For my seventeenth birthday Mom gave me enough fabric to make a new dress. It was a lovely jewel blue crepe and I couldn't wait to start sewing. Jewel blue was lighter than what could be worn to go to church but it would be fine to wear to go traveling or on a date. At the moment I wasn't too concerned about the traveling part.
As I worked on cutting and sewing my dress I couldn't wait to wear it for the first time when LV came calling several weeks later.
The Amish in Somerset County are only allowed to have a three hour long date every other Sunday evening on the Sunday that the boy's district didn't have church services. I was glad LV and I were both in the same church district which meant our dates would be on my inbetween Sunday too.
On Saturday afternoon I took special pains in baking the perfect pecan pie to serve. It turned out beautiful and I carefully placed it on the top shelf in the pantry out of reach of my hungry little brothers. I made sure that the house was spotless and placed several new rugs in the living room in front of the sofa. I brought my pretty lamp downstairs and set it on the end table.
Sunday morning arrived and I got up with a sense of eager anticipation. By mid morning Daddy suggested we all drive to the old train tunnel and have a fun day of hiking and then have a picnic beside the creek. I helped pack the picnic lunch but opted to stay at home and read and try to take a nap to make sure that I wouldn't be sleepy on our first date.
By late afternoon they came home happy and tired from their day of hiking. Mahlon had caught a little minnow and brought it home and happily put it in an old glass bowl filled with water and set it in the living room on the end table. I didn't want it there and determined to hide it in the laundry room once everyone else had gone to bed.
At eight o'clock Daddy announced it was time for to get ready for bed. I took special care in getting ready and then went downstairs to make sure that the fish got removed from the living room and then wait till nine o'clock when our date would begin. Mom and Daddy were still in the kitchen when I got there. Daddy got up from the chair he was sitting in and smiled at me as he said "It doesn't seem possible that our little baby is already old enough to be courted." Mom added that they hope I have a very nice time and then they headed for their bedroom and I was left in the kitchen alone.
It wasn't quite nine yet but everything was ready and I went ahead and closed all the curtains which was the preplanned signal so that LV would know when it was safe to come into the house.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Day Among the Amish (Guest Post)
Hello bloggers and friends. I’m Beth, from The imPerfect Housewife. Since MaryAnn has a very full plate right now with activities on the domestic front, she asked if I’d be interested in doing a guest post. I had to think about it for all of 2 seconds – YES! I’ve been a follower of hers from the beginning and look forward to every post just as much as you all do. Over time, we’ve developed a “long distance” friendship and I can’t wait until the day when we can spend the whole day together in person chatting and eating and talking about our lives (and husbands) and of course recipes.
Do I want to BE Amish…no. I have to be honest with you – no air conditioning would make me crabby. Not to mention, the settlements with outdoor plumbing…negative. These are actually some of the reasons I don’t like camping either now that I think of it, which has nothing to do with this. I do like peace and quiet though. And I can’t help but feel bad for the kids who want to stay Amish, but also maybe want to be a doctor or nurse or something that requires higher education. That’s definitely not an option – it’s one or the other.
I’m pretty sure this sign means watch out for cowboys and Amish people. Or maybe it means watch out for the Lone Ranger and the Amish.
According to two different moms from two different Amish communities, yes, they do know who their teens are going with. Maybe it’s not like that everywhere though. The buttons vs. pins thing – the answer is always the same…”That’s just how it is.” Photos….shhh, many have one or two stashed away.
One thing that stood out is that EVERY house I saw had these white gourd birdhouses for the purple martins. I don’t mean just one or two – but lines of them all over. It was pretty cute actually…
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This picture cracks me up because I guess the horse turned just as I was taking the picture and he looks headless! And again, more gourds…
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Does it look like I’m stalking this couple? OK, I was, but don’t tell them. I kept hoping they’d kiss because that would be the money shot, but nope. One lady told me in this settlement they wore the black bonnets before they got married and then the white prayer kapps after they were married. They wear a heavier black bonnet over their prayer kapp when they need to run errands or go visiting.
The schools were all closed up for the summer…
Thanks to MaryAnn for letting me spend some time here and I hope you all have a good week
Friday, August 27, 2010
Harvesting
So when a neighbor called and asked for Sailor and Rosebud to come harvest her garden they were excited. Their smiles show how much they enjoy working in a garden.
We are already looking forward to growing our own vegetables next year.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Remodeling
I was nearing my seventeenth birthday and the time was getting closer for LV and me to have our first date. Our house had never been a nice one but it had never bothered me up to this point. But knowing that LV would soon be coming to call on me all the obvious flaws of the house were glaringly magnified.
The drop ceiling tiles in the living room were stained and ugly,the windows were so old that looking through the glass made everything appear wavy. The trim and windowsills had paint worn off.
The little room at the top of the basement stairs between the living room and kitchen was horrible. The floor consisted of unfinished plywood with gaps between the sheets. Three of the walls were ancient gray two by fours and the fourth wall had lattice that was trying to hold in crumbling plaster that kept releasing little bits onto the floor. There was a a sizable hole in the floor along the edge that used to serve as my dustpan when I was nine and ten. There were nails pounded into one of the walls on which we hung all of our coats and boots were lined up neatly underneath. The door to the basement was white and orange striped and never latched.
The linoleum in the living was cracked and worn with several areas worn all the way through. The kitchen was better since it was a new addition but it had never been finished with trim around the windows or baseboard.
I knew I couldn't do anything about the little room except put a clean rug down in hopes it would distract from the cracks and try to hang a curtain of sorts to hide most of the walls and our coats. I asked Mom for permission to make curtains for the room. She didn't answer immediately but told me I could paint the woodwork in the living room and if I wanted to I could take the drop ceiling tiles down and paint them too.
I was happy to make any improvements and proceeded to take the tile down. Several hours later Daddy came into the living room to view my progress and then started to measure the little room. A little later a driver came and Daddy left with him.
When he came home that evening I was thrilled to see that he had bought things to transform the ugly little corner. Under his capable hands a closet emerged and the walls were covered with beautiful mahogany. The floor was fixed and new linoleum put down. I could hardly believe how something that had looked so awful for all these years was suddenly the nicest spot in the house.
We pulled out the old linoleum from the living room and were happy to find that over the years the previous owners used to lay new linoleum on top of the old without gluing it down or anything. The third layer was a soft golden brown in a pattern to make it look like a rug. It didn't appear to have much wear so we left it. With several coats of wax it became gleaming and with fresh paint on all the woodwork I was pleased with how the living room looked.
Daddy said the trim for the kitchen would have to wait a while yet, but I didn't mind. I was deeply grateful that he had taken time from his busy woodworking shop to make the house a little nicer before LV came for the first time.
The drop ceiling tiles in the living room were stained and ugly,the windows were so old that looking through the glass made everything appear wavy. The trim and windowsills had paint worn off.
The little room at the top of the basement stairs between the living room and kitchen was horrible. The floor consisted of unfinished plywood with gaps between the sheets. Three of the walls were ancient gray two by fours and the fourth wall had lattice that was trying to hold in crumbling plaster that kept releasing little bits onto the floor. There was a a sizable hole in the floor along the edge that used to serve as my dustpan when I was nine and ten. There were nails pounded into one of the walls on which we hung all of our coats and boots were lined up neatly underneath. The door to the basement was white and orange striped and never latched.
The linoleum in the living was cracked and worn with several areas worn all the way through. The kitchen was better since it was a new addition but it had never been finished with trim around the windows or baseboard.
I knew I couldn't do anything about the little room except put a clean rug down in hopes it would distract from the cracks and try to hang a curtain of sorts to hide most of the walls and our coats. I asked Mom for permission to make curtains for the room. She didn't answer immediately but told me I could paint the woodwork in the living room and if I wanted to I could take the drop ceiling tiles down and paint them too.
I was happy to make any improvements and proceeded to take the tile down. Several hours later Daddy came into the living room to view my progress and then started to measure the little room. A little later a driver came and Daddy left with him.
When he came home that evening I was thrilled to see that he had bought things to transform the ugly little corner. Under his capable hands a closet emerged and the walls were covered with beautiful mahogany. The floor was fixed and new linoleum put down. I could hardly believe how something that had looked so awful for all these years was suddenly the nicest spot in the house.
We pulled out the old linoleum from the living room and were happy to find that over the years the previous owners used to lay new linoleum on top of the old without gluing it down or anything. The third layer was a soft golden brown in a pattern to make it look like a rug. It didn't appear to have much wear so we left it. With several coats of wax it became gleaming and with fresh paint on all the woodwork I was pleased with how the living room looked.
Daddy said the trim for the kitchen would have to wait a while yet, but I didn't mind. I was deeply grateful that he had taken time from his busy woodworking shop to make the house a little nicer before LV came for the first time.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Guest Post
My friend Monica kindly agreed to do a guest post for me. If you have never visited her blog I would suggest that you check it out. She is a great writer and I always enjoy my visits there.
Thanks to Maryann for selecting me as a guest-poster. I'm sincerely honored! Having had a recent experience with an errant mini pony that turned into a minor fiasco, I'd like to share this remembrance of a horse I encountered in my childhood, almost twenty years ago.
For my tenth birthday, my parents gave me an unlikely gift. Horseback riding lessons. I say this was unusual since it wasn't anything I had asked for, and I did not have any great interest in horses. I liked horses in the way that all animals intrigued me, but hadn't shown much equine interest beyond petting a horse. Besides, in the public school I attended girls talked of dance lessons and Girl Scout memberships, both things that I had asked to be part of to no avail. My parents would tell me that we didn't have the money, but more likely the truth lay closer to those things not being in sync with who we were as "a separate people". To say that my parents valued the practical would be a colossal understatement. But I didn't push for those things either, as there were more important things to lobby for such as not having to wear knee socks every day to school.
Every Saturday morning I would pull on a pair of blue jeans under my long dress and be dropped off a few miles away at some stables where a young woman named Cheryl taught me to ride horses. Actually, we started with a pony named Copper. Cheryl taught me how to saddle Copper, how to hold the reins, and how to hold my hand out flat when feeding the pony an apple so he didn't bite my fingers off. Sometimes, after the morning's lesson after my hair had become undone, Cheryl would braid my hair while I stood behind Copper braiding his tail, as he quietly slept while standing up in his stall. Yes, I came to love Copper.
During my final lessons, I graduated to riding tall, beautiful, glossy horses that appeared enormous to me in size and impossibly powerful. Cheryl and I would trot our horses through the woods on the edge of the pasture while I wondered whether horses would become a permanent part of my life. When my lessons ended, I was sad though my mother told me we could always visit Copper and bring him an apple.
Not long after my lessons, my father and I were visiting his cousin whose neighbor had some riding horses. It was a sunny, Saturday afternoon and dad thought it would be nice for us to spend the afternoon riding horses together. The neighbor's daughter saddled the horses for us and helped me on to a lovely dark Quarter horse. Things were good at first, but after only a few minutes, something in the horse's temperament changed drastically. It would not respond to my "gee" and "haw" commands and instead broke into a straight gallop. Suddenly, the horse worked up to a full run as I held tight and leaned in closer. I knew the horse was out of control, and remember looking down at the ground trying to weigh my choice of jumping off and possibly getting hurt, or staying on, and possibly getting hurt. At the back pasture, my cousin Elam (working as a hired man at the neighbor's) was kneeling on the ground mending some fence. The horse charged for him, and I looked down to see his surprised face as the horse leaped over Elam and the fence in a graceful and unexpected jump. And then, just as suddenly as my runaway horse started, he slowed to a trot and circled back stopping not far from a group of adults who had helplessly witnessed the spectacle. There is little doubt that they let out a collective exhale as I dismounted the temperamental horse. Later, dad said that I had looked like a racehorse jockey on the back of that horse, and commended me on the decision to not jump off when the horse bolted.
I did not do much horseback riding after that, finding activities such as swimming and helping the boys to build tree forts in the woods behind our house much more interesting. But years later, I was grateful that my parents had arranged for those lessons. When I went to live with my Old Order aunt and uncle, I was not in the least intimidated by the driving horses, and could confront a team of Belgian drafts with ease. Now, interaction with horses is rare for me, but I'm still fond of horses and remain vigilant for their surprise appearances in my life. They seem to remain on the periphery and then pop up at unexpected moments, the very definition of a "dark horse".
Thanks to Maryann for selecting me as a guest-poster. I'm sincerely honored! Having had a recent experience with an errant mini pony that turned into a minor fiasco, I'd like to share this remembrance of a horse I encountered in my childhood, almost twenty years ago.
For my tenth birthday, my parents gave me an unlikely gift. Horseback riding lessons. I say this was unusual since it wasn't anything I had asked for, and I did not have any great interest in horses. I liked horses in the way that all animals intrigued me, but hadn't shown much equine interest beyond petting a horse. Besides, in the public school I attended girls talked of dance lessons and Girl Scout memberships, both things that I had asked to be part of to no avail. My parents would tell me that we didn't have the money, but more likely the truth lay closer to those things not being in sync with who we were as "a separate people". To say that my parents valued the practical would be a colossal understatement. But I didn't push for those things either, as there were more important things to lobby for such as not having to wear knee socks every day to school.
Every Saturday morning I would pull on a pair of blue jeans under my long dress and be dropped off a few miles away at some stables where a young woman named Cheryl taught me to ride horses. Actually, we started with a pony named Copper. Cheryl taught me how to saddle Copper, how to hold the reins, and how to hold my hand out flat when feeding the pony an apple so he didn't bite my fingers off. Sometimes, after the morning's lesson after my hair had become undone, Cheryl would braid my hair while I stood behind Copper braiding his tail, as he quietly slept while standing up in his stall. Yes, I came to love Copper.
During my final lessons, I graduated to riding tall, beautiful, glossy horses that appeared enormous to me in size and impossibly powerful. Cheryl and I would trot our horses through the woods on the edge of the pasture while I wondered whether horses would become a permanent part of my life. When my lessons ended, I was sad though my mother told me we could always visit Copper and bring him an apple.
Not long after my lessons, my father and I were visiting his cousin whose neighbor had some riding horses. It was a sunny, Saturday afternoon and dad thought it would be nice for us to spend the afternoon riding horses together. The neighbor's daughter saddled the horses for us and helped me on to a lovely dark Quarter horse. Things were good at first, but after only a few minutes, something in the horse's temperament changed drastically. It would not respond to my "gee" and "haw" commands and instead broke into a straight gallop. Suddenly, the horse worked up to a full run as I held tight and leaned in closer. I knew the horse was out of control, and remember looking down at the ground trying to weigh my choice of jumping off and possibly getting hurt, or staying on, and possibly getting hurt. At the back pasture, my cousin Elam (working as a hired man at the neighbor's) was kneeling on the ground mending some fence. The horse charged for him, and I looked down to see his surprised face as the horse leaped over Elam and the fence in a graceful and unexpected jump. And then, just as suddenly as my runaway horse started, he slowed to a trot and circled back stopping not far from a group of adults who had helplessly witnessed the spectacle. There is little doubt that they let out a collective exhale as I dismounted the temperamental horse. Later, dad said that I had looked like a racehorse jockey on the back of that horse, and commended me on the decision to not jump off when the horse bolted.
I did not do much horseback riding after that, finding activities such as swimming and helping the boys to build tree forts in the woods behind our house much more interesting. But years later, I was grateful that my parents had arranged for those lessons. When I went to live with my Old Order aunt and uncle, I was not in the least intimidated by the driving horses, and could confront a team of Belgian drafts with ease. Now, interaction with horses is rare for me, but I'm still fond of horses and remain vigilant for their surprise appearances in my life. They seem to remain on the periphery and then pop up at unexpected moments, the very definition of a "dark horse".
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