I released my elbow hold on the tubing, gripped the rope, and began lowering the new diffuser into the water a little bit at a time.
I wasn’t sure how long it would take for the bubbles to start appearing at the surface, but I didn’t mind sitting in the boat, waiting. My time was usually spent in quiet reflection, standing on the bank, but being here in the middle of the pond was giving me a unique vantage point, so I took in the scenery, gulping it down like liquid to a thirsty man.
For years I’d been coming to the pond once every few weeks or so, but lately I’d found my way down here almost daily. As blessed as I was to have this place where I could escape and contemplate life in private, I knew the increase in frequency didn’t bode well. My mind had become such a jumbled mess, and it seemed all I wanted to do was be alone to think and pray and try to make sense of the conflict raging inside of me.
Much as my mother had done, long before I was born.
Not far from the path, a cluster of rocks and boulders formed a natural sort of sitting area, and I often imagined her as a young woman, perched there and doing the very same thing, begging God for clarity and direction as she tried to soothe her troubled soul. She had been just eighteen years old when she turned her back on the farm for good, leaving behind her parents and siblings and the Amish life she no longer wanted. She’d thrown in her lot for a life among the Englisch, eventually marrying my dad, moving to Europe, and giving birth to me.
Then she died, suddenly and unexpectedly, when I was just six years old.
After that, I had been her family’s consolation prize, so to speak. The little boy with the football jerseys and blue jeans who had known a smattering of Pennsylvania Dutch but otherwise hadn’t a clue what it meant to be Amish. At my newly widowed father’s request, my grandparents had taken me in right after the funeral, an arrangement that was supposed to have been temporary. But here I was, all these years later, still in the same place, living on the same farm my mother had lived on, sleeping in the same room that had been hers, and spending time at the same pond that had drawn and captivated her. I had accepted my lot and the fact that my dad found a new life with a new wife—and even a new son—without me. I’d see them now and then, but for all intents and purposes Mammi and Daadi were more like parents than grandparents to me. For that matter, the aunt and uncles I’d grown up with—Sarah, Thom, Eli, and Peter—were more like sister and brothers. Even Jake, who was a mere six months older than I, was technically my uncle, even though we felt and acted like brothers.
That very first day I arrived, I had traded in the jerseys and jeans for broadfall trousers and plain white shirts and had been raised Amish from then on. My dad had remained peripherally involved in my life even after he remarried and became a father a second time, but I had now been living here, on this farm, for seventeen years. At twenty-three, I was on the verge of big decisions that would determine the rest of my life, my future, my path—whether Englisch or Amish.
And I’d never been more perplexed.
Before she left here for good, my mother had been confused as well. I knew that much from what I’d been told by her brother Thom, who had been sixteen at the time. As a child, I hadn’t known much about my mother at all, or at least not the person she was when she lived in this world. She had never talked much about her years growing up Amish. I don’t remember her telling me about the house, or the smell of the horses’ tack, or the sounds the buggies made when their wheels rolled on pavement, or how quiet the dark was on winter nights.
Most of what I knew about my mother I had learned from my aunt and uncles and from Daadi and Mammi. They told me she loved peaches and jonquils and her horse, Nutmeg, and the first snowfall. That she liked surprises and twirling and laughter.
Even though she had never joined the church, they would always see her as Amish. I looked Amish too, but lately it seemed as though underneath the Plain clothes and the hat and the language, there was a different man. Rachel Hoeck, who was the closest friend I had besides Jake, said I was as Amish as any man born right here in Lancaster County. I grew up here. I went to school here. I’d worked in my grandfather’s buggy shop since I could tighten a bolt. I was on the verge of church membership and baptism. At twenty-three I was more than old enough to take my vows as an Amish adult—vows of commitment to the Amish life and vows of marriage to an Amish bride. Those faraway years when I lived in the Englisch world were just that, Rachel would say—far away. But how could she know? I’d never brought her here at the crack of dawn. She’d never seen the man in the pond who stared back at me with questioning eyes. Then again, if she did see him, I knew what she would say to me.
That is just your reflection, Tyler. That’s you. The Amish man I love.
And I would want to believe her.
But there would be this tugging inside me, as there was every time I came to the pond now, pulling at all that I knew to be true of me. As though a loose thread was in the grasp of something or someone who wanted to yank it free…
My thoughts were interrupted by the subtle sound of a hundred tiny bubbles breaking on the surface.
A beautiful sight. The diffuser was doing just what it should.
I rowed back to shore, returned the rowboat and oar to the tall grass, and whistled for my dog. Then I gathered my things and started up the path toward home, Timber trotting alongside. I knew I should have felt good. After all, the aerator was working again, it was a beautiful morning, and God’s presence was everywhere. But up ahead, as the farmhouse came into view, I felt a surge of emotion I couldn’t even name. Loss? Joy? Hope? Fear?
Maybe all of the above, simultaneously?
My mind again went to my mother and one of the few memories I had of her, the first time she ever told me about this pond. We’d been far from here—a world away, in fact—but the way she talked, that small body of water had come as alive as if I’d been standing on its banks myself.
I had been in my bed, crying because there was a thunderstorm outside and lightning was scissoring over the house as though it wanted to slice me in two. My mother was sitting on my bed, trying to convince me the storm couldn’t hurt me. Then, to take my mind off what was happening outside the window, she began telling me all about the pond, her favorite place on the farm where she grew up. She went on and on, finally concluding her elaborate description with the words, “You can see a different world in the water. It’s like there’s always another place besides the one where you are.”
I hadn’t known what she meant by that, but I remember asking her if there was thunder and lightning at that other place too.
She chuckled softly. “Every place has something about it we would change if we were in charge.”
Swallowing hard, I closed my eyes now as I walked, trying to picture my mother’s pretty face from that night, her gentle hands as she smoothed the covers around me. But then a voice echoed across the silence and the image tumbled away, back to the unseen place where I kept all of my memories hidden—or at least my memories of her.
“Tyler!”
I opened my eyes to see Jake watching me from where he stood in the drive, arms crossed over his chest. He and I were supposed to have loaded some additional benches we’d made in the buggy shop into the wagon first thing so that right after breakfast we could deliver them over to the Bowmans’ farm for Anna’s wedding. But my task at the pond had taken longer than I’d expected, leaving him to do the loading all by himself. I felt guilty, as I knew my errand could have waited for a more appropriate day. To be honest, I had probably just used the diffuser replacement as an excuse to get down to the pond this morning and have a little time to myself.
I gave him an apologetic smile and a shrug, and though I could tell he was about to lay into me, when he saw that my shirt and pants were covered in dark, slimy mud, he hesitated and then simply grinned.
He and I both knew that whatever my grossmammi doled out once she saw what I’d done to my clean clothes would be payback enough.
&
nbsp; Stepping inside, I tried to soften the blow by warning her first.
“Just so you know,” I called out as Jake and I paused in the mudroom to remove our hats, jackets, and boots, “changing out the diffuser in the pond was a lot messier job than I’d expected.”
“Oh, Tyler, no,” she replied from the kitchen. “You didn’t fall in, did you? Your grossdaadi told you not to trust that old rowboat.”
“No, nothing like that.”
I stepped around the corner to see her at the counter, spooning out scrambled eggs from the pan. The aroma of coffee and peach strudel wafted past my nose, and I realized I was starving. I’d fed Timber before going to the pond but hadn’t eaten a thing yet myself.
She didn’t even look up to see me, so Jake let out a low whistle as he pushed past to go to the table. “Wow, Tyler. Nice going on your clothes there! Did you leave any mud in the pond?” He whistled again, dramatically.
Of course, at that Mammi’s head snapped up. She took in the sight of me, her eyes narrowing.
“Just for that, no strudel,” she said. When Jake burst out in a victorious laugh, she gave him a sharp, “I’m talking to you, young man. No strudel for troublemakers.”
Lucky for me, she hated tattling even more than she hated extra work on laundry day. I grinned, though I didn’t dare make a sound in return lest she come down on me as well.
“I’ll rinse everything out as soon as I take it off,” I told her.
“See that you do,” she replied, returning her attention to the food preparations in front of her.
I flashed Jake a “gotcha” look. He snagged a corner of the strudel when Mammi’s head was turned and tossed it into his mouth with a smirk that said “gotcha back.”
Ten minutes later, I had returned to the kitchen, cleaned up and ready for the day, relieved that the mud had rinsed right out. I spotted Mammi still standing at the counter and Jake sitting at the table. He was sipping coffee but otherwise waiting to dig in until everyone else had convened here too. I heard Daadi come in the back door as I was taking my seat, and once he’d hung up his hat and jacket, he joined us in the kitchen and crossed the floor toward his wife.
Daadi always greeted my grandmother the same way when the morning’s first chores were done and it was time for breakfast and devotions: kissing her cheek and speaking in the softest words, meant just for her, saying, “Gud mariye, meiner Aldi.” Good morning, my wife.
Mammi smiled the way she always did. “Gud mariye, Joel.”
I loved how tender my grandparents were with each other in these first few moments of the day. Like most Amish, Daadi didn’t give Mammi kisses in front of people, or fuss over her in a personal kind of way, especially not in public. But their morning custom made me feel good about the start of the day, and it always had. It was strange and wonderful to think my mother probably saw them do this same thing every morning of her life too.
Daadi brought a mug of coffee to the table and took his seat at the end. “Beautiful sunrise over the pond this morning?” he asked, letting me know in his gentle way he’d seen me heading to the place I always went when there was much on my mind.
“Sure was,” I replied, adding nothing else, not even about the diffuser repair. He knew as well as I did that that wasn’t really why I’d gone out there.
I avoided his gaze, watching as Mammi brought a plate of sausages to the table. We bowed our heads for a silent prayer, and the topic of the pond was dropped. That was fine with me. I had always felt free to share even my most troubling thoughts with my grandfather. But I wasn’t ready to have that conversation.
Not yet, anyway—and especially not with him.
TWO
After breakfast Jake and I drove the wagon a short distance over to my aunt Sarah and uncle Jonah’s farm to deliver the extra seating we’d constructed for the wedding. We’d helped to get everything set up the day before—clearing out some of the furniture from the main room of the house and filling the space with all of the benches from our district’s bench wagon. The Bowmans still lacked a few more rows, though, and as none of our neighboring districts had benches to spare thanks to weddings of their own, last night Jake and I had ended up doing some quick carpentry work in the buggy shop, making the extra benches ourselves. Today we were back to deliver them, with just two and half hours to go before the festivities would start. When we arrived, we greeted Anna and then went right to work with the help of her brothers, Sam and Gideon, carrying the supplementary benches inside and setting them up.
This was one of the earliest weddings of the season, and intentionally so, according to Rachel. As the youngest of four children, Anna had grown tired of being the last of everything, so she wanted to be among the first of the courting couples to marry this year. Rachel was Anna’s best friend and had been talking about this event for weeks.
At least she hadn’t used it as an opportunity to put pressure on me, I thought as Jake and I lifted down another bench from the wagon, though she certainly had every right to. Rachel and I had been a couple for years, long enough for her—and everyone else, for that matter—to assume we, too, would end up married.
Though we hadn’t begun courting until we were in our teens, we’d been friends long before that. I first met Rachel when I was ten and she was nine. She had come from Ohio after her grandfather died and her parents moved to Lancaster County to take over his dairy farm. Rachel was the youngest of three daughters—all honey-brunettes with a sprinkling of freckles—but she was by far the prettiest. Her eyes were a vivid blue, easily rivaling the bluest cornflower ever to sprout.
When she first moved here, she was just a new girl to tease—all in good fun, of course. Jake and I couldn’t resist, and we told her all sorts of tall tales, the biggest being that he and I were twins. Though we looked almost nothing alike, she believed us until she learned that he was a Miller and I an Anderson.
“How can you be twins if you have different last names?” she’d asked one day during her second week there.
“That’s so people can tell us apart,” Jake replied with a perfect deadpan.
After a long moment, her eyes narrowed, and then she turned on her heel without a word and marched off to speak to the teacher, knowing we were pulling her leg and ready to settle the matter once and for all.
“Tyler?” For the second time today, Jake’s voice pulled me out of a memory.
“Huh?” I asked, blinking.
He was lifting down his end of the final bench, waiting for me to do the same. “I said, ‘What’s going on?’ ”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a million miles away. What gives? You okay?”
“Of course. I’m fine.” Or I would be if he would mind his own business.
We carried the last bench into the house together and slid it into place. After that, Sam and Gideon went out to handle some other chore, leaving Jake and me to finish up. We both looked around at the room, transformed now from a living area to a church, and began to shift things a bit to allow a little more leg room between rows.
Nearby, the large kitchen area was bustling with women, including Anna and her mother and various relatives, helping to prepare the wedding feast. If I’d been in there with them, I would have been stepping on people’s toes, bumping into their backs, and generally making a big mess, but they worked together seamlessly, thanks to years of practice.
“I know what it is,” Jake said suddenly, pausing to look my way as I was tugging a bench into place.
“What what is?”
He glanced toward the kitchen before lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Why you’re so nervous and distracted today. It’s because you know that this time next year we’ll be slinging benches around for your wedding.”
He laughed.
I didn’t.
“Oh, come on, Tyler,” he prodded in a soft voice. “I don’t know why you’re not already married. And neither does anyone else.”
I glared at him, gesturing towar
d the kitchen and the women who might overhear his words.
“I’m serious!” he said, moving closer now so he could speak even more softly. “You’re getting up in years, you know?”
“I’m twenty-three.”
“Which is high time to take that next step. And you’ll never find a better match for you than Rachel.”
Now it was my turn to pause. Why didn’t he get it? I spoke through gritted teeth, telling him I was not going to discuss it with him, but he kept talking as if he hadn’t even heard me.
“You know she’s perfect for you. She thinks you’re wonderful.” He put the emphasis on “she,” meaning, of course, that Rachel thought it even if no one else did.
“Funny,” I snapped.
Jake moved to the end of the row. “It’s time to take that next step, buddy, just like Tobias will today with Anna. I know it and you know it. Most of all, Rachel knows it.”
Unsure how to reply, I leaned down and made one final shift, intentionally pushing the bench at Jake’s knees. He yelped as he tried to avoid the impact.
“Sorry,” I said in a loud voice, glancing toward the kitchen and giving an “everything’s okay here” wave to the two women who had turned to look. “Guess I didn’t see your legs there, buddy. Must need to get my eyes checked.”
“Get your brain checked, you mean.” Jake sat down to rub his knee and whispered, “I’m only saying what you need to hear.”
“No,” I hissed, “you’re only saying a bunch of stuff that’s none of your business.”
I was saved from further harassment by the appearance of Jonah Bowman—Anna’s father and my uncle—who came in from outside. “We’re all finished here,” I said. “Anything else we can do for you?”
“Ya. Before you go, can you cut some more logs for cooking? We use propane in the house and in the wedding wagon, but I also borrowed three big cookstoves that we have going out back.” Glancing toward the kitchen, he added, “I thought I had enough wood, but I may have underestimated the need.”
The Amish Widower Page 32
