THEY HAD EGGS FOR BREAKFAST NOW. Good brown eggs with dark orange yolks and glossy whites fried perfectly in hot lard and salted and peppered to perfection. They should have been sold and the money gone toward other household expenses, Annie reasoned.
“Now why would we do that?” Dan asked, patting her shoulder affectionately.
“Eggs are a good profit,” she answered.
“You can’t eat profit,” he laughed. “I love a good fried egg in the spring, and why should I eat eggs and the children go without? I say we should eat them as long as the hens are laying.”
Enos and Ephraim nodded, their eyes never leaving their stepfather’s face. All of Annie’s children lived with Dan, looked to him as a hero of deliverance. There were eggs for breakfast, more meat, even if it was merely slivers of beef in white milk gravy. There were pies, and occasionally cookies made with molasses, white flour, and sugar. Instead of bread with lard they had soft white bread and butter, sometimes with pear or apple butter.
But Dan’s children looked on the eight Miller children as usurpers, upending their own stable relationship with their remaining parent, and used every available opportunity to remind them of this.
Walking home from school was the worst time, when they were safely out of earshot of both parents.
“Emma, get off the road. There’s a car coming,” Amos shouted.
Emma One, his biological sister, called back, “Which Emma?” Although both Emmas stepped closer to the ditch, out of the way of the oncoming vehicle.
“You! There is no other Emma who is my sister.”
Wide-eyed, seven-year-old Emma’s feelings were extremely hurt. Tears formed as she hastily stuck her thumb in her mouth.
“She is too your sister,” Ephraim shouted.
“No, she’s not.”
“Is too.”
“Huh-uh.”
Lunch boxes were thrown in the ditch, fists balled, and heads lowered as they met head on by the side of the road, hitting and pounding.
“Get offa me!” Amos yelled.
“Say she’s your sister and I will,” Ephraim grunted, pounding away while he straddled his back.
With both hands over his ears, Amos kept shouting.
“She’s not my real sister!”
Enos entered into the fray, always the peacemaker, trying to pull Ephraim off by his suspenders. Ida, always the tomboy, egged Ephraim on, saying, “Get him! Make him say ‘Uncle!’”
Bloodied and mud-stained, the two boys crept up the back stairway, changed clothes, and wiped their faces as best they could, but neither one could hide the black eye or the raw scratches and bruises.
They sat on the bench to change socks, as guilty as thieves. Annie turned, already aware of unusual goings on, the way those two had crept up the back stairs. She laid down the towel she was folding and walked over to where they were seated.
Why was it so much easier to reprimand Ephraim than Amos? She so desperately wanted to feel the same about both boys, and yet there was a difference. She felt afraid, intimidated by Amos.
Ephraim had been hers since the day he was born. She had fed and diapered him, watched him take his first step, and he was a part of her life, a part of her being. Amos was acquired at the age of thirteen, and had not been hers at all one moment before then. She had to remind herself repeatedly that he was indeed hers, that he became hers the day she married Dan.
“What happened?” she began.
“Ephraim beat me up,” Amos offered, sullenly, without remorse.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” she asked quietly.
“Mam, he said our Emma was not his sister, and she is, too.”
“So that gave you enough reason to beat him?” Annie asked.
“He made her cry.”
Why was it so hard to tear her eyes away from Ephraim’s face and into Amos’s? She felt so badly for both boys, but knew she needed to be courageous, to face this situation squarely.
Taking a deep breath, she plunged in.
“Alright, both of you.”
She met the glowering eyes of her stepson.
“The day we were married, we became a family, alright? In God’s eyes, we have fourteen children, so it’s up to you to accept this. Emma is your sister, Amos. Yes, she is. She was not born your sister, but through marriage, she is. So we will hear no more of this about who is whose sister or brother.”
Both boys were shame-faced now, felt their mistake by the spare words of a strong mother. And yet they felt her caring heart, too, even if they wouldn’t have admitted it in that moment.
“We are all family. We aren’t perfect, but no family is. Amos, you had no right to say Emma was not your sister. We won’t say things like that again, OK?”
He nodded, his eyes downcast.
“Ephraim, apologize for beating him. Amos, apologize for saying that.”
Ephraim spoke up.
“He shouldn’t apologize to me. He should tell Emma he’s sorry. I was sticking up for her.”
“That can come later. Right now this is about you two.”
They offered halfhearted apologies, but there was no real feeling. Annie decided it was enough that they had obeyed and left it at that, ushering them out to do chores.
When suppertime came, she had all the wash folded, and with Suvilla’s help, it was all put back in drawers and closets, except for a stack of ironing in the clothesbasket. She was stirring the thick bean soup, her back turned to the kitchen, when she felt two strong hands grasp her waist, followed by Dan’s face close to hers and a soft kiss placed on her cheek.
“My glaeyne frau,” he murmured.
She smiled, leaned back against his chest for a moment. He smelled of wet earth and strong breezes, of cows and hay and, yes, manure. The smell she had been used to all her life. The smell of a farmer.
She turned to meet his eyes, the tender look she found there as sure as the rising sun. His temperament never changed. He was like a rock, a pillar of good humor and gentleness that supported the foundation of her being. When she was with him, nothing seemed impossible.
“I love you,” she whispered, a hand going to his face. He smiled into her eyes, and they both turned to find many pairs of eyes watching them.
Dan smiled, stepped back, clapped his hand and said, “Komm, Rebecca.” He beckoned her two-year-old. Our two-year-old, she reminded herself. Not just mine.
“Komm,” he coaxed again. Rebecca watched him warily, then sidled shyly along the sofa until she reached him. He bent to pick her up, cradled her in his lap while she put her thumb in her mouth and closed her eyes.
They all laughed.
Rebecca was so shy, and her thumb was her refuge from every scary thing in her life. Closing her eyes was her way of shutting out whatever her thumb did not console.
“Funny girl, Rebecca,” Dan laughed, holding her closer.
As Annie dished up the fragrant bean soup, a stab of guilt went through her, took away the comfort of Dan’s attentiveness. It all seemed so easy for him, so seamless. There was no effort in his reaching for her child; the attempts to win her over were completely genuine. Already the younger girls adored him, especially Lydia and Emma. For this, Annie was thankful, but it highlighted her own shortcomings.
The dinner table held two loaves of bread, three large dishes of apple butter, three plates of butter, and the steaming bowls of bean soup. There were fourteen hungry children lined on either side of the lengthy table. Dan sat at the end of the table, with Annie to his left, Rebecca on her other side.
The chattering and scraping of chairs stopped the minute Dan lifted a hand. “Patties noona.” It was the signal to bow heads in unison, hands in laps, as silent prayers were whispered or thought, depending on the person’s method of thanking the Lord for the food before them. Some children were conscientious, lowering their heads so their foreheads almost touched the tabletop, while others bowed their heads only slightly, their eyes sliding sideways while their elbows poked into ribs, snickers or whispers escaping them.
Ephraim didn’t bow his head at all, resulting in a stern look from Dan.
Ephraim said he didn’t know how Dan could see what he was doing if he kept his own head bowed the way he was supposed to. Amos countered that every parent was expected to watch his children’s behavior; it didn’t matter when. Enos rolled his eyes, knowing Amos would side with Dan (he could not bring himself to call him “Dat”), regardless of his actions.
They did get visitors. They descended on the Dan Beiler farm like a swarm of flies, trickling in one at a time, till there were as many as six or seven buggies parked along the front of the barn, or tied to the hitching rack, on any given Sunday.
They came to welcome Annie and her children. They wrung her hand, clasped it in both of their own, looking deep into her eyes with much love and understanding. They brought doughnuts and apple dumplings, sacks of licorice and pans of scrapple.
Ezra Lapp sie Anna handed her a bag of fresh lettuce and new red radishes, perfect red globes tied in a neat bundle with a rubber band secured around the green tops.
“Already?” Annie gasped, throwing her hands in the air.
“My now, Annie. Don’t you have a hot bed?”
Annie shook her head no.
“Mold oh. We need to talk to Dan. Can hardly believe he didn’t build a hot bed for Sarah. Any worthy frau needs a hot bed to sow lettuce and radish seeds in February or early March.” With that, she took herself into the living room to shake Dan’s hand and accost his unworthiness by not having a hot bed.
Dan looked into her face as she talked, nodded his head up and down in affirmation, said ya, ya, he would have to see to it. Then he did the unthinkable and told her he already had a warm bed with his new wife and that was far more important, which caused her to blush and snort and pshaw her way back to the kitchen as fast as possible.
Ezra Lapp was not a farmer. He started a welding shop in the twenties, called K and L Welding, and made a fairly good living for the first five years, till the Depression took away most of his trade. A quiet, unassuming man, he was married to an outspoken robust woman four years his senior, who seemed to control him much the same way a puppet is controlled, by deft manipulation. Everyone knew when shy Ezra asked for her hand in marriage she told him she would marry him on one condition, and that was that he not milk cows or farm the land, that she was not going to smell cow manure and sour milk her whole life long. Some said he should have been warned by that; others said he wasn’t dumb, he enjoyed his garrulous, decisive wife.
They said she was the one who had the funds to start up K and L Welding, that the K stood for her maiden name, Kauffman. He seemed perfectly happy to be put in the back seat and let his outspoken wife do most of the talking. He listened to her spit-flinging tirades with acceptance and interest, for he loved his round wife and admired her mind immensely. But when Dan told her about his warm bed, he threw back his head and howled with glee. He had never seen his Anna quite as flummoxed as he had then, and was delighted.
Back in the kitchen with Annie, Davey Zook sie Katie said a good way to stretch meat was to put it in roasht, that any meat was good that way, even ground beef or sausage. In fact, her favorite was doggie fils, which was roasht made with sliced hot dogs. She looked hopefully in Annie’s direction, wondering if she would be the kind of wife to welcome others to her table. She was not disappointed when Annie said, “We could have it for supper. Will you all be staying?”
“Yes. Oh, indeed. Sure. But don’t go to any bother, please.”
The women rose as one to help peel potatoes and cut bread into cubes. There was no celery in spring, so they used onion and dried parsley, plenty of lard, and cut up canned hot dogs, and mixed everything in an enormous bowl with beaten eggs and chicken broth. Then they dumped it into a large roaster and popped it in the wood-fired oven.
Potatoes were put on the range to boil, milk gravy made with browned butter and flour, canned beans seasoned with salt, pepper, molasses, and a bit of pork fat. The meal was rounded out with bowls of applesauce, small dishes of sweet pickles, and pickled red beets.
The men and children ate first, which allowed the women to serve them, the traditional way of hosting a Sunday table for visitors. There were twenty-three present at the extended table, and all ate with a hearty appetite, even the smallest boy or girl.
Katie watched the men taking second helpings of the doggie fils onto their plates. She so loved it, and hadn’t made it in a while, so her mouth watered all through. “The men always take so long,” she told the other women in the kitchen.
“Oh, but they’re hungry,” Annie answered from her point at the stove, dishing up the fragrant beans.
“Well, we are, too. Ach. Annie, you’re too sweet for your own good. Hesslich, everyone is going to walk all over you.”
“Oh no,” Annie laughed. “I can speak my mind. But after you have been a widow for a while, things look so much different. Appreciation comes more easily.”
They saw the tears in her eyes, and everyone was touched. Here was a woman who had suffered bravely, who had carried on in these hard times, and didn’t seem to hold the slightest bitterness in her heart.
Annie served bread and butter, along with strawberry preserves. Dessert was her high, quivering custard pie, a real treat for those who seldom had extra eggs or milk. There were clear glass bowls of canned peaches and a dense spice cake thick with raisins, nutmeg, and cinnamon.
Oh, it was a wondrous meal, especially for Depression times.
Dan himself had no idea the custard pies had been made on Saturday morning, along with the twice weekly ten loaves of bread. The spice cake smell had lingered in the kitchen at lunchtime, but he’d figured it was a bread pudding for supper.
The women all asked for the custard pie recipe, and the men thought Dan a very fortunate man, even before the appearance of spice cake and peaches.
“You have a good cook, Dan,” Henry Beiler said, leaning back in his chair and patting his full stomach with appreciation.
Annie’s face was flushed, moving from table to stove, filling bowls and water glasses, replenishing the bread plate.
Eventually, Dan looked around the table to be certain he was not hurrying a slow eater, before he spoke. “Did you get enough?”
Murmurs of appreciation and assent followed.
Dan smiled, cleared his throat, and ducked his head to thank the Lord for what they had just eaten in the second silent prayer.
Whooping with glee, the children and their friends slid off benches and made a mad dash for the door to continue their game of kickball. The men chewed on toothpicks or smoked their pipes or cigars in the living room. The women hurriedly cleared the table, emptied serving bowls into heavy kettles, and reheated, stirred, and reset the table, talking, laughing, enjoying the camaraderie. Sunday company was the high point of many hardworking women’s social lives.
The table was almost filled the second time, and there was enough for everyone. Not everyone got a slice of the spice cake, but there was plenty of pie and peaches. The women all said they didn’t know when they ever had better doggie fils. Annie demurred, saying it wasn’t better than anyone else’s, although she did add more chicken broth and eggs than her mother used to.
The house was messy, the floors tracked with muddy foot prints, and all the work she had put into the preparing of pies and cakes had disappeared in one Sunday evening. But the time of making new friends, the enjoyment of hospitality and fellowship, far outweighed the work.
By the time all the kids were in bed or in their rooms and Annie and Dan finally got to turn in for the night, her body ached with weariness. But her heart was filled with gratitude. She kissed her new husband, lay her head on his strong arm, and thanked him for everything he did for her. They both fell asleep with a smile on their lips.