An Amish Second Christmas

by Beth Wiseman

  Instead of answering her, Hannah hurried to the second pie, moving faster than Esther had seen her move in two weeks. She took a knife from the knife block and cut herself a generous piece. “I don’t know how your piecrust always comes out so evenly, so perfectly browned.”

  “I use a heavy pie pan. A dark finish is best. My mem—” Esther paused. “Wait, you’re trying to change the subject.” She dipped her rolling pin into the sink of hot, soapy water and washed it. Another reason why her pies turned out so well was that Esther took care of her baking tools. Her father was a mechanic, and he worked on small gas engines. He kept his shop as neat as her mem’s kitchen—she’d learned well from both of their examples.

  Hannah leaned closer to the countertop and took a bite of pie. “I’m not trying to change the subject. I honestly want to know. There has to be a few secrets to pie as wonderful as this!”

  “Secrets?” Esther chuckled. “I like to think of them as family treasures.”

  Hannah took another bite, and a smile curled her lips. “Aren’t we supposed to share from the storehouse? It’s about time your mem shared. If I’ve heard one woman ask her for this recipe, I’ve heard a hundred.”

  “Ja, well, she finally just shared it with me and urged me not to tell a soul. I just hope this pie will fetch a gut price to help the new fire department.” Esther crossed her arms over her chest. “I tossed a little last night, worried that mine would be the last one on the auction block. After all, the people in these parts know each other . . . I’m sure they’ll bid on each other’s pies first.”

  Hannah swallowed her bite. “I wouldn’t worry yourself about that. Folks make friends quick around here. And look at your offering. Look how beautiful it is. There’s nothing you should be worried about. And maybe”—Hannah had a twinkle in her eye—“maybe you’ll make a new friend.”

  Esther nodded. How many times had people told her that?

  “Come to our picnic . . . maybe you’ll make a new friend.”

  “There is a sewing frolic on Saturday . . . maybe you’ll make a new friend.”

  She liked what her dat used to say, “Finding a new friend is easy, but finding a true friend is a gift from God.”

  The truth was, she didn’t think either was easy. A friend was about reaching out and connecting with people, but that was hard for her to do when she constantly worried about people’s opinion of her—of her family. Especially when she was too shy to approach them in the first place.

  She’d grown up in an area known for its thriving Amish community, but during her growing-up years, it had been hard to fit in. Her family had been part of the Amish church, yes, but they were lowest in the pecking order—for many reasons.

  While most Amish men farmed, her father had a small gasoline engine shop that struggled financially. Her mem worked, too, to help support the family, which meant she often couldn’t attend the sewing frolics or help neighbors with their canning. Her father also smoked cigarettes, which the elders in the church looked down upon. No one talked about it, but she could tell by the look in their eyes that others disapproved. If it wasn’t for her mem’s vanilla crumb pie, her family may not have been accepted at all.

  But they were invited to socials and weddings often, and hosts always asked the same thing. “You wouldn’t mind bringing a pie or two, would you?” No one had to mention which pie. Esther didn’t have to wonder why Mem didn’t like sharing the recipe. It was her key to staying accepted in their community.

  Esther noticed this at a young age. While Violet had flitted through life, not caring too much what people thought, Esther tended to worry. She was more comfortable keeping to herself.

  Hannah finished off her piece of pie and then cut a second one. “As much as I’d like to chat, you’d better get over there. The silent auction will be starting in an hour, and you need to make sure your pie gets a prominent spot.”

  “A prominent spot? It’s a pie, that’s all.” She rose and moved to the back door, slipping her feet into heavy snow boots. “It’s a fund-raiser, ja?”

  Hannah didn’t answer. Instead she took another large bite, closed her eyes, savoring it, and then nodded, opening her eyes again. Her cousin had a look in her eyes that Esther didn’t understand—eagerness and . . . was it mischief? She slipped her arms into the heavy jacket. Just what had her cousin gotten her into?

  Whatever it was, Mem seemed to be in on it. Esther picked up her vanilla crumb pie. Was Mem trying to use her pie’s appeal to help her reserved daughter make friends? It was just something her mother would do.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ammon Schwartz noted that even though the sun was up, the heavy, dark clouds made it gloomy outside. He’d be heading over to the West Kootenai Kraft and Grocery soon for the silent auction. He had to admit he was looking forward to some pie. What kind didn’t matter. The fact that he’d be sharing it with a single Amish lady wasn’t too bad of an offer either. All of the Amish bachelors had been talking about it—win a pie and a date. What could be better than that? They’d have twenty minutes to bid and an hour to share a meal and conversation.

  Ammon hadn’t heard of this type of auction before, but the other bachelors quickly filled him in. It seemed a few of the ladies had come up with the idea of a Bachelor Pie auction as a fund-raiser for the local fire department. Although from the way his sister talked, the ladies were far more interested in the bachelors than the money.

  Personally, Ammon wasn’t interested in finding his true love . . . at least not today. He had enough on his mind caring for his mem.

  “Maybe I should just head over there now, before the sky spits more snow.” He said the words out loud even though his mem couldn’t hear them. Or if she could, she couldn’t respond. Mem rested in a hospital bed against the far wall. She lay still on the clean, blue sheets with a quilt smoothed over her. She’d made that quilt and dozens of others over the years. Now her frail hands curled in soft fists, idle. Her skin paper thin, yet the veins just below the surface pumped life through her body. Life and breath without words and laughter. Ammon hated seeing her in such a state.

  Mem was still there, tucked away within the shell of her broken-down body. She could open her eyes. She could sit, and with help, she could eat. But she couldn’t communicate. She followed him with her eyes as he moved around the cabin. He talked to her about all kinds of things. But Ammon missed hearing her response.

  The doctor had told them that she could last about a year in this state. The stroke had made communicating impossible, but it was the cancer growing inside her that would likely take her life. She’d been so vibrant before. The only thing that gave Ammon peace at all was that her broken body wouldn’t hold her captive forever. Mem’s faith in Jesus, and the good life she’d led, gave them hope of her eternity in heaven.

  Heat radiated from the stove in the corner of the cabin. He rose from the wooden chair and moved to the window. How had he ended up here? Actually, he knew how, but why? Could being in this small community be part of God’s plan? He didn’t see how.

  He’d come to Montana on his way back from Mexico. He’d taken his mother down there for a cancer treatment. Since the Amish counted on each other and not insurance to cover their medical bills, treatments in Mexico were a much cheaper option. His brother-in-law, Will, had talked them into “swinging by” Montana on their way home to Missouri.

  They’d gotten here in September—just as the Indian summer was giving way to the cool fall breeze. They’d spent a day up in Glacier Park and were packing up for a day trip to a place called Kootenai Falls—hiring a driver to take them there—when his mem collapsed. She’d already been weak from cancer treatments. Maybe they’d tried to do too much, too soon.

  It took forever for the hired driver to get her down to Eureka, and when they arrived the doctor said she’d had a stroke. After weeks in the hospital, they’d allowed Mem to come home, into the care of her family. Ammon didn’t know how it was possible that almost three months had passed si
nce then.

  He glanced over his shoulder, as the walls seemed to close in around him. It was a small vacation cabin with a bathroom, a kitchenette, and a queen bed. They’d moved the western-print sofa out to make room for Mem’s hospital bed. They’d tried at first to stay at Will and Polly’s house, but the active kids had made Mem restless.

  She was conscious at times but couldn’t speak. When the kids were around, running and calling out, Mem wore a scowl. Once they moved into the quiet cabin, she relaxed more. Her doctor had told them she needed rest. The question was, for how long? Would it ever be possible for him to take her home? Would she ever be able to talk again? Walk again? If it wasn’t for the cancer, they could have started physical therapy. But he knew what Mem’s answer would be if she could voice her choice. Her broken body was a reminder that a new one awaited. She’d told him that once before. She’d only done the cancer treatments because so many people had urged her to, but even before the stroke, Mem had longed for heaven, for Dat, for Jesus.

  And so their short stopover had become a temporary home. It didn’t seem right that he’d seek out love and then leave. After all, his farm waited back home.

  Most Amish men came to the area to hunt, but Ammon had never considered leaving his farm in Missouri. After his dat’s passing, he took over running the farm. It was being rented out indefinitely until they knew more about what the future held for Mem. Where did that leave him?

  His sister Polly was the one who cared for Mem during the day, but she couldn’t do it full time, not with ten kids under the age of sixteen. But Ammon couldn’t stay here forever either. Their brothers were all married, and his single sister, Ilene, was a fulltime schoolteacher. It was hard enough for him to think of being here until the time for spring planting. Not having the large farm to tend was like a whale being confined to a creek. On the farm, things slowed down over the winter months, but Ammon always had work to do.

  Sitting around the cabin all day had drained him of joy, and so after those first few days, Ammon had made a decision. He’d build friendships and offer assistance where he could. Tonight, that meant heading over to the Kraft and Grocery early to help set things up.

  Ammon slid on his jean jacket lined with flannel and pulled a stocking cap over his head. With one more glance over his shoulder, he saw that Mem was sleeping well. No need to light the lantern. There was still enough morning light streaming through the window, and no doubt Polly would be over soon to feed Mem lunch, even before she fed her own family.

  He pulled on the heavy iron door handle and stepped outside. With three steps he crossed the porch. With three more steps he descended the log steps onto the snowy path. The cold air bit at his cheeks, and his work boots squeaked on the snow. Back in Missouri the snow was wet and thick. The air was much drier here in Montana, making the snow light and fluffy. It sparkled like glitter. He kicked at the ground and it fluttered up like a dust cloud.

  It wasn’t more than fifty yards to Will and Polly’s place. Even before he reached their front porch steps, he heard the shrieks of the kinder. He paused to distinguish if they were laughing or crying. Thankfully, today it was laughter.

  The steps were icy. He held the handrail as he climbed them. Then he entered without knocking. Before the door could be shut behind him, a chorus of voices rang out.

  “Onkel Ammon. Onkel Ammon!” A flurry of arms, legs, and hands flew his direction. Like a passel of puppies, his nieces and nephews tumbled toward him. One set of arms wrapped around one of Ammon’s legs and then another. Small hands gripped the front of his jacket and yanked, wanting to be pulled up. Another pair of arms wrapped around his back and shoulders from behind, like a big bear hug. As the second-to-youngest child, Ammon knew what it was like to be surrounded by nieces and nephews. Polly’s kids were drawn to him as much as the bear cubs around these parts drew the attention of tourists.

  “Onkel Ammon, did you come to play checkers? Or marbles?” seven-year-old David asked.

  “Vell, it sounds like fun, but not today . . .”

  “Vat?” Little Miriam lifted her face to his, showing off a pouty lip. “But I miss you so much when you’re not here.”

  “Can you tell us a story yet?” Ruthie stood to the side. She was ten years old and the studious one of the group. She had enthusiastically listened at the Thanksgiving table just a few days ago as he told them about their Anabaptist ancestors who left everything in Europe to move to the New World in search of religious freedom.

  “I’d love to tell you more stories. My grandmother—your great-grandmother—was a storyteller and I have plenty to share. But . . .” He peeled off one set of arms and then moved to unclench two more sets. “But not today.”

  Polly approached, wiping her brow with her kitchen apron. Her face was flushed from cooking, but her smile was wide. “Ja, vell, your uncle has a date.”

  “A date!” The oldest of his nieces, Katie, called out from her place at the kitchen table. She lifted her head and turned to him. From the spread of paper and colored pencils before her, Ammon guessed she was busy making Christmas cards to send back to friends in Missouri. Out of all the children, Katie was the only one old enough to remember what life was like back in the Midwest. He noted disappointment on her face at the mention of a date, and he knew why.

  Katie wanted Ammon to return to Missouri as much as he did, mostly because her dat had agreed that when Ammon returned, Katie could go with him. With their large extended family, there were enough needs for a maude to keep her busy, and the young woman declared that Montana was the worst place ever to experience her rumspringa years. With only a dozen youth, there was little to do. Even the craziest adventures often included ice skates and snowballs, neither of which interested Katie.

  Ammon peeled off two more sets of hands from his limbs and stepped forward. “It’s not a date—”

  “Ja, what do you call it then? You are going to be sharing pie with a beautiful Amish woman . . . staring across the table into her doe-eyed gaze. You’ll feel awkward. You’ll work hard at making small talk.” Polly winked. “It sounds like a date to me.”

  Ammon puffed out his chest. “It’s a fund-raiser for the fire department. And I plan to do my part. I hear they’re going to be buying some medical equipment too—to train some of the volunteers.”

  He didn’t have to explain the importance of this equipment. Would things have been different with Mem if they’d had an emergency medical technician closer? If they’d gotten Mem medical help sooner, would she be up, walking around, and ready for the return trip home instead of lying in bed? The doctor had said it would not have made much of a difference since the damage had been done in an instant. But Ammon wanted to support the fire department as much as he could. One never knew when someone in his family would need their services next.

  “Speaking of the silent auction, I’m heading over,” he said, emphasizing the words. “I got Mem to drink half a glass of water today, and she ate much of the thin oatmeal from breakfast.”

  “Oh, gut.” Polly clasped her hands in front of her. She looked like Mem in so many ways. The same stocky frame. The same wide smile. The same small ears that perfectly cupped the side of her head.

  Ammon was the only one with their father’s lighter coloring. Out of all the children, he alone had light-brown hair and blue eyes. Mem said to look at him was like seeing his father thirty years ago.

  Ammon didn’t consider himself handsome, but his looks had been fine enough to gain the attention of Grace Yoder. They’d even gone to a few summer picnics before his mother’s medical needs had taken him to Mexico. Grace said she liked his light eyes and skin tanned from working in the fields in the summer. Not that that mattered now. In his absence Jeb Hooley had stepped in and taken his place. Ammon had heard they were seriously courting, which made him even more insistent that tonight wasn’t a date. He would leave West Kootenai, hopefully before spring, without his heart getting wrapped up in a pretty girl. His farm waited. His old life wait
ed. He couldn’t plant roots here.

  “You’d best get going now.” Polly waved her hand, shooing him out. “Katie will feed the little ones, and I’ll head over to feed Mem. Last night when you were helping Abe Sommer fix that fence, I was reading Family Life to her and I was sure she smiled. Maybe I’ll do that again tonight.”

  “Ja.” Ammon nodded, but he wasn’t getting his hopes up. Something inside told him that Mem wasn’t going to make much of an improvement. He was sad about that, but not as sad as he would be if he didn’t have hope in the life after. His mem had lived a gut life. He didn’t know anyone who’d loved better. The question was, how long would he have to wait before he could get his own life started?

  CHAPTER THREE

  Esther squeezed through the gathering of people—mostly men—near the front door of the Kraft and Grocery as she made her way to the kitchen. Usually, this time of day was busy enough, but today the jingle of the door’s bell rang constantly as more and more bodies piled in. She looked around, sure she’d never seen so many people packed into this small store and restaurant. There were hardly any people in the far corner by the windows. If she didn’t have a pie in her hand, she would have rushed over there and found a seat out of everyone’s way. But she had a pie to offer, and she guessed the ladies in the kitchen would need help. Maybe Mem’s plan was already working.

  Esther sucked in a breath and then blew it out slowly, telling herself to be brave. She moved through the sea of men to the kitchen.

  As she moved past, she was surprised to see that most of those waiting were the Amish bachelors. She also saw a few families and some tourists, but she had no idea that pie was such a draw to the single men. It made sense, she supposed. All of them were far from home, missing their mem’s baking.

  She’d also seen the sign-up on the front bulletin board advertising the need for volunteers to man the fire station. More than one Amish man had added his name to the list. Back home in Ohio some of the Amish men she knew volunteered. More than once she found humor in the sight of an Amish man running down the road or across the field toward the fire station in order to catch the fire engine as it headed out.