MEN OF LANCASTER COUNTY 01: The Amish Groom

by Mindy Starns Clark

  I stifled a smile as I the carried the skateboard over to its place against the wall. Even though I knew “bro” could be a slang term used with anyone, I chose to believe that in this case he really did mean brother.

  Brady pressed the button to close the garage door again, then together we went inside, shut things down, and headed upstairs.

  “You know, Brady, if this NFL thing doesn’t pan out, it seems as if you’re pretty mechanical,” I joked as we reached the top. “I could always put in a good word for you at the buggy shop.”

  “Or maybe we could ditch the buggies and the NFL. That backpacking Europe thing is sounding better all the time.”

  We shared a smile, and our parting “Good night” was by far the most amiable of this entire trip. As I moved into my bedroom and closed the door behind me, I knew I had not fixed anything between us, but I had begun the careful work of regaining Brady’s trust. And I was sure I had stumbled on an insight I needed to pay attention to.

  Brady was restless. Just like me.

  The next day, Monday, right after morning devotions, I calculated the time difference back home and decided to call the buggy shop.

  Daadi answered. It was so good to hear his voice. I was overcome with how comfortable it felt to speak the everyday language of my childhood.

  He asked me how I was, and I spent the first few minutes of our conversation telling him about the container gardens I was building for my stepmother, the sushi I had tried, and the worship service I had attended, leaving out spending the afternoon on Balboa Island with Lark and her camera. I did however, tell him about the trouble I was having with Brady. I knew Daadi would pray for me about this.

  He then asked if God had revealed anything to me about what had brought me to Southern California in the first place. It felt good to tell him about the tender words I had sensed God speaking to me the day before, especially as I was now keenly aware that my motivations for coming had been centered too much on me alone. I didn’t tell him that I also believed I was in California to understand why my mother left Lancaster County. Whatever I discovered about that I would share with Daadi and Mammi in person, regardless of where my destiny lay.

  As much as talking to my grandfather had comforted me, it had conversely troubled him. He sounded concerned for me, afraid perhaps that everything was about to change.

  I didn’t want to think about that right now. “I missed Rachel’s call on Saturday,” I said quickly. “Do you know when you might see her again? I really did want to talk to her.”

  “She told Thom she would try again Wednesday. In the late afternoon here. Will that work for you?”

  I assured him I would make it work. Lark and I would be going out in the morning for another photography session, but I would be home before one o’clock. I told him Rachel could call the landline at the house at four their time, and I would be sure not to miss it.

  Before I hung up, I said hello to a few of my cousins and uncles, which quickly reminded me how much I wished Jake was still at the buggy shop so that I could talk to him too.

  I missed my family back home. Hearing their voices reminded me just how much.

  TWENTY-TWO

  After my phone call with Daadi, there was still some time left before Brady would go to school, so I headed into the garage in the hopes I could fix the skateboard and get him to test it out for me. Sure enough, it ended up being a simple repair, and my brother’s quick test run resulted in a solid thumbs-up.

  Once he was gone, I took the board back inside and spent another fifteen minutes or so with a rag and some spray cleaner, just shining it up and making it look nice. I propped it back in the corner after I was finished, thinking it might be best to deliver it to the boy’s house in the afternoon, shortly before he got home from school. I would just leave it on the front porch with a note that it was all fixed.

  During the rest of the morning and early afternoon, I worked diligently on the containers. Around one thirty I applied the last coat of sealant and then downed a quick ham and cheese sandwich. As the sealant dried, I took Frisco for a walk, skateboard in hand. We headed straight up the street to the little boy’s house and paused there, Frisco happily sniffing at a terra-cotta planter filled with succulents while I propped the gleaming board on the porch next to the front door. It really did look good now, and the Post-it Note I had stuck on the front seemed just right:

  All fixed. I hope you enjoy it.

  A neighbor.

  When I returned to the house, I headed out to the south side to ready the ground for the placement of the containers.

  I lost track of time as I scraped at the hard, unrelenting earth. Southern California’s blond, rock-hard dirt was nothing like Pennsylvania’s rich and giving soil. It took a long while to break down the groundcover and level it. I was hard at work when Brady appeared at my side. I hadn’t even heard him come into the backyard.

  “Looks different back here,” he said.

  I wiped my sweaty forehead. “In a good way, I hope.”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  I stood and surveyed the newly prepared area. “I think I’m ready to bring out the boxes. Want to give me a hand?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  We walked to the other side of the house where the gate was located and propped it open with one of the trash cans. Then we made our way to the garage, where I’d left the containers to dry.

  I tested one edge to make sure they were okay to move. The sealant wouldn’t be completely dry for two more days, but we’d be able to move them into place at least. “Looks good,” I said. “Want to walk forward or backward?”

  But Brady was staring at the four long, wooden boxes, shining golden in the late afternoon sun, and he didn’t answer me. He reached out a hand and stroked one of the corners. I couldn’t read the look on his face. My heart did a stutter step.

  “You don’t think she will like them?” I asked when he said nothing.

  Brady lifted his head to look at me. “These are really nice, Ty. I can’t believe you made them with just some instructions you found on the Internet.”

  Relief filled the spot where worry had just been. “So she will like them.”

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah. She’s going to like them. She’s going to love them.”

  His gaze was again on the containers. “They all look so perfectly the same. Professional, I mean. I wouldn’t have guessed somebody who didn’t…who hadn’t…I mean, they look really good.”

  A tiny smile spread across my face—not from pride, but from relief. Brady had just paid me a compliment, albeit in as awkward a way as possible. But that was good enough for me. “Thanks.”

  My brother lifted his head again to face me. “I don’t mind walking backward.”

  I said nothing else. I wanted his affirmation to echo around in my head for a little while. We wordlessly moved the containers into place. I couldn’t have been more pleased with how well they filled the space and yet still left room for Liz to move in between them.

  When we were done we stood back to admire the new look of the south side.

  “You need help getting the potting soil for these?” Brady asked.

  “That would be great.” I tried hard not to sound surprised that he offered.

  We went to the nearest garden center and filled the back of the Honda with eight forty-pound bags of potting soil. When we returned to the house, we hauled the bags to the backyard, where they would be stowed until the sealant had dried completely.

  Brady was quiet as we ate supper, but this time I didn’t mind. It seemed like he was mentally working through something, and because I was pretty sure it had to do with me, I gave him the space to do so.

  A knock came at our door the next morning while he and I were in the kitchen and he was eating his breakfast.

  Wiping my hands on a towel, I went to answer it and was surprised to see two people standing on the front step, the skateboarding boy from down the street and a woman dressed in a busine
ss suit.

  “Is this him?” she asked, looking to the boy.

  He nodded.

  “Can I help you?” I asked.

  “I think you already did,” she replied, and then to my relief she smiled. “I assume you know something about a broken skateboard that was magically repaired?”

  I hesitated and then smiled in return. “That was supposed to be anonymous.”

  “Yes, well, Christopher saw you taking it out of our trash can the other morning. He thought you wanted it for yourself, but then it showed up again at our house yesterday, so we had a feeling it was you who repaired it. Now he has something he wants to tell you.”

  He didn’t speak or even look up, so finally she placed a hand on his back and gave him a nudge.

  “Thanks for fixing my skateboard,” he mumbled, eyes on the ground.

  “You’re welcome. I’m Tyler, by the way.”

  “Chris,” he replied, glancing up at me. I thrust out a hand, and he had no choice but to give it a shake.

  “And I’m Rosemary. Christopher’s mother,” the woman said, her grip far stronger than her son’s. “I’m afraid skateboard repair doesn’t exactly fall under my skill set. And his father…well, that’s not an option.”

  An awkward silence followed, so I put my hands into my pockets and spoke again to the painfully shy kid standing in front of me, trying to make my voice as warm and friendly as I could.

  “So, Chris, how’s the board working for you now?”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  “My brother’s the skateboarder around here,” I continued. “I showed it to him and he thought the problem was likely the pivot cup. I loosened it up some. Did that do the trick?”

  Again the kid nodded. Behind me, I felt the presence of Brady, and I turned to see him standing there, watching with interest.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  I glanced at Rosemary, who explained. As she did, Chris looked up once and then again at Brady, his eyes growing wide by the time she was done.

  “You’re Brady Anderson.” He turned to his mother. “He’s the new kicker over at the high school.”

  The woman looked at Brady, taking him in. “Of course. I thought you looked familiar. You’re really something, you know that?”

  “Thanks.”

  “I mean really, all the parents are so excited about you.”

  “Appreciate it,” Brady said, and it struck me that with his talent, he was in for a lifetime of such praise. Some might see that as a good thing, but I knew it could become a real snare, one filled with pride and arrogance and inflated self-worth. Self-indulgence as well. Brady had a difficult road ahead indeed, thanks to the mixed blessing of such an outstanding talent.

  “My daughter is Tiffany Ward,” Rosemary said to him, interrupting my thoughts. “She’s a cheerleader there.”

  “Sure, I know Tiff,” Brady replied. He stepped forward to stand beside me. “But I didn’t realize she lived in the neighborhood.”

  “Been there for about ten years.”

  “You’re a skater too?” Chris asked, looking up at Brady.

  “Not in a while. But I used to be.”

  “Good thing you’re not anymore,” Rosemary said. “You have to protect that kicking leg. Can’t let down the Mighty Sailors.” Looking to me, she added, “We need to run, but we wanted to stop by to thank you. That was a very kind thing you did.”

  I shrugged, waving off her words. “It was my pleasure. I’m here visiting from Pennsylvania, so I had the time.”

  “Well, Christopher appreciates it very much. So do I. It hasn’t been easy for him since his dad left. And I’m useless with a screwdriver.”

  Chris rolled his eyes as if to say, You have no idea.

  After one last thanks, they turned and walked away.

  “Well, that was bizarre,” Brady said as soon as I closed the door.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You did some random skateboard repair for someone you didn’t even know?”

  I laughed, moving back toward the kitchen. “I’d seen the kid trying to fix it himself. I felt sorry for him.”

  I returned to the counter and the cantaloupe that was waiting for me on the cutting board. I thought Brady would go back to his breakfast, but instead he just stood there, staring at me. I grabbed the knife and began slicing.

  “Sometimes, Tyler…” He shook his head.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes I can’t figure out what to make of you. Must be your Amishness, I guess.”

  I stopped cutting and looked at him, not sure if he’d meant it as a compliment or an insult. Either way, I decided to seize the moment. “Hey, can I give you a tip, one that comes out of that Amishness?”

  Brady shrugged, moved back to the table, and picked up his spoon. “What is it?”

  “That kid was looking at you like you were some kind of superhero.”

  Another shrug. Brady took a bite of cereal and looked my way, waiting for me to continue.

  “Just always remember that if you act a certain way, and someone like Chris sees you, then he’s going to act that way too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s sort of a known thing where I come from. The younger boys are always watching the older boys, trying to be just like them. For someone like Chris, you’re a living, breathing example—in every little thing you do. It all makes an impression, more than you can imagine.”

  Brady scowled. “Why are you telling me this? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  I set the knife in the sink, rinsed my hands, and carried the bowl of cantaloupe slices over to the table.

  “I know that. I just want you to be aware. Younger eyes are watching. The bigger and more important you get in the world of sports, the heavier that responsibility will become.”

  He laughed. “Great. Now you sound like Coach.”

  “Well, how about that?” I replied, snagging a slice of the juicy orange melon for myself. “Guess I’m not the only one around here with Amishness.”

  That day, while Brady was at school, I laid out the pea rock in between the gardens, took a long bike ride, and returned the books to the library. Brady was still in a contemplative mood when he got home from football practice. I made a point of listening intently to whatever he had to say the rest of the evening, which wasn’t a lot, and I prayed for wisdom to know how to talk to my father when he returned.

  On Wednesday morning I filled the containers with the soil Brady helped me haul home. Then, just before I left to get Lark, she texted that I should bring flip-flops because we were going to the beach. I had none, but I grabbed a pair of men’s sandals I had seen in the garage, assuming they were either my father’s or Brady’s, and headed out, arriving at her house a few minutes before nine. Once again we followed the rule of the two C’s and went to a coffee shop first, settling down at a table with our hot beverages before beginning our next lesson.

  She started things out with a “Ta-da!” as she pulled my newly cleaned and lubricated Leica camera from her bag with a flourish. She seemed very excited by what she had done, though I couldn’t see much difference. It still looked like an old banged up piece of junk to me, but what did I know?

  She launched into our next lesson, starting with the difference between digital photography, which was what we had done last time, and film photography, which was what we’d be doing today.

  “The word ‘photography’ is Greek in origin,” Lark said as I sipped my coffee. “It means ‘painting with light.’ That’s what you’re doing when you’re taking a picture. You’re using light like a box of crayons, and the film is your canvas.”

  She showed me how to load a roll of film into the Leica and then explained the difference between an SLR camera and a point-and-shoot. From there she went into much detail about F-stops and film speed and light meters, most of which I was able to understand. In fact, I was amazed at how scientific the art of photography was. I
had never considered that the rules of God’s created world were the backbone of every picture that a film camera took.

  After about twenty minutes of teaching time, Lark pulled out a small album of her own photos and used them to show me some of the principles she’d been talking about. As I flipped through the pages, I couldn’t believe how perfectly composed the pictures were, with just the right amount of light and focus. Some were photos of animals and landscapes, some of people, and some of buildings or parts of structures, such as a curve in the length of a wrought iron fence. Each one did what she said a photo should: It drew me in. It was odd being so enchanted by frozen bits of time like that. Each was a real moment, but one that had long since passed. It seemed photography only ever made you think of the past. Was that its purpose? To let you have a hold on what was?

  If so, was that one reason why my mother had been so interested in it?

  We wrapped things up and headed out to Corona Del Mar State Beach so that I could try my hand at taking pictures the old-fashioned way, on film, the way my mother would have done. Lark gave me a notepad and told me to write down how I composed each picture. She also told me to take several photos of the same thing using different amounts of light, saying that we would compare them after they were printed.

  “That’s how you learn which way is best,” she said.

  It was slow going, writing down the information each time I took a picture and trying to remember the artistic approach she had told me about on Saturday along with the scientific approach I was paying attention to now. I took photos of cliffs, rock formations, shells on the beach, the pier, gulls, palm trees, and even a few of Lark, which was a little bit awkward. After the third roll of film, it was getting close to eleven thirty and time to stop. As we walked back to the parking lot, she asked me how things were going with Brady. I told her I had taken her advice about spending more time listening and had noticed a slight improvement in our communication. That made her happy. She asked if I wanted to stop for fish tacos on the way back to her house.

  “I can’t. I need to get home. I’m expecting a phone call from back East.” I added that a taco with a fish inside it seemed like a bad idea all the way around.