Hometown Kidron: The Earl I knew. A friend. A mentor. A flower.

I’ve been thinking about my old friend Earl a lot in the last days and weeks. He passed away last week at the age of eighty-five after a short illness. Our friendship began when I was a shy eighteen-year-old and Earl was around forty years old, a busy father of seven, with number eight on the way. Earl was a Mennonite too, but of the Conservative branch.

Meeting Earl. We lived in Hartville, Ohio, in those days, where Dad was the pastor at the Hartville Mennonite Church. I had just graduated from High School and was looking for my first full time job. Dad thought I should apply for work at the F. E. Shumacher Mfg. plant. I did, and they hired me, putting me with Earl to assemble aluminum storm doors. I was nervous, beginning a new job, but Earl made it easy for me. Outgoing and friendly, and generous with instructions, we soon fell into a workable pattern of door production - a team that enjoyed competing to see who could get their side finished the quickest.

Music. It didn't take long to figure out that here was a man who loved music. He loved to listen to it, and he loved to sing. His tenor rang clear and true as we worked together and harmonized on old hymns. He also loved to trumpet songs with his lips. With his eyebrows raised high, and a grin on his face, he produced a sound that clearly rivaled the brass instrument. Not as much volume, but just as pretty. It took imagination and practice to do that, and since he didn’t own a real trumpet, he made do with the instruments that God gave him.

Earl soon invited me to his home. There I met his wife Maggie and their delightful and happy brood, and was sometimes even treated to an excellent impromptu girls trio made up of his three oldest children.

And then the hand saw. Earl pulled the saw out from somewhere one day when I was at his home, pinched it between his knees, and proceeded to wail out a tune on it. From that day on, I wanted to do the same.

Faith. Earl’s faith was front and center. That was good for me, a young man who was beginning to test the waters. Having been raised in the Mennonite Church and taught the same Christian faith from a Mennonite perspective, we had a lot in common. Our branch of Mennonites was less conservative in appearance than Earl’s, and I appreciated that he didn’t try to convince me that I should be a Conservative Mennonite. He accepted me the way I was, with the faith that I had, and helped build on that by sharing his own life and faith in a way that was transparent and refreshing - a truly childlike faith. There has never been another person who has been that open with me, not before and not since. Earl was an open book, and for a shy young man to hear his stories of life, his hard times, his good times, his deep love for his wife Maggie, and his love and concern for his children… that was a gift. A true gift.

Jokes. One of the most delightful features about Earl was his considerable appreciation for (clean) jokes and riddles. It was always great fun to hear a good one and then to share it with Earl. His immediate and full-blown laughter was a sight to behold - a mirth so complete, so enjoyable to observe and hear, that it often eclipsed the joke itself. For the last forty-some years, every time I've heard a good one, I've thought of Earl and wished I could tell it to him - often writing them down in the hopes that I might be able to share them with him sometime.

A couple summers ago I bumped into Earl and his daughter Marjorie at the Mennonite Relief Sale in Dalton, Ohio on a Friday evening. Earl was in his eighties now, and had lost his dear wife Maggie a year earlier. His walking wasn’t very steady, so we borrowed a wheelchair for him. While Marjorie headed out for some food, I rolled Earl to the spot where he wanted to sit for the program - the front row on the right - then went to grab a bite for myself too. It was nearly time for the program to start when I returned to sit next to Earl, and to my surprise, he was sitting there, already having a one-man program of his own, belting out some tunes on his harmonica. He grinned widely and chuckled as the instrument found its way back into the inner pocket of his straight-cut coat.

“Yes,” I said to myself, “this delightful man is still the same Earl, and in another day or another time, he could well have been one of those sharing his talents on stage.” It was a pleasure to sit with him while John Schmid entertained the audience with stories and songs of faith. Earl thoroughly enjoyed music, and his joy still shone through his smiling face and clear blue eyes.

Wallpaper. There are many ways to decorate the walls of a house and make it home. For some, the simplicity of plain pastels are the best choice. For others, nothing less than beautiful wall paper will do.

In the large dining room of the old farmhouse we occupied for twenty years while our children were growing up, the walls were covered with floral paper. The background was a light buttery yellow, and the patterns were mauve-colored flowers and gently creeping vines. There were many times when I'd lay on the soft carpet of the old dining room, worn out from work, or needing a rest from the heat. A pillow would be tucked under my head, and I'd lay there and think. The floor is a good place to do that. Barely comfortable enough to sleep, but good enough to rest while the mind churns with thoughts about life and reflections of days gone by. While I was staring at the wallpaper one day, it occurred to me that most of us are like the background, and a few are like the flowers. We need each other to complete the picture, but the flowers are what bring beauty to a space. And that brought to mind individuals I have known who have brought color and beauty into my life. Earl was one of them. He was one of the flowers. A rare one whose transparent love and hospitality shone like the bright yellow daffodils of springtime, glistening in the morning sunshine. He bloomed where he was planted in a drab world, making it a better place. He will not be forgotten.

So long, old friend.

Earl and Maggie. Together again.

-------------------------------------------------------

As I was out and about today, I observed my Amish neighbors doing some January work. Some were gathering and chopping corn shocks for bedding, and others were cleaning out the barns and spreading manure. It was a very mild day today - reaching into the 50’s. Won’t be long until we’ll be tapping the maple trees. And then spring time.