I smiled and raised my eyebrows mischievously. “Lots of young men, huh, Matty?”
“Yeah,” Samantha giggled. “Brand new fresh meat to drool over.”
Matty blushed and slapped at us both with her dish towel. “You two are terrible,” she said as she poured lemonade into the glasses. I laughed, but I wondered if maybe that was the real reason she was moving. Matty, her brother and her sister, Laura, had never been on dates. The prospect of having three children that would never marry was not good for any family.
As we poured the lemonade, the little children, wanting to help, grabbed the cups from the table and ran around to the men, giving them to anyone who reached out. We laughed as little Edna tripped over her dress, spilling the lemonade she was carrying, and even though the cup was empty, she handed it to Isaiah Troyer. He laughed and tapped her playfully on the head with the empty cup.
After lunch, the women gathered to work on a quilt we had put in the frame the night before. I loved quilting, but on that day I could not concentrate. While the other women gossiped around the quilt, I motioned for Samantha to follow me outside. Unable to hold it in, I told her about the uncomfortable situation with Lillian and Jacob.
Samantha nodded. “It is the same at my house, sometimes, most of the time not, but sometimes. I don’t know what to do but ignore it.”
“I can’t.” I put a hand to my cheek.
Samantha nodded again. “Yeah. I did not want to say anything.” She looked around. “I live in the Deacon’s house, and I saw Jacob and the ministers gather outside the other evening. I don’t know what they were saying, but I saw them agreeing about something, and I really think it was about us.”
I wrung my hands. I did not know what was coming, but I knew it wasn’t good.
About a week later, Samantha and I were both called for a meeting with the ministers and were told that we were paying too much attention to the boys and not keeping our heads down as we were supposed to. This was as shocking as it was untrue. I knew that Lilian and some of the other women and unmarried girls were behind this gossip. Samantha and I felt embarrassed and ashamed. There was no greater shame an Amish girl could have than to be called a boy chaser. But girls that were not well-liked were often gossiped about like this and most of the time it was not true.
This had to be payback for our calling the police and the commotion back to the mountain. The women and girls did not like the attention I was attracting. I would sometimes walk into a room and hear people talking low tones about me and the police case. It made me a household name, something that did not sit well with the women, especially because I was young and unmarried.
As a result, Samantha and I were told that we would not be able to date for a year after we were baptized, to ensure that we were serious about joining the church and not chasing after a husband. This was a devastating blow. By that time, we would be older than most single girls. I saw a hint of fear in Samantha’s eyes. Most Amish girls were going steady or had at least been on a date by eighteen or nineteen and most were married by the time they were twenty or twenty one. What if we ended up as old maids?
Despite this backlash from the church, I did not regret my decision to try and save Grandma and Fanny; that they were still on the mountain in the care of Mamma and Brian continued to haunt me.
Over the summer, I had started to realize that Jacob’s treatment of Lillian was worse than I had previously thought and it made me sad for her and angry at Jacob. He took every chance to ridicule her and make her cry. She, in turn, was submissive. I could tell she tried hard to please him but she couldn’t. Sometimes, I would walk up on her when she was staring out the window with tears streaming down her cheeks. I would sometimes walk out to the outhouse and would hear her sobbing and quietly retrace my steps.
She sometimes referred to herself as a “worn out shoe that was no longer wanted” in front of Jacob and the children. Even then, Jacob showed her no sympathy and continued to ridicule her for being too heavy (which she was not) or too slow. It was no wonder that she was sometimes hostile. I was getting what she so longed for from her husband: attention and emotional affection. Poor Lillian was beside herself with sorrow and jealousy. As the summer wore on, I tried even harder to ignore Jacob, and I was rewarded for my efforts. Lillian’s jealousy started to wane a little. Sometimes, she would even refer to me as her daughter and I was grateful that she was trying harder. I knew she was a kind woman, but because I was young and single at the time, I could not fully comprehend how deep her sadness really was.
As fall approached, I began going to the Borntragers to help them get ready for the auction. Although Samantha was leaving, I was excited for her to start a new adventure. We did not hear anything from Mamma and Brian, which was a good way to let our problems with them fade into the background. My new connection with Lillian made me happy, and finally, I was able to thrive in my new home.
The day of the auction was exciting. It was mid-September. The week before the auction, the women of the community gathered to help the Borntragers make baked goods to sell in order to help pay for their move. We made over two hundred loaves of bread and five hundred pies. It was fun as the women made an assembly line formation. One woman put the bottom crust on, another put in the filling, another put on the top crust and so on. There were food fights and bread flour in our hair as the younger girls played practical jokes on each other. The married women looked at our antics, trying not to laugh.
Samantha’s family and Matty’s family each rented a semi-truck that would haul their most precious items to the Wisconsin farm. The rest of the things would be sold at the auction where Amish and Englisch alike would bid for things standing side by side. The young men had the task of grooming the horses and cleaning the farm equipment. They also hung signs that advertised the auction in the local town. I loved the sense of community. It was rewarding to pitch in and get your hands dirty while helping a family in their time of need.
On the day of the auction, I was with Samantha helping sell baked goods to the Englisch who came. Some tried to take our pictures, which was annoying. We turned faces away from the camera: it is against Amish rules to have your picture taken.
We sold all of the baked goods by noon and then we were free to watch the auction. It was fun, especially when the quilts came up.
That night after the auction, Samantha, Annie and the rest of the children climbed into the back of the semi. “It will save on bus fare,” Samantha told me, clapping her hands. “It’s going to be so much fun.” I waved goodbye as the semi pulled away. Samantha and I would lead separate lives again.
That winter, I started instruction for baptism with the rest of the youth. This was an exciting time for me, as it was a rite of passage all young people must go through. After the first song was sung, the ministers went upstairs and the youth that were to be baptized followed and sat in front of the ministers who then spoke to us about our forefathers and the rules of the church. After half-an-hour, we came downstairs again, followed by the ministers.
That November was my twentieth birthday. I sighed as I looked in the mirror that morning. Wow, I am twenty years old. The previous two years had flown by in a whirlwind of life-changing events. As I looked into the mirror, I remembered being on the mountain, and the loneliness and terror that had enveloped every day there. I stepped closer to the mirror to inspect my face, looking for any traces of scars that might be left from my childhood dog bite. There was only a faint scar on my left cheek and one under my right eye. I am lucky, I thought. Those scars could have been much worse.
That day, Lillian told me we had to start collecting things for my hope chest. Phyllis had her brother-in-law make one for my birthday. Usually, the hope chest is given to a girl on her sixteenth or seventeenth birthday, but better late than never. I could not help remembering how uneventful and scary most of my birthdays had been. This was such a nice change; it was sweet of Phy
llis.
I was excited as I breathed in the smell of the cedar wood. A hope chest was used to store gifts that were given to a girl for her birthday or Christmas, as well as presents from her boyfriend. These presents were usually dishes, clocks, salt and pepper shakers or anything that would be useful when she became a married woman and set up housekeeping herself. It was every girl’s hope to have a brimming chest full of colorful dishes and whatever else she might need for marriage. Each girl also made three quilts for herself, which the family or women from the community helped make. Happily, I opened my new chest and saw there was already a small set of pretty, light blue plates inside. They were a birthday present from Lillian and Jacob.
“Oh, thank you,” I squealed, and Lillian smiled at me.
“It is very empty, so the girls in the community are going to donate one item from their hope chests to yours. I am not supposed to tell you, but I thought it was a great idea. Phyllis asked the girls if they would like to do this, and they all thought it would be fun.”
“That is so sweet.” I hugged the chest with both arms.
Ella came up to examine my hope chest. “Oh,” she said as she stroked the top. “I am going to get one pretty soon too, right, Mom?”
Lillian laughed at her fourteen-year-old daughter. “Getting a little ahead of yourself there, aren’t you?” she asked playfully.
I smiled at Lillian. She seemed a tiny bit happier lately, I thought. It was like I was her ally now.
That winter—in between the daily household duties and the long nights spent getting eggs ready for market—I started a quilt. I chose a North Star pattern that combined many shades of blue, and it was so much fun to see my first one taking shape.
In December, as Jacob sat reading the Die Blatt, the Amish newspaper, he abruptly asked me if I wanted to write for the paper. I saw Lillian frown, so I just shrugged, but secretly I was tingling. Writing for the Amish newspaper meant there would be a piece with your town or district name at the top followed by the events that happened in the community, such as births, deaths, baptisms and other news.
“Yeah,” Jacob nodded. “She is always walking around on Sundays with that poetry book she writes in. She would probably be a good writer. And no one else in our community will do it. It would be nice to see us represented in this paper, too.”
“Well,” Lillian looked at me and nodded approvingly at the way I was ignoring Jacob, “I guess if she wants to. Do you want to?” she asked, turning to me.
I clapped my hands together with excitement. “I would love to,” I said smiling happily.
That day, I started writing for the Amish newspaper. I had never written anything before but found it fairly easy. I tried to put in a lot of comical happenings in addition to covering the serious topics. The next month, I eagerly grabbed the copy of the Die Blatt out of Ella’s hands.
“Let me see. Let me see,” Ida and Ella both clamored as they tried to read the page where I found my piece.
The next church Sunday, I saw people grinning at me, and I knew it was because of the funny rhymes I had made in my article. I decided to rhyme half of the happenings in my next piece.
That winter was very cold, and the entire community came down with terrible colds that turned into pneumonia. All the old home remedies were pulled out as croupy babies and children with swollen tonsils cried endlessly.
Snow was swirling outside, and a cold, northeasterly wind was blowing across the flat area where our farm was located. It nearly blew me off my feet as I made my way across the field to the Bishop’s house to help Phyllis. As I blew in through the door, I was met by the sound of crying children. School had been canceled due to the severity of the storm, and Phyllis looked ready to collapse as she tried to soothe the seven feverish children that were all reaching for her. Peter sat in the rocking chair—was he reading the Bible, or just staring into space? I wondered as I shivered with a light fever.
“Oh.” Phyllis sighed as I came through the door. “I am so glad to see you.” She handed me the youngest child, who was screaming at the top of his lungs.
“Are sure you are okay, Phyllis?” I asked. I tried not to notice her stomach, which was beginning to show the signs of early pregnancy.
Phyllis nodded. “Yes. I just need a break. The story of the Byler boy has me quite upset. I hope my children are not sicker than they look.”
“I will make everyone tea.” I looked at the miserable children. “It will make everyone feel better.”
I mixed peppermint, chamomile and yarrow together to make a tea I hoped everyone would like. Amish children usually liked tea, as it was a sweet drink. It was a little more difficult to get them to drink it when they were sick, but I managed. Their tonsils were inflamed with bright red goblets on them.
“My throat hurts so bad,” Danny cried.
“Mine too,” Katie whimpered.
I sighed as I felt my own temperature skyrocketing.
“We have to swab their tonsils with turpentine.” Phyllis was agitated that her children were suffering so much. “They are in too much pain.”
I nodded and went to the basement to get the turpentine. Using a Q-tip, I painted the smelly turpentine on the children’s tonsils and the backs of their throats. Turpentine was also an old remedy, used for the its numbing properties. I was not sure how safe it was, but it seemed to work for tonsillitis and strep throat.
After administering the remedy, I wrapped the children in quilts and sat them by the wood stove while I made supper. I rummaged through Phyllis’s basement and pantry where I found mostly crackers, flour, and potatoes. There were not many canned goods either. I shook my head. Despite all of Lillian’s help and the fact that she often sent me and the other girls to help out, Phyllis was having a very hard time, and her husband wasn’t interested in helping.
After the supper dishes were done, I staggered back across the field in the freezing snow. As I pushed the machine shop door open, I collapsed on the cement floor, only half conscious; I felt Jacob pick me up and heard him yell for Elam to help him carry me upstairs.
I awoke to the sound of Grandma Schrock’s voice mumbling over me. I put a hand on my feverish forehead and then opened my eyes to see Ella standing next to me, holding the palm of my hand open as Grandma Schrock mumbled and twirled a fingernail clipper hanging from a string over some capsules that were on my palm. I tried to pull my hand away, but Ella held it firmly and I was too weak to resist.
“She doesn’t like this sort of stuff, Grandma,” Ella whispered.
Grandma Shrock nodded. “I know.” She concentrated on the twirling fingernail clipper. “But she is very sick and might not last till morning if we don’t get some medicine in her.”
I felt a burning sensation on my chest, and the strong smell of ground mustard made my eyes water. My chest felt tight, and every breath I took was a struggle. Grandma Shrock told Ella to keep me sitting upright while she went for more supplies.
Ella patted me on the head. “You should never have gone to help Phyllis.”
I nodded weakly and smiled at her. The fingernail clipper and arts like it were highly controversial, but they were old traditions amongst the Amish. There were certain families that practiced it, while others considered it a form of witchcraft. However, among the Amish, families were allowed to practice their own handed-down traditions. I thought it creepy, although it seemed to be accurate at times.
One of the Troyer women, who was now an advocate against its use, claimed that when she was with the youth, all the girls got in a group and asked the fingernail clipper how many children they would have. She said that it had told her she would have seven boys and three girls. At the present she had six boys and two girls—hardly a coincidence, she thought. She said the idea of knowing the future was playing with her mind.
The fingernail clipper was used to tell the sex of unborn babies as well, and almo
st always seemed to be accurate. These practices and others like them were old superstitions, and I found them to be rather odd.
I was awakened half-an-hour later when Grandma Schrock returned, and Lillian and Jacob followed her into the bedroom.
“She is very sick.” Grandma Schrock shook her head as she held her palm over mine. “I am not feeling any electricity from her.”
“What should I do?” Lillian wrapped her hands in her light blue apron.
Grandma Schrock shook her head and dumped some more capsules into my hand. This time, the fingernail clipper began swirling in a fast clockwise motion, meaning this was the medicine that I needed. My throat was so swollen, I could not swallow the capsules, though, so Grandma Schrock put them in water and I choked them down.
I was in bed for three days. My chest was blistered from the strong mustard plasters, but to everyone’s great relief, I was getting better. Although I still did not trust the fingernail clipper routine, I had to admit that I had been very ill and now I was better. It might have just been the mustard plaster, but who could tell for sure?
I sat in the rocking chair, knitting, for the next week. I was irritated at being sick and tried to get up and help around the house, but Ella, who was enjoying the role of my nursemaid, made me sit back in the rocking chair and stuffed quilts around me to keep me warm.
After a week of being sick, Grandma Schrock told Lillian and Jacob that I was still unable to go to church that Sunday. The thermometer was dipping below minus twenty degrees, and the icy wind that came into the buggy was a danger for my lungs. I was disappointed, feeling I had been a prisoner in the house for too long, but I knew Grandma Schrock was right, and I could not afford to get sick again. When the rest of the children heard I would be staying home, they begged to stay home as well, and Lillian and Jacob decided that the Bishop’s children would stay with all of us and only the adults would go to church.
Tears of the Silenced Page 14