Where Love Grows

by Jerry S. Eicher

  I stood there for a long time, not wanting to believe it. Was one of them going to be mine? I looked up at Mom, and she was smiling. I knew it was true!

  “Which one will it be?” Mom asked.

  I closed my eyes because I didn’t know which one to pick. I couldn’t stand taking one of them and leaving the others. It seems like one of those sins Father Frank is always speaking about. An awful one at that. How could one puppy be better than the others? So I opened the door, and all three of them looked at me. That’s when I closed my eyes and stuck out my hand. For a long time nothing happened. Then one of them touched my fingers with its nose. I could barely feel it, so light and tender was his touch.

  I opened my eyes and grabbed him. A kiss is always the true test of love. I know it! He’s the cutest, most loving little bundle of fur you ever saw. I’ve named him Bosky for some crazy reason. Bosky is a late–sixteenth-century word used to describe a countryside covered with dense bushes. I feel like that—densely surrounded by love.

  Mom lets me keep Bosky in the house only a few minutes at a time. Even then he has to be watched carefully for you know what. I told Mom I would house train him quickly, but she is having none of that. Bosky stays outside most of the time. “This is a farm,” Mom told me. “And on farms the dogs stay outside.”

  “Well, Bosky isn’t a dog yet. He’s a puppy, and his kisses are the sweetest things I’ve ever felt moving across my face. I know I will always love him, and he will always love me. Even after we’re both dead and gone our love will exist.

  When I ran around in the yard with him after we came home, Mom had the biggest smile on her face.

  “He’ll be good for you,” she said. “I’m glad you’re getting to grow up in the country.”

  I’m also glad! I think I knew I’d be glad even before my world contained wonderful things like puppy kisses. I also think this is how I will find the perfect man someday. I will close my eyes and see if he kisses me. How can that ever go wrong? Bosky is my proof that it works.

  Donald smiled at his mom’s girlish enthusiasm. He flipped pages, pausing to wait for his eyes to clear before he scanned the words again. How old was his mother when she met his father? Was he mentioned in this journal? That was the burning question. Surely Carol wrote about him. She wouldn’t leave out such an important point in her life. He wanted to know everything about her and him, even with the pain the knowledge brought. Who was his birth father?

  He scanned the pages and stopped at the entry dated January 12. Carol would have been nineteen, he figured.

  I’m working at a part-time job in a St. Louis hospital while I go to school. To say I’m excited is the understatement of the year. There are so many new and wonderful things going on!

  First of all, thanks must go to Dad for helping me land this job. He won’t admit it, but I know he pulled a few strings with his friends. Not that I’m complaining because even if he did help, I’m still feeling all grown-up and on my own.

  For a farm girl, I’m sure enjoying the city. Perhaps I have more of Dad in me than Mom wants to admit. I know I love both of them. I suppose one can be like that, having two loves at the same time. Mom has been dreaming of me marrying a farmer. I know because she told me. Dad wants me to succeed at nursing and eventually marry a doctor. He doesn’t say so out loud, but it’s not hard to figure out.

  Donald scanned forward a few pages, stopping on February 15.

  Hi there! I’m back, after a long, hard day’s work. Although I’m on my feet all day, everyone here is absolutely wonderful to work with and for. I wonder if Dad knew that when he asked me to choose St. Louis instead of Des Moines, which was my first choice. He hardly could have. I’m sure the people would have been just as nice there as they are here.

  I finally took the time today to say hi to the cutest boy you can imagine. He’s not a doctor, but he’s quite fascinating. I’d seen him earlier and asked around. One of the other nurses says he comes from a closed religious community that doesn’t believe in war. I guess he’s serving his military time working in a hospital under an alternative government program instead of being a soldier and fighting in Vietnam.

  I wonder what his home community is like. I’m told he’s Amish. He’s obviously a farm boy—from the looks of his hands, at least. One of the girls said there are several Amish boys working in area hospitals.

  I found out this guy’s name is Menno, which I think is cute. He’s got the sweetest smile, and it’s even sweeter when he’s nervous. I think I make him very nervous when I walk by. Even though he must be from a strange community and very religious, he doesn’t look weird. He looks wholesome, healthy, country-raised—all those things you think of when someone says he grew up on a farm. I should know since I was raised on one!

  This boy is country all the way through. I can see it in the way he handles his hands, the way he smiles, his hesitation, even in his walk. I find myself liking him more every time I see him and he smiles at me.

  I would like him to ask me out, but we haven’t even spoken! We just exchange looks and smiles whenever I walk by. He does always smile at me though. That’s a good sign! I hope he’ll ask me out sometime! I hope he doesn’t think our worlds are too far apart. I’m religious, aren’t I? I never thought love and religion had much to do with each other, but I’m sure they do somehow. Devotion, giving of one’s self, isn’t that what religion is? Perhaps we have a lot in common!

  Donald paused. Was this young Amish man his father? He read the next entry.

  February 21, 1964

  The girls are all abuzz about the new singing group that has come over from Britain. The Beatles they’re called. I finally listened to their songs, and I could think of nothing afterward but Menno. I made a special trip past where he works on my lunch hour to say hi. I decided if he’s too shy to talk to me, maybe I should start the ball rolling.

  “Hi,” he said with that crooked, boyish smile.

  I felt giddy but I said, “So you’re an Amish boy from Indiana.”

  He laughed and said, “How did you know? Do I have hay sticking out of my hair?”

  So he has a sense of humor! I thought. Wow! This is getting better all the time.

  “I didn’t notice any hay,” I said. “The girls told me there are more Amish working at the hospitals around here. Your people object to the war, right?”

  His smile disappeared and he asked me, “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “I think that’s wonderful. Vietnam is an awful war. Thousands of people are dying unnecessarily. I’m glad some people are taking a stand against killing.”

  “We Amish don’t kill people,” he said. “Never!”

  Dad doesn’t know how much I oppose the war. I’ve mentioned it only a few times at home. Mom sympathizes but Dad just gets this “parents know better” look. “You’ll understand someday, Carol,” he always says. “There are times for war, just as there are times for peace. The Bible says so. And this is the time for war. If we don’t stand up for the country, who will?”

  I don’t mind standing up for countries, like when Hitler invaded Europe. But who did the Vietnamese invade? They’re just trying to hold on to their own country. I think we ought to mind our own business, and let them live their own lives.

  Donald skipped ahead a week.

  February 28, 1964

  We’re having a doing at Bobby’s place on Saturday night. I point-blank told Menno this afternoon, “You’re welcome to attend. You can come with me if you want to go.” This seems to be my lot in life—making the first move when it comes to boys. But the sparkle in Menno’s eyes was quite a reward!

  He said, “Really? You’re inviting me?”

  I told him, “Well, it’s nothing special, really. But the boys will be playing Beatles records, and we’ll be dancing and eating food and chips and stuff.”

  “So where is it at?” he asked.

  “Bobby Russell’s place. Do you have a car?” I was sure he di
dn’t, but I didn’t want to embarrass him.

  “No, I don’t,” he said. “But I can take the bus or hire a taxi.”

  “Better yet, why don’t I pick you up?” I said. “Outside the hospital at six on Saturday?”

  Without hesitating he said, “I’ll be ready!” So I have my first date with Menno the Amish man. Hopefully if all goes well, he’ll have enough nerve to ask me out himself the next time. I think he will. He seems to be a good man—sweet, gentle, and thoughtful.

  February 29, 1964

  Wow! Menno was so good looking last night in a new pair of jeans. I picked him up at the hospital, and he admitted he’d gone out and bought them to wear to the party. He must have seen the puzzled look on my face because he said, “I don’t have Englisha clothing.”

  “Englisha? What is Englisha?” I asked.

  He laughed and said, “Anyone who isn’t Amish or from the family of faith is referred to as Englisha. Things outside the Amish world are referred to as Englisha. It’s our way of talking, I guess.”

  I didn’t really understand, so I changed the subject. “Do you know who the Beatles are?”

  He shook his head.

  “I suppose they haven’t made it to Amish country yet.”

  Menno laughed and said, “I think that’s pretty certain!”

  “Why?” I asked. “Don’t you listen to the radio where you’re from?”

  “No, we don’t. We live in a completely different world.”

  “Well then,” I said, “welcome to my world. Would you like to hear one of their songs?”

  “Sure!” he said.

  I turned on the car radio. We listened to the Beach Boys, Ricky Nelson, and a couple of other singers I wasn’t familiar with, but then my favorite song came on: “All I’ve Got to Do” by the Beatles. When it was over I asked Menno if he liked it. And do you know what he did? He looked perplexed! He said, “Well, it must be good…if you like it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I told him. “But lots of people like the Beatles, so it’s not just my opinion. I hope you learn to like them.”

  “I hope so too,” he said. “If you like them, I want to like them.”

  He didn’t seem nervous at all!

  “Are all Amish boys this plain speaking?” I asked. “Or is it because you grew up on a farm?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never talked much with girls.”

  “You look old enough to have gone out with girls.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Did someone break your heart?”

  He smiled at that one. “No, I just didn’t want involvement with girls until this is over.”

  “This what?”

  “My government service,” he said.

  I told him again how strongly I felt about the war. He didn’t disagree, although he seemed more opposed to all wars rather than this particular one.

  When we arrived at Bobby’s, I introduced him around. He didn’t seem to pay much attention though. I think he was too busy watching me! I’ve never been with a boy who stared at me as much as he does. It was a bit strange, but it was also nice. Menno seemed totally taken with me, and he looked at me like I was fragile and might break.

  The boys started the music, and I danced a few times with friends. Menno sat on the sidelines, which didn’t surprise me. I figured he’d never danced in his life.

  “Come on!” I finally told him, grabbing his arm.

  “I don’t know how,” he objected. But he came out on the floor.

  He stumbled through the steps, but he didn’t look too nervous.

  “Relax.” I told him. “You’ll get it.”

  Menno had the sweetest smile on his face as we danced. I declare, he was soon better at it than I was. He’s got natural rhythm or something. He squeezed my hand when we danced to a slow song. After what seemed like hours, Menno led me over to the sidelines to sit down.

  While the others danced, he turned to me. Then he kissed me! Wow! He was so gentle. And he kissed me so slowly. It was like the touch of a breeze on my face. It was pure heaven. And I knew I loved him.

  And I know he loves me. He told me so when I dropped him off at his apartment. He asked me to go out with him!

  April 2, 1964

  Spring has arrived in St. Louis, but I can think of little besides Menno and how much he means to me. How can someone love a man so much and be loved back so much? We never talk about what lies ahead of us. I know there are many differences between us, but why can’t they be solved? Love can solve anything, can it not?

  May 11, 1964

  Another party—at my place this time. Menno came, of course. He still doesn’t own a car, which bothers me a little. Does he think about the future and about us? We are so much in love, so why disturb the sacred with questions? It will always be enough to know that I was privileged to have once loved such a man.

  June 16, 1964

  Menno was here last night, and we had another of our sweet times together. When he was leaving, I almost asked him what he plans to do when his time of service is over. But I couldn’t get up the courage. Menno must have sensed my troubled spirit because he finally told me he’s returning home soon.

  I know he was just talking for a visit, but I think he meant something beyond that. I could see it in his eyes. He’s never going to leave what he grew up with. And I doubt if I can go his way. I could visit his folks and find out. But with the little hints Menno drops, I don’t think such a life would be for me. We are worlds apart. Yet surely somehow love can bridge the gap, can’t it? I think it will have to or my heart will be torn apart. And yet how? I cannot begin to imagine.

  July 10, 1964

  The worst thing has happened. I thought in my foolishness that this might even draw us together into a permanent union as man and wife. Perhaps that’s why I was careless, but I don’t even want to think about the reasons now. I will have to be strong and brave for the both of us. If I really love Menno, I will do what is best for him.

  I will tell him what isn’t true to save what is true. I love Menno too much to destroy what he counts so precious at home. After all these months, I know him well enough to understand how he thinks. He’s going back to a world I have never been a part of. And it’s a world I know I never can be a part of.

  I will tell him tomorrow what the doctor said…and what the doctor didn’t say. That I am with child…and that I lost the child.

  It will be sad for him. He will not want to think of a baby—his baby—dying, even if it means things will work out better in the long run. The fact is, Menno leaves in a few weeks. Not for a visit but because his term of service is over. I will not be showing before he leaves, and he never needs to know the truth.

  I pray that God will give him a wife and children who will love him as Menno deserves to be loved. For me, it will be enough if I’m able to find a decent home for our child. I will then spend my life in sackcloth and ashes. That’s all I am worthy of. This was never Menno’s plan…it was mine. And I need to be the one to decide what will make all three of us the happiest.

  Donald closed the tablet. So his father’s name was Menno. But Menno what? He would look tomorrow for more clues, reading more thoroughly instead of skipping dates. He would look for a last name and, above all, a location. Surely Carol had mentioned it somewhere.

  If not, he would still find his birth father somehow and approach him cautiously. Perhaps his birth father wouldn’t be so anxious to meet him, especially if he now had a wife and children and perhaps even grandchildren. And certainly if he was still living in that strange religious community—the Amish—of his.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The next morning, with the wedding quickly approaching in two days, the preparations were fully underway. For her part, Susan was sweeping the cobwebs from the barn beams. Maurice showed up in a white apron and carrying a broom.

  “Your mom sent me to help,” she chirped.

  “But this is dirty work!” Susan exclaimed. �
�And you’re a guest.”

  Maurice didn’t hesitate. “Nonsense. So how much more do you have to do?”

  “I just started. All of this area where the service will be held has to be swept down.”

  “This is one thing I know how to do, and I’m helping,” Maurice stated. “Your mom and sisters are baking up a storm, and I’m in the way in the kitchen.”

  “There must be something you can do in the house,” Susan insisted. “Anything would be better than sweeping down the barn beams.”

  Maurice shook her head, taking in the long beams with a steady glare. “Spiderwebs here I come!” Maurice waved her broom like a weapon.

  Susan laughed and resumed her sweeping.

  Maurice pawed fiercely at the stubborn webs above her, pausing to say, “So, you really will be having the wedding in here. I’m having a hard time imagining it.”

  Susan stopped for a moment. “Well, the men will have the horses outside for the day. And they will either clean the harnesses or move them. The stalls will be all cleaned out and fresh straw put down. Things will look much better by the time James and Teresa walk in together.”

  “That’s a nice young man your dad’s got working for him,” Maurice said, sweeping again.

  “Steve? Yes, he is.” Susan also resumed her work.

  “Is there anything between the two of you? I noticed you invited him to supper the first night I was here.”

  Susan jerked to a stop. “He’s more like a friend. I haven’t known Steve that long because he’s from another Amish community.”

  “You sure? I would declare he’s sweet on you.”

  “Really?” Susan felt her neck growing warm. “Steve’s just a friend. And I’m seeing someone else. Didn’t Teresa tell you?”

  Maurice smiled. “Teresa did tell me about a young man, and I guess his name isn’t Steve. Well, it’s none of my business. Tell me more about Teresa and James. She gave me only the bare details. I don’t think she’s telling me everything.”