Writer's Tips: Dialogue

Writer's Tips: Dialogue

 

            All right, so after a long pause, let’s get back to business on how to develop those unforgettable characters that play out that story plot in you have planned.  In this post, we’re going to focus primarily on dialogue.

            First off, what is dialogue?  Dialogue is conversation.  It’s what your characters say.  When you talk on the phone to your friend, what the two of you say to each other is dialogue.  We use dialogue every day when we talk, so writing it… well, how hard can it be, right?

            Wrong.  Well, actually, that depends.  Writing dialogue is no hard task, but writing realistic dialogue is where things get tricky.  And because dialogue and speech patterns are so important in developing characters, we’re going to spend this entire post talking about them.

            So here are a few tips I personally use in my own writing.  The first thing I would tell anyone trying to write realistic dialogue is to use contractions.  Let’s take a look at an example.

           

            With contractions:

 

            “I’m really sorry we won’t be able to meet up for lunch this week.  We have family coming this weekend to stay with us, and I’ll have to clean the house and do some shopping for their visit.”

 

            Without contractions:

 

            “I am really sorry we will not be able to meet up for lunch this week.  We have family coming this weekend to stay with us, and I will have to clean the house and do some shopping for their visit.”

 

            All right, now which one sounds more like a housewife talking on the phone to her friend?  The first paragraph or the second?  Right.  The first.  People talk in contractions.  If you don’t know what a contraction is, look it up in a grammar book, a dictionary, or type it into Google.  But people talk this way.  They use these combinations of two words.  You talk this way, whether you realize it or not.  Your characters not only need to act and feel like real people, but they have to talk like real people talk too.  And one of the easiest ways to do this is to make sure that you use contractions in your dialogue.  In fact, I even consider this mandatory to writing realistic conversation.  Yes, it’s that important.

            The second main point of this post is about speech patterns.  Now what are speech patterns?  Speech patterns are the way a person talks.  Not what they say, because that’s dialogue, but how they say it.  One of the most obvious speech patterns is accents from different countries or different regions of a country.  For instance, the way a person from Boston says “aunt” is different from the way a person from Georgia would say it.  The Bostonian would say “ahnt” while the Georgian would say “ant.”  A country or southern accent is another great example of a speech pattern; so is a New York accent or a British or Australian accent.  These are classic examples of speech patterns that you can hear but you don’t write them.  You can hear an accent when someone talks, but if you had a character in your book that was from Boston, in the dialogue you write for him, you would not spell “aunt” “ahnt” even though that’s the way it would sound when your character said it.  If you told your reader that your character was from Boston and spoke with a Boston accent, that would be enough for your reader to imagine how your character sounds when he talks and your reader will create a voice for your character on his own.

            So accents are an example of what speech patterns are, but if you can’t use them in writing, what kind of speech patterns can you use to help develop your character?  Well, remember, speech patterns are the way a person talks.  Different kinds of people talk differently because we’re all unique.  We have different backgrounds, different levels of education, different dialects.  All of these factors contribute to the way a person talks- his speech pattern.  Let’s see how this looks actually written out in dialogue.

 

            Farmer: “Y’all reckon on sittin’ out here all evenin’?”

 

            Mountain Man: “Them are no good varmints that come prowlin’ ’round my place, stealin’ my furs.”

 

            Cowboy: “Well, I’m sorry, but I ain’t ’bout to clear off my land now.”

 

            Attorney: “Your Honor, my client objects to the claim that the distribution of this propaganda is indeed constitutional.”

 

            Teenager: “Man, I just know I’m gonna flunk this test.  I mean, having to study like fifty pages about why plastic bags are more “go green” than paper bags…  It’s like really?  Who cares anyways?  It’s way out there.”

 

            Teacher: “It isn’t a matter of who gets the main role in the play.  It’s a matter of all of the students- the entire class- working together to put on the best performance and make this the best production it can be.”

 

            Okay, so if you’re like me, you’re thinking “blah, blah, blah.”  Not the most interesting examples, I admit, but it was the best I could come up with, and I hope you can gather the point I was trying to make at least.

            In case you didn’t though, let’s talk a little about them.  All right, first notice that the way these characters talked could be categorized into three main divisions: hick, professional, and average-joe.  The farmer, the mountain man, and the cowboy all fell into the category of hick.  The attorney’s speech pattern was professional, the teenager talked like an average-joe, and the teacher was riding the fence between professional and average-joe.  Now, before we go any further, it’s important that you realize these are only three categories I made up.  There are many, many other ways to classify speech patterns and many other categories.  Also, a lot of people don’t fall into just one category; their speech pattern is a combination of categories like the teacher’s was.  My speech pattern, for example, encompasses all three of the categories I listed for you.

            Let’s focus on the first three pieces of dialogue above.  The farmer, the mountain man, and the cowboy.  They all sound a lot alike, don’t they?  They all have a laid-back, easy feeling to their dialogue, and none of them talk with perfect grammar.  But the main difference is the extent of their improper grammar.  The worst is the mountain man, then it progressively gets a little better with the farmer, and finally, the grammar’s pretty acceptable the way the cowboy talks.

            Now for the attorney.  His grammar is perfect.  He uses big words and sounds really official and professional.  He talks the way the President would talk or the way a principal or a college professor would.

            The teenager talks… well, like a teenager, right?  Like a high school or college kid complaining about the boring material they have to learn and study.  He talks like a typical twenty-first century kid with slang, expressions, and questions to help prove his point.

            And then there’s our fence-riding teacher.  Like the attorney, her grammar’s impeccable, but like the teenager, her speech pattern has a little more of a laid-back, informal feel to it rather than sounding stuffy and choked with a necktie.

            So are you starting to get the point a little about speech patterns?  Good.  Only three more points I wanna hit so hang in there with me.  Slang, dialect, and stereotype.

            Slang.  This is a big one… and unfortunately, a controversial one.  Should you or should you not use slang in your writing?  When you’re writing dialogue for a young or immature character, it almost seems a necessity, doesn’t it?  Well, some people say it’s okay to use slang, and some people say you should avoid it in your writing altogether.  But if you’re asking my opinion, I say everything in moderation.  I think slang’s fine- I make good use of it in my books- but it’s fine to an extent.  It’s true that expressions change quickly and slang words and terms that you use might soon become outdated and give your work an “old” feel, so in my writing, I avoid using slang expressions and phrases, even some words, in fact.  The slang words I do use are words whose meanings can be deciphered whether you know the word or not; basically words that sound like contractions but aren’t technically contractions.  For instance, a real contraction is “can’t”; a fake contraction is “gonna.”  “Gonna” means “going to,” but it isn’t a real contraction you can find in the Webster’s Dictionary- it’s a slang word.  So are words like “wanna,” “kinda,” and “dunno.”  Other common slang words I use are “yeah” and “ya” (for “you”).  Use discretion and do some research on it.  Read other authors’ opinions on using slang and glean from everyone’s wisdom.  It’s a question you just have to develop your own opinion on because there’s no right or wrong answer to it.

            Dialect.  All right, this one’s easy.  Dialect is words, terms, and vocabulary distinct to a specific area.  Like the word “y’all.”  You hear people from the southern United States use that word.  Dialect is a great way to add color, vitality, and interest to your dialogue!  Make good use of it to show the variety of different places and to add unique personality to your characters.  Be careful though when employing dialect.  Sometimes a word can have two different meanings depending on where you’re from so it’s important to make sure there aren’t any offensive definitions for the dialectic word you’re using.  For instance, the word “boot” can mean “a car trunk” to Australians and Englanders, but to Americans, a “boot” is a type of shoe you wear or if you say “she gave him the boot,” it can even mean “she jilted him.”  There’s nothing offensive in any of these definitions, but it goes to show how very different the meanings of a word can be in different countries.  Make sure you aren’t offending anyone when using dialect and make sure you clarify by the context of how you use the word what definition you mean.

And lastly, the trap of stereotyping.  Sigh.  Such an easy trap for all of us authors to get tangled in without realizing it.  Let’s face it: stereotypical characters are pretty boring.  The hoodlum that falls in love with the virtuous girl, the nerdy kid who gets picked on but is really a genius, the elderly man who pretends to be a grouch but really loves children…  The list goes on, but you know the kind of stereotypical characters I mean.  They’re predictable and overused.  So are stereotypical speech patterns.  The lawyer who uses a lot of fancy words, the farmer who uses incorrect grammar, the scientist who uses scientific terms and names that go in one ear and out the other.  Most of the examples of dialogue I gave you above were stereotypical.  Just because a character is a farmer doesn’t mean that he can’t use good grammar.  After all, not all real farmers talk like that.  In fact, there are even a few attorneys that probably talk like that and have to intentionally leave behind their slang and backwoods expressions when they talk with a client and enter a courtroom.  It’s okay to break out of the set norm of stereotypical characters and stereotypical speech patterns.

            And last but not least, one of the best ways to help you write realistic dialogue is to talk out the conversations of your characters.  Read them aloud.  Actually hearing yourself helps you catch parts in your dialogue that don’t read smoothly like someone actually talking.  Have someone read your dialogue to you.  Listen to people talk and take mental notes on their dialogue.  Notice their grammar, the choice of words they use, and their slang, and try to classify their speech pattern into a category. 

            Many times, I create my dialogue by holding a conversation with myself in which I assume the role of first one character and then the next when I reply.  Sometimes, I even get caught talking aloud to myself and end up pretty embarrassed.  But it’s all part of being a good author, I’ve learned.  Take out all the “he said” and “she said” in your characters’ conversation and see if you can still determine who’s talking.  You should be able to.  Ask someone else to tell you who’s talking in each part of the conversation and see if they can decipher the different speakers by their different speech patterns.  Try out different methods and determine what works best for you to help you write realistic dialogue.  And honestly, once you get the hang of it, it’s not as hard as it sounds.  

 

 

           

 

 

 

The Riehl Deal

The Riehl Deal



            In this post, I want to share with you all a very special project I’ve been diligently working on for the past two weeks.  It demanded hours of my time, but I consider the product so very well worth the sacrifice.  In my last post, I announced that I would be on vacation and therefore away from my blog for a few weeks; however, this project prolonged my absence.  But finally it’s finished and ready to be shared with all of you, my blog-reader friends!

            While my family and I were in Pennsylvania, we stayed on an Amish working dairy farm for two days.  As unusual as it sounds, it was one of my favorite parts of our trip.  So much that I not only wanted to preserve a keepsake of it for myself, but I wanted to share my experience in detail with you all.  That’s why I wrote the following narrative, The Riehl Deal.

            For more information about my family’s stay on the Amish farm and about our trip to Niagara Falls and Buffalo, New York, and then Lancaster County and Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, check out my blog Heart-chords at www.heartchords.blogspot.com and click on the post titled Southern Style Goes North.  The succeeding four articles I post there will also be about our trip and the lessons I learned from my experiences on our vacation.  My “Writer’s Tips” series will be resumed in my next post here.  

            Just a word of advice, this narrative isn’t exactly reading material over your lunch-break.  One, because you won’t want to accidentally miss the details by skimming it, and secondly, because… well, it’s a little long.  As a Microsoft word document, it’s a full twenty-four pages.  It’s really more the kind of story that’s perfect for curling up with a cozy blanket in your La-Z-Boy and reading in the evening.  I realize not all of us have that much time in one lump of our day though, and so too, some of us aren’t big readers that can bring ourselves to sit still with a story for that long.  That’s all right too, but if you’re still interested in reading it, I’ve broken the story up into subheadings so you can find ample “good spots” to stop.  Hopefully you won’t want to put it down though.

            If you have any questions about our stay on the Amish farm or about any other part of our trip, feel free to leave your question in a comment box either here or on Heart-chords, and I promise I’ll answer it the best I can.  Also, if you enjoy reading my narrative, please let me know, and I may just share more of my longer works with you all that I don’t ever intend to publish someday. 

So now let the drumroll sound, the curtains draw, and without further ado… here it is, everyone.

The Riehl Deal:

A Stay on an Amish Dairy Farm

Note to Reader

             Dear Readers,

            This is the record of my stay on an Amish working dairy farm in Gordonville, Pennsylvania.  The story is very significant to me and holds a special place in my heart, and I’m excited about sharing it with you.  I hope you enjoy the unique glimpse into the life on the farm and learn from my first-hand experience.  I loved the farm, and I loved the family who owned it, and by the time you’ve finished reading my narrative, I hope you will as well.

Before you begin reading, I’d like to share with you a few points about the story:

 

·         This record of my visit on Beacon Hollow reads like a novel.  By this, I tried to enhance the readability of the story, capture and keep your interest in the content, and make clear the chronological time order of the events.

 

·         This account is written from my perspective and has an informal, conversational tone, unlike most of my other works.  This was completely intentional to give it a personal, down-to-earth experience that you can relate to and imagine yourself in.  Have fun with it, put yourself in my shoes, and use your imagination!

 

·         And lastly, please remember this narrative is not fictitious.  It is about real people and real events.  For that reason, you’ll notice that I use very few direct quotations because I do not wish to misquote anyone.  I wrote this record of my visit to the best of my ability; however, although the events are factual, the accuracy of the sequence of action may be slightly altered due to the imperfections of the human memory.  Nonetheless, this is a true story and an account of my actual experience on Beacon Hollow farm.

 

Beacon Hollow is a very special place… too special for me to accurately describe to you in the course of a few paragraphs.  My words wouldn’t do it justice.  Therefore, I’ve written this narrative to provide you with a means of experiencing the farm for yourself.  In this story, you’ll be reliving my stay on the dairy farm, and I sincerely hope you enjoy your time there.  Take it all in, and allow the fresh air to whisk away your cares with it as it drifts across the plowed fields and rustles the drying cornstalks.  Welcome to Lancaster County Amish country! 

~Enjoy and God Bless,

Julia G.

 Introduction

            My family had been to Lancaster numerous times.  We always stayed in a hotel nearby, but this time we wanted something different.  We wanted to stay in a Mennonite bed and breakfast and desired more than just a bed to sleep in.  We wanted an experience.  So we searched.  My parents spent hours on the internet and on the telephone looking for a place for us to stay two nights.  I would be accompanying my parents on the vacation which meant we needed a queen-size bed and a double-size bed at least.  Of course, this limited our choices and made the search more difficult.  They found nothing.

The day of our plane flight was approaching.  We had one option: to stay on a farm called Rayba Acres.  It seemed like a nice place- they had an attractive website with pictures, and it was well rated… but I was disappointed.  The rooms had television sets and blow-dryers, and the farm just didn’t seem like it would give us the authentic experience we wanted.  It wasn’t what I had hoped for.  But it was our only choice at that point.  Time was running out.

One afternoon over lunch, my mom and I began toying with the idea of staying on an Amish farm, but we didn’t have much time that day to search the internet for places.  That night during dinner, my dad suggested teasingly that I should get online and find us a place to stay since I’m normally pretty successful at navigating to sites on the internet.  I laughed at the idea, but after dinner, I took up my mom’s Android smart phone, and I did begin searching… just to see what I could find.  I discovered a website with a list of Amish farms in Lancaster County, and one by one, I began clicking on the links to the webpages and weeding out the farms on the list.  One farm listed was Beacon Hollow Farm.

I clicked on the name Beacon Hollow Farm, but the place had no website.  So I typed the farm name into my Google search engine, and it came back with a list of webpages that referred to the farm.  Including in its results was a link to a page of reviews from guests that had previously stayed on the farm.  Naturally, of course, I gravitated to the review page.  There were only three reviews, but all had good things to say about the place and about the family that owned it.  They all raved about this Beacon Hollow Farm!  I learned from the reviews that the farm was owned by a couple named Ben and Anna Riehl (pronounced “real”), and that they had eight children, of which two were boys we knew, for the names Ivan and David were mentioned specifically in one of the reviews.  I was immediately delighted.  I love big families!  How old all of the children were though, we didn’t know.  The place had a two-bedroom guest house on the working dairy farm, and breakfast was included with your stay.  It sounded promising.  But did we dare?  After all, all Englishers (non-Amish) know that the Amish don’t have electricity… and did they even have running water?

I liked the place and the family from the minute that I found the farm online.  It was one of those good feelings where it just felt right.  My mom seemed enthusiastic about the idea, although perhaps a little more apprehensive than I was.  My dad, however, was a little slower to embrace the idea.  He was open-minded but wasn’t as hasty to jump at my find.  Daddy’s always more rational.  This was a working dairy farm.  That meant they had cows.  We had smelled cow farms before, but I wasn’t worried.  I ride horses every week on a farm near to our house so I’m used to the scent of livestock.  In fact, I kind of like it.

That night, I fell asleep thinking happily about a stay on the farm with an Amish family, and the next day, Daddy called Beacon Hollow Farm for more information.  He spoke to David, who, I assume, was closest to the barn at the time, for I had read in an article that the Riehls only had one telephone, which was in the barn.  The farm had running water, my dad learned, and… electricity!  Apparently Ben Riehl had erected solar panels to enable his family to have electricity on their farm.  How very ingenious, I thought!  The guest house had a queen-size bed in one bedroom and a double bed and a single bed in the other.  It also had a kitchen and a private bathroom.  All for a reasonable price.  And they had availability for the two nights of our stay on October first and second.  I was thrilled!  What more could we ask for?

So the reservations were made, and the Riehls were to expect our arrival on October first, only weeks away.  I could hardly wait!  I told all of my friends about it and promised to share the details of the experience with them when we returned home.  We were going to be staying on an Amish dairy farm… now that was going to be the authentic “real deal” experience.

First Impressions

 It was Monday, October first.  We had left the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport in Atlanta, Georgia the past Wednesday morning and had spent the first four days of our vacation sight-seeing at Niagara Falls in Buffalo, New York and visiting family in the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania area.  Now we were on our way to the small town of Gordonville in Lancaster County.  We were to check into the guest house on Beacon Hollow Farm no earlier than three o’clock that afternoon, but like anyone would be, we were eager to see what the place looked like where we would be staying.  So we decided to drive by the farm.  We had never stayed in a bed and breakfast before, much less on an Amish farm; the most interaction we had ever had with the Amish people was in the little shops we had browsed through in the cities of Intercourse and Bird-In-Hand on previous visits to Lancaster.  Honestly, we didn’t know what we were getting ourselves into.

From our hotel in Exton, Pennsylvania, it was a short drive to the farm- only about an hour- and soon we had left the bustle of the highways, interstates, and turnpikes behind in exchange for a couple of days in the quiet country of the Amish.  As the pavement disappeared, the rolling hills and open fields began to appear.  It was a beautiful day for the scenic drive.  The sun was beaming down on the vibrant autumn colors of the trees shading the front yards of old farmhouses.  Gold was turned to yellow, maroon to warm red, and burnt orange glowed as brightly as ripe pumpkins.  Overhead, the silos rising high above the harvested cornfields of drying stalks were met with a clear sky as blue as cornflowers in a meadow.  The scene was breath-taking, and already I began to feel the weight of my life which was so stressful at times being blown away on the drifting breeze that danced by the window of the back seat of our car where I stared out from.  It was mild that day, but you could already feel in the air the cautioning nip of fiercer weather.  Autumn and winter were approaching.

Black trousers and aprons hung on clotheslines outside front doors, waving welcome to us in the breeze.  The rumbling of traffic faded and was replaced by the rhythmic clip-clop of horse hoofs as grey Amish buggies traveled up and down the country back roads.  I smiled to myself.  This was going to be good.

We passed by an Amish woman weed-eating her yard, and my dad pointed out awe-struck that she was using a weed-eater.  We later laughed at our fascination.  She was working in her yard, for Pete’s sake; what was so intriguing about that?  But we were like most Englishers; to us, the Amish were different from us.  There was an element of wonder, curiosity, and fascination about them.  But all that was about to change.

We drove through the city of Intercourse, and just minutes outside of the main street of shops, we rounded a bend in the road, and there before us rose three white buildings and a barn.  I was on the edge of the back seat.  Was this it?  We drove by slowly.  The two mailboxes bore the names Riehl and Lapp, and there hanging above the boxes was a white sign.  Beacon Hollow Farm.

We were all breathless in anticipation as we followed the road circling the farm.  It was beautiful!  The little one-story house in front must be the guest house, we decided.  The street curved around the farm, so as we drove, we admired the many acres of farmland the family owned.  We rolled down the windows for our first whiff of livestock.  Surprisingly, we smelled nothing.  But nonetheless, we were really there.  I could hardly wait for three o’clock to arrive.

Arriving on the Farm

 We were to meet up with my aunt and uncle and cousins to browse through the shops in Intercourse that day, and as we waited for them to finish sorting through the selection in a nearby fabric store and then come join us, my parents and I went into one of the shops adjoining the Zook’s Fabric store.  We entered and were met by several Amish women milling about with their items to purchase.  They all stared at the sight of us.  I didn’t know where to hide.

Now, true, I was pretty conspicuous looking, I have to admit.  I was wearing a green John Deere t-shirt and had tucked my blue jeans into my brown and bright turquoise-patterned cowboy boots.  I wasn’t exactly the type of tourist they probably saw every day.  One little girl with glasses and long braided pigtails stared especially.  She had seen the John Deere logo on the toy trucks they sold there, but she had probably never seen anyone wearing it before.  For the first time, I realized how the Amish people must feel when people stare at them in public.  I smiled, but I couldn’t meet their gazes, I felt so uncomfortable.

            Our initial grand entrance over, the women resumed their shopping, and we browsed the store, traveling up and down the aisles.  We came across a section of puzzles.  During our long car drives, we had been listening to an audio version of the book Plain Wisdom by the inspirational fiction author Cindy Woodsmall and her Amish friend Miriam Flaud.  I recalled them mentioning that many Amish families enjoy putting puzzles together.  So does my family.  So I suggested that we buy a puzzle to bring to the Riehls as a house-warming gift and as a way to show our gratitude for their hospitality.  “And besides,” I added, “it never hurts to start off on the right foot.”  So we purchased a puzzle depicting a wintry scene of horses for our host family.

            We continued into the next store, working our way to the front of the building where Zook’s Fabric was.  This shop was an Amish clothes store.  They had black trousers, suspenders, and straw hats for the men and boys and black aprons for the women.  They had too women’s black bonnets and white heart-shaped bonnets.  Oh, I longed to try one on!  Already I was beginning to feel a strange connection to these people, and I could effortlessly imagine myself dressed as an Amish young woman.

            Later in the day, we broke away from our extended family as they went to check into the hotel nearby where they would be staying the night.  It was sometime between four o’clock and four thirty in the afternoon, and I could hardly contain my excitement as my dad turned our car toward the farm.

            We rounded the curve in the road, and Beacon Hollow Farm reappeared before our eyes.  Flipping the left signal light on, my dad steered our black car onto the long paved driveway.  I held my breath as we drove toward the house, wide-eyed as I took it all in.  My mom expressed nervousness; I shared my excitement.  But still, I couldn’t help wondering… would they stare at us the way the women in the store had?

            As we neared the house, the author in me increased my observational skills, and I began taking mental notes of everything.  I didn’t want to forget a thing.  On our right were a swing set and a trampoline for the guests staying on the farm.  I wondered if the Amish kids ever used them as well.  There were three large two-story buildings, all standing in a single row facing the street.  The one nearest the paved parking area appeared to be the main farmhouse.  The second house was joined to it, and my mom reasoned that it was a dawdy haus (a house for the parents of either the husband or the wife of the farm).  As for the third building, we guessed by its appearance that it was more of a storage area then another house.  In front of the main farmhouse stood our little ranch guest house, and to the right, rose the large barn with apparently some storage outbuildings in the back.  The houses, the barn, the outbuildings… everything was white.  In the side yard of the farmhouse, a string of freshly washed clothes danced on a clothesline.

            Daddy turned the car into a parking space and brought the vehicle to a stop.  What now?  “Do we just go up to the door and knock?” he questioned aloud.  Momma and I didn’t have any other guesses to offer.  Just then, the front door of the farmhouse opened, and Mrs. Riehl appeared.  I watched as she hurried down the walk to greet us.  She was wearing a light green dress and a black apron.  A white bonnet covered her pinned-up hair, and a welcoming smile lighted across her face.  Like magic, any qualms I suffered disappeared.  Already I felt… at home.

 The Guest House

            When Daddy opened my car door, I scrambled out, my cowboy boots landing on the paved parking area with a thud.  I reached back and retrieved our house-warming gift from the back seat and then joined my parents where they were already talking with our hostess.  Introductions were made, and I immediately noticed she spoke with an accent I had never heard before.  My dad logically suggested later that it was German perhaps.  She asked how old I was.  About that time, a young man appeared from the barn and began talking with Daddy, while Mrs. Riehl turned away to lead us toward the guest house.  Momma hastily took the puzzle from my arms and presented it to our hostess, explaining that we wanted to bring them a little something to thank them for their hospitability.  “Our family always enjoys putting a puzzle together so we thought you all might as well,” I chimed in.  She seemed pleased with the present and said it would be a winter project.  She told us she already knew which one of her boys would want it too.  “He loves horses,” she said.

            She led us up the walk and into the guest house through the side door.  In deep curiosity, I swept a glance around the place.  We had entered into a small room where the house’s water heater stood in a corner and were then led into the main room of the house.  Mrs. Riehl took a seat at the kitchen table, and she and Daddy worked out the details of payment and the like.  As she rose to leave, she commented on my cowboy boots and asked if I rode horses.  Ahhh, here was a topic I was confident I had in common with this family: horses.  Brief dialogue followed on the subject before our hostess left us to settle into our accommodations.

            As she disappeared through the side screen door, the guest house fell into an uncommon silence.  Well, what now?  We honestly didn’t have any idea of what to expect during these two days of our trip.  I was the first to start exploring our little house.  Off of the hot water heater room where the side door was located, there was a door leading into a small bathroom.  I peered in through the doorway.  Sink, toilet, window, shower, mirror, and tall white cabinets standing against the walls in one corner, where we later learned the towels were kept.  Next I made my way back into the main room.  This area served as a living room, kitchen, and dining room combined.  There was a refrigerator, a sink, and very many wooden cabinets all well-stocked with beautiful porcelain dishes patterned with flowers.  The kitchen table stood against one wall and three matching chairs had been arranged around its other sides.  To my left while standing in the doorway was the sitting area composed of a dark green recliner, a matching sofa against the long wall on which was the front door, an end table of magazines, and a wooden chair.  Three windows over the sofa allowed plenty of daylight into the room.  At one end of the couch was a floor lamp, and at the other end by the front door was a black propane stove to heat the house on the chilly winter nights.

            I continued my exploration.  Off of the main room were two bedrooms.  Each had a mirror and a lamp on a wooden dresser.  My parents’ bedroom had one window with a fan on its windowsill, and the queen-size bed was covered by a Dresden plate-patterned quilt of shades of blue.  On the wall was hung a peg-rack.  I entered my own bedroom which was at the front of the house.  It too had a peg-rack which I made good use of to hold my purse and my jacket.  My room had two beds- one double-sized and one twin-sized.  Both were covered with beautiful quilts.  The bed I slept in was covered with a white and purple bed-spread of quilted hearts, and the quilt on the other bed was of a blue and white eight-pointed star pattern.  Between the beds was a small table that was adorned by a silk flower arrangement in a wicker basket.  Brushing aside the white eyelet curtains, I observed that the two windows across from the beds gave me a wonderful view of the front two fields of the property and beyond that, the street we had traveled upon only a short time ago. 

            The house was an old building, but it was clean.  Mrs. Reihl’s aunt had lived there for thirty years before her passing, our hostess had told us.  The place was small, but quaint.  Nonetheless, it would take some getting used to.  My family lives in a two-story plantation-style home with four bedrooms and three full baths; I have a private bathroom attached to my own room.  It was far different than what we’re accustomed to, to say the least; the guest house was a farmhouse, not a five-star hotel.  But after all, that was all part of the experience, wasn’t it?

            My parents and I returned to our parked rental car for our luggage, and as Daddy hoisted each heavy suitcase from the trunk, I cast a sweeping glance about our surroundings.  It was beautiful there.  The weather forecast had predicted rain the next day so the sky had clouded over, but even still, I could hear the soft rumble of machinery coming from the two front fields and saw two blond-headed Amish boys hard at work gathering the fodder before nightfall.  Black trousers, a blue shirt, and a tan shirt left a dot of color against the natural tones of the landscape.  I gave a heavy sigh in contentment and hugged closer to my chest my pillow I was holding.  I was falling in love with the place already, and I was falling fast.

            A telephone rang abruptly, and I turned to notice a little shed standing just outside of the barn.  As the phone continued to ring, one of the blond-haired boys came running up the concrete driveway from the front field.  He appeared to be about my age, I noted.  Two Sheltie dogs followed him, barking happily.  The boy, whom I assumed by his age was David, looked at us as he passed by.  He stared, and I stared, and then he had reached the telephone shed and disappeared inside, the door slowly creaking open again behind him to reveal him talking on the telephone.  We were two people from two very different worlds.

 The Barn

            After settling into the guest house, we decided to have a look around the farm.  Mrs. Riehl had invited us to poke around the fields and the barn, and I was eager to explore.  I had never been on a real dairy farm before- none of us had; who knew what adventures might lay in store to discover!

            My dad seemed just as eager as I was.  He announced that he was going to go check out the barn.  My mom chose to stay relaxing in one of the chairs at the front of the guest house and look out over the picturesque view of farmland, but I quickly piped up that I wanted to go along and join him.  So my dad and I started off toward the white barn, completely unknowing of what laid in store.

            When we entered, there was a doorway to our left.  I peeked through it to see a row of horses in stalls.  One beautiful brown horse closest to the doorway turned his muzzle to us as we paused to admire him.  His eyes were gentle and kind, and of course, I cooed to him, telling him how cute he was.  My dad continued further into the barn with me bringing up the rear, lagging behind as I took it all in.  As we crossed the threshold of another doorway, I halted in my steps as the strong smell of cows hit me.  There it was finally.  A dairy farm would hardly be a dairy farm without that distinct smell.  “Oh, I smell the cows now,” I spoke up with a laugh.

            We bravely continued on.  On our right, we passed by an empty stall.  Cobwebs hung in the corners, and I stepped to the farther side of the walkway away from it.  But then to my left, I had stepped closer to a stall where a great big bull was calmly laying down.  Not exactly your bull-fighting type at all.

            Up ahead, we heard movement and watched a yellow straw hat appear over the backs of the cows.  My dad walked on, and I trudged behind him, growing quite accustomed to the smell of the livestock and hardly noticing it anymore.  The concrete walkway led us down the middle of the barn.  Off of the main path on which we stood, two more walkways turned off on either side, and to the right and left of each aisle was a row of cows standing with their tails facing the path.  There were so many of them!  Their udders were heavy with milk I could tell; they hung so low on some, they almost touched the ground.  Yes, it was milking time again.  I don’t know much about cow breeds, but these were black and white.  That much I knew.  Above the cows’ heads were posted little paper signs with names and other information on them.  The cows were named!  How cute! I thought.  I was delighted.

            Down the aisle to our left, we saw an Amish young man hard at work milking the cows, and Daddy turned down the walkway to meet him.  Of course, I followed.  Maybe I was to meet my first new friend here.

            As my dad spoke to him, we learned that the man’s name was Amos.  He was the Riehls’ oldest son.  My dad asked questions, and although Amos patiently answered them each, I received the impression that it was a little more out of duty than sociability; he seemed a naturally reserved person.  But my opinion of the farm was so optimistic, I doubt that anything could’ve dampened my enthusiasm in the least.

            I had expected to see a man sitting on a little three-legged wooden milk stool, dutifully bending over his back-breaking work, but this was the twenty-first century… even on an Amish dairy farm, I learned.  The days of the milking stool was gone.  Instead, Amos had a vacuum-powered little machine that he suctioned to the cow’s udder.  The vacuum-power drew the milk from the udder, and the milk then traveled down a hose to the shiny round metal container Amos dragged along with him on wheels.  This container was warm to the touch with the fresh milk it held.  Amos had many of these little suction-milking-machines, so numerous cows were being milked at once.  I asked him how long it took to milk them all each morning and night, and he told me it took about an hour and a half.  “Oh, that’s not that bad,” I replied optimistically.  But when I thought about it later, I realized that an hour and a half was a lot longer than I had estimated it to be.  At that comment, he must’ve thought I was crazy, I thought to myself with a smile.

            As Amos was explaining the milking process to me and my dad, I tried listening, but it was difficult to hear very well above the roar of several ceiling fans in the barn.  But I observed Amos himself as he worked and spoke.  He appeared to be in his late twenties.  He wore traditional black trousers and a white shirt, and a yellow straw hat covered his brown hair.  Like me, he wore glasses.  He seemed very serious about his work like his job wasn’t one he took lightly.  I doubted that he ever did anything carelessly.

            After filling the big round container of milk, Amos moved into a small adjoining room, and with his permission, my dad followed.  Again, I brought up the rear.  As we entered, we saw a giant metal container.  This was where they stored the milk for the milk man to come pick up every other day, Amos explained to us.  The milk had just been picked up that day.  From there, it would go to the Land O’ Lakes dairy product company.

            Amos disappeared back into the room where the cows were, and my dad and I watched the container as we waited for him to return.  There wasn’t much to see since it was just an empty holding tank Amos had just finished cleaning out, but for people who live in the suburbs of a big city like Atlanta, there was something fascinating about just knowing that milk had been and was going to be again stored in there. 

I strolled to two nearby doors and looked out the windows of them to see several cages behind the barn.  Little black and white-spotted calves stood on trembly legs in their pens.  I could see too some of the Riehls’ green fields of farmland and their stored fodder wrapped in white tubes of plastic.

            My mom came up beside me as I returned to studying the metal container with my dad, and Daddy and I eagerly informed her of everything we had learned so far, talking as though we were seasoned experts on milking now in contrast to the green tourists we had been only a few minutes ago.

            Amos returned with another young man at his side.  This was Chris, the second oldest son of the family and whom my dad had already met on our arrival at the farm.  Chris also appeared to be somewhere in his twenties.  Like his brother, he wore black trousers along with a robin’s-egg blue shirt, but his hair was exposed without the covering of a straw hat.  It was a lighter brown than Amos’s hair, and the top layer was blonde- sun-bleached, I supposed.

            He and my dad began a conversation as Amos resumed his work, and before I knew it, I was following Chris and my parents out one of the side doors leading into the yard.  I was surprised as Chris obviously began taking us on a tour of the farm; according to the entries of the guest book in the house, Chris was usually the tour guide of the place, but Mrs. Riehl had told us they wouldn’t have time to give us an official tour that evening.  Nonetheless, Chris led us through the rows of wire pens, showing us all of the animals and answering all of my dad’s questions quite thoroughly and cheerfully.  He showed us the calves, and Momma and I laughed as they licked the metal wires of their cages with their pale thick tongues.  It looked like one was trying to lick my dad’s hand, which happened to be close to the wall of one pen as he talked to Chris.  We saw the roosters strutting proudly about and the hens comfortably roosting in their snug hen-house.  Two giant turkeys were kept in a big cage of chicken wire.  My mom shared with me her reasoning that one or both even might end up on the table come Thanksgiving.  Perhaps my favorite though were the many little chicks.  The little fuzz-balls of color were so adorable as they hopped about on their skinny legs.  My mom and I laughed as we stood watching them all chase one particular black chick around the cage as though they were all playing tag.  Round and round and in and out of the adjoining chicken house they would all run after the chick playing “It.”

            As my dad asked questions, Chris told him about the farm work.  He mentioned a tractor.  “Run by propane?” my dad asked, for we had always heard that the Amish weren’t allowed to use gasoline.  By the look on Chris’s face, he seemed very amused and even a little dazed at the unusual question.  No, it wasn’t run by propane, he replied with a smile.  I was beginning to think that the Amish weren’t as old-fashioned as we Englishers thought they were.  He led us past the towering silos and showed us one of their many buggies.  The buggy he showed us that was parked in the one of the outbuildings was gray and could hold four passengers.  I admired the plush green seat cushions and marveled at the headlights and lights inside the cab.  Very nifty, I thought to myself.  It was as up-to-date as buggies could come.

            Our guide then showed us a little hut of horse stalls where several of the family’s horses were housed.  I loved the way the animals all stuck out their noses to greet Chris as he passed by.  Nearby was a smaller outbuilding where we heard Mrs. Riehl’s father, Mr. Lapp, hard at work.  We saw also the Riehls’ vegetable garden and a little greenhouse that stood near to the earthy rows dotted with green cabbage, cauliflower, lettuce, and much more.  Cooked cauliflower was a favorite dish of Chris’s, he told us, the way his mother fixed it up with butter and everything else she added to it.

            As we walked along with Chris, we learned more about the family.  Four of the family’s eight children were boys, and the other four were girls.  Chris was to be married in December, only two months away, and you could tell he was excited about it.  What groom-to-be isn’t?  Mrs. Riehl would later tell us that times are difficult for starting up a dairy business right now, so Chris was considering raising steers instead of milking cows as his profession since that area of business seemed to be doing well.  Even at the time, Chris wasn’t working with cows; he had a construction job off of the farm.  With his father working off the farm as well doing something with solar panels we learned, that left Amos and the two younger brothers to work the farm.  Amos, we would also later learn, was to inherit the farm someday.  With his obvious diligence to his milking task and his apparent devotion to the family farm and business, I felt pretty confident that he’d make a great owner of the place someday.

            The two younger sons must’ve been Ivan and David, I decided.  Chris told us that David was seventeen-years-old- my age- and that he didn’t like cows.  I laughed to myself at that detail.  How ironic that a boy would grow up on a dairy farm and not like cows!  As for Ivan, I remembered one of the reviews online mentioning Ivan’s horse, so I assumed he was the horse-lover Mrs. Riehl had referred to.

            We made our way back to the barn, and as we entered, I saw through the doorway Amos still hard at work, whistling merrily as he went about his chores.  I smiled.  In its sound was a picture of simpler times, honest labor, and a life prioritizing the things that really matter in this world.  Things like faith and family.  Things that for generations the Amish have understood are truly important… something I often wonder if we’re still trying to learn in our hectic and sometimes chaotic lives.

            Chris led us through the doorway we had seen earlier and down the row of horses.  I noticed most of the stalls were empty since Ivan and David were using the mules in the front fields.  The family used their mules for most of the farm work and their horses for pulling the buggies, Chris told me.

            Our tour was over, and confessing with a smile that he was actually supposed to be helping his brother in the barn, Chris disappeared through the doorway toward where Amos was, and my parents and I left the young men to their work.  We turned our steps down the driveway toward the front field to watch the other two boys gather the fodder.  We wandered about halfway down the drive and stopped to watch.  It was an ingenious piece of farm equipment they were using, I thought.  One boy was at the front, driving the team of mules, while the other was standing on a large platform being pulled along behind.  I wasn’t sure how it all worked, but the machine appeared to be gathering the fodder on the ground and compacting it into bales which it sent out on a belt for the boy in the back to pick up and add to the growing stack.

            As we stood observing, Mr. Riehl appeared and approached where we were standing on the little bridge portion of the driveway, under which flowed a small stream.  Greetings and introductions were made.  Mr. Riehl was dressed like his sons- black trousers and a straw hat like his son Amos- and immediately, I liked him just as I had his wife when we had met only a few hours ago.  He was a friendly person, very amiable.  The kind of person you feel at ease around.  Again my dad, being the most outgoing of us three, struck up a conversation with the Amish man.  “Do you have a few minutes?” Mr. Riehl asked amidst the talk.  We assured him that we did, and he commenced to explain that there was a book he needed to pick up from the library.  My dad offered to drive him before the man even needed to voice the request he was leading up to.

            So off they went in the rental car, and my mom and I trudged back to the guest house to wait for their return.  We were surprised that the Amish man would feel so comfortable and open with us to ask for a ride, but I was excited at this promising start of making friends with the Amish family.  Their innocent trust only contributed to the charm of the place for me.

            When my dad returned, he was so excited to tell us all about his time that it was all he could do to contain the details until we were in the car and headed to Ruby Tuesdays to meet with our extended family for dinner.  On our way, he told us all about the Amish library and about his conversation with Mr. Riehl concerning the man’s genealogy study he was researching about his family.  They had talked about their work, their families… life.  “He’s just a regular guy trying to make a living,” Daddy had said.  His enthusiasm kindled warmth in my heart.  My mom has long had a love for the Amish people and their ways due to the Amish inspirational fiction novels from Beverly Lewis she reads, and after a few hours on the farm, I was head-over-heels for the place.  Now that moment of relating to the Amish man had been Daddy’s time to connect, and I’ll forever be grateful to Mr. Riehl for that opportunity he gave my dad.

            Over dinner that night, we told our extended family all about our first experiences on the farm.  I couldn’t wipe the beaming smile of enthusiasm from my face once we began, and I defended the place at any doubtful questions that arose.  I couldn’t find a negative thing to say about the family or the farm, and as my younger cousin acknowledged, I “liked it.”

And the Crickets Sang

            We returned from dinner that night and left all of the neon sign lights and busy traffic behind us again.  Lights were on in the barn as our car pulled up the driveway.  When I stepped out from the back seat, I heard activity and movement from within the building and knew the boys were still at work even at that late hour.

            We carefully made our way up to the side door of our guest house.  Solar-powered lights were staked into the grass, lighting the way, but the night was so dark, it was still difficult to see the pavers of the little path through the yard.  Inside though, we turned on the lights, and the warm glow drove the shadows away as we pulled down the green shades over the windows.

            Preparations were made for retiring for the night.  My mom moved all of her travel toiletry bags into the bathroom for her shower; I fussed around in my bedroom; and my dad nestled himself comfortably on the couch to flip through a provided book from the selection in the bookshelf as he waited for us girls to finish our nightly routine of getting ready for bed.  My cowboy boots thumped heavily against the linoleum floor as I made my bed ready for sleep and hung my purse on the peg-rack to give the bedroom a feel of my own.

            A sound suddenly came from the side door, and we all turned to the door in surprise.  Someone was trying to come in.  My dad rose from his seat on the couch and unlocked the door, opening it to see Mrs. Riehl.  She too seemed surprised, as though it was unusual that we would have the door locked.  This was the peaceful Amish country she lived in, but we were from Atlanta- the city- and even the suburbs where we lived was not a place to leave your doors unlocked at night or day.  It was ingrained in us; we couldn’t help it.

            Mrs. Riehl entered at our welcoming and explained that she just wished to show us how to work the propane heater stove and to put some fresh sheets away in one of the dresser drawers.  Again, we were amazed at how natural and down-to-earth the family was in our company.  She mentioned that she was going to be gone the next day visiting her daughter, but that she would bring breakfast by around seven thirty.  She told us not to worry about being up at that time; she would just leave the food on the table.  After she had gone, we questioned among us how she would get in if we locked the door, but we reasoned that likely she had a master key to the house.  As Mrs. Riehl made her way to the door to return to the main farmhouse, we engaged her in a conversation, and she began telling us some more about her family and their way of life.  They had two married daughters, she told us, and two granddaughters, one from each married daughter I would later learn.  Both her parents and Mr. Riehl’s parents lived on the property, she told us.  She stayed only a few minutes before she left though, despite my dad’s ceaseless questions voicing what my mom and I only thought of asking.

            That night, I fell asleep listening to the crickets sing outside my bedroom windows.  I can hear the crickets chirping at night when I lay in bed at home, but they were so loud here!  Everything was so quiet, so still.  Where was the rumble of cars passing by on the road outside our neighborhood?  Or of the speeding motorcycles whizzing by?  Or the barking dogs?

            I fell asleep without trouble, but I awoke early in the course of the night.  I looked at my cell phone.  It was about two thirty in the morning.  I was hot and couldn’t breathe very clearly due to a cold I had acquired while visiting Niagara Falls.  I tried falling back asleep, but my mind was too wide awake.  It wasn’t tired anymore and jumped alive and active as I began to reflect on our trip so far and of our first day in Lancaster County.  I kept looking at my cell phone.  Oh, the hours were dragging by so slowly!  I had planned to wake up at six fifteen the next morning in anticipation of being able to greet Mrs. Riehl good morning.  I also planned to ask her if I might help her and her family with any of their morning chores.  I hoped there would still be chores to be done at that time and that if there was something I could help with, she’d allow me.  Now as I laid there in bed, I began thinking of my plans for the morning, and I grew nervous at the thought.  Asking if I could help with their chores…  The question seemed bizarre.  How was I to word it so that it didn’t sound like such a very peculiar request?  I began rehearsing the question in my mind.  That led to wondering if I might make a friend with one of their daughters if I did get a chance to help them with their work, the thought leaving my stomach in a knot of excitement.

            I checked the time again.  Oh, I really needed to get some sleep!  We were going to see a play the following night, and I knew I didn’t want to be exhausted for it.  But it was useless trying to fall back asleep then anyways, so my thoughts kept in motion.  I grew more and more nervous as I kept thinking about the coming morning.  Who knew that one little question could cause such turmoil.  Should I or should I not go ahead with my plan, I kept questioning myself.  One minute I thought I would, but the next, I had decided against it.  Many times I almost chickened out, but always the thought of making a new friend returned my resolution to my mind.  This was a chance of a lifetime, I reminded myself, and it would only come once.  Besides, I knew I would scold myself later for being such a coward if I didn’t go through with it. 

            So the hours of the night crept by slowly.  About five thirty, I began hearing cars drive by on the street in front of the farm, and with the familiar sound was an unfamiliar one: the rapid clip-clop of horse hoofs on the pavement as buggies passed by.  Sometimes I would hear only the cars, other times, only the buggies.  And still at times, I would hear both simultaneously.  The sound of the buggies seemed out of place, or maybe it was really the cars that were out of place.  Either way, it was strange hearing such two very different worlds revolving in accord with each other, harmonizing not clashing, flowing together not colliding.

 Good Mornings

            Six o’clock finally came, and I decided not to wait the extra fifteen minutes for my alarm clock to ring.  Four and a half hours had been long enough to be staring at the wall in front of me.  Pulling back the covers of my bed, I sat up and slid my feet into my yellow and hot pink flip-flops.  They felt freezing to my warm feet.  I began getting ready for the day, checking my phone often to be sure I didn’t miss Mrs. Riehl’s coming. 

            It was seven o’clock by the time I had finished getting ready.  My bed was fixed neatly; I was dressed and ready for our hostess’s arrival.  But there was still at least half an hour to wait.  It seemed a lifetime after having already waited the entire night.  My parents were still sound asleep in their bedroom.  I was completely alone in the silence of the early morning… with nothing to do.  I thought of my netbook tucked away safely in my small duffel bag of miscellaneous items, but somehow, I didn’t feel like bringing out my media devices.  They seemed out of place there, like they would be intruding on the simplicity of the Amish ways… the ways I wanted to learn and live by as much as possible during my stay.  But how was I to fill my time then while waiting?

            I peered out the window of the front door.  It was a very dreary day- wet, cloudy, and foggy- but it wasn’t raining at least.  It seemed unbearable to be stuck in the house rather than being outside taking in the dewy morning on the farm, but I didn’t want my parents to wake up, find me gone, and the door unlocked.  They would surely worry, and my mom would panic.  But we were on an Amish farm.  I felt... safe there.  So I decided to chance it anyways.

            Walking as softly as possible with my tromping boots, I made my way across the kitchen and closed the door that separated the water heater room and the bathroom from the rest of the house, hoping to muffle the sounds of movement.  Daring to breathe again, I unlocked the side door and opened it and the screen door, praying that my parents wouldn’t wake up at the noisy creak.  All still seemed unaffected though, and I stepped outside and closed the door behind me.

            I felt like a bird released from its cage as I happily followed the pavers down to the black pavement before our guest house.  I could’ve even skipped, it felt so wonderful to breathe easily without being fearful of waking anyone up, being able to tromp and stride rather than tip-toe noiselessly.  Still, I couldn’t rid my mind of the concerns of a conscientious daughter; that I couldn’t shed quite as easily as a snake can its skin.  Anxiety of worrying my parents plagued my thoughts and drove me to often cast uneasy glances back at the windows of the house to see if I could detect any movement from within.  Nevertheless, being outdoors with an anxious mind was better than being inside staring at the clock, I reasoned.

            I zippered my light blue jacket and pulled its hood over my hair.  It was terribly chilly that morning, especially for a Southern girl.  Fall was certainly on its way.  Heavy moisture hung in the air as well, and although I knew it was horrible conditions for my sinus cold, I imprudently chose to ignore my common sense that time.  Once, I returned inside the house because of the bitter cold, but only for a minute did I stay indoors.  I couldn’t stand to be cooped up in that silent and sleepy place.  I was wide awake and wanted to be outside.  Stubborn, as always.  It would’ve served me right had my cold relapsed.

            I made my way over to the two chairs that stood outside the front door but found them wet from an early morning rain.  Oh, well.  I’d rather stand anyways, I decided.  Crossing my arms tightly to keep warm, I paced up and down in front of the guest house, avoiding the puddles of rainwater on the pavement.  I stopped by the gardens on either side and admired the vegetables and flowers growing there.  At the sound of activity in the barn, I wondered if Amos had finished the milking already.  I stood at the white railing of the fence and watched Ivan and David back in the front fields that morning.  Long ago, I had heard them first begin again.  One was wearing a yellow rain jacket so bright, you couldn’t miss him.  Working in the rain couldn’t be much fun, I realistically thought to myself.

            I smiled as a chorus of birds chirped and tweeted merrily from the branches over my head, and I watched the few horses that were grazing in the pastures.  I breathed deeply of the crisp morning air, sighing heavily in contentment as I gazed out across the landscape.  Wet or not, it was still breath-taking.  I could’ve been content living there for the rest of my life, I thought to myself. 

            I turned to see Mr. Riehl disappearing down the driveway on his way to work, wearing a neon-green reflecting vest and riding his scooter.  I watched as the straw hat faded from sight, regretting that I hadn’t seen him pass by so that I could wave good morning to him.  Little did I know then, that would be the last glimpse of Mr. Riehl I would have to remember him by.

            Minutes passed, and the boys finished their work in the fields.  I watched as they slowly made their way back to the barn.  One drove the yellow construction scooper filled with fodder bales while the other brother trudged behind in his yellow rain slicker.  I wasn’t going to miss another opportunity to say good morning.  I waited until the driver cast another glance my way, and then with a smile, I waved.  To my satisfaction, he waved back, although from where I stood, he appeared to do so a little skeptically.  As for his brother in the wet rain jacket, he never looked my way. 

            The boys disappeared from sight, and I turned back to admiring the scenery.  But I was growing impatient.  Impatient and I would soon be losing my nerve to ask Mrs. Riehl my big worrisome question if she didn’t appear soon.  I checked my cell phone.  But it wasn’t even seven thirty yet.

            David reappeared from the barn then for a moment as he went about his morning chores, and although he disappeared again another moment later, at least it was something new to watch if only for a second.  I smiled as a black and white Border collie tagged along behind him.  With the two Shelties and an old black and white dog my dad had been greeted by the other day, the family had four dogs as far as I knew.  But I hadn’t seen any cats.  Maybe they were around though, for a barn hardly seemed a barn without cats.

            I grew bored and cold, and my nose began to run.  When the rain began to sprinkle again, I returned indoors, half reluctant, half glad.  Stepping inside, I began to thaw out as the warmth of the propane heater seeped into my bones and stiff joints.  Still my parents were asleep, and on any other day, I would’ve been also.  But I had an important mission that morning.  I cautiously sat on the edge of the recliner whose springs, despite the great pains I took to be noiseless, creaked and groaned.  Too noisy.  With another episode of creaks, I stood up and began pacing quietly.  Then I sat for a minute in one of the wooden chairs of the kitchen table.  A moment later, I was up and pacing again.  I couldn’t sit still that morning for anything.

Dishes: Bridging the Gap

            It was about seven forty-five when Mrs. Riehl arrived.  I left the side door unlocked, thinking that it would cause less noise than if it was locked and she tried coming in.  “Good morning,” I greeted her as she entered.  She returned the greeting, and at her request, I helped her carry in the breakfast of dishes she was balancing.  Although I had closed my parents’ bedroom door, I was still concerned we would wake them up so I explained softly that my parents were still asleep.

Quietly we laid the dishes on the table, and then Mrs. Riehl turned to leave.  I was in a panic.  My big moment was slipping away; I was watching it fade.  I followed her to the door, my heart pounding and my stomach all in knots of nervousness.  Although I still second guessed myself, I spoke up.  “I actually had a question for you, if you don’t mind.”  She seemed in a hurry to leave, maybe to return to the house before the rain worsened, but she assured me with a smile that she didn’t mind.  I hastily closed off the rest of the house again to muffle the noise of our conversation for my parents.

And then I explained to her that I would really love for an opportunity to better experience their lifestyle while we were staying there, and I asked if there were any chores I could help her or her family with.  “I mean, I don’t wanna intrude, and I know you’re going to visit your daughter today,” I had added.  I told her I didn’t know a whole lot about farm work, but “drying dishes, sweeping… anything that needs to be done really.”  I tried to keep my voice from shaking nervously, but it still did, and my well-planned and rehearsed speech left me as I began.  I stumbled on my words, but she didn’t seem to mind if she noticed.

At my question she seemed surprised, but for a moment, her haste to leave seemed to fade.  She paused, thinking, and then, casting a glance back toward the house, she told me rather uncertainly that I could help her daughter with the breakfast dishes if I wanted to.  I eagerly agreed.  She said that they were eating breakfast now, but she told me that her daughter would come down to get me when she was ready for my help.  And then she quickly left, her hurriedness returned.

As I closed the door, reality hit.  I had done it!  But my stomach was in worse knots now.  Knots of excitement rather than nervousness though.  I returned to the kitchen and surveyed what our hostess had brought for breakfast.  A plate of slices of hearty bread and of what she had said was pumpkin bread, a condiment cup of some kind of preserves, and a bowl of peaches she had canned herself.  It all looked delicious, but I didn’t think I could eat anything without feeling sick.  Still I knew I had to eat something, so I noiselessly sat down at the table and ventured to choke down some pumpkin bread.  It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.  It was jaw-dropping delicious!  I couldn’t believe how moist it was, and it had the perfect taste for a chilly autumn morning. 

I was still eating when a knock came on the side door.  My stomach leapt into a knot again, and I hurried to answer.  I swung the door open, expecting to see an Amish girl, but to my surprise, my gaze fell upon Mrs. Riehl again.  She was wearing her black bonnet this time and looked like she was about to leave for her daughter’s house.  She told me that I could just go up to the house at about eight thirty to help her daughter with the breakfast dishes.  “Just go up to the front door?” I asked her.  She said yes and turned to leave again.  “Are you heading out now to visit your daughter?” I acknowledged with a smile.  She again said yes, and I barely had time to reply before she had left.  “Well, have a nice time,” I added, closing the door behind her.

I made my way back to my pumpkin bread and cast a glance up at the clock mounted on the kitchen wall.  It was still shadowed by the dim light of the dreary morning, but I could make out the numbers clearly.  It was only eight o’clock.  Oh, how would I ever survive waiting a whole half hour?  I took my seat at the wooden kitchen table again and read the little note I had left there for my parents to find when they woke up, explaining that I was up at the house helping my new Amish friends with their breakfast dishes.  And I resumed eating my pumpkin bread. 

But my thoughts raced with questions and the excitement and expectancy of making a new friend.  I had taken great consideration that morning as I was getting ready for my day, planning to help the family with their chores.  I had dressed in a neutral-tone plaid shirt and had concealed the vibrant pattern of my cowboy boots beneath my denim pants legs.  But as for my blue jeans… well, there wasn’t much I could do about that.  I had twisted my long hair up into a bun like how the Amish women wear their hair and secured the massive knot with a clip.  I had even left off my eye-shadow, but considering I rarely wear much of any other make-up, the sacrifice wasn’t too great.  Still, I had taken great pains to keep my appearance as inconspicuous as possible, and now I was glad for my decision.  I didn’t want to stand out, especially since there was a possibility of the Riehls’ sons still being around after the breakfast when I went up to the house.  I’m certainly far from being a flirt and wanting to catch attention.  Friendly, I try to be, but a flirt?  That’s not me.  I wanted to start off right with my new friends.

I finished my breakfast and sat in the darkness… waiting.  I checked my cell phone every few minutes.  If time had crept by before, now it inched.  Three minutes felt like seven, and five minutes felt like fifteen.  At that rate, I would drive myself out of my mind before eight thirty came!  But there was nothing to do except wait.  So I waited and looked at the clock.  And I waited and waited some more and checked the time again.  And then just when I thought I couldn’t wait anymore, my parents’ bedroom door creaked open, and my mom appeared, still drowsy and bleary-eyed from slumber.  I eagerly told her my plans.  I had to tell her twice.  “After all, ‘a man that has friends must show himself friendly’ (Proverbs 18:24 KJV),” I reminded her.  She was surprised that I had found the courage and the boldness to make such a request, but she was thrilled for me nonetheless and pointed out excitedly that I would get to see inside their house.  My mom and I enjoy admiring the interior decorating of homemakers, so an opportunity to see inside an Amish house should’ve had me elated, but truthfully, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.  But I supposed I would.  I had known I would be inside their home but hadn’t really thought anything of it.  But now I did.  Such a privilege was an author’s dream!    

By the time I had shared my exciting news with my mom, it was almost eight thirty.  How grateful I was for Momma’s company that helped the time go by swiftly!  At eight twenty-nine, I slipped my light jacket on and covered my hair with its hood.  My mom wished me good luck and a good time and reminded me not to be gone too long because we were to meet up with my aunt and uncle and cousins again that morning.  I assured her I wouldn’t be; after all, I was just going to do dishes.  Little did I know then that “just doing dishes” was to be an understatement of the century.

So I was off.  The rain was falling fast as I ran up the walk to the front door of the white farmhouse.  I hurried up the concrete stairs and slowed my steps once I was sheltered from the rain by the porch roof.  I hesitantly wandered up to the screen door.  Was I at the right place?  It looked more like the side door of the house than the front door.  There was a note taped to the door, and I stopped to read it.  It was instructions for the fruit man.  I glanced around the door for a doorbell but saw none.  I guessed I would just knock.  Suddenly a cheerful voice called out, “Come on in.”

I looked up through the screen door for the first time then and saw an Amish boy sitting in a recliner directly in front view from where I stood on the concrete porch.  He was staring at me.  I nervously opened the door and stepped inside to find myself in a large room.  Before me was the family room where the blond-haired Amish boy sat.  Embarrassed, I diverted my gaze from falling on him, but later I concluded that he must’ve been Ivan.  I turned to the right to see an Amish young woman standing at the kitchen sink, clearly the one who had called out.  David and Amos stood near the kitchen table behind her.  Chris must’ve already left for his construction job, I later reasoned.  I noted that over the sink, there was a window looking out toward the side yard, and I realized then that they had been watching me ascend the porch steps and hesitantly approach the door, stopping to read the note to the fruit man.  How embarrassing, I thought to myself, but I tried not to give it much thought for fear my cheeks would blush crimson.  To add to my discomfort, David and Amos were staring at me too.  It was one thing to have Englishers staying in their guest house all the time, but I guess it was another thing to have them inside their own home.  I suddenly felt terribly self-conscious.

But all that crossed my mind within seconds.  “So my mom told me you want to help me with the dishes,” the young woman spoke up with a welcoming smile.  “If you don’t mind,” I replied, feeling a little shy now and out of place.  “I know it probably sounds ridiculous me wanting to do dishes, but it isn’t every day I get a chance to make a new friend… especially out of state,” I explained a little awkwardly as I made my way over to the sink where she stood.  David was within my peripheral vision, and I could still see him watching us- I could feel him watching me.  As for Amos and Ivan, they were out of my view now. 

I turned my gaze down to the dishes the young woman was washing.  “Well, what would you like me to do?” I asked, pushing up the sleeves of my jacket as I spoke.  She told me I could finish washing the dishes because she had to get ready soon to leave for work.  My thoughts froze in panic.  Oh, no.  You see, I’m not exactly the best at housekeeping skills, and dishwashing is no exception.  But dish-drying is.  I had assumed that she would wash the dishes and I would dry them, but that wasn’t going to be the case.  “All right,” I agreed cheerfully though.  She stepped aside, and I took her place at the sink.  I turned to the stack of dishes piled on the countertop.  Pans, mixing bowls, plastic storage containers and lids, cooking utensils, knives, plates, mugs, cutlery, bowls, cups.  “Whoa.  Talk about some major dishes,” I thought to myself.  I didn’t even know it was possible to use so many dishes for one meal, but I masked my surprise.  “What needs to be washed?  All of these?” I asked composedly, indicating to the massive pile of dishes stacked in each other and taking up a large portion of the countertop.  She confirmed my assumption.  Oh, well.  I just wouldn’t think about it and would take one dish at a time, I decided.  So optimistically I began.  Truthfully, I didn’t mind.  The family was so sweet and so generous opening their guest house to us, that I was glad for opportunity to do something for them in return.  Besides, I’ve learned that there’s so much more satisfaction and enjoyment in serving rather than being served.  “Just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” (Matthew 20:28 NIV)

            So I began washing, and the Amish young woman began drying the dishes already in the drying rack on the counter beside the sink.  A moment later, as she was putting away the dishes, I heard her talk to her brothers in their Pennsylvania Dutch language.  Like her mother, she too spoke with an accent.  I obviously didn’t know what was said, but after she had been speaking with them for a minute, the boys suddenly dispersed and disappeared outside, leaving the two of us girls in the kitchen alone.  I was grateful to not feel like I was being watched, and soon I began growing more comfortable as the two of us talked.  We talked about our families, about the rainy weather, about my schooling, about my family’s plans for the rest of the day, about her new baby niece.  Oh, how I adore babies!  She said that her dad had said my father drove him on his errand the prior day.  I couldn’t help wondering what else had been said about my parents and I and what their opinion was of us.  I probably fumbled on my words a few times at first in our conversation, and later I prayed that my answers to her questions were at least logical, but whether or not I did stumble through replying to her friendly questions, she was gracious and didn’t indicate that she noticed at all if I did.  As the time drew by though, my nervousness disappeared, and I grew more comfortable and at ease. 

She told me her name, and I told her mine, but I was so nervous at the time, her name didn’t settle in my memory.  I later wished I had asked her to tell me it again.  She was twenty-two, and her unmarried sister was twenty-five, she told me.  She mentioned that her brother was getting married in December, and with a playful smile, I asked her meaningfully if there were any more wedding bells in the near future.  She laughed, and I loved the merry sound of it.  “Not that I know of,” she replied, seeming to pink a little with a girlish blush at the thought.  I learned that she worked at a flower shop in the Kitchen Kettle Village in Intercourse.  My family and I had just been there in the cluster of shops the day before.  Normally she rode her scooter into the town, but today her brother would hook up the buggy and drive her there because of the weather, she explained.  She needed to leave at nine o’clock.  I looked at the clock mounted on the wall.  Nine o’clock was drawing near.  I apologized for being such a slow dish-washer.  “I guess that comes from not getting a lot of practice,” I said.  She assured me it was all right, but she asked who did the dishes at my home.  My mom?  I explained that we don’t normally have big meals for breakfast and lunch so there aren’t many dishes to wash, but that at dinner, we have our dishwasher for most of it.  “But for the pots and pans, my mom washes them, and I dry them,” I had added.  I assured her I could finish up the dishes if she needed to leave.  On a second thought, I realized she might not be comfortable leaving me alone in their house, but I decided it was better to leave the comment as it was.

She began getting ready to leave for her work.  Behind me, she stood at a mirror mounted on the kitchen wall opposite the sink and let down her hair from its bun.  Amish women always wear their hair pulled back and covered when they’re in public so to see her with her hair let down was a privilege.  Its long length was light brown like mine, but without the natural streaks of blond highlights.  It was very wavy and looked so soft as she brushed it smooth.  It was truly beautiful, but then, she was a very pretty girl.  Her skin tone was fairer than mine, and her eyes seemed to shine softly with a permanent smile.  Being there as she was getting ready, just the two of us girls alone, it felt very close.  Very intimate.  It felt almost like what my Englisher friends and I would call “girl time.”  I had been surprised to see a mirror though; I had thought the Amish people weren’t allowed to have mirrors, but I was obviously wrong.

We didn’t talk the whole time.  I’m not a natural conversationalist like my dad; I’m better at putting my words down on paper where I can weigh them, think through them, and plan them.  Even in the moments of silence though, it didn’t feel awkward.  It was a comfortable silence, at least on my part.

Eventually, she disappeared up the staircase off of the kitchen and reappeared a short minute later, wearing a different dress.  She had changed from her maroon dress and black apron into a light blue dress.  Both colors looked great on her.  As she gathered her lunch items together to take with her, I looked out the window from the dishes I was washing and saw Amos in the barn, hitching one of their horses up to a buggy.  Shortly after nine o’clock, my companion left beneath the shelter of her umbrella with her arms heavy-laden with her lunch articles.  I was delightedly surprised that she trusted me enough to leave me alone in their house.  Before she had left, she thanked me for doing the dishes.  “Oh, you’re welcome.  Thank you for letting me,” I had replied.  “Have a nice day,” I had added as she left the house.  I was sorry to see her leave but thankful for the time we had spent together.  It had brought me a sense of connection to them all.  I felt, in a strange sense, like they were my family.

 The Boy Who Dislikes Cows

 When the Riehls’ daughter left, I still had quite a stack of dishes to wash.  You see, I’m very meticulous and a terrible perfectionist.  The dishes had to be spotless to satisfy me.  There was a light over the kitchen table behind me and the window over the sink provided natural light, but it was so dreary outdoors, it was difficult to see the little crumbs of food in the dimness.  There were so many dishes, I had to stop washing to dry some of them to make room in the drying rack for more.  And sometimes, as I was drying, I found some of them still dirty and had to go back and wash them again.  It was no fast process to be sure.  I tried singing one of my favorite songs to myself as I worked, but somehow Brandon Heath’s song lyrics seemed out of place there in the Amish kitchen.  I was beginning to feel like the Riehls’ little housekeeper, and the thought brought a smile to my face.

After my Amish friend drove off in the buggy with Amos, I was left alone in the house, and alone I remained.  There was no sight of the other boys, Ivan and David.  I figured they were probably hiding out in the barn until I left.  I couldn’t blame them though; after all, I’d feel pretty awkward if I were them, being in my house alone with a strange girl and feeling obligated to make conversation.  So it seemed I wouldn’t receive an opportunity to befriend any other members of the family.

Eventually I grew warm in the cozy kitchen, and I paused to take off my light jacket.  I turned, searching for a place to set it, and remembered my promise to tell my mom all about what the house looked like.  So as I laid my jacket down on the kitchen table, I swept a long glance about the room.  My gaze moved slowly to take it all in.

Before me, with the kitchen sink at my back, was the large wooden table in the center of the kitchen, and on the opposite wall was mounted the small mirror the Amish young woman had used.  On the wall was the staircase leading up to the second story of the farmhouse, and off of this wall was also hallway leading to the back of the house.  At the end of the hall, I could see through the open doorway of a bedroom a bed and a peg-rack holding black trousers on the wall.  On the wall of the hallway, there was another long wooden peg-rack holding a row of straw hats.

The far left corner of the wall sunk back to form the living room.  A cluster of comfortable, plush family room furniture was grouped here where Ivan had been sitting when I had entered.  Moving around the large room, the wall adjoining held a row of windows adorned with white curtains.  Between the windows, hung a magnificent wooden cuckoo clock which sung out several times during the course of my dish-washing.  The little tune it played was beautiful, and I took a great pleasure in listening to it sing.  A sewing table stood beneath the windows at the far left of this wall, and heaps of clothes and fabric were mounded on the table around the white sewing machine. 

The walls joined at the corner, and then there was the side door on the next wall.  Then there was the white mud sink, and the long row of wooden cabinets and countertop where the sink dipped into, and the refrigerator.  On the next wall, there was another short hallway.  Through the open doorway at the end of it, I saw what appeared to be an office chair so I assumed it might be an office.  Down there was the back door too through which the boys had disappeared.  Next on the wall was a wooden roll-top desk with the white kitchen trashcan at its side.  I’ve always had a particular fondness for those desks.  And then the wall met the first wall where the mirror hung.  I had expected the Amish farmhouse to be very different from an Englisher’s home, but it really wasn’t.  In fact, with a few additions like a dishwasher, I could’ve lived quite comfortably in the place myself.

Over the kitchen table hung a light which looked like a lantern.  It matched the feel of the house perfectly.  And from the kitchen ceiling there hung a circular drying rack crowded with pairs of white socks hanging from it by wooden clothespins.  I smiled when my gaze fell upon it.  Honestly, it made me love the place even more.  To me, it was like a character in a book.  Just as quirks make you fall in love with a character, so it was the little details that added uniqueness to the farm and made it even more endearing to me.

But I still had a stack of dishes left to wash, so I turned back to the sink.  It was still pouring down rain outside; it seemed it would never let up.  And then I saw through the window, David appear in the barn.  He looked about hesitantly and then made a run across the side yard toward the house porch.  Yes!  Oh, how I hoped he would be brave enough to come into the kitchen!  I so wanted another opportunity to talk to someone, and I couldn’t have been happier had it been anyone else.

I admit I had a particular attraction to David.  No, it wasn’t a romantic attraction, but he was my age and we were both the youngest in our families; I felt I could connect and relate to him better for those reasons.  And besides, he seemed to be one of the less sociable members of the family.  Maybe he wasn’t too keen about having Englishers stay on the farm, or maybe he was just shy and reserved.  Whatever the reason though, it made me want to befriend him even more.  I can never turn down a good challenge.

I felt the presence of someone else in the room with me then and turned to see an elderly Amish man enter the kitchen.  He was wearing black trousers, a white shirt, and a black jacket.  On his hoary head was his yellow straw hat, and on his face was a warm smile.  I greeted him with a friendly smile in return and expressed a verbal greeting.  It was terribly awkward to be a stranger alone there at the kitchen sink.  How was I to explain why I was there?  Especially since I couldn’t remember the Riehls’ daughter’s name.  “I’m just finishing washing the breakfast dishes,” I offered in explanation with another smile.

David entered the kitchen from the hallway leading to the back door, and he spared me any further explanations as he told his grandfather that his sister had left for the flower shop.  He too spoke with an accent like his mother’s and sister’s.  Behind where I had turned back to the dishes, I heard the two talk to each other in their Pennsylvania Dutch.  Of course, I still didn’t understand what was being said.  The elderly man walked over to the screen door of the kitchen and staring out at the rain, mentioned something about his wife.  Mrs. Riehl’s mother had recently had heart-surgery, and if I gathered correctly, the Amish man was waiting for the arrival of someone who had some connection to her recovery.  Mr. Lapp stepped from the house and under the shelter of his white and red umbrella, made his way across the wet yard to the barn, leaving David and I alone in the kitchen.

With his disappearance, I felt a need to break the silence that followed.  “It’s really a soaker out there,” I acknowledged as I washed another dish.  David offered no comment but stood there, still a little breathless from running through the downpour of rain.  On a second thought, I wondered if he would know what a “soaker” was.  I didn’t even know if it was a real word to be used in that sense or if it was just something I made up and used all the time.  “It’s really coming down out there, isn’t it?” I rephrased my comment, casting a smile over my shoulder at him.  He stood there, dripping rainwater onto the wooden floor of the kitchen.  His blond hair was wet and sticking to his forehead, and his black trousers, dark red shirt, and black vest were soaked through.

He agreed with my observation of the rain torrent, and we exchanged a few remarks about working in the rain.  Then he disappeared up the stairs, and I returned my attention to my sponge and dishes.  But he reappeared a moment later, wearing a dry set of clothes.  I recognized when his footsteps clunked down the stairs and then stopped on the floor of the kitchen.  “Feel warmer now with a dry shirt?” I asked him with a friendly smile.  I lowered my gaze to the soapy water again as he agreed in few words that he was.

He made his way over to the white mud sink that stood by the screen door and retrieving his black comb from its place, he commenced to brush his bedraggled tangle of still-damp hair.  I felt terribly awkward, like I was intruding on his privacy by being there, but either he didn’t feel uncomfortable at all or he was very good at masking it.  Fortunately, I was no longer nervous; after being in the house for so long, I had grown quite comfortable in it, and my confidence and friendly disposition had returned.  So I took advantage of the opportunity for conversation.

“So let me guess… you must be David,” I broke the silence with a smile.  He seemed almost surprised at the sound of my voice, as if he had forgotten I even stood there only the counter-length distance of feet away from him, but he turned his attention to me as he confirmed my assumption.  I nodded.  “And you’re the one who your brother said doesn’t like cows, is that right?” I asked playfully.  I cast him a glance, allowing my eyes to laugh, and my smile brightened further as he smiled boyishly.  Yeah, that was him, he told me good-naturedly, almost sheepishly even.  I laughed softly as I turned back to wiping a dirty dish. 

“So, David, what do you plan on doing someday then if you don’t wanna own a dairy farm?” I prompted him to conversation.  He told me he was thinking about maybe raising steers, like we had learned his brother Chris was considering.  I smiled.  “Really?  I actually wanted to raise cattle at one time, believe it or not… but things didn’t exactly go that route,” I added, laying a cooking utensil inside the drying rack.  Of course, that dream had been exchanged with a stronger desire to become an author instead.  I hoped his curiosity would prompt him to ask me what had changed my mind and then the conversation would be continued.  He didn’t.  Instead he returned his comb to its place and started across the kitchen toward the back door down the hallway.  But he stopped in his steps and turned back.  He acknowledged questioningly that we were staying on the farm another night.  I wasn’t sure where he was going with the question, but I nodded and told him with a smile that yes, my parents and I would be staying that night and then leaving in the morning.  I didn’t know if he thought that was a good thing or a bad thing- his tone of voice indicated neither- but to me, it was a very good thing.  He nodded in seeming satisfaction with my response, and then he disappeared from the kitchen and was gone.   

Shortly thereafter, I finished washing and drying the breakfast dishes after an hour and a half of standing there.  The boys were probably astounded at how long it had taken me, I thought in amusement to myself.  The two sides of the sink each had a bucket of soapy water, one in which I had washed the dishes and the other in which I had rinsed them.  I dumped these buckets of water into the sink just as the Riehls’ daughter had instructed me to do when I had finished.  But the water stayed in the sink.  I felt around for a drain at the bottom of the sink’s two sides but felt none.  I began to question myself.  Had I misunderstood her instructions?  I had wished David would reappear again so I could ask him, but since he didn’t, I had no choice but to leave the sink full of soapy water.  At least they had very clean dishes, I told myself to try to make me feel better about it.  I never would find out if I had goofed or not.

I wiped down the countertop, hung up the dishtowel, and left the dishes stacked neatly as I had been instructed to.  Casting another fond glance about the familiar kitchen, I turned off the light over the table and reluctantly left the farmhouse.

 The Last Night: Saying Goodbye

 I was late in returning to the guest house, as I had underestimated the amount of dishes there would be to wash, but my parents were just finishing getting ready for the day anyways when I entered.  I finished putting my make-up on and then told them all about my experience and walked out the layout of the kitchen as they ate breakfast.  I still didn’t feel much like eating anything more than the pumpkin bread I had two hours before, but I did try Mrs. Riehl’s home-canned peaches.  Like her pumpkin bread, they too were delicious.

We spent the day browsing through more of the shops in Intercourse again with our extended family.  We dodged in and out of the stores, trying to keep dry from the pelting rain and making memories of good times, big smiles, and joyous laughter all the while.  That evening, my parents and I attended a play dramatizing the Bible story of Jonah at the Sight and Sound Millennium Theatre.  I loved the play, but it was our last night in Lancaster County, and my heart was heavy-burdened with the thought after the excitement and crowds of the theater had faded to silence again where I sat in the back seat of the car.  Several times I almost cried that evening, although I never let my parents see how difficult this goodbye was going to be for me.  I had no idea that I would grow so attached to the farm and to the loving family that owned it.

It was nightfall by the time we returned to the farm.  As my dad slowly drove up the driveway, we noticed a small beam of light.  As we neared, I watched David appear from the barn.  The dot of white light from his headlamp traveled across the side yard as he made his way back to the farmhouse.  Bright illumination radiated through the windows of the house and pierced through the darkness of the night with its warm glow.  I smiled at the homey feeling it gave me, but my smile was weakened by the painful thought of leaving that beautiful place in the morning.  How I would miss that place and the family who I had affectionately begun calling “my Amish family.”  I no longer had the Englisher’s view of them that I had when I had first stepped foot on the farm.  I was leaving having learned that they weren’t very different from me at all really.  In fact, I was quite ready to become Amish myself. 

As Daddy opened my car door, I stepped out, and my boots gave a thud once again as they landed solidly on the pavement.  I swept a glance around the farm cloaked in the nightfall.  I breathed deeply, taking in all of the scents I had grown to love: the smell of the livestock, the fresh air, the dewy moisture still lingering, the up-turned earth still damp from the heavy rain.  I had wished I could capture it all in a bottle and bring it back to Georgia with me.  The truth of it was I was beginning to feel homesick.  But not for Atlanta, Georgia.  I was beginning to feel homesick for Beacon Hollow at the thought of leaving it. 

The crickets chirped their nightly lullaby as my parents and I made our way to our guest house.  I sighed in perfect contentment, trying to capture the beauty of the moment to remember.  That was a trip I knew I would never forget.

I slept soundly that night after being awake for most of the night prior, and when I drew back my covers in the morning, my mom was awake and Mrs. Riehl had already brought breakfast.  She had left for us hearty bread again with preserves, a sort of blueberry custard, orange juice, and cookies- chocolate chip and what tasted like brown sugar cookies.  We brought the leftovers cookies with us for a snack later in the day.

During breakfast, my mom read aloud the five-page letter I had written to the Riehls.  In it, I had attempted to convey in words just how much that stay had meant to me, and I had thanked them each personally for their part in making my time there so memorable.  My resistance to the tears was a brilliant effort, but as I listened to her read the words of my letter, I couldn’t restrain them any longer, and they came freely.  I had known they would have to come sometime.  In truth, I’m not an emotional person; rarely do I cry.  So when I’m moved to tears, you know a deep chord of my emotions has been struck.

When we left a short time later, I stepped from the guest house with the burden of woeful thoughts.  I knew I would be leaving a portion of my heart behind there on the farm.  It was raining again that morning, but I didn’t mind.  I clutched my pillow to my chest as I made my way to our rental car.  I had wondered if the Riehls would come to say goodbye, but no one was in sight.  It was probably for the best though, I told myself; it would’ve been terribly humiliating to cry in front of them as I said goodbye.  My dad opened the back door for me, and as I set my things inside on the back seat, I saw him wave at someone in the barn.  I turned and in the shadows of the building, I thought I saw Amos.  So I climbed into the car with a smile after all.

Daddy slowly drove down the driveway and turned onto the road running before the farm.  I looked back for a last glimpse through my window of the rising white farmhouse and barn- beautiful Beacon Hollow.  I would miss it tremendously, I knew.

Epilogue

 We were on our way to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, and the next day, our vacation would end.  I would have to return to my hectic, stressful, and fast-paced world.  I dreaded it.  And as I stared out the window at the trees whizzing by on the side of the interstate, I mourned for my Amish farm and my Amish family.  I tried not to think about it for fear of crying again, but I couldn’t help thinking of it.  The memory of saying goodbye to it all loomed at the forefront of my thoughts.  When my dad cast a glance over his shoulder at me from the driver’s seat and asked how I was doing there in the back seat, it was all I could do to choke out a positive reply and steady again the tremble in my voice.

I didn’t know what to do.  I knew I couldn’t go through the remainder of our vacation in such a solemn state, but I couldn’t rid myself of the grief of losing that piece of paradise.  I had felt such a peace there, I had felt safe and secure from the harshness of the world, accepted and instinctively understood in a way that few people knew me because they never took the time to get to know the real me.  I yearned with all of my heart to return.  I couldn’t jump from their world back into mine, but I didn’t know what the transition would be.  Where was I to go from there?

And then, a thought struck me.  I had been blessed with the gift of words, with the ability to express my thoughts and my emotions on paper.  Did I truly have to leave the Riehls and their Beacon Hollow behind?  I hadn’t been able to capture it all in a bottle, but could I preserve the memory of my stay through words on paper instead?  I had friends and family members with whom I had promised to share details of our stay, but I knew I couldn’t effectively relay to them the entirety of its beauty.  But maybe through the power of my words I could provide them with an opportunity for a personal experience of their own.

I reached over to my duffel bag beside me on the back seat, and unzipping it, I pulled out my notebook and a pen and began.  Shaking a little with the motion of the car, my hand slowly moved across the top of the paper: The Riehl Deal.

My stay on the Amish farm had ended.  No deep conversations had been held during my visit, and no promise for letters had been exchanged.  So did I fail in my attempt to make new friends?  That’s for you to decide for yourself.   

The following afternoon, our plane flight landed in Atlanta, Georgia.  I was home, but as I had expected, a part of my heart had been left behind in Gordonville, Pennsylvania.  I fell back into my old routine, my old habits, and my old ways.  The music on my iPod resumed, and my text messaging continued.  But I would forever have the memory of my stay on Beacon Hollow recorded.  I still think of the Riehls often.  In the mornings, I think of the womenfolk in the kitchen; in the evenings, I think of Amos in the barn, milking the cows and whistling as he goes about his chores.  On rainy days, I close my eyes, and I can see David standing there in the kitchen again, soaked through and his hair dripping water droplets.  And I still believe I could very easily become Amish and live happily in Lancaster County for the rest of my life.  Whenever I miss the Riehls terribly, I open my book of our visit, and I’m there at my Amish home once more.  I smile, laugh, and cry all over again.

My time on the farm was precious, but it was not to last forever.  I have learned that I have my own unique purpose and calling in my world, and it is not for me to spend my time yearning for times in the past.  I have been specifically planted where I am, the Lord has taught me.  The Riehls’ place of belonging is in Gordonville, Pennsylvania; mine is in Loganville, Georgia.  My stay there on the farm was brief, but I am grateful for the opportunity I received to experience such a beautiful place.  Perhaps someday I’ll return, but until then, I’ve returned to my world to fulfill the plans the Lord has ordained for my steps, though the impact of that trip has certainly influenced my perspective on life.  Time continues, and each day draws the memory of that visit farther into the past, but my “real deal” experience was one I will carry with me for the rest of my lifetime.  When I think of the Riehls and their Beacon Hollow Farm, I’ll always smile, and its memory will kindle a loving warmth inside my heart forever. 

 

          With Special thanks to the Riehls for their hospitality; to my parents for providing me with the incredible opportunity to stay on an Amish farm and for sharing the memories of the trip with me; and most importantly, to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, the greatest Author of all Who is forever delighting me with new chapters in my life that are far greater than I could ever imagine.

 

The Guest House:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Farm: