The mysterious “Ghost Of The Woodshed” had struck again.

I stopped to buy some veggies in the Amish foodshed on my way up the hill.

The wooden bread stands display that some ghost spent the morning screwing together with Maria’s help was already up to where it was left early in the morning. It had only a few loaves of bread left.

The others were sold. I loved seeing that there, all set up. I am learning what I can do and what I can’t.

As usual, I left the stand when no one was in the shed. I never admit to buying it, putting it together, or installing it. It embarrasses the media, and I don’t want to get paid for it. This way, I have deniability without lying. Not that I’m fooling anyone. I say a ghost must have done it.

I won’t lie to my friends; that is un-Amish. I shake my head and say it was probably a ghost.

Moise’s son Jon, all puffed up after beating me at thumb wrestling twice, takes me aside as if I really believe in ghosts because he does not.” I bet you got those breadbaskets,” he says, grinning. “And you are not a ghost.”

I told him he was very wise for a 10-year-old, but I had nothing to say.

It was late afternoon when I came up to the Miller’s farm to bring ice cubes and a bottle of chilled Mountain Dew for him (“it gives me energy,” he says.”Although he denies ever being tired, shoveling dirt laced with slate all day in a hot sun leaves him exhausted. Mountain Dew does revive him.

When I arrived, the girls were busy in the kitchen pruning pears but also laughing as if they knew a secret.  They were on to me.

Moise was overseeing the giant tractor digging through the slate to make a foundation for their new house. Two days ago, it was rows of planted sweet corn. Today, it was a giant hole in the ground.

The girls were storing sliced pears for the winter.

They were both laughing.

I shouted “iceman” and walked in the door, announcing my arrival. I also brought an ancient Amish cookbook which someone was kind enough to mail me for them. Barbara and her daughters never get enough old cookbooks. Sometimes I bring ice cream, which the family loves.

“Did you bring that bread basket stand,” Elana asked. “What are you talking about?” I responded and left quickly.

Moise asked me to come and watch the dig after dropping off the ice to see the progress being made. He never brags, which is not allowed, but I can see how proud he is of his progress in building his new home.

Moise told me twice that he loved Mountain Dew but didn’t drink much of it. I was about to ask him if he liked the farming novel I gave him last week, but I thought better of it. I’m not going to pressure him to read anything I give him. I don’t attach strings to gifts.

In Amish life, any excess is sinful unless you are working hard in the hot sun. or suffering as Jesus did.  I’ll start bringing some Mountain Dew on our next together, which is Tuesday when we go to pick up his daughter Delilah, who was away for a month helping her sister up in Maine.

Maria and I wondered what happened to her; nobody mentioned her going away.

I know what Moise does all day, but he is still delicately and patiently trying to figure out how anyone does a living typing at a computer and taking photographs. He doesn’t quite get how it works. I am not like the Amish. I sometimes wonder why they let me hang around at all. I do think we find each other fascinating and confusing. I’ve never accepted money for driving him anywhere, and he never stops offering it.

I’ve learned in my life that friendships either wither and fade or deepen and stick. Because of my own many problems, most of my friendships have withered, faded, or disappeared.  It was my fault; many people tried. That is changing a bit as I learn more about myself and figure out who I am.

And it’s about time. I’m 74 now; I better figure it out. And I did not ever expect new and close friends to be Christian Fundamentalist Amish.

I’ve come to love this family, and they have come to love me back. I can’t say how that happened, but I like it. We are very much at ease with one another, and that is not simple when we are talking about a family who models every part of their lives after Christ.

When I drive up their dirt driveway, I hear the numerous shouts of children yelling, “Jon Katz is here, Jon Katz is here,” as if the circus had come to town. I guess it has.

They come running up to the car, along with Tina, to high-five me, thumb wrestle me, or take my hand to lead me into the temporary some. Some are Moise’s children, some are his brothers or sons, and some are from other Amish families visiting other kids. I can only keep track of eight or nine at a time. I do know that I have rarely felt as welcome as I do on that farm.

Some pepper me with questions, others want to see the photos on my Iphone, Tina jumps up to be held and scratched,   Barbara wants to know how I am, and then, as almost as soon as it begins, everybody shakes me off and gets back to work, including Tina.

I’m having trouble explaining bone spurs and my foot troubles; they are trying to understand it.

My friendship with the Miller family is growing into the latter kind, the one that sticks. It has grown in trust, acceptance, and openness. As they get to know who I am, I get to know who they are. And we both seem to like what we see. We both accept the parts of each other that we cannot grasp or accept in our own lives. It just doesn’t matter. You don’t have to hate people who are different.

(While he was at it, Moise had the excavator move a ton or so of shale rock and dirt over behind the barn, where he is building a road that will connect to the house and the road. “No sense wasting the shale, he said. It will make for a good driveway.”)

Moise and I make it a point to see one another two or three times a week. I’ve never known a human being as hard-working and driven as Moise. I call him Moise The Builder, and he calls me “Johnny- Boy.” He builds things all the time, and when he isn’t building something, he is plowing something, visiting friends and family, or planning to build something.

He is content with his life – he loves his life – but he is also a worrier; there is a lot to keep track of and much planning to do. It is a struggle to keep up with one’s scattered family when the only way to talk to them is to write a letter or get on a train or bus. i

We both love to stand together and stand and watch construction, dig, or plowing. Moise always stops plowing or digging to come over and talk to me, explain what he is doing, and ask about my foot. Then, abruptly, he will walk away and get back to work.

The second thing we both love is riding in a car together. There, Moise has no distractions or field to plow or hole to dig. Ironically, the Amish are not allowed to ride in cars unless there is no other way to travel or buy something. If it is at all possible, they have to get in the buggies and use the horses.

There is no other way for Moise to get to Glens Falls or Albany than to have someone drive him. That is our time to talk and bond and share, and I have come to treasure it. I think it’s important to him also. He always asks me first when he needs a ride. I always say he’s if I can. There is a closeness and trust between us that is difficult for me to describe. But it’s there.

Curiously, neither of us likes to say goodbye. He says, “we’ll be in touch, Johnny Boy,” and I say, “later, try not to kill  yourself.”

As I left today, Jo yelled out at me, “watch out for ghosts. If you see one, bring me a picture.”

Moise never mentioned the bread stand. He never mentions the things this ghost brings. He appreciates it; he just never wants to be seen as asking for anything. This way, we can skirt around the issue, which the Amish are very skilled at.

Of course, they all knew instantly that I was the one bring baskets and bread stands. Who else is that crazy?

Now, it’s just something we do and laugh at, and that seems to work. The shed displays I got them are working beautifully and helping them present their baked goods and vegetables smartly and effectively.

There is another; bigger bread stand that I’m eyeing, but this one will have to wait. Bishop Maginn High School and the Mansion are both calling out to me.  I am grateful for this friendship, and I hope I can fill my life up with giving and loving, better sooner than later.

I told a friend today that at age 74, I do not wish to throw away or waste a single day.