Joe’s car crawled forward at the blinding speed of four miles an hour. The black Amish buggy in front of him swayed from side to side as the horse labored up the steep hill.
Even though it would take only a couple of seconds to pass the slow-moving buggy, he could not risk doing so. The chances of meeting another car were too great. The roads in Tuscarawas County, Ohio were hilly, curvy, and increasingly unsafe for the Amish buggies that stubbornly shared them with their impatient non-Amish neighbors and the sometimes careless tourists who flooded the countryside each spring.
Even though he had lived here for nearly two years, he still marveled at a belief system so strong that it caused a people to put themselves and their children at risk rather than succumb to the temptation of owning a motorized vehicle.
He just didn’t get it. A car would have protective air bags and seatbelts and a steel frame. A buggy had nothing to protect its occupants except the too-easily crushed wood. To him, the choice was a no-brainer. To them, it was a matter of faith. If it was God’s will that they make it home safely, they would. If it was God’s will that they endure a tragic accident, then that was to be accepted as well.
It was a fatalistic mentality, but one they had held onto for generations. He respected his wife’s Amish relatives, but he did not understand them. All he knew was that he was determined never to be the cause of the pitiful wreckage he’d seen too many times while traveling these roads.
Yes, it took a lot of patience to live in Amish country but it was worth it. He would gladly trade time plodding behind a buggy in this beautiful countryside, versus getting stuck in L.A. traffic, an experience which had once been a daily routine for him. And so he followed the black buggy at a snail’s pace even though he was jittering with the desire to see his family.
He made the time pass a little more quickly by flirting with three adorable children peeking out at him from the back of the buggy. Joe waved and one ruddy-cheeked boy about his little son’s age shyly waved back. The boy’s two smaller sisters, both with white-blonde curls escaping from miniscule black bonnets, followed their big brother’s example.
Joe made the peace sign, which they copied—the little girls putting one hand over their mouths while they giggled. Then he waggled his fingers on the steering wheel and they waggled their fingers, enjoying the game of mimicking the silly Englischman in the car behind them.
He gave them the live-long-and-prosper Vulcan hand sign from Star Trek. That was a momentary challenge to them, but they soon mastered it and exhibited their new skill to him with shy smiles. The children appeared to be about a year apart. Stair step children. Common among the Amish.
It wouldn’t be long now. He was almost home. The flight to Columbus from L.A. and the two-hour drive from the airport to Sugarcreek was almost at an end. He couldn’t wait to find out what wonders had happened while he was gone.
It seemed like there was constantly something new and exciting for his son, Bobby, to experience and excitedly share with him. New piglets? New kittens? Pears ripe for picking growing in the old orchard behind the Sugar Haus barn? Life was a constant source of wonder to a small boy spending much of his time on a working farm.
Not only did Bobby have Rachel’s Amish aunts’ farm to explore, he was also welcome at Eli’s, a cousin who owned the small dairy farm next door. Eli had raised many fine sons and did not seem to mind answering a six-year-old’s stream of questions. Eli, who was a widower, seemed to welcome Bobby’s constant chatter.
There were many things Joe regretted in his life, but choosing to raise his son within the loving circle of Rachel and her Amish relatives was not one of them.
During his recent stay in L.A., his longing to get back to Ohio had become so strong it surprised even him. His west coast friends could tease him about living in fly-over country all they wanted but he didn’t care. He knew where he belonged and best of all, he knew to whom he belonged.
In spite of the troubles he had discovered in California, the feeling of getting closer to the farm where the people he loved most in the world awaited him, was intoxicating.
The horse and buggy topped the hill and Joe saw a straight stretch in front of him with no other cars coming. He carefully pulled around the buggy, giving it a wide berth so as not to frighten the horse, and then he sped up as much as was safe on this road. It was hard to hold back. He had been gone three whole weeks, and those three weeks had felt like an eternity.
So many memories washed over him as he approached his hometown of Sugarcreek. Right there was the tree where his truck had broken down. A few minutes later he passed the shop where his truck had been towed for repairs.
Larry Johnson, dressed in stained gray coveralls and with a red kerchief sticking out of his back pocket was pondering the engine beneath the hood of an ancient Ford truck when Joe drove past. Larry glanced up, saw him, and waved. They were friends now, but he remembered the look of suspicion Larry had given him when he asked for a deposit on the truck parts and Joe discovered that his wallet had been stolen.
Of course, the look of suspicion that Larry had given him was nothing compared to the flinty-eyed stare with which Rachel, the beautiful Sugarcreek cop, had lacerated him when she discovered that he was penniless and staying with her three elderly Old Order Amish aunts in their farmhouse bed and breakfast.
Nope, he had definitely not impressed her. A rough-looking stranger. Dressed like he’d crawled out of a dumpster. No ID. No money. He’d been as determined not to let anyone know his identity as she was to discover it. It had been quite a clash of wills, until Rachel learned his true identity…and became his greatest ally.
Those weeks of hiding from the media, unable to access his bank account or to cash in on his fame, struggling to keep his son safe--had taught him a great deal about the priorities of life.
Many people spent their lives wishing for fame and fortune. Too many of them believed that the only thing standing between them and a perfect life was to have plenty of money and admiration. He had experienced both and knew first-hand that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. His own experience was that fame and fortune did little except put a target on your back….and on the back of those you loved.
Yes, it took patience and grace to live in Ohio Amish country. Especially when sharing the road with slow-moving buggies, but that patience and grace was always returned. He loved Tuscarawas County and the eccentric and loving people who lived here.
If he had his way, he would never leave again. The only problem now, after what he had learned in Los Angeles, was finding a way to stay.