Daniel Marsula, Post-Gazette Click illustration for larger image.

A man in his 20s sits in a glass-enclosed cab, high above the cutting area in a busy Lawrence County lumberyard. He deftly programs a customer's order into the computer -- so many logs of a certain size -- then operates the circular saw with a laser alignment. As the logs come tumbling through on a conveyor belt, the laser's red beam lines up the cuts to be made. He constantly flips the log on the carriage to get the best cut.

As he climbs out of the cab for a break, you see that he is dressed in the blue work shirt, denim work pants and straw hat of the Amish, as is his manager, who has run the computerized lumberyard since it opened, scooting around the yard on a large International Harvester.

To go home, though, these men will climb into a buggy powered by a horse and make a long, slow journey -- along dirt roads with no overhead wires -- to a simple white house. They will sit down to a meal prepared on a wood-burning or kerosene-fueled stove. There will be no telephone calls to interrupt the meal, no television to distract them from conversation with their family. When it is dark, they will go to bed.

Amish families in Lawrence and Mercer counties have had an ongoing conversation about technology since they came here in the mid-1800s. That dialogue is heating up now, as the Amish have had to take jobs in the wider economy -- as carpenters, in lumberyards and in light industry -- as it becomes harder to make a living as a farmer.

"As each family shares their land with their sons and they, in turn, share with their sons, you end up farming in a shoebox," said Martin Stolpe of Neshannock, Lawrence County, who has been living close to the Amish for 45 years.

Dr. David Swaney, a veterinarian in New Wilmington, Lawrence County, has seen a sharp decline in the number of Amish dairy farmers in the nearly 40 years he has been tending to their animals.

This small Stirling differential engine made by an Amish machinist is powered by the expansion of a gas when heated. In this case, the heat came from a hand. Click photo for larger image.

"Many of our Amish have moved to New York state or Ohio, where they can practice more progressive farming, using milking machines and bulk tanks," he said.

The majority of those who have stayed have turned to vegetable farming or carpentry, he said.

By choice and belief, Amish are "strangers and pilgrims" in a high-tech world of cell phones and medical miracles, Stolpe says. Yet many straddle both worlds without any problem.

"You are about to meet one of the smartest men on this earth," Stolpe said as he neared the home of Joe Mast, his community's funeral director, coffin maker and machinist.

Mast has a large machine shop in Springfield, Mercer County, where routers, mills and sanders are powered by specially adapted hydraulic mechanisms connected to a diesel engine. Anyone who needs a complex part for assorted equipment comes to this shop, and Mast will make it to order.

At Stolpe's urging, Mast explained one of his creations. From the house, he carefully carried a model of a small Stirling differential engine. It's powered by the expansion of a gas when heated, and in this case, the heat came from Mast's hand. As he held the engine, a plastic circular piece rose to the top, where the cooler compressed air forced it back down, moving a piston.

Mast, who subscribes to Popular Mechanics and Popular Science among other magazines, read about the possible use of Stirling engines by NASA to power space vehicles with solar energy. He made one, then two, then three. But he still subscribes to the Amish way.

"We're getting too far from the plow," he repeated, almost as a mantra.

Stolpe believes his friend is no more conflicted than most people.

"The fact that he knows about technology, accepts the world and still chooses to hold to his Amish beliefs shows that he is more than true to his beliefs," he said.

The Amish intent is to live close to the land and to one another. "Will this bring us closer together or force us apart?" is the question they ask about the use of a new gadget.

Many "English" -- what the Amish call people outside the community -- mistakenly believe that Amish bishops decide which technology is appropriate for the community, said Neal Miller of Wilmington, Lawrence County. He is Amish but interacts often with the English.

"It would be good for people to know that the bishops don't decide everything for us. The bishops do bring an issue to the congregation, and there has to be a unanimous vote. A show of hands," he said emphatically.

"Of course, if the bishops don't want the issue to come up, they don't bring it to the congregation." And, he admitted with a very slight nod, "if it were a majority vote, there would be more things changed."

There is evidence of compromise even in their unanimity; the Amish in this region can ride in a car but cannot own or drive one. They can, however, use gasoline- and diesel-powered generators. Many have natural gas wells on their property, but they cannot use the natural gas to heat their house.

They can and must use a 12-volt automobile battery to activate blinking red lights on their buggies at night so that cars can see them. They can use a telephone but not own it, and obviously, if they work where there is complex machinery, they are allowed to operate it.

The issue of cell phones is not up for discussion at this time. No one in this area knows anyone who uses one, but there are rumors that Amish contractors and carpenters in nearby communities find them convenient. Barefoot teenagers wearing bonnets and straw hats have been spotted with cell phones. This anecdotal usage probably will set the process in motion, and the bishops will meet and discuss this and then bring it to their congregations.

"I can see that this would be quite a temptation," said Miller, "but, my, how I do hate telephones."