by Tamar Myers
“Don’t worry, dear. We were not all lucky enough to be full-blooded Yankees. Please tell me about your grandmother who was a Hostetler.”
“I’m afraid there isn’t much to tell. She died before I was born, and Daddy never liked to talk about her— well, anyway, all I really know is that she was from up here someplace. When I saw the ad in Condonest Travels I thought this festival of yours would be the perfect opportunity for me to explore my roots.”
“But you were too embarrassed to reveal your connection, am I right?”
“Guilty as charged, Miss Yoder.” She hung her well-groomed head in shame.
I tried not to see red. It is, after all, the color of harlots. There is nothing wrong with Yankee blood, except when it recycles too often within the same circles. The exact thing, I’ve heard, happens some places in the South.
“How about you, Miss Mukai? Do you have local ancestors lurking in your family tree?” It was a long shot, I know, but I seem to hit my targets easier when I can’t see them. And now that I’d already lost the bet with Doc, I had nothing to lose by her answer.
“I am afraid I do not understand the question.”
“Are you somehow related to the Hostetler family, or any of its spelling variations?”
Thanks to the rearview mirror, I could see that my Japanese guest looked like she’d bolt from the car at any second. I pressed the pedal to the metal. With Melvin off doing who-knows-what, and Zelda taking the day off to practice idolatry, who was there to cite me for speeding?
“Miss Yoder,” Terri said, after it was clear there would be no escape, “in my country it is best to be one hundred percent Japanese.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, dear. Do I call you cousin, or not?”
She squirmed. “Yes, I have this Hostetler blood.”
“You don’t say!”
Capers patted her companion’s arm. “Darling, was your grandfather a GI?”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” I said on Terri’s behalf. “Mennonites don’t go to war.”
Terri shook her lovely black hair. “Oh, but he was a soldier. However, he was not a Mennonite, but of the Amish faith.”
I pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Why, that’s just ridiculous. The Amish don’t go to war either.”
“That is true, Miss Yoder, but my grandfather left his people to join the American army. He believed it was not right for others to die in his defense, if he was not willing to help protect his country.”
“He fought against Japan?”
“Yes. He was also part of the occupying force after the war. That is how my grandmother met him. When he was released from duty my grandfather remained in Kakogawa and taught English.”
“So that’s why you speak such lovely English,” Capers cooed in her inimitable style. The next time I served squab, I would think of her.
“Yes, Capers, although I do not think my English is so hot—that is the word, am I right? It is my mother who speaks excellent English. I do not think you would tell the difference between her and Miss Yoder, although perhaps my mother is more gentle in her manner.” “Miss Mukai,” I said irritably, “can we get back to the part about your grandfather being a Hostetler? Was he from this part of the state?”
She shrugged. “It was a place called Homes County.”
“There isn’t any Homes County—ah, Holmes County. That’s in Ohio.”
“But there are many Amish there, yes?”
“More than anywhere else in the world. Did he tell you any interesting stories?”
“Oh yes, Miss Yoder. He told me about the Indians who killed his grandmother of many generations. They stabbed her in the back and took her hair—I cannot remember the word for such a thing.”
“Scalped, dear.”
Capers patted her new friend’s arm again. “Aren’t these family legends fun?”
“Oh, but this is no legend,” I assured her. “The Hostetler—only it was Hochstetler back then—family was attacked by the Delaware during the French and Indian War.”
Terri cocked her head. “Were you there, Miss Yoder?”
“Not hardly, dear. It happened in the 1750s.”
Capers winked at me. “I read someplace that the elderly are respected in Japan.”
I glared at Capers. “I doubt if even in Japan folks live to be two hundred and fifty years old.”
“I did not mean to offend, Miss Yoder. Like Capers, I too have come to Hernia to learn my family’s history.”
I was at a loss as to how to proceed. I couldn’t very well ask the women what they knew about a buried treasure and expect an honest answer. But I could create a legend of my own that would be too enticing for them not to pursue.
“Ladies, I’m sure you have both heard about the family treasure.” I paused just long enough to be interrupted which, alas, I wasn’t. “Personally, I think the legend is a bunch of hooey. And I ought to know. The treasure is really a large parcel of land in Switzerland, but the deed is supposed to be buried somewhere on my farm. When I was a little girl I must have dug up every square inch—except for under that pile of haufa mischt.”
“What’s haufa mischt?” Capers asked.
“Horse manure,” Terri whispered.
I glanced at the girl through the rearview mirror, but already she was gazing out the window, looking every bit as composed as a geisha. Since I do indeed have a hefty pile of road apples, as the locals call them, to turn under the soil before the winter rains begin, I decided to carry my little deception one step further. And bear with me, please. Deceiving a murderer—and now that I knew both women had a local connection, they were as guilty or innocent as anyone else in the community—is not a sin. The sort of lying the Ten Commandments warned us about, concerns false testimony against neighbors, not against a pile of haufa mischt. Au contraire, the haufa mischt was in the middle of a clover field, and Psalm 23 says quite clearly the Good Lord Himself tells us to “Lie... in green pastures.”
“I keep a pitchfork hanging on the wall just inside the barn,” I said. “Along with my other tools. I keep meaning to turn all that potential fertilizer under so it can decompose, but something always comes up. Perhaps when I get around to doing my chores I’ll find the deed to that Swiss property. Wouldn’t that be ironic?” I laughed pleasantly. “The key to a billion dollars hidden beneath a dung heap.”
“Miss Yoder,” Capers said the second I closed my yap, “I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s only five minutes to three, and that’s when the pig chase is supposed to start.”
I responded by giving the ladies a taste of what Hermans are capable of, should they decide to really hustle. When we arrived at the stadium Terri was the hue of seaweed and Capers the color of cottage cheese. Together they averaged out to a nice mint green, just the shade I planned to paint my bedroom someday.
Of course I got them to the stadium on time. Never mind that they had to sit in the car until they stopped shaking before attempting to climb the bleachers. I had no problem vaulting up the steps to the announcer’s box. The problem waited for me at the top.
“Well, folks, if it isn’t our most illustrious citizen, Magdalena Yoder. Now that she’s here I guess we can start.”
There were a few guffaws and a smattering of applause before I got the crowd under control with a glare that would have shriveled Attila the Him. Then I glared at Lodema Schrock, my pastor’s wife. The woman was totally unqualified to announce a pig chase. The only reason we’d picked her to do the job is that stadium’s sound system is notoriously unreliable, and Lodema has a voice capable of waking the dead three counties over.
Reverend Schrock’s wife is meaner than Attila and was unaffected by my glare. “Today we have twenty- three contestants—unless Magdalena wants to enter the competition instead of awarding the prize. If so, you’ll be chasing the pigs, right Magdalena?”
“Don’t push your luck,” I growled.
The preacher’s pesky partner seemed oblivious to the fact that I
donate more money to our church than anyone else. “Folks, she just said she’d enter. How about a round of applause for Magdalena Portulacca Yoder, pig chaser extraordinaire?” Not a soul dared clap, but Lodema dared push me further. “Oops, I just remembered. She can’t be chasing pigs; she’s engaged to a man of the Hebrew faith. Pork is forbidden in that religion, isn’t it, Magdalena?”
I snatched the microphone out of her sweaty little hand. “For your information, Dr. Rosen’s religion is the same one Jesus practiced. And Jesus, by the way, chased a whole lot of pigs.”
“He most certainly did not!” Like I said, the woman didn’t need amplification.
“Perhaps you should read your Bible, dear. In the Gospel of Mark, chapter five, Jesus chased two thousand pigs into the Sea of Galilee.”
“Jesus didn’t chase those pigs. They were possessed by demons.”
“Which Jesus chased from a man. It’s all the same.”
“Are you trying to rewrite the Bible, Magdalena?” The crowd gasped in unison. A hunch from a woman might be worth two facts from a man, but heresy from a woman—well, that was practically unheard of in Hernia. I was going to have to dance (and I mean that metaphorically) fast to save my reputation.
“Not only will I chase those pigs, Lodema, I’m going to win this contest. And I’m going to donate the prize money to the Hernia Widows and Orphans Fund.”
“We don’t have a Widows and Orphans Fund.”
I fished in my otherwise empty bra for a handful of twenty-dollar bills. “We do now.”
The crowd roared its approval.
Perhaps I’ve never been a people pleaser, but it’s never too late to start. I thrust my hand into the other cup. Alas, my desperate digits encountered nothing but air. Not wanting to disappoint my fans, I held up my purse. It doesn’t contain cash, since a bag can be snatched, but it does contain my checkbook.
“And I’ll write a check for a thousand bucks as soon as this contest is over.”
“Write it now,” Lodema shouted.
The crowd cheered its support.
I whipped out my checkbook. “I’m sure Lodema will be happy to match this donation.”
“How dare you?” she whispered. “You’ll pay for this, you know.” She raised her voice a zillion decibels. “I’m only a poor pastor’s wife. You’re on the church board. You know how much money my husband makes. We can barely afford to put bread on our table.”
“Then why not eat cake?”
Please believe me, those were not my words. Okay, so maybe they were. But there were other words interspersed between them. Lots of other words. You see, the school’s notorious sound system sided with Lodema and refused to amplify most of what I said, broadcasting only the offending words. Of course that didn’t stop the crowd from turning on me. I even heard boos from the Who’s Who of Hernia society.
“Shame on you,” Herman Middledorf yelled. Because the man is the school principal, he was in the box with us. You can bet the P.A. system cooperated then.
“Yoder, you should apologize to the preacher’s wife.” The directive came from Wanda Hemphopple, owner of the Sausage Barn out by the turnpike. She’s kin to Lodema, and her lungs are the envy of scuba divers.
Lodema Schrock looked like she’d won the lottery. “What do you have to say now, Magdalena?”
I shoved a fist in my mouth in order to prevent a foot from going in. One can choke on size elevens.
17
Pig chase rules are very simple, but Lodema still botched them. Herman Middledorf had to explain everything to the crowd a second time, in his principal voice, which made the contest seem more like a punishment than a fun-filled event.
“There are now twenty-four contestants, and fifty pigs. When I fire the starter gun, the pigs will be released from that covered holding pen over there. The contestants must wait until they hear the gun before they can cross the ten-yard line—for those of you who don’t bother to come and support our games, that’s the third white line you see in front of the north goal.”
Although his less-than-rapier wit drew only a few laughs—probably all from teachers—the principal beamed. In fact, he stood there so long, beaming silently, that I envisioned a new career for him. Herman Middledorf could be the world’s first human lighthouse.
“Move it along, dear,” I said kindly, when his audience began buzzing with impatience. “I, for one, don’t have all day.”
Herman cleared his throat loudly into the microphone in order to silence the throng. Since many of them had, at one time or another, been his students, most obeyed.
“There are two objectives in this pig chase. The first is to be the one who catches the first pig. The contestant who does that gets a hundred bonus points. The second objective is for the contestants to catch as many pigs as possible. And each pig is worth fifty points. When he or she has caught a pig, the contestant will carry it back to the holding pen—the gates will be closed again, although the cover will have been removed. The contestants are to lift their pigs over the sides of the pen and deposit them gently on the ground.”
The crowd howled with laughter at this image, but I cringed. The term “pig” generally refers to younger swine, those not yet ready for the market, but even these can still weigh well over a hundred pounds. The last time I tried to lift something that weighed that much, I did not deposit it gently on the ground. Just ask my ex-pseudohusband, Aaron. He claims to have suffered from back pain the rest of our honeymoon.
Herman, energized by the crowd’s response, resumed his lecture with vigor. “Coach Neidenmeir will keep track of each person’s tally. When all the pigs have been caught and returned to the pen, the one with the highest score wins.” He paused. “Oh, did I mention that the pigs just happen to be greased?”
By now the crowd had grown too impatient to give anything back. “Start the chase, start the chase, start the chase...”
“You better get down to the starting line,” Lodema hissed. “You don’t want to miss this chance to play with pigs.”
I shot her a new look I’d recently learned from Alison and then hustled my bustle down the bleachers to take my place at the far end of the starting line. The contestants were much friendlier than the spectators, and for good reason. I was, after all, no competition. The others were all high school and college kids—well, except for Zelda Root and Chuck Norton.
Zelda and I didn’t exchange words because she was in the middle of the lineup, busily tying her shoes. I was dumbstruck yet pleased to see that she was wearing high-heeled platform shoes that laced up her sinewy calves, almost all the way up to her much-abbreviated skirt. But the second the cat let go of my tongue, I had a question for Chuck.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
His broad freckled face widened even more as he grinned. “Howdy, Miss Yoder. Thought I’d have me a little fun this afternoon. Being a farmer, I’ve had me some experience chasing pigs.”
I glanced at his trademark overalls. “No doubt you have. Where’s your lovely wife? Doesn’t she want to try her hand at catching a pig or two?”
“Nah. Bibi had her some shopping to do.”
“You old farts need any help?” an impertinent youth yelled down the line at us. I recognized the voice as be-longing to Jimmy Mast, Alison’s recent beau—the one she’d decided she hated.
Of course, all the young contestants thought Jimmy’s remark was hilarious and whooped it up like a flock of cranes. Even Chuck chuckled. So as not to be seen as the elderly flatulence I’d just been accused of being, I forced my lips into a lopsided grin.
“It might be you needing the help, Jimmy Mast. One of my great-grandpas was struck by lightning one day when he was feeding his hogs. Fell right into the pen. By the time my great-grandma found him, the hogs had eaten away his face and one of his ears.”
“Ooh, gross!” A teenage contestant by the name of Brandy bolted for the safety of the stands.
“She’s just putting us on,” Jimmy yelled, but the girl
ignored him.
“She’s talking smack,” a boy said. His accent identified him as Lenny Coldiron, a recent emigrant from the big city with no farming connections.
“Actually, she’s got a point,” Chuck said, much to my surprise. “Them animals can be dangerous. Especially if they’re scared. I once seen a—”
“Take your marks,” Herman hollered, and held the gun aloft. The P.A. system was working just fine at the moment, by the way. When Herman finally fired the pistol—I’m convinced he was torturing us in the interim—the amplified explosion sounded like one of the cannons in the Overture of 1812. It’s a wonder I was the only one who screamed.
At least I wasn’t the only one who stayed put. No one, not even Chuck, put as much as one toe over the line until Coach Neidenmeir opened the gates. Even then only a few of the older boys inched cautiously forward. Jimmy Mast was not among them.
“Here them pigs come,” Chuck said. “You better brace yourself, Miss Yoder. Them porkers can weigh a fair amount.”
The brave boys stepped back in unison.
I steeled myself for the onslaught of swine. Although the gates to the pen had been flung open, I didn’t see any pigs. Finally Coach Neidenmeir tore the canvas top off the pen. A split second later the crowd exploded with laughter.
“Why, them aren’t nothing but farrow pigs.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Baby pigs. Just look at them.”
I looked. Even though I always ate my veggies, especially carrots, I must have been the last person in the stadium to see the small swine. Finally I got my peepers to focus that far.
Chuck was right. They were no bigger than large house cats. Spotted things that didn’t even come up to my knees. They clustered nervously, unwilling, or un-able, to face their would-be captors.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
No sooner were those words uttered than the unexpected happened. Coach Neidenmeir, using a push broom, literally swept the piglets out into the open stadium. Once in the open and separated from their litter mates, the little ones panicked and darted, squealing, in fifty directions.
