school activities, including a “Tip Toe Day’’ in which students walked around on their toes all day. Not as a punishment, but as a rather silly game to break winter’s doldrums.

  She related some of the books they were reading in school, among them Night Preacher, The Mysterious Passover Visitors, and Along Lark Valley Trail. And she told how a big hollow tree near the school’s basement entrance had been cut down.

  Another former student’s letter was even more pedestrian. He wrote about someone breaking their arm, people eating pizza and ice cream for a person’s fourteenth birthday, and someone trying on a jacket.

  The students’ letters were fun to read and momentarily made me forget the intense campaign by my family to shame me into returning. If there was one thing the Amish couldn’t take away from me—or my former students—it was the good times we had shared in school.

  But even those fond memories were not enough to overcome the overly dramatic letters from my parents, siblings, uncles, cousins, deacon, and former friends. It took me days, sometimes longer, to rouse myself from the funk that would set in after their letters arrived. It became apparent that the lifting of the ban had not been the cure-all I had hoped for.

  One cousin shared this story she had found in an Amish magazine after it was brought to her attention by a minister:

  A certain man went hunting. He had a helper with him. They came upon a flock of wild ducks. The hunter shot into the flock, and a number of birds fluttered to the ground.

  “Quick, go get the crippled and lame ones,” the hunter said to his helper. “Don’t worry about the dead ones for now. We know we have those.”

  The minister went on to say that is how Satan works. He is out to get those who are spiritually crippled and lame. He does not bother about the ones that are spiritually dead; he already has those.

  A former friend wrote:

  Oh-h-h Irene, you poor girl. Two years ago, you were leading a completely normal, carefree, girlish life, surrounded by family and friends—with peace, blessed peace, reigning in your heart and life.

  I am certain you never did imagine what would happen in 1996. Oh that Satan: Why does he have to go around gleefully wrecking people’s lives? The tears threaten to overwhelm me.

  She was wrong on several accounts. Mine was not a normal, carefree life among the Amish. I clearly didn’t have peace in my heart. And I will never view my departure as the handiwork of Satan.

  But she unwittingly was right about one thing. I still longed to have closure with my mother and father, and in that way I was still seeking a peace. My first visit home when I saw my brothers left me feeling empty—as if I had not accomplished what I’d set out to do. I had faced my detractors squarely, but I had not confronted their leader. My father. And I had not been able to comfort my mother.

  In the two and a half years since my first trip to Kalona, I had thought often about returning. And every time I did so, I shuddered at the torture that awaited me. I had learned in corresponding with my father that there was no room for debate when it came to what I had done. He considered me a disobedient child, and he would be full of preaching, disapproving looks, and tears.

  The first visit was such an effort, such a mental drain, it took the better part of those two and a half years to build myself back up again. To repair my mettle for battle.

  I also remained distraught that my family had not visited me in all that time. They had offered—if I gave them permission. But the truth is, I had invited them repeatedly. If they wouldn’t come, why should I go?

  Further, my family had made it difficult for me to visit on special occasions. In 1998, they had a mid-week Christmas dinner for my mother’s family—in August. I wasn’t told about it until it was too late for me to make travel arrangements. The following year, I wasn’t invited to my brother Aaron’s wedding.

  Many times, Ottie would say to me, “If you want to go see your mother and father, I’ll take you.”

  More often than not, I would reply, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  In the back of my mind, I suspected the time would come when I’d have to go back. But I kept putting it off. I kept working on strengthening myself and my marriage, and on learning everything there was to know about my new environment, which continued to offer silly oddities as well as uplifting discoveries.

  One of the strangest things struck me during Horse Cave Days, a little come-as-you-are downtown festival with live bluegrass music, sidewalk sales, a two-dollar-pet-a-boa cage, lemonade, and a NASCAR race car. But what caught my attention was a makeshift dunk station, where a beefy teen sat on a folding chair beneath a bucket of water and let people douse him with cold water by hitting a bull’s-eye with a softball. Why, I wondered, would anyone want to do that? What was the purpose? Where was the thrill? I was completely befuddled.

  Conversely, one of my greatest finds was the spectacle of the English Christmas.

  The Old Order Amish are very reserved about celebrating Christ’s birthday, and at the farmhouse we unceremoniously got one gift apiece on Christmas morning. Unwrapped.

  The gifts were always things we could use, not necessarily things we wanted. Shoes, boots, gloves, a coat. And except for the shoes, they were all homemade.

  Sometimes we’d also have candy or orange slices as treats. But there were no Christmas trees, no Santa Claus, no decorations.

  People in the young folks group were a little more demonstrative, and they would exchange wrapped presents and go caroling throughout the community.

  The difference had everything to do with age. Once an Amish person becomes an adult, gets married, and has family, they are expected to be more serious and less frivolous. Christmas, at that point, takes on a somber, workmanlike tone. The weight of the world is upon a person.

  The greed with which some English children accord Christmas was unsettling at first. Tearing the paper off presents one after another, never bothering to savor the joy of each gift and never bothering to preserve the colorful wrappings. Associating love with the expense of an item. Being enamored with useless novelties rather than presents with purpose.

  But there is so much more that is wonderful about the holiday, and the preparations alone were cause for glee. The wrapping of presents. Putting up the Christmas lights around the house. Decorating the tree. Making fudge, cookies, pies, and bread. All of it done to the sound of Christmas music wafting from the stereo.

  Then there are the holiday movies and TV shows, and the downtowns bedecked with banners and lights and window displays.

  The Amish believe the English have commerciali
zed Christmas, and that they worship Santa Claus, not Jesus. But this commercialization, if that’s what it is, is a glorious way to herald the coming birthday of Christ. Further, English churches don’t preach about Santa Claus, they focus on the Savior. Santa Claus is nothing more than a warm, harmless, comforting tale for children.

  My first Christmas in Kentucky, I decorated the house from one end to the other with lights, tinsel, and nativity scenes.

  I wasn’t the easiest person to buy presents for. I was, after all, accustomed to getting only one and it was always a practical gift. Ottie would ask me what I wanted for Christmas and I would reply: “I don’t know what I want. Just get something.”

  I was also appalled when we’d buy four or five gifts for each family member.

  “We’re going to spend two thousand dollars on Christmas, and they’ve already got everything they need,” I complained.

  But for the most part, I resisted my urges and immersed myself in the spirit of the season. And on Christmas Day, I gave Ottie a watch and he gave me a gorgeous diamond heart necklace. They were my first diamonds and, like many English women, I spent a considerable amount of time watching them sparkle in the sun.

  I even learned, eventually, that not all things must be purposeful. One day when walking through a store, a giant plastic sunflower I had passed began singing “You Are My Sunshine.”

  I persuaded Ottie to buy it and propped it in our living room, where it sang to everyone who walked by. Sometimes, I even sang along with it.

  Those were the good days, and there had been many others like it since leaving Kalona. Marrying Ottie and being befriended by his family. Growing closer to Christ. Getting to know Rev. Bettermann. Having the ban lifted. Learning to drive. Acquiring my GED. Learning to laugh more often. And making many new friends.