On a hot and humid afternoon, Leah set off toward Isaac’s house. Summer had matured into an explosion of wild tiger lilies on the roadside, along with black-eyed Susans and daisies.
The climate itself was so lush and verdant compared to dry Southern California that Leah didn’t even mind the humidity. Everything was so green!
“Guder nammidaag, Eleanor,” she greeted Isaac’s mother at the door. “How are you feeling today?”
“Guder nammidaag. About the same.” Eleanor never complained about the hip pain Leah knew plagued her. “Have you come to work on Isaac’s computer?”
“Yes.” Leah stepped into the coolness of the living room. “We’re finalizing the issue. Hello, Isaac,” she added as she spied him seated at the kitchen table.
He rose. “Guder nammidaag. How are your typing fingers today?”
She gave an exaggerated stretch of her arms and hands before her. “Rarin’ to go!”
“You should see what I got in the mail today. It’s too late to put it in this issue, but I thought you’d get a chuckle out of it.” He grinned and handed her a piece of paper. “This is from a seven-year-old boy. We’ll have to correct for spelling.”
The short poem was penned in purple crayon and was creative in its use of spelling. Yet it had a sweet charm. She chuckled. “Not sure we should correct the spelling errors. Half the cuteness here is in how he wrote it. What about printing a corrected version of the poem, but then including a photo of the original right beneath it?”
“Ja, good idea. But as I said, this will have to wait until the next issue.” He laid the paper aside. “Your articles look good, and I’m grateful you wrote them. No regrets?”
“None.” Sitting at the laptop, Leah pulled up the two articles she had contributed to the issue. “Doing laundry by hand, and making mozzarella cheese. I think they’re both informative. I figure if I’m going to cover something as a journalist, no matter what the subject is, I’ll do the most professional job I can.”
“It’s obvious why you were at the top of your field.”
She glanced at him, but he was leafing through a manila folder containing papers. His words didn’t bring the accustomed stab of pain.
Instead she pointed to the computer. “After all this work, what have you done to increase circulation?”
“We try to make sure every store in every Plain community has copies to sell.” He closed the folder and laid it on the table. “Mostly things have spread through word of mouth.”
“Have you reconsidered setting up a website?”
“Not really. I wouldn’t know how anyway.”
She shook her head. “It’s a beautiful magazine, and if you want to increase the number of copies you sell, you really should have something online for people to read. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy, just an information-only spot, but it could help you sell a lot more copies.”
“Up to this point, the magazine has been a one-man business.” He looked troubled. “You’re suggesting making it bigger.”
“Don’t you want to?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “As you found out the hard way, it’s a tremendous amount of work as it is, especially when it gets close to publishing each issue, but it pulls in enough income to make it worthwhile.”
“But increasing the circulation wouldn’t appreciably change the work you already do, which is gathering articles and doing the layout. It just means more people will see it.”
“And then it snowballs. From a website comes digital-only access. Then comes social media. Then comes advertisements, often from sources not suitable to Plain People.” He gave a small shudder. “I’ve seen some of those online network ads. They’re horrible. Then comes expanding the email subscriber list and sending out email newsletters and the like. Then there are all the other associated internet possibilities—YouTube videos and podcasts and such.” He shook his head. “No.”
“So you do understand how to grow a magazine.” It seemed strange to hear this Amish man spouting the intricacies of modern marketing strategies. “You just choose not to do it.”
“Right. You have to understand—I’m walking a fine line. It’s bad enough I work on a computer to get the magazine out, which is shocking enough for this community. I have to keep things low-key and acceptable to Amish standards if I’m going to be allowed to continue running the magazine. Or else I might experience a bann, which could lead to meidung. Shunning.”
“I see your point,” she mused. “I just find it interesting to meet someone whose goal isn’t massive growth and wild success.”
“The magazine is growing. But it’s growing because it contains information people want and like. Beautiful photographs, the simple life, rural living. It appeals to people already living this lifestyle, or who want to. That’s why your article on doing laundry by hand is so perfect. It’s not so much for the Amish, because they already know how. But you came from an urban background and doubtless had never seen it done before.”
“Of course not.”
“And you’d be surprised how many people—I think they’re called back-to-the-landers—want to know how to live a rural life without breaking out the old-fashioned washboard to get their clothes clean.” He smiled. “Maybe by your journalistic standards, laundry is considered a trivial and ridiculous subject, but I assure you it’s not.”
“Having experienced the contrast between a modern washing machine and a hand-powered one, I agree.” She smiled. “You know, it’s funny. I find my mind awhirl with so many article ideas, far more than you could ever use for your magazine. I just find myself amazed at this life, one I never really knew existed. And I think you’re right—there are a lot of people who would want to know everything from how to preserve meat to how to raise respectful kids. I guess that’s why I was pushing the idea of expanding the magazine. It seems like the logical way to get this information out there.”
“A book.”
“Excuse me?”
“It occurs to me you should write a book. Lots of people have written of the culture shock of going from Amish to Englisch, but I don’t think anyone’s done the opposite—written what it’s like to go from Englisch to Amish. You’re seeing things through the eyes of an outsider while living among us. It’s a unique perspective.”
“But I’m not Amish.”
“No, but you’re living the lifestyle for the time being.”
“Are the Amish allowed to write books?”
“Of course! Lots of them do.”
“Hmm.” It was a valuable tip, and she mentally filed it away for later. “But I still think you need a website. You can make it information only—just something simple on what the magazine is about, where to buy copies and how to submit material. I can do it for you, if you like. No phone number, of course, and a warning next to the email that it may take some time to respond.”
He looked wary. “Is it hard to do?”
“Only hard to the extent it will have to be done from the library in Pikeville, where there’s internet service. But there are many free website design sites online. If I had the copy—the text—written out in advance, I could probably register a domain name and pull together a basic information-only website in a few hours.”
“I’ll think about it. I’m still not convinced it’s necessary, but you make a persuasive argument.”
“It wouldn’t change anything, except to make it easier for new readers to find you and new writers to send you stuff.”
Eleanor limped into the kitchen. “Isaac, lieb, could you fetch me some canned pork from the cellar for supper?”
“Ja, ofkoors.” He departed, and Leah was left alone with his mother for a few minutes.
“I’m so glad you’re helping him with the magazine.” Eleanor smiled. “He struggles with the computer, even though the magazine looks so good in the end.”
“It’s no trouble,” said Leah. “As you can imagine, I grew up using them, so to me they’re easy. I used to be a journalist, so I’m even familiar with the particular software he uses.”
“That’s gut.” As Isaac’s footsteps clattered back up the stairs, Eleanor gave what sounded like a blessing. “I hope this works out for the long term. Thank you,” she added as Isaac handed her a quart jar of meat.
Leah continued work with Isaac, finalizing the issue’s details as the evening sun lowered in the sky. Eleanor bustled about the kitchen, cooking.
“You must stay for supper.” The older woman stirred a pot.
“Thank you—I am hungry,” she admitted.
“Let me milk the cows and I’ll be ready,” Isaac told his mother. He grabbed two stainless steel buckets and left the kitchen.
“How many cows do you have?” Leah asked Eleanor as she turned off the laptop and cleared the table.
“Two. It’s all we need with just the two of us living here.”
“Edith said it’s traditional for the parents’ farm to go to the youngest son. And that’s Isaac?”
“Ja. But he’s not a farmer. My second-youngest son, he farms the land. All we keep is some pigs and chickens and cows, and of course a garden and an orchard. Right now, because of my hip, I’m limited to the house, so a lot of the work falls on Isaac. Then he has the magazine, of course, and he’s a leatherworker like his father. He makes bridles and harnesses.”
“A leatherworker! I didn’t know that! I thought he worked with wood.” Again, the journalist in her sat upright.
“He does, but leatherwork is his specialty.”
Leah wanted to touch on Eleanor’s need for a hip replacement, but she knew it wasn’t her place to inquire. Despite Eleanor’s fragile appearance, Leah sensed a deep core of steel in the older woman. If she didn’t want surgery, she didn’t want surgery.
“Where are the dishes?” she asked instead. “I’ll set the table.”
Eleanor directed her to the appropriate locations, and Leah set the table while the older woman finished preparing the meal.
When Isaac finally came in with two buckets full of milk, Eleanor strained it while Isaac washed and sterilized the buckets. Now that she was used to the Bylers’ industriousness and large number of hands to help with the work, she realized just how busy these two—especially Isaac, since Eleanor was unable to do any outside work—must be.
She finally sat at the table after Isaac carried the food over. She bowed her head, mentally said a prayer and waited for the others to finish their blessings before making a proposal.
“You know,” she said, “I’m sort of a fifth wheel at the Bylers’. Ivan’s back on his feet and in the shop, and Sarah and Rachel don’t really need my help. What do you say I come here every day and do some of the outside work? I’m pretty handy now at things like laundry and weeding the garden. I’d be happy to lend a hand.”
She saw the look of surprise between mother and son. “Thank you, Leah,” said Eleanor at last. “I would be grateful.”
“I’ll confirm everything with Edith first, but I’m sure she won’t mind. Besides...” She grinned. “It would be a chance to hone my skills on my own. I need a lot of honing.”
“I would appreciate it.” Isaac’s voice held a note of surprise and pleasure.
“Let’s assume I can start tomorrow,” continued Leah. “What would be best for me to work on first?”
Gardening seemed the highest priority. “The raspberries are full ripe, and it’s hard for Isaac to keep up with them,” said Eleanor. “If you pick and then bring them in, I can preserve them.”
“Isaac, why don’t you show me around the garden after we finish eating?” suggested Leah. “That way I’ll know where all the fruits and vegetables are. And, Eleanor, where would I find such things as buckets and baskets?”
Her offer seemed to breach any walls that existed with Eleanor. If there was one thing Leah had learned since coming to stay with the Bylers, it was that labor was the currency of the community. Exchanging labor was not only a means of getting more work done, but it was also a social lubricant that offered endless opportunities for visiting and friendship.
After the meal, Eleanor shooed Leah outside with Isaac, who led the way to a broad, verdant garden.
“It’s gotten a bit away from me since Mamm’s hip has slowed her down,” he admitted as he toured her around.
Leah was now familiar enough with the plants growing in the Bylers’ garden to identify beans, carrots, peas, strawberries, and all the other types of fruits and vegetables. But in contrast to the diligent efforts of the Bylers, this garden was weedier and more neglected. Still fruitful, just less tidy.
“Here are the raspberries,” said Isaac, stopping before a raised bed with leafy branches arching over, laden with berries. “I’ve only managed to pick about a quart a day—as you can see, not from a lack of fruit, but because I have so much else to do.”
Leah slipped a berry off its stem and popped it into her mouth. “Looks like these are thornless berries, just like the Bylers’.”
“Yes. Much easier for picking.”
Leah looked around the garden. In some ways she was excited by the prospect of having this as her little domain, bringing to it some of the order and loveliness of the Bylers’ garden. She was learning something surprising about herself: she enjoyed manual labor. It gave her a sense of accomplishment she hadn’t often found in journalism work. “I’ll start tomorrow,” she repeated.
“Thank you,” said Isaac. “This will be a big help.”
On the walk back to the Bylers’, Leah reflected on the tasks done by both men and women in the Amish community. Eleanor’s inability to get anything done outdoors, since her walk was unsteady and painful, meant tasks normally designated for women had to be done by Isaac, in addition to his own work. “Many hands make light work,” Rachel had said, and it was clear what happened when those hands weren’t available.
“Oh, of course!” exclaimed Edith after Leah returned home and explained her plan to the older woman. “How awful of me—I didn’t think about how much help she might need! I’ll send Sarah and Rachel too.”
“No, don’t. I know this sounds odd, but I want to see if I can work the garden all by myself. The plants are all thriving...they just need a lot of weeding and cultivating, and some things need harvesting right away, like those raspberries. Give me a week or so and let me see what I can do.”
“How different you are from just a month ago when you first came.” Edith chuckled. “You’re no longer the bewildered beginner. Now you’re a woman on a mission. It’s nice to see.”
And so Leah began a daily “commute,” as she jokingly termed it, walking to the Sommers’ home every morning. That first day, she picked four quarts of raspberries and deposited them in the kitchen for Eleanor, then seized a hoe and began removing the biggest and most disfiguring weeds from between rows of carrots. It took a couple of hours before the hoe work was done, then she crouched down and started pulling weeds from between the carrot plants themselves. Eleanor called her in for dinner, then she went straight back outside. By the time she was ready to leave for the evening, the carrot patch was flawless.
She didn’t brag about the neatness of the rows. That was not the Amish way. Her work would be noticed. And while neither Isaac nor Eleanor would say anything about it, their estimation of her would rise.
The hours of solitary weeding gave her time to think, especially about her future. She thought about what it would be like to stay here in Pikeville, among the Amish. Could she? She now understood manual labor was welcomed and not avoided, and it surprised her how gratifying she found it. But was this something she could do forever? Could she forsake any future in journalism and remain here indefinitely?
The biggest obstacle about becoming Amish was turning out not to be the work or lack of modern amenities, but the faith required. In a gradual process, she was coming to realize God was not a remote and mythical figure; He was here and present in the everyday.
As she got home one evening, laden with blueberries Eleanor insisted on giving her, Rachel commented, “I’m ashamed how little thought I’ve given Eleanor. I really wish she would just have her surgery.”
“Does she not want it?” Leah popped a berry into her mouth.
“I think deep down she just hopes she’ll get better on her own. But she’s not. She’s getting worse. From what I’ve heard, hip replacements are common and make a huge difference for a person.”
“That’s what I’ve heard too. It doesn’t sound like money is the issue, since your mother told me everyone will pitch in to pay the bills. It sounds like it’s just a matter of convincing her.”
“Ja, and it’s not our place to do that. Either Isaac, or one of her other children, are in the best position to talk to her about it.”
Leah wondered how long Eleanor could cope without the surgery. It also made her admire Isaac all the more for the way he took care of his mother.