Detour : E-i-e-i-o (Rachelle's Version) by Rachelle Allen |
Everyone has quirks, of course. My biggest one – well, you know, in addition to loving, as Gretchen refers to it, “Leopard Barbie frou-frou fashion” – is that I need only four hours’ sleep a night. It’s been this way since my Senior year of high school. Thankfully, my husband is the same. When I’m home, that’s not a problem. But anywhere else, it is an issue. Today, it is more an issue than ever because it’s 4 a.m., and even our Amish hosts, who, I swear, went to bed at 8 p.m., are still sleeping. There are no books to read in this bedroom, and no paper or pen, either. I can’t even do my morning stretches because this room is so small. So, I lie here quietly and think, trying to figure out how Gretchen and I will be able to get ourselves to the FanStory convention by Saturday, when the sheriff and doctor – the only ones in this community with phones – won’t be returning until sometime Wednesday, two days from now. I imagine calling my cousin in Baltimore, where I left my car, to see if she’d be willing to drive it here. There’s no way Old Reliable will be back in working condition in time – or, do let’s be honest here, EVER – and I’m pretty sure getting a buggy ride to New Jersey is a hard ‘no,’ as well. Gretchen will have to acclimate to not being in the driver’s seat. I’m counting on Helene to lend us a vomit pail just in case. When I cannot take lying down and ruminating any longer, I wrestle my hair into a bun and pad my way downstairs and then onto the front porch, where I’ll be able to watch the sun rise. The meadow scents weave themselves throughout my olfactory system and are redolent with mint and sage, wildflowers, roses and, of course, goat dung. The morning air is heavy with dew that, as I lift my chin skyward, bestows a moisturizing facial that I could not love or appreciate more. Finally, the tiniest strands of variegated plums and maroons begin to unravel themselves from the horizon, like a fraying ribbon. Within moments, the family rooster announces the day. Even though I’m fully awake, his trumpet blast pierces through me enough to roust me from my chair as if I’ve just been given a jolt of electricity. He’s on his third round of screeches when I hear Gretchen’s voice from her open window next door. “WILL SOMEBODY PLEASE SHOOT THAT ROOSTER!” Hopefully, our hosts are as highly amused as I am. The maroon and plum streaks have now begun to levitate, leaving rippled claw marks behind. Shimmering dollops of mango and maize stream through the gashes left in their wake. I now have a spectacular view of acres of wildflower gardens and wish my beloved Diane Kenel-Truelove were here to appreciate it with me and give me the lowdown on every last blossom raising its face to us. Before long, Simeon and Solomon exit the front door, to my right, while, across the gravel path, I spot Ezra leaving his house, too. The trio stops short and gapes at me, so I smile and say, “Goot meriya free!” Pennsylvania Deutch for “Good early morning!” I learned this from reading the Linda Castillo books about a formerly Amish Chief of Police in a small, heavily Amish community in Pennsylvania. When they continue to remain speechless and agape, I say, “I’m a four-hour-a-night sleeper.” Finally, after another round of silence, I do the teacher trick of evoking a verbal response by asking a question. “May I help with chores?” The rooster gives one final officious shriek, and Gretchen’s voice rings out again. “SHUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUUUP, YOU STUPID, STUPID BIRRRRRRD!! YOU’RE GONNA BE SOUP BY LUNCHTIME IF I HAVE MY WAY!” I watch as Ezra exchanges amused smirks with the boys. Rebekah bustles out of the front door, armed with two baskets. Obviously, she heard my request to help with chores, because she hands one to me then sweeps the air with her arm in the universal sign for “Follow me” and heads us toward the chicken coop. “Is there a special technique here I should know?” I ask, trying to keep pace with her. Rebekah can’t help smiling. It tells me that I have asked the equivalent of “How do I tie my shoes?” But she is kind. “I’ll gather them and hand them to you, so you’ll just be in charge of putting them into these baskets without breaking them.” “Oh, I’ll be very good at that, I promise,” I say and smile so she knows I’m in on the joke. Once we get into the rhythm of our task, I say, “So, I’m curious about how old you and your brothers are.” She mesmerizes me with how efficiently she slips her hand beneath the breast feathers of each plump hen, then quickly extracts a huge brown egg. “I’m sixteen,” she answers, going on to the next chicken without any lost momentum whatsoever. I marvel at the way the hens make no attempt to peck her as she removes their precious cargo. And she’s so speedy, I am having all I can do to match her, egg for egg. “Simeon is eighteen, and Solomon is nineteen.” She looks down as she adds, “And our sister who died last month in the accident was seventeen.” “Smaller than most Amish families,” I say. “True,” she says. “But bigger than Uncle Ezra’s.” As an afterthought, she adds, “I’ve overheard people say that it was Gott’s punishment for him marrying an Englisher.” I make a mental note to explore that later. For now, I ask, “Is that your feeling, too?” “No!” Her response is both immediate and definitive. “Gott would have given them none if that were the case.” “Will you be participating in Rumspringa?” I ask. “In our culture, we call that ‘sowing some wild oats,’ and parents fear it.” We share a smile as she continues to hand me eggs, and I carefully add them to the ever-burgeoning trove. “I think the way your culture handles it is so much wiser: go off, indulge in non-Amish ways, then decide for yourself if you want to return and commit to the church.” “How do you know so much about our ways?” she asks, with only curiosity in her voice. There are no undercurrents of suspicion or defensiveness. “Well, as you know, I like to write, and most times, writers are also readers. We’re a curious group. The Mennonites who live in the next county over from mine piqued my curiosity decades ago, so I continue to read about them and all the other sects, too.” We have now filled one basket with substantial sized brown eggs, so I retreat to the door of the coop and return with the empty second basket. “I’m surmising your family is Old Order Amish, so, not as strict as the Schwartzentrauber, but also not as permissive or modern—” I use finger quotes, then watch her give me a quizzical look, “as New Order Amish or Mennonite?” “Yes, that is right,” she says with kind appreciation in her eyes. “So…Rumspringa for you?” I ask again, and she laughs. “I can’t help myself, Rebekah. As a Jewish Mommie, it’s my birthright to be nosey and also to repeat myself as many times as I deem necessary.” This time, her laugh is from deep down. “I’ve laughed more in these last twenty hours since meeting you and Gretchen than I have in months.” I simply can’t resist; I give her a Mom-squeeze. And, best of all, she lets me. “I’m considering it strongly,” she says, referring back to Rumspringa. “A friend of mine from choir and I have been talking about it, but we’re not very far along in our planning.” We have now finished gathering eggs and, each of us, with a full basket in our hands, heads toward Helene’s. “We put these into cartons to sell at our roadside stand,” she tells me. “Visitors and tourists buy many dozen at a time.” As we enter Helene’s kitchen, I see Gretchen ambling in, bed-head hair on full display. “Do Gretchen and I have time for a walk before breakfast?” I ask Helene. “I want her to see your beautiful flowers.” “Yes,” she says. “Ezra and the boys will be milking for at least another twenty minutes.” “Come on!” I say to my fellow road warrior. “We have a lot to see so we can describe it to Mrs. KT on Saturday!” She blinks several times, giving me the impression that she is still trying to focus and acclimate to being vertical, as she shuffles toward me and the open door. “Is it even 6 a.m. yet?” she asks with a voice still full of morning-croak. There is a clearing quite a ways past the flowers, where we can sit and be alone. “How did you sleep?” I ask her. “Fine until that frickin chicken starting belting out Reveille. W. T. F!!” I laugh louder than I’d expected, but, really, this girl is hilarious, even first thing in the morning and before she’s had her coffee. “How was it alone with your guys?” I ask. “Weird a little at first,” says Gretchen. “But then Helene and I found some common ground.” “Like?” “We both fell so head-over-heels for our husbands that we changed our lifestyles completely. I used to live in the city, and now I’m beyond the Outer Banks – as in, as isolated as I can possibly get! And Helene was an Englisher!” “Rebekah mentioned that this morning. How did that happen?” I find myself running my hand over the grass because it feels so silky and thick and smooth. I don’t even care that it’s still a little moist, and my Amish dress is wicking up all the dew. “Her friends deserted her, as a prank, at a carnival, and Ezra was there selling at a booth, heard her crying and came to her rescue. She fell in love with his beautiful eyes.” “Oh, wow!” I say, trying to imagine the practical Helene either crying or taking romantic stock of Ezra. Both commodities seem equally, completely foreign. “How about you and your fellow gingers?” “They SANG for me!” To my surprise, these words make me well up. “Their maam was their church choir director, so now they’re without one. I wheedled them into letting me teach them some choral pieces and conducting techniques in the next few days.” We hear some commotion by the barn so stand to see what’s happening. Ezra holds a rein in each hand, and two massive draught horses are following behind. Suddenly, one rears up onto his hind quarters, which startles Ezra to shout, “DOWN!” Simeon and Solomon dash from the barn and try to assist, but before they can, the horse has knocked Ezra to the ground. Both horses are now running as fast as they can straight toward Gretchen and me.
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Rachelle Allen
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