by Linda Byler
They made the decision to move to his farm, as the house was larger and would better accommodate fourteen children. They would add her eight cows to his herd. They would butcher the pigs, add her chickens to the flock.
Annie had never seen the farm, had only a vague idea of where it was located. She would be moving out of her home and the church district she had always known, but that was all right. She would be Mrs. Dan Beiler, mother of fourteen children, able to hold up her head as a woman and mother in the community.
Annie smiled at Daniel, and he smiled back.
They did not touch, only communicated what they felt with their eyes.
They had both been married before. The kisses would wait.
She was taken to his farm to meet the children only a week before the wedding, after the public announcement had been made in church. Now that their secret had been revealed, they would be able to travel together in broad daylight, to be seen in stores or to visit family. Her parents had been told, and though her mother had raised her eyebrows with a mixture of surprise and disapproval, she had kept her tongue quiet as she cleaned the house and made sure she had cabbage and potatoes down cellar for the wedding meal. Annie would butcher her old hens to make the roasht.
Daniel’s children were shy, peering at her with curious eyes. Amos was a small version of his father with straight dark hair, the wide mouth. Annie took his politely proffered hand, said, “Hello, Amos.” Lavina, Hannah, and Emma were like three peas in a pod, all born only a year apart. Dark-haired, dark eyes, curious, their faces were open and honest. Annie gripped their hands and felt a surge of tender love for the motherless trio.
“Hello, hello,” she said, smiling warmly.
The three girls responded to Annie’s warmth with hungry eyes, wide and lonely and searching. For too long their lives had contained no mother, no solid, unchanging figure they could depend on, no one to cuddle and cherish them, to listen to their little girl woes and joys. There were maids who came and went, washed clothes and dishes and floors, ironed and cooked and baked. Most of them were pleasant, but distant. It was their job to meet the children’s tangible needs, but not to love them with the tenderness of a mother.
So when the genuine interest shone from Annie’s eyes, they absorbed the warmth of her love and felt rescued. They stood side by side, their eyes never leaving her face. Annie felt reassured that their families would meld easily, that they’d become one just as she and Dan were becoming one.
Joel and John were old enough to know there was tremendous importance in this woman. This was not another maud; she was to be their mother. They weren’t too sure about someone actually marrying their father and living there, but they remained seated on kitchen chairs, shook hands when it was expected of them, and observed.
“So now you have met your future Mam,” Dan said eagerly.
Amos nodded. The three girls responded with hearty smiles and a vibrant yes. Joel and John merely stared, wide-eyed.
“You know she has eight children of her own. You will meet them before the wedding. We will all live together here, so we’ll have to make arrangements where everyone will sleep.”
Amos shifted from one foot to the other, flicked the straight dark bangs on his forehead.
“Is there someone my age?” he asked timidly.
“Enos is thirteen,” Annie said.
Amos smiled. “I’ll be his friend.”
Annie smiled back, but winced, thinking of Ephraim and Ida’s inseparable bond. Would they open up to include Amos? Well, she’d tell them that’s what was expected of them, and they would obey. They were good children.
She sewed a new blue wedding dress. Her old black cape and apron would do. The children were equipped with new dresses or trousers as needed, but they did not all have something new to wear.
The farm was sold to Henry Blank for his son Josiah, who would be bringing his new bride in the fall. Annie spent a few hours in tearful nostalgia, then she straightened herself up, realizing a door in her life had been closed and a new one was opening. God had mercy on her existence and was ushering in the beginning of a new life, and she was thankful. She would take this in stride, be a mother to his six children, and never look back.
Her mother was a hard worker, a strict overseer of all the wedding preparations, which was a relief to Annie. She spent a few days helping with the housecleaning, but had a huge amount of work herself, preparing for the move to Dan’s farm.
The wedding would be held in her parents’ large farmhouse, which meant every piece of furniture would be moved into the adjacent woodshed to make room for the setting of wooden benches. And woe to the hausfrau who was caught with rolls of dust or spiderwebs beneath bureaus or cabinets, resulting in unmerciful teasing from the men in the family. No, Annie’s meticulous mother would never be caught with a job half done. The furniture was cleaned and polished, upended and swept underneath, and the living room rugs were hung over the clothesline and beaten until no dust puffed off of them. The kettles were scoured and polished, for no worthy woman would be caught at wedding time with less than a mirror-like gleam on all the cookware.
The celery was banked with manure-rich soil, the cabbage round and full, but that had been in the fall of the year. By March, what had been harvested in the fall had been consumed out of necessity, celery and cabbage being quick to rot. So her mother made a trip to the greengrocer in Intercourse and handed Dan Beiler the bill with pursed lips and narrowed eyes. Vegetables in March were dear, she told him, standing by while he wrote her a check in his careful hand.
Annie’s children, all eight of them, were properly introduced to Dan and his six sons and daughters, a quiet, awkward meeting that all of them were relieved to be done with. It was just so strange, looking at a group of children who would be living in the same house for the rest of their youth.
None of Annie’s kids were too sure about Dan. He was large and different, his voice too soft and pillowy for a father. Their real father, the one that died, had been smaller and quicker, his voice loud. If he said something, anything at all, they knew he meant business.
So when this new father was soft-spoken and kind, smiled a lot, and addressed each one individually with gentle words, they weren’t quite sure what to make of it.
They were married on a cold, windy day in March, when the sun shone weakly behind scudding clouds and wind bent the trees into perfect C’s, whipped bare branches in a frenzy, sent men and women scurrying between house and barn, shawls flapping, men’s hands plopped on hat tops.
But inside there was light from gas lights, warmth from the woodstoves, voices, laughter, and an aura of celebration. The house was filled to capacity with voices rising in plainsong, the slow rise and fall of old German hymns from the heavy black Ausbund. They were pronounced man and wife by his uncle, Stephen Beiler, from over toward Leola, a bishop who was well known for his fiery sermons.
The fourteen children sat on benches with varying degrees of attentiveness, but all had the same bewildered expression, a vacant wondering of the future created by the joining of the two people who sat side by side in the minster’s row, looking as if this was the most serious moment of their lives.
But later they all enjoyed the festivities, the plates of good, hot chicken filling, mashed potatoes, and gravy. There was plenty of cake, pie, doughnuts, and cookies, with cornstarch pudding and grape mush. The children sat in a respectful row, ate with gusto, and tried not to think too much about how different their lives were about to be.
And so life began for Dan and Annie Beiler in 1932, on the farm he inherited from his parents on Hollander Road. He had inherited money from them as well, and had managed it well so that it had grown, despite the Depression. The house was substantial. Built of gray limestone, the mortar was as thick as seaworthy rope and the walls were so thick the windowsills easily held a variety of potted plants. There were six bedrooms upstairs, with a staircase along the front of the house and one in the back. The wealthy landowners who designed and bu
ilt the house at the turn of the century, in 1798, had built the narrow curved staircase in the back for the servants’ use.
The kitchen ran along the side of the house that faced the large stone barn, with cabinets built by a German Baptist named Wesley Overland, well known for his distinctive style. There were polished hardwood floors and rugs scattered throughout the house tastefully. The furniture was far better than anything Annie had ever owned, so she appreciated the cherry sleigh beds and the heavy ornate dressers and bureaus. There were plenty of bed linens, patchwork quilts and heavy comforters made with sheep’s wool. They stretched the long kitchen table to add even more leaves to accommodate the eight children and their mother. There was an indoor bathroom with a porcelain commode, but no bathtubs—at that time they were frowned on in Amish homes and pronounced an unnecessary worldly luxury.
Annie could hardly believe this magnificent dwelling was now hers. She had never imagined an indoor facility to use the restroom, and certainly not in an Amish home. She realized Dan was a bit of a progressive, living in such comfort, plus the way he was outspoken about other modern inventions.
She cleaned and scoured, made up freshly washed beds with sheets and pillowcases just off the line. Dan told her to paint rooms wherever she felt a need, but she was appalled at the thought of spending money only to change the appearance of a room if it was perfectly serviceable without. She washed the walls, though, with a bucket of soapy water and a heavy cloth, wiping and scrubbing till her shoulders ached with fatigue.
When she was finished, she took stock of her situation and thought it quite manageable, really. Suvilla slept with Ida in a big double bed in the front room toward the barn. Lavina, Emma, and Hannah slept in the other front room, across the hallway.
Annie allowed Dan’s girls to stay in one room, and her own girls to stay in another. They had enough to merely become acquainted without having to share a bed. She put Amos with Joel and John, who all fit together in one bed nicely enough. She thought twelve-year-old Amos might appreciate being responsible for his smaller brothers.
Sammy was reserved a small room in the back, the former servant’s quarters, with only a single bed and dresser. He was more than pleased with this arrangement, having easy access to his own staircase to sneak in and out of the house whenever a bit of mischief beckoned.
Enos and Ephraim were tremendously happy to be allowed a room of their own without having to host Amos. Amos the Intruder, as they called him when they were alone. They knew it was wrong to think of him in those terms, but that’s what he was. He was always trying to get in on their private jokes or games, and it was a hassle to have to stop and try to explain everything.
The oblong room was left for the other Emma, Lydia, and Rebecca, the three little girls who were delighted to sleep in a sizable room together. There were two beds with a small stand in between, a place to put handkerchiefs and water glasses.
So that left one small room in the back for guests. Every respectable Amish home needed a comfortable guest room for overnight visitors, folks who traveled twenty or thirty miles with a horse-drawn carriage and needed a place to stay before they could make the return trip. To cook a delicious meal, to stable and feed the weary horse, was an honor. Most Amish families looked forward to receiving visitors. The parents would share stories and news over the dinner table as the children eyed one another with shy glances and listened with intrigue. Plus, company was a good excuse to bring out the sack of white sugar and bake a golden pound cake with brown sugar frosting.
Of course they would be getting visitors after their marriage, so Annie whipped everything into order in a few weeks’ time, just in time to drop seeds into the well-worked soil. The garden had been plowed to double its size, with nine more hungry mouths to feed. The flower beds were dug with fresh cow manure, the lawnmower sharpened and oiled, before the lawn was neatly mowed and trimmed.
The bedroom downstairs contained the furniture Annie had brought, with one of her quilts made up neatly on the high, iron bed frame. There was a rather large sampler on the wall, done in cross stitched embroidery, with the words “East or West, Home is Best” done in heavy black lettering with a design of roses in a myriad of brilliant colors. The frame was made of natural wood by Eli’s own hand, so Annie cherished this bit of frivolity more than anything she had brought.
Dan was gentle, caring, all she could ever want or need. To lie in his arms with the shrill cheeping of the spring peepers down at the pond, the breeze from the soft spring night like a balm from paradise, knowing she was loved, cherished, and so very appreciated was the closest thing to Heaven. But in the morning, there were challenges in the form of six children who were expected to accept the eight of her own into their home and lives. They sat in out-of-the-way corners and glowered when she became happy or silly with one of her own. She tried her best to draw Amos into a lively morning discussion, but he retaliated by his sullen look before letting himself quickly out the door. If Enos or Ephraim—at Annie’s prompting—tried to win him over, he thwarted all attempts at companionship with handfuls of thrown dirt and hurled swear words.
As problems arose, they dealt with them, although Annie had days when she wondered why she had ever thought another marriage was God’s will for her life. Especially days when the two Emmas locked horns, fighting and arguing and then pouting, disobeying her orders simply because they felt so miserable inside. “Emma One” and “Emma Two,” they called them. Neither one thought it was amusing. Each Emma wanted her own identity, and certainly did not want to share with the other.
Chapter Six
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.