Mennonites Don't Dance

by Darcie Friesen Hossack

  “You and John always fought over those silly feet,” Lizbeth’s mother said. She pulled a large metal bowl from her suitcase, set it on the counter and broke eggs, one in each hand, against the side. The sound to Lizbeth, as the eggs rang against the bowl, was like a call to worship. Lizbeth watched as her mother poured in cream and blended it together with the flour until the dough started to come into a ball.

  “Rollkuchen,” her mother said simply when Lizbeth peered into the bowl. “It was always your favourite, wasn’t it.”

  “You always made everything look so easy. I’ve never been able to figure out how you do that.”

  “You just let go and let it happen.” Her mother scraped the contents of the bowl onto the counter and dusted it with a puff of flour. She took Lizbeth’s hands in hers and showed her how to knead the dough until it was soft and elastic — by pushing it away from her with the heels of her hands, turning it a quarter turn, and pulling it back towards her with her fingertips. “I never had much time to teach you when you were growing up,” she said. “Not like I did with my first girls.” She showed Lizbeth how to pinch the dough to see whether it was ready, before setting it aside to rest.

  “Knowing how to rest is what makes us different from the Germans,” her mother said, laughing as Lizbeth stood in front of the sink, trying to rub the stippling of dough from her hands.

  For a moment, her mother was quiet, watching Lizbeth as though deciding whether to step in.

  “All you need is just a little more flour,” she finally said and took a pinch from the open bag on the floor and sprinkled it into the cup of Lizbeth’s hands. Slowly at first, and then more deeply, her mother rubbed them between her own. Gradually, as Lizbeth watched, the beads of sticky dough began to fall away.

  DANDELION WINE

  STEEP DANDELION BLOSSOMS IN HOT WATER. Let stand 24 hours. Strain. Heat infusion, add sugar and lemons and pour into stone jars to ferment. Skim daily for 6 to 7 weeks before bottling.

  The creek was low, a meandering slug trail through a withered garden. Drawn by habit, Joely squatted next to it, dredged up doomed minnows from the muck, and tossed them to a fat tabby that had followed her.

  After a month of drought she was bored with the heat, the listlessness that kept everyone doing no more than necessary. Even the chickens laid eggs only in the morning, after which they left the henhouse to doze in the shade.

  Joely had hoped her sister would want to help her investigate the hayloft for a new litter of kittens. She knew by the wagging belly of the mother cat that they were up there, but when she crept into Hayley’s room in the drape-darkened morning Hayley mumbled something about having only two more weeks to catch up on sleep before heading back to college. Joely climbed up into the loft by herself, but it wasn’t the same without someone to help reach shoulder-deep into the scratchy, dark hollows between bales and listen for the faint squeaks of kittens mewing to be fed. After a few attempts, Joely gave up, defeated by the heat, and lowered herself down the wall ladder to the floor of the barn.

  The creek smelled of decaying water plants. Only recently, wildflowers, clumps of bluebells and pink asters, black-eyed Susans and wild purple tulips had covered the fields. With summer came mosquitoes and grasshoppers, and only the sturdy yellow dandelions remained, now competing with tenacious wild grasses and prickly weeds to draw up what water there was from the soil. Joely knew plenty of people like that. Resolute, like her mother. But Joely could only ever seem to imitate their resilience.

  Inside, she felt dormant, waiting for gentler weather to coax her from the dry husk of too many days like this.

  Inside the house Joely found her mother basted in sweat, a weekday dress clinging to her skin as she banded and wiped clean a table full of glass jars filled with the overripe apricots she’d cooked down to jam that morning.

  Over three sticky days spent in the summer kitchen adjacent to the house, she and Joely had canned preserves, filling rows of sterile jars with the peaches, apricots, and plums they’d bought by the crate from B.C. fresh-fruit trucks. There were still raspberries and cherries to be mashed into sugary red jam, and grapes boiled and strained for jelly.

  “Do you think we could go into town today?” Joely said, even though she knew the raspberries probably wouldn’t keep another day.

  “You can help me with the rest of this fruit is what you can do. Your sister seems to think she doesn’t live here anymore,” her mother said as she sleeved sweat from her forehead. “She expects me to take jam and crumpets up to her in bed like I’m running some sort of hotel.”

  Joely hated listening to her mother’s complaints, as though it was she who’d asked for buttered brioche and strawberry freezer jam. Joely adored her sister, but that didn’t make it any easier to be stuck between her and their mother.

  “Our dean makes it for us every second Sunday,” Hayley had said one morning, shortly after she’d come home for summer break.

  Lately, their mother’s mouth tightened whenever Hayley opened hers. “She says there’s more to life than white bread and peanut butter.”

  “Yes, but I don’t suppose your dean has a husband, two daughters, and a farm to take care of,” their mother said. The girls were eating toast on the porch while she splashed one of two buckets of milk into the separator so they would later have cream for coffee and baking, and butter for bread.

  Hayley crushed a grasshopper under the toe of her flip flop.

  “Oh, Mother.”

  That was a month ago.

  “I guess I’ll get the sugar from the pantry,” Joely said, estimating how much they’d need to sweeten the eight pails of raspberries picked yesterday from their own overgrown thicket of canes.

  “Your dad already brought it to the summer kitchen this morning. If you want, just start sorting the berries and I’ll be there in a few minutes. But change your clothes first. And put on an old apron. I’m sure I don’t need to spend all night scrubbing berry juice out of good clothes.”

  Upstairs, Joely found Hayley brushing her teeth. She leaned drowsily against the sink as though being awake was just one of life’s inconveniences.

  “Hey, babe,” Hayley said through a lather of toothpaste when she spotted her sister’s reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “Morning,” Joely said. She paused in the doorway and admired her sister’s figure in crushed cotton boxers and a tank top. There were blanket creases etched into her sister’s thighs like pink tattoos.

  Everything looked beautiful on Hayley, even sleep, and Joely secretly hoped she’d turn out to look like her sister in a few years, with boyish hips and high, full breasts that filled out sweaters. It was hard to imagine, especially since everyone always said that Hayley matched the women in their father’s family, who were tall and lovely and confident. Joely, they said, was more like her mother — built for work.

  “We’re making jam today,” Joely said, hoping she wouldn’t have to make another excuse for Hayley.

  “What kind?” Hayley lifted a long leg into the bathroom sink and began to smooth thick, white foam up to her knee, flicking it from her fingers onto the counter and mirror before beginning to shave in easy strokes. Joely would end up cleaning the foam later.

  “Raspberry, for sure,” she said, hoping the mention of her sister’s favourite jam would bring her around to feeling helpful. “Mom’s already done the apricot with the box that got too ripe for canning. There should be enough to send some with you to school.” Joely didn’t mention the cherries and grapes. She’d probably already said too much.

  Hayley groaned. “Does she expect me to help?”

  “I think so. I mean I think she wants us both to.” Joely felt an old coal start to burn in her chest and swallowed hard to put it out.

  “God, why does all the work have to be done in the hottest week of the whole year? It’ll be like the inside of a dragon’s mouth in that kitchen when Mom gets all her stockpots boiling.” Hayley patted her legs dry with a towel and leaned close to t
he mirror to examine her face, where a new pimple was threatening under the surface. “Next week will be even worse, you know. She’ll want us to pluck chickens. I won’t be able to get the smell of scalded feathers out of my hair for days. Oh, well. At least I get to go back to class. Too bad you’re stuck here.”

  “It’s okay. You’ll be home for Christmas and I’m coming to stay with you for spring break, remember?” Joely was already looking forward to the trip, even though it was eight months away. She was nervous about it though, worried she’d just be a farm bumpkin among all of her sister’s sophisticated college friends.

  “I know.” Hayley yawned, still waking up. “I can’t wait for you to meet everyone. I keep telling them what a fantastic little sister I have.”

  Joely’s earlier irritation suddenly lifted like a bit of weather.

  “Tell Mom I’ll be down in a bit, okay.” Hayley shrugged off her top and stepped out of her boxers and into the shower, yelping at the blast of cold well-water.

  Meanwhile, Joely changed into frumpy denim cut-offs that made her legs look shorter and wider, and a faded yellow T-shirt with stains on it from last year’s jam. She paused at the top of the stairs and closed her eyes in quick prayer for whatever it was God thought she needed, and went downstairs.

  “Hayley said she’d help with the jam.” Joely brightened the tone of her voice as she entered the kitchen, unsure whether she was telling a lie.

  “Good, then,” her mother said, her voice flat. She turned and pressed the small of her back against the kitchen counter while she finished eating a Saltine spread with jalapeno jelly. She held out a second cracker to Joely, who wrinkled her nose.

  “I don’t know how you can eat that,” Joely said, scowling at the quivering green glob on the cracker.

  “I suppose it’s an acquired taste. I didn’t always like it,” her mother said, eating the cracker in two bites before using her apron to wipe jelly from between her fingers. Her mother had gained weight in the last year. She’d always been somewhat plump, but even with ten new pounds, she still looked underfed. If anything, she appeared sterner. But as Joely watched, her mother’s expression began to loosen a little. The furrows between her eyebrows eased. Her shoulders rounded. “The three of us haven’t spent enough time together this summer, have we? I don’t suppose I’ll know what to do if you run off to college, too.”

  “I haven’t decided anything yet.” It was the truth. Unlike Hayley, she wanted to stay on the farm, maybe marry someone who’d buy it from her father some day, the way her father had bought it from her grandparents. Still, she wished there could be more to that kind of life than she’d already seen. More than just work and more work. “Besides, that’s a long way off still. Two years, almost. And anyway, with all of us working on the jam today, maybe later we’ll have time to go into town together.”

  “We’ll see,” her mother said, becoming absent again at the sound of lids snapping down as the last of the hot jam jars cooled and sealed. It was important, because anything that didn’t seal would have to go into the fridge to use right away, and there’d be less for winter.

  “I’ll go start sorting berries. They’re really good this year. Shouldn’t be too many bad ones.” Joely turned to leave. Before she could go, her mother stopped her.

  “Joely,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s just a busy time. Here, I think I have something for you.” She opened the fridge and reached to very back of the bottom shelf, behind jars of homemade antipasto, garlic and pepper jellies, marmalade and lime pickle. Un-Mennonite things that didn’t fit with the farmer’s sausages, homemade noodles and canned chicken that occupied the other shelves. “I always keep something tucked away for days like this.” When she stood up, she handed Joely a Snickers bar. “I know they’re your favourite, too. We both like nuts, don’t we? Now quick, take it to the summer kitchen with you before your sister sees it. I only have the one.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She gave her a quick hug before slipping away.

  Outside, as she peeled back the candy wrapper, she turned to look back at the house, the kitchen window where her mother dipped a small scoop into a box of powdered dish soap that she kept on the sill. It was hard to tell through the warp of old window glass, but to Joely it looked as though her mother was singing.

  In the half hour since Joely had last been outside, the heat had intensified and hot breaths of wind flicked at the dust. Joely could feel the beginning of a heat rash pricking her skin and knew it would turn her chest a bright shade of plum. The rash would still be there on Sunday, when she’d planned to wear a floral-print dress that Hayley had given her from her wardrobe. Now she’d have to go to church in her bubblegum-pink blouse that buttoned up all the way to a frilly collar she hated. The blouse was a hand-me-down from a cousin and Joely hadn’t been able to grow out of it fast enough. It made her feel like a granny, but at least it would hide the rash.

  By the time her mother and Hayley came into the summer kitchen, Joely had sorted through the first three pails of berries. Hayley made a face in the direction of the radio their mother had left playing.

  “Change it to whatever you want,” their mother said, her mouth withering to a thin line.

  “I’ll just turn it off,” Joely said, knowing that her sister’s choice of music would just end up annoying their mother. Hayley would use the term ‘lateral move’, one of the phrases she had picked up at school and added confidently to her vocabulary. Joely wanted to try out the phrase now, but the words felt clumsy in her mouth.

  “How long is this going to take?” Hayley crossed her arms and looked around the summer kitchen, seeming to realize for the first time just how much work there was to be done. “The jars aren’t even sterilized yet.”

  Their mother upended a pail of berries into a stock pot. “Well, if I’d had someone to help me this morning — ”

  “I’m not going to college to learn how to be a farmer’s wife,” Hayley said, reaching behind her waist to tie apron strings into a sloppy bow. “In fact, my sociology professor, Judy, says there’s no need for a woman in our society to get married at all.”

  “Tell me that next time you fall in love with some boy,” their mother said. But when Joely looked over at her mother, who was stifling a laugh, she knew they were both thinking of her sister’s many schoolgirl crushes. The joke was short-lived.

  “Oh, Mother. Really. I’m just saying — ”

  “I know what you’re saying. I didn’t marry your father because I had no other choice, you know. And you can thank me that I did or you wouldn’t be here today to make sure you don’t repeat all my old-fashioned mistakes.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I just want to be sure I know why I make my decisions, so they’re not based on what society says I should do. And besides, I’m not interested in boys anymore. I’m in college now. They’re young men.”

  Their mother laughed, a sound as dry as paper being crumpled. “Well, let me know if you find one with your modern sensibilities. I can use the money. I’ve been saving for your wedding to redo the kitchen. I’ve been thinking it would be nice to paint it peach and put in an island. Maybe even another window so I can get some morning sunlight. What do you think?”

  Joely snorted and Hayley, who had been glue-sticking pictures of extravagant gowns and cakes into a scrapbook since she was twelve years old, said, “Fine with me.”

  They all knew it was a bluff. The wedding fund was sacred to their mother. The last thing she’d spend it on was something for herself. Not when she was known for economizing by filling cracks in the walls with gobs of toothpaste. “It’s a trick I learned from your grandmother,” she’d say. “Sometimes she had the nuttiest ideas, but they worked.” Lately, toothpasting over cracks had become an everyday thing.

  “A new kitchen sounds nice,” Joely said, playing dumb while getting in a poke at both her mother and sister. When neither replied, she scraped a mound of spoiled berries into a slop pail for the pigs and moved onto the cherries.
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  The argument fizzled and they turned mutely to sorting and pitting, mashing and macerating, cooking and gelling. They ladled molten jam into hot jars, and loaded jars packed with whole berries into giant pots of water, separating them with old towels to keep them from shivering against each other as the water boiled. Steam filled the summer kitchen and beads of water ran down the windows. When they were finished, their palms were stained with red juice, like the hands of children painting a picture.

  “I can’t believe we have to do this every year,” Hayley groaned once the last jar was wiped and set in a row. “They have jam at the grocery store, you know.” Joely knew Hayley wasn’t serious. Hayley loved homemade jam, but loved it more when someone else did the work.

  “Well, at least it’s done for another summer,” their mother said. She looked satisfied at being able to quantify their work as she counted the jars and added them to her inventory.

  “These ones are for me,” Hayley said and quickly claimed six raspberry-filled jars.

  “You can take three. And two of everything else.”

  “Fine,” Hayley said, although she returned only two of the raspberry.

  “Are we going to do the grapes today, too?” Joely was tired and sticky from the work they’d already done, yet reluctant for them all to go their separate ways. Tension had defined the weeks that Hayley had been home, but Joely wasn’t willing to let it ruin their whole summer.

  “The grapes could wait another day, but it would be better to get to them now,” their mother said. She looked at Joely, then Hayley, over juice-spattered glasses that had slid down her nose to rest on its tip. She was quiet for a moment as she flapped the hem of her dress to stir up a breeze against her legs. “But I suppose you girls have something better to do.”

  “I’m not sure what I have planned,” Hayley said.

  Joely knew what Hayley was thinking — that even if they didn’t make the jelly, there was always the possibility their mother would want to try out one of her crazy ideas. Like the year she decided to make chutney out of a bargain box of mangoes she brought home. Or when there were leftover peaches and too many tomatoes in the garden, and she made Hayley and Joely spend a whole day helping to make two kinds of salsa. Or the jalapeno jelly that was last year’s experiment, and no one but their mother liked.