The Englisher
Page 26
I’m not so sure I ought to feel sorry for Yonie, though, since he sure looks like he’s leaning toward jumping the fence. If he doesn’t end up English, when his runningaround is through, he’ll be stuck right back here with a great big hole in his heart. Like mine.
Esther and I saw Susie Esh, Rudy’s bride, out hanging up wash this morning. Looked to me like she might be expecting their first wee one, but I didn’t stare, just waved, watching her woeful expression as she turned slowly away. She was shunning Esther, no doubt. Or maybe news of my transgression, the painting on the cover of the Farm and Home Journal, has found its way to the Esh home, too.
Can’t win for losing, Mamm sometimes said when the pressure cooker blew its top, or the fence around the peacock pen fell over.
All the same, the sun comes up every morning and sets each and every night. The moon and stars slide across the same sky I see here that Ben will soon see in Kentucky. The hands of time tick ever so slowly.
Essie says not to fret; seasons come and go. And I say right back to her: ‘‘Well, then, ’tis a waiting season. . . .’’
Yet it’s painful to think of never seeing Ben again. When I am alone in my room at day’s end, tired after chores, I lie awake and rehearse his features in my mind, counting the weeks till my promise to Daed is done. Oh, how I long to take brush in hand and paint Ben’s face, for fear I should forget him in due time.
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to three storytellers—Aunt Betty, ‘‘Auntie’’ Madge, and Cousin Dave—whose verbal brushstrokes of joy and inspiration are responsible for several anecdotes in this book.
I am grateful for brainstorming fun, which I shared with my husband, Dave, my ‘‘big-picture editor,’’ and our bookworm daughter, Julie, who also enthusiastically read the earliest chapters. Also, I offer my deep appreciation to our daughter Janie, our son, Jonathan, and to my parents, Herb and Jane Jones, for endless prayer support and practical encouragement (such as unexpected goodies and brain food).
Although I have mentioned my superb editors numerous times, I cannot repeat too often my gratitude for the insight of: Julie Klassen, Carol Johnson, David Horton, and Rochelle Glo ege. Also, my thanks to Ann Parrish, who reviewed the manuscript.
A special note of thanks to John and Ada Reba Bachman, remarkably kind to help with ongoing research, and to Rev. James Hagan for expert advice. Much appreciation also goes to my praying partners in various parts of the planet, as well as to regional and cultural assistants and proofreaders who have asked to remain nameless.
Thank you, as well, to my mother’s dear cousins for allowing me to refer to and use scene settings from their beautiful colonial inn (Maple Lane Farm B&B) on Paradise Lane in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
Thanks, as always, to my devoted readers. In countless ways, these books belong to you . . . and always to God.
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