I continue to reflect on some of my past experiences.  The great thing about retirement is that with sixty-five years behind you there’s lots of stories to share.  I want to make sure that I write them all down, and share them while I can.

My first job was at a newspaper in Middlebury, Indiana.  I was advertising director, designer, seller, printer, and distributor all rolled into one.  I would drive about an hour to work each day along mostly rural, country roads.  It was Amish Country and the people who lived their were mysterious.  We might call them weird if they lived in Austin or Portland.

Growing up in Northern Indiana, it was not uncommon to be stuck behind a horse-drawn, black buggy on a narrow country road.  The driver was always a bearded Amish Man; his family packed inside.   Normally I would have been very impatient but a sign on the back made me smile:

 

Energy Efficient Vehicle

Runs on Hay, Grass, and Oats

Avoid Exhaust

 

The exhaust comes out in the form of road apples.  They were just another obstacle in the road to dodge as I drove along.  It was something about the plain way they dressed and the “simple” life they lived that sparked my curiosity.  Even more intriguing was their religious belief that shunned modern day conveniences like electricity, cars, and phones.

Black suits and hats for the men, while the women wore bonnets, designed not to attract attention; yet they did.  They worked hard, living off the land to feed the many mouths that made family size their sole status symbol.  The Amish population, in fact, is the fastest growing population in the world, averaging 6.8 children per family.  Their religious roots are in Switzerland, where they were led by a man named Jakob Ammann.  Those who followed him were considered Amish.  They immigrated to Pennsylvania, speaking a blend of Pennsylvania German or Dutch.  The Indiana faction predominately speaks Swiss German.

There is heavy emphasis on the church, although Sunday worship is carried on in private homes.  As I would travel these county roads on a Sunday afternoon, I would see hundreds of buggies at a single home, and the traffic before and after these gathering was dangerous.  Impatient motorists weaving between these slow moving vehicles led to many horrendous accidents.

Despite the fact that the Amish formal education ended in the eighth grade, many of the Amish that I knew were shrewd businessmen.  At the newspaper where I worked in Middlebury, Indiana, I sold advertising to them on a regular basis.  However, since they all dressed the same and most were named Miller, Yoder, or Troyer, it was difficult to distinguish their identities.  There was Yoder Oil, Yoder’s Market, Troyer’s Market, Miller’s Furniture, and so on.  In order to support their families, I found them to be a little devious, bending the rules of their religion to accommodate their business needs.  They would come into our office and pay cash for classified ads to sell their goods consisting of barn wood, crops, handyman services, and hand crafted furniture.   Often they would use our phone or ask for a ride somewhere, even though these conveniences were supposedly against their religion.  I had to believe that their God was forgiving when it came to feeding their growing families.  This leads to a true story about my favorite Amish encounter.

I got to know an Amish gentleman, Mr. Miller would be a good guess, who sold cheese on a busy intersection near our office.  He was one of several men who frequented our newspaper offices, placing daily ads, and always asking for the phone.  He’d then go back to his black shed on the corner and hawk his cheese.  There was no sign, just a bearded man dressed in traditional black with a box full of cheese.  Naturally, everyone who drove by assumed it was homemade Amish cheese.  One day I asked Mr. Miller, “does someone in your family make the cheese?” “No, he admitted, we drive up to Wisconsin and buy it.”  My jaw nearly dropped to the floor, as I took in this straightforward confession.  He did not even seem the slightest bit ashamed.  He would use our phone to place orders, drive a car across state lines to buy cheese, and sell it under the guise of Amish cheese.  Hopefully, it is a forgiving God.  The next time you Say Cheese, please – let the buyer beware (caveat emptor  – see post #102: Fake Memorabilia).

 

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