by Linda Byler
“We are all family. We aren’t perfect, but no family is. Amos, you had no right to say Emma was not your sister. We won’t say things like that again, OK?”
He nodded, his eyes downcast.
“Ephraim, apologize for beating him. Amos, apologize for saying that.”
Ephraim spoke up.
“He shouldn’t apologize to me. He should tell Emma he’s sorry. I was sticking up for her.”
“That can come later. Right now this is about you two.”
They offered halfhearted apologies, but there was no real feeling. Annie decided it was enough that they had obeyed and left it at that, ushering them out to do chores.
When suppertime came, she had all the wash folded, and with Suvilla’s help, it was all put back in drawers and closets, except for a stack of ironing in the clothesbasket. She was stirring the thick bean soup, her back turned to the kitchen, when she felt two strong hands grasp her waist, followed by Dan’s face close to hers and a soft kiss placed on her cheek.
“My glaeyne frau,” he murmured.
She smiled, leaned back against his chest for a moment. He smelled of wet earth and strong breezes, of cows and hay and, yes, manure. The smell she had been used to all her life. The smell of a farmer.
She turned to meet his eyes, the tender look she found there as sure as the rising sun. His temperament never changed. He was like a rock, a pillar of good humor and gentleness that supported the foundation of her being. When she was with him, nothing seemed impossible.
“I love you,” she whispered, a hand going to his face. He smiled into her eyes, and they both turned to find many pairs of eyes watching them.
Dan smiled, stepped back, clapped his hand and said, “Komm, Rebecca.” He beckoned her two-year-old. Our two-year-old, she reminded herself. Not just mine.
“Komm,” he coaxed again. Rebecca watched him warily, then sidled shyly along the sofa until she reached him. He bent to pick her up, cradled her in his lap while she put her thumb in her mouth and closed her eyes.
They all laughed.
Rebecca was so shy, and her thumb was her refuge from every scary thing in her life. Closing her eyes was her way of shutting out whatever her thumb did not console.
“Funny girl, Rebecca,” Dan laughed, holding her closer.
As Annie dished up the fragrant bean soup, a stab of guilt went through her, took away the comfort of Dan’s attentiveness. It all seemed so easy for him, so seamless. There was no effort in his reaching for her child; the attempts to win her over were completely genuine. Already the younger girls adored him, especially Lydia and Emma. For this, Annie was thankful, but it highlighted her own shortcomings.
The dinner table held two loaves of bread, three large dishes of apple butter, three plates of butter, and the steaming bowls of bean soup. There were fourteen hungry children lined on either side of the lengthy table. Dan sat at the end of the table, with Annie to his left, Rebecca on her other side.
The chattering and scraping of chairs stopped the minute Dan lifted a hand. “Patties noona.” It was the signal to bow heads in unison, hands in laps, as silent prayers were whispered or thought, depending on the person’s method of thanking the Lord for the food before them. Some children were conscientious, lowering their heads so their foreheads almost touched the tabletop, while others bowed their heads only slightly, their eyes sliding sideways while their elbows poked into ribs, snickers or whispers escaping them.
Ephraim didn’t bow his head at all, resulting in a stern look from Dan.
Ephraim said he didn’t know how Dan could see what he was doing if he kept his own head bowed the way he was supposed to. Amos countered that every parent was expected to watch his children’s behavior; it didn’t matter when. Enos rolled his eyes, knowing Amos would side with Dan (he could not bring himself to call him “Dat”), regardless of his actions.
They did get visitors. They descended on the Dan Beiler farm like a swarm of flies, trickling in one at a time, till there were as many as six or seven buggies parked along the front of the barn, or tied to the hitching rack, on any given Sunday.
They came to welcome Annie and her children. They wrung her hand, clasped it in both of their own, looking deep into her eyes with much love and understanding. They brought doughnuts and apple dumplings, sacks of licorice and pans of scrapple.
Ezra Lapp sie Anna handed her a bag of fresh lettuce and new red radishes, perfect red globes tied in a neat bundle with a rubber band secured around the green tops.
“Already?” Annie gasped, throwing her hands in the air.
“My now, Annie. Don’t you have a hot bed?”
Annie shook her head no.
“Mold oh. We need to talk to Dan. Can hardly believe he didn’t build a hot bed for Sarah. Any worthy frau needs a hot bed to sow lettuce and radish seeds in February or early March.” With that, she took herself into the living room to shake Dan’s hand and accost his unworthiness by not having a hot bed.
Dan looked into her face as she talked, nodded his head up and down in affirmation, said ya, ya, he would have to see to it. Then he did the unthinkable and told her he already had a warm bed with his new wife and that was far more important, which caused her to blush and snort and pshaw her way back to the kitchen as fast as possible.
Ezra Lapp was not a farmer. He started a welding shop in the twenties, called K and L Welding, and made a fairly good living for the first five years, till the Depression took away most of his trade. A quiet, unassuming man, he was married to an outspoken robust woman four years his senior, who seemed to control him much the same way a puppet is controlled, by deft manipulation. Everyone knew when shy Ezra asked for her hand in marriage she told him she would marry him on one condition, and that was that he not milk cows or farm the land, that she was not going to smell cow manure and sour milk her whole life long. Some said he should have been warned by that; others said he wasn’t dumb, he enjoyed his garrulous, decisive wife.
They said she was the one who had the funds to start up K and L Welding, that the K stood for her maiden name, Kauffman. He seemed perfectly happy to be put in the back seat and let his outspoken wife do most of the talking. He listened to her spit-flinging tirades with acceptance and interest, for he loved his round wife and admired her mind immensely. But when Dan told her about his warm bed, he threw back his head and howled with glee. He had never seen his Anna quite as flummoxed as he had then, and was delighted.
Back in the kitchen with Annie, Davey Zook sie Katie said a good way to stretch meat was to put it in roasht, that any meat was good that way, even ground beef or sausage. In fact, her favorite was doggie fils, which was roasht made with sliced hot dogs. She looked hopefully in Annie’s direction, wondering if she would be the kind of wife to welcome others to her table. She was not disappointed when Annie said, “We could have it for supper. Will you all be staying?”
“Yes. Oh, indeed. Sure. But don’t go to any bother, please.”
The women rose as one to help peel potatoes and cut bread into cubes. There was no celery in spring, so they used onion and dried parsley, plenty of lard, and cut up canned hot dogs, and mixed everything in an enormous bowl with beaten eggs and chicken broth. Then they dumped it into a large roaster and popped it in the wood-fired oven.
Potatoes were put on the range to boil, milk gravy made with browned butter and flour, canned beans seasoned with salt, pepper, molasses, and a bit of pork fat. The meal was rounded out with bowls of applesauce, small dishes of sweet pickles, and pickled red beets.
The men and children ate first, which allowed the women to serve them, the traditional way of hosting a Sunday table for visitors. There were twenty-three present at the extended table, and all ate with a hearty appetite, even the smallest boy or girl.
Katie watched the men taking second helpings of the doggie fils onto their plates. She so loved it, and hadn’t made it in a while, so her mouth watered all through. “The men always take so long,” she told the other women i
n the kitchen.
“Oh, but they’re hungry,” Annie answered from her point at the stove, dishing up the fragrant beans.
“Well, we are, too. Ach. Annie, you’re too sweet for your own good. Hesslich, everyone is going to walk all over you.”
“Oh no,” Annie laughed. “I can speak my mind. But after you have been a widow for a while, things look so much different. Appreciation comes more easily.”
They saw the tears in her eyes, and everyone was touched. Here was a woman who had suffered bravely, who had carried on in these hard times, and didn’t seem to hold the slightest bitterness in her heart.
Annie served bread and butter, along with strawberry preserves. Dessert was her high, quivering custard pie, a real treat for those who seldom had extra eggs or milk. There were clear glass bowls of canned peaches and a dense spice cake thick with raisins, nutmeg, and cinnamon.
Oh, it was a wondrous meal, especially for Depression times.
Dan himself had no idea the custard pies had been made on Saturday morning, along with the twice weekly ten loaves of bread. The spice cake smell had lingered in the kitchen at lunchtime, but he’d figured it was a bread pudding for supper.
The women all asked for the custard pie recipe, and the men thought Dan a very fortunate man, even before the appearance of spice cake and peaches.
“You have a good cook, Dan,” Henry Beiler said, leaning back in his chair and patting his full stomach with appreciation.
Annie’s face was flushed, moving from table to stove, filling bowls and water glasses, replenishing the bread plate.
Eventually, Dan looked around the table to be certain he was not hurrying a slow eater, before he spoke. “Did you get enough?”
Murmurs of appreciation and assent followed.
Dan smiled, cleared his throat, and ducked his head to thank the Lord for what they had just eaten in the second silent prayer.
Whooping with glee, the children and their friends slid off benches and made a mad dash for the door to continue their game of kickball. The men chewed on toothpicks or smoked their pipes or cigars in the living room. The women hurriedly cleared the table, emptied serving bowls into heavy kettles, and reheated, stirred, and reset the table, talking, laughing, enjoying the camaraderie. Sunday company was the high point of many hardworking women’s social lives.
The table was almost filled the second time, and there was enough for everyone. Not everyone got a slice of the spice cake, but there was plenty of pie and peaches. The women all said they didn’t know when they ever had better doggie fils. Annie demurred, saying it wasn’t better than anyone else’s, although she did add more chicken broth and eggs than her mother used to.
The house was messy, the floors tracked with muddy foot prints, and all the work she had put into the preparing of pies and cakes had disappeared in one Sunday evening. But the time of making new friends, the enjoyment of hospitality and fellowship, far outweighed the work.
By the time all the kids were in bed or in their rooms and Annie and Dan finally got to turn in for the night, her body ached with weariness. But her heart was filled with gratitude. She kissed her new husband, lay her head on his strong arm, and thanked him for everything he did for her. They both fell asleep with a smile on their lips.
Chapter Seven
AS SPRING TURNED INTO SUMMER, ANNIE’S workload doubled, at least. The sun’s rays increased, drawing the many seeds into sprouts, the sprouts into beanstalks, potato plants, pea vines, and more. She stood to survey the sheer size of her garden.
It was a dewy morning, after a few days of intermittent rain and drizzle, so the weeds had gathered in force, taking over the well-tilled and hoed soil until it looked like a sea of green. And it was wet. So wet. How would they ever restore the garden to its original manicured state? She would be ashamed to have the neighbors see this. But then she smiled to herself, remembering that everyone’s garden had been rained on, not just hers.
And it was a lovely morning. The dew was like jewels scattered across the yard, the lush green plants beaded with them, dripping off the perfect green leaves. The sun was a fiery ball of orange, already pulsating with the heat that left men leaning against a fence post, their hats tilted back as they swiped at rivulets of perspiration.
This was the time of homemade root beer, mint tea, and ginger water taken to the hayfields where the men forked loads of loose hay onto a wooden wagon drawn by faithful mules or Belgians. This was when every single vegetable from the garden was eaten or canned to put down cellar for the coming winter. For the hundredth time, Annie was grateful to have a kind and gentle husband, and the anxiety of providing for her family alone taken from her shoulders. She loved his strength, his way with the children, his patience and gentleness. How could it be that God had blessed her when she most certainly did not deserve all this?
She turned and went back into the house, only to find Joel and John, five and four, who were Dan’s youngest children, in a heated argument with five-year-old Lydia, who was her own.
Oh, she hated that she still thought of them as her children and his children, but how else was she to make sense of the constant bickering and rivalry? These children had gone through so much, losing their mother and father, struggling with grief and childish sorrow, before being thrown together to live in one house. Remembering this gave her the compassion she needed to deal with the daily struggle of peacekeeping and discipline.
Joel was nearly six now, dark haired and dark eyed, with a brilliant mind and the vocal cords of a little preacher. He ruled John, who was a gentle, passive child, happy to go along with whatever his older brother wanted. Five-year-old Lydia, on the other hand, had inherited all the spit and vigor of Annie’s own mother, including the loud voice and quick temper.
Joel and Lydia had both woken up in a foul mood, the heat upstairs causing them to sleep fitfully. Thirsty, unable to find their mother, they sat on the old davenport like uncomfortable little birds, eyeing each other, with sweet-natured John between them.
“Where’s Mam?” John asked, his strident voice like a razor to Lydia’s ill temper.
“She’s not your mother.”
“Yes, she is. She’s as much our mam as she is your mam,” Joel answered.
“How do you figure that?” Lydia sat forward, slid her feet to the floor, and twisted her head toward him, suspicion and challenge in her eyes.
“Well, you know. Since the wedding. We’re all your mam’s kids, and my dat is your father, too.”
“Don’t say ‘kids.’ Only English people say ‘kids.’”
“Kids, kids, kids!” Joel said loudly.
“Stop it. Stop it this minute.”
“Kids.”
With her hand on her hips, Lydia faced her opponent squarely. “You say that one more time, and I’m going to the barn and telling Dat.”
“No! No!”
Now that Lydia had the upper hand, she wasted no time in using her power to its full advantage, taunting him with every misdeed of the day before, of which there were plenty.
They both began to yell, which was how Annie found them when she entered the kitchen.
Again, it was easiest to tackle her own Lydia, before turning to the irate Joel, and by now, the deeply troubled John.
“What happened? Stop this now, both of you.”
Lydia was indignant, her face flushed with anger. “He said we were ‘kids.’ Only goats have kids, and we are not supposed to say that.”
“No, we don’t say that, Joel. You are ‘kinna.’” Annie answered calmly.
“He just kept saying it,” Lydia pouted, crossing her arms around her waist.
“I did not!”
“Yes, you did. Mam, he’s telling a schnitza. He always lies!”
“Lydia, you go sit on that chair.” Annie pointed to a cane-bottomed chair in the corner. “Even if you’re right, you’re being prideful and unkind.” She turned to Joel. “What started this?”
Sullen, he refused to meet her eyes
. She waited.
Finally, he spoke. “She said you were not my mother, and I said you were. At the wedding, the preacher said we all became one.”
Annie’s stern face softened. She could see the hurt and confusion beneath his petulant scowl.
“Yes, Joel, we are. We are all one family. We all live together in this big stone house and we all have to try and get along. I am everyone’s mother, and Dat is everyone’s father.” She turned to Lydia. “So, Lydia, it wasn’t right to say what you said. And Joel, never refer to any of your brothers or sisters as ‘kids,’ alright?”
He stared at his toes, would not give her the satisfaction of a decent answer. Annie sat beside him, slid an arm around the stone-faced boy, and pulled him close. “Promise me?”
She was shocked when he flung himself into her lap and cried as if his heart would break, which set John into little sputters and then full-fledged howling, too.
Annie’s heart seemed to melt within her. She reached out to include John in the hug, squeezing them tight to her as tears sprang to her own eyes.
“It’s alright,” she murmured, over and over.
She beckoned to Lydia to join their huddle, but she shook her head stubbornly, folding her arms across her chest and watching the display with bitterness glistening in her eyes.
Was ever anything all right, she wondered. She had pronounced these words over and over since the day she married her beloved Dan, but most days there was much more wrong than right. No one could prepare another person for this. It was like walking blindly down a sunlit path, never imagining the obstacles you would meet. Most stepmothers had only a few children, and she’d heard it could be hard, but this?
She thought of her mother’s warning against marrying a man who didn’t feel for her children. But Dan was fine with the children—he always seemed to know just what to say or how to act around them. Annie, on the other hand, constantly doubted that she was saying or doing the right thing. And there was simply not enough of her to go around. Some days she thought the sting of grief and poverty was easier to handle than the feeling of constant failure and inadequacy.
