by Linda Byler
Like the soaked but still smoking pile of black debris, the dread had to sit on the sidelines like an injured player as the game went on, played out by the goodwill of all these men who had come because of their caring, heartfelt willingness to help.
When the first rafter went up and was fastened in the way of the forefathers, with mortise and tenon, Sarah swallowed. How often had she seen the wooden pegs firmly pounded into the holes drilled into the heavy beams?
They were holes and pegs, so solid and indestructible. But to Sarah, it was a part of her life, her childhood. When she and her siblings had swung from the great old rafters, sitting on the black rubber tire attached to the heavy jute rope, it had never once entered their minds that the centuries-old beams joined by those wooden pegs would give way.
As a teenager, Sarah had helped stack the heavy, prickly bales of hay, so pungent and sweet smelling, clear up to the rafters. She’d reached out a hand and touched the mortise and tenon, wondering at the craftsmanship.
Who had built this great barn? Did the people in the 1700s and 1800s look just like us? Was there, perhaps, a handsome young man, married to his first love, who had pounded the peg into place?
It was enticing, this imagining and wondering. Somehow, the hay stacked so tightly, the alfalfa rich in nutrients for the milk cows below, spoke of the agelessness of this great old barn, housing the fruits of the earth, the animals, a way of life.
The barn had held through the howling winds and snows of winter and the claps of thunder and sizzling lightning during welcome summer thunderstorms that sent them to seek shelter. They threw open the great doors to let the moist, cool air rejuvenate their tired and sweating bodies. The elements were friendly, even in their extremes. Who could know that one tiny flick of a lighter would bring this majestic barn to its destruction?
So Sarah was thrilled as each rafter was firmly pegged in the old way. She was comforted by the sight and gathered hope to her heart.
Rose sighed, a dramatic expression intended to evoke questions. “Oh, that Matthew is something else. He’s so cute!”
She clasped her hands rapturously as she watched him, steadily keeping her eyes on his dark, muscular figure. “Look at him, just hanging onto that timber, pounding away! Supposing he’d fall? Oh, I can’t stand it!”
Clearly, Rose did not see the barn or the men or feel the emotions Sarah felt. But then, Rose hadn’t experienced the night of horror and the ghoulish fear threatening to overtake common sense.
“It does look like he’s barely hanging on,” Sarah agreed, laughing.
“I hate barn raisings. They’re so dangerous.”
Sarah bit down on her lower lip, staying mercifully quiet. She watched the men, heard their shouts, observed their willingness to obey, and marveled at the scene before her.
Chainsaws whined and buzzed, their biting teeth sending fountains of sawdust spraying upward. Tape rules snapped as men measured and then set into place another heavy beam, an accurate piece of the huge jigsaw puzzle unfolding before their eyes.
It would be nice to have a special friend in her life like Rose did, Sarah thought. She yearned to have the sense of belonging Rose had. Sometimes she felt as if, at age nineteen, there was a void in her heart that only a true love could fill.
Yes, Mam had warned her. Go slow. God comes first. He’s most important.
So she yearned, said nothing, spoke of a love only to herself, and hoped someday, somewhere, God would have mercy and fulfill the want she harbored.
Chapter 5
INSIDE THE HOUSE, Sarah decided that Mam might as well forget about a clean floor, today or any time soon. She walked delicately around boxes of food, toys, and mashed doughnuts and Cheerios.
A baby screamed from the old high chair Mam kept for feeding the grandchildren. Usually there were two or three babies who needed a high chair, so one of the mothers had to hold her infant while she spooned yogurt into its mouth.
What a gigantic beehive! Sarah stood, uncertain. What to do?
Mam was everywhere, and so was Hannah, barking orders, opening oven doors, checking huge kettles of bubbling food. There were women breading chicken, rolling it in beaten eggs, then seasoned flour and bread crumbs, arranging it on trays to be taken to the neighbors to bake in their electric ovens.
An oversized woman Sarah didn’t know was slicing a ham at the table, and by the alacrity with which the woman kept sampling the succulent slices, Sarah felt she’d be fortunate to taste any herself.
She jumped when the woman said, “Hi! Bisht die Sare, gel? (You’re Sarah, right?)”
“Ya.”
“Vitt dale? Siss hesslich goot (You want some? It’s really good).”
“Thank you.”
Sarah reached for the steaming portion, popped it into her mouth, and said appreciatively, “Mmm.”
“Gel? Gel?”
She was so delighted with Sarah’s verdict that she laughed heartily and clapped a pink, greasy hand on Sarah’s forearm.
“We could just simply eat it all, you and me!” she chortled, her round face shining with happiness.
Sarah still didn’t know the woman’s name, but she felt a definite kinship. The woman’s goodwill and happy chortling came from the heart, showering Sarah with blessings that rained down like jewels. She’d never need to be afraid again, ever.
That’s what happened when people helped each other in times of need. Love multiplied and grew so fast you couldn’t even begin to count the vast supply.
All over the kitchen, the women were smiling, patting backs, and supporting one another’s decisions about how much butter to brown for the noodles, when the browning process was finished, when to mash the potatoes, and which was better—sour cream, cream cheese, or just plain butter.
There were lima beans and peas and corn, macaroni salad and potato salad, cole slaw and three-bean salad, deviled eggs and red beet eggs, and tiny, dark green, seven-day sweet pickles.
The women put Sarah and Rose to work, carrying the food to the trestle tables covered with heavy white tablecloths. Loud groans from the sink caught their attention. The women had become enveloped in steam as they struggled to mash the potatoes with the hand masher.
“We need the air drill. Sarah, go get Matthew,” said Hannah, who was keeping one eye on the clock.
Rose stepped forward.
“I’ll go.”
Hannah nodded assent.
Sarah continued her work, carrying out great plastic bags of Styrofoam trays, plastic cups, plastic utensils, napkins, and salt and pepper, as well as applesauce and dishes of fruit. She looked up to see Rose with Matthew in tow, dragging an air hose and a drill.
The beaters were soon attached, and a loud whirring sound followed as the potatoes were whipped into a frenzy. Hands were raised in the air amid cries of “Geb acht! (Be careful!)”
Matthew grinned, his dark hair falling over his eyes as the loud noise continued from the whirring of the air motor. Mam threw in the cream cheese, Hannah the butter, and Elam Zook sei Ruth insisted on the sour cream.
They gathered round, teasing Matthew, then Rose, who blushed as pretty as the flower she was named for. The boiled potatoes turned into a great vat of whipped mounds laced with so much butter and varieties of cream that the women all proclaimed them better than wedding potatoes! In short order, two more kettles were done in the same manner and were also fussed and talked and exclaimed over.
“Ach, my gravy! Somebody get the gravy!” Mam called, waving a hand as the rich ham gravy bubbled over the top of the kettle and all over the gas stove.
Sarah reached it first, flicked the burner off, and moved the kettle off the burner in one fluid motion, spilling a substantial amount of gravy across the top of her hand.
She yelped, flew to the cold water spigot, and let it run across the now flaming burn. Instantly, a row of faces peered into the sink, clucking, asking for B & W salve.
“Comfrey salve,” said one.
“Oh, no. You c
an’t beat B & W. Specially with burdock. Do you have burdock?”
“I’d put chickweed salve on it.”
“Flour and honey.”
“No, not flour and honey. That leaves infection.”
“Not in my book.”
Sarah was in pain, the babble of voices a sea of irritation, but she tried not to let it show.
No one could seem to agree. Mam did have a jar of B & W on hand but no burdock leaves.
“You likely don’t have any weeds,” someone said.
“Burdock? Oh, I’m sure there is burdock in a fence row somewhere.”
Matthew offered to go, Rose accompanying him, as the women returned to their work stations, finishing the final preparations for the huge dinner that would be set out under the maple trees.
The pain was unbearable when Sarah lifted her hand from the cold water, so she let the water run across it, wondering how it would ever heal. Why now, of all times? She berated herself, gritting her teeth to keep from crying out.
When Matthew returned with the burdock with its large velvety leaves and firm spines in the middle that reach across the leaf diagonally as well, Sarah instantly recognized them.
“That’s what I’m supposed to use?”
“Yeah, I’ll steam one. I’ve done burn dressings before.”
“There’s a stainless steel saucepan to the right of the sink. Here. Bottom drawer.”
Matthew found it. She moved over so he could add a small amount of water and set it on the stove.
“It has to boil.”
Sarah nodded.
There was no sound except the running water on Sarah’s hand until the lid rattled on the saucepan. Matthew lifted it and plunked the heavy leaf into it.
“Are you sure about that burdock leaf?” Sarah asked.
“Course.”
“It’s not poisonous?”
“No.”
“Where’s Rose?”
“She wanted to help outside.”
“Oh.”
Matthew lifted the now limp, brightly colored leaf from the boiling water, laid it carefully on a clean paper towel, then brought the jar of B & W salve, a homemade herb-infused aid for healing.
Standing by the sink, he reached out and turned off the cold water.
“How does it feel?”
Sarah didn’t say what she wanted to say. She just nodded her head grimly and kept her eyes averted, desperately trying to keep from shivering because of the pain.
Gently, he patted her hand dry, watching her face, and asked if she was okay.
Again, she nodded, her mouth a determined slash across her white face as she moved to sit on the couch.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He swabbed some ointment on a piece of paper towel. Then he smoothed it gently onto the burn.
Matthew was bent over, concentrating, extremely intent on his job, so Sarah’s eyes wandered across the contours of his face, his eyebrows like two dark wings above his downcast eyes, the nose with a wide bridge, straight and chiseled, perfection. He straightened.
“Does it hurt?”
She looked up, the sting clouding her vision, as he looked down into her pain-filled eyes. It wasn’t her fault that he didn’t look away, she chided herself later when she felt so guilty and brash and so bold and so…well, stupid.
It wasn’t her fault that as he had laid the burdock leaf across her hand, his hands were shaking more than a little. When he wound the sterile white gauze around it to ensure the air could not reach the burn, she couldn’t help it that he gazed at her hand. She wondered why.
When she stood up, he was much too close, and she wished he’d move away. When he didn’t, she sat down right away, and he looked at her hand again, and said he’d better go on out or he wouldn’t get anything to eat.
She said, yes, he’d better.
“Thanks,” she added, in a strangled voice full of misery and want and denial.
He blinked. He clenched his lips, opened his mouth, closed it again, and looked at her. Then he went outside, quickly, leaving Sarah sitting in an abandoned kitchen filled with open oven doors and empty kettles, sticky aluminum foil, flies, and dirty dishes.
She guessed this was how it was before you found a person who would be your special friend. You were just too vulnerable. Well, it wasn’t right. Matthew was just her neighbor, dating Rose, the perfect couple. Rose was so sweet, blonde, and so right for him.
Deep shame crept across her features, misery so intense on its heels that she lowered her face into her hands and stayed that way until Mam bustled in for a few large spoons. She was so intent on her mission that she failed to see Sarah huddled on the couch.
The burdock leaf miraculously took the pain away. If only there were a plant she could pluck from a field or fence row and tape it across that mysterious region of the heart, she thought ruefully. Stepping outside, she walked slowly to the huge maples with the kaleidoscope of activity beneath them.
There was plenty of food, as Mam figured there would be. Hungry men piled their plates high. They sat together on folding chairs or benches or cross-legged on the ground, their heads bare now, having removed their hats for silent prayer before the meal. Children raced around the perimeter of the trees. Some upset plastic cups of water as mothers hurried to correct their behavior.
Sarah stood uncertainly, hungry but reluctant. Why did she feel as if she had done something wrong? She wanted to walk out the field lane and just walk and walk and walk, across highways and around houses and places of business and people’s gardens and keep walking until she was rid of this senseless thing that had happened in the kitchen.
She hoped Matthew and Rose would be married in the fall, and she’d find a special friend and begin her dating life right after that.
“Hey, Sarah!”
It was Levi, sitting on a folding chair, holding court as usual, his brothers teasing him unmercifully.
“I want cake and vanilla pudding and strawberry tapioca,” Levi called loudly.
Heads were raised, smiles given generously, as Sarah waved, hurried to the food table, and began to fill his order.
“Not quite so much,” Mam whispered, and Sarah nodded, removing some of the vanilla pudding.
Levi’s weight was an ongoing battle they never overcame. His love for food filled his days with joy and anticipation. Sarah just never quite had the heart to deprive him of dessert in spite of his widening girth.
What else did Levi have to look forward to, besides his cards—the football and baseball cards he shuffled constantly?
Carefully she walked to Levi with the loaded plate, setting it on the small folding table directly in front of him.
“There you are, Levi.”
There were no words of gratitude, just a suspicious look and a concentrated narrowing of his eyes as he held his head to one side. A remarkable amount of time passed as he examined the plate of desserts, leaving Sarah a bit uncomfortable, standing in full view of so many men and boys, who were politely averting their eyes, busying themselves with their own plates of food.
Pressing his lips in a thin line, Levi decided to speak. “You took some of the cornstarch pudding off.”
“Just some.”
“Why?”
“Levi.”
Embarrassed, Sarah bent and said, soft and low, “Mam said.”
“Why?”
“Just because. Shhh, Levi.”
Clearly upset, Levi’s eyes turned dark with pain and disappointment. He opened his mouth, choked, and started wailing loud sobs of hurt. Many faces turned to watch. Tender looks of pity followed before heads bent to their plates.
David Beiler, masterful in the art of comforting his oldest son, stepped over, laid a hand on the heaving, overweight form, and told him softly that Sarah would put more cornstarch pudding on his plate, his eyes telling Sarah how much—a minimal amount.
Her face turning a shade of pink, her discomfort painfully obvious, she stepped
up to the dessert table and waited her turn behind a tall, wide-shouldered youth she didn’t recognize. His hair was blond, cut in English style. But he wore broadfall denims and a pair of gray suspenders, his shirt a decided plaid pattern, not the usual plain fabric that was in the ordnung.
She thought nothing of this. The “worldly” haircut was common among the liberal youth. The years of rumspringa (running around) produced young men who tried their wings—experimenting in fashion, sometimes driving cars, as well as being active in organized sports. Experimentation in forbidden “things of the world” like alcohol and tobacco was not uncommon, resulting in a certain sadness as parental authority was undermined by the lusts of the flesh and the eyes holding court over a young soul.
Families bore it with gaduld (patience) and always with the expectation that the young people would eventually tire of these things and seek a more lasting peace—a way of life that spoke of obedience, sameness, a love for parents and God, and a return to the fold. This return was hopefully followed by dating, marriage, and raising a family in the same way their parents had.
It was always a joy to behold when a “wild” youth made the decision to start the instruction class in the church. Heads would be bent, and furtive tears would be wiped away. Fathers and mothers were grateful that the sleepless nights, the anxiety and fear, had brought this reward, one they were not worthy of, their spiritual humility a beautiful thing.
Parents of a youth who did not conform, meanwhile, carried a certain shame buried deep in the heart, an uncomfortable thorn that varied in its ability to cause pain but always there.
The line moved forward. Sarah watched as this unknown youth bent to lift a slice of chocolate cake, promptly dropped it, and watched helplessly as it rolled beneath the plastic table.
“Shoot.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sarah said.
He turned and smiled easily, unselfconsciously. The humor on his open face was genuine, a magnet that drew her eyes to his. The smile on her lips reached her eyes, turning the gray green seawater color to one flecked with gold.