“Where is this place?” I asked.
“Out toward Ronks, Lettie said.” Saloma’s hand appeared beside my head, pointing. “Turn left on Star Road.”
I followed her directions, navigating the turn onto the well-kept two-lane road that was, at the moment, free of traffic, Amish or Englisch. I’d been out here before, of course. There were few places in Lancaster County I had not seen. During my rumspringa, Josiah and I bought an old Ford from an Englisch guy who let us keep it at his house because neither of our families would allow us to bring it home. For a couple of years we spent nearly all of our free hours in that car, once even driving as far as Philadelphia. I don’t know which of us was sorrier to sell it when the time came to turn our backs on the world and make the lifelong commitment to our faith.
Rosie pulled us past a harness shop and a mower service, both surrounded by wide-open farmland. Because the sun was out and the temperature tolerable today, the dairy farmer on the right side of the road had turned out his cattle, which stood in the snow clustered around several mounds of hay.
I saw the place at the same time Mamm announced, “There it is. Plain Man’s Pottery.”
A squat, wood-and-stone building, that years ago had housed a small general market, now bore a sign hanging above the wide window to the left of the door. Plain Man’s Pottery. In smaller letters beneath, Handcrafted Amish Earthenware and Stoneware. Lessons Available. Inside the window, a display of bowls, pitchers, and other dishes had been artistically arranged on shelves.
A buggy stood at one side of the building, a car parked beside it. I guided Rosie in that direction, our wheels crunching on frozen gravel. We rolled to a stop beside the car. Behind the building, a brown mare stood in a small paddock, apparently having been unharnessed after she had delivered her charge to the store. The owner, probably, because a customer to this small establishment wouldn’t expect to be here long enough to unhitch the horse.
I helped the women climb down from the buggy and then walked to the front to inspect Rosie’s harness.
Mamm stopped on her way to the front of the building. “Aren’t you coming in?”
I slipped my hand beneath the back pan and ran it across the horse’s warm back. “How long are you planning to be?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “We won’t know until we get inside and see how much they have to look at, will we?”
Chuckling, I checked the throatlatch and crown. Secure but loose enough to be comfortable for the mare. “Okay, I’m coming in.”
We followed Saloma and Becky through the door, a dangling bell announcing our entry. The store was even smaller than I expected. Including the one in the front window, the room contained a total of five display shelves. I’d been inside Eldreth Pottery’s showroom many times. This place was barely the size of one corner. The pieces lining these shelves lacked the variety of painted designs for which Eldreth’s wares were known. Yet I liked the look of these plain pieces. There was no absence of color here, and the muted browns and rich rusts and dark reds appealed to me. Their hues were natural. In a way, they were even peaceful and comforting.
I approached the nearest shelf and picked up an earthenware bowl. The inside was smooth, while the outside held a circular grooved pattern that gave the design an unmistakable handmade appearance. Browns and muted blues blended in a pleasant, sedate color. A design had been carved into the clay—a wheat spike, simple but intricate in its detail. Turning the bowl over, I read the potter’s mark on the bottom. A simple set of initials, EB, inside a circle, and the year in neat numbers beneath. This bowl was made last year.
A curtain hung over a doorway situated behind the high counter holding a cash register and a few odds and ends. A hand swept the curtain aside, and a dark-haired Englisch woman appeared, apparently alerted to our presence by the bell.
“Hello. Can I help you find something?” Her smile, though pleasant enough, disappeared after a few seconds, and her face settled into a serious expression that looked natural to her.
She wore her hair pulled back into a tail that hung down her back. No makeup, which surprised me. Most Englisch young women wore lipstick and such to work, didn’t they? But what drew my attention was the scar that ran from her left cheekbone to her chin, slashing across one corner of her lips.
Her gaze flicked toward me, and her eyes narrowed. Aware that I had been staring, I looked away and replaced the bowl on the shelf.
Saloma stepped up to the counter. “I’m looking for a gift for my sister. She recently married.” She offered a friendly smile. “We didn’t know this place was here until this morning.”
“We just opened a few months ago. We’re a bit out of the way.” The young woman, who I gauged to be close to Saloma’s age of twenty-four, gestured around the room. “As you can see, we’re starting small, but we hope it won’t take long to outgrow this building, and then we can move to a place more accessible to visitors.”
Becky lifted a mug and turned it in her hands, inspecting it. “This is beautiful. Did you make all of these?”
The woman laughed and shook her head. “Not a single one. My pieces are so clumsy they would have to be sold as boat anchors. I don’t have the skill or the patience to master the art.”
Her laugh, low and rumbling, fell pleasantly on my ears. I risked an upward glance, careful to avoid staring at her scar, in time to see the smile fade and her solemn expression return.
A second person appeared through the doorway, an Amish man. The owner of the horse and buggy outside, no doubt. He was of an age with my grossmammi, his full, dark beard sprinkled liberally with gray. Over his broadfall trousers and white shirt he wore a thick canvas apron stained with splotches of gray.
“Guder daag.” He greeted us with a nod, the brim of his banded straw hat dipping low. Then his hands, which were covered in clay, spread wide. “Welcome to Plain Man’s Pottery. I am Elias Beachy.”
I stepped forward to perform the introductions. “Seth Hostetler. My mamm and sisters—” I gestured toward each of them, “—are shopping for a wedding gift.”
“Your work is beautiful,” Saloma commented as she turned a canister in her hands to examine the piece from all sides.
He smiled. “Danke. With the Lord’s help, I do my best.”
“Do you create custom pieces?” Becky asked.
Elias’s head bobbed “Ya, of course. Did you have something in mind?”
“Not really. Not yet, anyway.” Her lips curved into a bashful smile. “Someday my husband and I will build a house of our own, and then I might want something made just for us.”
Saloma turned and extended the piece she held toward him. “How much is this canister set?”
Elias splayed his hands and took a backward step. “Leah can answer any question you have. I’m merely a potter. I’m happy to leave the business to her. I have a bowl on the bat, so I need to get back to work, but I didn’t want to miss the chance to greet a new friend.” His gaze slid toward me. “You’re welcome to watch while they shop.”
I returned his knowing smile. Men understood one another. Though the shop was not large and the displayed wares small in number, the women of my family could easily spend an hour fingering and discussing every one.
“Ya, I’d like that.”
Leah stepped aside to give me room when I rounded the counter and followed Elias through the doorway. Now I saw that the biggest part of the building had been dedicated to his workshop. Wide racks lined the walls, full of metal trays containing plain, dull gray pottery in various sizes and shapes. Unfinished, obviously. The center of the room was occupied by four low tables, deeply rimmed and each with a round steel disk below. Though I claimed no knowledge of the craft, even someone as uneducated as I recognized them as potter’s wheels. At the back of the room sat a cylindrical container that stood nearly as high as my waist, with an electronic control panel on the front. A steel hose ran from the back of the cylinder to a vent in the wall.
Elias followed
my gaze. “My kiln. One of them.” He shook his head with a sardonic smile. “I’ve given in to electricity, but only for certain pieces. I still prefer the wood kiln out back.”
He sat on a low bench before one of the tables, straddling the rimmed platform. A lump of wet clay rested on a round plate inside the rimmed area. A bowl of cloudy water sat in front of the plate. With a booted foot, he kicked the steel disk near the floor and the plate began to spin.
“Do you live in Strasburg?” He dipped cupped hands into the bowl and spread water over the spinning clay.
“Our farm is a few miles north, near Upper Leacock.”
His hands and feet appeared to move independently. He kicked the disk at regular intervals, and the speed of the spinning plate remained consistent. But his hands were what drew my attention. They cupped the clay, firmly but almost lovingly, pressing the sides so it rose from the center to form a small tower, and then he used the heel of one hand to push the top down into a rounded lump. One hand stayed on the sides of the clay while the other scooped more water, and then the process began again. Mold a tower. Press it down. Wet the clay. Mold a tower.
Though he didn’t look up from his work, he must have been aware of my stare, for he offered an explanation.
“I’m centering the piece on the bat. If it’s even a tiny bit off center, the bowl won’t spin true and I’ll have to start again.”
I noticed then that the plate on which the clay rested—the bat, he called it—was marked with a series of circles extending from the center to the outer rim. I pointed. “Those markings let you know when it is centered?”
“No, they let you know when the clay is centered.” A small smile appeared beneath his clean-shaven upper lip. “After a while, a potter can tell by feel. And this one is.”
The clay now formed a thick disk in the middle of the bat, spinning in perfect symmetry. With another splash of water, Elias held both hands above the clay, one grasping the other, and pressed the curved joint of his thumb downward. A hollow appeared in the disk and his thumb pressed further, sinking into the clay to form a deep cavity.
Fascinated, I watched as the clay became a bowl, wide and deep, the kind that would be used to serve a dish of vegetables at a family table. Without taking my eyes from Elias’s work, I lowered myself to the bench of the wheel that faced his, crouching in an imitation of his posture. His tools were simple—an oblong piece of wood with one rounded edge, a small sponge he used to smooth the clay, a tiny metal pick with a wooden handle. Applying the smooth piece of wood, which fit neatly into the palm of his hand, he formed a rim on the bowl and then with the lightest touch, held the wet sponge against the lip so that it was perfectly level.
When the bowl was finished to his satisfaction, he picked up a piece of thin wire and ran it beneath the bowl, across the surface of the still-spinning bat. Then he straightened and leaned back to eye his creation. A satisfied smile twitched the corners of his lips upward.
“It is gut.”
He lifted the bat, still holding the bowl, from the platform. I stood when he did, and followed him to one of the racks lining the walls, where he slid the bat onto a metal tray. On this side of the room, the trays held several bats, each with its own clay creation. Besides bowls, I saw pitchers and mugs, dinner plates, jugs, and pots with lids resting beside them. The pieces in the racks along the back walls were of a different color, a chalky white, and a quick inspection showed me that they had a more finished look, a few even with carved designs similar to what I’d seen in the showroom.
“Would you like to give it a try?”
I turned to find Elias smiling at me. He gestured toward the wheel he’d just vacated.
“I doubt I’d even be able to produce a boat anchor.”
He dismissed my objection with a wave. “I have plenty of clay. And whatever you ruin, I can salvage and reuse. We have very little waste here.”
My fingers twitched, eager to feel the wet clay, to mold and shape it as he had done. I balled my fists, sorely tempted.
Leah stepped through the curtained doorway and addressed me, her expression unsmiling. “Your family is ready to leave.”
The decision made for me, I nodded and then turned to Elias. “Danke for letting me watch you work. I may stop by again and see what that bowl turns into when it’s finished.”
“It’s always a joy to view the finished product.” He smiled. “When you return, you could take a turn at the wheel. The first lesson is free.”
He and the young woman followed me through the doorway, where Mamm and the others waited. Saloma held a box, and as I took it from her, I saw three well-wrapped bundles inside. The canister set no longer rested on the display shelf. Apparently, she’d found her sister’s wedding gift at the first place we stopped.
We bid Elias and Leah farewell, and I escorted the women to our buggy. Elias’s offer occupied my thoughts as I secured the box and assisted them up onto the bench. What would it feel like to dip my hands in the water and press my fingers into the clay? I felt an urge to know. The next time I could take a few hours away from the farm, maybe I would find out.
FOUR
Mammi met us at the door, little Sadie in her arms. One glance showed me that the hours of tending the little ones had taken their toll. Wisps of hair floated free around her kapp, and her face held a grayish pall that I had not noted at the breakfast table. The wrinkles on her cheeks seemed deeper, heavier than they had that morning.
“Mammi, you shouldn’t be holding her.” Becky rushed forward to take the toddler.
“She’s missing her mamm and needing a little extra attention,” Mammi said, though she gave the child over quickly enough.
As though to prove her claim, Sadie threw her arms around Becky’s neck and squeezed, babbling a string of mostly unintelligible words that ended in, “No bye-bye.”
Becky hugged the child back. “Well, you shouldn’t pick her up. She’s getting heavy.”
“Where are the boys?” Saloma looked toward the empty front room as we filed inside and into the kitchen.
Mammi pulled out a chair from the table and sank into it. “In the barn with Silas. They were getting restless inside, and Aaron and Noah are working on the roof of the chicken coop.”
I caught the worried glance Saloma cast toward the door. Though they treated Daed with the respect due their grossdaadi, they could run him ragged without intending to with their high energy and constant activity.
I set the box containing the canister set on the table. “I’ll go see if I can lend a hand.”
She cast me a grateful smile. When I left the house, she was unwrapping her purchase to show Mammi.
I found the three of them not in the barn, but standing outside the chicken coop, their heads thrown back as they watched Noah and Aaron work. Daed stood with his hands clasped behind his back, while the boys had hooked their fingers through the wire fencing that surrounded the chickens’ yard. Noah stood on the rung of a ladder leaning against the coop, while Aaron knelt on the roof, nailing a board in place.
At my approach, Luke deserted the fencing and raced toward me. “Onkel Seth, I painted the barn.”
Not to be outdone, Mark charged after his brother. “Me too! Wanna see?”
Both their coats bore splatters of white paint that would no doubt bring scolds from Saloma, and Luke had a splotch across his forehead.
“I think I see already,” I teased, and tilted the rim of his straw hat, a miniature version of his daed’s, to rub at the white spot.
“No, the barn.” He settled his hat back on his head before grabbing my hand and tugging me in that direction.
Daed fell in beside us. “I’ve been meaning to repaint that door in the back for a while now. They were a big help.”
Mark turned a wide grin up at me. “We were a big help.”
“I’m sure you were.” I couldn’t help but return his grin.
“Grossdaadi used a rowwer,” Luke explained. “We used a brush.”
It took me a second to translate. “He used a roller.”
The little boy nodded. “And we used a brush.”
We had not yet reached the barn when the sound of a car on the road drew our attention. A red vehicle slowed and turned into our driveway. As the car approached, I noted there was only one occupant.
Aaron and Noah had also seen. Noah hopped off the bottom rung of the ladder, and Aaron followed him down as the car rolled to a stop not far from where Daed and I stood. The engine stilled and the driver sat for a moment. Through the windshield I saw his hands clutching the top of the steering wheel as he looked at us. Then the door opened and he emerged.
Both boys drew back to stand behind me, suddenly and uncharacteristically reserved. They’d seen cars pass by on the road, of course, but rarely did one come to our farm.
The young driver closed the door and stood looking at us, his posture hesitant. Daed approached, a broad smile on his face.
“Hello. Welcome to our home.”
He was a slender youth, tall and almost gangly, with a thick shock of dark hair that stood awry when he snatched a knit hat off his head. I judged his age at nineteen or twenty. He stood for a second, wringing his hat in his hands, and then he stepped forward. With a slow and somewhat timid gesture, he extended his hand. Englisch people were often unsure how to greet an Amish man. When Daed readily shook the offered hand, a relieved smile settled on the boy’s face.
“Hello. I’m Robbie. Uh, Robert Barker.”
“I am Silas Hostetler.” Daed turned as the others approached, and nodded toward each of us as he performed the introduction. “My son-in-law Noah, and my sons Aaron and Seth.”
It might have been my imagination, but the young man seemed startled when Daed spoke my name. I did not imagine the way he stared at me through wide eyes while barely glancing at the others. Then he cleared his throat and looked back at Daed.
The Amish Widower Page 4