Growing Up Amish by Ira Wagler Page A

thirty-five miles due south of Valentine.
    Gary took me to the bunkhouse, a decrepit, old, two-story structure with a livable basement. A lanky cowboy lounged there. His name was Leonard Paris, and he was from New Mexico. I unpacked my bag and hung my few clothes on a wire stretched across a corner of the room. That night I slept in the bed that would be mine for the next five months.
    The next day I called my sister Rachel back in Bloomfield. She taught at one of the two Amish schools there, and each schoolhouse had a community phone. I called her collect and told her where I was. We chatted. She spoke carefully, choosing her words. She said things weren’t good at home. The community was abuzz with shock, and my parents were taking it pretty hard.
    Years later, she told me that Dad had refused to pay for my collect call. He said she had accepted it, so it was her responsibility. To me, that’s a strange and puzzling thing. I had called to let her know where I was and that I was okay. Surely it was worth the cost of the call to Dad, to know that. But he refused to pay, so she paid from her meager teacher’s salary. I still owe her for that.
    The first few days and weeks at the ranch were a blur. The trauma of leaving so abruptly, so secretively, was washed away by the excitement of my new surroundings. I was rough, uncouth, and raw, fresh from the primitive Amish life that had been the only one I’d ever known. I was eager, but quite naive. A remote ranch in the sand hills of northern Nebraska was probably about as ideal a place as any for my first transition to English life.
    In the next few weeks, I acclimated to my surroundings. Leonard Paris was an amiable fellow. He immediately took me under his wing and very patiently taught me the things I didn’t know. He was rough around the edges, but he was a gentleman. He didn’t swear much, and he always said please and thank you at the table during our shared meals with Gary’s family. I watched and learned and emulated.
    I quickly adapted to the ranch work and the brutal schedule. Calving season had just begun, and we had to get up every morning at two or so to check for problem births. Then it was back to bed for a few more hours of sleep before getting up at six for the real day’s work.
    Leonard regaled me with tall tales of New Mexico and his father’s ranch there. He was a true horseman, born to the saddle. His favorite phrase, after telling a tale, was “We have more fun than people.”
    Gradually, I settled into the rhythm of English life. We worked from dawn to dark. I was used to working, so that was no problem. I just wasn’t used to being on my own. But I was learning. And it wasn’t as if I could get into much trouble on the ranch.
    My pay was room and board and a hundred bucks a week. Four hundred a month. Not a lot, even back then. I was fed well and worked hard. In many ways, it wasn’t that much different from what I was used to back home.
    Of course, I had to learn to drive a truck—an old green and white 1972 Chevy. I had never driven a truck before, or any other motor vehicle for that matter. Leonard carefully coached me and allowed me to drive from the bunkhouse to the main house for meals. Within days I was confident and comfortable behind the wheel.
    The first month passed, and payday approached. And boy, did I ever have places to put that money. I needed a new pair of cowboy boots and a real cowboy hat. I also needed some shirts, more jeans, and maybe a real belt buckle with a horse or a bull or some such appropriate cowboy icon.
    That Friday, Robert, the head of the investment group from Kansas that ran the ranch, stopped by with our paychecks. It was a gray, cloudy day. Robert handed Gary his check, then Leonard his. Then he turned to me.
    â€œHere you are, first paycheck,” he said.
    â€œThank you, sir,” I replied, taking it from him.
    His eyes glinted mischievously.