IN JULY 2002, I was approached by a journalist friend to write a magazine article about Hutterite gardens. Manitoba is home to more than a hundred Hutterite colonies, but I knew exactly which one I wanted to visit. Selling the story idea to the head gardener at Fairholme Colony took a little work. Judy Maendel wasn’t convinced hers had enough of a wow factor to merit a story.
“Oh, heavens, we only have a small garden this year.” She sighs over the phone. “Why don’t you try New Rosedale or James Valley? Their gardens are so big they’re selling vegetables to the public.” I really want to see Fairholme’s, I insist.
Big, uneven, white clouds resembling a child’s drawing fill the open prairie sky as I pile my five-year-old son, Levi, into the car for the journey. I do not need directions. I know the way as certainly as I know the sound of my son’s voice. The rich, earthy smells of a Manitoba summer dance through the open car window as I head west on the Trans-Canada. On either side of the highway, yellow fields of canola stretch as far as the eye can see.
“Once upon a time . . .” begins the tape deck with the Robin Hood story Levi has chosen for himself.
Once upon a time, indeed! I tumble down memory lane, and in my mind I can almost hear the kitchen bell on the colony ringing, calling the women to work. A tractor hitched with a trailer idles impatiently near a sandy path that winds its way down to the garden on the banks of the Assiniboine River. I see my mother with the other women piling onto the flatbed, each with a three-gallon, stainless-steel pail in which they collect the day’s bounty. Their distinct garments speak of safety, of duty, and of motherhood. On each head is a Tiechel, a black kerchief with white polka dots the size of garden peas. I see Judy’s mother, Sara, the head gardener, among the women, and I know that in a few hours, they will return home for afternoon Lunschen, three o’clock lunch, with flushed faces and stained fingers, carrying ruby strawberries to the bevy of eager children awaiting them. In their simple kitchens they plop the sweet fruit into bowls, anointing them with fresh cream and a sprinkle of sugar. Their young ones with rested eyes and hungry mouths crowd around the table and eat until their stomachs are ready to burst. Soon the bell will ring again and the women must return to work. The bulk of the strawberries are sitting in the cool basement of the large community kitchen, waiting to be transformed into pies and cakes and jars of delicious jams . . .
Fairholme Colony, says the sign an hour’s drive from Winnipeg. A dusty gravel road lined on both sides with mature oak trees escorts us into the heart of Fairholme, where colorful flower gardens give the neat rows of aging homes a festive flair.
My son and I make our way to Judy’s house. Her sister, Selma, the head cook, is waiting for us. So are a group of curious, barefoot children. The girls are in identical black bonnets, their suntanned faces giving off a healthy radiance. “I really feel sorry for your dress,” says Selma. I walk toward her in a fitted dress I purchased weeks ago from a major department store. “It’s too tight!” She motions to a nearby residence. “Let’s go see Tamara.” We are scarcely through the door of the nearby house before Selma says, “Mary-Ann needs something to wear. She’s uncomfortable.” A young woman with the face of an angel rises from her sewing machine and offers me an outfit from her closet. It has a rosy pattern and a roomy, full-gathered skirt. The waistband is loose and forgiving, and the fabric soft and cool against my skin. A whiff of dried cotton and sunshine escapes from the opened closet, and I am transported back to the summers of my childhood. The children who follow us delight in seeing me in a Hutterite outfit. “Bin ich schön? Do I look beautiful?” I tease them in Hutterisch, their mother tongue, a 450-year-old Germanic dialect from the province of Carinthia in Austria. The children giggle and nod. I wink at my son, who’s giggling too.
When Judy appears, we all squeeze into my small car for the short ride to the garden. “This car is full of Hutterites,” reports Levi from the backseat, to a round of laughter.
At our destination we shed our shoes for a leisurely stroll. “It’s a beautiful garden,” Judy admits as she leads the way. Our miniature tour guides soon lose themselves in the pea patch, with Levi in tow. The “small” fifteen-acre garden is lush and green, thanks to the community’s irrigation system. Rows and rows of vegetables are framed by a painter’s palette of wildflowers and tall prairie grasses. “We only have enough for ourselves this year,” she explains, referring to the approximately ninety community members the garden will serve.
Late afternoon finds me lingering in the community kitchen, where preparations for the supper meal are underway. The women laugh easily as they move between the oven, the fryer, and boiling pots of vegetables. I find it hard to pull myself away. I locate Levi twirling on the colony’s wooden merry-go-round; he isn’t any more eager to leave than I. On our way to the car, we cross paths with another of the locals. “Mary-Ann!” exclaims Thelma, taking me in. “You look so nice when you’re not wearing all that paint on your face.” I laugh at her candor. One doesn’t have to read minds around here.
I fill the backseat of my car with a bouquet of wildflowers and pussy willows—favorites of my mother—and we drive to a small, fenced graveyard on the outer edge of Fairholme. Time seems to stand still as I lead my son to a small gravestone that reads, “Reynold Dornn, 1963–1965, Resting in Peace with Jesus.”
“Levi,” I begin, searching for the right words, “there is a little boy buried here. His name is Renie, and he is my brother.” As we crouch down over the small grave, Levi closes his eyes and begins to pray. “Dear Jesus, thank you for taking care of Mommy’s brother even though he’s under the ground. Please help him to rose again.” I tear up at his unexpected overture.
Thirty-three years ago, when I was a wide-eyed, ten-year-old girl, my parents made the painful decision to leave Fairholme Colony with seven children and little else. This community was once my home, and although I have been back for brief visits many times, here in this simple graveyard lies a stark reminder of where we have come from, a precious part of ourselves that we left behind.
Hand in hand we make our way back to the car. I am lost in thought when Levi forces me out of my reverie. “Mommy,” he asks, a look of wonder on his round, little face, “are you a Hutterite?” My son’s innocent question sends me on a journey into the inner recesses of the heart, where our deepest secrets are kept and the truth is stored.
This book is my journey to reclaim my past, a past I kept hidden for many years, unwilling to subject myself to ingrained taunts and prejudices. What I know with certainty today is that our humanity is what we have in common, but our cultural heritage is the special gift each of us is given at birth. Until we embrace who we are and really value the power it is meant to bring to our lives, we cannot realize our true potential. My story begins where most good stories begin, with my mother, the incomparable Mary Maendel.
— Mary-Ann Kirkby