“Rainy days and Mondays always get me down.” So goes an old song. Mondays may be a little tough, but a rainy day is a blessing. When we were kids, a summer rain was something to play in. My own children loved it, and so did you. The scent of rain is so refreshing, and the summer heat is broken, if only temporarily.
Some places have only seasonal rains. I can think of one such place. Israel. When we visited there in November of 2013, the first shower of the fall rainy season came as we toured Nazareth Village. The folks there were overjoyed, and thanked us for bringing the “blessing.” We had nothing to do with it, but learned how appreciative the people are for the rain . Over there they call it the early rain and the latter rain. That’s not just a biblical analogy referring to the coming of the Holy Spirit. The analogy is drawn from the literal happenings in that part of the world.
I guess Texas and Oklahoma would like a break. Why is it that some parts of the country are over-blessed and other parts are drying up. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have water pipelines across our country, than oil? I don’t know. One thing for sure, we have to have water. Seems a shame that the earth is covered with so much of it, while many land areas suffer from shortage. We have desalination plants to produce fresh water from the oceans, but we need a lot more. Investing in water seems like a better option than offshore oil rigs. There is probably a good explanation for this. Or maybe not.
It’s been tough for my Amish neighbors to get the hay off their fields. Over two weeks ago they mowed some clover on Ammon’s and Jecky’s farms. Then the rains came. Finally, the hay was spoiled, so they raked it up, loaded it on the wagons with pitchforks, and made big piles in the pasture. There it will rot and turn to compost. They had me worried though. When I saw them loading the moist hay onto the wagons, I figured we were going to hear about a barn fire. Shame on me. They’re smarter than that.
The next day they mowed more. And the rains came. There was an inch in the rain gauge Thursday evening. Today it is raining again—another inch in the gauge. Farming is a gamble, but when you’re dependent on the weather, you learn to have hope.
Strawberry season is over. They were delicious! Now the primitive signs at the ends of driveways are advertising black raspberries. Add those to your cornflakes with some milk and sugar. Or just skip the corn flakes altogether. Either way—amazing goodness!
I have a story for you about Amish hats. There is no connection to rain as the title may seem to imply, but it’s a story that demonstrates the impossibly intricate system of Swartzentruber Amish rules—at least from our point of view.
Several weeks ago, Juanita and I were part of a gathering of folks who came in from quite a few different states for a weekend with Lue and Bert from Mount Eaton. They’ve become friends with Lue through her facebook and blog pages, and she invited them to spend a weekend in Amish Country. As former Old Order Amish, Lue and Bert have lived the life, and have the inside story. We were invited to participate and really enjoyed ourselves.
In the process of planning, I offered to pick up some door prizes. One thing on my list was a genuine Swartzentruber straw hat made locally in a Swartzentruber home. I wasn’t sure where to find one, so I started asking around. As a last resort, I knew I could get one that looks almost identical, at one of the local stores, for the going rate of thirty dollars.
I asked Eli G., a Swartzie basket seller, where I might purchase a hat, but when I asked, I sensed some hesitation in his answer, and (as noted in a previous post) wondered out loud if they may not want to sell to an Englishman. He wasn’t sure. But he gave me directions to a place back a very long lane.
Out by the road, where the long lane went in, there was a small house advertising more baskets.
“Let’s just go in here and double check,” I says to myself.
After looking at all the fine basket wares, I chose a small round one that can set on the toilet tank to hold the ever-elusive spare roll of toilet paper. We all need a little container like that, in that place. It’s just not fun when you discover that the TP roll is down to two squares and it’s not enough. That’s when you find yourself with your clothes around your ankles, kneeling on the floor reaching way back in the cupboard for another roll, and to your great chagrin, learn that the last one is gone.
I asked the basket-selling gentleman if he knew where I might buy a straw hat. He didn’t take the bait, and said that he didn’t know.
“Now what?” I says to myself.
Then gathering up my best fake puzzled look, I mentioned that somewhere back a long lane in his neighborhood I heard that someone makes them.
That’s when his memory kicked in and he said, “Yes, they do, but they probably won’t sell to you.”
“Because I’m English?”
“Yes.”
“But,” says he, suddenly remembering, “I think you will be able to get one at Uriah Petersheim’s—and proceeded to explain how to get there.
I paid him for the basket, thanked him, and went on my way with hope.
Petersheim’s house was a few miles away, over Hog Back Road, then over Salt Creek Road, and back a lane that was so cobbled up, I was fearful that my car would not pass over the boulders protruding from dirt.
You see, Swartzentruber Amish aren’t allowed to have gravel or crushed stone in their driveways, and some times of the year, buggies are the only thing that can get in and out.
After a slow and careful drive, I pulled up beside a very poor-looking house. A teenage girl came out to meet me at the fence. I explained to her what I was looking for, and offered that maybe they don’t sell to English people.
“Yes, we sell hat’s to English. Follow me.”
I followed her through the house to a back room where a row of shelves held the coveted straw hats.
“Up there on the top shelf are the English hats,” she said.
I looked, and could not tell the difference between those and the hats on the other shelves, except that they seemed to be slightly shorter. I liked the taller ones—which also had slightly wider brims, but those were on the lower shelves.
“So you won’t sell me one of these?” I said, pointing to one on the bottom shelf.
“Yes, I will sell it to you, but the ribbon will have to be changed.”
That’s when I glanced back up and noticed the slight difference in the width of the black ribbons. So that’s how they get around it! They really can’t sell me an Amish hat, but if the ribbon is slightly wider, it becomes an English hat. My goodness! They have it all figured out.
The young lady proceeded to change the ribbon, and I paid the sum of twelve dollars for my authentic Swartzentruber straw hat, and nobody else in the world except them will ever notice the difference in the width of the black ribbon that goes around the crown. I guess these things are important to them, but I don’t know why.
It was a lady who won the hat for a door prize at the gathering. She looked as happy as a dog with two tails. She put it on and wore it proudly for the remainder of the evening. Bless her heart.
And that’s the about all we have to share today from Kidron, Ohio. Looks like the sun is peeking out, and it’s a good time for a walk. Have a wonderful day.
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