My aunt responds to me completely differently now that I’m dressed in appropriate clothes. Even though I find this somewhat aggravating, I am also pleased. It’s kind of like how I feel when I take a math test—I despise taking it but am happy to pass it.
There must be close to thirty women here, inside and outside of the house, all of them working on big quilting frames and happily chattering amongst themselves. The quilts they are stitching are really beautiful—geometric creations in shades of purples, blues, greens, grays. I would love to paint a picture of this scene. Even more than that, I would love to learn how to make a quilt, but Rachel and I are kept busy getting their midday meal ready.
“What are the quilts for?” I ask Rachel as we set things out on the dining room table, which has been moved outside.
“It’s Mamm’s business,” she explains. “Mamm does all the work of cutting the quilt pieces and sewing them together to make a top, but when it comes time to quilt them, she invites her friends to help. At first it was only a few women. Two or three.” Rachel lowers her voice. “Mamm always makes them a good dinner and they have a good time—in time more and more women wanted to come.”
“What do you mean it’s your mamm’s business?” I ask as we go back into the kitchen. “Does she sell the quilts?”
“Ja.” Rachel nods as she checks the teakettle to see that it’s hot. “Mamm sells them to a shop in Hochstetler. For good money too. The quilts sell as fast as she can make them.”
“Interesting.”
As Rachel and I help with the food and drinks, I get to meet various women. All the women are pleasant to me, and although I’m introduced as Rachel’s cousin, only a couple of the women who are somehow related to me seem to piece together that I am the daughter of Anna Hershberger (the shunned). I can tell that when they switch over to Pennsylvania Dutch, they are talking about us, probably saying things they don’t want me to hear. It almost makes me wish I understood their weird language.
I try to remember all the women’s names, but like their clothing and hair, their names are very similar. Most of them sound like they came from the Bible. And there are two Rebeccas, two Sarahs, and three Katies. I figure if I forget someone I met, I’ll just call her Katie—and the odds will be in my favor.
However, I do manage to remember one particular woman’s name: Ruth Troyer. The name Troyer catches my attention, and when she tells me she lives on the neighboring farm, I ask if she is related to Ezra Troyer.
“Ja . . . ?” She gives me a curious look. “I’m his mamm. You know my Ezra?”
“Ja,” I echo. “He returned a tool to Dawdi and I met him.”
“Ezra is a good boy. Works hard.”
I nod, feeling her eyes on me as if she’s measuring me up. “Would you like more tea?” I ask politely.
“Ja, please.” She holds up her cup for me to refill it.
The quilting party goes on merrily until close to 4:00, but then the women suddenly start getting up, talking about getting supper and evening chores, and in what seems mere minutes, they are all gone.
As Katrina packs up the quilting things, Rachel and I clean up the kitchen. I’ve never seen such a mountain of dishes. “Do Amish people ever use paper plates?” I ask as I dry the umpteenth plate.
“Many do.” Rachel chuckles. “But Mamm likes to do things . . . her way.”
I get the feeling that my aunt is fairly strong willed, at least for an Amish woman. Compared to the meek, mild souls who were helping her with her quilts today, her personality seems dynamic and overpowering. I wonder if that ever causes problems in this culture. Watching my grandparents these past couple of days, I am aware that men have authority over women. I wonder if my uncle Ben ever has a power struggle with his wife.
“Mammi told me that your father is a minister,” I say to Rachel as I place a small stack of dishes on the open shelf.
“Ja. Daed was chosen last winter when Jeremiah Troyer passed on.”
“Troyer?” I say with interest. “Is that Ezra Troyer’s father?”
“No, Jeremiah was his dawdi.” She looks curiously at me. “You know Ezra?”
“Ja.” I smile shyly. “And I met his mother today too.”
Rachel tilts her head to one side. “How did you meet Ezra?”
I can feel my cheeks warming as I dry a teacup. “I was mowing the grass,” I begin slowly. “Dawdi’s mower wasn’t working right. Ezra happened to be around, and he stepped in and helped me.”
“That sounds like Ezra. Always poking his nose in other people’s business.”
“You don’t like him?” I ask her.
She shrugs as she scrubs a casserole dish. “Ezra is a good man.” But as she says this, I hear something else in her voice. Almost as if she doesn’t fully approve of him.
“He seems nice.”
“Ja. Time will show us.”
I think I have my opportunity, but I get the feeling I should tread carefully. “Ezra told me about a party tonight—”
Rachel drops the dishrag into the water. “What?”
“He said the young people get together on Saturday nights.”
“He told you about that?” She looks close to angry now.
“Ja. Is there something wrong with it? He explained rumspringer—”
“Rumspringa,” she corrects me.
“Yeah, well, he said that it means running around and all that.”
“Ja, I’ll bet he did.” She returns to scrubbing the dish.
“Anyway, I told him I’d like to go tonight.” I take in a deep breath. “Do you think your parents will mind?”
She continues scrubbing, focusing all her attention on getting the casserole dish sparkling, as if her life depends on it.
“Did I say something to upset you?” I ask.
“No.” She shakes her head. “My brother Jeremiah will probably go to the party. Mamm and Daed will not stop you from going with him, if that’s what you want to do.”
“Don’t you ever go to the parties?”
“I used to go.” She stops scrubbing and turns to look at me. “But I stopped. I do not think those parties are good, Shannon. I do not think you will enjoy yourself. There are other ways for young people to get together. Singing groups or volleyball or—”
“Is there some young people activity tonight?” Katrina asks as she comes into the kitchen with a couple of neatly folded quilts in her arms. “Maybe you should take your cousin with you, Rachel.”
“Ja, Mamm, we were just talking about that,” Rachel says in a wooden sounding voice. “I said Jeremiah could take her.”
“You do not want to go?” her mother asks.
Rachel’s brow creases. “Ja. Maybe I will go, Mamm.”
“Good,” Katrina declares. “Young ones need to gather together. I remember those times.” She looks at me. “It is how I met your uncle. I was not even seventeen when we first met. And Rachel will be eighteen in September.”
Rachel looks as if she’d like to throw the dishrag at her mother.
“Those are beautiful quilts,” I say to my aunt, mostly to change the subject but also because it’s true.
At first Katrina seems pleased by my praise, but then she gets a solemn look. “They are good and well made. But they are not beautiful, Shannon. They are not meant to be beautiful.”
“Is it wrong for something to be beautiful?” I ask her.
She smiles in a tolerant way. “The best things in life are not things,” she tells me. “And the best kind of beauty is the kind the eye cannot see.”
“Oh.” I try to absorb this.
“Rachel,” she says abruptly. “Did you check to make sure there is enough leftover food for supper tonight?”
“Ja,” Rachel assures her. “There is plenty for sure.”
“Good. We will not have to cook again.”
“I set aside a pie for tomorrow’s dinner too,” Rachel says.
“Good. Finish in here and then go see to the milking. Shannon can help you.” My aunt peers at me. “Do you know how to milk?”
“A cow?” I ask.
She looks slightly amused. “Rachel will teach you.”
After I’ve finished cow milking 101, earning a grade of D–, I help Rachel get the table set and supper ready to serve. At 6:00 sharp the table quickly fills up. Besides my aunt and uncle and Rachel, two of Rachel’s older brothers join us. Isaac, who works on the farm, is twenty-three and recently engaged. Jeremiah is twenty-one and also works on the farm. Both of these guys look big and strong, probably from doing farm work. They are quiet and polite and seem mostly intent upon the food.
Although there’s more conversation at this table than at my grandparents’ table, it is mostly about the farm and what happened today. Of course, this makes sense. It’s not like they would talk about world events or politics or the latest crime spree. In fact, it’s rather refreshing. Not to mention stress free.
“So what do you think of this place?” Uncle Ben asks me as we’re having dessert.
“I like it,” I tell him.
“You do?” He looks slightly surprised.
“Yeah, I do. I’ll admit I didn’t really like it at first. I think I was in shock.”
Uncle Ben chuckles. “You should have seen her face when I picked them up in Hochstetler,” he tells his family. “She did look shocked.”
“I didn’t know I had Amish relatives,” I explain.
“Your mamm never told you about us?” my aunt asks.
“No. Not at all.”
The table gets quiet now.
“Even if she had told me,” I say quickly, “I don’t think I would’ve understood. I think it takes being here, living right among you, to understand what being Amish means.”
“You think you understand what being Amish means?” My uncle is challenging me.
“Not exactly. But I know that you aren’t Amish just because you’re born here,” I say to him and he nods. “I get that it’s a commitment, and that you must be baptized and follow the Ordnung.”
My uncle looks impressed. “You’ve learned a lot in only a few days.”
I smile at him. “I guess I’ve had good teachers.”
We talk for a while longer, and I feel encouraged to be part of this family. Sure, my aunt intimidates me a little, but I respect that she’s a strong woman. I’m a little surprised to see that she’s very respectful of her husband. I’m not sure why I thought she wouldn’t be, especially knowing that he is a minister. Even though Uncle Ben is a minister, he seems fairly easy to talk to. All in all, I feel fairly good about being here. To be honest, that surprises me.
After dinner I help Rachel wash the dishes and clean the kitchen. Their kitchen setup is almost identical to Mammi’s, except that there is more space, which is probably good since their family is bigger. “There used to be eight of us sitting at that table,” Rachel tells me as I’m scrubbing the dining table and she’s sweeping the floor. “Before Samuel—that’s my oldest brother—married Abigail and moved to her parents’ farm to help out. Then Grace got married and moved too,” she continues. “And then Joshua . . . um . . . left.”
“Left?” I ask. “Where did he go?”
She pauses her sweeping. “We’re not supposed to speak of him.”
“Oh . . . but he’s your brother, right?”
She nods and lowers her voice. “He would be twenty-six now.”
“Did he die?”
She shrugs. “Maybe he did. I don’t know.”
“Really?”
“He left,” she whispers. “Went into the—the army. We are not supposed to mention his name again, ever.”
“Oh . . . I’m sorry.” I’m guessing that means he’s like my mom—shunned. “That must be hard.”
“Ja. My brother was taught pacifism. Not war.” She returns to a normal tone of voice. “So when all the kids still lived here, it could be noisy sometimes.”
“Noisy? That’s hard to imagine.”
“Well, it was noisier,” she explains. “Unless Daed said, ‘Quiet,’ and then it wouldn’t be so noisy.”
It’s so weird to think about how my aunt and uncle could exercise that kind of control over six children—six! Of course, according to Rachel, Joshua didn’t seem to fall into the being controlled category. He joined the army. I wonder if he’s ever sorry about leaving. What would they do if he wanted to come back? Do they believe in the prodigal son?
Rachel and I spend a little time, though not much, cleaning up to go out to the party. She seems a little unhappy about going, and I’m curious as to why, but I’m afraid that if I ask, she might change her mind. So I keep my mouth shut. Every once in a while, I sneak a peek out the window. I keep wondering if Ezra might stop by my grandparents’ house and ask about me. If they tell him I’m over here, is it possible he’ll show up? And if he does show up, what will I do?
When Jeremiah announces that he’s hitched the horse and buggy and it’s time to go, I don’t see any sign of Ezra. Rachel and I get into the back of the buggy, and I look out the window in the direction of Ezra’s farm.
“Don’t worry,” she tells me. “He will be at the party.”
“Who?” I try to act like I don’t know what she’s talking about.
“Ezra,” she says plainly. “He will be there. Count on it.”
“Ja,” Jeremiah says from in front. “Ezra will be there for sure.”
Feeling satisfied, I lean back and wonder how Ezra will react to seeing me in Amish clothes tonight. I know he liked how I looked in my sundress, but I hope he’ll appreciate me making the effort to dress like this too. Besides, I remind myself, if I didn’t, I probably wouldn’t have been allowed out tonight. So, really, I did it for Ezra. I gaze out at the sun, which is starting to dip low in the sky. With the clouds and what looks like smoke in the distance, it appears the evening will be another colorful show. “Looks like a pretty sunset tonight,” I say lightly to Rachel.
She nods, looking out. “Ja. Peace is seeing a sunset and knowing who to thank.”
I turn to look at her. “Wow. That’s a cool thing to say.”
She tips her head to one side. “It is just something my daed says sometimes.”
“The knowing who to thank part, that means God, right?”
“Ja. He is the one who makes the sun to rise and to set.”
“And the moon and the stars,” I say dreamily.
She gives me a funny look, like she’s wondering what’s up with me.
“Last night the stars were absolutely amazing,” I explain.
But as the buggy rumbles down the graveled road, it’s not the stars or the sunset that occupy my thoughts. No, my mind is fixed on Ezra Troyer, and my heart is beating with anxious anticipation. I cannot wait to see him again, to look into his brown eyes, to feel his rough hand touch my cheek . . . to kiss him. Just thinking of these things makes me light-headed and giddy.