I haven’t been here since Mamm’s funeral two years ago. Most Amish probably think avoiding my siblings the way I do is shameful. But I have my reasons.
I never would have returned to Painters Mill at all if it hadn’t been for my mother’s diagnosis of breast cancer three years ago. But Mamm and I had always shared a special bond. She’d been supportive of me when others had not—especially when I informed my parents that I wouldn’t be joining the church. I wasn’t baptized after my rumspringa or “running around” period. Mamm disapproved, but she never judged. And she never stopped loving me.
At the age of eighteen, I moved to Columbus and spent the next year broke and miserable and more lost than I’d ever been in my life. An unlikely friendship and, eventually, an even more unlikely job saved me. Gina Colorosa taught me how to not be Amish and gave me a crash course in all the wicked ways of the “English,” or non-Amish. Ravenous for new experiences, I was a quick study. Within a month of knowing her, we were roommates living on fast food, Heineken and Marlboro Lights 100’s. She was a dispatcher with the Columbus PD and helped me land a job answering phones at a police substation near downtown. In the following weeks that minimum-wage position became my world—and my salvation.
Gina and I enrolled in the community college, our collective sights set on criminal justice degrees. It was one of the most satisfying and exciting times of my life. Mamm took the bus to Columbus for my graduation. Riding in a motorized vehicle was a direct violation of the Ordnung, the rules of our church district, but my mother did it anyway. For that, I’ll always be thankful to her. I introduced her to Gina, and told her we were going to enroll in the police academy. Mamm didn’t understand, but she never condemned me. It was the last time I saw her before her diagnosis of cancer. Datt passed suddenly of a stroke six months after I graduated. I didn’t return for his funeral. But I came back for Mamm. To be with her during her final days. To help with the farm. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
But in all honesty, my roots had been calling to me for quite some time. Looking back, I realize it was more than my mother’s impending death that brought me back. Deep inside I knew the time had come for me to face my family—and a past I’d been running away from for over a decade.
A week after Mamm’s death, as my sister Sarah and I went through her things, two town councilmen drove out to the farm. Norm Johnston and Neil Stubblefield informed me that chief of police Delbert McCoy would be retiring in a month. They wanted to know if I was interested in replacing him.
I was floored that they would ask me: formerly Amish and female to boot. But I was also flattered. A hell of a lot more than I should have been. Only later, after I’d had time to put things into perspective, did I realize the offer had more to do with small town politics than me or my law enforcement experience. Painters Mill is an idyllic town, but it’s not perfect. Serious cultural issues exist between the Amish and the English. With tourism being a big chunk of the economy, the town council wanted someone who was good at smoothing ruffled feathers, whether those feathers were Amish or English.
I was the perfect candidate. I had eight years of law enforcement experience and a degree in criminal justice. I’d been born and raised in this town. Best of all, I’d once been Amish. I was fluent in Pennsylvania Dutch. I understood the culture. I was sympathetic to the Amish way of life.
A week later I accepted the job. I quit the force in Columbus, bought a house, loaded everything I owned into a U-Haul trailer and moved back to my hometown. That was just over two years ago and I’ve never regretted my decision. Until today.
The house where I grew up is white and plain with a big front porch and windows that look like long, sorrowful eyes. Beyond, the barn stands bold and red as if in testament to its centrality. Next to it, a grain silo juts high into the misty winter sky.
I park in the driveway and shut down the engine. The backyard is visible from where I sit. The maple tree my father and I planted when I was twelve is taller than the house now. It always amazes me at how little the place has changed when my own life has shifted so dramatically.