Amish Generations

by Kathleen Fuller

  Her cheeks blushed as she looked down at her pie.

  He moved on, but he knew no other pie would match Elva’s. Then he reached the last contestant. Oh boy. Unfortunately, Wilma Jean Raber, one of Nelson’s cousins, had entered again this year. He wished her husband, Willis, would tell her to stop entering her pies. Or to stop baking altogether. Jerald forced a smile. “Hello, Wilma Jean. What have you baked for us this year?”

  “Pumpkin.” She shoved a plate with a jiggly piece of pie toward him and then tapped her finger on the table behind it. “Fitting, since it’s fall.”

  “Very fitting.” He picked up the plate and saw chunks in the pie’s filling. He was no cook—actually, he didn’t cook at all—but he knew pumpkin pie filling was supposed to be smooth. And the pie’s crust looked like rubber. But he took a bite and forced it down. “That was very . . .” A pumpkin chunk was stuck in the back of his throat, and he coughed to pry it loose. “That was something, all right.”

  Wilma grinned, looking as pleased as she always did. No one had the heart to point out that her pies were terrible. Of course, she never won the contest, but she had entered every year since its inception. Strangely enough, her perfect losing streak didn’t seem to deter her.

  A few minutes after Jerald choked down Wilma Jean’s questionable interpretation of pumpkin pie, he and the rest of the judges gathered to the side and unanimously chose a winner. Mose, who had the loudest voice, not to mention the longest beard, which was currently sprinkled with pie crumbs, made the announcement. “This year’s winner is Elva Gingerich.”

  Jerald looked at Elva, whose pretty eyes were wide with surprise. Regina nudged her, and she came around the table to accept the ribbon, which was faded and frayed at the edges. She nodded to the crowd, then hurried back to stand next to Regina, who, along with the other ladies, congratulated her. Everyone looked genuinely happy for her, which was the case every year when it came to the winner. The contest was all in good fun, and no one, not even Wilma Jean, was ever a sore loser.

  His mouth watered as the women cut their pies into small slices. Since he had already tasted the pies, he waited with the other judges until everyone else had a sample. If any slices were left, the judges could have more. Elva’s line was the longest, and her dessert was long gone before any of the others.

  Jerald glanced at Wilma Jean, who with a smile on her face, watched everyone pass her pie. He walked over to her. “Cut me a big old piece, will ya, Wilma?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Ya, Jerald. I’d be happy to.” She sliced almost a quarter of the pie and plopped it on a paper plate, then gave him a plastic fork. “Here you geh. Enjoy.”

  He glanced at the mess of pumpkin and crust and nodded his thanks, trying to keep an even smile on his face.

  Wilma Jean looked over at Elva, who was wiping pie crumbs from her area on the table. “I’m happy she won.”

  “You are?” Jerald picked up his fork and held it over the pie. He’d have to take at least one bite in front of her before discreetly getting rid of the rest.

  “Ya. She’s had a tough time of it, losing her husband two years ago. Regina said she’s still trying to recover. They were married for forty-five years, you know.”

  He didn’t know, and usually when a bit of gossipy info passed his way, he either ignored it or just pretended to listen. Not that Wilma Jean was gossiping right now. But for some reason, this information made him look back at Elva. He’d never been married, so he couldn’t empathize with her. Yet he did sympathize. Imagine living with someone, loving them and having a family together, then dealing with that kind of loss. It would be hard on anyone.

  Nelson came over, and as he saw Wilma Jean’s pie oozing on Jerald’s plate, his eyes grew nearly as big as Elva’s had been a short while ago. “Uh, we’ve got a game of horseshoes started,” he said, glancing at the pie, then at Jerald, then at the pie again. Jerald thought he looked a little green around the edges. “I, uh, thought you might like to partner up.”

  Jerald nodded and crammed a bite of pie into his mouth, forcing it down and thankful nothing got stuck this time. “Mm,” he somehow managed, even though he was certain old shoe leather would have better flavor. “Danki, Wilma Jean.”

  She grinned, and he walked away, Nelson at his side.

  “How can I get rid of this?” he asked his friend as they headed for the horseshoe pit.

  “Don’t ask me. I’m not sure pigs would even like it.”

  They might not. But tossing it into a pigpen might be the best way to dispose of the nearly inedible pie. In the meantime, he set the plate and fork down on a tree stump near the horseshoes game as Nelson headed for the pit.

  Jerald turned around and looked at Elva, who was now talking to Wilma Jean. He couldn’t see their expressions clearly—even with his glasses his eyes weren’t what they used to be—but when he saw Wilma cutting a piece of her pie for her, he grinned. Elva was in for quite a surprise.

  Chapter 2

  “Nelson and Jerald should be here pretty soon.”

  Elva glanced up from setting the table and saw Regina’s annoyed expression. “If you don’t like him coming over here, why don’t you tell him? Or Nelson? I’ve never known you not to speak yer mind.”

  “Because I won’t interfere with nearly sixty years of friendship. Besides, even though Jerald is irritating, I’d miss him if he didn’t come. But only a tiny bit. And don’t you dare tell him I said that.”

  Nodding and hiding her grin, Elva placed cloth napkins by the four plates on the table. The picnic had been three days ago, and she’d attended one church service since then. She really liked Regina’s community, and she wished she’d visited her sooner. The women had made her feel welcome, and their sincere congratulations when she won the pie contest had touched her. In her own district back in Michigan, where Regina was from originally, not everyone was so gracious.

  She was puzzled by one thing, however. At the picnic, she’d seen Jerald take a huge slice of the pumpkin pie Nelson’s cousin made. Thinking the pie must be good, she’d also asked for a slice. But it was the worst thing she’d ever tasted, bad enough that she wondered if Jerald’s taste buds weren’t working properly. She’d forced herself to eat it, since Wilma Jean had seemed so pleased that Elva had wanted a piece. Desperately pleased, now that she thought about it.

  Regina pulled the roasted potatoes and meat loaf from the oven just as Nelson and Jerald walked into the kitchen. “What have you two been up to today?”

  “Auction at Broomfield.” Nelson peeked at the food over Regina’s shoulder. “Smells appeditlich, as usual.”

  “Did you add garlic salt?” Jerald said, sitting down at the table like he was a member of the family.

  “Ya, Jerald. I did.”

  “And did you peel the potatoes completely? You know I don’t like any skin on mei roasted potatoes.”

  Elva frowned, thinking Jerald was being rude. He and Nelson might be longtime friends, but that didn’t excuse his behavior. Then he glanced at Elva and winked.

  “What about the apple strudel?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “That crust better be tender and flaky.”

  Regina spun around, storm clouds in her eyes. “If mei cooking isn’t up to yer standards, Jerald Byler, feel free to eat somewhere else.”

  Jerald met her gaze. “I just might.”

  “Ugh!” Regina turned to Nelson. “Put the drinks on the table.”

  Nelson smirked as he did what he was told. He and Jerald exchanged a knowing look, and it was clear to Elva that the two of them were enjoying this immensely. She had to admit she was even a little entertained. It was unusual to see Regina so flummoxed.

  Elva helped Regina take the food to the table, and then she sat down across from Jerald. He nodded at her as Regina and Nelson sat down, and they all closed their eyes for silent prayer. When she opened her eyes, Jerald was already reaching for the basket of fresh-baked Parker House rolls Elva had made earlier that day. He really did make himsel
f at home here.

  “The auction was a bust.” Nelson put a slice of meat loaf on his plate, then handed the platter to Elva.

  “Sorry to hear that,” Elva said.

  “I’m not.” Regina snatched the basket from Jerald. “We don’t need a single thing,” she said, dropping a roll on her plate.

  “Except maybe a muzzle,” Jerald quipped, glancing at Regina. Then he took a bite of one of the rolls. His eyes widened. “Who made these?”

  “Me,” Elva said softly.

  “They’re scrumptious.” He took another large bite. “This doesn’t even need butter.”

  Regina glared at him. “You don’t say that about mei rolls.”

  “Because they’re not as gut.”

  Nelson took a roll and bit into it. “He’s right, Regina. Elva’s are better.”

  “You both should be glad I accepted long ago that Elva is a better cook, or the two of you would be eating yer supper in the barn tonight.”

  “I’m not that gut of a cook.” Elva put her napkin in her lap, uncomfortable with the compliments. Her late husband, Henry, had been a man of few words, and he’d rarely said anything complimentary during their forty-five-year marriage. She wasn’t used to someone fawning over her cooking, and now she had experienced this twice. “The rolls are mei mamm’s recipe. She was an excellent baker, and she taught me everything I know.”

  “That’s true,” Regina said, piping up. “I remember eating supper at yer haus when we were kinner, and every single thing she made was yummy. I really liked her chicken and noodles.”

  “You learned well.” Jerald grabbed another roll from the basket in the middle of the table. Then he took a bite of the meat loaf. “Adequate,” he said, glancing at Regina.

  Regina smirked. “Elva made the meat loaf too.”

  Jerald hung his head, then lifted it again, chuckling. “You got me this time. It’s very gut, Elva.” He glanced at Regina. “So is yers, but you already know that.”

  For the rest of the meal, Elva listened as the three of them talked about the auction, Nelson and Jerald mentioning people they’d seen in Bloomfield whom Regina also knew. Then their talk turned to the community. “Wilma Jean is hosting a quilting bee tomorrow evening,” Regina said. “Elva and I are planning to geh.”

  “Let me guess,” Jerald said, looking at Elva. “You quilt circles around all the ladies too.”

  She shook her head. “I’m terrible at quilting. I don’t have the patience for it. But it will be fun to socialize and get to know the ladies better.”

  “A quilting bee is really just a glorified hen party,” Nelson said, dabbing his napkin at the corner of his mouth.

  “That’s not true. Every quilt we make at our bees is donated to the Haiti auction. You both know that.” She shook her head and stood. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you two.”

  “You say that every Tuesday,” Jerald said.

  “And we’re both still around,” Nelson added.

  Regina gave her husband a harsh look, and Nelson returned it. But Elva also saw both expressions change and soften. As it happened, more often than she liked over the years, a familiar lump formed in her throat. How blessed Regina was to have such a wonderful husband who was with her during her golden years. “If you’ll excuse me,” Elva said, getting up from the table, “I don’t think I’ll have dessert tonight.” She looked at Regina. “Do you mind if I sit on the patio for a while?”

  “Of course not. Stay out there as long as you wish.” Regina gave her a concerned look.

  Elva slipped outside through the mudroom off the kitchen, then sat on one of the plastic chairs on the patio. A dull ache spread in her chest. Sometimes being out in the fresh air helped, and she looked at the pale-yellow and pink sunset streaking the sky. A soft breeze rustled through the trees, and she felt her emotions settle. Except for one. Now she was embarrassed that she’d excused herself before supper was over, leaving Regina to do the dishes. What kind of guest was she to do something so rude?

  “Mind if I join you?”

  She looked up to see Jerald. Surprised, she nodded, and he sat down on the chair next to her.

  “Regina’s giving Nelson a gut talking-to.” He leaned back and ran his hand over the top of his balding pate. “He didn’t mean to upset you, Elva.”

  “Oh, I know.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “And this is mei fault. I’ve always been a little too emotional. That’s what Henry used to say.”

  “He’s yer late husband?”

  Elva nodded. “I suppose he was right. I do get teary at the drop of a hat.”

  “You’re not crying now.”

  She looked at him. “Nee, I’m not.” She paused, a little worried that he pointed that out. “Does that make me a bad person? That mei heart doesn’t hurt when I think about mei husband?”

  * * *

  Jerald looked at Elva. How could this gentle woman possibly think she was a bad person? “I don’t think so. I’ve never had a wife, but I have lost people. You don’t live to be seventy years old and not gone to a fair share of funerals. I think it’s healthy to grieve but not hold on to it forever, if that makes sense.”

  “It does.” She looked at him again, uncertainty in her eyes. After a long moment, she said, “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

  “You want to know why I never married.”

  She nodded. “I hope I’m not being too nosy.”

  “Not any nosier than the dozens of other people who’ve asked me that same thing over—and over—the years.” He shrugged. “But mei answer has never changed. I never married because I never found the right woman. It’s as simple as that, although I’ll admit it would have been easier to marry someone, especially in an Amish community. That’s the usual expectation.”

  “But you’re not usual.”

  He lifted one brow. “You noticed, that, ya? Nee, I’m a little unique—or seltsam, depending on who you talk to. I never fell in love, thus I never married. And while I do love plenty of people, I’ve never loved anyone in that way.”

  “Then you don’t regret being single?”

  “At one time it didn’t sit all that well with me. It can be hard, even now, seeing couples and families together. I end up being on the outside looking in a lot of the time. But I came to terms with it in mei forties, when I realized God meant for me to be single.”

  “Henry and I married when we were seventeen,” she said, her gaze pinned to the sunset. “Before that I lived with mei family, which was large. I never knew what it was like to live alone until after Henry died.” She glanced down and murmured, “It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.” Then she shook her head so hard the strings on her kapp swung. “I’m sure I’m making quite an impression on you. Here I am a widow, and I’m not filled with grief, and I don’t mind being alone.”

  She was making an impression all right. A good one. But he wasn’t going to admit that. Her response, though, was unexpected. Why wasn’t she still grieving her husband? He was also surprised to hear that she liked living alone. That hadn’t been his experience in talking with other widows and widowers. Not that they were all eager to remarry, but they had family surrounding them, keeping some of the pain at bay.

  Something about Elva was different. He sensed she was like a flower caught up in a summer breeze—stronger than she seemed but still fragile. “How you feel is how you feel,” he said. “Everyone handles loss differently. You shouldn’t compare yerself to other folks.”

  “But I do.”

  “Even to Regina? Because if you do, you’re in more trouble than I thought.” He chuckled, hoping she would get the joke.

  “Nee,” she said, laughing. “Regina is one of a kind.”

  Relieved that she did understand, he said, “That she is.” Then he paused. “I hope you don’t think I’m being hard on her for real. She knows I’m teasing, and I think she gets a kick out of it as much as I do.”

  “She does. Although she probably wo
n’t let you live down that meat loaf comment.”

  “I’d be disappointed if she did.” He settled back in the chair, and the two of them sat in silence, watching the sunset. At his age, he’d seen lots of sunsets, many of them by himself. But sitting in the quiet with Elva as the sun disappeared below the horizon, leaving dusky colors in the sky, was extra nice.

  “I should probably see if Regina needs any help.” Elva got up from her chair and pulled her navy-blue cardigan around her slim body. “I might have a bite of that strudel after all.”

  Jerald smacked his forehead with his palm. “I completely forgot about that. Elva, you’re witnessing a rare occasion—me forgetting dessert.” He stood and looked at the house. “Hope she has vanilla ice cream to geh with it.” He glanced at Elva. “Only vanilla ice cream will do. Homemade, at that.”

  Elva smiled. “I agree. And you’re in luck. She made some last night.”

  He smiled and let Elva go inside first. As the screen door closed behind them, Jerald stopped and turned, looking at the pale sky now fading to twilight. For some reason he wanted to savor this moment. He couldn’t deny that he’d just witnessed the most beautiful sunset he’d ever seen—and being in Elva’s company had been a big part of the experience.

  Chapter 3

  The next evening, Elva and Regina sat in the buggy, waiting for Nelson to take them to Wilma Jean’s for the quilting bee. Regina told Elva the ladies had been working on this quilt for several months, and they were starting on the top stitching now.

  “We hope to have it finished two weeks from today,” she said. “That’s cutting it close since that will be just before the auction. But that’s usually how it goes. I can’t think of a time when we finished a quilt any earlier. Could have something to do with us talking more than sewing.”

  “A hen party, then,” Elva said, smiling.

  Regina smirked, then grinned. “Just don’t mention it to Nelson or Jerald.”

  Elva nodded, and she was silent in the back seat of the buggy as Nelson climbed in. Soon after they were on their way to Wilma Jean’s, Nelson and Regina bickering about what time he should pick them up. He was going over to Jerald’s while they were at the bee since Jerald lived only a few houses down from Wilma Jean. Elva tuned them out as she thought about her conversation with Jerald the night before.