Page 17 - C.A.L.L. #40 - Winter 2015

who believed in a spiritual communion Then there was the man who brought
through sex and agricultural
practice. It was not a wildly popular
concept 300 years ago, and
contemporary rural Pennsylvania was
perhaps not the best place to
resurrect its tenets, even with the
sex part edited out. Also, as
Johannes pointed out: “Neither one
of us is very charismatic. That was a
problem.” But they were young and
eager. They bought 63 acres for
$63,000 in Pitman, a tiny community
in Eldred Township, and they began
to rescue period cabins and
structures in the area and move
them to the site.
Filled with Colonial zeal, they bought
an antique letterpress and began
printing brochures to advertise their
concept. Dressed in their homespun
linen garments, made from flax they
had planted and sewn themselves,
they set up tables at gay-pride
festivals, living-history farms and
farming museums. “People would look
at us and say, ‘Oh, so you’re gay
Amish?’ ” Johannes said.
They did get a few takers: a man
who was interested in the culture of
the early German settlers, but
preferred to observe its customs
rather than pitch in; a guy they
called “the Primitive man,” who set
up a lean-to on the property and
wore loincloths in the summer (he
stayed the longest but turned out to
be mentally ill).
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his accordion and offered to play
while they worked. Indeed, the
farming chores seemed to mystify
most of their would-be brothers.
“Everyone just wanted to watch us
work, and that got old real fast,”
Johannes said.
“We weren’t good at being able to
explain the spiritual part, either.
People would say: ‘Let’s write down
your philosophy. Let’s create some
commandments.’ But that didn’t come
naturally. When we tried to explain
our beliefs — spirits living in springs,
the earth as mother — people just
thought we were weird.”
Farming the Colonial way requires
lots of hands. While Zephram
worked full time as a teacher in a
neighboring town, which paid their
mortgage and costs, Johannes was
alone on the farm, having been fired
from his reporting job.
“I wasn’t able to do two full-time
jobs at once,” Johannes said. “I
remember the first time I cut hay,
seven acres that had been planted
by the previous owner. I’m there
with my scythe, and I started
cutting, and I quickly realized that
what made the brotherhood we were
emulating successful is that they
had 88 men, and we were only two.”
Yet the work was holy to him, he
said. “I loved getting out there.”
They had cattle, sheep and goats;
turkeys, geese, ducks and chickens;