by Linda Byler
After two days, Emma and Lydia left on the train after two days, and, as usual, their willing husbands left with them. “Obedient puppies,” Hannah said.
Sarah reprimanded her sharply and said the West was making her uncouth. “Whatever that means,” Hannah muttered to herself, then went to find Manny.
The barn began to take shape, another long, low building. Hay would be stored in an adjacent lean-to, allowing easier access, all Manny’s planning. He said here on the level grasslands, with no hillsides to build into, there were no bank barns. So why stack hay upstairs?
Jerry found Hannah, standing tall with her arms wrapped around her waist, viewing the barn’s beginning. He walked over without hesitation. “So, what do you think?”
She nodded.
“Look okay?”
She nodded again.
“Do you like the house?”
Another nod.
Jerry laughed, a true, uninhibited sound. “You know, if you keep nodding like that, your head might fall off!”
His sense of humor caught her off guard and she laughed outright, that short, sharp blast of sound that very few people ever heard. He laughed with her.
“You do like the house, don’t you? Does it look the way you imagined on paper? You know, you did pretty good, for a girl, making a drawing that precise. We could easily build with what you had drawn up.”
Hannah looked at him, her mistrust rising to the surface like foam. “You’re just saying that.”
“What do you mean, ‘I’m just saying that’? I meant it. I was impressed. You did a good job.”
Only for a moment he saw her lower lip tremble, a second of transparent vulnerability. Jerry tore his eyes away from the perfection of her mouth, steadied himself, and asked about the fire, his quiet voice drawing the story from her.
Yes, the gas engine was the culprit. Unbelievable, still. He stood and listened, tried to stay calm and composed, but took in every flash of her dark eyes, every movement of her mouth. He could read her fear, sensing her determination, and could only guess at the cost of giving up the fight. For Hannah, the price must have been an awfully high.
Suddenly her story was finished. She glared at him with all the old animosity back in place. “Why did you come out here?”
“Same reason everyone else did. To help where there was a need. If I ever saw a need, it was right here. I honestly don’t know how you did it. I admire your courage. A lot.”
“So you’re going back?”
“Yeah.”
Unexpected, unexplained, the intense longing for him to stay shook her. It left her feeling unsure of anything that had ever happened in her life and anything that would occur in the future. Why did he do this to her? The first thing she had to do was get her priorities straight, which was to walk away and stop listening to his compliments. As if he was lifting her up to set her on a pedestal that she was bound to fall from. There could be no yielding here, no caving to those compliments.
His ridiculously handsome face. She wished she’d never met him. Wished he’d go home, now, this instant.
The sisters had brought a trunk load of Amish clothing, having decided between themselves that it would be the saving of Sarah’s family, keeping them true to the Ordnung. Who else would see to it? Sarah waved and bowed down like an obedient white flag of defeat where that Hannah was concerned. So they took the matter upon themselves.
Sarah was grateful. She knelt by the trunk and lifted out one freshly sewn garment after another, examined the sturdy broadfall trousers and cotton button down shirts, the dresses and aprons without hems in a brilliant array of blue, purple, and green. She almost wept to see the amount of stiff white organdy coverings, a necessity for living out the faith.
Without the head covering, she felt undressed, exposed, as if the covering completed the obedience to her Mose, now deceased, taken away, leaving only his gentle words and strict adherence to the way of life described as Amish. The least she could do was carry on the traditions and stay true to his teaching.
Gladly, then, Manny wore the new Amish clothing, complete with the straw hat pressed down on his dark hair. With Hannah, however, and her prickliness, her hidden rebellion, there came a myriad of questions. Why? What was the difference? Dat was dead and gone. Who was there to see what she wore?
Patiently, Sarah explained. “You were born to this, Hannah. It is your duty to remain obedient.”
In the too-small drafty tar-paper shanty, Sarah sat on a chair, trying to keep the new clothing off the ever-present smears of black soot that the men perpetually tracked through the door, covering the floor like a remembered curse. She plied her needle in and out of a hem so fast it made Hannah dizzy to watch.
“You may not understand now, Hannah, but later in life you will realize the value of it more than you do now. To separate ourselves from the world does not mean that we feel superior, or that we flaunt our righteousness. We are only trying to live simple lives in order to please God, to abstain from worldly pleasures that often lead to sins of the flesh.”
Hannah interrupted. “There’s no difference, Mam. These folks that you label worldly are not nearly as worldly in their attitudes as Emma and Lydia. You call them good, God-fearing women, with all their greed and jealousy?”
To this, Sarah had nothing to say. She bit her lip, but knew that Hannah spoke the truth. The danger of dressing plain to hide a cauldron of hidden sins rose before her, and she trembled in its presence. Her sisters meant well, she knew, but to tell Hannah this would only infuriate her.
“Hannah, listen. We cannot look on the mistakes of other people to justify our own lives. What Emma and Lydia say or do does not give you license to desert the teachings of our forefathers. That is like pushing them down to lift yourself up, which only results in a hard fall. They are only trying to preserve their own homestead and their own way of life. Think, Hannah, how you strive to manage these three hundred and twenty acres of land. Think of your hopes and dreams. So too they are trying to keep their farms, pay their mortgages, to hand them down to their children, and their children’s children.
“Look at us. Off on a wild goose chase, in their opinion, robbing them of what is rightfully theirs. You can’t blame them. Now, the worldly thing to do would be to become angry, to separate ourselves and not speak to them; to think ourselves mistreated, the victims, if you will. When, in truth, you know your father had his shortcomings, his wandering ways. Godly wisdom is easy to be entreated; it tries to see both sides, and this we have to follow if we don’t want to create a family rift.”
Hannah snorted with her customary derision. “I can’t believe you’re acknowledging any wrongdoing on Dat’s part.”
“I didn’t say it was wrong. I only said he was …” Her voice fell away, the needle held between her thumb and forefinger stilled. Her hands lay in her lap, loose, the strength leeched from them by the vast, open, uncharted void between the two of them.
How was one parent to uphold the virtues of the other, when his whole walk in life had reflected his unwise choices, which bordered on insanity? Hannah was no longer a child. That time of budding acceptance and worship, looking to a father as the one who does no wrong, was past. She well knew of Mose’s failures, and even made up a few of her own, feeling him inferior to her own choices.
“Well, Hannah, let’s just say we’re taking on the challenge of your father’s journey. That was your choice. So are you different from him? Better? Your dream of the Bar S and the better herd of cattle? Is this not so much like your father and his dreaming?”
The second she finished talking, Sarah knew she had wandered into a territory where she should not have gone. Blind anger clouded Hannah’s dark brown eyes and her face contorted with rage.
“You think I’m as dumb as Dat, then, huh? That’s all you think of me? I can’t believe what you just said!” Hannah rose to her feet, grabbed her coat and scarf and let herself out of the thin, tar-paper door, closing it with a quick flick of her wris
t. The whole shanty shook with its impact.
Sarah took up her needle and jabbed it through the blue fabric straight into the tip of her finger underneath, drawing a drop of crimson blood, staining the new dress. She did not weep at her daughter’s outburst but merely looked at the bloodstain on the fabric, taking it as an omen.
Our blood runs thick, she thought, with the ways of our forefathers who looked on their path of life through eyes of humility, eyes filled with the wisdom of the simple lifestyle, the denying of the flesh. All of this is the secret to a lasting inner peace, a happiness that cannot be explained, like Jesus said.
The job of raising Hannah rose before her like an insurmountable cliff yet again. She could not become idle, nonchalant. She must stay alert, seek guidance, and warn Hannah of the follies of the world. She would no longer allow Hannah’s perception of life to shut her out, the willing, passive mother who had no backbone, no strength to meet the strong words of rebellion. She needed to take Hannah in hand, firmly, but with love, and likely with a thousand gifts of patience.
Hannah stormed out of the house, blinded by her own outburst and the unbelief that curdled her blood. Her own mother! She was not one bit like her father. He would never have acquired the windmill, these cattle, and now, this house. This wonderful house that sustained her battered spirits. He would not have pressed on in the face of so much adversity. Then she remembered the hunger, the impossibility of their situation, and how he had pressed on until he bordered on losing his mind.
Hannah stood in the cold air, the sky the color of a battered tin pail. She knew another storm was brewing somewhere above the plains. She felt sick with the realization of her mother’s words, which pounded into her.
She threw a saddle on Pete, jerking the cinch until his ears lay flat and he shifted uncomfortably from side to side. She hit his teeth hard with the bit and flattened his ears as she yanked the bridle over them. “Hold still, you old nag!” she shouted.
She rode past the house, kicking the stirrups against Pete’s side, leaning forward as if she was on a fast racer coming into the finish line. She galloped past the house and the workers who lifted their straw hats and stared after her in bewilderment.
Hannah rode hard past the windmill, through the burned area, throwing up little puffs of black ash, until Pete had worked up a good lather. She was breathing hard, her face numb from the cold, her hands like frozen claws. Should have worn gloves, she thought.
She held a hand to her forehead, palm down, searching for the familiar huddle of black cattle. Turning from right to left, she surveyed the level prairie. There were swells, hidden hollows, gentle bowls of earth that weren’t visible to the human eye, so sometimes they weren’t easy to spot.
She urged Pete on, then pulled abruptly on the reins. There they were. Breathless, she counted each black cow. Thirteen. One big mean one with bowed horns and the audacity to use them. Two cows that would be dropping calves in the spring, and ten young heifers. The bull. There he was, wide-shouldered and magnificent. They were all there. Every last one.
A few of them lifted their heads, observed her, then bent to tear mouthfuls of grass, wrapping their powerful, rough tongues around the tufts of dry grass, never stopping to chew or swallow, as far as Hannah could tell.
They didn’t appear to be losing weight, in spite of the cold and the surprise snowstorm. She figured they would, though, till winter was over. All she asked was that they survive. They needed every cow, every calf, to repay her grandfather’s loan.
A fleeting thought ran through her mind. How long till the wolves became hungrier? She knew they were always hungry, always on the move, dark denizens of death to anything weakened or alone. It was only when the snows of winter drove them to a bold desperation that the cows’ lives were in actual danger.
She planned on borrowing more than one rifle from Clay. She’d teach herself to become a sharpshooter, able to hit a running target from yards away. She’d teach Manny, too, and together they’d keep an eye on their cows.
She glanced up at the mottled clouds that hung like moldy cottage cheese, dark clumps among lumpy gray and white ones. She wondered what that meant. She’d become fairly skilled at predicting the weather on these plains but she’d never seen anything quite like this. Her eyes roamed the level land, the endless swell of cold, rasping grass like hay that met the gray horizon, the sky cold and mysterious above it.
The sense that there was something much greater than herself washed over her, giving her a cold chill. When things ran amok, and everything seemed out of control, propelled by wheels of fear and doubt, it all came together out here, alone, without anyone’s interference.
It was the vast earth and the sky with nothing in between that caused bewilderment. Was that another trait of her father? He’d spoken of the babble of voices, the constant debates that gave him so much grief. Had he been unhinged then, as he was before he died? Was she so like her father that she needed vast amounts of empty space, muddled dreams, and unrealistic ventures to stay sane? Her mother’s words lay like lead in her chest.
Quickly she justified her motive for keeping the homestead, knowing her father would never have stooped to asking for a loan to better himself. Never. That was the difference. She wasn’t afraid to forge ahead, to look to the future, to plan.
That was where he went wrong, muddling along without a plan, dreaming about miracles that didn’t happen. And yet, here she was with the small herd, winter storms, wolves, lack of feed, which added up to nothing short of a miracle if they all survived.
She lifted her shoulders and shook her head, a small grin playing across her mouth. One day at a time. She had Manny. They’d try their best. Heartened, she rode home, unsaddled Pete, and went to see how many days before the men would leave. They had been laying the floor, and working on the doors and trim. The chimney was finished.
Ben Miller acknowledged her with a smile. “One more day!” he shouted.
Hannah gasped. “Really?”
He nodded proudly.
The house had all come together in the last few days. A new cookstove stood against one kitchen wall, the stovepipe entering the stone chimney between the two windows. A row of store-bought cupboards housed a real porcelain sink with running water and a drain like they had back home. A large living room with plenty of space for a table and chairs. A hallway with bedrooms on either side. An indoor bathroom with a bathtub.
Ben Miller said there were only a few families who had dared install a bathtub back in Lancaster County. The bishops discouraged every new form of luxury, but this was only good hygiene and common sense. The bathroom contained a commode and a sink to wash hands and brush teeth—things Hannah thought the homestead would never have.
It was all charity, though. People had given away their hard-earned money so the family could gain a new foothold out here in this no-man’s land. Well, so be it. That was another of her father’s weaknesses. He had been too proud to accept charity.
Hannah and Sarah followed on the heels of the builders, polishing windows, washing walls and scrubbing floors.
The day came when they carried in and placed all donated furniture. The end result brought tears to Sarah’s eyes and a deep sigh of happiness. Oh, this house. She could never have imagined a house half as big or as cozy or as handy or as filled with lovely furniture, even if it was other peoples’ castoffs. No matter. Every piece was a pure luxury. It may as well have been plated in gold, so precious it was.
What did anything matter? The arm of the brown sofa was worn smooth and faded in spots, but it was a sofa. A couch. A soft spot to enjoy, to sit down and relax with her knitting or mending.
What if the kitchen rugs were mismatched? They were rugs much better than anything they had ever owned. They unpacked dishes and marveled at the smooth pots and pans. Like a loving caress they wiped the plates and cupped their hands around tea cups and tumblers like a warm embrace. They lined drawers with leftover wallpaper and glued down the edges.
> The pantry was stocked with food, staples that would sustain them long after winter was gone. Dried peas, flour, cornmeal, brown sugar, dried navy beans, oatmeal, lard and white sugar, baking powder and salt. Jars of canned tomatoes and cucumbers, mixed pickle and applesauce.
Sarah wiped the dust from her forehead yet again, her eyes red with fatigue, a smile on her face as she told Ben and Elam where to set the corner cupboard. They would have dishes to put in there too.
Ben surveyed his handiwork, narrowed his eyes, and told Sarah that he’d love to build his wife a house like this.
“Maybe we’ll just have to sell out and move out here. There’d be plenty of work for the windmill installing, that’s for sure. I can’t tell you how many of these ranchers asked about your windmill. But I don’t know what the wife would say. She’d be out of fix, for sure. Davey here, he’s thinking along the same lines. Why not? Grab on to that pioneer spirit and run with it. Break the mold. Get away and try something new. See what the wife says.”
Hannah thought, Oh boy, Davey. He’ll want to get a wife out here, which means me. Set her mind like cement.
They slept in the house that night. Mary snuggled beside Hannah on thick flannel sheets and covered with heavy quilts, breathed heavily and was asleep. Hannah lay thinking at the miracle of this house. All because people shared their money, their possessions. She hoped every person who donated even one item, no matter how small, would be rewarded ten times over. She remembered that passage from the Bible. She hoped it was true.
She thought of all the electric lamps and irons and appliances the local townsfolk had contributed. She felt sorry for them, not realizing they’d never be used, and she hoped her mother would have the good sense not to return them to the kindhearted people.