by Linda Byler
Chapter Three
THE SUN CONTINUED TO WARM THE SOIL OF Lancaster County through May and into June. Warm breezes that formed across the eastern shore danced their way into the mainland, bringing humidity and rain, enough to produce abundant pea vines, glorious cucumbers, and bush beans clumped so heavily, one hand rummaging among the leaves easily produced a fistful.
Sammy came home to live and work through the spring and early summer, which turned out to be an enormous help to Annie. He was a carefree spirit, laughed easily and often, took his father’s death as a chastening from God, and went on with his life. He had a host of friends and ran around from home to home in an old roofless courting buggy with torn upholstery and a tricky lid with misaligned hinges on the box behind the seat. To see Sammy with his friends brought Annie a vague feeling of discontent, a bittersweet nostalgia of her own years of rumschpringa. At these moments, any little thing could produce tears of sorrow for her beloved Eli—a blooming rose, the sinking of the sun in its fiery glory, which brought a longing to sink along with it.
Life was hard. To greet company with a semblance of happiness, to pretend she was even vaguely interested in the voices around her, to answer when a question was asked, was sometimes more than she could accomplish. So when visitors came and went, they had good reason to be concerned.
“She looks bad,” they said quietly to their husbands.
“Mark my words, she’ll have a nervous break-down.”
“It’s been almost a year, and I don’t see much change.”
“I pity those children with that unbekimmat mother.”
As folks will do, they passed judgment without the necessary cushion of compassion, so Annie was perched on a hard pedestal in the view of surrounding friends and family, her face white and drawn, her contribution to conversation nearly nonexistent.
Didn’t she appreciate the new barn and all the help that had put her back on her feet? She was like a sad dark shadow of her former self, and it was indeed high time she snapped out of it.
But they didn’t know about the times they were not with the family. The times when her love for her children was like the cup that was filled to the brim and running over, supplying the sole reason for going on. It was the reason she worked from dawn to dusk, milking cows, driving the two-horse hitch in the wooden farm wagon, forking hay and cleaning stables. She chopped wood, heated water in the iron kettle, poured it into huge galvanized tubs, did her laundry with homemade lye soap, pegged it on the line, and was proud of the dazzling whites. She hoed in her garden, picked vegetables, and canned them in mason jars. Every bean and cucumber and tomato was preserved. So were the peppers and apples and watermelon rind and the corn and small potatoes. Red beets were pickled in their own juice, with sugar and salt and vinegar, a dark burgundy color that added variety to the green and yellow on the shelves down cellar.
The children all worked alongside their mother, and their childish banter lifted her above the grief that so easily consumed her. Her children were her life, all that she needed. The children and her faith in God, who sat on His throne in Heaven and directed their lives as He saw fit. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the Name of the Lord.” The Bible verse meant so much to her, was often whispered just under her breath as she turned the crank on the hand wringer, fed the worn cotton dresses and the patched underwear through the rollers, then rinsed them in hot vinegar water before starting the process all over again.
Her arms were like steel, her legs strong and muscular, yet she retained her womanly figure. She had no time to think about her appearance; she merely arose every morning, pulled on her dress, and pinned a gray apron around her sturdy waist. She combed and twisted her luxuriant hair into a tight coil on the back of her head, set the white covering over it, and faced the day.
It was hot. The heat shimmered across the hayfields like some strange dream, the scorching wind rustling the leaves on the stalks of corn, turning the children’s faces a deep shade of brown. Like little acorns, Annie thought, as she watched them shrieking and tearing across the lawn, in pursuit of some unwilling barn cat. She smiled to herself, then. A smile that lifted only the corners of her eyes, but it was a beginning of the end of the debilitating grief.
She viewed the rows of bright jars on the can shelves in the cellar, the reward of days of back-breaking labor, and felt the smile deep inside of her. The rays of happiness were like the sun that only appeared occasionally, the scudding dark clouds of her grief obscuring it. Now, though, it seemed to happen frequently, and she knew the truth of her mother’s words: “Time is a healer. This, too, shall pass.”
Then one day she received a white envelope with no return address and masculine handwriting amongst the other mail. Annie took it silently from Emma and thanked God it had not been Suvilla who brought the mail in. She lifted her gray apron and discreetly put it in her dress pocket, then flipped through the other mail, opening the letter from her sister in Berks County.
She sat on a kitchen chair, the afternoon humidity building like a furnace in the house, wiped her face with the familiar square of muslin, and read the pages with enjoyment. She smiled, she frowned, she cried. She breathed deeply, shifted positions, then lowered the pages to her lap and stared into space.
Sarah thought she could move to Berks County and live alongside her and her husband. Life would not be quite as hard without that mortgage on her farm. Annie tried to imagine it. She loved her sister Sarah, knew without a doubt she would be a huge help, both emotionally and spiritually.And financially, for sure.
But the children. They were so well adjusted here on the farm, in the school, in the church.
She put the letter in her desk. Eli’s desk, as she always thought of it. She turned and began to pour water into a bowl for a batch of bread. She’d have to think about it, discuss it with the children.
After everyone was upstairs, she stood in the middle of her kitchen, the oil lamp creating a yellow glow, the heat lingering long after the heat of the sun had disappeared. Her heart began the quickening thud of agitation. She exhaled sharply, then drew a deep breath to steady herself, before slowly retrieving the letter from the depth of her pocket. The thing had been like a rock, begging her to open it all day. It could have been from anyone, of course, but somehow she knew, the way women sometimes do, that there was something important about this particular letter. With fingers that were slightly unsteady, she tore a corner of the envelope, inserted one finger, and ran it along the seal.
It was one sheet of lined paper.
Dear Friend,
Greetings in Jesus’ Name.
I was there with you when you experienced the tragedy of losing your barn. I am hoping your health has been restored.
My name is Daniel Beiler and I am a widower with six children. My wife, Sarah, passed away three years ago. She had pneumonia.
I have prayed at length, and still feel the same, so I am taking it as God’s will for my life. Would you consider starting a friendship? I would like to know you better. If it is alright with you, would September the fifteenth be acceptable to meet?
You understand, it would be late, so the children are asleep.
Please honor me with a reply.
In Jesus’ Name,
Daniel Beiler
Annie didn’t know what to do, so she cried. She sobbed and hiccupped. All the pain of parting with Eli crashed down on her head like crumbling plaster. And then, as if that weren’t enough, she felt a deep shame. For the fact was, she wanted a husband. She wanted to wake up in the morning with another warm human in the bed beside her, someone to talk to, to share her responsibilities, and yes, to touch, and to love, and to cherish the way she had cherished Eli. Surely it was too soon to want another man. Another man . . . those words in her mind brought a fresh wave of tears.
Of course, there were the children to consider. What about Suvilla? Sammy? They were old enough to have a voice in this very serious matter. What would they think of their
mother starting a friendship with someone new? Should she ask them, or was that improper? This was a whole new world to navigate. She wished there was someone trusted that she could seek out for guidance, but of course there wasn’t. For a moment she wished she had the kind of mother she could turn to for advice, but that was simply not the kind of relationship they shared. Where Annie was sentimental, her mother was practical. Where Annie welled with emotion, empathy, deep feeling, her mother kept stone-faced, never shed a tear that Annie could remember. Annie often felt ashamed that she couldn’t keep her own emotions better in check. She knew her mother disapproved of crying—but then, she disapproved of most things. Likely that came from Annie’s grandmother—but she was the last person Annie wanted to think about now. She actually shivered, the image of her grandmother bringing with it a cold wave of anger, disgust, and then, just as quickly, guilt. She should respect her elders, she knew.
Her thoughts came back to the letter and she wept on. She cried until she felt ill, then laid her head on her folded arms atop the kitchen table and allowed all the anxiety and indecision to overwhelm her. She tried praying, but it felt like the silent pleas for wisdom and direction didn’t make it past the ceiling. She felt alone, intimidated, undone.
Slowly her tears subsided, her breathing returned to normal. She lifted her head, wiped her eyes, blew her nose in the sodden handkerchief, then got up and threw it across the kitchen in disgust.
Six children. Six! She had enough to do with eight of her own. This whole thing was just ridiculous. Why was she obsessing over it? It was too soon since Eli’s death, fourteen kids would surely put her over the edge of sanity, and she knew nothing about this Dan Beiler. He was probably just lonely and overwhelmed with all those children and wanted a maud that he didn’t have to pay. She should just reply with a polite no and be done with it.
She remembered then, in spite of herself, the feeling of his strong arms carrying her into the house, the gentle voice he used in instructing the children in her care. So she hadn’t imagined him. And apparently he’d been thinking of her ever since then.
She slept only a few hours that night and dreamt restless dreams that made no sense, leaving her with a vague sense of foreboding and a serious headache all morning.
The next day her mother came to help her pick green beans and cucumbers, wearing her stiff black bonnet and no shoes, her bare feet walking across stones, rough cement, and prickly grass as if she was wearing invisible shoes. Austere, a formidable figure complete with a high forehead and hawk-like features, the large green eyes missing nothing, she put Annie on the defensive immediately. Her greeting was short, clipped, and to the point, wasting no time on niceties, certainly no sympathy.
“No help unhitching?” she called from the washhouse door.
“Oh, Mam. Sorry. I didn’t hear you pull in.”
“How could you miss it?”
“I must have been in the back bedroom.”
“No matter.”
But Annie was left with the distinct feeling that it did matter very much. She sighed.
“The yard needs mowing.” Coming from her mother, it was a rebuke more than an observation.
They walked together toward the house, her mother surveying everything she passed with a critical eye. Annie wished she’d had time to sweep the entryway, which she now saw had clumps of dirt, a stray feather one of the children must have found and then dropped on the floor. There were a few plates and a coffee mug in the kitchen sink.
“Sammy had to help out at Jonas Beiler’s,” she explained. “So that left the girls, and they were busy with the cleaning. We had four bushel of tomatoes to tend to.”
“On Saturday?”
“Yes.”
“You should have done them on Friday.”
Annie had no energy to delve into a detailed account of Friday’s work, so she said nothing.
“What’s this?” Her mother’s voice was curious and accusing at once.
Annie’s heart took a nosedive. The letter. How could she have been careless enough to leave it out? Had any of the children seen it? Thank goodness they were now all outside and wouldn’t hear whatever her mother was to say next.
Her mother’s thin hand raked it from the desktop, her eyes following the obviously masculine curve of the handwriting. She read it quickly and then held it out in front of her, disgusted, as if it contained a forbidden fruit.
Annie swallowed. She clasped and unclasped her hands behind her back, watched in disbelief as her mother waved it angrily.
“You will not, Annie.”
Annie nodded, felt as if she’d been caught in some unforgivable sin.
“Your husband is gone only seven months. Who is this man?”
“It’s ten months, Mam.”
“And you are receiving offers? Have you no shame?”
“Mam, it’s only a letter. It is not an offer of marriage. I can refuse. It came only yesterday and I haven’t had a chance to respond yet.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. She turned and placed the letter back on the desktop before turning slowly, her eyes going to her daughter’s bewildered ones.
“You think I’m being too hard on you, but you need to think of the children. You have a big responsibility, so don’t fall for some overeager suitor who has no feelings for the children. You need to wait. And six children?” She made a snorting noise, as if having so many kids was some kind of sin, evidence of bad character.
In reality, a large family wasn’t so unusual in the Amish community. Children were a blessing from God. Annie didn’t remind her that she had eight of her own children, a fact that her mother had considered an excellent thing prior to Eli’s passing.
Instead, Annie just nodded again. “Yes, Mam.”
They worked side by side the remainder of the day, cleaning out the last of the bush beans, plucking the prickly cucumber vines. Seeing all the remaining tomatoes, they decided to cook the vegetables separately and make vegetable soup.
Carrots, onion, parsley, celery, potatoes, corn, and green peppers were all cleaned, sliced, chopped, and added to the copper kettle of boiling tomatoes and parsnips. Navy beans and a large beef bone from the butcher shop, salt, pepper, and some dried chives were dropped into the mix, resulting in the most pleasurable aroma from the kettle house door.
The incident with the letter was pushed to the back of Annie’s mind as she focused on the work at hand, and with the girls all helping to wash jars, chop vegetables, and of course, to take turns mowing the grass, the day turned out to be so much better than she had expected. Suvilla was a willing, able-bodied worker, which impressed her grandmother deeply, while Ida chattered happily with her innocent lisp, bringing an occasional smile to the narrow face.
Row after row of glass jars containing the bright vegetable soup filled the counter that afternoon. They ate big bowls of it for lunch, with slices of dark wheat bread spread with the pungent yellow butter that had formed by the steady sloshing of the wooden paddles in the glass butter churn. There were no strawberry or raspberry preserves, and there wouldn’t be any deep brown apple butter in the fall. Sugar was a luxury, used mostly for preserving, so the only sweetener was the dark molasses or the amber maple syrup, both of which would have to last till spring. But there was the heavy ginger cake, and fresh peaches from the orchard, with plenty of rich, creamy milk, cups of mint tea with a dollop of maple syrup, and more milk.
Her mother sat back, her stern features mellowed from the full stomach, an occasional smile flickering as Ida kept up her lively flow of words.
“Do you have firewood for winter, Annie?” she asked, as she carried plates to the sink to be washed.
“Not yet. I mean, there is some, of course, to cook with, but the winter’s supply hasn’t been tackled yet,” Annie replied, pouring boiling water from the teakettle into the dishpan.
“Ach, Annie. Perhaps I’m too harsh. It must not be easy, this going on by yourself. We don’t realize how very much we depend on our m
en for so many things.”
Oh mother, you have no idea, Annie groaned inwardly, but she just gave a soft smile.
“But be very careful of marrying that second time.”
“I will.”
Warmed by her mother’s kind words, she told her about her sister’s offer to have the family come live near them.
“After everything the church has done to get you back on your feet here?” Her mother asked, incredulous. “Really, Annie. I’m surprised you’d even consider it.”
Annie quickly assured her she wasn’t really considering it, that she was just telling her how thoughtful Sarah was to suggest it. Inwardly, she wondered why she hadn’t seen it that way before. Yes, she’d been quite ungrateful and would repent. She’d write to her sister tomorrow to thank her and decline her offer.
As she watched her mother drive the horse and buggy down the lane that led to the main road, she turned and shook her head sadly. No, there was no way her mother could know this road of solitude, with its unpredictable twists and turns, the desperation when a cow became sick, the anxiety over the unpaid bills, the lurching of her stomach when winter’s chill crept through every available crevice around windows and doors, but the damper was turned low to keep the firewood supply from dwindling too fast. The times when they wore coats to sit in the living room, drew their feet up under blankets, the temperature in the house far below what was considered comfortable.
To pay down on the feed bill meant cooked and fried mush for breakfast, tea and saltine crackers soaked in milk when the coffee ran low. It meant dried navy beans boiling on the back of the stove until the smell of them was no longer appetizing, because the beans would fill their stomachs so they could fall asleep. Annie knew what it meant to be hungry and cold, but figured times were hard for everyone, so there was no sense in mewling complaints like a weak kitten. But her mother’s words rankled.
