After lunch we relaxed and chatted for a few more minutes before we headed back to work. The job progressed rapidly all afternoon as we dug back into our respective tasks and tried to finish all the work we could before dark.
At the end of the day we piled back into the van and headed for home with tired but satisfied feelings that come from helping someone in need. I was glad I had been a part of something bigger than myself, and that I knew our work made a difference in someone’s life.
Pinecraft Excursion
Norman Miller
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven (Ecclesiastes 3:1).
IT WAS UNUSUALLY WARM FOR JANUARY IN OUR WESTERN NEW YORK State community. The temperature that day reached a warm 68 degrees. Not bad, considering that normally at that time of year we’d be floundering through snowdrifts and trying in vain to keep the driveway plowed.
This warm weather was great—except for one thing that weighed on our mind. We had JetBlue tickets stashed in our kitchen drawer ready to whisk my wife, Marlena, and myself along with our two children, Janelle and Jayden, to warm, sunny Florida the very next morning.
Of course as every northerner knows, half the joy of going to Florida is to leave in the dead of winter and get away from the freezing temperatures and the blinding, blowing snow. It may come as a surprise to many, though, that Florida—actually the tiny village of Pinecraft—is the choice winter destination for hundreds, probably thousands of Amish and Mennonite folk from the North.
While my family doesn’t make it a habit to vacation in Florida every winter, as many Amish do—especially the older generation—we had an excellent reason for going this year. We wanted to assist in the convalescence of Marlena’s father who had just undergone spinal surgery at the world renowned Laser Spine Institute.
Back surgery is always a serious matter, so this weighed on our mind until the report came back that the surgery was a major success. Now that the outcome of the surgery was no longer pressing on our minds, we could look forward to enjoying our stay in Pinecraft to the fullest. The children were really excited—especially at the thought of flying.
On Sunday, the day before we were to leave, we hosted church services at our house, as is common for many Amish. All the families in our district arrived at our house with their horse and buggies, some on bicycles, and others on foot. It was a busy day with so many people in the house from 8:30 in the morning until around 2:00 in the afternoon. So the upcoming reprieve from our hectic schedule and a chance to relax were something we were looking forward to.
Monday morning finally rolled around and it was cold and crisp, way down in the 30s. A much better temperature to head south than 68 degrees. Marlena and I scrambled out of our warm, cozy bed extra early so we could wash all the clothes before leaving and perform whatever other chores needed doing.
After the children were up and breakfast was out of the way we hurried to finish all the last-minute details needing attention. I had to make a final round through the offices and the print shop to make sure the employees were settled in and all was under control.
I returned from my brief trip to the office next door and we hunkered down to wait for our ride to the airport. When he drove up, we all piled in the good neighbor’s car and made the 50-minute trip to Buffalo uneventfully.
We picked a super time to fly because there was hardly anybody around. We cruised through security and located our gate, and then that’s when, for me, the wonder of our vacation began. We had plenty of time to stroll over to my favorite spot in the Buffalo International Airport—the Villa Italian Kitchen in the food court. They make the most delicious breakfast strombolis I have ever tasted. And Marlena agrees. Though it was only 10:00 in the morning and we already had eaten breakfast, I wondered aloud as casually as I could if maybe Villa’s would still be making those breakfast strombolis we so love at this time of the day. I held my breath. My wife looked at me dubiously and with a bit of concern. I knew what she was thinking.
In the weeks leading up to our Pinecraft vacation, I had suggested we could have a meal at Pinecraft’s grand Der Dutchman restaurant for every pound I lost prior to the departure date. Unfortunately, the scale seemed to be malfunctioning and it remained unclear how many pounds I actually did lose, if any. So just to be safe I took the high road and assumed an optimistic number.
Now I could see Marlena waver. But I said, “Let’s do it. We don’t have this chance very often.”
So she gave in and, oh, it was delicious! Just as we remembered.
We boarded our flight and several hours later taxied up to our gate in Sarasota’s fine little airport. We were heartily welcomed by my Uncle Ezra and Marlene, who graciously came to pick us up. Wending our way through the congested thoroughfares of Sarasota, it seemed implausible to think that a quaint and quiet little Amish community could survive, no, thrive in the midst of such a metropolis.
We motored south on busy Beneva Road and swung into a Burger King to execute our first act of convalescence care for Grandpa—bring home supper.
It was then that we knew we were almost there—because we saw them.
“Look,” we cried in unison, gazing out the car window like so many tourists. “The Amish!”
There they were, heading down the sidewalk on bicycles, some on two wheels and others on three. Still others were walking and probably even some, like us, were riding in cars.
Quickly grabbing our supper, we headed south again, but for only a half mile. Then we turned onto Hacienda Street, the northernmost street of the fabled, quiet Amish community in Pinecraft, Florida. We coasted to a stop, spilled out of the car, and rushed into Grandpa’s house loaded with food, luggage, and plenty of noise.
The next morning, bright and early, Grandpa, Jayden, and I headed off to the bicycle shop barely half a mile away to rent a better pair of bikes for the children. Grandpa cruised around effortlessly and with amazing speed on his three-wheeler that came fully equipped with a battery motor built into the front wheel—a perfect machine for a recuperating back.
With all our wheels in order, we headed south toward downtown Pinecraft. Biking gaily down the road, waving to everybody we met, the reality of Amish city life began to sink in. There were Amish and Mennonites everywhere. Old, young, and middle-aged, but not many children. They were on foot and on every manner of bicycle imaginable.
We soon arrived at Bahia Vista Street, that unfortunate, noisy, four-lane blemish that divides the quiet community in two. Here we stopped and before we managed to get across, we were accosted by friendly greetings from acquaintances that Grandpa knew well.
I looked around and discovered we were standing outside the door of Vera Overholt, publisher of the widely used Christian Hymnary hymnbook. She opened the door and wondered who this group was standing out there visiting. Upon introducing myself, she quickly invited me and my wife in for a pleasant little visit. Vera is a very sweet Mennonite lady. In her 80s, she still manages a thriving little bookstore, hence our acquaintance.
Finally breaking free from the many friendly people we had met at the intersection, we managed to navigate the children safely across the busy street. Nothing seemed to be stirring, so we decided to check out the Pinecraft Park, that place where so many old gentlemen while away most of their waking hours playing shuffleboard. Before we got started, we were greeted by more friendly faces, most notably our good friend Eddie Kline from Ohio. He invited us to stop in at their house on the way over to the park. We did just that.
Arriving at the park some time later, we sent the children over to the playground while we amused ourselves watching the white-haired gentlemen skillfully push pucks around the shuffleboard. Their pace was slow and measured.
I could feel the stress roll off my shoulders as we basked in the beautifully warm sunshine. As the morning passed, more grandpas kept coasting by on their three-wheelers, some feebly, others spryly, many of them chewing on toothpicks, all gladly joining the pleasant b
anter being exchanged.
Leaning against the fence bordering the shuffleboard court, surrounded by so many elderly, white-bearded, behatted, seniors, I felt one with them. What camaraderie! I had never witnessed such an idyllic social arrangement meant especially for the Plain and retired folk.
Sensing the time slipping away, we reluctantly mounted our bikes and puttered down the road searching for more long-unthought-of acquaintances. We turned the corner and Grandpa pointed about five houses ahead where a pickup was backing up and said, “Look, Norman. Over there is Floyd.”
I gasped in astonishment and quickly pedaled over to him and shook the hand of my former neighbor of over 30 years ago. How little difference such a great distance in time seemed to have made. And such is the perpetual experience among the Amish folk in Pinecraft—frequent, unexpected meetings and greetings of acquaintances long forgotten.
Now lest you think that all there is to do in Pinecraft is pedal slowly down the streets and look for people to meet, I can tell you there is more. From our house on Hacienda it was hardly a half mile to one of the grandest places to spend quality time doing what most men do best—eating good food.
Making our way toward the entrance we walked past grandpas and grandmas sitting on rocking chairs on the porch, relaxing after their grand meal inside. Our mood was light and anticipation was high as we opened the door. We gawked around at the huge place. There was an ample-sized foyer and two-story store in the front to absorb the hundreds and thousands of hungry folk that besiege this place every day. Seating a group of only six people was never a problem as they ushered us into the huge dining area where hundreds of others were already hard at it.
The many pleasant aromas that met us convinced us immediately we were where we belonged. My lingering glance at the massive buffet confirmed my menu decision before we even found our table. Grabbing our plates we meandered along the long stretched-out buffet of yummy salads, fresh breads, and too many hot dishes to remember—so many versions of potatoes, greens and gravy, and meats of all kinds. Chicken, pork, tenderloin—it was all there. And the dessert, pies, cake, and ice cream…there was plenty around. What a fine way to celebrate.
Lingering was easy and leaving was hard. But that’s Pinecraft! And what can one say but Aufwiedersehen.
All’s Well That Ends Well
Grace Elaine Yoder
For he shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways (Psalm 91:11).
MY BROTHER, JOHN, AND SISTERS, SHARON AND LORANNA, AND I WERE on our way home in our wagon from an evening fishing at Hicks Lake. John and Sharon rode up front and Loranna and I were huddled under the canoe in the back, squatting on the bumping wagon bed. Whenever we moved just a fraction of an inch we bumped our heads against the underside of the canoe. Through the cracks we could see that the sun was sinking fast, and we all wanted to get home before the night fell.
To pass the time, Loranna whispered in an eerie voice, “Imagine it’s years ago and we’re slaves running away from the slave catchers.”
I imagined and could almost hear the galloping feet of the slave catchers’ horses as they came closer and closer. Bravely I whispered back, “It’s fun under here.”
“I think we’re going about a hundred miles an hour,” Loranna exaggerated.
I peered at the road whizzing by beneath us. It did look and feel as if we were going fast, but not that fast.
Loranna and I jabbered on, so busy having our conversation in the dark, cramped quarters that we didn’t hear the older ones talk in hushed and frightened tones.
Klink! A piece of metal rod zipped by right beneath my nose. A loud, peculiar sound rose around us, sending shivers up and down my back. The horse swerved. The canoe jerked to the side and bumped my head. Beneath the wagon the road turned from blacktop to gravel as we gained speed around a curve. Soon the canoe shifted forward as the horse took off at a gallop down the hill.
“What’s happening?” I managed to squeak.
“Everything’s all right,” Sharon said from up front. By the tone of her voice I could tell that everything wasn’t all right.
While I worried, I lost my balance under the canoe and bumped into Loranna as we rounded yet another curve at top speed. Finally the gravel gave way to grass as we went across a field. This put enough drag on the wagon to slow it down, and then we came to a stop.
Quivering all over, I stiffly crawled out from under the canoe and staggered to the front of the wagon. There I met John and Sharon and saw what had happened. One of the shafts had broken. This left us with only one holdback on the horse’s harness. John had been driving, and he had a hard time stopping the old wagon without a brake. Neither could the horse stop with only one holdback.
So we now quickly unhitched the wagon while speaking gently to the horse the whole time. Once she was loose from the remaining shaft, we shoved the wagon toward a house which lay a short distance from where we had come to a halt. We figured we should ask permission before we left the wagon there, so Sharon and Loranna went to the front door. A dog made a terrible racket, but a lady soon came out and calmed him down.
“Do you care if we park our buggy by your shop?” Sharon asked after telling a short version of our story.
“Of course you may,” the lady assured us.
So we left with our horse and trudged off into the night. This part of the adventure didn’t last long, though. We soon stopped at another house where a kind old man gave our horse shelter for the night and drove us home in his red Chevy truck. We sank into the seats, which were quite warm and comfortable after the tiresome walk in the dark, chilly night. A few minutes later we were at home.
John offered to pay the man, but he wouldn’t hear of it. So we gave him our heartfelt thanks and bid him goodnight. Our parents had been wondering where we had been, and no doubt offered up grateful prayers for our safe return. Dad and one of the boys went to bring home the horse and buggy the following day. They were able to fix the shafts at a welding shop and drove the rig home afterward.
Barn Raising
Harvey D. Yoder
And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it (1 Corinthians 12:26).
IT WAS EARLY IN THE MORNING OF AUGUST 2, 1990, WELL BEFORE THE first crowing of the roosters. Many had already rubbed the sleep from their eyes and were astir, both men and women. The men had done their chores, gathered the necessary carpentry tools, and hitched the horses to the buggies. The women had donned aprons and hustled around the kitchen to put their last-minute touches on the tasty dishes they would serve to the hungry men at noontime. The day of Jacob Miller’s barn raising had arrived.
Those who would supervise the work arrived with a heavy step mixed with a tinge of excitement. But everyone was composed and collected as they anticipated the Jacob Miller family’s barn being rebuilt. That summer, while the Miller family baled loose straw from the attached shed, the straw had accidentally ignited with a spark. In no time at all the sturdy barn and most of its contents had been consumed.
I was a young lad of 15 that year, and I can remember how quickly the news spread through the community about the Millers’ loss. A date was quickly set when all able-bodied men were invited to help raise another barn. When we heard the news, passed along by word of mouth, my dad told my older brother, David, and me that we should plan to help. Both of us were excited about the prospect, and when the wake-up call had come that morning, we had eagerly bounded out of bed.
Dawn broke and the countryside was bathed in fog as we arrived at the Millers’ farm. Many men were already there.
All around us the already well-organized barn site bustled with activity. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves reverberated through the valley as others arrived. It sounded like the congregating of bees around a hive. Altogether there would be 610 people gathered to help. I wondered how many of the people I would know.
I saw that the first-floor foundation had
been finished and piles of neatly stacked lumber had been placed in specified areas. This would make for easy access now that the work had begun. The beam frames for the barn were joined with mortise and tenon joints and secured by pounding wooden pegs into the predrilled holes.
Henry Stutzman and Delbert Yoder were the lead carpenters. They soon gave orders to the line of men placed along the finished section of wall framing. I found an empty spot to help raise the first piece. While we waited I nodded good morning to an uncle I had spotted, as well as some of my cousins. Ropes had been secured at intervals along the top beam, both to balance and raise the wall. Spike poles lay in readiness. We would grab those once our arms could no longer reach.
“Up!” directed Henry.
Muscles flexed and the framing creaked as the collection of men moved like a big machine, lifting the whole length of wall section at once.
“Whoa! South end slow down; you’re getting ahead,” Henry cried. “Keep it at the same level. Pull on the ropes, get the spike poles, and push.”
The poles were fitted with a pointed iron at the end, and these were placed against the beam with a few men pushing on each one. Most of the poles were old and had been used in many a barn raising. After today, they’d be stored until another barn raising called for them.
When the section of wall became vertical, the ropes were extended both ways for balance. Sledges and spud bars were used to shove the bottom beams into their proper place.
My grandpa used to relate how at a barn raising in his past, the men had been insufficient in number and the wall became stalled partway up. That day the men had been urged to give it all they had, but the section wouldn’t budge. This was a dangerous situation, and if the wall came down there could be fatalities. The supervisor hollered his concern. When this threat was hung over the heads of the men, the adrenaline surged and the frame went up.
A View from the Buggy Page 12