THERE WERE TIMES THAT SUMMER THAT Annie was so weary, so bone tired, she felt as if every muscle was protesting against one more step. Yes, it was the physical labor, but more than that it was the constant bickering, the competition between the children for her attention and love, that wore her out. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t convince them that there was enough love to go around. Sometimes she thought maybe there wasn’t actually enough love in her heart. When she lost her patience and snapped at one of the children, or struggled to feel the same way about Dan’s little ones as she did about hers, she shuddered to think maybe she was as coldhearted as her unfeeling grandmother.
Every night she set the large round tub on the back porch for the children to wash their feet before bed. Such a long row of sun-browned and calloused feet that had dashed across grass and stones and plowed soil. She helped the little ones scrub and tried to remember to give each child a word of attention, something to let them know she was here, she was their mother, and she loved them all the same.
She tried, but had to admit, there was a difference, in spite of her best efforts. Lavina and Hannah had taken to eyeing her with dark baleful glances, which she ignored at first, but then catalogued as another form of rebellion. She knew she was not enough. There simply was not time to draw out each child and give them the attention—that delicate balance of loving care and discipline—that they needed.
After all the children were upstairs in bed, Annie and Dan retreated to the swing on the front porch. They rocked gently and the swing creaked and groaned from the rusty hooks in the ceiling. Crickets chirped lazily from their hiding place beneath the boxwoods; a procrastinating robin chirped loudly to its mate from the maple branch above them. A cow lowed softly, the sound of her hooves in the barnyard like suction cups, the mud drawing down on each heavy split hoof.
“Barnyard still wet?” Annie asked softly.
“Yes. Guess I’ll have to clean it up. We are just blessed with plenty of rain this summer.”
Annie laid her head on Dan’s solid shoulder and placed a hand on his knee, something she would never have done with her first husband. He had so often carried resentment like a prickly armor, a porcupine of separation. Dan was, well, he was welcoming. His wide chest and shoulders were a haven for her weariness and concerns at the end of the day.
Now, when his arms went around her, drawing her against him, he bent to place a kiss on the top of her head.
“My precious little wife,” he said, chuckling in the depth of his chest.
Annie closed her eyes and rested in his love.
“Dan, I’m sorry to come to you every evening with my concerns, but do you think Lavina and Hannah have a . . . have a problem with me?”
For a long moment Dan was quiet, the rise and fall of his chest the only sound. He sighed, cleared his throat, then drew a hand from her waist to her shoulder, where he began a gentle massage.
“Annie my love, I would never hurt your feelings if I could help it, you know that. But I think those two girls were hit very hard by the death of their mother. It wasn’t just her passing. They spent a lot of time with her when she was struggling. So to grow up with a . . . a loss of love and attention, then to have to see their mother’s passing . . . I always imagine them like leaking little boats pushed out to sea. It’s hard for them. And . . . .”
He paused, drew a deep breath.
“I think maybe Ida is causing some jealousy. What do you think?”
Annie held very still. Ida. The one whose boundless energy and high spirits had often carried her through her darkest hours. She was blessed with a sunny disposition and a never-ending flow of good humor, finding ways of fun and delight where many children would have overlooked it. She loved Ida fiercely. It came so naturally. She had always hoped never to favor one above the other, but no one would disagree that Ida was a special girl.
Now, she thought of all the times she and Ida laughed together, sharing a moment of levity amidst the chores, while Lavina and Hannah looked on from a distance. Of course they would want that same kind of connection with her.
“I’m so dumb,” she said softly.
His arms tightened. “No, no, dear heart. No, you are not. You have your hands full, and I could be a help to you by mentioning only what I have observed. You know we will both always be drawn to our own children, the ones we raised as babies. We saw them being born, we cherished their tiny faces, the way all parents do.
“But we have to keep trying to do the best we can. I noticed Suvilla is having problems, but to tell you the truth, Annie, I feel totally useless in helping her. She hardly says two words to me, and I can’t think of anything to say to her. So now look who’s dumb.”
“Suvilla? I had no idea. Oh my word, Dan. It has nothing to do with you, at all. She’s just at the age where she has no confidence, where everything looks scary and unsure. She’ll be joining the rumschpringa in a few months, and that is a frightening time for many of us.”
“But she doesn’t like me.”
“She will, once her life is more settled.”
A comfortable silence fell between them, as they gently pushed back and forth on the old wooden swing. The crickets chirped continuously, the half-moon hung above them to the east, bathing the farm in its soft glow.
“Annie?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll work this all out in time, won’t we?”
“Of course. I love how easily I can talk to you about anything. If we can continue to do that, I see no reason why things can’t be normal soon enough. Christmas. I’ll give it till Christmas,” Annie laughed, trying to feel as confident and she made herself sound.
“Can you imagine all the gifts? And all the Christmas dinners we’ll have to go to? This one at home, my family on both sides, and your family on both sides. That’s five Christmas dinners, Annie.”
“What fun!” she answered.
“Now you sound like Ida.”
She laughed.
Dan shook his head, looking sober again.
“Lavina is so much like her mother, I’m afraid. Just full of . . . well, whatever it was that drove her to be so miserable at times.”
“Oh, but I’m so glad you’ve made me aware of it.”
Dan yawned, stretched. Annie gave an answering yawn, and together they made their way into the house, and to the bed that was a haven for their weary selves.
They did not kneel by the side of their bed to pray, having done that with the fourteen children around the kitchen table. Sixteen people, on their knees, heads bent in various degrees of holiness, the gas light hissing softly as Dan’s voice rose and fell, reading from the German book the prayer that sustained his faith.
After breakfast the next morning, Dan announced he and Annie would be going to the small town of Intercourse, the name implying the hub of a wheel, where many roads met, and that Ida and Lavina could ride along. Ida raised both arms and cavorted around the kitchen shouting her glee, while Lavina, intimidated by this display of excitement, watched with hooded eyes.
They took the spring wagon, sitting in the open air, the sun already hot on their backs, the open view around them an endless source of entertainment for Ida, who gave a loud opinion on all her observations. They had gone less than half a mile before she said Henry Miller’s heifers had parasites.
Dan burst into a loud guffaw of laughter, his head thrown back as he slapped his knee.
“Whatever do you mean?” Annie gasped, appalled.
“Their coats are shaggy and they have ribs that show.”
Dan nodded, then slanted Annie a look.
“You’re probably right, Ida,” he said.
Then it was, “Why do we have to wear a bonnet? They’re so hot and I can’t see a thing.”
Lavina listened, said nothing.
“You saw Henry Miller’s heifers.”
“Keep your bonnet on. We don’t go anywhere without them, you know that.”
“I would change that rule if I was the bishop. Why doesn’t he change it? He doesn’t have to wear a bonnet.”
The thought of old Joas Stoltzfus wearing a bonnet, his white beard tucked beneath the strings, was more than Dan could picture in his mind without the benefit of a good laugh.
Annie smiled, but said sternly, “Ida, shame on you for talking that way.”
When they reached the town of Intercourse, they turned off to the left and pulled up beside a few more teams tied to the hitching rack in the back of Zimmerman’s Grocery and Hardware. Dan leaped off the wagon and tied the sorrel horse securely to the hitching post before turning to extend a hand to Annie. The girls clambered down by themselves, then stood brushing the fronts of their dresses and aprons for any stray horse hairs before following their parents into the store.
The floorboards creaked as they walked along the aisles, looking at various objects they might need. Ida and Lavina walked behind their parents, careful not to touch the stacks of rope or leather halters, cakes of soap, bags of cornmeal, new buckets and brooms, colorful bolts of fabric.
The proprietor of the store was small and wiry, with a shining bald head that appeared to be varnished like a good hardwood floor. He smiled at Dan and Annie, greeted them with a “Hello, folks,” then turned to Ida and Lavina.
“And how are the girls?”
Ida replied for both of them. “We’re fine, thank you.”
They bought fifty pounds of flour, five pounds of white sugar, coffee, tea, baking powder and soda, a small measure of raisins, and a bag of licorice sticks for the children. Dan talked with the store clerk for a long time after paying for his purchases, discussing the president, the Depression, the state of the political party they agreed with, and what would become of the United States if Mr. Roosevelt didn’t do something.
Annie took the girls out to the spring wagon where they sat waiting obediently, the sun climbing higher with increasing heat.
“Well, if I have a husband, he’s not going to stand around talking to bald-headed English men while I sit in the sun,” Ida announced.
Lavina surprised Annie when she said, “You might never have a husband.”
Even Ida was speechless. Annie turned to find the two black bonnets turned toward each other, with no sound coming from either one.
Finally, Ida lifted a shoulder.
“Well,” she said. “You might not either.”
“Oh. I plan on it, though.”
Annie smiled to herself. It was a very small beginning, but it was one. Lavina was speaking her own mind.
When Dan appeared, he was sober, his expression troubled.
Annie turned to him with questioning eyes, but he shook his head.
“You need rolled oats, right?” he asked.
“I do.”
“Then it’s off to Rohrer’s,” he said, untying the horse, climbing up into the spring wagon, drawing back steadily on the reins till the horse backed against the britchment strap, pushing the spring wagon backwards.
“Komm na,” he called softly, and the horse trotted off easily.
After that ride in the spring wagon, a new friendship began to develop between Ida and Lavina. By the time school started the first week in September, Lavina was like an unplugged drain, or an opened faucet, words that had been buried under sorrow and confusion now flowing freely.
The leaves turned various shades of yellow, orange, and red. It was the time of year when frost lay heavily in the hollows, withering the marigolds and petunias. Every tree was dressed in brilliant finery until a cold, slanting rain sent most of the leaves to the lawn below. The wind blew, wailing in from the north, and sent most of the leaves spinning off and away, so that there weren’t too many to rake and burn at the end of the day.
Eleven children walked to school. Eleven lunchboxes were packed away every morning. Enos and Amos were in eighth grade, so this would be their last year, Annie thought, as she spread butter on eleven slices of bread, folded them, and wrapped them in waxed paper. Eleven sugar cookies and eleven apples. She had taken to baking the sugar cookies to a larger size, as the growing boys were all ravenous by the time they got home.
Every child went to school in bare feet, saving their shoes for the coming cold weather. With the frost on the ground, the calloused soles of their feet were cold, but not uncomfortably so, seeing how the sun warmed the earth before the first recess bell.
Joel and Lydia were in first grade, so that left only three-year-old Rebecca at home with Suvilla and Annie. The house was empty, the footsteps and footprints gone quiet, the shout and murmurs, the banging of doors and clattering of spoons absent, so that Annie said to Suvilla it seemed as if she couldn’t breathe in this quiet air.
“Well, Mam. I for one, am happy to have them out of the way,” she answered.
“Yes, we will get more accomplished, for sure.”
The time of fall housecleaning was upon them, and every good Amish housewife took it seriously. No window could go unwashed, no walls or ceiling, and certainly no floor, left unscrubbed.
They lugged heavy buckets of scalding hot water up the stairs, then the second flight to the attic. Crates and cardboard boxes were pulled out from under the eaves, organized and cleaned, the floor underneath swept and scrubbed with hot lye soap and water. Windows were washed until they seemed polished.
No matter that no one would even set foot in Annie’s attic. The dirt and spiderwebs weighed heavily on her conscience. What if one of them were to pass away and the community would descend on them like so many worker bees, cleaning, moving furniture, preparing the house for a funeral? It was a morbid thought, but it had happened to her once and it could happen again. Of course, if one of them were to die suddenly, the cleanliness of their home would not be forefront in her mind. But still, she always felt better having a clean and tidy house and knowing she was prepared for anything—as much as one can be, anyway.
Bucket after bucket of water was carried up the stairs, until the water turned dark gray with the dust and grime that always clung to the hewn floorboards. They surveyed their accomplishment with satisfaction. Even the sullen Suvilla seemed to find a hint of pleasure in the clean smell of the attic.
“Suvilla, when you have your own house, always remember I taught you how to clean an attic well,” Annie remarked.
“I’ll never have my own house,” she huffed, her face taking on a deep shade of red.
Annie shook her head. “Oh, sure you will.”
That ended the conversation. Suvilla had just joined the group of rumschpringa, and Annie knew she felt self-conscious about it. She was becoming quite a beautiful young woman, but if Suvilla felt humble about her appearance, it was best. Annie did not want a grosfeelich daughter who thought well of her own looks. How was a young girl to be discreet, a keeper at home, loving her husband, if she was puffed up with her own sense of vain glory? If Suvilla despised the breakouts on her skin, so be it. If she had only one Sunday dress and her friends had two or three, it could not be helped. Dan was a wonderful provider, but Annie was not about to waste money on fabric for dresses that the girls didn’t really need.
How well she remembered her own time of rumschpringa, when she felt unworthy of any attention from young men. She was so deeply honored to have Eli Miller take notice of her and found it astounding that he should ask to come visit her that first Sunday evening.
Her wedding day had been every young girl’s dream, and if Eli was less than perfect with the ambition that drove him, the quick temper and frequent needs, well, she wasn’t perfect, either. She just had no idea back then, that any man could be what Dan was. Indeed, her year of grief, the crying for a night, had turned to the joy that came in the morning, just as the Bible promised. God had blessed her through her sorrow, the loss of the barn, so that He could lift her up to the height and strength of Dan’s gentle love.
Even now, as she prepared a hasty lunch of buttered bread and bean soup, she waited eagerly for his step on the porch. He always met her eyes, that slow smile spreading across his kind face, as he asked how her work was coming along. She could trust him, trust that things would never change. His love was a beautiful thing.
She wished the same for Suvilla. She prayed that God would change her sullen nature. Yes, her father had passed away when she was a tender age, but many others went through the dark valley of sorrow. It was up to Suvilla to give herself up to whatever God chose to place before her, and the sooner she started to realize this, the better.