The Splendor of Ordinary Days

by Jeff High

  “Hey, sorry to keep you waiting. I just needed to ask Trina a quick question.”

  As we buckled ourselves in, Christine looked over at me and said a single word. “Yellow.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Christine nodded with casual assurance. “­Umm-­hmm. Yellow.”

  “Yellow as in what?”

  “Yellow roses. They’re my favorite.”

  “Okay, do you have ears like a wolf and forgot to mention it?”

  “No. It’s just that Trina has a standard policy of telling every man she talks to that he should buy his sweetheart a dozen roses. She’s done that for years. I’m sure she didn’t miss that opportunity with you, so I thought I’d help you out. Yellow.” Having confidently reiterated that, she smiled shrewdly.

  I slowly realized that I was once again falling into the trap of ­small-­town life. I responded obediently. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Christine stared straight ahead, all the while wearing an irrepressible smirk.

  We stopped by the house to eat our wraps and take care of Rhett, my golden retriever. Something about Christine’s presence always perked him up. As we entered the kitchen, he constantly wagged his tail at her and on more than one occasion tried to leap up and give her a dog hug.

  “Hey, Casanova,” I said teasingly. “Go find your own girlfriend.” He ignored my admonishment.

  “So, this will be your first visit to a Mennonite community?” Christine inquired.

  “Yup. Truth is, I just want to see what their world looks like. I mean, how much fun can they be having without, you know, the benefit of duct tape and chili dogs?”

  “When I was young, Momma would drive out to the Mennonites to buy their canned fruits and preserves. Best blackberry jam imaginable.”

  “So, did you know any of them growing up?”

  “Not really. They keep to themselves pretty much. They were always nice, but not real chatty.”

  “Well, I don’t know beans about them. They didn’t exactly hang out at the Galleria when I was growing up in Atlanta. The first one I ever met was Jacob Yoder when he first came by the clinic a couple of months ago.”

  “Two or three hundred Mennonites live in the area. I know the Yoders are one of the larger families, but I don’t think I’ve ever met Jacob.”

  “He’s in his ­mid-­forties. I got the impression he’s a person of authority in their community, sort of an unofficial mayor.”

  “Why won’t his dad come to the clinic?”

  “Don’t know. I read up on the Mennonites earlier today. They don’t oppose modern medicine. I think his dad’s just stubborn.”

  “If you’re not too late, drop by the farm later.” Christine lowered her voice, speaking mirthfully. “Maybe I’ll read you something from my old journal, make a few comparisons.”

  “Nice. Put me in a lineup with some old boyfriends, huh? Won’t that be fun?”

  “Bradford, sarcasm is definitely not your long suit. Besides, I didn’t write about old boyfriends.”

  “Seriously? I thought that’s why teenage girls keep journals in the first place.”

  Christine’s words seemed guarded. “Oh, I wrote about a boy from time to time.”

  “Really? And what was he like?”

  “He was wonderful.”

  “Wonderful, huh? Well, hey . . . I bathe often and I’m lice free. Where does that put me in the ranking?”

  “I think Rhett just moved in front of you.”

  “Who was this guy anyway?”

  Christine smiled and regarded me shrewdly. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Bradford? Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  CHAPTER 6

  The Mennonites

  I had grown to love Watervalley. Tucked away in the rural landscape of Tennessee, the town stood in the middle of a wide, fertile plain surrounded in all directions by farms and rolling pastures. Soaring hills rose in the distance, encircling the entire valley. It seemed a fortunate destiny rested upon this modest community, an innate sense that life here was permeated with richly satisfying possibilities. Combined with the immense beauty of this ­late-­spring day, my journey had a feeling of impending discovery.

  With the top down on the ­Austin-­Healey, I passed the shaded lawns and picket fences along Fleming Street. Life in this quiet small town had all the trappings of a carefree lemonade summer. The air was rich with the smells of honeysuckle, lilac, and freshly mowed grass. Neighborhood kids were riding bikes or playing in their yards, squealing and laughing and slamming screen doors.

  Soon I was in the open countryside, passing great fields of corn and soybeans before turning onto the road known as Gallivant’s Crossing. Following the penciled map Jacob Yoder had drawn for me, I drove deep into the hills until I came upon a chert lane called Mercy Creek Road. Dense trees lined both sides of the narrow passage, leaving it completely shaded with a thick canopy of leaves. After about half a mile, the woods on the left ended abruptly, opening up to a broad meadow, a scene so captivating that I brought the car to a stop.

  The view before me was a still life painting framed on three sides by tall hills that rose sharply. High above, light summer clouds hung in the panorama of soft blue sky, made all the more brilliant by its contrast with the lush and vibrant green of the pasture below. In the foreground of this splendid canvas were several massive trees that marked the humble corners of a remnant foundation anchored by a stout fireplace and tall chimney, the remaining bones of a ­long-­ago cottage, its stones now starched white from years of rain and sun. Just beyond the foundation stood a small enclosure outlined by the last vestiges of a stone fence and rusted iron gate, the ­once-­proud citadel of a modest vegetable garden. Farther back, a pond surrounded by thick tussocks of wild grass lay in the shadow of a large, dilapidated barn.

  Under the warm, hazy light of afternoon, I could easily imagine a quaint farmhouse that years ago completed this idyllic setting. The scene was so enchanting, so entrancing that I wanted to pull down the grassy drive to take a closer look. Yet that would have to wait. First, I needed to find the home of Jacob Yoder.

  I continued on through more tangled woods, thinking I had lost my way. But after crossing over a modest ridge, I entered a different world. Before me was a wide expanse of low rolling fields, neat crops, and ­well-­manicured fences. Years of sweat and toil had transformed the land into orderly farming operations.

  I passed by simple white frame houses bordered by large gardens and dominated by great, boxy barns. Laundry lines were strung with black broadfall pants that billowed in the ­late-­afternoon breeze.

  I found the address and drove the short lane to Jacob’s house, parking on the edge of the yard. Now that I was here, I felt awkward, an intruder. I grabbed my medical bag and had the sudden nagging wish that I had brought my lab coat, to give a more professional appearance.

  My arrival in the shiny, ­top-­down ­Austin-­Healey hadn’t gone unnoticed. Two women in long plain dresses topped by aprons were sitting in the shade of the front porch, and several children, three barefoot boys it appeared, were playing in the lush grass next to the house.

  As I approached, the boys gathered in a row on the side of the high porch, partially out of sight and peering above the wooden floor, eyeing me with great curiosity. The two women stopped whatever handwork they were doing and stood. The younger of the two, a small but firmly built woman, probably in her early forties, turned and spoke to one of the children. Immediately, the largest of them, a boy of about twelve, took off in a blistering run toward the nearby barn.

  I stopped a few feet from the porch and spoke cautiously. “Hello, I’m Dr. Bradford. I’m looking for Jacob Yoder. He asked me to come by this afternoon. Am I at the right house?”

  Saying nothing, the two women looked at each other uneasily. Their eyes seemed to be communicating an array of ­well-­understood thoughts
from which I was completely excluded. The children continued to shyly conceal themselves, their gazes riveted on my face with total fascination.

  I sensed the two women’s discomfort and was uncertain as to their custom regarding talking to a stranger. “Perhaps I should come back at another time?”

  Again there was silence. The older one, who was rather rounded and didn’t seem to have a happy temperament, gave a subtle but ­tight-­lipped nod to the younger woman. She turned to me.

  “Jacob is my husband. He is at the barn. John has gone to get him.” She spoke plainly and kindly. Now that the decision to speak had been made, she seemed more relaxed. And while she didn’t actually smile, her eyes shone warmly.

  Jacob arrived a few moments later. He was a man of modest height, his lean shape disguised under his loose clothing. His dark hair and beard were peppered with gray. And despite his generally serious demeanor, Jacob had a relaxed manner about him along with thoughtful eyes that spoke of a generous and considerate nature. I suspected that around his own kind he probably laughed easily and often. He shook my hand firmly and spoke in an English laced with a German inflection.

  “Thank you for coming, Doctor. This is my wife, Hannah, and my mother, Letta.”

  I smiled and nodded. An awkward silence ensued. Jacob sensed my uneasiness and spoke accommodatingly.

  “Come with me, Dr. Bradford. I will show you to the patient.” As Jacob and I walked, he spoke with an affable confidence. “Father can be a little headstrong, so I appreciate your patience with him.”

  We entered the barn through a side door into a large open workshop with a wide plank floor. Seemingly dozens of woodworking tools hung in orderly rows above several workbenches. The room had the rich, earthy smell of stacked hardwood, mellowed and seasoned over years. There were bins of similarly cut wood pieces, small components that seemed part of a larger production.

  “We make chairs and furniture here, mostly during the winter months when we are not farming.” Jacob explained. “But my father’s age is catching up with him, so he spends less time in the fields and more time in here.” He nodded toward a man in the far corner of the room with his back turned to us. He was molding a piece of wood on a lathe that was powered by pumping a foot pedal connected to a series of wheels and belts.

  Jacob tapped him on the shoulder, but it seemed he was already keenly aware of our presence. He turned slowly and regarded Jacob with a hard frown. Then he looked sternly at me. I could almost feel the weight of his heavy gaze.

  “Father, this is Dr. Bradford. He has come to check your eyes. Dr. Bradford, this is my father, Eli Yoder.”

  The man facing me was an older version of Jacob, except he lacked his son’s accommodating countenance. Instead, he regarded me grimly with a glare of withering intensity. He had a thin mouth absent of humor. Saying nothing, he lifted his arm to run his sleeve across his red and sweating face. His resentment of me seemed instinctive, and soon enough he turned his sullen glare on Jacob. Just that quickly the heat seemed to be thickening in the room’s corners.

  But Jacob was unfazed. “Father, you agreed to do this.”

  Again Eli looked at me with haughty suspicion before grunting a low sound of acknowledgment.

  “What do you need him to do, Doctor?”

  I retrieved an eye chart from my bag, hung it on a nail on a nearby wall, and stepped off twenty feet toward the center of the room. I grabbed a ­ladder-­back chair and placed it at that point. Eli made no expression but seemed to understand. He walked over and sat in the chair, moving with a brooding reluctance. I asked him to read the letters above the red line. Before he could respond, Jacob interrupted.

  “Father can’t do that.”

  “He can’t read?”

  “No, he reads fine. He cannot see certain colors.”

  “Oh.” I nodded in understanding, walked to the chart, and pointed to the line I wanted him to read. He did so, but with difficulty. I retrieved my ophthalmoscope to look directly into his eyes. The clouding over his lens was readily apparent.

  I spoke directly to Jacob. “Your father has the onset of cataracts. It’s blurring his vision. I need him to come to the clinic for a thorough eye exam.”

  “Is there a treatment?”

  “Sure. Surgery. It would have to be done over at Regional Hospital, but it’s pretty routine.”

  Jacob nodded thoughtfully. His father heard my words as well. Aware that the exam was over, he stood and grabbed the chair, returning it to its place. He squared his shoulders and regarded me solemnly for a final time.

  Jacob and I walked back to the house. Along the way, I asked if he wanted to go ahead and set up a time for his dad’s appointment. I knew that this group of Mennonites didn’t use telephones, and if the appointment wasn’t made now, doing so would require a trip to town.

  “Thank you, but not today, Dr. Bradford. Father harbors some old resentment and hasn’t been to town in many years. His eyes may have to get a little worse before he’s willing to go there.”

  I nodded, and as we walked back to his house, I surveyed the ­well-­manicured farmland around us. “If I’m not mistaken, Moon Lake is not far from here. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. It is just beyond that ridge,” Jacob responded, pointing to a low rise in the near distance. “Father used to play there when he was a child.”

  “I understand it has been fenced up for years,” I said casually, not wanting to reveal that I had a key.

  “I believe that is correct.” Jacob added nothing more. We returned to the porch to find Hannah and her mother-in-law gathering their handwork and carrying it into the house. “So, Dr. Bradford, thank you for coming. What do we owe you for your services?”

  “Not a thing. Glad to make the trip out. Besides, I don’t think I helped your dad much.”

  Jacob spoke with warm assurance. “For now, Father is unwilling to help himself. And I wouldn’t think of letting your kindness go uncompensated.” He turned and said something in German to his mother, Letta, who nodded and spoke to the oldest boy.

  “John, get the red and green one from the basket in the kitchen.”

  The boy returned a moment later with a neatly folded quilt that he held out to me. I turned to Jacob.

  “Look, I really appreciate the gesture, but this is completely unnecessary. A lot more time went into making this quilt than it took me to make the drive out here.”

  Jacob took the quilt from the boy and put it in my arms. “And you spent a lot more time studying to be a doctor than was put into making this quilt. Please, take it along with my thanks.”

  Refusal at this point would have been rude. “We’ll consider this payment in full for when your dad does come to the clinic.” I shook Jacob’s hand once more, thanked him, and walked the short distance to the ­Austin-­Healey. But as I dropped the quilt onto the passenger seat, something fell from the folds. It was a bonnet that must have found its way there by accident.

  I took it and walked back to the house. By then Jacob had returned to the barn, and Hannah and Letta had gone inside. I rapped on the front door and waited. Moments passed and my mind drifted, leaving me unprepared for the person standing there when the door opened.

  She was seventeen or eighteen, notably tall and straight shouldered with a slender figure that narrowed gracefully at the waist, accentuating the fluid, maidenly curve of her hips. I was immediately taken by the symmetrical prettiness of her face, which had a fragile, translucent delicacy. Her raven hair had a prominent widow’s peak that protruded from under the rim of her kapp. And while everything about her manner and mode of dress was fashioned toward plainness, she was blessed with extraordinary dark eyes that were round and deep and framed by thick, luxurious lashes.

  She gasped lightly upon seeing me, making it clear that it was someone else’s knock she had been expecting. The other Mennonites I had seen that ­aft
ernoon—­Hannah, Jacob, and his ­parents—­had something of a rumpled sweatiness about them brought on by the physical labor of their day. But this young woman and her clothes were fresh and clean.

  “Hi. I’m Dr. Bradford. I wanted to return this. I think it mistakenly found its way into the quilt that was given to me.” I held the bonnet out to her.

  She stood frozen, her face absent of emotion save for the intensity of her expressive eyes. In any other setting, a face such as hers, with its haunting and vulnerable beauty, would be on a magazine cover or in one of those cryptic perfume commercials that advertise by whispering incomplete sentences. Hannah’s voice broke the silence.

  “Rebecca, you are being rude.” The tone was more comment than reprimand. Hannah had entered the room and politely took the bonnet from my outstretched hand. “Dr. Bradford, this is Rebecca, our only daughter.”

  I smiled. With her perfect posture and willowy figure, she stood four or five inches taller than her mother. “Rebecca, good to meet you.”

  She nodded, the corners of her mouth touched by a thoughtful and gentle smile. Hannah explained, “We are expecting company for dinner tonight, a young man from the neighboring farm who has been away for some time.”

  I nodded in understanding. “I’m surprised you don’t have a line of young men waiting at the door. Your daughter is very pretty.”

  The two women exchanged reserved glances. Rebecca looked down, clearly not accustomed to receiving compliments, her modest nature making her all the more appealing. Silence ensued, and I feared that perhaps my praise had overstepped. It was time to leave. I smiled, bid them ­good-­bye, and returned to the car.

  CHAPTER 7

  Songs and Summer Nights

  I drove back through the thick woods of Mercy Creek Road and once again came upon the meadow opening to the old ruins. Slowly I edged the car down the gravel drive that was nothing more than two stony paths separated by thick weeds. I parked under a large maple and cut the engine. Except for a lonely breeze that ­gently fluttered the leaves of the great tree, I was surrounded by a swallowing silence, a uniform tranquillity. This small lap of land, this perfect meadow, was strangely and woefully beautiful. The moment held me still.