Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  Her thoughts churned like a spring creek swollen by torrents of rain. Could a name change her past, though?

  When they arrived at her grandfather’s farm, everything came rushing back, the unhappy time when her mother had given up in North Dakota and her subsequent return to Lancaster County. All a blur of misery.

  The house was built of gray limestone, serviceable, sturdy, a monument of hard work and foresight. The trees flanking the house on either side were like sentinels, shading the structure from the heat of summer, heightening the spring glory with their tender red buds that lay scattered across the green lawn like nature’s carpeting.

  Hannah noticed the bulging corn crib, the corn husking already finished. That was Elam and Ben, likely. She wondered if their work ethic would rub off on Manny, who had learned the ways of the plains before moving back home among his German ancestors who lived to work hard, making every hour count.

  The door was flung open and there was her mother. Hannah fumbled for the door handle, then flew to the porch, her feet barely touching the uneven cement sidewalks.

  They clasped hands, looked long into each other’s eyes, one as dark as the other. There was no hug, no outward display of emotion. That was the way of it. A sincere handclasp coupled with a long searching look, a checkpoint to gauge whether all was well.

  Mother to daughter, and daughter to mother, strengthening the bond that would never be severed, no matter what life handed them. Hundreds of miles, trials almost more than could be borne, differences of opinion, verbal arguments, hurts and animosity—all of it only increased the mysterious bonds that held them.

  “Hannah! Ach, Hannah. Vie bisht?”

  Nodding, soft-eyed, Hannah replied, “Goot. Goot.”

  What a mother wanted to hear. Everything was good. Good. Her daughter had married a nice man who would keep her happy and love her to the end of their days. Nothing would change that. A mother’s hope is kept alive in the face of tumultuous adversity, always searching, longing to hear the good news, the love, in her daughter’s union.

  A clatter of men, handshaking, satchels and suitcases, the squeal from Eli and Mary, so tall, so grown-up. Her grandfather was bent and wizened, his dark eyes shedding tears. His hands were like tree branches, bent and gnarled, calloused, veins like tributaries of the strong river flowing from his heart. He still husked corn and could hitch up a mule with the best of them.

  Sarah, her cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement, bent and swayed, moved from icebox to gas stove. A wonder, this gas stove, she said, between questions and exclamations, barely listening to what Hannah had to say.

  She dished up mountains of mashed potatoes, shook the small saucepan with the browning butter till it hissed just right, then poured it over the creamy mound, watching to make sure it did not run over the sides of the service dishes.

  She brought out a blue agate roaster and lifted the lid to produce a wealth of browned, steaming roasht, one of Hannah’s favorite meals. One chicken went a long way if it was roasted, the gizzard, liver, and skin ground in a cast-iron meat grinder, the meat cut into bite-size pieces and mixed with cubed bread, celery, eggs, salt and pepper.

  The smell was heavenly. Hannah bent over the steaming roaster and breathed deeply, then pinched a corner of the savory filling with thumb and forefinger and popped it into her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the wonderful flavor. “Nobody makes roasht like you, Mam,” she sighed, reaching for more. Sarah slapped her hand playfully. “Fork, Hannah!”

  There was thick, yellow gravy. Homemade dinner rolls, their tops golden and gleaming with butter. Lima beans. Canned green beans with schpeck (bacon). Chowchow, sweet pickles, and applesauce. Homemade noodles, rich and heavy, swimming in browned butter and parsley.

  They all pulled up chairs, while Eli and Mary slid along the bench. Without spoken direction, they bowed their heads as one. The grandfather’s lips moved in silent prayer, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears as he lifted his head and told everyone to help themselves.

  Elam and Ben watched Hannah, each curious to see if she’d come to accept Jerry as more than a business partner. She was something, that Hannah. It had been hard to believe she’d married anyone. Both were convinced that Jerry couldn’t be too smart. Or had Hannah seen the light, repented, and changed her selfish ways?

  Hannah passed dishes, laughed, talked, and appeared happy, even glowing. But she never spoke to Jerry. As far as her uncles could tell, Jerry wasn’t present at all.

  When the cakes and pies, the cornstarch pudding, and canned pears and peaches were served, Jerry held his stomach and groaned. “I’ll have to let this settle first.”

  Sarah, always eager to serve, immediately began pouring coffee, telling everyone to sit back and relax, let their food settle because, my goodness, they had all day.

  The conversation turned to the plentiful food on the table. “In these hard years,” Jerry said, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  “Oh, I know,” Sarah said. “I hope we never forget to give thanks.

  The grandfather nodded, shook his spoon in the general direction. “You have to think about it, though. Everything on this table so far has been raised or grown on this farm. Potatoes, vegetables, eggs, chicken, butter. We farmers have had to tighten our belts some, with money not being worth what it once was. But, the times are changing with President Roosevelt at the helm. He’ll get us out of this.”

  Elam and Ben nodded. “Farms are cheap. Interest is low at the banks. Now’s your time, Jerry,” Ben said.

  Jerry looked at Hannah and shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know for sure yet what we have in mind.”

  Ben thought, You mean, what your wife has in mind. But he didn’t say it aloud.

  Elam narrowed his eyes and looked at Hannah with a knowing wink. “She’ll be ready for North Dakota in about a month,” he predicted.

  “You think?” Jerry’s eyes twinkled. “Ask her.”

  “What do you say, Hannah?”

  To Elam’s surprise, Hannah faced him soberly and said, “I don’t believe I’ll ever go back.”

  Feigning surprise, Elam acted as if he would fall out of his chair. Calmly, Hannah said, “Stop it, Elam. I’m not joking.”

  “What gives?”

  Jerry spoke for Hannah, giving a detailed account of the grasshoppers’ march across their homestead, the burning of the Klassermans’ house, Janie, the blizzards, everything. His arm stole along the back of Hannah’s chair.

  Elam listened, openmouthed. Ben detected the shifting of Hannah’s weight, the almost imperceptible movement to lay her hand on Jerry’s leg, the dropping of his arm to her shoulders.

  Sarah shuddered, breathed, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  Eli piped up, “What are locusts? I thought only King Pharaoh had locusts.” Everyone laughed, but without mirth.

  “The grasshoppers were the most horrible,” Hannah said quietly. “I never had the heart, the real courage to stay after that. You know what the prairie looks like during a two-year drought? Well, this was much worse. Imagine not a blade of dead grass, not a shrub or a weed. And the smell was unbelievable.”

  Sarah shuddered. Mary twisted her face in disgust. Jerry said he’d left the final decision up to Hannah.

  Her eyes alight, leaning forward, Hannah spread her hands to state her case. “In the end, does it really make sense? Just before the end, I had come to the conclusion that if you really want to be homesteader you have to lower your standards of what we consider success. Out there, success is measured in many more ways than simply how much money you make.

  “If you lose too many calves, well, next year will be better. If it doesn’t rain, it’s a victory just to be able to ‘git by.’ They’re not bothered by small hindrances because they’re so easygoing. The biggest thing those ranchers have is settin’ at the feed mill, measuring one natural calamity after another, seeing who weathered the longest drought, the worst storm, or whatever. There’s a fierce loyalty to the prairie, a determ
ination to live like their fathers before them. They can’t imagine anything different.

  “But us? Well, we know another way of life. This is in our blood. Although, I know it won’t always be easy. In fact, until I saw Mam on the porch, I wasn’t sure if I could be happy here again.”

  “Oh Hannah! Really?” Sarah’s smile grew as she did her best to keep the tears from spilling over.

  “I missed you terribly, Mam,” Hannah said.

  Sarah flung both hands over her face and left the table, ashamed to let her family see how much Hannah’s words affected her.

  After all she and Hannah had been through, every harsh word and rebellious shrug, the storming out of the house leaving Sarah to wrestle with her own bravado, her own fear of mishandling her wayward daughter who, by all appearances had simply hated her. Leaving Hannah in North Dakota had been as painful as losing one of her own limbs.

  Sarah was a servant, someone whose own happiness sprang from bringing happiness to others. Her children, her husband, the acquaintances around her, all benefited from her deep inner kindness. She had been so afraid for Hannah. For Jerry. She knew full well Hannah didn’t love Jerry. She knew, too, the reason for Hannah marrying him. But here they were, alive and well, with the kind of intimacy between them that only a mother could discern.

  Surely God had heard all her begging, her prayers on their behalf. How often had she fallen on her knees in the middle of the night to pray for them? Times when sleep slipped out of her grasp, the terrors of the plains crashing and screaming around in her head until she thought she’d surely go mad. Leaving Hannah in North Dakota had been a torment, a punishment, the blame-taking wreaking havoc with her faith.

  She was grateful to Hannah for keeping the blizzard, Janie, the scourge of insects from her, and so allowing her to live in peace, not knowing of their suffering.

  Composed now, Sarah dished out more dessert, smiled, and refilled coffee cups, glad to hear the conversation had drifted to other topics.

  “So Jerry, what do you have in mind as far as where you’ll live and what you’ll do to support your wife?” Elam asked, spooning an alarming amount of vanilla cornstarch pudding over a huge square of black walnut cake.

  Jerry’s eyes widened. He jutted his chin in the direction of Elam’s pudding and cake. “Are you planning on eating all that by yourself?” he asked.

  “You just be nice and mind your own business,” Elam countered, lifting a spoon piled high with the sweet concoction.

  Hannah smiled as she cut a large slice of peach pie. The sense of belonging that pervaded the kitchen was like a haven for her battered spirit. Here was the companionship of family, a knot tied with so many intricacies, impossible to be fully separated. Loosened, perhaps, frayed edges whipped by storms and every mischief of the mortal mind, but tied, inexplicably bound and reaching into the future.

  CHAPTER 15

  ALL THAT NEXT DAY, HANNAH RELATED STORY AFTER STORY, HER mother listening spellbound, intermittently shaking her head, making soft, clucking noises of disbelief. Occasionally, Sarah would try to interject a thought, but words poured from her daughter like an overturned tumbler of water that ran dripping down over the tablecloth and onto the floor.

  Finally, Hannah stopped, took her teacup to the white, porcelain sink, and asked if they shouldn’t be doing a job, making dinner or something.

  “No, not yet. We’ll have bean soup and cheese for lunch. But, did you say this little Janie’s parents both died in that fire?”

  “They say so, but no one really knows. I think they did. The grandparents seem like really nice people. And Janie will never remember her own parents. She’s too young, so that’s a comfort I still have.”

  “Right.” Then, “Oh, Hannah. I can’t imagine all you’ve been through. You say the worst was the grasshoppers?”

  “Yes. Without a doubt. But the winters! After being lost in a blizzard …” Hannah’s voice drifted off. “Being lost in a blizzard is beyond suffering. The cold is only a small part of it. It’s the feeling of being cut off from all you know. Every single thing we take for granted every day is removed and there you are, at the mercy of the howling, driving wind, the snow and ice and brutal cold. I almost lost my toes. Probably would have if Jerry hadn’t known what to do.”

  “So, you and Jerry are in love?” Sarah asked her, emboldened by the conversation that had flowed so easily between them for hours now.

  When there was no answer, Sarah knew she had struck the wrong chord. She slid a glance sideways at her daughter, whose eyes were lowered, her teeth worrying her lower lip.

  “I guess. I don’t know. How do you know if you love someone?”

  “Oh, well, you just do.”

  “I’m not always a nice person.”

  Sarah laughed. “Nicer than you used to be.”

  “I would say he loves me, but he hasn’t always been nice, either.”

  Sarah knew this was dangerous territory, so she said nothing. With Hannah, always being nice was an impossibility. She could only imagine the patience it required to live with her.

  “But you are … I mean … you know …” Sarah reddened, then blushed so furiously that tears sprang to her eyes.

  “Yes,” Hannah mumbled, then quickly got up and disappeared behind the bathroom door.

  They never spoke about Sarah’s marriage after that. It was the way Sarah’s mother had taught her; in some matters, things were best left unsaid.

  A few weeks later, Jerry and Hannah had found a house. Hannah wanted to live in the mountains, a good distance from other Amish folks, and everyone else, for that matter. She had their whole logging operation already planned out. But after listening to Ben and Elam, Jerry decided that farming and milking cows was probably the best thing to do, especially since he had a good down payment ready for a nice farm.

  He listened patiently, considered Hannah’s opinion about logging, but knew that cutting trees and dragging logs was not his future. He had no interest in wrecking forests. Not now, and he doubted if he ever would.

  They were lying in bed in the blue painted guest room with the high plastered ceiling, deep windowsills, and the ever-present smell of mothballs and cedar that infiltrated the room like a giant’s breath. It was their only time for communicating with each other away from the rest of the family, so they often lay there murmuring together about their plans for the future. But this thing about logging and living in the mountains was starting to annoy Jerry; it was like a whining mosquito hovering in his ear whenever Hannah had a chance to be alone with him.

  Patiently, he explained his view. Horses would not always be competitive, in logging. Caterpillars, those big yellow machines on tracks, could go where it was difficult for horses and drag out ten times the number of logs. But, if they wanted to stay Amish, then she’d have to think about what was reasonable.

  “But I don’t want to live on a flat farm surrounded by flat Amish neighbors and all their flat children,” she hissed.

  Jerry shook with the force of his silent laughter. “We can buy a hilly, rocky farm then.”

  “No. I don’t want to milk cows. I hate cows.” Hannah rolled onto her side, punched the feather pillow, huffed a few times, bounced up and down to settle herself, and refused to talk any more about it that night.

  Jerry lay on his back, hands propped behind his head, and sighed. He watched the rectangles of gray light that marked both windows, traced the pattern of black branches across the window panes, listened to the sounds of traffic stopping and starting on Route 30, and thought about farming when his wife detested the mere thought of milking cows.

  What kind of life would that be? Well, he’d wait. She was still a bit sore about losing the homestead in the West, so perhaps after she had the opportunity to listen to what members of her family had to say, she’d change her mind.

  “I hate this smell!” Hannah said out loud.

  “Shh. Someone will hear you.”

  “No one’s going to hear,” Hannah said,
louder.

  To keep her from knowing he was laughing, Jerry rolled on his side, as close to the edge as possible. When she found resistance, and had to give up, her rebellion knew no limits. It simply boiled out of her like an overfilled pot of rolled oats, hissing and foaming.

  “I don’t like the smell of mothballs, either,” he said, quietly. Then, “Good night, Hannah.”

  He was wavering between consciousness and sleep when Hannah said, “Horses aren’t going to be competitive with tractors, either.”

  When he didn’t answer, she muttered, “You know that, too.” He let her think he was sound asleep. It was easier than thinking of a soothing reply.

  The woman was headstrong, self-willed, more determined than anyone he’d known. His thoughts drifted into prayer, not a plea of desperation, but only that God would bless their union. And he was thankful. Thankful for Hannah, thankful for her willingness to return, thankful for Lancaster County.

  It snowed, but the storms were gentle, in spite of folks talking about the cold and the large drifts piled by the roadside. The absence of harsh winds and driving blizzards were an immense relief to Hannah, though she didn’t mention it. No use letting anyone know she was glad to be here.

  On Sunday morning, they rode to church with Ben. They had no carriage of their own, no horse, nothing. Everything had been sold.

  Hannah sat in the back seat of the buggy dressed warmly in a heavy winter coat, a woolen shawl, scarf, and bonnet—all black. She had dressed with care, painfully aware of the scrutiny she would be under. A purple dress and cape, the cape pinned neatly to her dress, two pleats down the back, pinned to a V in front, her black apron pinned around her waist. She hoped she’d pass the inspection of curious eyes. She had no idea if anything had changed since she had traveled out West with her parents.

  In spite of the austere way of dressing—modest, homemade, the same pattern used for every individual—she had been old enough to know there were ways of pinning a cape and choosing the sleeve length and the length of skirt and apron that set one apart from another.