The man probably looked stunned in the face of such a startling doctrine.
Bishop Monroe continued. “If you look to stealing as your hope for improvement, that takes no faith at all. Just a chance to steal. And you are never sure if that will come or not. If it does come, you’re still not sure whether you can pull it off. Work, on the other hand, takes faith in yourself and in God. Men and women with such a faith expect to improve their life by working. They look around for something to do at which they excel. Come rain or shine, cold or hot, they get the work done.”
“Bah!” the man exclaimed. “Who believes that kind of stuff?”
“I do,” Bishop Monroe assured him.
“So what if I told you that I would shoot you for your money? Would you just stand there and let me do it?”
“If you would shoot me, I wouldn’t stop you,” Bishop Monroe told him, sober-faced now. “Because I believe that Jesus is the Son of God, and that He came down to earth and died for me. As a follower of His, I would rather follow His example and lay down my life than protect it by killing someone. I believe that following the example of Jesus results in much greater good than shooting would.”
“Well, you are a strange people,” the man said. “I have never heard of such things. So I think you had all better go back to the United States or Canada where you came from. Such strange people will not make it down here.”
“I believe we will make it,” Bishop Monroe said. “And God will work many great things in this country.”
“You are loco,” the man told him. “If I owned a gun I would never let anyone shoot me.” With that the man crossed himself, bid Bishop Monroe good night, and headed back to town.
To the south of Bishop Monroe’s place, a little knoll tucked itself in the lower corner of the La Granja ranch. Nothing big compared to the foothills that stood in the background, but tall enough that it took a few minutes to climb.
On this knoll Bishop Monroe often went to pray after his ordination. Not too many people on either farm were aware of this. And if someone saw him, he would have appeared to be out on an early morning walk. Such a thing was acceptable in the community, but the idea of an Amish bishop out on a hillside praying might not have sat well with many in the congregation. Not that prayer was an objection, but doing it up on a hillside instead of in your closet smacked of liberalism. Up high like that, you lifted yourself above the others, as if you were closer to God, an impression Bishop Monroe wouldn’t have intended. Perhaps that’s why he kept his activity a secret.
In the meantime, the church house filled on Sundays with locals seeking fellowship. The inevitable conflict with the Spanish language grew worse. “It’s simply unrealistic,” some said, “that we expect these converts to learn English, let alone German. The sermons will have to be preached in Spanish at least part of the time so the converts and other locals can be fed spiritually. How else can they be expected to mature without good, solid spiritual food spoken in their own tongue?” So the argument went. And Bishop Monroe’s sympathies lay clearly on the Spanish-speaking side.
In rebuttal, the conservative side made the point that the locals were being converted without a lot of Spanish preaching. “They came to us while we sang German songs and preached German messages. Why is that not good enough still?” Hence the converted locals could get along quite well as things were, the logic went.
And then too there was the issue of the Amish culture being lost. This was of primary importance.
Bishop Monroe nodded, smiled, and proposed a compromise. “We will preach the opening message and other comments in German,” he announced. “But the main message will be done either with an interpreter or in Spanish.”
This worked fine for a few months, but that’s not how it stayed. The issue of Spanish preaching was never really settled, even though eventually the services were conducted almost entirely in Spanish.
I cared little about the arguments. I could understand both languages just fine, thank you. There were a lot of other things more important to me. Chief among them was having to move back stateside if the adults didn’t stop fighting with each other.
No one was saying the words yet, but I sensed danger on the horizon.
Chapter 16
Soon after Bishop Monroe’s ordination, the Amish discovered their cash crop: potatoes. Potatoes were better moneymakers than chickens, certainly better than produce, and better than most anything else they tried. So the race was on to get as much of the rich river-bottom land planted in potatoes as possible. Farming tools were modified to form the mounded middles, and long lines of green potato plants were soon growing.
The local thieves followed suit, abandoning chicken stealing for the much more profitable potatoes. It didn’t take much effort to slip down to the potato patch dragging sacks. They’d dig up all they could carry. It also didn’t take the Amish long to figure out that something had to be done as harvesttime approached. Morning after morning revealed rows of dug up potatoes. Precious income vanishing into pockets unknown.
Uncle Mark and Cousin Ira took it upon themselves to remedy the matter. Scaring off the thieves wouldn’t violate any nonresistant principles, they reasoned. Why not camp out for the night in the potato patch, and let any thief who showed up know he wasn’t alone? The locals were obviously stealing, but so far no one had confronted them. It was time to do so—without making threats of bodily harm.
On the designated night, the two men set out with their heavy flashlights that were capable of casting beams a hundred yards into the darkness. With sleeping bags in hand, they set up camp on the edge of the potato field. After the expected last-minute jitters, as darkness fell they dropped off to sleep.
One of them woke the other in the dead of night, motioning toward the rows of potatoes in the dim darkness. Raising their heads they looked, at first seeing nothing through the mist that had drifted up from the river. But clearly someone was there. They could hear the soft sound of a shovel going in and out of the ground, the thud of dirt being turned over. And then what sounded like a bag being pulled at intervals, rustling as it brushed the potato vines.
“It’s him,” one of them whispered. “But what’s that other sound?”
They listened, hearing what sounded like leather squeaking on a saddle spaced at regular intervals.
“It’s his shoes,” the other whispered back.
“Get ready then. Let’s go,” the first one decided.
Together they came out of their sleeping bags and over the top of the potato plants with flashlights blazing. They swept the field of potatoes from the left to the right, and then back again. On the third pass they caught the man in the crossbeams. Both fixed their lights on the stooped figure.
I have no idea what they expected to happen. Probably a scampering of feet across the potato plants, followed by a hasty dive into the brush of the riverbank. Instead, the thief left his bag and calmly walked away, taking his time before disappearing into the overgrowth.
Uncle Mark and Cousin Ira turned their flashlights on the bag left behind and walked up to study the contents more closely. One of them laughed, picking up the half-filled bag.
“At least we don’t have to dig these up,” he joked.
Moments later the laughter stopped. The thief had popped back up from the riverbank, his own flashlight out now, sweeping across the field. Unable to reach cover among the trees in time, Uncle Mark and Cousin Ira dove between the rows of potato plants.
“Should we make a run for it?” one of them whispered.
“No!” the answer came back. “He seems to mean business.”
The man kept coming, his light playing over the field. The sharp slap of his pants hitting on the potato plants could be heard. Clearly the time for flight was past even if they had dared. The man was getting much too close to their hiding place for comfort.
“What do you want?” one of them finally asked, still keeping his head down.
The slapping steps stopped, followed
by silence. Then a soft click came, followed by six shots, one after the other in quick succession. Soft pops in the dirt landing all around them. His gun empty, the man ran off.
Uncle Mark and Cousin Ira waited for the pain to burn in their own bodies. When it didn’t, they wondered about the other. Was he still alive? Neither of them moved for the longest time. Slowly one stuck his foot across the potato rows until he made contact with a leg. When he got a kick back, they knew the other was still okay.
When all remained quiet they got to their feet, leaving in the opposite direction the thief had taken. The bag of half-filled potatoes stayed where it was. They used no lights until they arrived back at the house, running by memory over the landscape and through the fences. In the morning they told their story and went to look for the gunnysack but it was gone.
Needless to say, there were no more attempts made at catching potato thieves. Let them have what they wanted. I don’t think the story was told that widely even among the community people. Being shot at was not something to be proud of. But getting into such a situation would have been the hardest part to explain.
I heard them tell the story in the privacy of the Stoll family, and the terror of the thieves began growing in our hearts. Not full-blown yet, but growing. The first rumblings of the approaching thunderstorm had sounded.
With Grandfather Stoll gone, the store out by the main road was taken over by Emil Helmuth. I didn’t hear any explanation of why that venture didn’t last long, but Emil soon handed over the ownership to Bishop Monroe and his boys. Under their guidance, the store flourished for the rest of our time in Honduras.
We loved making trips down to the store for whatever items Mom wanted. Between that and trips into town on my horse, I was on the road often. My memory tells me we also had a pony and a cart in those days, but the reflections aren’t pleasant ones. I think we overturned the flimsy thing a few times, which shows, I suppose, how recklessly we drove. There was also always someone wanting a ride on the cart. I preferred a solitary ride with a saddle creaking under me.
It was during this time that brother John and I took it upon ourselves to raise peanuts. We planted a piece of ground and roasted the harvest in drums over an open fire. I think Dad made some contraption for us out by the shop. It worked fairly well, and the peanuts were edible. Enough so that we hitched up the pony cart, setting off to sell our wares in Guaimaca.
Riding alone on my horse, I would have taken the short way through the trail in the thickets. But with a cart we had to take the circular way around. John was driving, and the bags of peanuts were strapped under the cart seat in a large gunny bag. We were in business. I hawked our wares to passersby at twenty-five centavos a bag. Each offering contained enough peanuts for a decent appetizer. Our sales were also helped along by a few free samples and the fact the peanuts could easily be husked by hand.
We had brisk sales while driving along the dusty streets of town. Flocks of children followed us. The adults bought enough that we were soon sold out. I remember having no problem talking under those circumstances, but perhaps I simply wasn’t aware of my speech during those moments. Uncle Luthy would tell me in later years that it was a trial having to elicit information from me. And that was referring to the time before we moved to Honduras, a time in which I have no recollection of experiencing trouble speaking.
On the days when I was sent to Bishop Monroe’s store, Mom always gave me extra money for my beloved Pepsi. I’m thinking the cost was low—thirty centavos or so. I always purchased my Pepsi and drank it in the shade of the overhanging porch at the store.
I’ve spoken of my great love for Bishop Monroe, but it didn’t start that way. I don’t know if he did it to all the children or just me, but he took upon himself the burden of correcting my faults. His worst complaint was my excessive Pepsi drinking. He may even have complained to Mom, but I don’t think so. Mostly I got to listen to his lectures on the great dangers involved in drinking too much sugar. As far as I was concerned, I didn’t care about sugar content. The storekeeper was selling a product, and he was getting paid for his product. And there was nothing in this world coming between me and my Pepsi—at least on my part.
Strangely enough—or perhaps not so strangely—I did turn out to have a problem that was aggravated by sugar: hypoglycemia. This problem tormented my teenage years and remained undiagnosed until I was in my early twenties. I guess we should listen to our elders even when they seem like meddling busybodies.
Bishop Monroe didn’t stop with his Pepsi lectures. He tasked me one day with carrying a copy of Family Life to his place. Next to my Pepsi, I loved to read. And having a fresh copy of the Amish magazine of the day in hand, just arrived in Honduras, wasn’t to be sneezed at. Bishop Monroe must have been aware of my love for reading. Or perhaps I asked if I could read the magazine. He told me I could if I didn’t pass some visiting relatives of his on the way home who apparently weren’t staying that long. If I did pass them, I was to give them the magazine to read first. He wanted them to read a section of the magazine before they left. I could have the magazine afterward.
So I set out with Bishop Monroe’s copy of the latest issue of Family Life under my arm. I didn’t see any visiting relatives. Well, I did, but you know what I mean. That night I devoured the magazine and delivered it the next day, safe and sound, to the bishop’s house. But Bishop Monroe didn’t leave the matter alone.
“Didn’t you pass my relatives?” he demanded. “You promised me you’d give them the paper. Now they’re gone.”
“I didn’t see anyone,” I blatantly lied. I figured he had no way of finding out, and my conscience didn’t bother me in those days anyway.
A day or so later at the store, Bishop Monroe confronted me again.
“I spoke with my wife,” he said. “And you did pass my relatives on the way. Why did you lie to me?”
I had nothing to say, and I probably couldn’t have given a lengthy explanation if I’d wanted to. He lectured me again, and I left with my head hanging. But it didn’t do much to change my ways. I just learned to be more careful with what I said.
Thieving was always a problem at Bishop Monroe’s store. An affliction he and his workers rarely had success foiling. So when a success story came along, the tale was told far and wide. It was listened to with great interest by the community and written up as one small victory over the forces of darkness. I heard that Bishop Monroe’s oldest boy, Glen, had come out early to carry the day’s cash home from the store, a practice they maintained to lessen the chances of the last man being robbed on the way home.
While Glen waited and closing time approached, a small boy who had been hanging around for hours, approached the counter. He made a small purchase, handing over a 100 lempira bill to Bishop Monroe. Although not that uncommon, even in those days, Bishop Monroe still examined the offered paper with care. Everything seemed to be in order, and Bishop Monroe gave the boy his change, consisting of nearly the full value of the bill.
The boy climbed on his horse and set out riding into the falling dusk. Bishop Monroe finished closing up the shutters, and Glen added the bill to his stash and rode off in the other direction. Arriving home, Glen’s brother Dan took the bag of money to count it. Moments later Dan rushed out to declare that he’d found a counterfeit hundred lempira bill in the bag.
Disbelief abounded. The bill was further examined under bright lights, and the conclusion confirmed. Some enterprising local had used some homegrown method to duplicate the original with reasonable success. A 100-lempira loss at the store was not something easily recovered from.
Incensed, Glen climbed back on his horse and galloped back to the store. There was no sign of the young boy on horseback. Still, he knew in which direction the rider had gone, and nothing would be lost by pursuing, he figured.
A hard gallop later, following the main road toward Tegucigalpa, Glen spotted the boy ahead of him. He pulled up beside him and demanded his money back.
“I didn’
t do anything,” the boy declared. “I’m just going home.”
“Yes, you did take something.”
“I’m not a thief!” the boy declared.
“Then what have you got in that bag?” Glen demanded. “I just saw you at our store where you gave my dad a counterfeit 100-lempira bill.”
“You did not,” the boy said. “I got these groceries in town. Just bought them an hour ago. And I’ve never seen you before.”
Glen soon tired of this useless argument. He grabbed the boy’s groceries and gave him back the counterfeit bill. The exchange was made peacefully enough, and the two galloped off in opposite directions.
Chapter 17
Sometime in the summer of 1972, Dad began construction on our new house across the road. The plan included a basement and greater square footage. The first order of business was digging the basement. Uncle Stephen had dug his using Uncle Mark’s horse-drawn shovel and then finishing the work by hand. So the men came over to examine our hillside. They soon concluded that the layered shale made digging with the contraption unfeasible.
Uncle Mark still had to try his hand at it. Full of youthful optimism, he thought there was a chance he could figure out a way to do it. Arriving with two Belgians hitched to the giant shovel, they dragged the machine across the ground, hitting rock almost at once. The second try went no better, and Uncle Mark had to admit failure.
So what was to be done? Backhoes were out of the question since they didn’t exist in Honduras. At least I never saw one in the eight years we lived there. They did later find a dozer for the pond digging, but I never heard that option discussed. Perhaps it was too expensive for such a small project.
My Amish Childhood Page 9
