This afternoon, I was sitting in my watering chair tending to the new apple tree and admiring my friend Ed Gulley’s sculpture “The Goose,” which is nesting beautifully in the tall grass, the patch of lawn that is going natural out front.

I think the Goose was his best work.

I’m grateful to Ed for the beautiful sculptures he left behind with us.

More than that, I think he started the process by which I am slowly and painfully (and determinedly) learning to accept, not hating, people who are different than me.

And that’s a good thing to learn because most people are very different from me.

I remember that Ed was the first person I knew who told me – we were walking through one of his barns, stacked to the roof with farm tractor parts – that he was thinking of voting for  Donald Trump.

I wasn’t shocked; most people in my town voted for him in 2014 and then again in 2020.

But Ed was world-savvy in a way very few people are. And he was thoughtful; he thought about things every second while milking those cows and fiddling with his tractors and making his art. Every time I saw him, he had a new sculpture to show me, a new idea to argue about.

And we got along and talked very easily. “I think I’m going to vote for Trump,” he announced.

I nodded. “Why?” I asked

“Maybe he’ll burn Washington and Congress down,” he said, surprising me again.

I saw very little anger in Ed, mostly honesty and generosity. Like Moise and me, we appreciated that we were so different but got along so well.

I wonder what Ed would be saying about Donald  Trump now.

He did not care for bullies; he told me that he beat up every bully he knew and stuck their heads in toilet bowls when he was in elementary school.

I miss Ed.

But Moise reminds me of Ed in some ways. We could hardly be more different, but he also taught me that it’s all right to like, even love, different people, the others.

Because of those two men, I am getting there.

Moise, like Ed, is a man of the land, and I am what the Jews used to call a man of the book. I am useless when I am not writing or having sex with my wife.

Writing and books, and now blogs,  have been my life; Ed and Moise worshipped the land and the soil and their crops and animals. Ed and Moise know how to fix everything.

I love being in that world, but I have no illusions that I am like them or even one of them.

But something deep inside connects us, and I think it is a desire to be honorable, be creative, to matter. Learning how to love and do good and leave something behind is better than hate and grievance.

And to never, ever, quit.

I know  Ed wanted that very badly, especially with his art.

I see Moise wants it also, for different reasons, but just as strongly. What a curious world that would pull me, Ed and Moise, together in the same discussion.

But we do have a lot in common.

It seems to me this is the path to a spiritual life; figuring this out and trying to live it this about accepting life. Ed was one of the strongest and most vital men I’d ever know, and seeing him waste away was a great shock to me.

Ed accepted his cancer almost immediately; he never saw a doctor again after his diagnosis and set about the business of saying goodbye, with his art, with his family, certainly with me. He sketched right up to his death.

And yet, he was a patriarch in every sense of the word; his decisions were final, like Moise, he towered over his farm. He was in charge.

Ed made it a personal mission to die gracefully and without complaint, much like the Amish do.  Moise sees acceptance as a matter of faith,  even if it risks harm or injury to people around him.

I suppose I am the most volatile and unformed of the three; I am late to this party. Acceptance was never part of my life until I got to my farm and the country.

Ed and I did not view the world in the same way.

But it never occurred to either of us to hate the other because of it.

Ed knew our views about life and politics were very different. He could care less; teasing me was just as good as agreeing with me. We could say anything to one another, and we did.

Many people have told me they can’t be friends with someone because they love (or hate) Donald Trump or think Joe Biden stole the election.

I don’t want to be there or go there.

I discovered that this idea of acceptance is very controversial in America right now. I’m not supposed to be friends with a patriarch or write nice things about him.

Yesterday, Maria and I wrote about her visit to the Miller farm to see the new quilt Lena, Moise, and Barbara’s 20-year-old daughter worked on.

It was a beautiful moment for both of us, but not for Joy, someone I never heard of but who has  been stewing about my Amish writing:

“Yes, Maria wrote beautifully about it,” she wrote on my blog posts,  “but unlike you, she found Moise’s patriarchal demands on his daughter demeaning and offensive. I agree–I do not view this family in the romanticized, glowing terms that you do.”

So, why is that such a bad thing? Must we all agree on how we view everything? What a bland world that would be? Too Orwellian for me.

As a bitterly divided nation, we are losing our sense of tolerance and connection for one another. This is the very thing that bound Ed and me and that connects Moise and me.

We don’t love one another because we are the same; we love one another because we are different. Our very ability to work together, confront crises and solve problems is falling apart.

Sitting and watching Ed’s beautiful sculpture today, I talked to him aloud and told him the story of our visit and Joy’s response.

I can’t repeat his comments about Joy’s message.

But then, Ed was a proud Patriarch also; he was the absolute King of his farm.

Nasty people make me furious, but that is my issue, not theirs; I hate bullies too but was never strong enough or brave enough to beat one up. Now I can do it virtually.

This issue about families is fascinating to me; I will continue to make tolerance and acceptance an important issue for me to work on. As a dyslexic and a certifiably crazy and mentally ill person, I’ve handled worse.

Can you be a patriarch and still be a decent human being and a loving father and husband? Yes, I see that you can. The fascist ideal is that we must all think alike.

I’ve learned more from disagreeing with Ed and now Moise than I learned in 12 years of schooling.

I’m grateful to Ed and Moise for coming into my life and showing me that it is possible to know, even love, people whose views and ideas are radically different in every way. I’ve enjoyed their friendship more than any other.

When I’m sometimes daydreaming, Ed appears, covered in muck and blood and dirt, wagging his huge finger at me, and “saying,  Katz, if you got off your ass once in a while and away from your writing and came over to my place and pulled a calf right out it mothers belly. Then you might know one fucking thing about the world.”

Ed was larger than life. So is Moise, but his persona has to be tamped down because of the Amish commitment to humility and gentleness.

Our friendship almost went up in flames when I told him I was sick of hearing him whine about milk prices at one of our Open Houses.

Farmer’s weren’t the only people suffering in the world, I said. When he drove away, I still heard the roaring and cursing.

It is possible for me to learn from anyone if I’m open to it and when my brain is not clogged with self-righteousness and certainty. But social media seems to be a breeder and transmitter of self-righteousness and certainty.

I think Ed is working out as a wise and friendly ghost. Whenever I was in trouble, he would simply appear.

I hear his voice and his raging about milk prices at least a few times every month. I felt safer when he was around.

Moise isn’t the same, he does not think of non-Amish friends in that way.

But I have a couple of images of him stuck in my consciousness and whirling around. In one, he is smoking his corncob,  pipe and riding his buggy into town, waving to the many people he knows.

In another, he is sitting at his desk in the kitchen, corncob in his mouth, clouds of smoke whirling around his head.

“Johnny boy,” he is saying, “want to come and see the well I just dug?”

Of course, I do.