When he spotted the blanket, he began hyperventilating.
“Oh, you must be seriously hurt,” Tawny straightened his glasses. Now he needed to tilt his head. “Here, sit down.” He sat, Indian style. “Here, put your bag down.” She took his bag and bent over to set it down, giving Harvey an unobstructed view of the Gorgeous Gals… ketchup, mustard, cheese, beer, and all. His hyperventilation reached a new level. Tawny looked at him, looked at the object of his affliction, and said, “Oh, you’re sorry, aren’t you?” She reached into her giant purse, extricated a washcloth, added bottled water, and cleaned up the mess. Harvey couldn’t speak, but kept trying, muttering unintelligible gibberish.
“You must have a concussion.” She held his hand and felt his pulse with her other. “My, your pulse is racing. Here. Lie down.” She took his shoulders, got him onto the blanket, laid his head in her lap, and brushed his cheek with the wet washcloth.
“Oh, dear,” Tawny said, found another washcloth, wet it, and wiped his sweating brow. “I hope you don’t need to go to the doctor. You don’t need to go to the doctor, do you?” He shook his head. “Let’s check you out. What’s your name?”
“Huh huh huh huh Harvey.”
“Good,” she nodded and stroked his cheek. “What’s your last name?”
“Messmessmessmess—”
She pouted her lips. “You’re a mess?”
“Messmess. Man.”
“You’re a mess, man? Is that what you’re saying?”
“M-m-messman. H-Harvey Messman.”
Her face changed into a smile. “Oh, Harvey Messman. Maybe you don’t have a concussion.”
“No. Concussion.”
“I’m Tawny. Tawny Brittenhouse.”
“I know. I wor-wor-work at Realty S-S-Solutions, too.” Wait until the guys hear where my head sat on Saturday, in Tawny Brittenhouse’s lap. They won’t believe it.
“You do? Well how wonderful. I haven’t noticed you there.”
Tawny continued to nurse him to health, giving him a sandwich, a soda, and some chips. Harvey considered removing the brat from his pocket protector and eating it, but tossed it aside when Tawny wasn’t looking.
~
Harvey stood at the water cooler. “I’m telling you, I spent the day with Tawny at the Beer, Brat, and Cheese Festival. I had my head in her lap—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Phil held up a hand. “I was willing to believe you when you crashed into the table, that was easy to swallow. But you took it too far, man. Your head in her lap.”
“She did. I mean, I did, and there’s more. After that—”
“Hold on, bud.” Preston Hill shook his head. “I’m with Phil. You crossed over and your story just doesn’t wash.”
The sound of clicking high heels and bracelets stopped the conversation. “Harvey, dear.” Tawny clicked up to him, wearing a white blouse with a yellow blazer and skirt, and kissed him right on the lips. “How are you feeling?”
“Uh… great. Really great.”
She hugged him and kissed him once again. “Good. Are we on for lunch?”
“Sure. Right. Like we said.”
“We did, didn’t we?” She patted his arm. “Are you going to introduce me to your friends?”
Indiana
Indiana was also Amish country, a culture unto themselves. The more I saw, the more I realized the separation they embraced. Being English, we struggled to understand much of their culture.
AMISH LOVE
Mike Wharton drove his Ford F450 along County Road 37 outside of Middleton, the trailer laden with tools and electrical parts. He marveled at the beauty and simplicity of the landscape. The farms with their white houses and barns, clotheslines hanging low with their burden of simple clothes, and picturesque pastures that looked like something from a painting.
It felt good to get away from Indy and all the craziness and chaos. Just out of a breakup with a girl who proved to be a real psycho, Mike was ready for some space. Can’t seem to find a decent woman anymore. Friends told him he looked in the wrong places. It seemed they were right, as the ones he picked up in bars turned out to be alcoholics, druggies, or both, with just a hint of crazy, shaken not stirred. He tried supermarkets and they had baggage—single moms desperate for a guy, preferably one with money. The last one he met in a Laundromat, of all places, and she seemed okay for a few weeks, then developed jealousies of imaginary women and threatened to first kill him, then later kill herself. Changing his phone number, blocking her calls and emails, and finally a restraining order made him wonder if there were any real, decent women around anymore.
He hadn’t been out to this country since boyhood. But this job, installing the electrical on an RV manufacturer’s new building, took him out here for a month.
He came upon an Amish buggy in his lane, black with a red reflector triangle, the thin wheels looking delicate. A guy with a heavy beard rode in it. He swerved by it to give the horse plenty of room. Wouldn’t want to spook it. The horses didn’t seem to mind the auto and truck traffic, veterans of the highway shoulder.
Huge oak trees shaded the road and feeling the effects of the simple Amish culture, Mike drove five miles under the speed limit. Ahead, a woman on a bicycle pedaled, Amish for sure, with her white bonnet and plain blue dress. As a big rig approached from the North, Mike tried to squeeze through, giving her and the truck both space.
Just as Mike cleared the woman, the truck barreled toward him, so he moved right to give room. Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw his trailer hadn’t cleared her and it squeezed her onto the shoulder. Her front wheel wiggled and she fell over the handlebars, a tangle of bike, dress, arms, and legs. He stopped the truck and ran back. Finding the girl under the bike, he pulled it away and offered her a hand.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I just… fell.” She stood.
Her bonnet looked askew, so Mike straightened it and brushed some grass off her cheek.
“I am so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I saw the truck. You didn’t have any room.” She picked up her bike and inspected it. “I think it’s okay.” She brushed off grass and dirt, and spotted a tear in the dress.
“Look, I feel so bad. Can I give you a lift?”
“Thank you. But of course not.” She straddled the bike.
“Can I… give you something? Some money to fix your bike or something?”
She pedaled away. “The bike is fine. Goodbye,” she said over her shoulder.
“What’s your name?”
“Ruth.”
“I am really sorry, Ruth.”
She replied something, but he couldn’t hear her. Mike returned to the truck and started it. By the time he got to Highway 20, she had already turned left and was riding along the shoulder. He watched her silhouette get smaller as trucks and cars whizzed past her. Mike turned right and headed to the job site.
~
Middlebury didn’t have a lot to offer for local restaurants and after a few days Mike had tried them all. For dinner he thought he’d try a tourist trap, the Das Dutchman Essenhaus, a large white building that bustled with customers, an Amish place, he guessed. He chose the buffet rather than the sit-down dinner and heaped his plate with fried chicken and vegetables. Both Amish and non-Amish girls bustled about, bussing the tables and checking on customers. After a long day of work, Mike ate ravenously. He stopped chewing, however, when he spotted the girl who had fallen off her bike. She wore the same white bonnet with the ribbons dangling to each side and a plain blue dress. A white apron kept food stains off it. Her skin glowed, fair and clear, and she had blue eyes with light brown hair, what little of it he could see. Her shoes seemed incongruous, black tennis shoes with red stripes on each side. Good for waitressing, though. He resumed eating a roll and watched her. She worked steadily and effortlessly, her movements fluid and almost casual, yet she got a lot done. Was it an Amish thing, or a busser thing, that she didn’t make eye contact with the customer
s? He tossed his napkin on the table and approached her.
“Ruth.”
She spun, then smiled at him, her eyes twinkled, without guile. Then she reverted to busser and cast them down.
“Hello.” She wiped her hands on her apron.
“Hey, I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”
I’m just fine, thank you. I appreciate your concern.”
And she walked away.
~
Back in his motel room Mike watched television, but couldn’t get Ruth off his mind. He thought about her simplicity. A girl on a bicycle. A life uncluttered, a woman undefiled. Such a stark contrast to the women he’d known. And those clear, light blue eyes. He decided to eat at the Dutchman more often.
Like every night.
~
The next night he sat at the same table and saw her. They made eye contact and her smile went clear through her eyes. Once again she looked like she thought better of it and down they went, looking at dirty dishes and tables.
Mike took his time with the meal and watched her move with understated grace and poise. I wonder what her life is like? Did she still live at home? She must ride her bike to work, so she must be within ten miles of here. Did she have brothers? Sisters? Amish typically had large families. And they lived simply, like no electricity. Being an electrician, that confused him. How wonderful to run wires, install hardware, and turn on a light. And central heating, what a great way to remain comfortable.
Ruth didn’t speak to any of her peers, but worked together with them like a well-oiled machine, none of them needing direction. Mike saw that at work, too. When an experienced group worked together, everyone knew their job and things got done quickly and correctly. She seemed polite and gracious to customers. Apparently she worked as a busser, otherwise he would get a table where she worked as a waitress.
She glanced at him a number of times, and each time he smiled. She would smile back for a split second, then return to the task. Mike stood and approached her from behind.
“Ruth.”
She whirled. “Oh, hi.”
“Hey, I was wondering, I’d like to see you. You know, after work or something.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no no. Thank you, but I can’t.” She set a stack of plates in a plastic tub.
“I’d just like to see you is all.”
“Thanks but I’m not going to do that.” She continued working and ignored him. He sat back at the table and watched her finish the table and roll the dishes into the kitchen. She didn’t return to the dining area. He got up, paid, and left.
~
Three nights in a row he repeated the same scenario: watch her work, approach and offer to see her, the kind and well-mannered rejection. He sat at different tables each night, but she didn’t buss his, no matter where he sat. On night four, Mike decided to push it a bit farther. He finished dinner, then surveyed the area outside around the restaurant until he found her bike. He waited for her. When does one cross over to stalking? I just want to see her. But isn’t that what stalkers say? An hour and a half later, Ruth emerged from the kitchen with no apron. Mike walked alongside her.
“Hi, Ruth.”
She gave a quick sideways glance, then looked away. “Hi.” It might be a tiny thing, but he noticed she smiled a bit longer before she broke it, not the busser looking down at dirty plates, but looking back and forth for anyone who might see them. No one.
“I just wanted to say that I like you and think you’re a fine person and someone I’d like to get to know better.”
“Well, I appreciate that, but I better get going.” She turned to her bike and Mike reached for her arm. She stopped and blushed as she looked at his hand on her arm. She pulled it away. “Thank you. Really. But I need to go.” She looked him in the eye, and again he could see, could tell, she exuded a common goodness and purity that he’d never seen before.
“Okay.”
“Good bye.”
“Bye.”
Dangit. He watched her pedal away. I really want to know her better.
~
Mike again ate dinner, tried to engage Ruth, hung around the back of the building, and got rejected once again. Another night he brought flowers and she thanked him, put them in her basket on the bike and rode away.
“What’s your last name?”
“Yoder.”
Ruth Yoder.
When do you cross over to stalker? He shook his head and left.
The next night he brought candy, wondering if the Amish ate candy. Whatever, she would enjoy it if she ate it, for sure. He got a small box so she could hide it if she needed to. As she thanked him and left, he called out, “Do you live at home with your family?”
“Yes,” she said over her shoulder.
The following evening, Friday, he stood in line behind a dozen or more tourists. He sat across the room from his normal spots and craned his head to find Ruth Yoder. After eating his chicken and mashed potatoes he spotted her. She appeared, pushing a cart of dirty dishes. As she entered, he saw her survey the crowd. She’s looking for me. Very good. He waved and she looked left and right before fluttering her fingers, then returned to the task. She wove between the chairs and gathered dishes. Two more times she stole glances toward him, which he rewarded her with a nod and a slight wave.
He waited by her bike. The wind whipped through the area and the temperature dropped ten degrees since before dinner. She popped her head out the door and looked left and right. Seeing it clear, Ruth walked to her bike and Mike.
“Hi.” He handed her a gift, crudely wrapped. She opened it and smiled.
“It’s soap.” Her eyes gleamed along with her smile. “Thank You.” She held it to her nose to smell it. The skies opened up and rain fell hard. Ruth ran to her bike.
“Listen, I can give you a ride in my truck. It’s right there.” He pointed behind him.
She stopped, the struggle evident on her face. “All right.”
He set her bike in the back and opened the door for her. He trotted around and shut the door. The rain pounded on the roof and splattered off the hood. Ruth looked around the inside of the truck.
“Have you ever ridden in a truck before?”
She shook her head. “I’ve ridden in cars before. This is really big.” She held onto the door, looking ready to bolt at any time. He started the engine and it rumbled to life. “Put on your seat belt.”
She looked at him blankly, then, “Oh. Yes. Of course.” She fumbled around and Mike took his off, then demonstrated how to do it. He figured it was safer for her than him wrestling her belt around her hips. He turned the wipers on high. Shifted it into gear. Drove back to Highway 20, headed south and accelerated.
He caught Ruth gulping. “This goes really fast.”
Laughing, he replied, “Quite a bit faster than a horse.”
“Yes, but you can’t love a truck like a horse.”
“Good point.” I suppose. But I sure love my truck in this downpour. He drove on in uncomfortable silence. What to say? “So… you live down Highway 37?”
She nodded, a quick and short movement. “Yes. County Road 37 and Yoder Drive. But we’ll stop before my house.”
Yoder drive, of course. Deep roots. “Why is that?”
“My father will kill me.”
“For riding in the truck?”
“For riding with you.”
He turned right on 37 and she pointed to a tree. “Stop there.”
“It’s still raining pretty good.” He stopped the truck and shut off the engine. “Ruth, I’d like to take you out sometime.”
She shook her head, wrung her hands and stared at the floor. “No.”
He put the side of his finger under her chin and lifted her face to his. “I like you, Ruth. I just want to get to know you better.”
“Thanks, but I—”
He kissed her. He held both her cheeks and put his lips on hers, a soft, gentle kiss, short. He backed away and looked into her eyes… the
windows of her soul. He saw her guileless look, then she turned away, opened the door, and stepped out into the downpour.
Mike opened his door and ran to the back. “Isn’t there somewhere we can meet, without anyone to see us?”
“No. No. Give me my bike.”
He picked her bike up and set it on the ground.
“Thank you.” She rode away into the deluge, her dress already a sopping mess.
~
Mike drove home for the weekend so he didn’t eat at the Dutchman until Monday. Just after he sat down, Ruth entered and scanned the room. She glowed when spotting him and headed his way. This is progress. “Would you like some coffee?”
He hated coffee. “Sure.”
She left and returned to his table with a cup of hot coffee and set it down.
“Thanks.”
A note protruded from under the cup. In a looping and neat cursive the message read:
‘If you would like to see me, we could meet at my friend Alice’s house. I talked to her and arranged it for tomorrow after work at 7:15 p.m. It won’t be very long, but I would like to see you there. If you would agree to meet me there, write Yes on the back of this note and leave it on the saucer.’ She wrote directions and a small map to Alice’s house. The Amish don’t seem to use addresses and GPS either.
He borrowed a pen from the hostess, copied the directions on another scrap of paper, signed the note, and left it on the saucer, feeling like some kind of secret agent. He ate dinner and smiled at Ruth every chance he got, and met her at the bike after her shift.
~
Feeling foolish, Mike rang the bell. I’m here not to see you, but to see Ruth Yoder. A waitress he recognized answered. “Hi, I’m Alice.” Her brown hair hung straight to her shoulders and she wore a tank top with tight jeans. Definitely not Amish. She held the door wide and welcomed him into the house, complete with lights and a radio with music playing.
The entry opened to a small foyer, then a large dark living room with old hardwood floors. Ruth sat on the couch, still wearing her blue dress and bonnet.
“I know you don’t have much time, so I’ll leave you here.” Alice exited toward the kitchen.
“Thank you, Alice,” Ruth said. She sat ramrod straight, her hands on her knees. Mike sat close beside her and put his hand on hers. It felt cold. He picked it up and rubbed it with both of his hands.
50 Stories in 50 States: Tales Inspired by a Motorcycle Journey Across the USA Vol 1, Great Lakes & N.E. Page 7