by Linda Byler
Lizzie set her mouth determinedly, waiting for a lull in the conversation. “Do … do you suppose you could take me home before the storm arrives?” she asked loudly. I said it too loudly, she thought. Now they won’t take me home for sure.
Lawrence looked at her, considering her request before shaking his head. He raised his eyebrows at Amanda and said, “We really need you until Saturday afternoon. No use worrying about getting home before the storm gets here.”
So that was that. Lizzie spent a long evening trying not to think dismal thoughts. She wished with all her heart Lawrence would change his mind after the snow began to fall in earnest, but she knew there wasn’t much hope. She wondered if it was all right to ask God to wait to let it snow until she got home.
That evening she knelt beside her bed, her knees on the braided rug and her bare feet on the cold wooden bedroom floor. Lizzie prayed as urgently as she had ever prayed in her young life. She felt like Emma, but she was so desperate to be with her family, that this time she wasn’t self-conscious about being on her knees. She begged God to get her home safely, and please, please not to make her stay for another week without seeing Dat, Mam, Emma, and Mandy.
But who knew if praying really made a difference? Emma believed it did. She always had, even when they were still poor and Dat wanted to move to the worst ramshackle farm ever. Back then, Lizzie had tried to pray for help even though she was barely 10. How could God resist a 10-year-old’s prayers?
She remembered lying awake, listening to Mam and Dat talk way into the night. Dat’s voice would rise, followed by a soft murmur from Mam, until her voice would yank Lizzie to reality again as she talked fast and loud, almost as if she could cry at any moment. It had been quite an ordeal, listening to their conversation. Dat had bought an expensive piece of equipment from a salesman, which Mam felt they could not afford. Lizzie knew they were poor, but she didn’t know it was as bad as Mam said.
The thing that struck terror in Lizzie’s heart, that caused her to lie awake deep into the warm night, was when Mam said she just didn’t see how they could hang on any longer. Dat had answered Mam in the most awful, loud voice, stomped across the living room, and went out on the porch, the door slamming behind him. Lizzie thought she would surely die when she heard Mam crying softly, sighing, and blowing her nose. She thought of crawling out of bed to get on her knees to ask God to please come help them all. Dat and Mam didn’t know what to do because they had so many bills and no money.
But that would have made her feel too dumb, so she didn’t. She did turn on her back and clasp her hands over her chest and think a loud thought to God, asking him to help Dat and Mam. Later she thought maybe Jesus would have heard her better, because he was much smaller and not nearly as fierce-looking. He didn’t look one bit scary, except he wore a long, white dress, which was very strange. So Lizzie thought the same thought, except this time she directed it to Jesus.
She felt strangely quiet and not so scared after that. Maybe it was because the light went out in the living room, and Dat and Mam went to bed. Or maybe it was really that God had heard her, or Jesus. She was pretty sure that one of them had because she felt so much better.
The next morning when they were getting dressed, Lizzie had turned to Emma.
“Emma, did you go to sleep early last night? I mean, as soon as we went to bed?” Lizzie asked hesitantly.
“Why?”
“Did you hear Mam and Dat argue last night?”
“Were they arguing?”
“Well, yes, Emma. Really bad. Mam was crying. Emma, we’re so poor that we can barely hang on here, whatever that means.”
Emma sighed.
“Emma, who hears prayers the best, God or Jesus?” Lizzie asked, very suddenly.
“They both do the same,” Emma said firmly.
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I just know.”
“Does God hear it better if you go on your knees or not?”
“You have to ask Mam that. You should pray on your knees, though. I mean, everyone does in church,” Emma had said.
Now here she was, on her knees with Lawrence and Amanda’s children giggling and jumping on the bed in the adjoining room. But Lizzie barely heard them, she was so engrossed in wondering if God was hearing her prayer and would answer somehow. She certainly knew from experience that you couldn’t just pray for a million dollars, or to be really thin, and have God promptly answer your prayer, even if you got on your knees in the middle of a freezing cold, upstairs bedroom.
But she had a faint glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, this request was not too selfish or ridiculous. She hadn’t really stated specifically or exactly how she wanted to get home, or how much she wanted it not to snow. She didn’t understand very well how God thought, but then, she wasn’t sure she was supposed to. Mam said God was her Master, so she guessed that explained a lot.
The following morning the cold tingled Lizzie’s nose until she snapped awake, alert in an instant, the knowledge of her predicament crowding out the warm fuzzy comfort of sleep.
She leaped to her feet, throwing back the heavy covers, and tiptoed to the window. Sure enough, exactly as she had feared, tiny pellets of wind-driven snow whirled past the old farmhouse, covering the fields, roads, and everything in their path.
Her heart sank as she put both hands to her mouth and thought another silent prayer. Please, God, just get me home. I don’t want to stay here on Sunday. She wondered how many days it would take to dig out from two feet of snow. Why did God allow this snowstorm? Didn’t he know she was stuck in Dunnville? Did he even care?
Biting her lip, she grimly resolved to take the day with whatever it brought and to do the best she could. She could not be a big 16-year-old baby, crying because she had to stay a few extra days.
It was a long day. The children were more noisy and active than usual, making Lizzie extremely tense and nervous. There was not one single lull in the storm all day. Every time Lizzie looked out the window, the same swirling whiteness beneath a grayish sky loomed overhead.
Lawrence and Amanda loved the snow, teasing Lizzie relentlessly about staying over on Sunday. They thought the snow was fun and exciting, so Lizzie tried to hide her feelings of desperation. Oh, how she longed to go home!
Chapter 28
THE FOLLOWING MORNING THE snow measured almost 20 inches deep. Snowplows inched their way along the township roads. Lawrence announced at breakfast that he couldn’t risk taking Lizzie home that day since it was still snowing.
Without thinking or even caring, but desperately longing to be at home, Lizzie blurted out, “Well, I want to go home very badly. I miss my family, so maybe if you won’t take me, you could think of someone who will.”
Lawrence looked startled at her unexpected outburst. Amanda was immediately sympathetic when she saw how upset and close to tears Lizzie was. “Why, of course, Lawrence, your brother Philip would enjoy the challenge of driving in this snow, wouldn’t he?”
Lizzie blinked back tears of genuine relief and gratitude. She felt like jumping up and hugging Amanda, wanting to shout and leap high enough to touch the ceiling in her pure, unrestrained joy. When Lawrence went to the telephone, then turned to tell her that Philip would be there at one o’clock that afternoon, she thanked him with her whole heart.
Lawrence pushed the snow off the steep driveway with his tractor and at a few minutes past one, sure enough—oh, unbelievable sight—a four-wheel-drive pickup came bouncing up to the house. There were wings on Lizzie’s feet as she sprang to the truck, waving good-bye to Amanda and the children. Then she was on her way through a white, white world as pure and crystal-clear as her joy. She was going home! Philip was a good driver, so Lizzie wasn’t afraid. But she did keep pushing her feet against the carpeted floor, trying in spite of herself to make the truck go faster.
When he turned onto their road, Philip looked over and said, “You won’t get there any faster leaning forward like that.”
Li
zzie laughed, sat back, and tried to relax. Then—oh, happy day—she was running up the sidewalk, up the porch steps, and through the kitchen door, dropping her suitcase and greeting everyone at once.
The house smelled wonderful. Mam’s Saturday baking was cooling on the countertop—apple and blueberry pies with crumb toppings, a fresh batch of cupcakes with caramel frosting, and, her favorite, molasses cookies.
Emma was cleaning the upstairs, but she came running to meet Lizzie. Everyone talked at once, and no one listened to what anyone else was saying.
The evening wrapped around Lizzie’s heart like a soft warm blanket, etching itself forever in golden letters in her memory. Welcoming love enveloped her, soft and secure, topped off with all kinds of pretty things wrapped in beautiful birthday paper and finished with bows on top.
Emma gave her soft, rippled, robin’s-egg blue dress material and a small chest to keep her little treasures safe. Mam and Dat gave her a piece of navy blue fabric and two beautiful pillar candles with artificial flower rings to arrange around their bases. Mandy’s present was a new scarf and gloves with a white bandanna to wear when she went skating. Jason even gave her a small package containing two pairs of warm, woolly knee socks. The twins helped Lizzie open her packages while Dat looked on, his blue eyes beaming at her.
When Mam served the birthday cake and ice cream and everyone sang, “Happy Birthday,” Lizzie’s eyes shone with happiness and some other emotion that seemed to make her eyes produce tears. She wondered if it was possible to be so genuinely happy that you cried for no reason at all.
Chapter 29
AFTER HER BIRTHDAY, LIZZIE went back to spend one more week with the family in Dunnville. And then she stayed home for a week so she could have intensive lessons in learning to make her own dresses, capes, and aprons. It was time, now that was 16.
Emma was already sewing most everything, including coverings for the whole family, which at 17 years of age was no easy feat. She was naturally an accomplished seamstress, taking her time and measuring carefully, while constantly whistling under her breath. She was never happier than when she sat at the sewing machine after she had finished all the cleaning. It was her reward. That was just how Emma was.
Lizzie used to envy Emma’s ability to sew, embroider, and crochet, but she never had the patience to sit still with hand-sewing like Emma did. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried, especially embroidering. Mam loved to buy cute iron-on transfers of little houses or animals for the girls to cross-stitch. Even Mandy sat patiently still as she learned how to tie a knot at the end of thread, how to thread a needle, and how to separate the strands of embroidery floss. But Lizzie got tired very quickly.
Lizzie knew that this time Mam wouldn’t let her escape sewing lessons, even though she had so long dreaded and detested every part of it. Lizzie had tried many times to use their treadle sewing machine, halfheartedly teaching herself until the fabric got all bunched up on the wrong side of the presser foot. Lizzie’s left-handedness was a real hurdle. The seam she was trying to sew should have been to the right, while the large piece of fabric she was sewing should have been to the left on the sewing machine’s flat surface.
But for Lizzie, everything was exactly opposite. She needed to stuff all the fabric under the machine itself, which meant she couldn’t see well. Inevitably, she sewed the seam crooked. Of course she disliked any sewing project. And until she was 16, she refused to trouble herself with the thought that someday she would need to learn how to sew. Unfortunately, Lizzie often thought, you couldn’t just walk into a store and buy Amish women’s clothes.
The happiness she felt from having completed two weeks in Dunnville spread its warm glow through her heart for quite a while. She was so glad to be at home and so happy to sleep with Mandy in their bed. They giggled and read books by the light of the kerosene lamp, which they perched precariously over their mattress. Sometimes they tiptoed to the kitchen for bologna and cheese sandwiches, along with some lemonade, taking the goodies back to their room for a late-night picnic on the floor.
These days Lizzie was happy to hang out the family’s laundry, even whistling under her breath sometimes, which actually alarmed her. Had she picked up Emma’s annoying habit without even trying? She worked as fast as she possibly could because the frigid air soon numbed her fingers. She rapidly picked up the clothes and clipped them onto the wash line with wooden clothespins.
Then she scuttled back to the protection of the old washhouse, which wasn’t much, but the hot water felt good to her hands as she lifted the clothing out of the washer tub and put the soaking laundry through the wringer piece by piece. The air motor hummed at her feet. As steam rose to envelop her face, her soft whistle turned full-fledged and shrill. It was wonderful to be home and using Mam’s wringer washer in the tumbledown old washhouse. She must be growing up, she realized. She used to despise Monday mornings.
She had first learned to do the family wash when she was 10 and Emma was 11. First they had sorted mountains of laundry from a big plastic hamper packed full of dirty clothes. A hose hung in the white Maytag wringer washer with steaming hot water pouring out of it. They had pushed the granite rinse tub up against the washer, ready to fill it with rinse water.
The washing machine was powered by a small gas engine, which Dat would start for them when they were ready. They were too small either to fill the engine with gasoline or to try to start it. Lizzie always made sure she was close when Dat poured gasoline into the engine because she loved the smell of it.
Everything seemed to be going fine the first time Lizzie and Emma did the washing on their own, until Emma suddenly howled in despair. She had reached into the fast-moving water, only to grab a big blob of tightly knotted diapers. Water sloshed over the side of the washing machine as she dropped the knotted clump back in.
“Lizzie!” Emma yelled at the top of her voice so her sister could hear her over the “putta-putta-putt” of the gas engine. “Go get Mam!”
Lizzie cast one wild-eyed look at the water slopping out of the washer and dashed madly out the door and up the steps to the kitchen. She burst into the house, shouting, “Mam!”
Mam looked up from cleaning the stovetop, an alarmed expression on her face. “Lizzie, whatever is wrong with you?” she asked, turning pale.
“Come quick! Water is slopping out over the sides of the washing machine and the diapers are so wrapped up in each other that they’re as hard as a stick,” Lizzie panted.
Mam followed her down the stairs, scolding as she went. “Lizzie, you have to stop leaving the diapers in so long. I have often told Emma that. What were you doing?”
They came to the washhouse where Emma stood wringing her hands, despair on her face. She looked relieved to see Mam and burst out, “Mam, the diapers are knotted so tight it isn’t even funny!”
Mam pinched her mouth, pulled up her sleeve with one hand, and plunged the other into the washer. She came up with a mass of very white, very knotted diapers, which she proceeded to pull apart with strong hands, objecting loudly as she did so.
“Emma, where were you and Lizzie? You know you can’t let these diapers wash for so long! Ach, I should just wash by myself, I guess. You girls mustn’t be old enough yet.” Mam twisted and pulled on the hard knot of diapers, dropping them back into the swirling, sudsy water as she loosened each one. Emma stood beside her, watching with a bewildered expression.
“Well, Mam, I can’t understand why they knotted like that. Me and Lizzie were just sitting on the steps talking for a little while.”
“Just be careful. You have to mind your business when you wash.” Mam wiped her hands on her apron, watching as Emma put the diapers through the wringer, which pressed out the water from the diapers and then deposited them into the blue rinse water.
Mam turned to go but paused again to watch Emma rinsing them. “Be sure and rinse them thoroughly. The last time you washed, the diapers were as stiff as a board.”
That did it. Lizzie decided she didn
’t like Mam that morning. Who felt like washing now? Maybe the last time the diapers were stiff and not rinsed very well, but they weren’t as stiff as a board. Mam stretched stuff. Lizzie supposed that’s where she got it. At least Emma claimed Lizzie did, too—stretch the truth that is, not rinse the diapers.
These days, Lizzie didn’t mind doing the laundry as much, even when it was bitterly cold. She lugged the wicker clothes basket filled with wet clothes out to the wash line and then used wooden clothes pins to hang the snowy white, sweet-smelling shirts. They blew straight out and away from her on the sharp winter breeze, flapping quietly as Emma hung each one up.
Things were better at home since Lizzie returned from Dunnville. No one mentioned Don Albert anymore. Lizzie thought about him less, too, now that she was 16 and would soon be running around with Emma on the weekends.
After she had hung the final load of laundry on the line, she swept the last of the water across the old wooden floor, washing out the wringer washer and rinse tubs well. Banging the wooden washhouse door, she ran down the steps and dashed into the kitchen, drawn by the rich aroma of freshly baked molasses cookies.
Ever since Lizzie was a small child, Mam’s molasses cookies were her favorite. Mam made them large and perfectly round, not too high but not flat, with little ditches across the top that she sprinkled with sugar. The cookies were perfect for dunking in hot chocolate. You could soak them real well without having them crumble and fall apart. And these didn’t sink to the bottom like some did while you raced to the kitchen cabinet drawer for a spoon to save your drowning cookie. When that happened, the worst part was having ruined a perfectly good cup of hot chocolate. It never tasted quite the same when drowned cookie crumbs floated across its surface.
