MEN OF LANCASTER COUNTY 01: The Amish Groom

by Mindy Starns Clark

  “You have no idea how awesome this is. I mean, it looks pretty banged up on the outside, but on the inside…Aw, man, I’m so jealous.”

  “I take it this one is not a piece a junk?”

  “Are you kidding? A lot of photographers consider this particular model to be one of the best cameras ever made. The thing’s a tank, man. I mean, sure, if it were mine and I had the money, I might get the prism resilvered, and maybe do a whole cosmetic makeover. But even without all of that, this is a true find. A real treasure. I can’t believe your dad had it tucked away in a cabinet.”

  “Is it valuable?”

  “Uh, yeah. Are you kidding me?”

  “Then I have a feeling it belongs to Liz. She’s into photography too.”

  Of course, the thought crossed my mind that this camera could have belonged to my mother—it certainly seemed old enough—but then I doubted that conclusion for several reasons. First, my parents probably wouldn’t have bought anything so expensive back then, no matter how much my mom enjoyed photography. Liz, on the other hand, had come from money, so that seemed far more likely. Second, my father would have had no reason to hang on to a camera of my mother’s after she died. He would have discarded it—along with everything else of hers that he didn’t need—because he had to move around so much. As a military man, he was meticulous about his possessions, super organized, and quick to get rid of anything once it was no longer necessary.

  Just like he’d gotten rid of me.

  Startled at the thought and how it had just popped into my mind like that, I looked away. For some things, I reminded myself, forgiveness was not a one-time deal. I had forgiven him years ago, but clearly it was time to do so yet again. As Lark returned her attention to the camera, I said a quick prayer, asking God to purge my heart of any resentment and to forgive me, just as I was determined to again forgive my father.

  She continued to study the camera and then finally asked if she could keep it.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’d like to take it home with me, give it a good cleaning, and load it up with film and batteries.”

  “Oh. Sure. Just don’t forget to add the cost to my bill.”

  She nodded, tucking the battered old classic into her own camera bag.

  “We can both share my camera today. I was planning to focus on digital photography anyway, rather than film, so you could learn about composition.”

  “Composition?”

  She shrugged. “With some people, I might start elsewhere, like teaching the various camera settings and what they mean—exposure, depth of field, shutter speed—stuff like that. But for you, I think composition is the best place to begin. If you’ve never even held a camera before, you need to get a feel for the fun part first, the creative part. The technical stuff can follow later.”

  “Okay. Sounds good.”

  “Great. So let’s cover the basics, and then we can roll.”

  Lark leaned forward and placed her camera in my hands. I held it awkwardly, so after a pause she positioned my fingers where they should go, lingering in a way that made me feel uneasy. I couldn’t exactly pull my hands away, at least not without dropping the camera, so I was relieved when she finally finished and sat back in her chair.

  After that, she gave me a quick tour of her camera, showing me how it worked and teaching me the terms for its various parts, such as the viewfinder and the lens. Once I felt confident enough to give it a try, she had me snap a picture of her there at the table, and then she brought it back up onto the little screen and used it to point out the “basics of composition,” as she called it. It was a lot to take in, but she was a surprisingly good teacher, leading me down the path of knowledge in just the right order.

  “Let’s go,” she said finally. “I’ll talk as we walk.”

  I paid the bill, insisting it was my turn this time, and we set out.

  “The easiest way to compose a photo is to use the rule of thirds,” she said as we made our way down the sidewalk. “Think of your image as a rectangle divided into nine equal-sized segments. You know, mentally draw two vertical and two horizontal lines across it so that you have nine squares total.”

  “Okay. I can see that.”

  “Good. The most important elements in your scene should either fall along these lines or, better yet, at the points where they intersect. When we look at a picture, our eyes are naturally drawn there, so if you use them in your composition, you can pull us into the picture. You know how some pics are awesome and some are boring? The awesome ones are almost always composed along those lines. Here.”

  Lark reached for the camera and knelt down on the sidewalk. She pointed the lens toward a flowering vine on a white picket fence. She snapped two photos and then got back to her feet, pressing a button on the camera and then handing it to me.

  “See? First look at this one,” she said, showing me an image of the flower at the middle of the screen. It looked okay to me until she pressed a button to show the next picture, where the flower was instead located a little to the left, its bloom tilting vaguely toward the center.

  “Which image is better? The first or the second?”

  “I don’t know enough yet to say.”

  “Just in your gut, Ty. Which one do you find more pleasing?”

  “Okay, the second one,” I admitted. “But I don’t know why.”

  She grinned. “The rule of thirds is why.”

  She pointed out the placement of the stem and the bloom, and I nodded as understanding slowly began to dawn.

  “Got it? Okay. Now, look how I used the invisible horizontal lines to draw your eye to what is keeping the flower tethered. The fence. See? The vine wants to venture out on its own, but it needs the fence to hold it up. And the fence isn’t going anywhere.”

  I pulled my gaze from the little image on the screen to look at her face. “You saw all that when you took that photo?”

  “You have to train your eye to see past the obvious. Here. You try. Look at that house across the street. What is your eye drawn to?”

  I turned to look at the blue-and-white house across the narrow street from us. It was well-kept and festooned with half a dozen hanging geraniums. Lacy curtains hung in all the windows, and a striped cat sat in one of the sills.

  “The cat, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “The cat.”

  “Zoom in on the cat and then pull out. Imagine those nine squares.”

  I tried to obey. But I couldn’t see the nine squares or anything else remarkable.

  “See them?”

  “Not really.”

  She took the camera from me, fiddled with it, and then handed it back. Now on the little screen was a nine-square grid overlay.

  “Cool.”

  “Don’t get overly dependent on it.”

  I tried again. I zoomed in on the cat so that he filled the right-hand side and pressed the shutter. I handed the camera to Lark and she pulled up the image.

  “Okay. So what is this?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a picture of a cat.”

  “What else?”

  “Nothing else. It’s just a picture of a cat.”

  “That’s my point. Look at the house again. What do you see?”

  I sighed. “Blue and white paint, a door, geraniums, windows, lacy curtains, and a cat.”

  “How many windows?”

  I counted them. Five on the first floor. Four on the second. “Nine that we can see.”

  “And how many cats?”

  “One. What are you getting at?”

  “Try the photo again. This time include the two other windows closest to the cat. Match the symmetry of the empty windows with the symmetry of the horizontal and vertical lines.”

  I did as I was told and snapped the shutter. When I looked at the picture I had taken, I was amazed at the difference. The first two thirds of the image contained two perfectly symmetrical windows, and then the last third contained a window just like the other
two, but also not like them. Because this one held a cat. And my eye was drawn to it.

  “Wow,” I said.

  “This photo tells us a story. Several stories maybe.”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  Lark smiled. “Yes. It is. Now let’s do some more.”

  We continued walking toward Grand Canal and Beacon Bay, stopping along the way so I could take pictures of boats in their slips, footprints in the sand, and the wooden docks. Then we took a side street leading away from the water, where I tried a few more shots of buildings, trees, and people—when I could do it without drawing attention to myself.

  Every few shots, Lark would offer some pointers so that I gradually began to feel more confident about the proper way to compose a photo, how to minimize shadows, and how to take advantage of the sun’s unique lighting. She also took the camera off its automatic setting so that I could experiment with manual focus and shutter speed. I took a number of duds, but Lark just deleted them and told me to try again.

  By three fifteen, my mind was tired and I was ready for a break. Lark suggested more coffee, with cinnamon rolls this time.

  “My kind of food,” I said, and I told her to lead the way.

  We walked to yet another outdoor coffee shop. We settled at a table outside, this time choosing a spot in the sun rather than in the shade because the air was growing cooler.

  “Are you having fun?” she asked.

  “It’s more mentally exhausting than I thought it would be. There’s so much to consider. I had no idea.”

  “When it becomes second nature to you, it won’t seem like work. Anything new is difficult until you get past the learning curve. You’re doing well.”

  “Am I?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Especially for someone who has never owned a camera before. Your mother would be proud.”

  I smiled back. “I wish I could know what drew her to photography, but that’s not something anyone else could ever tell me. My Amish family wouldn’t know, of course. I doubt my dad would either.” I took a sip of my coffee.

  “It’s probably not some complicated reason. In fact, I’m sure it’s not.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know why I love it. Photography enables me to capture moments that would otherwise just blend into all the other moments that have passed. My photos are a reflection of me—what I see and how I see it. Just think about it, Tyler. We can freeze time and be able to look back at it years later, maybe seeing something new or different because even though the image hasn’t changed, we have.”

  I took a bite of my cinnamon roll and used the moments my mouth was full to consider her words and wonder what my mother would have wanted to look back on over time. What moments might she have yearned to capture on film that would have otherwise just blended into all the other forgotten moments?

  “Do you remember her?”

  “I remember little things about her. Certain things she said to me. Or the way she said them. And my grandparents and other family members have told me a little.”

  “And your dad?”

  “He’s never been one to talk much about her. Plus, I didn’t see him for the first few years after she died.”

  Lark shook her head. “I don’t get that at all.”

  “What? That I lived with my grandparents?”

  “That he just left you there.”

  “My dad thought I would have a more stable life with them. Then, by the time he came back, I’d been there so long it just seemed more logical to stay.”

  Lark tore off a piece of her cinnamon roll and tossed it into her mouth. “But really, Tyler, did you want to stay with your grandparents after your dad finally came back for you? Or did you stay because maybe you were scared of the unknown?”

  I was about to say yes, I wanted to stay, but I couldn’t get the words to come out of my mouth. Instead, I asked, “Is that so odd? My Amish family was the only family I knew. And I had a really great life there. Surrounded by loved ones, animals, lots of fun work to do and plenty of hands to do it…” My voice trailed off when I realized I was protesting too much.

  “So when did you and your dad ever see each other? Or did you?”

  “Of course we saw each other. I flew out to visit every summer until I was sixteen. Sometimes Dad and Brady came out to Philly to see me. We made it work.”

  Lark shrugged and tore off another piece of her roll. “If you say so.”

  “We made it work,” I repeated, as much to convince her as to convince myself. We had made it work. It wasn’t the most conventional of arrangements, but what’s conventional about a child’s mother dying? Nothing.

  “But you’re an adult now,” Lark said. “Do you still have to stay there? How old are you anyway?”

  “I’m twenty-three. And no one raised Amish has to stay if they haven’t taken vows of church membership yet. I could leave if I wanted to without repercussions.”

  Except that I would break the heart of my grandparents and lose the love of my life forever.

  “Are you going to? Leave, I mean?”

  The question that had brought me out to California in the first place now hung between us, and I found myself instantly defending the Amish life I’d known for the last seventeen years. “I have a place there, Lark. A job, a home, a family, and someone I care about.”

  “A girl?”

  “Yes, a girl!”

  “Whoa. You don’t have to get all defensive about it. I was just asking.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d been steadily raising my voice until I noticed a few people were looking our way. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”

  “What’s her name?”

  I was about to say “Rachel” when a thundering truth clobbered me. It was Saturday. Rachel was going to call me today. I looked down at my watch. It was already after four, which meant it was after seven back home. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to see if she had tried the number I’d given Thom. But clearly I wasn’t used to owning a cell phone. The battery was dead. In all likelihood Rachel had tried both my cell and the landline at the house—and I had missed them both.

  “I should get you back,” I said quickly, rising to my feet.

  “Just like that? You’re not even going to tell me her name?”

  “It’s Rachel. Let’s go.”

  Lark stood. “Fine. We’ll go. What’s the matter anyway?”

  “Nothing. I just…I just forgot something important.”

  We paid, Dutch treat this time, then we walked back to the car at a quick pace. Lark pumped me for information the whole way, asking what Rachel looked like, about her personality, how long we’d been dating. I finally had to change the subject. I asked her to tell me about her upcoming trip to Thailand, which she was only too eager to talk about.

  I was in such a hurry that I actually told her to drive before she even asked if she could. After another nail-biting trip, we reached her house around four thirty. She was tied up with schoolwork tomorrow and classes on Monday and Tuesday, but she had Wednesdays off, so we made plans to get together then. With a quick thanks, I drove as fast I could manage all the way home.

  It still took me fifteen minutes. When I got there, Frisco was ecstatic to see me and began running around the house looking for a ball or a toy for me to throw. Ignoring his antics, I came into the kitchen to check the answering machine and saw with a measure of relief that it wasn’t blinking. Maybe Rachel hadn’t called yet. But then I saw that Brady had left me a note. My heart sank as I read it.

  Your girlfriend called from Pennsylvania. I told her you were out and I didn’t know when you were getting back. Don’t worry. I didn’t say you were with another woman.

  NINETEEN

  The hardest part of knowing Rachel had called was the fact that I couldn’t call her back. She was not going to be hanging around the phone shanty waiting to hear from me. Plus, it was already dark in Lancaster County. It had been stupid
of me not to arrange a time for us to talk. I had been home all morning.

  Perhaps she had tried my cell and I’d missed it because the battery was already dead by then. I hooked up the phone to the charger and then put a leash on Frisco to walk off my frustration.

  An hour later, twilight had fallen and Frisco and I returned to a dark and quiet house. The phone wasn’t fully charged yet, but it had enough power to show that a message was waiting for me, from the number of the Hoecks’ phone shanty. It had been left at 12:30, when I was still home. Oh, why hadn’t I thought to charge my stupid phone?

  I pressed the button to listen to the messages, recognizing Rachel’s voice the minute she said my name.

  “Hi, Tyler. It’s Rachel. It’s about three thirty here. I stopped over to visit with your grandmother, and Thom gave me this number for your cell phone. Hope it’s all right that I use it. I might try your dad’s regular phone line later if I don’t hear from you. Hope it’s going well. I miss you. Okay. Bye.”

  It had only been five days since I’d seen her, but it seemed so much longer. Hearing her voice reminded me of how far away I was, not just from her but from everything that was familiar to me. I wanted so badly to speak with her!

  I needed to tell her about Brady, to ask her advice about how to fix what was broken between us. I wanted to tell her I was learning photography, and how I hoped taking pictures might give me some insight into my mother. Mostly, I just wanted to have a conversation with someone who was the embodiment of the life that waited for me in Lancaster County, should I return to it to stay.

  But all I could do was to plug the phone back in, feed Frisco his dinner, and open a can of soup for myself. As it heated, I went into my dad’s study to return one camera to the cabinet and find the charger for the other.