First Chapter Reveal: The Amazing Legacy of James E. Hanger, Civil War Soldier by Bob O' Connor

James E. Hanger was wounded at Philippi, Virginia on June 3, 1861 and became the first amputee of the American Civil War. He hated the Yankee peg leg his Union doctor gave him. Instead, he used his ingenuity and engineering background to invent an artificial leg with a joint at the knee and a hinge at the ankle. He patented his Hanger Limb.

His invention revolutionized the prosthetic industry. The company Mr. Hanger founded still operates today (Hanger Inc.) as the country’s largest provider of artificial limbs. His story is quite remarkable.

First Chapter

We arrived in Philippi in the early morning. I asked directions and then drove the buggy directly to the Garrett Johnson farm. I knocked on the door and asked for Mr. Johnson. An elderly gentleman came to the door. He said he was Mr. Johnson. I introduced myself and my wife, telling him who I was and why I was here. He invited us to come in and sit down.

“You are a legend in this town, Mr. Hanger,” Mr. Johnson said. “The first amputee of the War Between the States. I had heard the accident and the amputation of your injured leg had taken place in my barn. You look like you are doing well.” He was looking me over, likely trying to see if he could figure out which of my legs had been lost in his barn. I don’t think he could figure it out.

“The action that took place here in your barn and in Philippi changed my life forever,” I explained. “I now am a businessman. I didn’t volunteer for the distinction or the fame. But I have made the best of it. My company provides artificial limbs for veterans from both the North and the South.”

I rolled up my pants leg and showed him my Hanger limb. I continued. “I think some good has come out of that crazy war. I would like to show Nora the barn.” I rolled my pants back down.

“Do you mind if I walk with you?”

“Of course not.”

He walked to the door of his house and held it for us. He led us to the barn. The closer I got to the building, the harder my heart began to race.

When we walked into the barn, it looked just like I had remembered all these years. There was nothing unique about it. I certainly remembered being in this barn before. I didn’t have to say anything to Nora. She knew the story. The barn was where the wayward cannon ball had mangled my leg. This was where the men had lifted me onto what I was told was a door. And this is where Dr. Robison’s surgery had saved my life.
I had to lean on the wall to hold myself up. I started to quietly cry. I was embarrassed, but could not stop. I tried to remember the excruciating pain I must have felt or the horrible sound of the doctor’s bone saw cutting through my leg. I could not remember either.

But I did remember Dr. Robison’s description of the operation and the pain that I endured for weeks and weeks afterwards. It seemed so real, like it was happening all over again. I crumbled onto the floor. Nora stood by quietly. I cried loudly, unable to stop. My thoughts of what happened here enveloped me. I was unable to move.

Dr. Robison’s face appeared clearly in my mind. He had been so calm in telling me several days later what had happened. He acted like it was routine – no big thing. Yet he must have been afraid too. That was his first amputation. I had not felt even one thread of doubt that he had done the best he could. His determination and confidence helped calm my fears. Dr. Robison was a Union doctor who had operated on a Confederate soldier. I still have problems imagining that just any Union doctor would have tried to save me. After all, I was the enemy. Yet Dr. Robison had conducted the operation, as he said, the same as if I had been his own son. And his successful surgery had pretty much been an integral part of every other step that I had taken in the last twenty years. I owed him everything.

I was so overcome with emotion that I was unsure if I could go on. I had to take deep breaths to bring myself back into the present.

Nora stood beside me as she had for so many years. She had heard my story. We both had wondered what would happen when I returned. Now we knew. It had been exhausting for me.

I finally struggled to get up. Nora knew I had to do this on my own, but held out her hand. She wanted me to know it was there, even if I wasn’t going to take it. This time I did take it. I let her help me up. She held me tight for several minutes to let me know that everything was all right.

We finally moved on. I was still shaken, but knew I had to leave.

My wife wondered out loud if going into the barn had jarred my memory. She asked me if I remembered getting hit by the cannonball or going through the operation.

“Not really,” I admitted. “And perhaps it is a good thing that I don’t remember.”

We walked back to the buggy. I thanked Mr. Johnson. And we left. I turned the buggy and travelled across the long covered bridge. I asked a lady on the street to point out the United Methodist Episcopal Church on Church Street in the downtown.

Publisher: Infinity Publishing
Pages: 298
Genre: Historical Fiction
Format: Paperback
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Bob O’Connor’s first book was published in 2006. He now has ten books published including 6

historical novels and 4 non-fiction books. He has been named finalist four different times in national book competitions conducted by Indie Excellence Awards and USA Books.

O’Connor writes about the Civil War in a way in which persons of interest find compelling as he writes about the soldiers on the front lines instead of the generals and the battle strategy. He speaks around the country on the Civil War and has appeared over 600 times in 18 states since his first book was published. His presentations have spanned the spectrum, as he has spoken to first graders and cadets at the U.S. Naval Academy, in national parks and public libraries, at historical societies and Civil War round tables.

His main topics include abolitionist John Brown, Abraham Lincoln’s bodyguard (Ward Hill Lamon), the United States Colored Troops, the invention of modern prosthetics, and brothers fighting against brothers.

His latest book is the historical fiction, The Amazing Legacy of James E. Hanger, Civil War Soldier.

You can find out more about the author at his website www.boboconnorbooks.com or connect with him on Facebook.

First Chapter Reveal: Awakened Love by Laura V. Hilton

Katie Detweiler grew up Amish, never knowing she was adopted as an infant. Now an adult, her new job as cook at an Amish bed and breakfast doesn’t bring about the euphoria she hoped for. Just as she’s getting her menu perfected, the Englisch family and severely ill sister she never knew existed enter her life and strain her Amish relationships. Plus, Katie suddenly has two different men vying for her attention—one Amish, one Englisch—and she wonders if one of them could be the man of her dreams. But when her Englisch sister’s health worsens, Katie must find a way to balance her heart, her job, and her faith while risking her own life for the sister she never knew.

He’s hiding from a cold-blooded killer; her Amish identity has been stripped away. Both must find a way to balance their hearts, their jobs, and their faith

First Chapter:

“Today I met the man I’m going to marry.” Patsy Swartz’s singsongy voice was too chipper.
Katie Detweiler climbed out of Daed’s buggy and turned to lift the cooler from the back as her not-exactly-a-friend bounced up to her side. Katie braced herself to spend time with bubbly Patsy.
Her heart ached with a stab of envy.
Would she ever marry?
Daed snorted, in apparent disbelief. “Bye, Katie-girl. Have fun at the frolic.” He clicked at the horse, and pulled around the circle drive.
“The new bu in town,” Patsy squealed as if Katie had actually asked who. “He is sooooo cute! And I’m going to marry him. I’m thinking Valentine’s Day. Will you stand up with me? I’m asking Mandy, too.”
Marriage? The new bu in town? Why was she the last to know these things? Katie didn’t even know Patsy was part of a couple. Wait, she wasn’t. Just yesterday she moaned over the lack of interesting men in her life.
Katie shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. “Ach, stand up with you? Valentine’s Day? Jah, I can do that. What new bu in town?”
Patsy huffed. “Where have you been, Katie? There is a world outside that bed and breakfast, ain’t so?”
“When did you meet him? You didn’t mention him yesterday.” She adjusted her grip on the handles and started toward the haus.
“He’s visiting Micah Graber, a cousin or something. He’s here, right over… Ach, I see Mandy. I’ll tell you about him later.” She turned away and glanced over her shoulder. “You’re still standing up with me. Valentine’s Day. Write that down, Katie.”
Patsy ran across the driveway to where Mandy Hershberger stood by the open barn doors.
A Valentine’s Day wedding? Was Patsy serious? Most brides married between November to January, not February, when fields need to be prepared for planting. And wouldn’t the bishop have something to say about Patsy marrying a man she only knew for, what, half an hour?
Valentine’s Day was still a long ways off. It was only August. And Patsy probably would’ve moved on three times by then.
But he was here? This mystery man Patsy planned to wed? Katie turned around and scanned the buwe playing volleyball, looking for someone she didn’t know. She didn’t see anyone new. Or, maybe he just didn’t stand out. Patsy, getting married? If Katie knew her at all, she’d be promised to this new bu in a short time. What Patsy wanted, she usually got. Even if they did call a break several weeks into the relationship.
Katie sighed. It’d be nice if someone noticed her. And recognized her as a permanent part of his future.
She turned toward the haus to deliver the food. A long row of tables was set up inside the kitchen, already piled full. Katie set the cooler down next to the door and took out a plate of chocolate chip cookies. She walked over and put them on the table, at one end with the other desserts, then stepped back and surveyed the array of cookies and fried pies. Maybe she should’ve made something else besides cookies. But Daed wouldn’t mind if she brought the entire plateful back home.
“Hi, Katie.” Micah’s mamm came into the room. “Glad you made it. Micah’s playing volleyball, if you want to join in. His cousin Abram is visiting from Indiana.” She smiled. “I’m sure you’ll want an introduction.”
Katie wasn’t so sure, except maybe to see what was so special about this mystery man. It probably was nothing other than he hadn’t already courted Patsy, since she had gone with almost every other Amish bu in the district.
Ach, that was unkind. Katie found a smile. “Danki. I’ll find Micah.” Later. They’d probably see each other sometime. He usually made a point to say hi to her.
Katie took a step toward her cooler to get the rest of her food when the outside door burst open. She gazed into knock-‘em dead blue eyes belonging to the most handsome someone she’d never seen. She stared at the stranger, her mouth open. He shoved his fingers through his brown hair, dislodging his straw hat, and backed up.
“Micah sent me to get the coolers and the big picnic jugs.”
Lizzie Graber laughed. “Ach, they’re out on the porch. You walked right past them.”
His eyes met Katie’s again and he nodded in greeting. Her heart pounded loud enough she worried he’d hear it. “Sorry, Aenti Lizzie. Don’t know what I was thinking.” He shook his head and backed out of the room, his gaze still locked on Katie, then turned and shut the door.
Lizzie laughed again. “Those buwe are all the same. A pretty girl and they have to go check her out.”
Pretty? Lizzie believed he’d come in because he thought she was pretty? But he didn’t stay long enough to say hi. Or to ask her name. Not that it mattered. She probably would’ve been tongue-tied anyway. Katie straightened, willing her heart rate back to normal. A gut-looking bu she didn’t know. Micah’s cousin. That must be Patsy’s… whatever she’d call him. Her intended, since she said she was marrying him on Valentine’s Day. So why did it matter what he thought?
It didn’t.
Her insides deflated like a popped balloon.
Katie studied the dessert selection again. Other than the chips in her cookies, there wasn’t any chocolate in sight—unless some of the fried pies were filled with the delicious comfort.
***
Abram Hilty shut the door behind him, and took a deep breath. His heart raced. He hadn’t even talked to her, didn’t know the sound of her voice, but something—his heart, maybe—seemed to recognize her. Strange. Especially since…
Micah hoisted a cooler in his arms, while Abram lifted one of the big yellow picnic jugs. “She’s pretty, jah?” Micah glanced sideways at him and walked down the steps.
“Very.” Abram nodded as he fell in beside him. “And you can’t get her to pay attention to you?”
Micah shook his head. “Nein. Not at all. But her best friend, Janna Kauffman, told me Katie’s really shy. Maybe I’ll ask to give her a buggy ride home tonight. Her daed dropped her off.”
Abram chuckled. “You do that. I’ll ask her out, too, and tell her how wonderbaar you are. Perhaps between the two of us we’ll get her talking.” Besides, that’d give him the opportunity to spend time with her.
“You’d do that for me?” Micah’s eyes widened.
“That, and I’m currently between girls.” Abram winked. “I told Marianna I want a break.” Sort of. He did owe her some sort of an explanation for his silence. After all, they were practically engaged, and he’d essentially stood her up.
Of course, he hadn’t revealed where he’d gone. Instead, he’d left a note. Need some time off. Sorry.
In hindsight, ouch. But she’d been hounding him to make a commitment, leaving hints he couldn’t help but get. He supposed he could do worse… Instead, he’d fled. He needed to think. And with her bringing him lunch every day, staying to eat, and getting into his buggy after every singing and frolic without him even asking as she tried to get back on his gut side after he caught her with…
He shook his head. Really, what other choice did he have?
“What if she falls in liebe with you, not me?” Micah’s brow creased as his eyebrows drew together. “I mean, talking me up is kind of cliché…” He snickered. “And usually works in reverse.”
Abram shrugged. He wouldn’t complain if it did. “How can she possibly not fall in liebe with you? With me singing your praises.” Of course, he’d try hard not to sing his own. Not that he had much to sing about. He frowned. How long before he was found out?
Abram set the picnic jug down on a table where some paper cups were set. Micah put the cooler on the ground next to it and straightened. “I’ll go say hi to her then, while you get the other picnic jug.”
“Works for me.” Abram reached for a cup and pressed the spigot to get a bit of tea from the jug.
“Hi, Abram,” a female cooed.
Abram cringed. Not another pushy female. He looked up at a girl with bright red hair. He had seen her earlier that day, but they hadn’t spoken. She beamed at him. The girl standing next to her had reddish-brown hair. He preferred Katie’s dark blond hair.
“Welkum to Missouri. I’m Patsy Swartz and this is my best friend, Mandy Hershberger.”
He found a smile. “Hi. Nice to meet you. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get the other—”
Micah punched his arm. “I’ll get it, after I say hi to Katie. You stay here and talk.”
“Jah. Danki, cousin.” He hoped the girls didn’t pick up on the sarcasm. “But I’ll get the cooler myself.”
***
Lizzie slid a pan of brownies into the oven and opened the refrigerator. She took out a can of 7-Up, popped it open and poured some into a glass.
“I need to mix up the taco salad I brought.” Katie headed for the other end of the table, and moved some things aside to make room for her salad bowl.
“That’s fine. When the brownies are done, take them out, please. My dochter, Emily, is sick.” Lizzie left the room.
Katie looked around. Maybe she could find some other way to assist. Helping would keep her from socializing. Or from standing next to the barn, ignored.
At this point of her life, she was part of the scenery, the part no one looked at. Patsy said it was because Katie was too quiet, that she wouldn’t cross the room to talk to anyone; she made them come talk to her. And buwe didn’t. They had enough girls willing to chase them that they didn’t need to pursue the quiet ones.
If that was the case, she’d be alone forever. The thought hurt.
But Janna said that if a bu really liked her, she’d know. Because he’d be hanging around. She should know, because ‘Troy’ Troyer hung around with Janna, and even started baptism classes.
The handsome face of Abram flashed in her mind. His heart-stopping grin. His easy confidence.
Nein. She wouldn’t think of this. Of him. It meant nothing. He was promised to Patsy.
Katie lifted the salad bowl out of her cooler, then a big bag of Fritos. She hadn’t mixed the chips in with the rest of the ingredients because she didn’t want them to get soggy by the time she arrived.
Katie set the bowl down on the table and tugged on the top of the Frito bag to open it. A warm breath tickled her ear. Abram? Her heart jumped, and her hands jerked in opposite directions, ripping the bag and sending Fritos high in the air. A few landed where they were supposed to—in the taco salad—but most decorated the floor, the egg salad sandwiches Patsy always brought, and the other food around her.
The latch clicked on the door and the hinges squeaked. A chatter of voices neared and feet tromped on the porch. Katie’s face burned. She turned around, the almost empty bag clasped in her hands.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Micah said. He stood too close. Why couldn’t it have been Abram breathing in her ear? Though, the end result would’ve been the same.
Katie struggled to not run from the room. It seemed everyone had come in to see this humiliation. Abram stood next to Mandy and a dozen or so other people, his gaze on her. Everyone looked at her.
“I was hoping you’d be here,” Micah continued.
Someone wanted her to come? Someone of the male species? Katie’s eyes widened.
Patsy came over to the table and picked Fritos off her sandwiches. She kicked Katie hard on the ankle and she found her voice. “Ouch! Ach, I scare easy. It’s okay, really.” She had spoken to a bu. Would miracles never cease?
Patsy shook her head, as though not impressed at this conversation thing. If only Patsy would step in and answer the questions for her and maybe ask a few of him, but with another head shake, she walked off, dumped the Fritos in the trash, and joined the group of females around Abram. His harem.
Katie frowned. She didn’t want to compete with so many for a small possibility of a relationship with a man. Maybe it’d be better to find someone steady who paid attention to only her. She glanced at Micah. He stared at her as if she’d sprouted antlers. Okay, maybe that wasn’t the kind of attention she wanted.
“Janna told me you’re shy. She told me not to give up on you. I’d like to get to know you better. Are you seeing someone?” He lowered his voice. “Maybe I could give you a ride home. We could stop for a milkshake.”
Katie glanced at the table laden with the usual lovely assortment of cookies and fried pies. Brownies baked in the oven. A milkshake? Was he kidding? Who in their right mind would offer a milkshake as incentive with all these treats?
He hadn’t given her a chance to answer the courting question before he asked her out. Maybe he figured that as tongue-tied as she was, someone actually courting her would be impossible.
Still, Katie didn’t know how to answer his questions. Would one-on-one be easier? Daed would say “jah” and encourage her to accept Micah’s offer of a ride home. She swallowed. “A milkshake sounds gut.”
He grinned. “Then I’ll look for you afterwards. Sorry about your chips. I hope I didn’t ruin your—” He glanced at the bowl. “Salad.” He turned away to talk to Natalie Wagler. At least she could carry on her side of the conversation.
Katie frowned. Were there books available for this disorder? She needed to check at the library. Basic Communication with the Opposite Sex?
A buggy ride with a man who wasn’t Daed. She sighed and glanced toward Abram. His attention seemed focused on Patsy. Her hand rested on his upper arm. Katie swallowed and turned away. Micah wasn’t the Mr. Right of her imagination. But maybe he was the Mr. Right of her reality.
Excitement washed over her.
Her very first date.
She smiled. Maybe her life was about to change.

Title: Awakened Love
Genre: Amish Contemporary Romance
Author: Laura V. Hilton
Publisher: Whitaker House
Pages: 288
Language: English
ISBN: 978-1603745086
Format: Paperback, Kindle

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Award winning author, Laura Hilton, her husband, Steve, and their five children make their home in Horseshoe Bend, Arkansas. She is a pastor’s wife, a stay-at-home mom and home-schools three of her children. Her two oldest children are homeschool graduates and are in college. Laura is also a breast cancer survivor.

Her publishing credits include three books in the Amish of Seymour series from Whitaker House: Patchwork Dreams, A Harvest of Hearts, and Promised to Another. The Amish of Webster County series, Healing Love. Surrendered Love and Awakened Love. A nonAmish book The Appalachian Ballad Quilt will release November 2014 from Abingdon Press. She is contracted for another three book Amish series with Whitaker House, The Amish of Jamesport, releasing in April 2014, September 2014, and April 2015. Laura is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. Laura is a professional book reviewer for the Christian market, with over a thousand book reviews published at various online review sites. You can find Laura at http://lauravhilton.blogspot.com or http://lighthouse-academy.blogspot.com/.

Book Spotlight: The Wanderers by Paul Stutzman

An Amish Love Story About Hope and Finding Home

Everything in God’s nature, Johnny observed, did what it was created to do. Everything, that is, except the human race. Johnny was born into an Amish family, into a long line of farmers and good businessmen. He is expected to follow the traditions of family and church as he grows to adulthood. But even as a boy, he questions whether he can be satisfied with this lifestyle. He wants “more” — more education, more travel, more opportunity.

His restlessness leads him down a dangerous road where too much partying and drinking result in heartbreaking consequences. He’s adrift, and no one seems to be able to help him find his direction.

Then he meets spunky Annie, who seems pure and lovely and devoted to her God. Her past, though, holds sin and heartbreak. She was a worm, she explains, but God has transformed her into a butterfly. Johnny falls hopelessly in love; and eventually he, too, finds the power of God to transform lives.

Settling down on the family farm, he forgets about the questions and the restlessness, thinking that he is happy and at home, at last.

But in a few short hours, tragedy changes his life forever, and he is again wondering… and wandering on a very long journey.

Entwined with Johnny and Annie’s story is the allegory of two Monarch butterflies, worms who have been transformed into amazing creatures specially chosen to carry out the miracle of the fourth generation. They, too, must undertake a long journey before they finally find home.

First Chapter:

I was ten when I had my first taste of beer. A late start, to be sure, but I was never bothered much by peer pressure. My friends had all sampled the stuff two or three years before, but I had felt no desire or need. There was only one reason I drank on that hot August day. I was thirsty.

Finished with my morning chores, I started across the hayfield with an armful of boards ripped from the old washhouse. Previous generations had scrubbed and soaked and steamed in the one-room shack in front of our farmhouse; my parents, though, had upgraded to a new kerosene washer, and now the women worked in the coolness under the long front porch. An old kettle still hung above the brick fire pit, but the washhouse sagged like a tired old work horse.

My dad had assigned me the task of dismantling the washhouse. That was fine with me; I had plans for that scrap lumber. I wanted to enlarge the deer stand at the edge of the distant woods. The stand was my hideout, where I spent countless hours contemplating life. It was a haven for my wondering mind, and I called it my institution of higher learning.

Eight years of school at Milford Elementary, in the little village several miles east of our farm, were not enough for me. While most Amish children were happy to be finished with formal education, I wept when I could not attend the local high school.

The English students sometimes mocked us Amish as backwards farmers, but I enjoyed school, excelled in sports, and had the gift of gab. Although I was known as something of a "charmer," I never liked the word. It's true, I could talk myself into or out of anything. You do have to make the most of whatever talents God's given you.

The school of higher education that I did attend was built in a stately oak that stood sentinel at the edge of our woods. Two gnarled branches cradled my hideout, ten feet off the ground, overlooking the fields that my family had owned for generations. Years ago, my grandfather had secured several boards across the limbs and nailed short slabs up the oak's trunk, a ladder ascending to the platform. Over time, the trunk swallowed up most of the rungs, but edges still protruded far enough for deer hunters to clamber up and lie in wait for the quarry.

My first hunt with my dad and my brother was also my last. Finally, I was deemed old enough to go hunting with the men. I climbed the ladder and settled into waiting, tense with excitement. Very soon, a doe came through the woods, paused at the spring to drink, then walked slowly down the side of the ravine. One shot echoed through the quiet morning. We scampered down the ladder rungs and approached the deer, lying bleeding on the hillside. It struggled to its feet, took another tumble, and lay still.

My excitement vanished. I felt only sadness and pangs of remorse. The doe's brown eye was open, staring at me, asking, "Why? What did I do to deserve this?"

Dad had a knife in his hands; I knew what must come next. Backtracking, I was violently sick behind a bush. I was not meant to be a hunter, and no one would ever shoot another deer from that stand if I had any say at all.

I did have my say. Well, my mom did. Although Dad was the authority and power in our house, Mom often held the reins. With tears streaming down my face, I unloaded my sad description of the dying deer. "We can't shoot them anymore. We just can't."

Soon the NO HUNTING signs were posted, and the woods, deer stand, and all of God's nature on our 120 acres were mine.

Well, perhaps not quite everything fell under my protection. Every year, we butchered a pig, a horrible sacrifice for the betterment of our family. My dad and brother would select the offering. I always wondered how the selection was made, but I never asked. They'd grab the unlucky swine by the hind legs, lift it over the fence, and carry it away as it squealed in terror. As the surviving porkers looked on in great relief, I'd run to the house, up the stairs, and cover my head with my pillow. I'd hear the shot anyway.

While my family processed the departed, I'd venture to the pig pen. I knew each hog by distinguishing marks; and, in dread, I checked to see who was missing. Spotty had survived. Curly was still here. Snort made the cut. We would be eating Limpy. A wild dog or coyote had wriggled through the board fence one night and taken a bite out of Limpy. Our German shepherd, Biff, had heard the commotion and chased the intruder away before he could get a second bite. On the day of Limpy’s demise, I reminded myself that I must take caution; I must never injure myself in any way that might cause my own lameness.

***
My usual route from the washhouse to the deer stand followed the cow path leading from the barn to the pasture field and traveled twice a day by our herd. On this day, the hay field between the house and the woods had been mowed and I took advantage of this shorter route. I might have chosen the hay field even if the route were longer; as a ten-year-old, I drank in the sensory gifts of summer: the aroma of new mown hay, the sweetness of warm strawberries, the smell of an August rain on dusty ground.

"Johnny, go get us some Stroh's!" my older brother Jonas called. He and his friend Jacob were in the field, making hay. Jacob had been recruited to help my brother today because Dad was on a lumber buying trip, and the clouds warned there would be rain by tomorrow. I dropped my boards reluctantly and retraced my steps back to the farmhouse.

My great-grandparents had built this house over a spring, and the cool waters flowed through the basement, filling a concrete trough where my mom stored crocks of butter, fresh milk and cream, eggs, watermelon, and any kind of dish she was preparing for the next meal. Those amber bottles of Stroh's were chilling in a corner of the trough just inside the door. I grabbed two by the necks and rushed back outside, leaving a wet trail of spring water.

The Stroh’s stash belonged to Jonas. Dad was bishop of our Amish church, and I had never seen him drink beer. As a church leader, he was very much aware that anything misused, misread, or mistaken could affect his reputation and influence in the community.

Jonas, on the other hand, had no such reputation to protect. Sixteen, he had recently concluded his formal education and he knew exactly where his future lay. He was not yet a member of the church, but he would join in a few years, get married, and settle down right here in our valley. He had big plans to take over the sawmill that my dad ran as a part-time operation. I was the younger of Dad's sons; my father's hope was that I would be farming the Miller family land someday.

"You thirsty?" Jonas handed his half-empty bottle to me. I was thirsty. But that first taste was not good.

Still, that swallow in the hay field meant that now I was one of the men. I may have been a Miller boy, but now I was a Stroh's man.

Yes, I admit, many bottles of Stroh's beer would find their way to the deer stand in the years to come. For a while, it was not only my thinking stand, it was my drinking stand. More of a beer stand than a deer stand. Stroh's beer would get me into so much trouble; but it would also lead to meeting Annie. And then, for a short time, I had it all. I was an Amish man living the dream.

Until it was all taken from me.

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Paul Stutzman was born in Holmes County, Ohio in an Amish family. His family left the Amish

lifestyle soon after Paul was born. They joined a strict Conservative Mennonite Church where Paul was raised to fear God and obey all the rules the church demanded. Paul continued to live among and mingle with his Amish friends and relatives his entire life. Paul married a Mennonite girl and remained in the Amish community working and raising a family. After Paul lost his wife to cancer, he sensed a tug on his heart- the call to a challenge, the call to pursue a dream. With a mixture of dread and determination, Paul left his job, traveled to Georgia, and took his first steps on the 2,176 mile Appalachian Trail. What he learned during the next four and a half months changed his life-and can change yours too. After completing his trek Stutzman wrote Hiking Through—a book about this life changing journey.

In the summer of 2010 Stutzman again heeded the call for adventure and pedaled his bicycle 5,000 miles across America. He began his ride at the Northwest corner of Washington State and pedaled to Key West, Florida. On his journey across America he encounters people in all circumstances, from homelessness to rich abundance. The people he meets touch his life profoundly. Stutzman writes about these encounters in his book Biking Across America.

Recently Stutzman released his first novel entitled The Wanderers. The Wanderers is a story about Johnny, a young Amish boy growing up in a culture he is not sure he wants to embrace. A young Amish girl named Annie wins his heart and life is great for a time. Entwined with Johnny and Annie’s story is the allegory of two Monarch butterflies, worms who have been transformed into amazing creatures specially chosen to carry out the miracle of the fourth generation. They, too, must undertake a long journey before they finally find home.

In addition to writing, he speaks to groups about his hiking and biking experiences and the lessons learned during these adventures. 

Stutzman resides in Berlin, Ohio and can be contacted through his website at www.hikingthrough.com or www.paulstutzman.com.