by Linda Byler
The floorboards creaked as they walked along the aisles, looking at various objects they might need. Ida and Lavina walked behind their parents, careful not to touch the stacks of rope or leather halters, cakes of soap, bags of cornmeal, new buckets and brooms, colorful bolts of fabric.
The proprietor of the store was small and wiry, with a shining bald head that appeared to be varnished like a good hardwood floor. He smiled at Dan and Annie, greeted them with a “Hello, folks,” then turned to Ida and Lavina.
“And how are the girls?”
Ida replied for both of them. “We’re fine, thank you.”
They bought fifty pounds of flour, five pounds of white sugar, coffee, tea, baking powder and soda, a small measure of raisins, and a bag of licorice sticks for the children. Dan talked with the store clerk for a long time after paying for his purchases, discussing the president, the Depression, the state of the political party they agreed with, and what would become of the United States if Mr. Roosevelt didn’t do something.
Annie took the girls out to the spring wagon where they sat waiting obediently, the sun climbing higher with increasing heat.
“Well, if I have a husband, he’s not going to stand around talking to bald-headed English men while I sit in the sun,” Ida announced.
Lavina surprised Annie when she said, “You might never have a husband.”
Even Ida was speechless. Annie turned to find the two black bonnets turned toward each other, with no sound coming from either one.
Finally, Ida lifted a shoulder.
“Well,” she said. “You might not either.”
“Oh. I plan on it, though.”
Annie smiled to herself. It was a very small beginning, but it was one. Lavina was speaking her own mind.
When Dan appeared, he was sober, his expression troubled.
Annie turned to him with questioning eyes, but he shook his head.
“You need rolled oats, right?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Then it’s off to Rohrer’s,” he said, untying the horse, climbing up into the spring wagon, drawing back steadily on the reins till the horse backed against the britchment strap, pushing the spring wagon backwards.
“Komm na,” he called softly, and the horse trotted off easily.
After that ride in the spring wagon, a new friendship began to develop between Ida and Lavina. By the time school started the first week in September, Lavina was like an unplugged drain, or an opened faucet, words that had been buried under sorrow and confusion now flowing freely.
The leaves turned various shades of yellow, orange, and red. It was the time of year when frost lay heavily in the hollows, withering the marigolds and petunias. Every tree was dressed in brilliant finery until a cold, slanting rain sent most of the leaves to the lawn below. The wind blew, wailing in from the north, and sent most of the leaves spinning off and away, so that there weren’t too many to rake and burn at the end of the day.
Eleven children walked to school. Eleven lunchboxes were packed away every morning. Enos and Amos were in eighth grade, so this would be their last year, Annie thought, as she spread butter on eleven slices of bread, folded them, and wrapped them in waxed paper. Eleven sugar cookies and eleven apples. She had taken to baking the sugar cookies to a larger size, as the growing boys were all ravenous by the time they got home.
Every child went to school in bare feet, saving their shoes for the coming cold weather. With the frost on the ground, the calloused soles of their feet were cold, but not uncomfortably so, seeing how the sun warmed the earth before the first recess bell.
Joel and Lydia were in first grade, so that left only three-year-old Rebecca at home with Suvilla and Annie. The house was empty, the footsteps and footprints gone quiet, the shout and murmurs, the banging of doors and clattering of spoons absent, so that Annie said to Suvilla it seemed as if she couldn’t breathe in this quiet air.
“Well, Mam. I for one, am happy to have them out of the way,” she answered.
“Yes, we will get more accomplished, for sure.”
The time of fall housecleaning was upon them, and every good Amish housewife took it seriously. No window could go unwashed, no walls or ceiling, and certainly no floor, left unscrubbed.
They lugged heavy buckets of scalding hot water up the stairs, then the second flight to the attic. Crates and cardboard boxes were pulled out from under the eaves, organized and cleaned, the floor underneath swept and scrubbed with hot lye soap and water. Windows were washed until they seemed polished.
No matter that no one would even set foot in Annie’s attic. The dirt and spiderwebs weighed heavily on her conscience. What if one of them were to pass away and the community would descend on them like so many worker bees, cleaning, moving furniture, preparing the house for a funeral? It was a morbid thought, but it had happened to her once and it could happen again. Of course, if one of them were to die suddenly, the cleanliness of their home would not be forefront in her mind. But still, she always felt better having a clean and tidy house and knowing she was prepared for anything—as much as one can be, anyway.
Bucket after bucket of water was carried up the stairs, until the water turned dark gray with the dust and grime that always clung to the hewn floorboards. They surveyed their accomplishment with satisfaction. Even the sullen Suvilla seemed to find a hint of pleasure in the clean smell of the attic.
“Suvilla, when you have your own house, always remember I taught you how to clean an attic well,” Annie remarked.
“I’ll never have my own house,” she huffed, her face taking on a deep shade of red.
Annie shook her head. “Oh, sure you will.”
That ended the conversation. Suvilla had just joined the group of rumschpringa, and Annie knew she felt self-conscious about it. She was becoming quite a beautiful young woman, but if Suvilla felt humble about her appearance, it was best. Annie did not want a grosfeelich daughter who thought well of her own looks. How was a young girl to be discreet, a keeper at home, loving her husband, if she was puffed up with her own sense of vain glory? If Suvilla despised the breakouts on her skin, so be it. If she had only one Sunday dress and her friends had two or three, it could not be helped. Dan was a wonderful provider, but Annie was not about to waste money on fabric for dresses that the girls didn’t really need.
How well she remembered her own time of rumschpringa, when she felt unworthy of any attention from young men. She was so deeply honored to have Eli Miller take notice of her and found it astounding that he should ask to come visit her that first Sunday evening.
Her wedding day had been every young girl’s dream, and if Eli was less than perfect with the ambition that drove him, the quick temper and frequent needs, well, she wasn’t perfect, either. She just had no idea back then, that any man could be what Dan was. Indeed, her year of grief, the crying for a night, had turned to the joy that came in the morning, just as the Bible promised. God had blessed her through her sorrow, the loss of the barn, so that He could lift her up to the height and strength of Dan’s gentle love.
Even now, as she prepared a hasty lunch of buttered bread and bean soup, she waited eagerly for his step on the porch. He always met her eyes, that slow smile spreading across his kind face, as he asked how her work was coming along. She could trust him, trust that things would never change. His love was a beautiful thing.
She wished the same for Suvilla. She prayed that God would change her sullen nature. Yes, her father had passed away when she was a tender age, but many others went through the dark valley of sorrow. It was up to Suvilla to give herself up to whatever God chose to place before her, and the sooner she started to realize this, the better.
Chapter Nine
THE COLD WAS BECOMING MORE PRONOUNCED, so that shoes were brought out, handed down, or new ones bought. After Thanksgiving, there were coats to sew, mittens to crochet, scarves to knit, so Annie was kept busy simply providing for the children’s needs. But the house cleaning was accomplished n
ow, the yard raked and manure put on the flower beds. The garden lay dormant under a cover crop of fall oats, and the harvest was all down cellar except for the cabbage and carrots.
No one went hungry, with plenty of milk from the cows, cup cheese and cottage cheese, butter and cold buttermilk. There were only enough eggs to sell in the fall of the year, selling for a dollar a dozen, which was phenomenal, according to Dan.
“You keep the egg money for Christmas gifts,” he told Annie.
“Oh, it’s too much,” she said, wide-eyed.
“No, I want you to get each child a nice present. Something special.”
“Ach, well,” was all she could think to say.
“They have all come a long way. None of this was easy for any of them. . . .”
“Except Ida,” Annie reminded him.
“Except Ida,” Dan laughed, shaking his head.
The egg money was put in a small dish on a shelf in the kitchen. All week she felt guilty as she returned from their trips to neighboring homes, pulling the old express wagon with egg boxes placed carefully in a cardboard box. She delivered eggs to the homes of several local English families, knocking on their doors, taking their money in exchange for the fresh eggs.
A dollar a dozen is not right, Annie thought for the hundredth time. The English families were hit by the Depression just as hard, if not harder, than the Amish community. The Amish families knew, at least, that they could turn to each other or to the church if they became desperate. Many of the English families did not have that kind of tight-knit community to support them.
“They don’t have to buy these eggs,” Dan assured her. “They want them, so if they pay a dollar, that’s up to them. We’re only making them available.”
“But I feel as if I’m taking the money they should have to buy Christmas gifts.”
“Ach Annie, now don’t worry. If they want to buy eggs from someone else for less money, they can.”
She had so many dollar bills, she decided to buy the candied fruit, nuts, raisins, and a brandy to make fruit cakes for Christmas. If she could sell a few cakes, it would make her feel better, as if she had at least earned the money that kept piling up in the dish.
The first snow arrived on the tenth of December, whirling hard little bits of ice on an Arctic wind that took her breath away that morning on her way to the barn for a jug of milk. She drew her scarf across her face, shivered, and slammed the milk house door. She stopped and held very still. From the cow stable came the sound of many voices, rising and falling, punctuated by ripples of laughter, a few lines of a silly song, carried along by the moist, acrid air that hung over a cow stable on a winter morning. She felt the rise of emotion in her throat. She walked toward the stable, a quick wave of gratitude formed the beginning of tears. Thank you, Father.
Here were her children and his children—Suvilla, Ephraim, Enos and Ida, Amos and Lavina—milking cows, forking hay, working together and seemingly having the time of their life.
“Hey, get over there, you dumb cow!”
“Watch it!”
She heard a clunking sound and knew a cow had placed a well-aimed kick and sent the bucket flying. Annie poked her head around the door to see a disgruntled Ephraim sprawled on his backside, with Ida standing in the aisle bent double slapping her knees with pure glee.
“There’s manure on your pants!” she shrieked.
Suvilla poked her head out from between two cows, ready to restore order, then spied Ephraim and burst out laughing.
Annie backed away without having been noticed and made her way to the house through the whirling white snow.
Christmas was in the air with that first snowfall, so fruitcake making began in earnest. She had learned the art from her sister, the mixing, baking with a pan of water in the oven, the finished product wrapped and set in the pantry until the spices blended perfectly with the fruit and nuts. The children cracked walnuts and hickory nuts in the evening, and Annie stored them in glass jars. They would be used for cookies and cake throughout the year. Everything that grew on trees or in the garden was stored away. Chestnuts were roasted and eaten around the kitchen stove in the evening, although the children weren’t allowed to eat all they wanted. Chestnuts could produce a stomachache.
There were two turkeys left in the barnyard, strutting around with their heads tucked in, their long beards wobbling across their puffed out chests. Joel and the two Emmas teased them with broomsticks, then ran howling in fear when one of them charged, the tail spread like a huge white fan, the pink eyes baleful.
Ida said if they didn’t quit that they weren’t going to be allowed to have roasht at the Christmas dinner, but they didn’t care. That is, until one afternoon a disgruntled goose chose to protect his barnyard friends and hissed in the farthest corner of the fence, while the broomstick was making its rounds. The children took no notice, until the wings were spread, the long neck was lowered to a few inches above the ground, the wide yellow feet propelled the powerful body, and Joel was attacked with all the force of a twenty-pound, very aggravated goose. The strong yellow beak latched onto two of his fingers, the young bones snapping like twigs, producing a yell of mammoth proportion.
“Ow! Ow!” he screamed, clutching the injured hand with the other. The two Emmas took one look and ran on their skinny legs until they reached the fence, scrambled up and over, falling down the other side, to turn and peer between the boards with horrified eyes.
“Is he dead?” Emma Two whispered.
“Not yet,” Emma One hissed back.
His yells of pain and outrage brought Dan to the cow stable door, then running to his son who was clearly in mortal pain. Joel was taken to Doctor Hess in New Holland, sniffling beside his father on the buggy seat, every bump in the road causing more discomfort. The doctor set the two fingers, taped them to a wooden splint, and told him to stay away from the geese in the barnyard. He charged Dan nothing, saying he’d pick up a bag of potatoes when he was in the area. Dan was grateful, thanked the kind doctor with a handshake, and led his chastened son back to the buggy.
As the horse clopped along through the wintry landscape, Dan looked down at Joel and asked if he thought they should put the two geese into roasht for Christmas dinner instead of the turkeys. Joel nodded solemnly.
They dressed in their best everyday clothes, Dan wearing his black Sunday hat. Annie had her heavy shawl pinned over a winter coat, and she wore two pairs of stockings and her rubber boots pulled on over her sturdy black shoes. The day was cold and bright, the sun’s rays turning the snowy landscape into a blinding white world capped by a dome of blue. The horse trotted eagerly, the harness stirring up little puffs of dust as it jiggled on the horse’s winter coat, thick and coarse.
Annie sat contentedly, leaning against her husband’s solid strength, tucked into the buggy with a heavy lap robe, watching the winter scenery through the glass window. She had money to buy Christmas gifts, and found it almost unbelievable. Dan assured her that the children deserved this, every one, and it was not wrong in God’s eyes to give gifts that brought joy to a child’s face.
Annie nodded, but couldn’t seem to silence her mother’s disapproving voice in her head. But Dan was her husband, and he was the one she would honor and obey. Obeying him was the easiest task ever, the way he was so gentle and easygoing, so thoughtful of her. And so she tried her best to enjoy the day, to stop the feelings of guilt, that voice in her head that swam around like a repetitive goldfish, gurgling No, no, no, you shouldn’t, you can’t, no, no no, it isn’t right, it isn’t right.
She chuckled to herself, hadn’t realized she made a sound till her husband smiled, looked down at her.
“What?” he asked, his eyes already crinkling in the corners.
“Nothing.”
“It was something.”
“Just thinking what my mother would say about this Christmas shopping.”
“Didn’t she buy Christmas gifts?”
“No.”
“Not at
all?”
“Oh no. Gifts are not necessary except giving up our own will to the Christ child.”
His eyebrows went up, then lowered.
“Well, I suppose everyone is entitled to their own opinion. But for me, Christmas is a special time, especially for the children. And this year . . .”
Annie looked at him with a question in her eyes, amazed to find his mouth working to keep his emotion in check. For a long moment, silence filled the buggy.
Then he spoke. “Annie, you and the children are my Christmas gift this year. I am blessed far beyond anything I have ever imagined. You are so good, so beautiful, so . . . well, friendly and sweet. I have the best wife in the whole of Lancaster County.”
She raised her eyes to his, her heart and soul drinking in every word.
“Thank you,” she whispered brokenly.
How often she was weary, discouraged. How many nights did she fight the feeling of unworthiness before an uneasy slumber overtook her, only to awaken to the beating of her own heart, a staccato sound of primal fear of failure. But if this was how her husband felt, then this was what she would use to keep those moments at bay. His love was priceless, pillars that would support her forever.
They bought a new scarf and gloves for Sammy, both made of gray wool that would look sharp with his black coat and hat as he drove his spirited horse in the courting buggy. Dan said he often wished he could have known her when she was young, courted her the way Sammy would court a young lady soon.
For Suvilla there were four yards of red fabric to turn into a new Sunday dress and a handkerchief to match. “It’s too much,” Annie breathed, but Dan assured her that it would be good for Suvilla to having something new to wear, that a boost of confidence might draw her out of her dark mood.
Enos, Amos, and Ephraim would each receive a slingshot made from sturdy wood and rubber, along with a pair of wool socks to keep their feet warm when they skated on the pond. Dan said he’d probably regret buying those slingshots, but he knew they would be pleased.
