I picked Moise up at the Albany train station this afternoon.

The train was about 45 minutes late, and I was absorbed reading a National Geographic in the waiting room and didn’t know the train had arrived.

Moise, who misses nothing, spotted my suspenders and figured out who I was from the rear.

Our ride home was a classic Moise adventure ride; he seems to have radar for feed supply stores, hardware stores with low prices, and construction companies with old drilling and other equipment lying around rusting and possibly for sale.

The worse shape the better, Moise says they can fix anything and make it work for them.

Amish farmers love old and beat-up farm equipment; they buy it cheaply, fix it up, and use it for years.

Moise still can’t quite believe how ignorant I am about soil and farm implements.

“Johhny,” he asked, “where do you think we can get one of those big well rigs, you know the kind that goes up and down and smashes through rocks and finds water?”

If he can find one of those, he said, they can do the rest, and I believe it.

Once again, I assured Moise that I knew nothing about those things, but I was happy to explore the nether reaches of  Route 40, Schighaticoke,  Hoosick Falls, and some godforsaken village on the way home looking for discarded well drillers.

He lit up when he saw a yare full of rusting pasture gates and rushed in to start haggling with the owner of the farm supply store. He rushes into the store, finds the owner or manager, and gets rise down to business. No browsing.

We went to four places looking for a hardware store. Another Amish had told him it was inexpensive and constructive.

We crossed out two of them bought by Tractor Supply and Curtis Lumber, and one of them was shattered. There was no trace of the fourth.

I learned a lot of things on the two-hour drive, as always happens with Moise. When he travels, his stomach gets thrown off balance, and he deals with it by buying a Cheesburger and a giant bottle of Pepsi (not the Diet Pepsi), and it settles his stomach right away.

That was one stomach cure I didn’t know. I learned how to tell field corn from sweet corn (the leaves on the ladder are thin.) I learned how to spot loamy soil (the good kind) from clay soil (which can harden and be hard to plow.)

I learned that good fencing costs a dollar afoot now, but it is almost impossible to get because the pandemic has screwed up all the supply lines.

I’ve read a lot on the toll the pandemic has taken on old and Latino people, but little on the toll it has taken to suppliers and transporters. At the moment, nobody can find anybody to work for them.

Sometimes, Moise invites me to come in and listen as he introduces himself to concrete manufacturers, hardware store owners, feed and farmly supply managers.

He can’t quite drop the idea that I might be helpful, and he loves teaching me the ways of the farm.

On every trip, there is one stop for coffee or a sandwich. I never go in with him, he never offers to get something for me. I get that, I’m an f friend, but I’m a driver too and can be a distraction.

I could watch him haggle forever. He is courteous, clear, and determined regarding discounts and special exemptions for high shipping costs. I haven’t seen him lose yet.

Moise looks at the store owners in the eye, presses them about the ratio between discounts and volume. Often, I see when he wants to get a price down, he will throw in the needs of two or three other Amish farmers who might need the same equipment and see if that brings the prices down or the discounts up.

The bigger the order, the lower the discounts. The shipping fees don’t have a chance.

His way of earnest but soft bargaining usually does bring the prices down and kills shipping fees altogether.

I’m impressed. ‘You bargain the way my Aunt Fanny bargained at Filene’s Basement in Boston,’ I said, “although you are not as aggressive as she was.  Fanny was feared in outlet and seconds story every for her ferocity.” We used to joke that she never saw a price she couldn’t reduce.

Moise looked at me strangely; I didn’t think Amish women did the bargaining. But I might be wrong. I don’t think he quite got the Fanny routine.

We got onto the subject of children. I asked Mosie if I was correct in hearing that he and Barbara had 14 children, and he said yes, that was right.

I asked if they were all alive, and he said yes, all but one. One died an hour or two after childbirth. Twelve of the 13 remaining children are all living near him now, in and around Cambridge, N.Y.

One daughter is settled in Maine and will remain there. Some live on his farm; he builds temporary and permanent homes and barns for all the others.

He asked me if the concrete he was expecting had come today; I said not before I’d left for Albany. He said he has another barn raising to go to tomorrow, and in a day or two, will begin construction on his barn on Wednesday. I’m invited to come and see.

Of course, he mixes his own cement. He explained how, but I can’t remember it.

Moise and I continue to get more and more comfortable with one another. I love the things I see and learn from him; he is taking me deeper and deeper into another world.

The Amish don’t want to know too much about the outside world; they fear it will corrupt them, so Moise’s questions to me are penetrating but occasional.

Piece by piece, he’s assembled my story, and since Moise forges nothing and remembers everything, he’s taking his time about pulling it all together.

This is much like the way he is piecing his farm and family life together – one step at a time, carefully, thoroughly, relentlessly.

I gave him the weekly donut report, the weekly donut boxes, and pie pans report, and the strawberry-filled donut report. They sold like crazy.

He nodded but showed no emotion. The Amish do not brag or call attention to their successes.

Since the Amish/patriarchy themes have been so controversial on my blog, I always pay attention to his daughters still living at home and how they react to him.

As we pulled into the driveway, three of four of them started shouting in Pennsylvania Dutch that “papa” was home, and they all came running out smiling and laughing to greet him.

It looked a bit like a Disney movie.

My home was never patriarchal, and I don’t recall anyone –  daughter or wife – ever rushing out to greet me when I pulled into the driveway. I have to think about that.

I’m Moise’s go-to guy when he needs to get to the bus or train station. I expect that since nothing goes to waste in the Amish world, the trips will be marked by mysterious lunges onto highways and back streets I’ve never seen while he looks for farming and feed needs and the lowest prices.

Since we’re driving around anyway, the logic goes, we might as well do some exploring and research. Over the next year, he will build a new barn and a new house, fence 200 acres, plant a dozen new crops and attend a dozen or more house and barn raisings.

He may also start a herd of sheep and goats. I think Moise’s motto is “one thing at a time, five times a day.”

It seems we are laying the groundwork for next year and beyond. Moise is laser-focused, experienced in all kinds of indoor and outdoor work, loves the soil and the land, and has inexhaustible energy.

He’s no superman, he tires and aches. But he is learning and watching every minute. As we drive around, he knows the name of every farmer, every farm, and the nature of every crop and all the soil. He soaks up details like a super sponge.

If it weren’t for the fact that the Amish are not judgemental, I imagine he must think me lame and somewhat useless/

While driving around the farms of Hoosick Falls, I told him about the book Maria is reading. It’s called “The Mother Tree,” and it talks about how the big trees will nourish and mentor the small ones around them.

Environmentalists are urging loggers to identify these trees; they are needed. Moise says that is precisely what he sees when he goes into the woods, he sees the Mother Trees and knows they are real.

In some ways, the Amish also work that way, he said. We talked about that for a while.

I don’t get out of the car when we pull into the farm after a trip. I think it’s family time; I’m not needed then. This is the fifth or sixth time I’ve driven Moise to a train or bus station, and every time he has reached into his wallet and offered to pay me.

I say no, he can pay me for the things I buy for him, but not the things I do for him. Why not give the money to Joe, his son? Moise must remember that I don’t take money for the rides, but he always asks and then asks me if I’m sure, as if he is bound to take nothing for granted.

When I mention giving Joe the money,  he lights up and says, “why thank you.” then puffing his corncob pipe, he gets out of the car, opens the rear hath and pulls out his suitcase, waves to me, and charges into the waiting arms of five or six daughters.

This time, they do show emotion.

They are thrilled to see “Papa.” Moise is a patriarch in every sense of the world, but he is not an authoritarian one. The Amish call themselves a “soft patriarchy,’ if there can be such a thing.

That seems true to me.