October song (17 page)

“So be it,” Grandfather Zook said. “Amen,” said John Zook.

Once home, Philip shared his experi ences at the frolic with Rachel as she set out cold cuts for their supper.

She nodded. “Working together like that all day will bring out either the best or the

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worst in two people.”

“That’s the truth.” He filled her in on some of the “best” parts.

“We work for a higher cause, ya know.” Rachel’s eyes shone.

He caught her from behind and turned her around, pulling her gently to him. “Will you teach me to speak your lan guage?” he whispered.

She grinned. “And will my husband be wantin’ to learn to drive a horse and buggy, too?”

A week later, on his walk to work at Lavina’s brother’s farm, Philip noticed a vehicle parked along the side of the road with its hood up. Three men, none of them Amish, were bent over, their noses nearly touching the engine.

“Need some help?” he called to them. It was Vern Eisenberger who turned around. Surprised, Philip saw that the bro ken-down truck was the blue pickup. “Well, if it isn’t the not-so-Amish guy,” Vern jeered, turning to his friends.

Philip chuckled under his breath.Let your light so shine before men”What’s the problem?” he asked, going to look under the hood with the rest of them.

“Can’t seem to tell,” said one.

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Vern spoke up. “Could be the fan belt.” Obviously, Vern was hesitanttoadmit not knowing much about mechanics. Philip detected as much. “Mind if I take a look?”

Vern gave a disbelieving grunt, glancing sideways at his fellow companions.

In short order, Philip determined the problem and made some adjustments, offering a brief explanation to quell the raised eyebrows of the men when the pickup roared to life. “I used to do a lot of driving worked on my own cars, too, when I was living in the Big Apple — before I turned Plain. I was far from the fold of God,” he told them.

“Well, that makes sense about you driving before and yet it doesn’t,” Vern

said with a skeptical grin, surveying Philip’s attire.“Youwere a a non-Amish

once?” He didn’t believe a word of it.

“I was a journalist worked in a Manhattan skyscraper.” Philip wasn’t proud of it, only wanted to clarify.

To this, Vern laughed out loud, closing the hood of his pickup with a resounding thud. “I suppose you’ve got a bridge to sell in London, too?”

“You know, I never apologized for bor—

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rowing your truck, did I?” Vern shook his head. “For an

Amishman, that’s not too common.”

“Now is as good a time as any.” Philip made a sincere apology, adding, “I was wrong. Will you forgive me?”

Vern’s face reddened. “Aw, who knows, I might’ve done the same thing, given the circumstances.”

Philip turned to go. “Have a good day . . you and your friends.”

“Now, wait just a minute,” Vern called after him. “Just how much sway do you have over John Zook, do you think?”

Philip was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Seems to me Zook could do some hard thinking before changing his brand of feed.”

“You’ll have to take that up with him.” “I think I’ll just go over there and make him a good offer. What do you think of that?” Vern extended his hand and Philip

shook it. “Thank you, uh, Mr.–”

“Call me Philip.”

“Okay, big-city man.” Vern was grinning as he got into his blue pickup and drove away.

Philip was glad to be on foot, without the headaches of car repair. He was also

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grateful for the tranquillity of the open road and the opportunity to practice his Dutch, his city days long gone. Offering a prayer of blessing for the day, he headed down the road, under the covering of heaven.

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9

T a.for

How precious little deeds of love and

sympathy are.

How strong to bless, how easy to perform,

how comfortable to recall.

— Louisa May Alcott

Ach, it’s always the same story. Whenever I ask Mam for one of her mouthwatering recipes (those not found in any recipe book), she starts reciting a long list of ingredients, sprinkling her comments with

“mix in a handful of chopped onion, depending on its size, and stir in generous pinches of dried celery leaves,” or “use a blob of mayonnaise the size of an egg.

But I’ll stop her, now and then, tryin’ my best to jot things down quickly so I can remember for always.

“Neeno, no, Rachel,” Mam’s eyes are shining — “ya mustn’t pay such close attention to the recipe.., to thewords.”

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“How else — 7”

“Cooking and baking depends on so many things, such as how warm or cool your kitchen is,” she continued. “And what quality are the ingredients? And the mindset of the cook and suchlike, ya know.”

I’m fully aware of all this, having ob served the creative process of food prepa ration hundreds of times while growin’ up in an Old Order household, soaking up kitchen activities like a sponge soaks up spilt milk. Still, the idea of passing on the delicacies of such things asLattwarick(apple butter),Siesseraahmkuche(sweet cream cake), and other centuries-old treats seems awful important to me these days.

Now that I’m well on my way to havin’ a houseful of children — two so far, and an other on the way — along with cooking for Philip, whose appetite is hearty after a long day of workin’ the land and other odd jobs, I’m kept ever so busy in the kitchen. Sometimes, too, Lavina Troyer, as well as Adele Herr, who lives with Lavina over in the Dawdi Haus, will join us for the eve ning meal. To hear the two women talk, you’d think they were privy to my concern ‘bout writing down the People’s recipes. Truly, Lavina will say clear out of the blue,

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in her faltering way, “Passin’ down our recipes is somethin’ akin to the Ordnung, really,” which is the unwritten blueprint for expected Amish behavior. “Ain’t written down anywheres the People just know it, is all,” Lavina says, her thin face all aglow.

‘Course, she’s right. And there are plenty other things that don’t get recorded for mally for posterity, yet they’re handed down from one generation to the next. But in an unspoken manner. Take quilting.Imight give my daughter, Annie, some pieces to make a quilt, along with one of her girl cousins, and, lo and behold, if Annie doesn’t make a “nine-patch” and her cousin a “diamond in the square.” The

same pieces turn out two patterns,

diff’rent as can be.

Nobody round here jots down the art of quilting to pass on to their daughters and granddaughters. Not plowing and planting, neither. Plain young people justknowby listenin’, by watching what their parents do. It’s an “understanding,” I heard one minister put it. Almost ingrained.

The People hand down the tunes to the hymns, sung in unison and by rote, from the Ausbund. No musical notation is found in the Amish hymnbook, only the

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words. And we teach our young men how to build a barn in one day, where mostly nonverbal communication happens. Know-how is passed along by skilled older men to the younger by the act of observance, which my Philip learned at a recent barn frolic.

Getting back to the issue of wonderful-gut recipes being’ lost to the next generation, I had a rare opportunity the other day to slip away from the house early in the afternoon. Lavina didn’t mind watching over sleeping baby Gabe, and Annie was still at school. So while I was free-just a bit — I headed on over to visit Mam at Orchard House B&B, where Philip first rented a room. He had been a journalist assigned to do research on a story ‘bout Amish Christmas celebrations back then.

I went for the sole purpose of askin’ Mam to recite her meatball chowder recipe and, if she had the time, some others, too. Anyways, I wasn’t in the door more’n half a minute and she slipped her arm through mine, leading me out to the kitchen, where she insisted we have ourselves a cup of sweet chamomile tea and some of her sand tarts, light and thin, still warm from the oven.

I was more than happy to sit and sip tea

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with Mam. Though she and Dat lived less than two miles from Philip and me, Mam didn’t have many opportunities to get away. They ran a bustling bed-and-breakfast business, ‘specially booked up with overnight guests during peak foliage. Right now. By the looks of the dark circles under her usually bright eyes, Mam was long overdue for a quiet moment or two.

“What wouldja think of me copying down some of your recipes?” I asked, settling into her sunny kitchen.

“Well, now, Philip isn’t thinkin’ of putting them in his collection of stories, is he?”

I bit my tongue. Where on earth had she gotten such a notion? “Mam “

“I won’t have a thing to do with folk getting rich off my recipes. They’ve been in the family as long as your great-greatgrandmammi’s arrival from Switzerland.”

“But, Mam, the recipes aren’t for Philip,” I assured her.“Iwant them. And someday Annie will, too, when she grows up and bakes forkerfamily.”

Susanna crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, just a-starin’ at me. “Honestly, Rachel?”

She knew I wouldn’t lie. “I don’t want your recipes to . ” I thought better than

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to saydie off with you, Marebut that’s what I was thinkin’. “It’d be a terrible thing for them to get lost over the years, ya know.”

Mamma’s eyelids fluttered a bit as she stood there, prob’ly thinking over my re quest. Then, without saying more, she came and sat at the table across from me, her eyes still wide with a trace of doubt.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll keep them in the family.”

“Philip won’t up and publish an Amish cookbook, then get yourself rich as can

be?”

“No, Mamma wondered why she Philip makin’ extra

this is just for me.” I was worried ‘bout money in the first

place. The thought was obviously stuck in her mind. Fact was, my husband’s article and story writing didn’t bring in the kind of income he was used to making while writing for the New York magazine. No, he’d given up a life of riches to marry me and join church here.

I kept lookin’ at Mam, wondering just what it was that seemed to eat away at her just now. Were she and Dat struggling over finances? Hardly. I knew precisely what they asked, and got, for a room with a pri vate bath per night. Goodness knows, there

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were always tourists eager to stay in an “authentic” Amish B&B. For a gut seven months out of the year, they were booked solid. No, that couldn’t be what was botherin’ her.

“More tea?” she asked, getting up before I ever said.

“Jab, little.”

“Didja bring along pen and paper, then?” Mam seemed to ask her question to the wall right there by the kitchen sink. And she didn’t wait for me to respond, nei ther. “Benjamin’s thinking ‘bout sellin’ the business,” she said, her voice flat as could be.

“The inn, ya mean?”

She nodded her head slowly. “This here house and everything.”

“Is . . is Dat awful sick?” A knot began to grow in my stomach.

“Just wore out, I ‘spect, though it ain’t him doin’ most the work here.”

I could see that Mam was more than a little put out with Dat just by the firm set of her jowl. The stubborn look in her eyes, too, reminded me of a day, years before, when I’d told her Jacob Yoder and I were plannin’ to be married. Jacob, at that time, was walkin’ the fence ‘tween the Old Order and the Amish-Mennonites. He had been

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killed in a buggy wreck, along with our young son, one sad summer day a few years ago.

It was mighty clear Mare wasn’t happy ‘bout selling out and retiring. Just as she wasn’t happy ‘bout me marryin’ outside our church district, and she tried to put a stop to it, which hadn’t set well with Jacob. She was a strong and outspoken woman, not nearly as submissive as many of the womenfolk in the community were known to be.

“When’s Dat thinking of sellin’ the inn?” I asked at last.

“Soon as he can get a real estate agent over here to measure the place and run a market analysis,Is’pose.”

I sighed. Wasn’t it just yesterday they’d packed up and left the family farm, my childhood home, turnin’ over the duties to my brother and his wife? They’d moved into this rambling two-story house, hangin’ out the Orchard Guest House sign to draw attention to the inn.

“Where will you live?” I asked.

“Our own Dawdi Haus, if your father has his way.”

Back to the farm,I thought.

“Are ya sure Dat’s ready?”

Mam frowned. “I wouldn’t be tellin’ ya if

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he wasn’t. Believe me, I’ve shed plenty a tear . . prayed, too.”

I was glad to hear the latter. “Prayer helps, Mamma. Keep talkin’ to the Lord ‘bout your fears.”

“Who said a thing ‘bout fears?” She came and poured more tea for me, spilling some over the sides, making a tiny pool around the base of the saucer.

I knew I should’ve kept my comments to myself. It was painful seem’ Mam hurting so. “Maybe it’s the end of the season that makes Dat feel this way,” I spoke up. “Winter will be closin’ in here perty soon. Could that be what he’s thinkin’?”

“Winter and old age, to put it bluntly.” Mam carried the teakettle back and placed it firmly on the stovetop. “Your father’s much older than I am . ‘least inside he is. If ya know what I mean.”

“Jah.” I’d sensed it happening all the while Annie and I lived with them, after Jacob and young Aaron were killed in the accident. Something had died within Benjamin Zook the day his bright-eyed grandson was buried six feet under. Just as part of me had ended, too.

“Dat’s not still mourning, is he?” I found myself asking. “Ach, not so much, really.” She went to

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the window and looked out. “Truth be known, I think he’s tired of living. Guess we all come to that, sometime or other.”

“You’ll go along with his idea, then?” I asked.

She turned and smiled. “You know me well, Rachel. And I must tell ya” and here she leaned against the windowsill

“I’ve given up fussing over things so. Life’s too short to insist on havin’ your own way. Makes for trouble on ev’ry hand.”

My guess was that her coming to the Lord, as she had some time ago, had changed her from the inside out. She’d yielded to the longing in her heart for a relationship with almighty God. Jah, Mam was much softer round the edges, in a manner of speaking. Most of the time, she