A View from the Buggy (20 page)

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 and 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).

A
GAIN IT IS
M
ARCH
,
THE EARLY SPRING OF THE YEAR
. O
UR
W
ISCONSIN
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 L
ORD
(Proverbs 18:22).

N
OW 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 be 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.”

“So it is a yes?” finished Harvey. He was so elated. He had actually passed the test!

This marked the beginning of a beautiful journey as we learned to know each other better. At times, things came up that needed to be worked through, but afterward love's warm rays shone brighter than before.

Next came our engagement. And then the busy months getting ready for the special occasion.

I sighed as I reviewed what a major undertaking it had been to get the haymow ready for the reception. It had been a perfect goat haven during the cold winter months. This was their shelter where they had borne their young and stayed cozy. The free-roaming kids had bounced around on the hay bales like balls of soft fur. Overhead the white king pigeons had cooed and reared their young in shallow hay nests they had built on the stately beams. Now, both the pigeons and the goats had to find another home for a few weeks until the wedding festivities were past.

One evening when the animals were asleep in the barn my adventurous brothers came in and scrambled up the posts. One by one the pigeons were placed in gunny sacks and transported to a pen in the machinery shed.

Hay, twine, and manure in the haymow had to be cleaned out. That job alone took weeks. My brothers had to back the big hay wagon into the mow. They loaded it as high as they dared and took the load out
close to the swamp behind the milk barn where they unloaded by hand again. With sheer determination, they pushed through their aching muscles and blistered hands to accomplish their goal.

Then Harvey brought his power washer over and gave everything a thorough washing. Finally, the only vestige of the goats and pigeons was a faint smell.

On this night an increasing anticipation and excitement filled the air. In all this happiness, my thoughts turned to my precious family. I had grown up as the oldest child in a happy, sheltered home. A lump formed in my throat as I remembered how we'd labored together all these years—Dad, Mom, and my six sisters and five brothers, all of us having formed many a fond memory with each other—though my four-month-old brother, Timothy, would never remember me as a sister at home.

I walked over to the big haymow opening and my gaze swept across the fields. There I'd spent many hours with Dad where we had done fieldwork. In the house I had learned the basic work ethics of housework from my mother.