“Take a look, Deborah,” Jeb said in hushed tones.
“What?” She opened her eyes and was glad she was sitting down. Jebediah Weaver, she wanted to scream. Another dog?
“Look, but be quiet. She’s sleeping.”
“Where’d you get that little dog, Jeb?”
“Lizzie and Marge rescued her today. Isn’t she cute?”
“She’s thin, poor thing.”
“Doesn’t weigh more than a little bag of flour from the store. Here, hold her.”
As Jeb placed the shorthaired black dog on her lap, Granny’s heart went out to the little critter. “Well, whose dog is it? Lizzie’s or Marge’s?”
Jeb sat in the rocker next to hers. “Tillie. They adopted her but Roman doesn’t want a dog in the house…”
Granny stroked the dog’s trembling body. “It’s okay. Hush now.”
“Well,” Jeb continued, looking away from her. “I thought we’d keep her.”
“What? Jebediah Weaver! We already have a dog in the house.”
“Ach, Bea. I’ll introduce them to each other.”
To her shock, he went over to the blue rag rug near the woodstove and placed the little black dog next to Bea. “Bea, meet your new friend.” Bea awoke and sniffed the dog, then, like a miracle, put one of her paws over it, as if trying to cuddle. “Will you look at that,” Jeb beamed. “Bea. I’m so proud of you.”
Granny reluctantly got up and went over to the stove, and had to admit she was touched. Bea is such a dear dog. She put her hand on Jeb’s arm. “Old man. I know you like the dog and all, but dogs shed and I don’t want two in the house. Most likely why Roman’s putting up a fuss, since they already have a rabbit.”
“He’s just stubborn, is all. Tillie’s a shy one, and needs a pet. They help bring you out of a shell.” He picked up the little dog. “I know my dogs did for me.”
How did Jeb do it? Pull at her heartstrings so? He’d been raised Schwartzentruber, the strictest of all Amish groups, and there were no end to the effects such nonsensical rules made. He’d even been told that to plant flowers was vanity and showed pride. Years ago, for him to plant her roses was a big step of freedom for him. “Jeb, let me pray on keeping the dog, so we’re in agreement, jah?”
He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Of course. I thought you’d be real taken with her big brown eyes…”
She hadn’t even noticed the dog’s eyes, only Jeb’s…so childlike and happy. He’s still young inside, Granny thought. Ach, his body is old now, but he’s still the man who won her heart so long ago. Not wanting to be impulsive, she just said, “I’ll be thinking and praying about this real hard.” To change the subject, she asked if he’d gotten the mail.
“Jah. Another letter from Nathan and Lavina. Having a goot time in Montana. Maybe a little too goot.”
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe they’ll never come home…”
“Ach, Jeb. They bought the farm down the road.” Just when his young side peeped out, his ferhoodled old-man-talk took over. What notions he’d been having lately. She went over to where the mail was placed and read all the letters, some circle letters, and some from pen pals.
~*~
Suzy pushed the button to release wiper fluid on her windshield as a passing Jeep spit up salt and ice onto her car. She spied her friend, Ginny, in the Jeep that had just passed. Ginny Rowland, her dear best friend and next door neighbor, had penciled her own name beside half of the church’s shut-in list, and for that Suzy was thankful. But when Ginny said she needed to visit Prissy on a weekly basis, and ‘love her enemies,’ she wanted to throw a ball of yarn at her. And Colleen fears she’ll be watched twenty-four-seven by the Amish? Ha! Suzy was scrutinized every day in a small town, and country gossip traveled as fast as the Amish grapevine.
She turned left and went down the steep hill that descended to Prissy’s sprawling estate: thirty acres with a mansion in the middle, a black topped driveway that was maintained by her very own private gardener. With the amount of money lavished on Prissy, a village in Haiti could be fed, Suzy thought with a groan. Why would God freely give money to such a miser, never giving to any charities, yet living in a lap of luxury? Ginny wanted her to search her heart. Was she jealous of Prissy? Surely she was not!
As she drove near the entrance, Sammy was busy shoveling the sidewalk, snow falling too fast to keep up. The tall man looked up at her, and with his fur aviator style hat, Suzy thought he looked like a Viking. How ironic, she thought. Prissy can boss around a Viking. To her surprise, she started to chuckle, most likely letting off nervous energy, and Sammy came near the car. She opened the door and he asked for her keys.
“Thanks Sammy. Are you Prissy’s…I mean Missy’s valet service now?”
The kind, sensitive, elderly man’s eyebrows shot up. “Making ends meet, is all.”
“Oh, Sammy, I’m sorry. I’m kind of nervous to see…you know…the town miser herself.”
Sammy took her keys. “If you knew her, you wouldn’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s not for me to say. I’ve just changed my mind about her.”
With that Sammy got into the car and drove it towards the large detached garage on the side of the house. The garage that some suspected had a dozen antique cars housed in it, worth a fortune. Suzy felt her stomach flip. Lord, the garage itself could house several Haitian families. Ginny’s son, now a missionary in Haiti, had written regularly and sent pictures back home, and the Baptists had given all they could, while not neglecting the needs of their own…in Smicksburg.
Suzy walked up to the door, gift bag in hand, and rang the doorbell. The door opened immediately, and a pretty young woman said hello and welcomed her in. Suzy suspected she was one of the maids, but the woman was a total stranger to her. She’d never seen her in town, but then again, Prissy lived two miles out of Smicksburg. Suzy followed the woman to a large living room she was sure she could fit her entire first floor of her house into. Windows from the high ceilings down to the plush rose colored carpet. Two overstuffed Victorian couches in shades of cream faced each other and burgundy leather Queen Anne chairs were dotted throughout the room. What luxury. But where was Prissy?
The woman she supposed was the maid had left her in the room, but to be by herself? “Maybe she had to put the crown on her royal highness and announce her arrival,” Suzy said with a sigh.
“Excuse me?” said a voice behind Suzy but she didn’t see anyone. “Hello?”
Soon a head popped up from the opposing couch. Prissy must have been lying on it, out of view. Suzy cleared her throat. “Why, ah, hi. Came here bearing gifts.” She held up the pink gift bag.
Prissy, who was still in her silk white bathrobe, with a matching turban on her head, appeared to have just gotten up, but it was noon!
“I’m sorry, are you ill?” Suzy wondered.
“No. I don’t go out much, and, well, stay in my lounge clothes.”
The distance between them could have been a mile in many ways, but Suzy put one foot in front of the other and walked over and handed her the bag, and then took a seat on one of the burgundy chairs.
Prissy nodded, as if that was her way of saying thank you, and pulled the tissue paper out of the bag. She pulled up the shawl that Suzy had knit her; a prayer shawl.
“Oh, ah, thank you. A wide scarf.”
Suzy’s head jerked back as if hit in the face. “It’s a shawl, not a scarf. Mighty wide to be a scarf.”
“Oh, what I meant to say is stole. I have several mink stoles this wide and I do like how they keep my shoulders warn.”
“Well, a shawl is like a stole, only made of yarn, not fur.” Suzy cracked a knuckle, forcing herself to keep looking into the haughty pale blue eyes of Prissy. “I made it. It’s called a Prayer Shawl. When I, ah, made it, I…prayed for you.”
“Whatever for?” Prissy asked, snickering. “I have all of this,” she said, as she picked up her dainty hand and swayed it a
round, pointing to the room.
Suzy looked at her watch. “Well, you lost your husband a while back, and are here alone. Just want you to know that you can call the Baptist church for anything you need.”
Prissy stared at her. “But I have all I need.”
Suzy pointed to the bag. “There’s something else in there, on the bottom.”
Prissy reached down and pulled out a book. “A Christmas Carol. How nice. I have several antique copies of Dickens works, but not A Christmas Carol.”
“It’s from Ginny Rowland. The children in our church are putting on a play in a few weeks. It’s all based on A Christmas Carol, and we’d like for you to come.”
Prissy rolled her eyes. “Poor Ginny Rowland. Someone should have helped her get through mid-life crisis better. Selling her big old farmhouse to live on top of her bookstore….”
Suzy jumped up, ready to defend her friend. “The Rowlands practically gave the church their house for homeless single moms. Surely you know the good that came out of them downsizing?”
Prissy clucked her tongue. “It’s all ridiculous. We work hard for what we get to enjoy, not give it away to people who won’t work.”
Suzy feared she’d lose her temper, and promised Ginny that if Prissy said anything condescending about her living on top of her yarn shop, she’d only explain how happy she was, having a simpler life. “Ginny and James love living in four rooms, making life simpler. And they can give more to the orphanage their son helps run in Haiti…”
Prissy sniffed. “If you don’t work, you don’t eat. Isn’t that somewhere in the Bible?”
Suzy wanted to scream, so she closed her eyes, and counted to ten, and then took a deep breath. “I best be going. The invitation to the Christmas play is in the bag. Have to run. Teaching a knitting class at one.”
“In that puny little shop of yours? For heaven’s sake, I would have continued taking lessons if we had room to sprawl out…”
An idea popped into Suzy’s mind, but she dismissed it, knowing God would certainly not push her beyond what she could handle. But the impression came into her heart in a still small whisper. Teach Missy how to knit in her home…Suzy held her hand to her heart, realizing it must be the voice of God, because he knew His children by name. He called her Missy…not Prissy.
~*~
Granny felt heat rise into her cheeks when she saw all the women already seated for the knitting circle in her living room. Lizzie was busy at the kitchen table, cutting the raisin bars she’d made…“Ach, Lizzie, why didn’t you wake me?”
“You looked too peaceful,” Lizzie said. “And to sleep through all this howling wind, I figured you were bushed.”
“I have been tired all day,” she admitted. Getting old. Granny rubbed the back of her neck, and getting up to get some coffee and a bar cookie, she entered her living room. All the girls welcomed her, some concerned that she was sick, being in such a sound sleep. “Ach, nee, just fell asleep reading letters.” She looked around the room after she took her seat. “Where’s Ruth?”
Suzy spoke up while knitting. “Oh, I saw her in town with Luke. She had to see the doctor and can’t make it.”
“Well, she’s pregnant.” Granny said, concern noticeable in her voice. “Let’s keep her in our prayers.” Still feeling half asleep, she took a sip of coffee, and then noticed no one was eating. “Did everyone get raisin bars?”
“Jah,” Fannie offered. “Danki, Granny. We devoured them…”
Suzy looked up and grinned at Granny. “I want that recipe for sure.” She leaned towards Janice, seated next to her. “I think we can start discussing Anne of Green Gables now. Our Anne Girl seems to have helped the girls at Forget Me Not Manor.”
Janice yawned. “Well, that book made some of the girls cry for the first time, or they spoke up about their past hurts. I’ve been spending lots of nights up counseling.” Her shoulders slumped. “I am plumb exhausted.”
“Goot literature changes us, jah?” Granny, now fully awake, chimed in.
“Yes,” Janice continued, “but now they want to read Anne of Avonlea, and I can’t keep up with the reading here.” She flashed a smile at Marge. “Maybe I’ll go back to watching the movies.”
Marge giggled and Granny was glad to see it. How many days, and long into the night had she and Jeb talked to Marge and Joe about how God forgave them years ago? They were teenagers and not married yet when they were coaxed into aborting their child. How goot forgiveness is...
Suzy pointed at Colleen, fondly. “Tell the group what you got out of Anne of Green Gables.”
Colleen put down her knitting and it was obvious she was fighting mighty hard to keep her tears from spilling down her cheeks. She stared at Janice, and then darted over to her, embracing her around the neck. “Thank you. I miss you.”
Janice got up and held Colleen to herself. “What’s wrong, Colleen?”
Colleen took the Kleenex Suzy offered, and blew her nose. “I realized that you and Jerry are my Matthew and Marilla. Thank you ever so much.”
Janice cupped Colleen’s cheeks. “You are so welcome. And we love you and want the best for you. No strings attached…jah?”
Colleen grinned when Janice used an Amish word. “So, you really aren’t hurt that I’m not Baptist anymore? That I quit the program?”
Janice put two hands up, her palms up as if receiving something. “We take in our girls like this. It’s with an open hand and heart, not one with a grip on you. We only want the Lord’s hand on you. Understand?”
Colleen embraced her again. “I do now. But just so you know, you and Jerry are my Matthew and Marilla, saving me from a life filled with window friends.”
“I needed to hear that.” Janice admitted. “It’s draining at times, helping the girls at the manor.”
Suzy bellowed an ‘Amen Sista’ and the room echoed with laughter as Janice and Colleen sat down and took up their knitting again. Suzy asked Granny what she got out of the book.
“Well, since we’re talking from the heart… I’m worried for Jeb. Matthew died in the book because of financial problems. Sales are slow in the rocker shop…” She fiddled with her yarn. “Well, Jeb trusts God, but I’m embarrassed to say I’m struggling with it.”
Lizzie groaned. “I feel the same way. I see Roman at the table at night, drawing up designs...”
“Well, why not put some little things for sale in my shop, and I’m sure I can make the connections to other stores.” Suzy offered.
What?” blurted Mona. “Depend on the English to make a living?”
Fannie nudged her. “Mamm, we’ve talked about this, jah? Melvin’s clock shop wouldn’t make it if it weren’t for the English.”
Mona pursed her lips and lifted her nose up in the air, for what seemed forever to Granny. I hope someone corrects her. Lord, let it be your will.
But the room was silent, all the women knitting away, appearing to concentrate a little too hard to make such easy scarves. Janice got out her phone and started to type away. “What are you doing?” Granny asked.
“Oh, adding to our prayer list. I just put in Jeb and Roman.”
“Can you add Prissy? I mean Missy. Pray for me, too.” Suzy said in a monotone voice as she knit at an even pace. “I’m visiting her and took her the prayer shawl I made. She called it a scarf, can you believe it?”
Janice chuckled. “Iron sharpens iron and that woman makes sparks fly, huh?”
Suzy kept knitting. “I am praying for her and this agoraphobia she has. It really is pitiful, but if Prissy were only nicer…But us Baptists, we’re there to visit shut-ins come hail, sleet, or snow.” Suzy laughed at her own dramatics, and looked over at Mona. “So, what did you get out of the book?”
Mona’s eyes, dark and foreboding, simply said, “It’s private.”
Granny listened as rain pelted the window. Drip, drip, drip. Mona was a constant drip in her life, similar to the woman Suzy was visiting. And Granny was praying for Mona, but…right now, most likely
she wanted pity and for the circle to pry out of her what she got from the book. Self-pity was something Granny did not feed.
“Mona, did you like the book?” Suzy probed.
“It was alright.”
Granny wanted to ask if she’d learned anything about cranky people being changed by the sweet tempered Anne. Was she ever affected by the sweet tempered Fannie, the daughter she ridiculed to no end? She stared at her knitting, shades of black and white making a unique pattern.
“Where’s Maryann?” Janice asked, breaking the stillness.
“Getting herself prepared for tomorrow,” Granny answered. “We’re going to get that test done. Ach, another thing to pray about. Pray it’s just a benign cyst.”
“I have her on the list already. The whole church is praying for a good report,” Janice said. Clearing her throat, she put a book up for all to see. “We’re giving this book out for Christmas presents to shut-ins and I want yinz to have one. Actually, it would make my life easier if we could do it here, since the church is doing the play and…”
Suzy intervened. “What Janice is saying is that we’re so busy the weeks leading up to Christmas, doing lots of outreach, so could we read A Christmas Carol next?”
Janice handed the paperback books out to all the women. Granny noticed Charles Dickens had written it. How much enjoyment Jeb was getting over the Charles Dickens Devotional, and she was sure he’d give her no questioning look when she showed him the book she was reading. She opened it to read, Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.
What an odd way to start a book, Granny thought. “Janice, is this a sad book? About a man’s funeral?”
“No, it’s really like a long parable. You see, a miserly old man, Scrooge, is warned by his dead business partner that he needs to change his ways.”
Granny gasped. “A dead business partner? Do you mean this is about talking to the dead?”
“No,” Janice said. “It’s about three ghosts who visit –”
Mona stood up tall. “Ghosts? We don’t read about ghosts, or talking to the dead, or whatever you’re trying to say.”
Smicksburg Tales 1,2 & 3 (Amish Knitting Circle, Amish Friends Knitting Circle & Amish Knit Lit Cirlce ~ Complete Series: 888 pages for Granny Weaver Lovers and 30+ Amish Recipes Page 66