Keeping up with the Joneses amongst the Amish

[Magda Hassan]

By DOUGLAS BELKIN

TOPEKA, Ind. -- Dan Bontrager is a 54-year-old Amish man with flecks of gray in his long beard. He's also treasurer of the Tri-County Land Trust, an Amish lending cooperative created to support the Amish maxim that community enhances faith in God.
This past spring, Mr. Bontrager was startled when a number of men he has known most of his life tied their horses to the hitching post outside his office and came inside to withdraw their money from the Land Trust.
"We had a run," Mr. Bontrager says. "I don't know if you know anything about the Amish grapevine, but word travels fast. Somebody assumed it was going to happen, and it started a panic."
Mervin Lehman



In Amish country, a bank run is about as familiar as a Hummer or a flat-screen TV. For decades, the more than 200,000 Amish in the U.S. have largely lived apart from the mainstream, emphasizing humility, simplicity and thrift. Known as "the plain people," they travel by horse-drawn buggy, wear homemade clothing and live with very little electricity.
But the Amish in northern Indiana edged into the conventional economy, lured by the high wages of the recreational-vehicle and modular-homes industries. And they wound up experiencing the same economic whiplash millions of other Americans did.
There has been some fraying of the ties that bind the Amish, many in the community say.
"When you have plenty of money, you have a tendency to slowly drift away," says Steve Raber, 37, an Amish owner of a furniture-manufacturing business in Shipshewana, near Topeka. "I think people begin to forget who's really in control."
The Amish in northern Indiana date their community to about 1850. About 20,000 of them live on the flat, fertile farmland 120 miles east of Chicago below Michigan's southern border.
Like Amish in other parts of the U.S., the Indiana community strayed from their traditional reliance on farming in recent decades as their numbers grew and land prices rose. Many opened family businesses, often in furniture and other wood crafts.
By 2007, more than half of Amish men in these parts were working full time in manufacturing, and earning, on average, $30 an hour, says Steven Nolt, a professor at Goshen College in Goshen, Ind., who studies the community.
The great increase in discretionary income spawned a "keeping-up-with-the-Joneses mentality," says Mervin Lehman, 39, an Amish father of four who says he was making more than $50-an-hour and working up to 60 hours a week as an RV plant supervisor before he was laid off in November.
View Full Image



Douglas Belkin/The Wall Street Journal Mervin Lehman, recently laid off, has started making mattresses out of a workshop on his property.






Some Amish bishops in Indiana weakened restrictions on the use of telephones. Fax machines became commonplace in Amish-owned businesses. Web sites marketing Amish furniture began to crop up. Although the sites were run by non-Amish third parties, they nevertheless intensified a feeling of competition, says Casper Hochstetler, a 70-year-old Amish bishop who lives in Shipshewana.
"People wanted bigger weddings, newer carriages," Mr. Lehman says. "They were buying things they didn't need." Mr. Lehman spent several hundred dollars on a model-train and truck hobby, and about $4,000 on annual family vacations, he says. This year, there will be no vacation.
It became common practice for families to leave their carriages home and take taxis on shopping trips and to dinners out.
Journal Community

• discuss
  

“ The Amish "living it up" doesn't exactly sound like riotous living. ”

—Brendan Moore

Some Amish families had bought second homes on the west coast of Florida and expensive Dutch Harness Horses, with their distinctive, prancing gait. Others lined their carriages in dark velvet and illuminated them with battery-powered LED lighting.
Even the tradition of helping each other out began to unravel, Bishop Hochstetler says. Instead of asking neighbors for help, well-to-do Amish began hiring outsiders so they wouldn't have to reciprocate. "Factory work doesn't eliminate fellowship, but it does not encourage togetherness," the bishop says.
Last fall, the recreational-vehicle industry began to lay off workers. Facing financial hardship, the Amish traditionally have sought aid within the community. But with nearly half of households depending on manufacturing income, Amish bishops this year reluctantly decided for the first time that laid-off workers could seek unemployment benefits.
Combined with falling property values, job losses bred concerns that the unemployed would be unable to make their mortgage payments -- and that would cripple the Tri-County Land Trust.
The trust was established in 1993, and is similar to lending arrangements set up in other Amish communities. Only Amish people can join. The trust's 2,100 depositors receive annual interest of 3.2%, while borrowers pay 3.5% interest on loans. There are no credit checks. Monthly mortgage payments can be no more than 33% of a borrower's gross income.
The trust's structure reflects the Amish philosophy of sharing. It isn't insured by the Federal Deposit Insurance Corp., but by its own bylaws it maintains at least $1 million in cash reserves. The trust has never exercised its authority to foreclose on a home.
Today the trust has about $40 million in assets that its treasurer, Mr. Bontrager, says are managed conservatively.
Last fall, as layoffs drained income from the community, deposits into the trust fell to about $600,00 from between $1 million and $1.5 million a month, Mr. Bontrager says. In November, the trust suspended lending.
Over the winter, rumors began to circulate that the trust was running out of money. The run, as Mr. Bontrager describes it, began in April. It lasted about six weeks. Mr. Bontrager says about 100 depositors made significant withdrawals, and some emptied their accounts. The $1 million reserve fund was wiped out. The trust hasn't yet resumed lending.
The past year's experiences have left many here shaken. With the unemployment rate in the area reaching 17.8% in April, a growing number of men have left their families for weeks at a time for out-of-state construction jobs. Some younger families have moved to other states.
In Indiana, a back-to-basics movement appears to be taking root. More patches of produce have sprouted behind Amish homes this summer. Restaurants are entertaining fewer Amish customers. Mr. Lehman says neighbors "are more considerate of each other now."
Some men have started their own businesses close to home. Mr. Lehman makes mattresses in his workshop. Harlan Miller, a 34-year-old father of five who was laid off in February, started making fruit butter, which he sells at a local market. Freeman Miller (no relation), 54, who was laid off after 30 years in manufacturing, builds wooden caskets for pets.
"We were all going way too fast," Freeman Miller says. "This has made everybody stop and realize we're just pilgrims here, the Almighty is in charge."


http://online.wsj.com/article/SB124640811360577075.html