An Amish Family Reunion Read online

  “Danki, Henry.” Impulsively, Phoebe arched on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’m going home to ask Mom and Dad right now.” She pivoted on the spot, tucking the papers into her apron pocket.

  “Want a ride home?” asked her red-faced cousin. Even a peck on the cheek from family embarrassed him.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m going to run all the way. Good luck with your pretty filly, and thanks again for telling me about the trip.” Her final words floated on the warm May breeze because Phoebe had disappeared around the corner of the barn, heading toward the path that connected the two farms.

  She didn’t, however, run as promised through the scrub vegetation surrounding the pond and bog. She walked slowly to sort out her thoughts. With only one chance to garner permission, she wanted to make sure her ducks were lined up in a row.

  Phoebe located her parents on the front porch fifteen minutes later. Uncle Simon and Aunt Julia apparently had departed. Seth and Hannah were rocking in the swing like a young courting couple rather than two people no longer on the green side of forty. “Hullo, Mom and Dad. I’m glad I found you.” She approached wearing her brightest smile.

  “We weren’t hiding from you, daughter. We’re out here on plenty of warm spring nights.” Seth laced his fingers behind his head. His Sunday black hat sat next to his folded coat on the swing. “What do you think of Henry’s new horse?”

  “She’s very nice. He already has someone in mind to give her to. But I meant I’m glad you’re together because I have something very important to discuss.” Phoebe perched on the porch rail.

  “Are you going into the horse rescue business with your cousin?” asked Hannah, her expression amused.

  “Oh, no, not me, but I do wish to go somewhere.” She slowly withdrew the flyer from her pocket. “Niagara Falls.” Then, in a rush of words, she described the bus ride and the fact the price included meals and hotel accommodations, underscoring that all travelers would be Amish youths from nearby districts. She considered adding the variety of sites in the state park to pick from but thought better of it. She knew her father wouldn’t like the idea of people venturing off in different directions by themselves.

  Seth and Hannah stopped rocking and stared at her. If she’d mentioned she’d seen a three-headed lamb in the north pasture, their expressions couldn’t have been more incredulous.

  “Niagara Falls?” asked Hannah.

  “You can’t go there,” declared Seth. The two responses had been almost simultaneous. “You need a passport to get into Canada these days, and you would have to have a photo taken for that. Out of the question.” Seth gripped the arm of the swing as though he feared falling off.

  “Oh, no, not Canada. Niagara Falls, New York—in the United States, so no passport will be necessary. But a person could view both falls while still in America.” Her grin replastered itself to her face.

  Seth shook his head as though trying to displace water from his ears after swimming. “Let me see that flyer.” He barely scanned the details before shaking his head again. “That’s way too much money for a two-night trip. What kind of hotel is this? A palace fit for a king and queen?”

  Hannah’s expression turned thoughtful as she started the swing moving again.

  “Dad, that price includes round-trip bus fare, six meals, and a tourist pass that allows entry into several attractions, including a boat that goes right up to the falls. You can actually feel the spray of mist.” She patted her cheeks with her fingertips as though catching the spray in Winesburg. She showed him the picture of happy tourists in bright blue raincoats experiencing it.

  “I’ll turn on the hose and aim it at your face,” he offered.

  She didn’t reply, but her smile slipped a notch. “It might be two nights, but it’s three full days. We leave very early on the first day and return late the third day, so the trip is jam-packed with sightseeing.”

  Seth was clearly not sharing her appreciation for good value. “I don’t understand why you’re so bent on this bus tip. It’s a long ride. You would probably get carsick, and I’m quite sure restaurant food won’t be agreeable to a picky eater like yourself.” He refolded the brochure and handed it back. “And for what? To see a bunch of water rushing over a drop-off in a riverbed? You’ve been to waterfalls, Phoebe. This won’t be any different than the ones you’ve already seen. Just taller.”

  Phoebe stared at the person sitting next to Hannah. The unfamiliar man picked the newspaper up from his lap as though the conversation had ended. “Not any different? It’s one of the natural wonders of the world,” she said, quoting from the brochure. “Folks come from all over to see it. So I imagine it’s a bit different than the Tuscarawas River flowing through the old watermill. I would see so many interesting things I could draw once I returned home.”

  Seth lowered his brows, not pleased with her sarcastic tone of voice. “Be that as it may, you may visit Niagara Falls someday on your honeymoon. And under the protection of a husband, the two of you can visit the other natural wonders of the world while you’re at it.” He offered one final glare to punctuate his comments and then folded his paper to isolate a particular article to which he devoted his full attention.

  Phoebe exhaled, realizing her mistake. She’d focused her explanation on the value of the trip rather than waylaying his fear for her safety. “Dad, chaperones will be coming with us. I’ll be under their supervision the entire time. I’m sure they won’t let anybody out of sight for a minute.”

  He lowered the newspaper, acting surprised to still see her there. “That’s all well and good, but the answer is still no. It’s too far away and too expensive, Phoebe. Besides, you seem to find plenty of suitable art subjects around the farm.”

  “I’m tired of drawing the same old house, the same old barn, and the same dumb farm animals that I have for years! I would love to see something new instead of the boring scenery between here and downtown Winesburg.” Unbidden tears rushed to her eyes.

  “I didn’t realize our dumb old farm was so tiresome to you, daughter. Perhaps one day you will see the world, but that day won’t be—” he glanced down at the flyer in his lap—“two weeks from Monday.” Seth’s tone could have frozen the water in their pond in July. Then he slapped his knee with the paper, stood, and stomped down the front steps.

  He disappeared around the house, leaving Phoebe feeling awful. She hadn’t meant to disparage her home, but she’d lost her temper. Tears ran down her face. When she glanced up, Hannah was opening her arms. Phoebe sat down in her father’s vacated spot and snuggled into Hannah’s side. “I didn’t mean that, mamm. I love our farm.”

  “Of course you do.” Hannah’s arm tightened around her shoulders. “Let me go talk to him. He forgets that these are your running-around years. How can you appreciate what you have if you’ve never seen anything else?” She gently patted Phoebe’s back.

  “This is the only place I’ve ever had a desire to run to.” Phoebe tapped the picture of Horseshoe Falls, sobbing like a child.

  “Stay here and rock for a spell. You have no idea how much good a porch swing can do for a girl’s heart. And I will try my best.” Hannah gracefully rose to her feet and followed after her husband.

  Phoebe tried to say thank you, but she only managed a strangled croak. Instead, she sat and rocked…and rocked, for close to an hour. Daylight faded. Night fell like a shroud as soon as the sun dropped behind the western hills. Fireflies blinked on and off, hovering over the fresh-mown lawn. Overhead, owls hooted from high branches as they settled down for the evening. She was about to give up and go to bed when Hannah emerged from the shadows. The look on her face required no explanation.

  “He has agreed to let you attend the outing, providing you stay with the group at all times.” Hannah offered a sweet smile.

  Phoebe ran to her, almost knocking her mother down the steps. “Danki, mamm. I’m so grateful, but what about the cost? I don’t have enough money saved.” She squeezed Hannah as tightly as she could.


  Hannah pried her arms loose to breathe. “I’ve enough left from selling my last load of wool to the gift shop in Sugar Creek. You’ll just have to sell plenty of eggs this summer to pay me back.” The two walked into the front room joined at the hip, letting the screen door slam behind them. “But let’s not talk much about the trip in front of your father for a while. Give him a chance to settle into the idea.”

  “That won’t be a problem. Thank you.” Phoebe arched up on tiptoes for the second time that evening to deliver a kiss, and then she fled up the steps as though chased by a swarm of hornets.

  She would be too busy planning what to pack and what art supplies she would need to sit chatting around the kitchen table. Once inside her room with the door closed, she withdrew the colorful brochure from her pocket. By lamplight she studied the grinning faces lined up at the rail of the Maid of the Mist, while the boat rocked precariously in turbulent waters. Soon, one of those tourists shrouded in blue plastic would be her—Phoebe Miller of Holmes County, Ohio. And that was the last mental picture she had before falling blissfully to sleep.

  Leah Miller Byler cut salt and butter-flavored shortening into the flour until the mixture resembled coarse bread crumbs. Then she carefully added cold water and mixed, kneading with her hands until she had a soft but firm ball of dough. Dividing the dough into quarters, she then rolled each one out to exact proportions for crusts for four pies. She filled her pans, crimped the edges, broiled the crusts a few seconds to prevent shrinkage, and then baked them until golden brown.

  Baking day—an all-day exercise of patience and love into which Leah threw herself wholeheartedly. Cleaning, slicing, and sweetening fruit for simple fillings like peach, apple, cherry, or blackberry, or whipping together puddings and sour cream to create complex parfaits—she was at her best. She would then top off her creations with delicate meringues or fluffy whipped cream, decorated with select berries or crystallized edible flowers. Leah’s pies—twelve varieties, all original recipes—were sold throughout the county at restaurants, grocery stores, and gift shops. Folks stopped in at her former diner, now called April’s Home Cooking, specifically for her desserts.

  Leah loved to bake. Since getting married and selling her half of the partnership to May, April’s sister, Leah could bake to her heart’s content in her own kitchen. Technically, the kitchen belonged to her mother-in-law, Joanna Byler, who happily spent her days in the dairy churning out her beloved artisan cheeses. Joanna would come to the kitchen to help Leah fix meals, but the two Byler women seldom got in each other’s way.

  As Leah pulled from the oven the perfectly golden crusts that would soon become Peach Parfait Supreme, she heard the screen door slam.

  “My goodness, are you all right? A twister must have touched down that I didn’t even hear coming.” Joanna Byler surveyed the room from the doorway—overflowing bowls of ripe fruit, balls of rising dough under dampened towels, trays of cooling piecrusts, and racks of finished pies, while a thin cloud of flour hung in the warm air.

  “Everything is right as rain,” answered Leah with a grin. “Although, I daresay, lunch will have to be served on the porch. I can’t really set the table on baking day.”

  “No porch. It’s perfect weather for the picnic table. I’ll load bread, meat, and cheese into a hamper and make sandwiches outside. You grab jars of pickled veggies, plates, forks, and cups. And don’t forget the pitcher of iced tea.”

  Sandwiches were ready to eat under the shady oak just as Jonah and his grossdawdi headed to the old pump house. They usually washed up there at midday to avoid disrupting either woman’s work. Leah pulled her full-length apron over her head and patiently waited for her husband. Jonah. Even after four years of marriage, she still felt that ripple of excitement when she saw him coming her way.

  God had shone His grace on her the day she chose this particular cheese maker to buy some baking supplies from. Most Old Order dairy farmers in Holmes County sold their milk to one of the large cheese houses, but Jonah had installed enough automatic milking and refrigeration equipment, run by diesel-powered generators, so that his mother could culture several varieties of specialty cheeses right here. Jonah and his mother had moved back from Wisconsin to help her parents run the farm. Milking cows, breeding heifers, and raising enough crops to feed livestock during the winter had become too much for grossdawdi. But it wasn’t too much for Jonah, a tall man with big hands and an even larger heart. Strong and rugged, but soft-spoken, he had the prettiest blue eyes this side of the Pacific Ocean. Not that Leah had even seen the ocean. Unlike her sister, Emma, Leah was perfectly content at home, baking pies and keeping house for Jonah and his family.

  “Dining in the formal dining room, are we?” called her husband, guiding his grandfather to the table. Jonah pulled off his hat and snaked a hand through his dark, nearly black hair. With his strong jaw and olive skin, he looked more like a biblical patriarch than an Amish dairy farmer, while Leah’s brown hair and eyes and rather rounded figure placed her smack in the middle of ordinary. “What’s for lunch, fraa, a standing rib roast with twice-baked potatoes? Chocolate mousse pie for dessert?” He swung his long legs under the table and reached for a cluster of grapes.

  Joanna swatted his hand. “Wait to say grace.” They bowed their heads for silent prayers before Joanna said to her son, “Sliced turkey with smoked cheddar sandwiches, pickled veggies, and fruit for dessert. And iced tea to drink. We have no champagne with strawberries or even ice cubes for your tea.”

  “Sounds perfect,” he said, focusing his gaze on Leah.

  She felt her cheeks grow warm while she passed the plate of sandwiches. Joanna filled plastic cups from the pitcher and set one in front of her father. When Amos reached for it with a shaky hand, his fingers knocked it over instead. “Ach,” he mumbled. “I caught a case of the clumsies today.”

  Joanna wiped up the liquid with the dishtowel she kept draped over her shoulder. “No harm done, daed, and there’s plenty more tea,” she said, exchanging a meaningful glance with her son. “It’s getting a bit warm today in the barn, no? I know the kitchen will be stuffy by the time Leah finishes baking.”

  Jonah turned toward his grandfather. “Why don’t you help mamm with whey separation in the dairy this afternoon, grossdawdi? It will be much cooler in there with the fans running.”

  Amos scoffed. “You still got the rest of the equipment to sterilize. I might as well clean and fill the water troughs and throw down some hay bales.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

  Leah gritted her teeth. Poor Jonah. He tried his best to get his grandfather to not work so hard anymore. He’d gone so far as to hire three other men when his dairy herd reached two hundred head. Plenty of Amish men without farms of their own were looking for agricultural work, but Amos Burkholder had labored hard his whole life, and nobody would stick him in a porch rocker until he was ready. And how could you tell him what to do when this was his farm?

  “I could really use your help with this particular batch of pepper jack,” said Joanna, refilling his glass with tea. She placed a few baby beets next to his sandwich.

  “Then get Esther to help you. Cheese making is woman’s work. Your mamm will give you a hand.” Amos took another bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly and painfully. Few of his back teeth remained, yet he refused to wear the partial plates made by the dentist.

  Leah felt a familiar pang of sorrow. Esther Burkholder, Jonah’s grandmother, had been gone for two years. Yet no matter how often they reminded grossdawdi, he still forgot. Since her mother’s passing, Joanna had moved into the dawdi haus to care for her father, leaving the newlyweds alone in the big house.

  After lunch, as the women repacked the hamper, Leah watched the two men walk the path to the barn—one young, tall, and strong enough to lift a calf to his shoulder; the other old, stooped, and getting frailer by the day. She whispered a prayer for protection for both of them, but especially for Amos and the gentle surrender of earthly matters along with fearless ac
ceptance of what was to come.

  Julia Miller spotted the mail delivery truck from her perch by the front window. It had become her habit to sew there in the late morning and watch for the mailman. Her world now revolved around an Englischer’s comings and goings rather than the slamming screen doors and the ongoing crisis of a shared bathroom in a big family. With Emma, Leah, and Matthew all married and living elsewhere, Julia’s hectic, drama-filled days had become slower paced and far quieter.

  It was the plight of every mother. Children grew up, moved away, and started their own brood. The number of family members might increase, but the amount of time spent together dwindled. She wasn’t ready for this. She might be forty-seven and suffering from rheumatoid arthritis, but she didn’t want to be relegated to the position of retired matriarch yet. Julia dropped the sock she was darning back into the half-empty basket. In years gone by, her sewing pile would overflow the rim. But that was no longer the case with only Simon and Henry at home.

  Henry. Although he still lived there, that boy kept a low profile. He talked seldom and softly, and he moved through life with a loose-limbed grace almost without leaving footprints behind. Couldn’t he at least wear out his socks more often?

  Straightening her back, Julia stepped out the front door into the brilliant May sunshine. There was almost no humidity, while a breeze carried the sweet fragrance from her lilac bushes. And because the morning batch of mail contained a Willow Brook, New York, postmark, her mood improved considerably. A letter from Matthew—or, more likely, from his wife, because Julia’s son never put pen to writing paper. Martha rotated between writing to her mamm and her mother-in-law. Then the two recipients would swap letters at the next preaching service or other social event to share the latest news of their children.

  Julia leaned her weight against the mailbox and tore open the pink envelope. Knowing her daughter-in-law, Martha hadn’t purchased the garish stationery. Wherever she lived, Martha befriended the greeting card merchandiser to obtain free writing supplies once a particular season or holiday had passed, those items that would otherwise end up in the dumpster. Frugal, that girl. Julia read the updates of their two children with a grandmother’s dual-edged, bittersweet joy. Matthew’s son and daughter were growing up fast, and Julia wasn’t there to witness the precious milestones. But Martha’s cheery tone soon faded as she talked about a change in Matthew’s career. As Julia read the words, she also picked up the unspoken words between the lines: Martha wasn’t happy about Matthew’s new job, although she didn’t come out and say so. How Julia wished they lived closer, so that she could see her grandchildren more often and offer a word of advice over a cup of coffee. Letters passed between many hands weren’t suitable methods of communication when family members needed help.