My Amish Father

"On my bookshelf I see a picture of my father in his later years, warmly smiling, and I smile. Myriad memories flood through my thoughts.

   I remember him shaking hands with me in his older years when I arrived or left his house. I remember the softness in his eyes and the smile on his face as he held various infant grandchildren.

   I remember his rare but explosive anger early one summer morning when he discovered his young granddaughter had picked off all the buds from his rosebushes.

   I remember the excitement in his eyes as he watched the black rose comb bantams he brought for me when I was a child.

   I remember one sunny summer day when he hired a driver to take him and me to a bantam show in a nearby town. At a food stand he requested a straw for me to drink my orange pop. He did not think it proper for a woman to drink straight from the bottle. I would have preferred tipping the bottle and taking a sip but was pleased that he saw me as a woman, even though I was only about eleven...

   I remember that my father hired someone to bale his hay every year, in spite of church law forbidding it. And every year, in the middle of the day about a week before 'ordnungsgma', the church preparation Sunday before communion, we watched as a buggy with the bishop I it came rolling up our driveway. We knew that my father had once again gotten in trouble with the church and would have to apologize to the congregation for having broken the rule forbidding hay baling with a tractor. My brothers, sisters, and I assumed without question that he would continue baling hay with a tractor. He told the bishop, who was a friends of his, that it was easier confessing to the church than having loose hay in his barn.

   My father was a good man. My siblings and I got from him a love of nature, a sense of adventure, a desire to try new things, and a tendency to imagine the unusual. I can only guess that he must have been a man with internal conflict, feeling caught between what he wanted and the desires of his parents and the rules of the Amish church. He was curious. His yearning to experience new things did not fi with the church of which he was a part. My father wanted to leave the church but didn't feel he could without my mother joining him. However, he supported his children in going to high school and college, and their decision to leave the Amish. Eventually, because all her children left, my mother did agree with my father to join the conservative Mennonite church. Both of them seemed comfortable with that decision.

   My father mellowed with age. His voice was softer. He greatly anticipated his children's visits. In the summer he delighted in out picking bouquets of beautiful flowers from his garden before heading home. Visiting him was a step back in time for me. I usually spent time with him on a Saturday. When I arrived in the summer he would always be sitting on the porch swing waiting for me. With a crinkled smile, he would laboriously push with both hands on the seat of the porch swing to help himself rise. As long as he was physically able, we went on an excursion, usually driving to Berlin or Walnut Creek for lunch. With a twinkle in his eye, he would gaze out the window at the flowers and trees as we traveled, enjoying the countryside. Often he saw someone he knew at the restaurant, and they would chat a bit. He would order custard pie for dessert, and I would ask for coconut cream or raspberry. We ate slowly...

   My father died in 1985 at the age of ninety-two."

~ May Kaufman Schwartz is a practicing psychologist in Akron, Ohio. At the age of fourteen, she entered high school, leaving her family's heritage and the Amish lifestyle. Schwartz continued her education and earned a bachelors, master's, and PhD and studied at the C.G. Jung Institute in Cleveland Ohio. She and her second husband have a blended family of four adult children and five grandchildren.