I turn my phone ringer off when I write in the morning, but I leave the vibration option on. The phone started vibrating around 10:30, and the call was from Western Ohio.

I guessed it was a death call for a distant relative of my Amish neighbors.

One of the most serious tasks for an English friend of the Amish to do is be a death caller, someone nearby for someone to call when an Amish family member has died, which may have occurred anywhere from hundreds to thousands of miles away.

Moise explained this task to me carefully a month ago when he asked me if I could do it. He urged me not to do it if I had the slightest reservations about it.

I had to get every detail correct, I had to write it down clearly, and I had to get it to him or his family immediately.

Any omission, misspelling, or screwed-up time or address could mean the difference between him and his family getting to an important funeral, or not getting there at all, or getting a bus or train to the wrong place on a wrong day.

Once the family got on a bus or a train, there was no turning back, no chance for a correction.  The information had to be corrected carefully and calmly. It had to be right.

Moise grilled me for some time about my willingness to take on this precious task, to pull him out of bed if necessary, to charge up in the middle of the night if that’s when the call comes in.

Many Amish people have the same name, and it’s critical to get the full name, correct spelling, and correct address. The Amish don’t use funeral homes; when someone dies, they lie in rest at home in a coffin filled with ice.

They lie for two days and then are buried in an Amish ceremony.

If there is any delay in getting the death message to the person who needs to know, it could easily thwart getting to a bus or train in time.

The same person, or sometimes another neighbor, is on standby to get on the phone with Moise and get on the Internet to look at schedules and make reservations.

I knew I was especially confident about this task. I was a reporter for years, and a lot depended on me getting accurate information quickly, my Dyslexia notwithstanding.

Moise and I work well in emergencies on the phone or important tasks on the Internet; we’ve already been through a few.

We both stay calm and focused and keep on plugging away until we get where we wish to be.

But he said he needed to know I was the kind of person who would take the message down and break down his door if necessary to wake him up.

No problem, I said, smiling at the thought.

He needed to know that someone’s death wouldn’t rattle me. I told him I was a police reporter for some years, and death did not surprise or upset me, and I never got rattled by it. Like the Amish, I have learned to accept death as a part of life.

Jean, the caller on the phone,  was a neighbor of the Hershenbergers from Wisconsin; Ellie Hershberger had just died. I took down the names, details, addresses, places, and times of the funeral.

We both took this mission seriously; neither one wanted to be responsible for keeping a family member from a funeral or getting somebody on the wrong train or bus on a wrong day.

It was, in fact, a lot of responsibility, and I didn’t want to let the family down. We went over everything two or three times. She understood.

“I’m a death phone person too,” the caller told me, and we laughed for a moment at this strange way to meet someone. I went over the details, and she found one small error (it was a name, not a time or place), and I corrected it.

I gave thanks and said goodbye.

I think we both knew we were not likely ever to speak or meet again.

I went over my notes, called Jean back to make sure I had transcribed them correctly (I had), printed them out, including every detail.

I got in the car and rushed up to the farm. Mosie and Barbara were not at home, but Mosies son John was. When Mosie and Barbara are gone, he is in charge.

He took the printout and read it very carefully. The funeral was on the 23rd, and he said he didn’t think the family could go. There was just too much happening that day, including construction beginning on two barns and a family home.

John is used to speaking German in his family. I think he had to think a bit about what he was reading on my fact sheet.

I also printed out some train and bus schedules to Rickard, Missouri; it would be a long and tiring trip. Many Amtrak trains are still not running due to Covid-19.

John thanked me and asked if he could pay me, and I said no. but thanks for asking.

Moise arrived and checked out my information sheet. He nodded; I think it reassured him to know I handled it well. In Amish culture, funerals of relatives and close friends are very important.

I think it comforted him to know I would take it seriously. It comforted me too.

Friendship with the Amish is not like our western notions of friendship. We don’t speak of our emotions or our triumphs. We talk about the details of life, the cost of things we need, the role of the family in our lives.

We don’t trade or share secrets,  we don’t gossip. We will never have lunch alone together or meet for a drink at a bar. It seems this was the friendship I needed and wanted, at least for now.

Go figure.

Moise will talk about his ambitions for the farm, but never in a loud or arrogant way. Our friendship is bounded in every possible way and by the difference in our cultures.

That is a very healthy thing for me, and I am sure, for him. I feel easier about the death calls. I know I can handle them; I just need to move slowly and carefully.