Amish Neighbors

A Piece of Home

My twenty-year-old Oldsmobile putted down the ice-covered gravel road as I rehearsed what I would say and, more importantly, what I wouldn’t say to Mam and Dat . They’d been so kind and supportive of me leaving the community, even though it was far from what they’d hoped for my path in life. There was no way I could bear to disappoint them further, nay, especially not on Christmas.

Turning down my parents’ road, my thoughts flew to some of the ex-Amish community members I knew that also lived in Asheville. Mark, who, like me, had decided early on to pursue another way of life. Simple doesn’t always mean easier, he liked to say.

We often spoke about how much we enjoyed electricity at the flip of a switch and flush toilets.

Then there was Ida and Will. Both of them left after baptism and, because of that, they weren’t welcome to come and go in the community as they pleased like Mark and I were.

A twinge of sadness pierced my heart for them. What would I do if I couldn’t go home for Christmas? Would I be alone in my tiny apartment eating from a can as I did most nights when I couldn’t bear to cook for myself? I’d taken all Mam’s best recipes with me when I left, but none of them fed less than six and I couldn’t bear to waste anything. I wondered if that was the product of my Amish upbringing or because my last name was Wickey.

Tears blurred the road in front of me. I blinked hard, my stinging eyes beginning to dry from the air blasting from the car’s heater.

In the field on the right stood a dozen or more of Dat’s black cows all facing the same direction in a fog of blue-gray. Had the good Lord given them all sense enough to shield themselves from the harsh winter winds or were they just doing what the others did?

Pulling into the driveway of the white, two-story house I knew so well, I began to falter in my decision. Had I been wrong to leave?

It was only noon, but the dismal weather made it seem like evening. The Christmas candles in the window glowed brightly, as they did every year on this day.

The only things that were steadfast and true in my life were at the end of this driveway. But how could I make a new life for myself if I didn’t let go and make new traditions? I chastised myself for coming, though in truth I knew there was no way I could stay away. Not on Christmas, not the way I was feeling.

I pulled my warm wool coat around me tightly and braced myself for the bitter cold as I opened the car door. The north wind pushed at my dress and the fabric clung to my leggings. Hurrying up the steps, my breaths visible, the door stood in front of me like a scene from a storybook. It was a secret entrance to another world, one that appeared drab, drawing little interest from the outside, but to those who knew better, it led to a land full of wonder and excitement.

I didn’t knock. I never did—expected or not. The door was always left open for me. My parents reminded me of that each time I visited. But, for the first time, it felt awkward not to.

I stepped inside and was greeted by the warmth of the wood stove burning hot in the living room, the smell of oranges, cinnamon, and turkey coming from the kitchen, and the hustle of the people dearest to me making ready for a celebration.

Vie gatz, my vater said rather formally with a wave. I smiled and waved back as I took off my coat and hung it on its usual peg by the door. He was sitting with the men of the family—my younger brother, my brothers-in-law, and a young man I assumed was one of my sisters’ intended.

Starting for the kitchen, I was nearly run over by my niece and nephew chasing each other with squeals of delight, their shoes pounding the hardwood as they thundered by. At the doorway to the kitchen I paused and took in the sight.

Mam was peeking in the oven, using a dish towel for an oven mitt, despite the fact I’d made her a lovely set of matching mitts for Christmas last year. Two of my younger sisters were setting the long table, extended even further by a couple small fold-aways that Mam kept in the attic for as long as I could remember.

My eldest sister, large with child, stood at the stove stirring a pot, her face mostly hidden by her black kapp. She propped herself up with one arm, her hand pressed firmly to her back.

I touched my neck and felt my hair, which was covered slightly with the traditional Mennonite head covering. My dress, plainer today, was the only one in my closet without a soft, subtle flower pattern. Never before had it bothered me that my family and I were now so different.

But today was no ordinary day.

One of my nephews toddled in and as Mam noticed him she caught my eye as well. Lora, when did you get here? she asked.

Just now. I smiled at my mueter’s acknowledgement of me. It was often rightly said she had a way of smiling at people when they came into a room that made them feel important. Welcomed. I wondered if I’d ever be able to smile like that, or better yet, if I’d ever have anyone to practice my smile on.

She hollered down the hall, "One of you girls come and get the boopli." It was the job of the younger girls to watch all the babies while there was still cooking to be done.

Then she said, "Well, come in here and take a turn stirring the gravy. Your schweshta’s about tired out."

Oh, I am not, my sister said with a curl of her lip.

Well, you sure look it, Mam said, her smile not at all affected by my sister’s tone, then motioned for her to sit at the table. We’re almost ready to start.

I took her place at the stove and stirred the large pot of gravy, watching my sister twist in her chair. She was close. I’d seen enough women with child to know the signs. I’d made sort of a game of it—for me alone, of course—and had successfully predicted three of my aunts’ deliveries to the day. I could tell when they couldn’t get comfortable sitting or standing that their time had arrived. In my sister’s case, I fought off the urge to tell her she’d better eat her meal quickly.

She pulled off her outer kapp, and fanned herself with it a moment before she spoke. How’s school?

Guete. There was so much more to add to that sentence, but not at the moment, and not where anyone else could hear.

Mam brought me the gravyboat and I poured half the pot’s contents into it and left the rest on the stove. The tradition in our home was whoever poured the gravy into the boat had to watch it when on the table and refill it when necessary.

We all took our seats and bowed our heads. It was a moment of silence for each of us to pray on our own, so much different than we did at church dinners in town where one of the men would pray aloud. I prayed for peace of mind about my decisions and the wisdom to know if I’d been wrong, along with the courage to change if I had been. That was the moment I knew just how serious my wavering thoughts had become.

Dat cleared his throat and all heads popped up, the signal for the meal to begin. An endless string of chatter and serving bowls were passed around the table. I would get my fill today, and, if I knew Mam at all, I would be sent home with leftovers which would last for a day or two at least. I could still remember times when I was young that food was so scarce all we could buy was enough flour to make bread, and large jugs of ketchup from the discount store.

One of the first things I learned to cook was a cup of water to a cup of ketchup. We boiled potatoes in it for soup and served it with bread. But no matter what, we always had a feast on Christmas. Dat or Uncle Melvin would make sure we had a turkey or deer to eat, and everyone got seconds or even thirds.

Things were so much different now. Dat had more than one son-in-law to give him a hand with work, and as we girls grew up and moved away it had become easier to feed everyone. Now I wasn’t even allowed to bring a dish to dinners unless it was empty and used to haul leftovers back to my apartment. The times of want were still fresh and alive at the back of my mind, though, and I suspected they had a hand in my decision to break tradition and attend school.

So how’s everything going in Asheville, Lora? Dat asked over the scraping sound of plates and the murmur of voices.

I took a sip from my water glass and then said what I’d rehearsed, "Guete. I just finished up my third semester at school and I’ve been volunteering at the mission during break."

Ah. What do you do over there? Mam asked.

Serve meals mostly, and clean up. I’m going over there tonight to help out with their Christmas meal.

That’s so nice, Mam said. Does Kim go with you?

"Nay, she’s been really busy lately." I took another sip of water, hoping they couldn’t read on my face what I was thinking, that Kim had been busy moving out to live with her boyfriend.

I wasn’t having much luck finding a new roommate, so I’d asked my church pastor for help. It’d been three weeks already, and it was starting to get to me.

Mam and Dat wouldn’t take the news well, knowing I was living alone in town. The whole community had told them what would happen to me, that I’d slowly slip away and my morals would erode over time until I hadn’t any left at all. But Mam and Dat had assured them they were wrong about me, that I was different, that I could lead a moral life, while living in the middle of Asheville. I hoped more than anything else in the world they were right.

I’d been wrong about Kim. She’d told me she belonged to a church just outside of town and I’d foolishly thought that meant we shared a belief in chaste courtships.

Without Kim to talk to I’d started filling the apartment with noise from the radio and even the television that I never watched until Kim was gone. She’d left it to me, saying I needed it more than she did.

I needed something. That’s why I started volunteering at the mission, so I’d have more than the television and radio to listen to after school.

Are there any others from your church volunteering with you? Dat asked.

Just Mark.

Mam’s eyebrows went up. A visit never went by where Mam didn’t ask about him. At first I thought it was because she used to be close friends with Mark’s mueter, but after her eyebrows started dancing every time his name came up in conversation I knew better.

That was my cue to refill the gravyboat.

Mark and I were just friends—guete friends, but that was all. He’d never shown any signs of wanting to be more than that and I wasn’t interested in playing mind games like some modern English woman to find out if it were even a possibility. Besides, I was busy with school—and that judge show that came on in the early afternoon.

I poured the gravy into the boat and walked back to the table, glancing at my sister as I passed her. She was only a few years older than I was and already had a husband and a good start on a big family. Was I envious? I’d never been jealous of any of my siblings before and I couldn’t tell if that was what I was feeling or not. I’d chosen my path and they’d chosen theirs. None of us were wrong—just different. So what was it I lacked and why was I already dreading the trip back to my apartment so badly?

I spent the next two hours in a fog. I helped clean up the kitchen, made conversation when I could, and packed up a bunch of leftovers into the Oldsmobile I’d warmed up outside.

Christmas was supposed to be a happy time.

Back at my empty apartment, I fought the urge to turn on the television, knowing I’d head out to the mission soon. There was something definitely wrong with me if I couldn’t go a whole hour without a noise box.

The answering machine’s red light flashed. Pressing the button played Mark’s recording, asking if I needed a ride. Suddenly the fog lifted enough I could dial his number. We made quick arrangements for him to pick me up on his way to the mission. He’d expressed concern for me driving around town by myself after dark ever since Kim had moved out, and I have to say, I enjoyed having a bigger piece of his attention than usual.

My heart sped up when he knocked on my door a while later. Just friends, I reminded myself as I peered through the peephole. I opened the door and the smell of spicy pine needles mixed with rich earth walked in with him, his eyes the color of natural shoe leather.

You ready? he asked. Soft whiskers had sprouted on his cheeks and chin since the last time I’d seen him. I was taken aback by the sight. It was rude of me to stare as long as I did, but he looked so much older and dignified, like he’d found his path in life and had left me behind to fend for myself.

Just let me get my coat, I said, my heart pounding at having a man alone in my apartment without a chaperone. It wasn’t like me to get all school-girl about a man, even a handsome one like Mark, but I wrote it off as a result of the confusing feelings of envy that had started with my sister during dinner earlier.

At the mission, we took serving jobs side by side. I stood at the end, passing out dinner rolls, and Mark stood beside me, giving each plate a helping of dressing. The people came through in an endless train, some young, some old, men and women, and even a few families with children. All with want written clearly on their faces. Those creasing lines of despair seemed permanently etched.

As the train dragged on and on my guilt grew. I knew what it was like to be hungry, and yet I wasn’t nearly thankful enough. Christmas was about Christ and how He lived in my heart. How many of these people knew how much God loved them?

You’re awfully quiet this evening, Mark said as the line lulled. Did you visit with your family today?

Ja, I said, wondering how much he’d gathered by my mere silence. You?

Ja. Mark and I still spoke in Swiss German from time to time, but I’d noticed he did his best to hide it in front of Englishers. Even his accent was disappearing over time. I hadn’t worked on mine, but the confident way he presented himself just then made me wonder if I should start.

Mark was attending school to learn more about leadership and faith while he wrestled with God’s calling. He said he wasn’t yet certain, but I knew he would become a minister one day and take a church in another state. There he’d probably write letters occasionally until he found someone special to spend his life with. Then I’d do my best to be truly happy for him when the letters stopped.

Was it normal to miss him already?

Did you have a good time? I asked.

It was…strange.

I smiled at a toothless man in a yellowed stocking cap, and handed him a roll with my plastic-gloved hand. Then I turned to Mark. What was so strange about it?

He served dressing to three people, smiling respectfully and saying hello to each of them before he continued. It was almost…like I didn’t belong. Does that sound odd to you?

Nay, I said, the conflicting feelings of my own trip home flooding me. Did it feel like you were imposing on someone else’s family?

Ja. His eyes met mine and then his gaze danced around my face. That’s exactly how it felt.

A woman tapped her tray on the counter in front of Mark, bringing his attention back to the job at hand. He smiled broadly at her. Merry Christmas, he said, plopping an extra large serving of stuffing onto her plate. Two more people stood in line and I waited anxiously for when our conversation would continue.

Once the last person had been served, the other volunteers removed their aprons and glanced about nervously.

Tom, the kitchen manager, said, I’ll stay up front and serve any stragglers that come in, but I need two on dishes, someone to take out the trash, one to wipe down the tables when everyone’s done, and somebody to sweep the floors.

Mark glanced at me. Dishes? he asked in a low voice.

I nodded, glad he wanted to work near me in this strange frolic where men worked the kitchen just like the frou.

We’ll take dish duty, he said in an authoritative voice, and as the others sorted their assignments, Mark and I headed to the back of the room to get a head start on the dishes.

The sinks were huge. I added soap and filled the sink with pots and pans and stainless-steel spoons. Then I plunged my hands into the warm water and eased back into our conversation. Do you think it’s the same for everyone who leaves the community? I found the rag and washed a spoon.

Mark took the spoon