Growing Up Amish by Ira Wagler Page B

“It’s a nice check,” he said. “How would you like to double it?”
    I stared at him, uncomprehendingly.
    â€œWe’ll flip a coin,” he continued. “Double or nothing.”
    He would have done it too. I considered his proposition for about two seconds. I held the slip of paper in my hands and looked at it. My first paycheck. Four hundred bucks. A small fortune for me. I could double it. Or I could end up with nothing.
    â€œNope,” I answered. “Don’t wanna do that. I can’t afford to lose this.”
    They all laughed, as did I. Many times since, I’ve wondered what would have happened if I had taken him up on it. Knowing my luck, I would have remained penniless for another month.
    Soon after that, Leonard, who had come to Valentine from the huge feedlots in Kansas as temporary help, returned to his old job. As he left, we shook hands, and he smiled and said he hoped we would run into each other again. I was sure we would. Of course, we never did. He left me with his patented saying, “Remember, we have more fun than people.”
    Leonard was replaced by a cowboy a year younger than me. A local tough named Allen Hazen. At sixteen, Allen’s reputation as a first-rate cowboy and a hard drinker was already well established throughout the Valentine area. He smiled at me with a loopy grin and took it upon himself to coach me throughout my short-lived career as a cowboy.
    Up until now, I had not socialized much in Valentine because I didn’t know anyone in the area. Gary had introduced me to the neighbors, and everyone was friendly, but I had no social life. And that was okay for a while. I saved a few bucks and bought the basic necessities. But that all changed after Allen arrived.
    On his first Saturday night at the ranch, we quit a bit early, cleaned up, slicked up in nice clothes—or at least the nicest ones in my meager closet—and drove to Valentine in his old Ford pickup.
    Allen knew all the local kids, and he was quite the stud. The girls loved him. By hanging around him, I soon got to know many of the town kids. On Saturday nights, we hung around partying until the morning hours. I usually drove the thirty-five miles back to the ranch, while Allen slept soundly on the seat beside me in a comfortable drunken stupor.
    Life on the ranch had gotten increasingly interesting. While I was perfectly comfortable herding cattle, tending sick cows, and mending fences, I clearly had a lot to learn when it came to socializing.
    * * *
    Meanwhile, back in Bloomfield, my buddies were continuing in their wild and wicked ways. They called me sometimes, usually on a Sunday morning. Back then, it cost much less to call on Sundays, so that’s when they contacted me. They filled me in on the latest, and after a time, I began to feel a tinge of homesickness. I missed them. And I missed my family. But not enough to lure me back.
    After I gave Rachel my mailing address, the letters started flowing in—from Mom and, of course, from Dad. Mom wrote from a broken heart. Told me she missed me and wanted me to come home. Dad wrote masterfully, laying on every guilt trip he could devise. Of course they weren’t perfect as parents, he wrote. But they did the best they knew. He had hoped his sons would be happy and settled in Bloomfield. Now I had left, and that was a big disappointment to him and Mom.
    And always, he waxed poetic about my spiritual state. I had chosen a path of wickedness. What if I were killed in an accident? Where would I go? How would I fare when I faced the judgment seat? And so on and so on.
    I believed that what he said was true—that I had left the protection of the Amish fold and was as good as lost. That there was no hope for me, should I die. That there would never be any chance of salvation outside the Amish church.
    That’s what he wrote, and that’s what I believed. The fires of hell awaited me. That was a fact I never even