Read the Washington Post article below to learn more on touring Lancaster County and the Amish Country:
washingtonpost.com
Simple Choices
Don't end up here . . . when you can go here.; In Pennsylvania Dutch Country, you can have a real Amish experience--if you know where to look.
By Todd Pitock
Special to The Washington Post
Sunday, July 9, 2000; E01
Drive through Pennsylvania's Lancaster County, otherwise known as "Amish Country," and you'll get a whiff of the powerful odor of processed tourism.
There are Amish restaurants, Amish gift shops, an Amish amusement park (!), Amish "museums," a one-room Amish "schoolhouse" (with animatronic pupils), even an "Amish village"--an oxymoron, since the Amish, whose social life is organized around the home, do not build "villages." They're all aimed at packaging "the Amish experience," as one such establishment touts itself, for tourists.
For such counterfeit experiences, about 4 million people last year laid out big money--about $1.2 billion, according to the Pennsylvania Dutch Convention and Visitors Bureau.
I wondered if, amid all the kitsch, it was possible for the casual visitor to get an authentic sense of the intriguing people who populate this central Pennsylvania county.
A phone call to the area's tourist information center yielded various ideas. There are Mennonite-Amish working farms and programs in which visitors can have dinner with a local family. Indeed, the existence of such programs reflects a desire of some Old Order members--a term that can refer to either Mennonites or Amish, who are religious cousins--to be understood better, if only to be treated less like zoo specimens.
I went for yet another option. The Mennonite Information Center in Lancaster County's business district offers a customized guide service for solo travelers who provide their own cars.
I was introduced to Lester Hoover, a spry, bespectacled, 10th-generation Mennonite--though with his conservative, modern style of dress, you wouldn't guess that. We stepped outside and got into my car.
"What is it you want to see?" Lester asked.
"I want to see the real deal," I told him.
To the left lay Route 30, a main artery lined with factory outlets, strip malls, fast-food restaurants and billboards directing people to "real" Amish attractions.
"Turn right," he said.
The first thing you need to know is that not everyone dressed in black and traveling by horse and buggy is Amish; many are Old Order Mennonite. "Amish" is an umbrella term that describes certain common beliefs and styles of similar but varied groups. Nor do all Amish travel by horse and carriage. But they do believe that they must keep themselves apart from the outside world, so as not to be corrupted by it. Though land prices have forced many Mennonite-Amish into other occupations, they regard farming as the noblest calling.
In Lancaster County, there are about 40,000 "plain people," a term used to describe the various Amish and Mennonite denominations. They make up about 10 percent of the county's total population, and their numbers are growing. You'll see them in the county's three main towns--Strasburg, Intercourse and Bird-in-Hand--where they come to service or trade with the "English" (as they call the non-Amish). Traditional Amish life, however, centers on the home.
Which makes such commercial "sights" as the Amish Village, with its petting zoo and tours of a "typical" Amish house, especially bogus.
"There's really no such thing as an Amish village," Lester told me. "The Amish don't even have churches; they have church in their homes. You see all this stuff that says 'Amish,' but real Amish people don't write 'Amish' on their businesses. They just use their family names."
So we stuck to back roads, looping deep into the expansive patchwork quilt of farmland that spreads over the fertile region. Eventually we reached the Leola Produce Auction on Brethren Church Road, where Amish and Mennonite farmers, possibly the last solid niche of family farming in this country, bring their goods to market. Fifty or so wholesalers and an additional 100 sellers arrive here early in the morning to supply grocers and restaurants whose signs and menus advertise "Lancaster County" produce. It's become not just the name of a place but a brand that suggests freshness and an old, uncorrupted style.
When we arrived, the auctioneer and most of the vendors had gone. But even at noon, boxes of plump, fragrant strawberries and bulbous scallions remained, tempting me to snag a sample. We found one delighted buyer packing his van with flowers. "Dollar a flat," he said. "Can't beat that."
As workers swept the concrete floor, a vigorous elderly man greeted us. "You folks from the Four Seasons?" he called out.
"No," Lester replied. He didn't offer any further explanation, and the fellow who asked didn't demand one. Then he glimpsed Lester's name tag.
"I know you!" he said. In fact, he recognized the surname and remembered where Lester's father's farm used to be, donkey's years ago. Since Lester is going on 80, the exchange demonstrated the depth of roots and family names in a strong community.
They switched from English to Pennsylvania Dutch, a language derived from German that to my uncomprehending ear had a quaint, sweet sound. A shoofly pie of a language that they tucked into with relish. Seeing I did not understand, the man returned to English and, gesturing to me, asked Lester, "This your boy?"
Afterward, Lester--a repository of details about seemingly every family and parcel of land in the area--directed me over more back roads. After a career selling inspirational books, guiding tours occupies some of his time in retirement.
We passed a farm, and he said, "Now the fellow who lives in that house set up his boys in two farms. But not everyone can do that, or maybe they can't make a living at it, so they have a sideline." At the next farm, he added, "Like that guy, his sideline is furniture."
"How big would you say that farm . . . "
"Seventy acres," Lester said.
He could tell the size just by looking? "Well, yes, I can, but I also know that farm. It's across from where my father's farm was."
We passed horse-drawn buggies and farms with mules hitched to steel-wheeled plows pulling men in black pants and straw hats, and herds of lazing Guernsey cattle. The acres were thick with alfalfa--grown as feed for dairy cows--and tobacco, a cash crop that, because of depressed prices and moral issues, some farmers are beginning to abandon.
Women wearing white linen prayer bonnets and plain, black ankle-length dresses, their parted hair pulled back tautly into buns, tended flower beds and small gardens, their girls nearby wearing stockings and pinafores.
We came to a traditional Mennonite church, a long, white wooden building resembling a big community center. In the middle of the week, the doors were locked, so we peered through the windows at the separate anterooms for men and women and the plain sanctuary arranged with backless benches. No crucifixes or artwork, no raised platforms or podiums. Here, all worshipers stand, literally and spiritually, on the same plane.
Outside, there's a stable where worshipers tether their horses, and a graveyard with simple headstones. Lester pointed across the field to an old brick church. This one was built in 1894, after members disagreed over such issues as whether there ought to be Sunday school and how the Bible should be taught. Then, in the early 1920s, the splinter group had its own schism, this time over the acceptability of using cars. Since building a third church was unfeasible, the two groups agreed to disagree, and to swap the building on alternate Sundays, which they continue to do eight decades hence.
That's characteristic of the Amish way of handling things. A new point of view arises that triggers a deeply felt but gently handled disagreement, which is resolved through practical cooperation without any ideological compromises.
The Mennonites and Amish have a common ancestor in Menno Simon, a Dutch religious leader whose writings bound the community in the 16th century when it scattered under assault from authorities. On the heels of Martin Luther's Protestant Reformation in Germany, a Swiss group calling itself the Brethren began to ponder the purity of Christian practice. Their doctrine was radical, calling for total, voluntary commitment professed through adult baptism, plain appearance (the virtue of "plainness" comes up repeatedly in their literature), and a direct connection between people and God, a point that directly undermined religious authority.
If that weren't enough, the Mennonites also advocated a total separation of church, which they saw as a commitment to benign values like love and mercy, and state, which existed as an instrument of power.
Neither state nor church hesitated to smash the fledgling movement, and the Mennonite-Amish still hold dear the stories of early martyrs like Dirk Willems, a 16th-century Dutch devotee who was fleeing a guard when he heard the man fall through ice and into a pond. Willems heeded the cry for help and returned to rescue the man, who promptly arrested Willems and saw to it that he was executed. The story is from a compendium called "Martyrs Mirror," a staple in area homes.
A century and a half after Menno Simon, toward the end of the 17th century, some Mennonites, led by Jacob Amman, challenged the movement for having strayed from Simon's teachings and for not being stern enough with errant followers. The Amish were still more plain and austere, loyal to old ways, and even less inclined toward technology.
To escape persecution, both groups' followers began migrating to the United States, specifically to Pennsylvania, a haven for religious freedom. From Germantown, then a Philadelphia suburb, they ended up in the richly fertile, happily isolated lands in Lancaster to the west.
Within the Amish-Mennonite religions, there's an astounding array of sects and practices. There are Old Order Amish and "modern" Amish, Hutterian Brethren and Beachy Amish Mennonite. Lester, a self-described "main line" Mennonite, dresses in a modern style, distinct from the black garb of what he calls "horse-and-buggy Mennonites."
Whereas the Amish are clustered mainly in a few parts of the United States--the largest population is in northeastern Ohio, and a growing population fleeing Lancaster's high land prices for New York's Finger Lakes--the Mennonites are represented all over the globe. A 1994 population survey by the Mennonite World Conference put the worldwide Amish-Mennonite population at just under 1 million.
Some are more tech-friendly than others. An Old Order house, for example, typically will not have electricity. Down near the mailbox on the road, you'll see telephone boxes because phones aren't permitted in the home. Some have windmills, wells and water pumps. Some Amish will use lawn mowers or tractors in certain parts of their land, but only mules and manual instruments in productive fields. Others, on the other hand, drive cars.
"It's not written down," Lester explained, "but they all know their own rules."
Veteran Lancaster visitors, as well as the "English" who live there, say the best way to engage locals is by going to their markets and stores. There are lots of roadside stalls selling flowers, berries, pies and preserves, and the countryside is speckled with stores and workshops with wooden ornaments, furniture and splendid stitched quilts. A roadside shingle will indicate whether it's okay to stop in; locals who sell to the public are used to talking to outsiders.
We stopped at Riehl's Quilts & Crafts, a 25-acre plot a few miles north of Intercourse, with a barn, tobacco-curing building and store that adjoins a farmhouse. There we found the proprietor, a thirtyish mother in traditional Old Order clothes, fielding questions from a curious trio of tourists on whether the Amish pay school taxes (yes) and receive government benefits (no, by choice). Speaking easily and with the confidence of someone used to handling questions, she seemed happy to explain the Old Order ways to her respectfully curious inquisitors.
One of her daughters, who looked to be about 15 years old, sat painting scenes on the backs of frying pans. Her artwork, alongside other items for sale, was displayed on the store's walls.
In a playful tone, Lester asked her how she was--was she a good girl? She bantered right back, saying that he obviously didn't know her too well. Then he asked where the nearest gas station was, which gave her pause, since that was a little like asking a vegetarian the way to the butcher's. Finally she remembered a place two miles back in the direction we'd come from. Apart from her clothes--a plain blue dress instead of her mother's black one--she was no different from any other teenage girl.
Everywhere we drove that day, we came upon scenes of real beauty--sweeping farmland, parceled into fields of variegated color that gather into hills and unfurl into swales. The barns and wells and water pumps, the strident clip-clop of horses drawing buggies on quiet roads--it's all symbolic of a slower, reflective way of life.
There's an understandable impulse to want to take the experience home and share it through photos. Many Old Order people consider the practice offensive, though, so ask first. And don't be offended if the answer is no.
"One fellow said he didn't want pictures of himself because if he saw them all over the place, he might become proud," Lester explained.
"I don't know," I said. "I've seen many pictures of myself that made me pretty humble."
"That's a good one," he said. "I'll have to remember it next time."
Todd Pitock is a frequent contributor to the Travel section.
DETAILS: Pennsylvania Dutch Country
GETTING THERE: Lancaster is about three hours from D.C. You'll know you're getting close when you start seeing horses and buggies on the roads south of Strasburg, which is just north of the Brandywine region. A few main roads cut through the area--896, 222, 23--and connect the towns. Route 30 is highly trafficked, with lots of factory outlets, and Route 340, a k a Old Philadelphia Pike, runs through Intercourse and Bird-in-Hand, where you can park your car and walk a bit. The best way to explore Amish country, though, is to bicycle or drive the back roads (see box, Page E11).
WHEN TO GO: Although local tourism officials promote Lancaster as a year-round destination, the best time to visit is spring and summer, since the stalls and even some shops are open full time only in warmer months.
WHERE TO EAT: For traditional Pennsylvania Dutch food, try Deinner's (2855 Lincoln Hwy. East, Ronks; $6.75-$8.75 for buffet), an Amish-owned restaurant on Route 30. Amish girls and women slalom through lunch patrons who come for the all-you-can-eat menu, which includes lima beans baked with ham, roast chicken, fluffy mashed potatoes and salad-bar items that are sometimes familiar, sometimes not (red beet eggs). For dessert, there are puddings and big wedges of cake or pie at circa-1960 prices.
The Bird-in-Hand Family Restaurant (intersection of Route 340 and Ronks Road, Bird-in-Hand; $4-$15 for entrees) has area specialties like chicken and waffles. Jenny's Diner (Lincoln Highway east, off Route 30, Ronks) is famous for its heaping portions, reasonable prices (average $6) and old-fashioned-style entrees. Although the Fulton Steamboat Inn (intersection of Routes 30 and 896, Strasburg) is as tastelessly overstated as a casino, the restaurant serves a good steak.
In Bird-in-Hand, the farmer's market (hours vary with the season; about five miles out of Lancaster on Route 340, 717-393-9674) has a scrumptious selection of Pennsylvania Dutch treats. Try the fruit and shoofly pies.
LODGING: For a directory of bed-and-breakfasts, farm and guest houses, and campgrounds, pick up the Lancaster County Visitors Guide from the information centers listed below.
INFORMATION: Pennsylvania Dutch Convention and Visitors Bureau, 800-PA-DUTCH (800-723-8824) www.padutchcountry.com.
Besides visitor info, the Mennonite Information Center (2209 Millstream Rd., Lancaster, 717-299-0954, www.mennoniteinfoctr.com) also provides guides who hop into your vehicle and give two-hour tours for $26.
--Todd Pitock
© 2005 The Washington Post Company
