Growing Up Amish by Ira Wagler

day, about midmorning. I bought a ticket and then walked around town to find a motel room.
    I had left home with one hundred and fifty dollars, money from a horse I had recently sold. Well, it was a small horse, a half pony, really. And it was worth much more than that, but I needed the money to get away, so I took what I could get.
    I found a ramshackle motel and booked a room, my first stay at any motel. It was a hovel, really—cheap, smelly, and damp. But to me, it seemed like a great, grand thing, a huge adventure—a motel room in a big city.
    My lodging for the night secured, it was time to venture out and buy some clothes. My shirts were fine, I figured. But I really wanted to get rid of those barn-door pants. I walked around downtown, gawking through store windows until I spotted a clothing store. When I walked in, the worn hardwood floor creaked under my feet.
    The clerk was a middle-aged man with a tiny gray mustache. He was stooped over a bit from years of service on the floor.
    â€œI need a pair of jeans,” I told him.
    â€œCertainly,” he replied, smiling. He showed me shelves loaded with stack after stack of blue jeans. But I had a problem. I had no idea what size I wore. Timidly, I mentioned that fact to him.
    I’m sure it must have seemed strange to him that I didn’t even know my own size, but he didn’t blink an eye. Instead, he just smiled kindly, pawed through the piles of jeans, pulled out a few different sizes, and held them up to my waist.
    â€œI’d suggest you try this size,” he said. 32x32. I took the jeans from him and walked into a fitting room. Down went the barn-door pants. And for the first time in my life, I slipped into a pair of store-bought English jeans—Lee brand—with a real zipper in front.
    They were probably a little short, but I didn’t know any better. I thought they fit perfectly. Real blue jeans . I admired myself in the mirror. Then I walked out of the fitting room, picked up another pair the same size, bought them both, and walked proudly out the door and back to my motel. For the first time ever, I was not conscious that I was any different from anyone else around me, because I wasn’t—except for my haircut. But I would get that taken care of soon enough. I felt great. This was definitely something I could get used to.
    I spent the evening watching TV in my motel room—a huge treat. I finally drifted off to sleep, trusting that I’d wake up in due time the next morning. I knew nothing of wake-up calls from the front desk. That night I slumbered, exhausted from lack of sleep and the tension of the previous night. And somehow I blocked it all out—everything I’d left behind at home. I managed not to think about my parents—especially my mother, who was undoubtedly worried, sick to death, not knowing where I was.
    I was seventeen years old. A minor. And I had pulled it off. I had just left home. Run away in the middle of the night.

14
    The next morning I boarded a bus and headed west into Nebraska. The rolling farmland flowed past outside, followed by the sand hills of the north central part of the state. By late afternoon, we pulled into Valentine. Clutching my duffel bag, I stepped off the bus and looked around hopefully. No one was waiting.
    I had called Gary the week before and told him I was coming. Where was he? I waited nervously in the bus station for about fifteen minutes. Then a Suburban pulled in and parked. A short, burly man in a cowboy hat got out. He swaggered up to the door. It was Gary. I walked outside, and he grasped my hand.
    â€œWelcome,” he said, smiling. We walked to where Gary’s wife and three young daughters sat waiting. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “How about the Pizza Hut?”
    Of course I was hungry. A young Amish kid is always hungry, and Pizza Hut sounded just fine.
    â€œI’d like that.”
    After eating, we headed out to the ranch,