March 18, 2012

My Father was born March 10th, 1909, youngest in a large Amish family.  Swartzentruber Amish, the most conservative, the plainest of the plain people.  Born six years after his youngest sibling, he was the baby of the family, and that we had in common.  I, too, was six years younger than my youngest sibling, arriving on Father's Day when Dad was 49 years old. A week ago would have been my father's 102nd birthday.  That's hard to absorb.  More than a century.

My father died thirty years ago, a month after falling and breaking his hip, seven years after suffering a debilitating stroke, rendering his one leg and arm virtually useless.  Always slow to speak, he became even more so after his stroke. Since he and my mother had left the Amish church years before my birth, I never knew much of his family.  The Swartzentrubers shun anyone who leaves.  I never knew what my parents had sacrificed until I was an adult and realized how little contact they had with family on that side of the clan.

Although quiet, my dad had a great sense of humor.  I lived the first fifteen years of my life in the country, close to Chardon, Ohio, on a farm my parents paid 65.00 a month to rent.  Down the dirt road a long lane led into the woods, with three more lanes branching off from it.  The first led to a cabin, rustic but inviting.  An old pump outside provided water and lanterns provided light.  The second turn-off led to a pond, surrounded by trees.  A small bridge led to a tiny island, grassy and serene in the middle of the water.  Frogs croaked and whipoorwills sang, the sound of civilization completely absent.  The third lane came after a dense stand of pines, the air pungent with the odor of pine needles, the ground soft, cushioned with years of fallen pine needles.  Following the turnoff brought you back to the pond. Across the road from our century-old two story farmhouse, another winding wooded lane led to a fascinating labyrinth of caves buried deep in the woods, hidden from anyone not privy to their existance.

Although quiet, my dad had a great sense of humor. One of our favorite pastimes, when company came to call, was to go to the caves and explore.  One Sunday, my Florida relatives were visiting and he regaled them with stories of the bears that haunted the caves.  A party of us, ready for adventure, started out for a hike.  Adults and little ones and everything in between, we