by Linda Byler
In the wintertime, she dressed Laura in a little pink sweater set with a pretty blanket to match. On top of that Lizzie pinned a little black, woolen shawl securely around her that was just like her own, except it was baby-sized, of course. On Laura’s head, she placed a stiff little royal blue bonnet, just like her own, except baby-sized as well, and tied it securely under her chin.
She thought the shawl and bonnet were the cutest things she had ever seen, with Laura’s little brown face peering out from the dark shades of fabric. So cute, in fact, that she squeezed and squeezed her before putting her own shawl and bonnet on. She carefully held Laura beneath the folds of her shawl when they went outside to protect her from the cold. She carried the kaevly with the other hand and went down the steps to where Stephen was waiting with George and the buggy.
When they arrived at church, Mom or KatieAnn or Susan would come with their arms extended to take Laura. Lizzie felt so loved and important and so Amish and motherly. Stephen’s mother would fuss over her, making Lizzie feel happy and cuddly and warm inside, secure in the fact that she belonged to a group of family and friends. A complete circle of contentment.
Sometimes Laura would have a genuine crying spell, when nothing seemed to pacify her. Lizzie would take her away from where the service was being held, often upstairs, and rock her or feed her or do whatever it took to get her to stop crying. Often a friend and her fussy baby joined her, and they talked about babies, their sleep patterns, how much they weighed, or whatever.
Church wasn’t nearly as boring when you had a baby to take care of, especially when a minister droned on and on and wasn’t very interesting. Then Lizzie just up and took Laura upstairs, whether she was crying or not. People didn’t know what was wrong with her baby, and really, they didn’t need to know.
Sometimes she would put a package of cheese crackers in her kaevly and eat them while she fed Laura, because it got late and she became very hungry. The thing was, when they served lunch, she was never able to sit at the first women’s table because they were seated according to their ages. So she had to wait with the younger women and girls till the older ones had eaten. It seemed as if that table of older women always took their time, drinking coffee and talking way too much.
On this fine spring morning, Stephen brushed and brushed George with careful attention, put the glossy black harness on his back, and then attached all the buckles and straps before putting the horse back in his stall. He went to the house to dress in his traditional white shirt, black broadfall pants, and black vest with hooks and eyes that closed down the front.
Humming under his breath, he opened the back door. He was amazed to find Lizzie hunched over the table with a small dish of water. She held a fine-toothed black comb, called a shtrale, in Dutch, and two tiny pieces of metal he remembered his mother using at home.
Lizzie did not look up when he entered, so he walked over to the table, peering down to see how she was faring.
“Bobbies?” he asked.
His wife nodded grimly, intent on parting Laura’s silky baby hair in the middle and creating a wet strand on each side of Laura’s forehead. Lizzie intended to roll the tip of each strand upward and around a sliver of soft bendable metal. With that action, she would form a small roll of hair on each side of Laura’s forehead, called bobbies. It was an old traditional way of keeping a baby’s thin hair from hanging in her face without cutting it.
Stephen soon sensed that Lizzie was pretty close to panicking, so he walked quietly away, down the hallway and into the bedroom. Lizzie wet the shtrale once more in the tiny dish of water and pulled it through Laura’s hair on the left side of her part. Carefully holding the small bendable piece of metal, Lizzie began rolling upward, just as Laura turned her head, leaving Lizzie holding the metal, but no hair. She glanced with apprehension at the clock. Only 15 more minutes and they would have to leave, no doubt about it.
“Hold still,” she hissed, putting her fingers on each side of Laura’s cheeks and pulling her face to the desired position.
Once more, Lizzie tried, rolling upward until the bobbie was at the right spot on the side of Laura’s forehead. Sighing with relief, she patted Laura’s cheek and said, “Good girl.”
“Now hold still,” she murmured, and began the other one. That was when Laura decided she had had enough. She clearly saw no sense in putting up with these atrocities. She pulled her little body into a cramped position and howled shrilly.
Instantly, Lizzie bent over her, whispering, “Shh-shh-shh.”
But Laura was indignant now, and she was not about to be lulled into submission by anyone. She kept screaming, one bobbie firmly in place and the other pieces of hair becoming drier by the second. Scooping her up, Lizzie held her distraught baby. They would never make it to church on time. She felt like crying but knew that would only make matters worse. She had to get that other bobbie in place.
“Sh-sh, you’ll be all right. I know, it’s not nice. Sh-sh-sh,” Lizzie kept saying, bouncing Laura up and down.
Finally, with only five minutes to go, Laura quieted enough for Lizzie to lay her back down on the table top. She gave her a bright little toy to play with, anything to get her mind off whatever Lizzie was doing to her hair. Swiftly, she wet the comb, raked it through her hair, adjusted the soft piece of metal, and began rolling, just as Laura twisted her little body to roll over.
“No, Laura! No!” Lizzie wailed. Laura promptly began crying again.
“Stephen!”
In the bedroom, Stephen jumped, then rushed to the door, adjusting his suspenders, alarmed at the panic in Lizzie’s voice.
“Stephen, I can’t make bobbies! She just turns her head! We’ll be late for church!”
“It’s not that bad, Lizzie. We still have a quarter of an hour.”
“We don’t! Remember last time? We left at eight-thirty and were last.”
“We weren’t last. Some of the youth were.”
Lizzie turned her back without bothering to answer. They were the last ones to arrive, she knew that.
“Hold her still,” she barked.
“How?”
Stephen looked helplessly at his screaming daughter, then at his upset wife, and wondered if this was the way things were going to be from now on.
“I have to make the other bobbie. Just hold her head on each side so she can’t turn it. Sh-sh, Laura. It’s not that bad!”
So Stephen bent down, his elbows on the table, his hands gently cradling Laura’s head, while Lizzie concentrated on the bobbie. He wasn’t prepared when Laura suddenly turned her head hard to the right, twisting her entire body.
“Stephen!” Lizzie shrieked.
It really irked him when Lizzie yelled at him like that. He was doing the best he could. But he said nothing.
“You have to hold her head firmly,” she ordered, wetting the comb for what would be the twentieth time.
“Why don’t you just stick her head in a vice?” Stephen asked sarcastically, as he bent to his task.
Lizzie shot him a withering glance but said nothing, returning to her task with desperation now.
Laura screamed, but Stephen held her head more firmly, murmuring to his daughter. Lizzie deftly rolled the hair and clipped it into place, standing back to view the two bobbies.
“They’re crooked!”
Straightening up, Stephen picked up his wailing daughter and patted her back, soothing her over and over while glaring at Lizzie.
“You’re not going to redo that bobbie,” he said firmly.
“But they’re not straight, Stephen. I have to.”
“Give it up Lizzie. She looks fine to me. It’s time to go!”
“I’m not ready.”
Grimly, Lizzie scooped up the dish and comb, swiped the tabletop with a wet cloth, then reached for Laura as Stephen hurried to the bedroom to finish dressing. Lizzie’s heart sank seriously when she looked at Laura’s forehead. One bobbie was up higher and closer to the middle of her face while the other on
e hung to the side. Oh, it was so pathetic-looking. She couldn’t take her baby to church with those bobbies.
Weighing her options, she decided that arriving at church late would create more of a stir than two bobbies that were not quite straight, so she put the bottles of formula in her kaevly and said nothing.
Stephen emerged from the bedroom looking as handsome as he always did in his Sunday suit, and Lizzie forgave him readily for not allowing her to fix Laura’s bobbies.
“Is it chilly this morning?” she asked, hoping he had forgiven her for acting so hysterical.
“A little.”
So Lizzie put the little black woolen shawl around Laura’s shoulders, secured it with a pink safety pin, put the blue bonnet on her head, and tied it beneath her chin. She stood back to look at her, chuckling softly.
“Oh, Laura, you look so cute and so Amish with your bobbies!” she exclaimed, then swept her up into a tight hug.
Grabbing her kaevly, she went outside where Stephen had gone, put her kaevly into the doch-veggley or buggy, and climbed in, holding Laura firmly. Stephen gathered the leather reins, then reached up to George’s neck and attached the neck rein, that part of the harness which held George’s head up.
Lizzie always disliked neck reins. Always. They were the cruelest invention anyone had ever thought of. How would a person like to pull a load up a hill without being allowed to hunch over to pull? She always felt a small sense of rebellion every time Dat, and now Stephen, attached that thing. It was cruel, that’s what.
As Stephen climbed quickly into the buggy beside her, George tossed his head, made a running leap, and was off down the curving driveway. Lizzie clutched Laura tightly, nervously hoping Stephen could handle George. She was not in a good mood after all the tension of the morning, and it only elevated her bad humor to start off like that.
“I guarantee one thing,” she said dryly.
“What?”
“If you wouldn’t attach that neck rein quite as tightly as you do, George would behave himself better as he starts off.”
“That rein isn’t tight. What do you mean?” Stephen asked, turning to look at her quite sharply.
Too sharply, in Lizzie’s opinion, so she didn’t answer.
Stephen tried again. “What do you mean ‘that rein is tight’? He’s running with the rein loose now.”
Lizzie still didn’t answer, only because it felt too good to see him trying to get her to talk. So he shrugged his shoulders, thinking he’d never understand women as long as he lived, at least not Lizzie, anyway. She could be a strange duck.
They drove on in silence, Laura relaxing against Lizzie after the traumatic morning she had just endured. Her eyelids fell heavily as she fought sleepiness, the way she always did when they went away in a buggy. Lizzie shifted her arm more comfortably, then sat back against the blue upholstered buggy seat, sighing as her shoulders slumped in relaxation.
What a morning it had been, she thought wryly. She sincerely hoped this was not a harbinger of things to come. It wasn’t right. Here it was Sunday, the Sabbath, the Lord’s day, and she had already panicked, lost her temper twice, and was still coddling ill feelings toward her husband. She thought the devil sure didn’t take Sundays off, the way he had made her carry on.
She glanced at Stephen, who appeared a bit worn and weary for so early in the morning. She wondered what he was thinking, but she was still a bit too miffed about that neck rein deal to ask him. That was the trouble with being married. If that harness were Lizzie’s, she would have seriously lengthened the neck rein, but since it wasn’t hers, she had no business speaking her mind. She should sit back and leave it entirely up to her husband’s judgment, with absolutely no will of her own.
It was all so weird, strange, and stupid. Whoever heard of such a thing? She thought she had this all figured out when she was dating Stephen. Yet here she was, upset about that short neck rein, while he drove along, contently secure in the fact that he could drive with that rein exactly the way he wanted. He was the husband and she was the wife, and that meant he was the boss. She would have to figure out how to live with that.
She was just angry all over again. No one ever talked about the husband giving his life for his wife, as Christ gave himself for the church. To Lizzie’s way of thinking, if Stephen loved her so that he gave himself for her, he would lengthen that rein because it bothered her. Then when he came to church and the men asked him why his horse’s neck rein was so long, he should smile nicely and say his wife liked it that way, and that since it bothered her, it bothered him as well.
Then all the men would think what a good husband Stephen was and how fortunate Lizzie was to have him. Wasn’t that the way the Bible said it should be? But no, here they went, racing down the road, Stephen secure in his kingly position and she wrestling with this huge mountain called submission.
Suddenly the whole thing was unbearable and, forgetting to pout, she said loudly, “Doesn’t it bother you that George’s head is held up so high?”
“Lizzie, would you get off it? The rein is loose. He’s comfortable. It’s the way he naturally holds his head.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t, Stephen.”
“Lizzie, now stop. You’re still upset about making those bobbies, and you can’t give up that they’re crooked, so you’re taking it out on me. Now stop it.”
That really made Lizzie see red, so much so, in fact, that she felt like crying. The nerve of him! How did he know?
“You … you …”
“You can sputter around all you want to. It’s true.”
“You’re mean.”
“I don’t try to be.”
“I’m just telling you the truth.”
So Lizzie thought about the truth for the next mile or so, finally coming to the conclusion that he was probably right. That rein bothered her a lot more than usual because of her own frustration. Well, she wasn’t going to let him know she thought he was right. That would for sure only make him feel more superior than ever.
But when the visiting minister spoke eloquently about the blessing a family receives by a quiet, well-spoken, godly mother staying in her rightful position, Lizzie bent her head and cried a few tears in her rose-colored handkerchief. It touched a part of her soul that wanted to be good, but which her own willful nature made extremely difficult.
Glancing around furtively, she looked to see if other women felt the same desire to be such a person. Rather a large amount had tears in their eyes, and a few were blowing their noses. Lizzie felt very righteous and good inside, feeling as if she actually was like that. Well, not really, but by the time they had a larger family, she would be a virtuous woman. After all, these things take time.
Chapter 21
LAURA WAS OUTGROWING HER little brown porta-crib. Lizzie’s mind began churning, trying to figure out a way she could fit a big, normal-sized crib into their small bedroom. Any way she arranged the furniture in her mind, the room was still too crowded. So she decided she would approach Stephen about transforming the room where he kept his gun cabinet and desk into a really cute little nursery.
As she hung her Monday’s washing on the line, she thought about it. When she ironed coverings she thought about it, and when she cleaned the basement she thought about it. In fact, that was all she could think about most of the day, becoming more and more excited as the day went on. She would make little gingham pink and white curtains and cover the bumper pad around the crib to match. Perhaps she could make a tiny comforter with pink and white flannel, knotting it with pink yarn. Or would white be better? Maybe white.
By the time Stephen came home from work, she had thought herself into quite a stew, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with anticipation, eagerly waiting to see if he was in the proper mood for her to ask such a huge favor.
Her heart fell as he climbed out of his co-worker’s truck, his trousers covered with mud, his face dark and very, very tired. Even his hands and thermos were muddy. It didn’t look too promising, s
he decided, so maybe the best thing was not to ask him at all this evening if he was tired and grouchy.
She waited nervously as he entered the basement, took off his shoes, and washed up at the sink, puttering around down there for far too long, she thought. When he finally did come upstairs, he did not have his usual smile of welcome.
“Long day?” Lizzie asked, too quickly and much too brightly.
“Yeah,” he said brusquely.
So Lizzie kept quiet as she served the good supper she had prepared—mashed potatoes and beef gravy, peas and carrots, and macaroni and cheese, one of his favorite meals. Lizzie tried to keep the conversation light and happy until Stephen pushed back his chair and sighed, finally smiling at her. Instantly Lizzie dove straight into the subject, plying him with all kinds of questions about many different subjects pertaining to that particular room.
“But you know, Stephen, the biggest problem is that there isn’t a doorway between your gun-cabinet room and our bedroom,” she stated quite firmly. Stephen lowered his eyebrows.
“Why would you need a doorway between our bedroom and the other room?” he asked.
“Well, I’d have to walk all the way through the living room, and besides, I couldn’t hear Laura very well when she cries,” Lizzie said.
Stephen didn’t say more after that. He just got up and walked into the living room, sitting heavily on the brown recliner and picking up a fishing magazine. Lizzie crossed her arms and glared at him. Of all the nerve! There he goes, tuning me out and refusing to talk. Well, she wasn’t finished yet, so she’d talk anyway. Sitting opposite him on the sofa, she leaned forward and began speaking in a sweet voice. Or so she hoped.
“But listen, Stephen, we can’t get a full-sized crib in our bedroom. It’s too small. You know that. I know you don’t want to give up your hunting room, but you’re going to have to anyway. You can’t just have that room for your stuff if we need it for the baby. And besides, you can keep all that junk upstairs.”