What a week

Done.  After this post, we have finished talking about Maple syrup for the year.  Today was the climax of our season with the 18th annual missions meal at our church—Sonnenberg Mennonite.  The events of the morning are fresh in my mind, so I hope you don’t mind if I  wrap it up with a little report and words of thanks.

Every year a growing number of people come to enjoy the meal and share with the missions we support.  Two years ago, there were about 425 who came.  Last year around 525.  Today the record was broken again with 580 people who were served a delicious meal, and who donated generously.

This is tremendous!  Our hearts are filled with gratitude.  I speak for those of us from Sonnenberg, but also for those we serve with funding, prayer, material and moral support.

From my place at the table where we sell maple syrup and sausage, I have a good view of all the comings and goings.  So many of you we see every year, and we appreciate you.  For my friends from work who have to put up with me every day—thank you for coming and supporting us.  For those who came for the first time, I hope it was a wonderful experience, and we look forward to seeing you next year.  

One of the biggest surprises of the morning was to see some old friends walk in the door.  Phil and Ellen Nisly, who live about an hour south of us, learned about the event on facebook, and took the drive north for breakfast.  We were employed by Phil and Ellen on the Walnut Hills Dairy Farm in Gallia County back in 1986 and ‘87.  We have many wonderful memories from those days on the farm when we worked together and our children played together.  That was quite a while ago, but the memories are still fresh.

The prize for the couple who came the farthest goes to Earl and Wilma Hofstetter.  They drove in from Elida, Ohio, my first hometown, about 145 miles due west.   Some folks will go a great distance for a good meal.  Thank you!  (There is no real prize—just a mention in this writing.)

It was really good to see John and Rozella Lehman.  They spent the winter in Texas and arrived home just in time to be here for the festival.  They would still be in Texas for a little while yet if it weren’t for this special event, and once-a-year superb meal.  So technically, they came the farthest, but we can’t give them the prize, because Kidron is their home.   So happy to have you back!  We hope the meal was a great reward for returning early—leaving warm Texas just in time for some frigid Ohio weather.

Once again, the Maple Syrup Festival fills me with gratitude.  I am grateful for my church family from Sonnenberg who pitch in whole-heartedly to make this event happen.   It’s no small thing, and it takes many hands to prepare syrup, sausage, pancakes, blueberry sauce and applesauce.  It takes many more hands to serve and cleanup.  And it takes many wonderful folks to come and partake.   I walked around a couple times to see how things were going, and what I observed reminded me of our beehives on a warm day.  A happy humming of many voices enjoying good food and conversation.  Many busy bees bustling around, cooperating cheerfully with each other to accomplish the task at hand.

Again, it was a pleasure to talk with many folks about the maple season, and about how different it is this year with such a late start.  As we suspected, it will be a short season.  It is coming to a close here very shortly.  This week we had a couple warm days followed by warm nights, and the sap began to turn.  That means that it is getting cloudy and sort of yellowish.  This kind of sap does not make good syrup.  The flavor begins tasting like wood.  I know this because I chew on wood regularly.  Not really.  But I do know this because years ago I made some nasty tasting syrup from that kind of sap.  It is called “buddy” syrup, because the trees are budding, and it is not usable.  Tastes like wood smells.  

This is a photo of my budding Maple tree.

This cold snap will likely make the sap run clear again for a couple days, but then I suspect the season will be over.   It looks like we will end the season with about 40 gallons of syrup.  This is down considerably from last year’s bumper production of 70 gallons.  Our average is typically around 55 to 60 gallons a year.  We’ll take whatever we get, and be thankful.

One of the really nice things about these annual events, is that we get to meet new people, and visit with those who are becoming our friends.  One such couple came to our house last Saturday to see our cooking operation.  Lue and Bert Shetler from Mt. Eaton.  What a pleasure to get to know them.  Bert introduced himself as Mr. Wonderful.  I don’t doubt that.  He’s a fine man.  Must be a story there somewhere.   Lue is a blog writer, and we began following her a while back.  If you want to see excellent photography, and read interesting thoughts about many different things, go visit her blog at www.lookinginmyrearviewmirror.com.  This past week, Lue posted a blog with quite a few pictures of our maple syrup production.  If you want to see where and how the syrup is cooked down, check it out, but try to ignore the old guy in the photos.  I think you will appreciate Lue’s style, and will enjoy her other blog entries too.  

It’s been a busy week.  Short nights, long days.  Collecting sap, cooking and canning.  Preparing sausage and setting up displays.  It was worth all the effort.  With a happy sense of satisfaction, I am now going to kick back for a nap.  Don’t call me.  

From Kidron, Ohio, the little village where time moves at a slower pace, and the moments are punctuated by the rhythmic clip-clopping of Amish horses headed into and out of town.  Here the sturdy Swiss men are doing their best, the lovely ladies are becoming more beautiful with age, and the much-loved children grow up and leave home with a good foundation, and every intention of returning some day.  Hometown Kidron.  Come see us sometime.  

Bobby

Every community has at least one individual with a big personality—someone who is known by everyone.  Kidron has a few.  Some Amish.  Some English. But only Kidron has Bobby Haas.  He’s a unique individual—and that is spoken with respect.  As far as I know, Bobby is loved by everyone.  If there are those who don’t love him, it’s because they don’t really know him.  Bobby came to live in Kidron many years ago.  Many of you are already acquainted with him, but for those who aren't, allow me to make an introduction.    

Bobby was born in 1953, and as an infant, he contracted meningitis.   His condition was very serious, and the disease left him deaf.  The doctor apparently felt that he could not be raised as a normal child, and his parents agreed to sign him over to a state institution.  So Bobby went to live at the Apple Creek State Institute, (Later renamed Apple Creek Development Center).   This facility housed people with various mental and physical handicaps.  It seems unimaginable that a doctor would recommend this, and parents would agree to it.  Unfortunately, in that era—the 1950’s when resources for handicapped children were not readily available—it was a fairly common practice.  

There at Apple Creek, Bobby grew up—a friendly deaf boy with normal intelligence, who won the hearts of the employees.  He had no knowledge of any family, and the secret of his origins belonged to the State of Ohio.

One of the employees at Apple Creek, Mary Wyss, became like family to him, and would occasionally bring Bobby home to Kidron for visits.  When Bobby came of age, Mary and Clayton Wyss brought him home to stay.  They enrolled him in the Ohio school for the Deaf to learn sign language, reading, and writing—and Bobby’s world opened even more.  Before long he was hired at the Kidron Body Company in the Maintenance Department.  For thirty-nine years now, Bobby has been a faithful and cheerful employee, emptying trash, sweeping and mopping floors, keeping the restrooms clean, changing light bulbs, pulling weeds, shoveling snow, sweeping the parking areas, and whatever else his supervisor assigns him.  He doesn't complain, and for all those years he’s never missed a day off sick.   

Bobby is the ultimate people person.  This makes his job especially tough, because most of the time he must work by himself.   However, he always finds a way each day to spend a little time with his friends.

His work friends aren't the only ones.  He eats breakfast and lunch everyday at the Kidron Town and Country Restaurant, where he mixes well with all the regulars there too.  

Bobby’s work often has him outside the buildings near the road where he will be pulling weeds or sweeping the lot, and since Kidron is becoming more of a tourist destination, sometimes people will stop to ask for directions.  Bobby is more than happy to help.  He’s never met a stranger.  

So a car will stop, and the person will roll down their window, and say something to Bobby.  He will drop his work and go over to the car and begin “talking” with them.   Although he is unable to speak words, he is quite vocal and animated.  This usually ends with the person looking helplessly at Bobby as he goes on and on, trying his best to be of assistance.   A confused look will appear on their faces, and they will begin nodding.  Soon, they will wave hesitantly and slowly drive away.  Occasionally someone else will notice, and come to assist.  It’s more fun though, to let the situation play itself out.  Bobby gets his moment with people, and he’s happy that he could help.

One day when our daughter Angie was in Junior High, she received an assignment that required her to do a brief interview with three well-known people in her hometown, along with pictures.  Together we decided the three should be Mel Wyss the town barber, John Sprunger the Fire Chief and owner of Kidron Auction, and Bobby Haas.  

It was a warm day as we went around to see the people, and when we arrived at Bobby’s home, the front door was open.  Just inside the screen door, to the right, we could see Bobby sound asleep in his chair.  We weren’t sure what to do.  There was a doorbell button, but he wouldn’t hear the bell.  We pushed it anyway.  Instantly, several bright lights up by the ceiling began flashing.  Bobby yelled and jumped up, facing the door.  He laughed, and so did we.  He loves to be in pictures, so it wasn’t difficult to get him to pose.  It was a short interview since we couldn’t talk with him very well.  But Angie wrote a few brief sentences—enough to satisfy the assignment—and Bobby was happy for the visit.

Most mornings I arrive at work a little before seven AM.  Bobby is usually there in my office, sitting at a vacant desk, drinking coffee and looking at the Daily Record.  Out of the goodness of his heart, he’s already poured my coffee too.  It’s sitting there waiting for me—sometimes getting cold.  I drink it anyway.  He means well.  In the last number of years Bobby has taught me the manual alphabet.  He is better at spelling things with his hands then with a pencil.  Even though I’m not very proficient at communicating with him, his combination of pantomimes, signing, and spelling, is enough for me to “get it” most of the time.  

Always the giver, Bobby loves to remember people’s birthdays.  His reading and writing skills are at a fairly elementary level, so he doesn’t write much in the cards.  He always draws a picture of the “I love you” deaf sign, and writes “Smile” in it.  And he always signs them, “Love, Robert.”

Here in Kidron, Bobby has a home—both a house, and a town who has adopted him.  Mary and Clayton are both gone, but there are good people who assist him with his finances and other needs, like writing checks and driving him places.   Here he will live happily ever after.  Bobby Haas—ambassador of goodwill.  

And this could so easily have been the end of the story.  

One day a stranger showed up in Kidron.  She had learned about Bobby, and was pretty sure she was his cousin.  She located one of the men who assists him, and introduced herself.  They talked, and it was true.   She was Bobby’s cousin.  The cousin and the caretaker sat on this information for a while—wanting to be very careful to keep Bobby’s best interests in mind.

In the spring of 2002, one of Bobby’s brothers, David, passed away.  In David’s obituary, “Robby” Haas was listed as a deceased sibling.  The cousin who knew about him went to the calling hours to offer condolences, and in a conversation with another brother, Michael, mentioned that Robby was still alive and living in Kidron.  This was a complete shock to Michael.  He and his siblings knew they had a brother, but assumed he was dead.   Michael didn’t mention this news to his siblings, and over the next few weeks planned a time for them all to get together at the cousin’s house to meet Bobby.  Bobby wanted to surprise them, so his siblings didn’t know what they were coming for—only that it would be  a “life changing event.”  

When the day arrived, Bobby, his caretaker, and an interpreter were hidden away in a room as the family gathered.  At the appointed time, Bobby was brought out and introduced as their brother—the brother who had “died as a baby.”

It was a miracle for the family—like someone was raised from the dead.  You can imagine the hugs and tears of joy.  The interpreter helped them communicate, and the event was recorded.   I’ve seen the video, and it’s very moving—impossible to watch with dry eyes.

Bobby was forty-eight when his family found him.  It seems so sad that his parents—who had passed away by this time—never had the opportunity to meet the loving, gregarious man their son had become.  They could have known him, and he could have known them.  He would have loved them, and would not have held their decision against them.

In the intervening years, things have settled back down.  Bobby remains in Kidron.  He is even known in an affectionate way as the Mayor.  He is definitely a community fellow.  For years he rode a three-wheeled moped around town, and eventually wore it out.  Since then he’s been walking everywhere.  

He does his best to keep in contact with his family in Akron.  He loves to go visit his siblings and his nieces and nephews.  Sometimes they come to visit him.  It’s not as often as he’d like.   But every time he’s at some family event, he takes lots of pictures, and proudly shows them off to his “family” in Kidron.

                                    Bobby is saying, “I love you.”

Mister Robert Lee Haas Junior—that’s how he likes to write his name.  He’s an interesting character who has overcome a lot of obstacles.  We can learn from him how to love people, and how to accept hardships in life without being defeated.  It’s nice to be considered his friend.   Love you too, Bobby.

From Kidron, Ohio, where strangers become friends, and friends become family.  Have a wonderful day!

.  

Sap's Runnng

At last!  It’s beginning to feel like spring.  We waited a long time for this.  Old man winter held a tight grip for too long.  The signs are everywhere.  I’m seeing birds on my walks that I haven’t seen for a while.  Bluebirds, Red Wing Blackbirds, Kill Deer, Robins.  And they seem to be happy about the nicer weather too.  They’re expressing their delight with beautiful trilling melodies and cheerful bird songs.  It’s a sound we get so used to that we most often tune it out.  This time of year, it’s very welcome noise—a sure sign of spring.  Take a walk and listen.  Brings cheer to the heart.

The sap is running.  (Not referring to myself, although that would be true too.)  Maple sap.  It’s a late year for the Maple trees this year.  For our small operation, we tapped sixty-three trees on March 7.  The first “run” was on the 9th.  We usually start almost a month earlier.  Since we don’t have a woodlot of our own, we use borrowed yard trees.  These trees give a lot more sap than woods trees, because they have large crowns, and more exposure to sunshine.  They also start producing the sap a little earlier.  It’s the freezing and thawing that makes the sap run.  Below freezing at night—sunshine and above freezing during the day.  This year it’s really late.  Could be a short season.

Three years ago we upgraded our Maple syrup operation.  No longer using kitchen stoves and four-burner pans.  It’s still a small operation, but now it’s inside a 10 x 14 storage barn.  So nice to be able to get inside a building while working with the syrup.  Used to be, I had to stand outside no matter the weather—snow, rain, cold, and wind.  

Son Mike salvaged a large natural-gas burner from his job, and we mounted it on a stand.  We made a stainless pan twice as big as the old ones.   Not wanting to cut a hole in the barn roof to let out the steam, we mounted a hood over the evaporator, and a duct to the outside with an exhaust fan.  It works very well.   

Most Maple syrup operations must have a person there at all times to add wood to the fire and monitor the sap in-flow and syrup out-flow.  Ours is different.  Since I must still sleep at night and go to work during the day, I hooked my pan up with a level-control switch that pumps in more sap from a plastic barrel when the level gets too low.  That way it can keep right on cooking.   I usually finish off a batch each evening when the sap is running well.

On the average we finish off around sixty gallons of syrup a year.  The last couple seasons were exceptional, and we were able to finish off 70 gallons each of those years.   I suppose commercial producers might laugh at our operation, but I don’t worry about it.  It’s the best we can do with the available resources.  

On my walk last evening down Zuercher Road, I spoke with three Amish boys who were driving a little old tractor, pulling a trailer with a sap-collection container in it.  They were out gathering sap, and said some of the trees gave quite a bit.  A couple of them were Orley and Ada’s boys.  They lost their Daddy, Orley, last summer in a freak accident.  He was only thirty-six, a much loved teacher at an Amish school.  Orley loved his teaching job, and that was obvious to anyone who knew him too.   I remember the times he stopped at my house, while riding his bicycle home from school.  I was cooking Maple sap at the time, and he wanted to ask some questions about it.  He was hoping to tap his own trees and teach his students about it.  He did so, and now his boys are continuing the process.

 

Orley died at his summer job—the other job he loved.  He was a tour guide at an animal park, where he drove a team of horses pulling a wagon-load of people.  Having been raised with driving horses and prized Haflingers, he was an expert horseman, and loved them.  And always the teacher, he loved talking with the people he was showing through the farm.  He was leaning on a brace when it broke, and he fell off the front end of the wagon.  This spooked the horses, they took off running, and Orley was run over.  So tragic.  I pray for this young family every day as I walk past their place.  I don’t know them well enough to be of comfort otherwise, but I can do that much.  Six children, and a mother left to raise them without a husband.  My heart hurts for them.

And then there’s Orley’s mother, Betty.  She’s lost so much too.  Many years ago her Dad died in a drowning accident in the Mohican River.  At the age of forty-nine, her husband died suddenly from a heart-attack.  Now, her only son, who lived next door, died in this tragic accident.   All the men most important to her are gone.   She must go on living, but her days must be filled with sorrow.   I pray for her too.

There have been other very sad events in our community lately.  A young Amish boy died from an accidental shooting.  It was his brother who will have to carry a lifetime burden, and parents who will always grieve.

Another young family who lives in Kidron lost their little boy a couple weeks ago to a sudden illness.  Their pain is still so raw.

The community surrounds these loved ones with words of comfort and acts of kindness.  We may not be able to solve all the problems in the world, or give help to all those who need it, but each of us can show love and care for those around us in our own small corner of the world.  And even if we can’t do much in a tangible way, we can still pray.

Walking is a good time to think.  And sometimes I think about these things, about life, and the uncertainty of it.  As mortals, only God knows the number of our days.  It’s up to us to make the best of them, to love our neighbors, and to be thankful.  How did Jesus say it?  “Love God with all your heart, and your neighbor as yourself.”  It's a great way to live.  

From Kidron, Ohio, we end our thoughts with the suggestion to take a little time today to step outside and breathe the cool fresh air.  Maybe pick up a few sticks that were blown down during the winter.  Look around for signs of life peeking through ground.  Listen to the birds.  Be grateful for life.  It is a daily gift.

The Mennonite Game

“You’re Amish!”

I glanced back to see where the words came from.  The kid was staring straight at me.

“No I’m not,” I replied.

 

I had just taken my seat on the bus the first day of attending a new school.  Twelve years old, and going into the seventh grade, this was a day I had been dreading.  It was not easy to be around new people.

Now this.  

The kid who spoke appeared to be a couple years older than me, and kept staring accusingly.  He wasn’t backing down.

“Yes, you are Amish,” he exclaimed more loudly, with a frown on his face,  “I saw your Mom.”

By now the rest of the kids around us were listening and staring too.

“We’re not Amish,” I repeated, “we’re Mennonites.”  And at that moment, I wished for all the world that we were neither.

Our family had recently moved to the Wooster, Ohio area, from Elida, Ohio.  Dad had been called into the ministry at the Salem Mennonite Church (Wooster), and this was my first experience riding a public school bus.   It was bad enough that my stomach was tied in great big knots before climbing onto the bus.  Now, it was even worse.  I would have given anything be back at the little Elida Mennonite Christian Day School, with cousins and friends, nearly all of us from the same church—Pike Mennonite.

The nearest thing to Amish that we had in my home community was a group called the Dunkers, or Dunkards.   Technically they are German Baptist, but Dunker is  the moniker assigned to them because of their method of baptism.  They not only dunk new believers under the water, but take them under three times.  They are also a plain people—men wearing trimmed beards, and women wearing large head-coverings, and long dresses with capes.  Other than appearance, they live with all the modern conveniences.

When we moved to Wayne County, and began seeing the Amish and horse-drawn buggies, it was really exciting.  We were no different than the tourists.

“Quick!  Grab the camera!”

We didn’t know it then, but apparently there were those who looked down on them.  I’m not sure why.  Dad used to mention that he considered them to be really righteous, because they took their outward practice of faith much further than the straight-cut coats on Mennonite men, and cape dresses and head-coverings on the Mennonite women.  

I still remember Dad’s shock the first time he saw an Amishman smoking!  This sighting set him back a little, and put a stain on his view of Amish righteousness.   In the churches like ours, we were taught that smoking, drinking, and swearing were wrong—something Christians don’t do.  

As for the boy who thought I was Amish—this was a typical misunderstanding for those who are unfamiliar with the many levels of Mennonites and Amish.  They think we all dress alike, and if we look sort of like Amish, we must be Amish.  Nope.  

Today, the branch of Mennonites that my family is part of, does not hold to a particular dress code like the more conservative Mennonites and Amish.  Although we go back to the same Anabaptist roots, we allow ourselves the freedom to wear the clothing of our modern culture—to a point.  Modesty is still appreciated.

Those of us who were raised as North American Mennonites of German/Swiss descent may not always want to admit it, but there is definitely something that makes us a culture of our own—although the term ‘ethnic group’ might be more accurate.  

There is an interesting phenomenon that often occurs when we are in places away from home.  We may be in a group of complete strangers—none of whom are dressed in any way like a conservative Mennonite or Amish—and catch ourselves saying things like,  “He looks like a Mennonite.”  Or, we hear a name, and we just know.  This even happened on our trip to Israel in November of 2013.  There was a husband and wife couple in our diverse forty-person group whom we had never before met.  They dressed like everyone else, but they just had the “look” and sure enough, they were.  This is hard to explain.  You almost need to have grown up in this culture, or a similar group, to understand.

Living in Wayne County, in a Mennonite and Amish community like we do, there are occasions when it would be more convenient to have a local Germanic surname like Miller or Yoder, Amstutz or Nussbaum.   People with these names have a decided advantage when it comes to playing the “Mennonite Game.”   There are no winners or losers of course, but it is definitely a habit of those raised in this culture to attempt to identify a common relative or acquaintance when first meeting someone.    

For example, here is a typical introduction.  (Keep in mind that Roth is a common name among the Mennonites.)

“Hello, I’m Dan Miller”

“Hi Dan, my name is Dave Ross”

“Dave Roth.  Are you related to the Roths at…..”

“No... it’s Ross, not Roth.”

“Oh, ……….Ross?”

“Yes. Ross.”

And then after a moment of embarrassed silence, I interject that “I married into this community.  I’m married to a Neuenschwander.”

Now we're off and running.  Suddenly we can make all kinds of connections, and I’m “in” again. (Or at least that’s what it feels like.)

A few of the older folks around here also remember I. Mark Ross, and we can connect there.  And many around Wayne County knew my Dad, Richard, and my uncle Roland.  That is a blessing too.

And that describes the game.  Making connections.  That seems to be important to us.  But that’s just part of human nature too.  We all have this need to belong to some group or entity, and to feel like we are part of the herd.

I once made the mistake of telling a local gentleman that his last name didn’t sound like a Mennonite name.  What a small world I lived in.   A ridiculous thing for me to say.  I was quickly informed that his last name is common among Mennonites in certain parts of Pennsylvania.  I was then reminded that my name was not at all common in Menno circles.  Oops.  This is true.  Great-Granddad Ross, a Virginian, and a blacksmith for the Confederates during the Civil War, was married to Julia Whitsel.  Near as we know, they were part of the United Brethren denomination.  After David died at the young age of forty seven, Julia and the children moved to Elida, Ohio to be near her oldest son George who had become a Mennonite.  Here, she too joined the Mennonite Church, and that was the beginning of Mennonite Rosses.

But all things considered, it’s nice to have a simple easy-to-pronounce last name like Ross, Smith, Miller, King, Good, Bear, Bland, or Davis.  The “game” doesn’t matter anyway.  The legacy of faith is the important thing.  

As I was writing this, an Amishman came to our front door selling Krispy Kreme Donuts.  Really.  It was a fundraiser for a family with large medical bills.  Bless his heart.  It was a really cold and  snowy day.  I bought a dozen and told him to keep the change.  It was difficult to refrain from asking him what his last name was, and where he was from.  No doubt we could have made some connections.  He was a friendly guy though, and said “You don’t have to be crazy to be out here, but it helps.”

And speaking of the Amish.   This is where the “Mennonite Game” could be labeled as: “For ages three to six.”  Seriously.  Being Amish takes this game to an entirely new level.  It seems the Amish have a fairly limited selection of first names and a short list of last names.  In 1920, there were about 5000 Amish in the USA.  Today, their numbers are reported as nearly 300,000.   I’m guessing here, but I’ll bet that nearly half of them are Millers, Yoders, or Troyers.  It’s only logical that there are a huge number of name duplications.  Many of them have nicknames—even multiple  nicknames—to help identify which Mary or Dan you are talking about.  I used to associate with an Amish fellow whose nickname was Coon-Dan’s-Crist’s-Dan Yoder.  Just Dan to me, but if I wanted to explain to someone else which Dan Yoder, I’d have to say the whole string.  

Here’s a few more that I’ve known.  Happy Dan, Ear Dan, Hammer Dan,  Hog Back John, Long John, Buck Wayne, and Buck Wayne’s Mary.  Most nicknames describe a person’s location, occupation, physical characteristic, or a spouse.  Happy Dan is always smiling.  Ear Dan, well yes, he has big ears.  Hammer Dan is a carpenter.  Hogback John lived on Hogback Road.  Long John was very tall.  

Speaking of real games.  I recently learned there is a game called Amishology.  It tests your knowledge about the Amish.  You can buy it on the internet, or at several places in Indiana and Pinecraft, Florida.

So long for now, from the lovely town of Kidron, Ohio, where you don’t have to be a Mennonite, but if you choose to make your home here, you’ll be surrounded by a lot of them—mostly really good people.

 

Just for giggles, take a moment to watch and listen to this song about the Mennonite Game.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCmmrHK4HNk