“Lena, I’d like to do the wash myself this morning,” I said.
Lena looked up at me with skepticism. “It’s not as easy as you think.”
“I know it might be hard, but I’ll have to do this by myself sometime,” I said confidently.
“Okay…I guess so,” Lena said. She left and I approached the washing machine with excitement, singing my loudest. First, I set the hose into the tub, but when I turned the hot water knob on high, the full pressure caused the hose to fly wildly into the air, showering everything…including me. I was not delighted.
But I told myself this accident had resulted from not being careful enough. My happy song was now forgotten as I turned the hose on slower this time. When the water behaved, I added a scoop of Tide. With that done, I rushed out to the shop for the jug of gasoline to fill the washing machine motor. I did so, and the motor which sat outside the house started after only a few tries. I rushed back inside to engage the agitator, only to find that the water in the tub had overflowed.
I shrieked and almost ran inside for help, but I didn’t want to admit defeat. Instead, I sloshed through the inch-deep water and turned the hose off.
With a sheepish look on my face, I grabbed the broom and swept the water down the drain, which eagerly swallowed up the mess. When I finished with the cleanup, I added a little more Tide. I then pulled the plug and the agitator willingly started, swishing the water and causing the suds to rise. I quickly dumped the first load of clothes in with a sigh of relief.
Then I turned my attention to the rinse tub. This time I put in cold water with two cups of softener and watched the water with sharp eyes. To prevent an accident I stood beside the tub, ready to spring into action and shut off the water when it was full enough.
After four loads of laundry, I changed the water. I thought I was doing pretty good. As each load was finished, I hung the clothes out on the line to dry.
The spring morning was gorgeous! The sun’s rays had shone pleasantly since daybreak and a gentle breeze blew from the east. In our yard, little finches, sparrows, blackbirds, larks, and all kinds of spring birds sang cheerfully. Robins hopped all over the lush green grass as they searched for juicy, fat worms. I favored the outdoors and could feel its urgent beckoning.
I could hardly comprehend how good our great God was to give us such a wonderful season to enjoy. I began to joyfully sing praises to God again. I could hardly hold myself down, but I had to go on with the wash.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. I still had three more loads to go! I hurriedly stuffed another towel through the wringer, but something was wrong. I couldn’t control my head any longer. Slowly I was being pulled closer and closer to the wringer! In a flash, I realized that one of my head covering strings had become caught in the wringer and in a matter of seconds my head would be there! Such horrible thoughts that flew through my mind!
With shaking hands I tore my covering off, not heeding the pins. I watched with horror as the covering was pulled closer to the smashing rollers. I gathered my scattered senses and switched the rollers to backward. My covering came back out and I rescued it just before it dropped in the swirling water.
What a shock! But I soon recovered my senses. In another half hour I had the last load through. I hung the last black denim pants on the reel wash line and reeled the swinging wash out as far as possible. With that done, I put the brake in place to keep it from rolling on. I went inside and drained and rinsed both tubs. I rinsed the cement floor with the hose and swept it all down the drain.
I rolled the hose up and put the broom neatly in its correct place. Then I glanced around to see if everything was as it should be. Satisfied, I looked at the clock. I was done.
I hurried outside to feel, see, smell, and hear the wonderful spring day. I jogged out to our small family orchard and wearily climbed my favorite tree where I meditated over my hectic morning, my legs dangling over the rough bark of the gnarled apple tree’s branch.
I knew one thing: I wasn’t very eager to do the wash alone again, but I came to the conclusion that I had learned my lesson the hard way. Hopefully it will go better next time. Surely it will! I tried to reassure myself.
“Maria!” my sister Lena called.
I leaped off the branch, and with renewed energy and spirit, I raced over the warm, tickly grass to the house to see what my next job was for the day.
The Day We Missed the Bus
Crist Renno
I was a stranger, and ye took me not in (Matthew 25:43).
MY WIFE, SALOMA, AND I HAD MARRIED IN THE FALL OF 1986 IN Newport, New York. Two weeks later we were invited to a wedding at Jake Mast’s in Path Valley, Pennsylvania. We left on the Trailways bus and had an uneventful trip until we got to Binghamton, New York, where we had a layover of about a half hour to change buses.
There were different buses leaving and arriving and neither of us understood a word that came over the loudspeaker. In the meantime, I was on the pay phone arranging for a driver to pick us up when we arrived in Path Valley. When I hung up, I went to the counter and asked the ticket agent how soon our bus would leave. His answer came like a thunderbolt.
“That bus left at 2:30. It was announced twice!” he said. The next bus wouldn’t leave until 2:30 the next morning. Trailways was quite helpful though. He told us there was a Greyhound station just several blocks away, so we walked over there to find out if any of their buses went to Path Valley sooner than the Trailways bus. The Greyhound people said their bus had also just left. I remembered seeing a bus leave as we walked to the station. How we wished we’d been there a little sooner.
So here we were. You can call it a honeymoon if you like, but we were all alone, stranded in a big, busy city in late afternoon with nowhere to go until early the next morning. We asked if we could just stay there until then and were told that both of the stations closed at 9:00 that night. We would have to stay outside.
As we hung around trying to decide what should be done, a young woman entered the station obviously in great distress, crying hysterically. Our own troubles were momentarily forgotten. Here was somebody who was in greater trouble than we were. She was carrying a baby in her arms and went to a pay phone along the wall. There she struggled to dial while trying to hold the baby at the same time. All the baby did was cry even more. Saloma went over to her and asked if she could hold the baby, and her offer was gladly accepted.
When the woman finished with her call the baby’s cries had subsided somewhat. The woman told us her name was Marie. She said that her husband had left her and she had to move from the apartment she had lived in. She then told us about the discarded food she had eaten from the dump, which had resulted in severe abdominal pains—probably food poisoning. She had come to the bus station to call Claudia, a friend from her church, who was now on the way to pick her up.
By and by Claudia arrived at the bus station. After Claudia learned of our predicament she was very sympathetic and offered to take us to her home to stay until our bus was due. We said we thought we would just wait outside until our bus came but Claudia exclaimed, “No! No! Please don’t. It’s not safe. I’ll take you to my home for the night and bring you back.” To tell the truth that did sound a lot more appealing than a night spent on the street in a large, strange city.
So Claudia took Marie somewhere and then, true to her word, she came back and got us and took us to her home. Her seven-year-old daughter, Minnie, was so excited, jumping up and down with glee, exclaiming over and over, “Oh, Mom! They look like Quakers—they look exactly like Quakers!”
Claudia apologetically explained that Minnie had learned about Quakers in school. That was why she was so excited.
Claudia’s husband, Jim, soon came home from work. She had called him while at the bus station and told him what she had planned for the evening. Jim had no objections to his wife’s charity plans. We visited a while. They were a very nice couple and little Minnie chattered all through supper. They fed us peas and hamburgers a
nd showed us where to sleep in a room upstairs. The stairs and floors were lined with a fine carpet. Everything seemed so luxurious and too nice to step on for fear we would spoil it. The bed was nice too, all fluffy and plush, something we were not used to.
Early the next morning Claudia drove us back to the bus station and refused to accept any pay for her efforts. We were at a loss on how to express our gratitude. A plain thank-you seemed much too bare, as this family was like a miracle to us, or at least a godsend.
But we did get to Jacob and Fannie Zook’s wedding. They sang the last stanza of the Lob Lied as we walked in. We were a little late, but we had arrived by the grace of God and His guardian angels.
Musings from Our Sugarhouse
Levi F. Miller
I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help? (Psalm 121:1).
AGAIN IT IS MARCH, THE EARLY SPRING OF THE YEAR. OUR WISCONSIN winter seemed long; frozen in its icy and snowy grip. But eventually with warmer temperatures our beautiful snow is leaving, creating damp, foggy days. Still, the birds are arriving with good faith and cheer from their southern stay and the Canada geese are flying low and fast.
As I came down the path into the fog-shrouded valley this morning accompanied by our two farm dogs, I could hear the chirping of a robin and later a cardinal’s notes.
Heading for the sugarhouse, I heard a band of crows loudly cawing in the treetops. I noticed the south-facing slopes were now bare while the north-facing slopes were still deep with snow. This kept the little brook alongside my path rushing downhill. The white birches stood out sharply against the now brown hillside, but the pines looked deep and dark in the early morning fog.
The sugarhouse itself stood still and solitary beside the bubbling brook. To the right there stands the small log springhouse. A pipe through the back wall runs water from the brook unceasingly, in all seasons, into a tub which still holds a few jars of last fall’s cider.
On the rugged wall hangs a tin cup that has served many a cool drink on a warm summer day. From out of the springhouse runs a gurgling stream singing among the rocks beneath the footbridge leading to the sugarhouse. This stream joins several other springs and small streams as it meanders through our valley pasture, only to disappear into the neighbor’s property.
I sit here in the sugarhouse to watch the steam rising from the pan of rolling, boiling sap. I listen to drops of moisture fall from the overhead tree limbs upon the tin roof. I have plenty of time, not only to think, but to ponder. The only other sounds are the hum of the pan and occasional whisper of the wind against the gurgle of the passing brook.
This morning I brought along a few ears of corn to stick on the porch post nails to amuse and excite the nuthatches and the woodpecker. Frequently, I throw a few more sticks of wood on the fire, but only a few at a time and in a crisscross position so as not to smother the fire and slow the boiling process. The red and gold flames dance and flicker, dimly lighting the interior of the sugarhouse. The glow reflects in the stainless steel of the syrup buckets on the shelf.
After many years of use, the interior of the sugarhouse looks quite rugged and very simple. The rough pine wallboards are smudged and smoky as light falls on the charcoal drawings and sketches on the wall. The hanging marshmallow bag reminds me of last fall’s excitement when the teacher and pupils from our parochial school visited the sugarhouse. They came at sorghum cooking time when the hills were decked in gorgeous autumn color.
From the rafters also hang remnants of collected hornet and Baltimore oriole nests along with painted sticks for wiener or marshmallow roasting. Along the back wall are jugs, which remind me of the neighborhood boys’ summer adventures in our nearby pond.
In the back there is a lean-to porch on which is stacked dry wood. From the rafters hang the remains of a phoebe’s summer nest and on the porch sill, a robin’s nest. Straight out from the door among the white birches are a row of steel traps. They bring back vivid memories of last winter’s trapline.
For years I have thoroughly enjoyed the solitude and relaxed atmosphere of our tiny sugar camp. That is, until this spring when a strange feeling of discontent sprang up within me as I realized how crude, simple, quaint, and smudgy our sugarhouse really is!
Only a week ago we attended a niece’s wedding in southern Indiana, a location into which we rarely venture, although it did prove extremely interesting. We found them in the very midst of their sugaring season, since the rolling hills of their community proved to have plenty of hard maple trees.
About half a mile down the road from where we were staying lived another niece and her husband. They had built a magnificent sugarhouse; Vermont style, naming it after Wolf Creek, which runs close by.
When I heard a few of my nephews talking about firing up the furnace at 3:30 the next morning I was very interested to see this. However, I must admit that I thought to myself, These young men will very likely not hear the three thirty alarm clock after an evening at the wedding.
But I discovered I had greatly underestimated the ambitious nature of these young men. Had they really gotten up? I got up myself to check, dressing quietly so as not to awaken the other occupants of the house at such an unseemly hour.
I stepped out of the front porch door into a moon-bathed Indiana countryside. The night was exceedingly quiet. Not a breeze stirred, and the air was crisp. A three-quarter moon hung behind me over the barn. I gazed across the fields toward the sugar camp, wondering if the steam was rising already.
What I saw held me spellbound. I blinked my sleep-filled eyes and gazed again.
From the huge steam stack arose an awesome column of steam, caught white in the dazzle of moonlight. It reached upward, upward, upward, fading away into the star-filled sky.
After a brisk walk in the direction of the sugarhouse, I opened the door and entered. Inside it was warm and cozy, and the two aforementioned men were diligently at work. The fire roared and the steam hissed in this large, clean, kerosene lantern-lighted building. The gleaming, hooded evaporator was immense. On one side was a tank that caught evaporated water, which was always hot for washing hands, utensils, and so on.
The sap was continuously flowing into the pan from huge overhead tanks on the left side. On the right side stood a thermometer and when the dial reached 200 degrees, it was time to open the faucet from which flowed the syrup. The filter box did a perfect job in removing all crystals, and from there it was bottled or put in barrels for the Vermont markets. The floors and stainless steel countertops were immaculately clean as this was also the store for “on the farm” customers.
An open shed was built onto one end of the sugarhouse. It was stacked high with seasoned wood all cut to the four-foot lengths the furnace needed. It kept one person quite busy just to keep the intensely hot fire going, flaming white, gold, and blue.
As it turned out, these young men had decided not to go to bed and had fired up at 1:00. By the time I arrived they had already removed approximately 30 gallons of finished syrup. The setup was exceedingly nice, neat, clean, and handy.
Now as I watch the flickering flames in my own furnace, my thoughts return to southern Indiana. I love my quiet valley, my singing brooks. I love the full-bodied flavor of our home-cooked syrup with a hint of smoke or of toasted marshmallow. I love the peace, the solitude.
I think of the saying, “If you are distracted by outward cares, allow yourself a space of quiet, wherein you can add to your knowledge of and learn to curb your restlessness.” Come to think of it, maybe we will just stay with our crude, smoky, little sugarhouse down here in the valley. At least for a while yet.
The Wedding
Harvey and Grace Ann Yoder
Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the LORD (Proverbs 18:22).
NOW THAT’S DONE,” I WHISPERED SOFTLY TO MYSELF AS I STOOD BACK to admire the many long tables neatly draped in white. They were awaiting our big day when around 460 guests from eight different states would b
e served as Harvey and I were married.
My eyes swept to the left side of the haymow where a row of five gas ovens stood. They gleamed since they’d been recently scrubbed, and now they awaited hooking up to the propane tank. Harvey would do that tomorrow. It seemed the list of things to do never ended, but once Thursday—and the wedding—came, we’d quit, finished or not.
Tuesdays and Thursdays are the traditional wedding days for our community. Those two days seem to work well for both preparation and the cleanup afterward; spaced far enough from Sunday to not interfere with worship services.
Harvey and I had proposed June 15 as our wedding day and presented it to our parents. We had also kept our ears open for other weddings that might be planned for the same date, although such things are kept under tight wraps.
I now decided to relax a bit, and walked over to the “eck” (the farthest corner of any given room where the bridal party sits with the bride and her family and witnesses facing one way and the bridegroom and his witnesses and family facing in the other direction). I perched on an upside-down five gallon pail and let my thoughts wander back to the time when Harvey Yoder had entered my life. How surprised and unworthy I had felt when he had asked for my friendship. He was six and a half years older than I was, a sincere young man, serious and mature with a very likable personality—a pleasant man to be around.
After a couple of days of praying and seeking my parents’ advice, I felt I could begin the relationship with God’s blessing.
So it was on a beautiful Thursday evening that Dad asked Harvey to join him on a bike ride. They halted under a good-sized birch tree beside the road. Later, Harvey would tell me that his heart was pounding as Dad started talking about the seriousness of marriage. Dad had said, “We cherish our daughter and think she would be ready to start a relationship with a sensitive boy.”
A View from the Buggy Page 14
