Chapter 21
RELUCTANTLY, LUCY MOTIONED for Dale Wyeth to follow her to their large chicken coop when her father was called away to the barn in the midst of the so-called tour. Be nice, she told herself. Trying not to reveal how ill at ease she felt, Lucy pointed out the fenced-in chicken run to Dale.
She supposed her father believed there was no harm in showing this man around the hen house. Even so, she wished she had gone directly indoors upon arriving home, instead of going with Dat when he’d called to her. If so, she would be busy now with Mamm and her sisters, helping to make supper, biding time until Dat and his Englischer friend finished their latest visit before she headed out to gather the afternoon eggs.
And Dale would be wandering about by himself, she thought.
“I’d like to build something similar to what you have here.” Dale crouched down to peer through the chicken wire, his blond hair resembling new bedding straw in the afternoon light. “On a much smaller scale, though.”
“I haven’t seen ’em much smaller,” she told him.
Dale stood up and flashed his winning smile. He’d worn pressed navy khakis instead of jeans, and a pale yellow long-sleeved Oxford shirt, probably having come straight from work. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you a question?”
She’d hoped this tour wouldn’t involve much conversation. “S’pose not.”
“In your opinion, what’s the best thing about living the simple life?”
An odd question. “Actually, never thought ’bout it.”
He instantly looked apologetic. “It’s all you know, of course.”
“Most folk round here would prob’ly say they enjoy a slower pace,” she said.
“In some ways, it seems harder.” The kindness in his light brown eyes caught her off guard.
“Well, more sweat and discipline, I ’spect. But not necessarily slow. My life’s anything but.” She moved toward the hen house, offhandedly mentioning that volunteer work often kept her busy.
“Charity work?” Dale asked, sounding impressed. “So then, you must be quite comfortable with non-Amish folk.”
“Englischers is what we call them . . . well, you.”
He laughed. “I stand corrected.”
“These days, we Amish rely on tourism and other means to supplement farming income. Things like craft and quilt shops, or selling candles, and jams and jellies. Men sometimes have to find work other than farming, too. A number do woodworking or construction, masonry or welding. Why, some even build solar panels.”
“I’ve noticed that but hadn’t really thought about it before. And this has happened in the past few years?”
“More than just a few,” she explained, “clear back since we started to run out of farmland here in Lancaster County.”
“Fascinating.”
She shrugged. “What we really need is more land. We aren’t so isolated anymore.”
She ducked to enter the chicken coop, where the nesting boxes were located, and Dale followed, observing carefully. She pointed out the wire-covered ventilation door and the long roosting bar, too.
“Did your father build this coop?” asked Dale, inspecting the floor, where straw had spilled over.
“Back before I was born.”
He ran his hand over a small section. “Do you have any idea what type of flooring goes into newer coops? Is it like this?”
Dale’s serious interest in raising chickens took her aback. “You could ask my father or one of the English farmers on Oak View or Harvest Road. Those are all Yankee farms over there.”
Dale stood up and reached to open the wide, horizontal ventilation door. “I’m looking into getting plans online.”
She found his dependence on complicated technology in order to discover how to live more simply rather amusing, considering. Is he aware of the irony?
Moving slowly and quietly past the still-nesting hens, Dale mentioned having done some research on various breeds of chickens and their behaviors.
She thought of telling him that reading up on this was one thing, but actually doing it was another. Dale Wyeth had lots to learn, she decided. Then again, he was doing exactly what he should and learning from those who were already doing it.
When they were outside again, he stepped off the dimensions of the chicken run. His sporty gray tennis shoes seemed ridiculously out of place.
“How do you live so simply in a complex world?” Dale asked brightly.
Another strange question, she thought. “It isn’t just a matter of simple versus complex,” she said. In all truth, some of the ways they did things were more complicated, and sometimes technology could actually simplify certain tasks. “The People have chosen a path that honors our forefathers and is a silent witness to the world,” she told him. “That’s our intention . . . rather than simplicity. For instance, it would be simpler and faster to buy our produce at a grocery store than to grow our own.”
“True.” He scratched his head. “I get your point.”
She wanted to remind Dale that whatever he was doing here was between him and her father. But his steady, friendly gaze appealed to her, and she believed he was sincere. “Surely you’ve noticed some of our unique ways of doing things, like our propane-powered fans in the barn and stable, for one. There are also some Amish farmers who have solar panels for their houses.” She paused, thinking of all the things she took for granted every day. “Of course, all Amish grow produce as much as possible and stock up at least a year’s worth of canned goods. It’s important to plan ahead.”
“I certainly agree with that,” Dale said. “Your dad was kind enough to show me around the rest of the farm so I could see how you manage without electricity. He even took me over to see your uncle Caleb’s workshop. What a fascinating setup!”
“So, you’ve seen something of how we live.”
“Your dad also mentioned something called a Candelier . . . thought it might come in handy.” Dale smiled at her again.
“Well, we haven’t had ours for long.” She motioned him toward the house, where she suggested he sit on the back porch while she got the lightweight three-candle lantern. “Here ’tis.” She carried the candle lantern out to him. “This produces a mighty strong light . . . you can even heat water on its top.”
Dale peered inside the glass and tapped on it lightly. “Someone was very ingenious to create this,” he said softly, shaking his head in amazement. “I’d like to see it lit up at night.”
“Think of a hundred lightning bugs. That’s how bright it’ll be in the dark.”
He returned the large lantern to her. Then she excused herself and returned it to the house.
Inside the kitchen, Lettie was stirring something in a big pot on the stove. “Looks like you’ve made a new friend, sister,” she said in a singsongy voice.
Lucy ignored her. “Where are Mamm and Faye?”
“Down cellar getting some jars of chowchow and pickles.” Lettie smiled at her again. “But Dale’s waitin’ out on the porch for ya. . . .”
“Keep in mind he’s Dat’s friend.”
“What’s the problem, Lucy? Our father’s doin’ the same thing you do all week long, helpin’ others.”
“Well, this is different—you don’t know Englischers the way I do,” Lucy snapped.
“Why, ’cause ya volunteer?”
Refusing to get into a pointless disagreement, Lucy headed back outside, hoping Dale wouldn’t expect her to make further small talk. She was glad the screen door wasn’t the only door stopping her and Lettie’s conversation from leaking out to the porch.
Dale was leaning on the banister when she stepped outside again. “I’m curious,” he said, arms folded. “You mentioned volunteering.”
“Jah, for church-approved organizations.”
“And you’ve been doing this for a while?”
“Three years next month.”
“Do others in your family or circle of friends also volunteer?”
She realized she could either tell him to mind his own business, or try to stop feeling so annoyed with him. The question seemed innocent enough.
Maybe he really is curious, like he said.
“Plenty of us volunteer at the Mennonite Central Committee up in Ephrata—makin’ quilts and checking donated kits for shipping overseas.” She went on to describe some other activities she was involved in, but felt increasingly uncomfortable. She wasn’t used to talking so much about herself.
“Wow,” Dale replied. “You must be awfully busy.”
Not busy enough . . .
She mentioned wanting to take her grandmother to the hospice where she helped out a couple times a week. “Mammi Flaud would be so gut with the patients, I’m sure of it.”
“Spending time with people who are dying?”
“Comforting them, ya know.” She sighed.
Dale’s expression grew thoughtful. “I’m sure they appreciate you offering them some hope.”
He’d touched on a nerve, though she had no idea how they’d landed on this topic. “Honestly, I have a Mennonite friend who’s gut at calming the patients with Scripture or prayer.”
Lucy braced herself for the next question, for surely it was on the tip of his tongue. Dale’s attentive eyes searched hers, and she wished now that she hadn’t shared so much.
My prayers don’t seem to matter anymore, she thought. Otherwise, God would answer. But she certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.
“Well, I need to get back to the store. It’s been great getting acquainted with you, Lucy. Thanks for your time.” Moving toward the steps, Dale smiled and said good-bye.
He made his way toward the truck and was just about to get in when little Jesse came darting out of Mammi’s back door, running as fast as he could toward Dale and the truck.
“Slow down, there!” Lucy called to the boy. “For goodness’ sake!”
But Jesse had eyes only for the red pickup.
Dale reached down and scooped Jesse up to show him the bed of the truck, then brought him over to the driver’s-side window, letting him peer inside.
Lucy stepped forward, surprised.
“Does he belong to your family?” Dale turned to her.
“That’s Jesse, my sister Martie’s boy.”
And here came Martie this minute, white Kapp strings waving as she flew over the sidewalk from the Dawdi Haus, hands outstretched toward Jesse.
“Jesse!” Martie called, her cheeks pink.
Dale looked downright ferhoodled, caught between the exuberance of the boy and the concern of his mother. “I apologize if I stepped out of bounds.”
“Nee, ain’t your fault.” Martie lifted Jesse down from Dale’s arms. “What were ya doin’, running off like that, son?” She held him near, scolding him in Deitsch all the way back to Mammi’s place.
Dale shrugged ruefully in Lucy’s direction. “I’m real sorry,” he said again.
Lucy hardly knew what to do or say, so she turned and headed into the house. Next time, wear your work boots and jeans, she thought with a titter. Then again, maybe there won’t be a next time.