This is the fourth time that I’ve written that I’d purchased the last boot for my Amish Friends, and as in the previous four pronouncements, I was wrong once again.

Perhaps this time, it will come true. There is a  Christmas Elf in my story, as there should be.

Boots and Amish people are not a simple thing, and my search for boots for several Amish families from June to this week has taught me much, challenged me much, and once again highlighted the complexities of befriending people from a vastly different culture.

It does take patience and acceptance. And a strong will. I have the latter.

Barbara, one of the Amish girls and a friend of ours, got me drawn into the boot drama again. Barbara has done some work on our farm, and she is great, funny, friendly, and a hard worker.

But for some reason, Barbara’s was the toughest boot for me to find. And I will almost surely never know the reason.

It seemed something always went wrong when I ordered a boot for the Miller’s or their relatives  – the color, the size, the shipping, confusion between men and women’s boots, children and adult boots, boots with buttons, labels, colored heel strips.

The Amish do what their fathers and mothers did; that’s the rule. Change is a very big deal, never undertaken lightly. Boots, like everything else, are a sacred matter.

Everything I did seemed to be off. The world had changed since the first wave of Amish bought their first black boots, but the Amish did not change with them. Perhaps it was my Dyslexia. Maybe it was the Amish code of simplicity. I couldn’t give up.

Barbara’s boot had to be just right also.

I finally scored and got her a size six knee-high boot that was black and light and tough. I gave it to her two weeks ago, and she loved it, and it fit – a minor miracle.

I congratulated myself on dutifully and conscientiously completing the task of refitting two Amish families totaling more than 25 people with new boots, all of the different sizes, and just as winter approached. It would have been easier for me to walk up the 1,567 steps of the Empire State Building.

It may not sound like the most challenging task in the world, but my advice is that if any Amish person asks you to buy boots for them,  run from the room (politely and quietly) and stay away for a while, wonderful as these people are.

I have medieval notions of honor.

If I say I will do something, you can take it to the bank; I will get it done, no matter how much blood flows. I have many flaws, as we all know, but for better or worse, I accept responsibility for things I agree to do.

Barbara loved her boots, and I was pleased and thought we were done, finally. When Moise asked me a week ago to buy 10 boots for another family, I refused him for the very first time and without hesitation.  I have no regrets and no guilt.

I was surprised a week later to drive up to the farm to watch the new construction on the Miller home and see that Barbara’s new boots were not on Barbara but another young Amish child, a young man, a sibling. He was proud of his boots and made a point of shaking them at me and pointing at them.

I was rattled. It took me a couple of months to track these boots down for Barbara, and I couldn’t quite understand how they had gone from her feet to someone else’s. I had my suspicions, but I didn’t ask, and nobody explained it.

That is the Amish dance.

Barbara just said she didn’t have the boots any longer. I didn’t push it. Was this any of my business? Perhaps not. But when I was a reporter, that never stopped me. It was a point of honor.

My blood rising a bit, I asked her if she wanted another pair of boots, and at first, she was shy about answering – the Amish do not like to ask for things. But then one of her sisters chimed in and said yes, she would very much like another pair.

Barbara nodded. She didn’t object.

Every time I saw her after that, she asked me if the boots were coming and when. It was apparent she wanted a pair. Here we go again, I thought.  I got back online, ordered a pair in her size, or so I thought, took an Iphone photo of it, and showed it to her.

It wasn’t the right size, color, or boot. She knew it right away. By now, I had learned to show them a photo of every boot I was thinking of buying. Sometimes, even that didn’t work. At times, our living room looked like a Carharrt. Farm footwear display.

I was back in boot hell.

But there was no way I would quit until Barbara got a boot. Onward.

Nothing was going to stop me from getting her a boot that she wanted and that fit.

I rooted around online for another hour until I found one of those rural farm agricultural supplies and clothing sites that dot the midwest. These places exude courtesy and honesty, and when you call, somebody answers the phone who can help you and wants to help you: no phone chains or horrible music. They are the very opposite of shopping on Amazon.

It was jarring.

I’d run across many of those smaller sites, and while they often couldn’t help me find the boots I needed, they sure did try. This one was called Farm Boy, or farmboyag.com.

I knew right away this was the place I had been looking for all this time. I had found my Christmas Elf.

 

A salesman named Brian Marquette got on the phone right away, listened to my story, was appropriately sympathetic and very knowledgeable. “We’ll take care of you,” he said. I could tell that he had dealt with the Amish before; the store was near Lancaster, Pa.

He knew what I was going through.

He asked me a bunch of questions about Barbara’s age and height. He steered me away from the inevitable mistakes I was about to make.

I would purchase a knee boot knee-high size seven, and Brian told me a secret no one had told me – that the women’s boots ought to be two sizes lower than the men’s boots.

Nowhere did it say that on any store or site I’d been to.

Brian and I went back and forth, and we agreed to try a size 5, a lightweight outdoor boot. I rushed a photo up to Barbara, and she said yes, that was precisely the boot she wanted. I cautioned her it was a dark blue, not entirely black, but there were no jet black boots her size anywhere in the country that I could find.

Brian backed me up on that.

She said it was okay.

She wanted those boots; I could see it in her eyes.

Brian and I went back and forth a couple of times – he was incredibly patient and helpful and very determined to help me get it right and end this ordeal honorably.

(If anyone reading this should ever need a find boot for farm or winter or walk, call Brian or e-mail him at [email protected]. He is an angel, at the very least.)

“Let’s get these boots up there,” he said, “I can tell that you’ve had enough.”

Brian took my order and credit card and said he would get the boots by Friday (this was Wednesday afternoon.) I doubted he could do that, but the shoes were on the porch when I woke up this morning.

They had been delivered before 6:30 a.m, according to an e-mail I received.

I have no idea how he did this for the $14 shipping fee, but I did call him to thank him. Brian put Amazon to shame.

I ordered another size boot just in case this one was too small. I needed to end this.

Brian said I could quickly return one. Maria and I were going into town to get some food, and we first stopped at the Miller Farm.

Moise and his sons and cousins were there, sitting around the kitchen, drinking out of smoking mugs. Moise looked like King Arther, sitting in front of his council of Knights. It was a bit intimidating.

They were taking a break from working on the new house, drinking coffee, and warming up.

I walked in with the boots, and Moise asked to see them, I brought them over to him, and he pointed out that they seemed blue, not black. “Too bad,” I said, “it’s these boots or no boots.” Don’t even think about it, I thought, and I think he got the message. He made a point of thanking me, which was a boot journey first.

Barbara came over and tried them on, and they fit perfectly. “These are Barbara’s boots,” I thundered and declined payment for them, almost defiantly. “The boots are a Christmas present,” I said. I knew that would quiet them down.

Then we left.  Moise thanked me as I walked out the door, and Barbara came after me to say “thank you, Jon!” That was payment enough for me.

This felt great. I had kept my promise to myself and Barbara. I was sure she would keep her boots.

Now, I was done with the boot project. Every one in two families who wanted boots – this was pretty much everybody – got one. I think I learned more about the Amish, good and bad than all I had learned in the previous six months.

And I learned a great deal about acceptance.

I’m glad it’s done. Everyone got their boots—Merry Christmas to all. You, too Brian.