Amish Confidential (19 page)

CHAPTER 21

SUNSHINE STATE OF MIND

Y
ou want another sign of growing Amish affluence? The Amish, like other groups with money, are now being targeted in what some people call big-dollar scams.

While the Amish are good savers, they can be really dumb investors, especially when they get into financial territory they aren’t familiar with. Since they do have money, they can be ripe targets.

A businessman named Tim Moffitt, who’d sold his Super Fruit produce company in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, next proposed a luxury RV park an hour north of Orlando. He targeted a pool of investors that you’d never associate with the world of recreational camping vehicles. He approached eighty Amish families and was able to raise $15 to $20 million.

There’s a lot of controversy about Moffitt’s plans. Unfortunately, the park still isn’t built, and investigators wonder if it ever will be. For now, at least, most of the Amish families haven’t demanded their money back. They’re being loyal, they say. Moffitt isn’t Amish, but he’s well-known by the Amish, which is how he
managed to raise so much money with just his word that the deal would be lucrative.

Then there is Monroe Beachy. He’s a white-haired, bearded member of an Amish church in Sugarcreek, Ohio, who admitted defrauding 2,600 of his own Amish people in 29 states out of nearly $17 million.

You’ve probably heard of Bernie Madoff and his Ponzi schemes. Beachy was the Amish Madoff and just as despicable. Beginning in 2006, he promised to hold the Amish investors’ money in safe investments while actually putting the funds into far riskier securities. He was indicted, of course. “Beachy told the investors that their money would be used to purchase risk-free US government securities, which would generate returns for the investors,” the Securities and Exchange Commission said last year in a civil filing. “In reality, Beachy used the money to make speculative investments in high yield (junk) bonds, mutual funds, and stocks.”

Eventually, when things started to spiral out of control, Beachy did the unthinkable for any self-respecting Amish man. He filed for bankruptcy, officially asking the US Bankruptcy Court to figure out which if any of the creditors would get paid. That got people even more riled up than the missing millions. The investors didn’t just fume, they wrote hundreds of letters asking that they be allowed to handle things in their own way. The court denied their requests.

One woman lamented her losses, but she was refusing any help from the government. Her savings before her unfortunate decision to invest had been meager, she said, but she’d put what she could into “the Amish Bank of Monroe Beachy.”

The Amish looked at people like her and did exactly what you’d
expect them to do. They set up a fund that members of the community could contribute to, and they helped the defrauded people as much as they could.

W
ithout a doubt, the Amish are finding new, worldly ways to enjoy their material blessings. Gradually, Amish homes are getting larger and better appointed. Cars, once forsaken entirely or at least hidden in English neighbors’ barns, are now more often parked openly on Amish farms. The makes and models are getting fancier, too.

It’s more than cars. Since I was old enough to see one in the backyard of an English home, I’d never heard of any Amish having a swimming pool. They’re forbidden, but more and more homes include lined, man-made swimming ponds, complete with slides and diving boards. And more and more Amish parents are taking the kids out to dinner. Yes, in restaurants! We
never
did that when I was a kid!

The elders aren’t happy with all this modernization. Sometimes, the bishops still issue objections to these changes. But more often these days, it’s compliments.

“Nice tractor, Calvin!”

And then there is Pinecraft, Florida.

Nestled at the eastern edge of Sarasota, Pinecraft began its life as a tourist camp in the 1920s. Now, based entirely on word of mouth, the compact community of Pinecraft has morphed into a major vacation destination for the Amish. That’s right, vacationing Amish. Five thousand people visit every winter, some coming down for a week or two, many staying through the season.
The visitors stroll around in traditional Amish clothing—the men in black hats, the women in white bonnets, now protecting their faces from the bright Florida sun’s dangerous UV rays. The Amish snowbirds settle into rental houses on streets named for well-known Amish families—Kaufman, Schrock, Yoder. The Amish truly have made the place their own. The way New Yorkers have Miami and Fort Lauderdale, the way Chicagoans winter in Fort Myers and St. Petersburg, the Amish pilgrims keep turning up in Pinecraft.

They don’t come by horse-and-buggy, of course. That ride could take ’til March. Hopping a plane to Sarasota Bradenton International Airport would be the quickest way to get there, but that isn’t what the Amish do. Flying, though quietly permitted in genuine emergencies, is considered too worldly, too much of a luxury, for a flock of Amish snowbirds. In the eyes of most bishops, flying can’t be considered essential when chartered Pioneer buses and their English drivers are making express runs to Pinecraft every day. The Amish head south for the same reasons people have always visited Florida in the winter. The sun is shining, the temperatures are pleasant, the whole lifestyle is a little more relaxed. The sunsets at Lido Beach are to die for. And it’s really, really, really cold back home. Plus, if any more excuse is needed, how much farming can anyone do when snow is piled up on the ground?

Like most of Florida, Pinecraft is dotted with palm trees and trailer parks, but the telltale signs of the Amish are everywhere, too. The Laundromat has clotheslines. (Bring your own pins.) Yoder’s Restaurant serves peanut-butter-pie pancakes topped with homemade whipped cream. Copies of the
Budget
, the 125-year-old Amish
newspaper, are shipped in weekly and passed around. On the shuffleboard courts at Pinecraft Park, one lane is “Reserved for Ladies,” the sign says. But with most of the bishops so far away, the rules of Amish living are a whole lot looser there.

Cell phones are used far more openly. From time to time, even cameras come out. Almost everyone uses electricity in their homes. Up north, most traditional Amish people do not ride bikes. They are only allowed to use push scooters. But in Pinecraft, oversized three-wheel bicycles are everywhere. There’s even a solar-powered buggy rolling around town—no horse at all. From Pinecraft, buses take the young people to Siesta Key Beach, where some of them actually wear bathing suits—even the occasional bikini! You certainly wouldn’t see that back home. But most sunbathers do stay in their traditional long dresses or long dark pants while lounging in low-slung beach chairs or playing beach volleyball.

Here’s something else you won’t see up north: Many of the houses—simple, wood-framed cottages and Spanish-style mini-villas—feature hand-carved signs with the owners’ family name. That would be seen as highly boastful in the Amish north. In Pinecraft, people enjoy seeing who the owners are. No matter how simple or fancy the homes in Pinecraft are, one thing they aren’t is cheap. Recently, a tiny six-hundred-square-foot bungalow on Graber Avenue, right next door to an ice-cream shop, was listed for $229,000. That may not sound expensive to people who live in New York or San Francisco or even suburban Lancaster, but it makes Pinecraft one of the most expensive communities in Sarasota County, which is itself one of the priciest places to live in Florida. And the Amish almost always buy their vacation homes with cash.

No one asks too many questions in Pinecraft, and no one offers many answers. Everyone just tries to blend in as well as they can. One of the good things about Pinecraft is that Amish visitors get a chance to meet Amish people from other states. For people who don’t get around too much, it’s a rare opportunity to trade local attitudes and compare far-flung Ordnungs.

Typical Pinecraft conversation:

“Your bishop allows cell phones?”

“He does.”

“Really? My bishop hardly allows speaking in a loud voice!”

Pinecraft even has its own Internet blogger to record the details and keep everyone in the loop. “All these groups can mingle down here in a way they wouldn’t at home,” says Katie Troyer, who left the church but still very much embraces Amish culture. “That’s a puzzle people have been trying to figure out for ages.” Always riding her three-wheeler with a camera, she posts her photos and reports at Pinecraft-Sarasota.Blogspot.com.

“What happens in Pinecraft stays in Pinecraft,” she jokes—unless you happen to see it on Katie’s blog!

I’m really not sure why the Amish rules should be any different in Florida than they are anywhere else. Why are bicycles and electricity the devil’s implements in Pennsylvania but perfectly okay in Florida? The last time I checked, we had the same God in both places. Does heaven have a southern division with different rules? If it’s okay in Florida to live like Mennonites, why not carry that back home?

To me, it’s just another example of Amish hypocrisy. Always read the Bible literally unless you’re south of Washington, DC!

I’ve been to Pinecraft three or four times. The truth is, it
really isn’t my idea of a great vacation spot. Shuffleboard at the park! Black hats in the sunshine! Gabbing at the local diner all day! There’s a saying about Pinecraft that’s always rung true to me: It’s for the newlyweds and nearly deads and no one else! For my money, vacations are about going somewhere different and experiencing something new. I love to travel. I love sightseeing and going new places and meeting new people and soaking in the great outdoors. I’ve gone hunting in Colorado, where I got an elk. I’ve been hunting and fishing in Canada, where I got a bear and caught my limit of walleye. I’ve been to Yellowstone, the Grand Tetons. I hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and camped down there. That’s my idea of getting away from it all, five thousand feet down! I’ve been on a couple of cruises. I love camping out at country-music festivals like Ohio’s Jamboree in the Hills. I hit Ocean Beach, Maryland, at least once a year. I’ve visited the Dominican Republic and Cancún. I made a mission trip with my church to Zambia in Africa. Now, that was amazing! We helped build houses for the people, and I even did a three-hundred-foot bungee jump at Victoria Falls. A couple of my friends told me that might not be wise.

“Has anybody died?” I asked the guy strapping in the tourists.

“Not yet,” he said.

I’m not sure if that was supposed to calm me, but I jumped, and I lived.

The only trip I really didn’t enjoy was my first visit to Myrtle Beach. I was twenty years old, too young to get into the local bars. I hung out on the beach all day with the young crowd. I’d been working inside that year, framing sheds. My skin was pale as fresh milk, and I got such a horrible sunburn, I spent the rest of the
trip moaning in the motel room. I swore I’d never go back, but I did the following summer. I was legal then, and the local bars were a blast. I didn’t step on the beach a single time. It was a huge improvement.

CHAPTER 22

EXES

A
n Amish race-car driver . . . an Amish police officer . . . an Amish nurse. You think I’m joking? You should meet Marlin Yoder, Elsie Keim and Naomi Kramer. People raised in traditional Amish families end up in all kinds of places you wouldn’t expect.

It turns out I am not alone in beating my own unique path through Amish Country. I’m certainly not the only person of my background who lives with one foot in the Amish community and one foot outside. It’s that closeness
and
that distance that make me who I am. Though I remain a work in progress, you know what? These days, I kinda like who I am.

People like me have all felt frustration with the Amish life we were born into: the lack of freedom, the pressure to conform, the unfashionable headwear. At the same time, most of us never really get the Amish out of our blood. It’s part of what defines us, always. As we’ve gone into the outside world and expanded our horizons, we haven’t lost our Amish-ness at all, we’ve added to it. That’s how I like to think of it, anyway.

My part of Pennsylvania is crawling with people like me, as are
the Amish strongholds in Ohio, Indiana, Wisconsin and other states. We love the Amish. We admire the Amish. We are part of the Amish community. We protect the Amish in whatever ways we can, and now we are uniquely situated to understand these inward-looking communities—and to help them—without surrendering our own free judgment or personal choice.

Those who walk this road with me I consider my brothers and sisters in arms. I am so proud of how far they have traveled, what obstacles they have overcome, what special lives they have built for themselves and their families. Some still live quietly, farming, working construction, owning businesses, becoming valued and respected members of small communities. Others are roaring into the outside world, caution be damned.

I am thinking of people like Marlin Yoder. Marlin came from the tiny Amish enclave of Richland Center, Wisconsin. Just a few short years ago, his idea of speed was a galloping horse. Now he’s turning laps at two hundred miles an hour and working his way into a car-racing career. He isn’t slapping reins anymore. He’s pedal-to-the-metal now.

Marlin caught the NASCAR bug listening to races on a smuggled radio hidden beneath a mattress in his family’s Amish home. Apparently, my older brothers weren’t the only Amish teenagers sneaking radios in and out of the house. Marlin slipped away and learned to race on the same go-kart tracks that launched driving stars such as Danica Patrick. These days, Marlin’s all about speed and competition and winning, an almost total U-turn from the poky humility of his Amish upbringing. He’s committed to the racer’s life now, even though his mother still doesn’t understand.

“I know she misses me,” Marlin says, “but after you talk with
her for ten or fifteen minutes, she’s still asking me why I don’t come back. They truly believe that if I was to die today, I’d burn in hell.”

Verna Gillen drives a slower vehicle but a much bigger and heavier one. Raised on an Amish farm outside the auction town of Kidron, Ohio, she couldn’t see spending the rest of her life with her fingers in the dirt. “On my fortieth birthday,” she says, “I thought, ‘You know what? It’s now or never.’ ” Her five kids were grown. She had gotten divorced, had moved around a bit and was married to a new man who was a trucker. “Why not?” she asked herself. She took a training course and got herself hired by Old Dominion Freight Line in Indianapolis as an over-the-road big-rig driver. Her first year on the job, she was named rookie of the year at the Indiana Truck Driving Championship. She took first place in the twin-bed category, the first woman ever to score so high in seventy-five years. Now, five nights a week, she’s driving a day-cab ten-speed tractor-trailer from Indianapolis to Rock Island, Illinois, with a healthy salad and a piece of fruit in the cab. In Rock Island, she meets a driver from Des Moines, Iowa. They swap freight loads, and she heads back home.

“I keep moving,” she says, something she certainly wasn’t brought up to do, at least not at distances like these.

T
o me, Elsie Keim is an inspiration and a hero.

Growing up on an Amish farm in Ohio, she knew full well what was waiting for her next as an Amish wife and mother: the quiet, slow, traditional way. That might be fine for many Amish girls, she figured, but it wasn’t right for her.

“I’m an adrenaline junkie,” Elsie says.

That wasn’t too popular at home.

Her parents shunned her when she turned eighteen and started driving. She moved to Florida for most of that year. When she got back to Ohio, her parents barely spoke to her. They told her she was surely going to hell.

Looking for a life that better suited her, Elsie moved to Arizona and got herself admitted to the police academy in Mesa, a sprawling suburb east of Phoenix with 450,000 people in 133 square miles. You couldn’t patrol that with a horse-and-buggy. Now she drives a black-and-white patrol car through modern neighborhoods, sworn to protect and to serve. “I’m the oddball,” she says. “I like to go to the extreme.”

To Elsie, that means more than writing tickets and making arrests. She looks back at her Amish heritage and learns from it. “I understand you can’t change anybody overnight, but I can shed a little light on them. I want to leave them better.”

Adds Elsie: “I have a mission. This isn’t a job.”

That’s about how Ray Beechy feels. His whole life has been about overcoming obstacles. When he was twelve years old, his left arm had to be cut off below the elbow after an accident in his Amish father’s sawmill. “It’s never kept me from much of anything other than shuffling cards or clapping,” Ray says with a smile. It wasn’t going to keep him from riding bulls. “I was sixteen when I really took an interest in the rodeo circuit,” he said. “A friend of mine that lived close by was riding bulls at the time and got me interested.” Ray thought it looked like fun.

His Amish upbringing helps him stay calm at the highest-tension moments of the sport. “You don’t think about the ride until you nod your head. I try to think about anything other than bull riding right before I go to the chutes.”

Now all he wants to do is keep riding and expand the sport of rodeo around his home in Hammond, Illinois, to bring more young people into the sport he loves. “I want to get on as many bulls and win as much money as I can,” he says.

Y
ou’ll notice what’s missing here, as we survey the unexpected achievements of people brought up Amish: professional occupations. Doctors, lawyers, bankers, accountants, professors—jobs that require college and graduate degrees. Whatever talent and drive they may be blessed with, Amish children are largely excluded from positions like those. Blame their lack of education. The vast majority of Amish kids don’t even attend high school. Suit-and-tie jobs are almost unthinkable. I know the American promise that anyone can grow up to be president of the United States, but I’m pretty sure the country isn’t going to elect a president with an eighth-grade education any time soon.

That’s a huge disadvantage in the outside world. Most groups celebrate the professional achievements of their members: the first black doctor in town, the first female CEO. The Amish celebrate an 85 or 90 percent retention rate, and Amish children without high school educations keep doing what their parents and grandparents did.

Honestly, what else are most of them prepared for?

This is part of the reason, I believe, that so many Amish people who leave the community eventually come back home. What exactly are they prepared to do in the outside world? Socially awkward, lacking education, disconnected from the advances of modern life: Does that sound like someone with strong job prospects? What do they put on their résumés? Proficiency with nineteenth-century farm
implements? Valedictorian of eighth grade? Good luck explaining that in the interview!

This precise issue is what motivated four college-goers, all raised Amish, to start the Amish Descendant Scholarship Fund. William Troyer, Saloma Furlong and cousins Naomi Kramer and Emma Miller knew how hard it was to get their educations. Working with the Mennonite Church, they are hoping to help other ex-Amish get theirs, as well.

“The parents are not supportive of them getting their education,” said Emma, who left the Amish when she was sixteen. She worked hard and graduated from San Diego State University and then entered a master’s program in economics at London Metropolitan University. But many ex-Amish who might have dreams of higher education find they can’t get student loans and grants to help with the tuition. Their parents won’t sign the application forms.

“My decision to leave the Amish and go to college was obviously not what my parents had wished for me,” Emma said. “So for the first three years, I did not get any financial help.”

Her cousin Naomi had a similar experience. Raised Amish in Jamesport, Missouri, she started working in a bakery when she was thirteen. By nineteen, she said, “I had a feeling of discontent. The next stop for me was to get married and settle down, but I wanted to see the world. I felt called to do something more.” She moved to Florida, began working at a nursing home, earned her GED, and dreamed of becoming a nurse.

With the help of a generous donor who was inspired by her gritty story, Naomi earned her degree at Goshen College with high honors.

Commencement day, even her parents showed up, looking proud.

“It feels like a really good accomplishment,” she says. “Amish women are raised to be nurturing. It was rooted in me that my role should be as a housewife and mother. I’ve really liked that I’ve been able to be nurturing in my career.”

Frankly, I also feel proud of the distance I have come.

When I was a little boy, running around the farm first in Lancaster County, then later in Lebanon County, getting my eight years of schooling, being groomed to live the Amish life, I don’t think too many people would have ever predicted that I’d be where I am today. No one could possibly have expected a child who grew up without a television (except when his teenage brothers finally snuck one in) to become the star of a popular television show! I never expected that. I’m sure my family, friends and church never did. I couldn’t even have formed the idea in my head. But look at me now. I really do have a life I feel I was destined for.