A View from the Buggy (27 page)

We described our adventures to the ones who were in the other group and they described their evening. Cinnamon rolls were sent around to top off the meal.

“These are from Eugene Shermann,” Bertha said as she set a container of pretty cut-out cookies on the table.

“So that's what was in the package he gave to Miriam,” I said as I picked out a star-shaped cookie.

After the delicious meal we girls quickly washed the dishes and pulled on our wraps once again.

“Goodnight!” I called to my friends as I headed outside to Titus's buggy.

Caroling was over for another winter, but a warm glow remained in my heart. It had been a worthwhile evening and we had made good memories.

The Amish FBI

Nathan Miller

Beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits whether they are of God: because many false prophets are gone out into the world (1 John 4:1).

A
NOTABLE TRAIT AMONG THE
A
MISH IS SIMPLICITY
. T
HIS IS APPARENT
in several areas of life, but usually it's most evident in dress, vocation, homes, and even health. No radios, television, or cars. Simplicity is also evident in the way the Amish think. Amish people tend to trust others and take things at face value, sometimes to their misfortune.

Amish people will not go to the doctor for every sneeze and sniffle, which is a testament to their frugality. However, when sicknesses do occur, age-old home remedies are applied, in which they combat one illness after another. Garlic for colds, Unkers for congestion, prune juice for constipation, and the chiropractor for everything else.

Unfortunately, down through the years certain health scams have found their way into Amish homes and taken advantage of these frugal and traditional folk.

Simplicity however doesn't exclude all new innovations. In many Amish publications such as
Die Botshaft
or
Plain Interests
, distributors hawk their latest cure-all products and devices. Some of these have good qualities, while others arouse suspicion. And some health products call for more research than the cure-all tincture. These products, regardless of their claims, do demand a certain strain on the Amish pocketbook.

My dad, being a bishop, was always wary of scams or fraudulent products that deceived his flock. One day many years ago, Dad called my brother Norman and me together for a brief meeting. He told us,
“There are some health products being used that need some investigation.” Both Norman and I, being technically inclined, couldn't have been given a better assignment than to do the necessary investigating.

One product was called “The Black Box.” This was a diagnosing device that operated very simply: The theory was called
radionics
, a high-tech sounding word for any Amishman. The Black Box had several dials and a well in the center of the box. The sick person placed some human tissue such as hair, blood, or saliva into the well. The practitioner then turned the dials and simultaneously rubbed an adhesive plate. When the adhesive plate became sticky, the health practitioner checked the numbers on his dials. He then consulted a chart which showed him what disease the patient suffered.

The process was so simple and natural that it appealed to the Amish sufferer. The treatment was neither invasive nor expensive when compared to hospitals or medical specialists. It appeared scientific enough to give it credibility, so it surely must be real. In fact, a patient could just send his photograph as a specimen. How convenient! This was, of course, taboo in Amish culture, since photographs are forbidden.

The interesting fact about this particular Black Box was that throughout the years it had lost its technical complexity to the point of having only several wires. In fact, users claimed it worked just as well without batteries installed! The Black Box was definitely suspect.

Our second assignment proved more interesting than the Black Box and very nearly got Dad in trouble.

This particular device was said to detect parasites in the human body and then effectively electrocute them. Upon reading the accompanying literature, one could easily be taken up with the horror of these critters and the necessity to rid oneself of them. Incidentally, Amish parasites are no more pleasant than
English
ones. So now we have these huge promises of health and happiness delivered to eager listeners. Never mind the pocketbook! Never mind the lack of scientific evidence. It looks high-tech and they say it works!

Enter the Amish FBI: Norman and myself.

“Okay,” I told Norman, “we can easily duplicate this contraption.”
We studied the simple print diagram provided by the author. A resistor here, a transistor there, a condenser between the two, and a speaker to boot. Of course this modern medical device required a battery and even a short copper pipe to hold while it was operated.

With two Amish skeptics bent over the smoking soldering iron and the bishop impatiently waiting for results, the future for Amish parasite hunting was really being threatened. It took a number of intense after-supper sessions in our upstairs bedroom laboratory, but finally we were ready to throw the switch.

The device operated on an interesting theory by detecting certain frequencies radiating from parasites and then sounding a buzz on the speaker. Our ears strained to hear the telltale buzzing sound from the speaker. Nothing. We turned dials up and turned dials down. Nothing. We pulled on this wire. Pushed on that one. Nothing. Surely we weren't that healthy! According to the literature, everyone has parasites!

Giving up was not an option. We had to get answers. So what happens if we add a length of wire to the piece? There! A buzz! And if I take hold of the copper pipe this way, it sounds one way or if that way, it sounds another.

I rushed out of the lab, down the stairs two at a time. I found my father dozing on the rocking chair, but not for long.

“It works! ” I yelled.

Dad jumped, his eyes wide. “I don't believe it!” he said, trying to convince himself. His hopes of documenting a hoax caused him to tremble.

“Come and see,” I responded.

He followed us upstairs to our detective lab and skeptically eyed our mess of wires.

“Listen,” I said, turning the dial while holding the copper pipe. Sure enough, we could hear the
buuzzzzz, buuzzzz.

There was no mistake. I must have the worms. Dad finally turned and left the lab, thoughtfully stroking his graying beard. Did his boys have parasites, were they practicing witchcraft, or was something else going on?

We decided to take the “something else is going on” road. Norman and I diligently bent to the task before us.

“What if we attach this wire to a longer wire?” was the next logical experiment. The sound changed. It was clearer somehow with less static. Plus, we didn't have to hold the copper pipe any longer. Now we had lots of noise with no human attached. Was the room full of parasites? We didn't think so.

We turned the dial and cranked up the speaker volume.

“Whoa here! I hear voices!” Norman looked shocked.

I planted my ear to the speaker. It was unmistakable. We heard voices. It was unintelligible but distinct, with faint music. Were they parasite voices? Or perhaps spirit voices? Or was something else going on?

By now Dad was worried. What had he gotten his curious boys into? It all started quite innocently but where was this heading? This was certainly no ordinary medical device. But what was it? It certainly seemed like a hoax, but what sort of hoax?

Meanwhile the Amish FBI picked up speed.

“You know, I think this is a crystal radio,” I announced after deep contemplation. I compared the two circuits and they were strikingly similar.
The only way to know is to build one,
we concluded innocently enough.

The next day found us at the local electronic shop asking for a diode.

“What do you need a diode for?” the burly proprietor demanded as he riffled through a cardboard box of tiny parts.

My face changed colors as I stuttered, “It's…it's for a project.”

I felt foolish but quickly recovered as we hurried home with our precious piece of the puzzle. Once home, it didn't take long to build the crystal radio.

We held our breath, threw the switch, turned the dial and…Presto! It buzzed. And spoke. The same unintelligible garble mixed with faint music. Now we knew. What a hoax! A radio to test for parasites! What a joke. The Amish had spent hundreds of dollars to get tested with nothing better than a radio!

But a week later our tune changed. Dad was worried. His boys had proved that his flock was being fraudulently tested with a helpless hoax. But the troubling part was the only thing the people heard was, “The bishop's boys built a radio!”

Anathema!
Radios are worldly! Whoever heard of an Amish bishop letting his boys build a radio?

Fortunately, the truth prevailed and in time Dad proved his sincerity. The project was disassembled and the Amish FBI remained unscathed, none the worse for wear.

Grandfather Eicher

Jerry Eicher

Excerpted from
My Amish Childhood

“Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head, and honour the face of the old man, and fear thy God: I am the L
ORD
(Leviticus 19:32).

T
HE FAMILY LIVED IN A LONG
,
WHITE HOUSE WITH LARGE WINDOWS IN
the front. Toward the back the house had a wing attached with the mudroom and woodshed. A portion of the house had an upstairs, the roofline leaving the welcoming sweep of the front windows unaffected. Here the sustained memories of that period of childhood lie. I find that strange now. I would have thought they would be at Grandfather Stoll's place, or even at home. But they are not.

Here I remember the prayers at mealtimes around the long table. Grandfather Eicher would lead out in his sing-song chant that charmed and fascinated me. It was as if he knew a secret he wasn't telling us. Some hidden pleasure he had found that we could not yet see.

I remember him laughing. That was how he approached us grandchildren, his white beard flowing down his chest, his face glowing. And it didn't take a special occasion to put him in such a mood. It was as if we were the occasion.

Grandfather Eicher was a minister back then. Once, after we'd returned from living in Honduras with our hearts aching in sorrow, he approached me in the washroom and said there had been complaints that I was singing parts at the Sunday-night hymn singings. He told me, “We don't do things like that around here.” He laughed as he said it, and I knew someone had put him up to it. Grandfather Eicher wouldn't have cared one way or the other whether a few bass notes were growled at the hymn singings. But I nodded my agreement. There would be no more parts singing on Sunday nights.

I never knew another man who made you feel so at home, yet he never drew close, as if his heart was always far away, somewhere else.

His preaching is still a distinct memory. When I remember him speaking, I see his face lifted toward the ceiling, his hands clasped in front of him, his white beard flowing over his arms. He could talk a thousand miles an hour, or so it seemed to me. A person could lose himself in that voice. It was as if you were enveloped in love and acceptance. In his preaching he wasn't going anywhere particular. He had no agenda. He simply exalted in holy words, as if he were glad himself to be part of such a great thing.

Grandmother Eicher could chatter during the week about as fast as Grandfather Eicher did on Sundays. She'd say hi, give out a long stream of words, and then bustle on. There was always something going on at the house.

She came from Arthur, Illinois. Grandfather lived in Davies County, Indiana. My guess is they met when he visited Arthur on weekends for weddings or funerals, typical Amish reasons to travel to another town. Grandmother had a great sorrow in life. She'd lost her first love under tragic circumstances before she could marry him. She never forgot that.

The Eicher men worked during the day, either in the fields or on construction jobs, so my visits to Grandfather Eicher's place were always populated with women.

Aunt Rosemary, the youngest aunt on the Eicher side was petite, the prettiest of the sisters. She would end up marrying a rather cultured Amish man from one of the trackless Northern Ontario Amish communities.

Aunt Nancy could move about as fast as Grandfather and Grandmother could talk. She was the shy one, even with us children. She would tilt her head in that peculiar way of hers, as if to deflect some incoming missile. She would marry one of the Stoll cousins, a man who stuttered as I did, although not as severely. Perhaps she had her own sorrows from which her heart reached out to a fellow sufferer.

Aunt Martha was the jolly one, always smiling and happy. I never saw her that she wasn't bubbling with joy. She was also a diabetic from early childhood. I remember she gave herself insulin shots in the leg,
and allowed us children to watch. I knew nothing then of the sufferings of a diabetic, and still don't, except from secondhand sources. But it could not have been easy for her.