The Best Birthday Present

While walking along the roads among the Amish, there are scenes that remind me of my childhood on the farm just north of Elida, Ohio.  Our east boundary was the Ottawa River—known by locals as Hog Creek—a great place for growing boys who loved to play in water, and take hikes along the banks.  There we lived simply, growing a large garden, milking our Jerseys, and tending our sheep.   Our social “media” was neighbors and church.  Our entertainment was a record player, with large black discs going in circles—a needle tracing tiny lines on the surface—somehow converting that motion to the wonderful voices of J. D. Sumner and the Blackwood Brothers Gospel Quartet, accompanied by the thrilling sounds of piano.  Looking back, there wasn’t a day when it seemed we were deprived of anything.   

The walks on Zuercher Road re-assure me that families can still live very simply, and be happy.  On Tuesday, when I came to Jacob's farm, it was milking time, so I walked through the open doors of the barn, about thirty feet off the road.  It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the shadows and the dim light in the windowless area where they milk the cows.  And there they were—Jacob, his wife,  and four children ranging in age from about twelve-years-old, to upper teens—two sons and two daughters—lined up between the cows, sitting on tiny stools, squeezing steady streams of pure white milk into the buckets.

They smiled and greeted me when I walked in.   We made some small talk about the cows and the crops, and then as people always do, we talked about the weather.  They don’t have radios, so any mention of the forecast is appreciated.  It was a pleasure to tell them that there is no rain predicted for several days.  This was good news.  They have hay on the ground, and it will need to dry for a day or two before bringing it into the barn.  But it was the friendly, smiling faces, and the wholesome goodness of seeing them working together that meant the most to me.  Wish they could have known how much I enjoyed the scene, the scent of cows and milk, the nostalgia that came along with the mixture.  As I left the barn amid friendly goodbyes, and headed north on Zuercher, my mind took a trip back in time.  Way back.  Back to the farm on Hog Creek.

Jacob's farm

More Swartzentruber Amish farm buildings. 

More Amish neighbors.  This is one more typical set of farm buildings.  Love scenes like this.

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According to my best recollections it was my ninth birthday.  I had been reading a lot of books by now about pioneers and Indians.  Cowboys too.  And I was dreaming about a pony of my own.  After all, most of my storybook heroes rode horses, and I was longing to do the same.  My oldest brother already had a horse—a mean horse named Sam, but he was too big for me, and besides, he had bad habits that made him dangerous for all but experienced adult riders.

Still, I wanted a pony.  It would be the perfect size for a nine-year-old boy.  But sadly, I had to face the cold hard facts.  There just wouldn’t be a pony—we didn’t get gifts that large.  Birthdays were fun, and gifts were appreciated, but we didn’t get much on those special days—or at Christmas either for that matter.  It was a different time, and we lived simply.

So I quit dreaming about a pony and decided that a BB gun was what I wanted. Maybe, just maybe, a BB gun would be affordable. With it I could plink tin cans, and protect our Hog Creek farm from outlaws.  But again, I knew down deep that I wouldn’t be getting a BB gun.  It would probably cost too much and be too dangerous.

Okay, how about a ball glove?  I was beginning to play softball with my brothers, and during school recess, and didn’t have a glove of my own.  Of course, our family had a couple that were old and flat, but they had long ago worn so thin that they were only slightly better than catching the ball barehanded.  Yes, a ball glove would be a really nice present.  On the other hand, I didn’t remember any of my brothers getting a glove for a birthday present, so I probably wasn’t going to get one either.

My list of hopeful items was getting smaller and smaller.  There was one thing that would be fun, and I was sure we could afford it.  A kaleidoscope.  You aim those towards a light and look into the one end.  Then you began turning them.  All kinds of beautiful, very colorful symmetric shapes and patterns emerge.  A kaleidoscope would be a nice gift, and reasonably priced.

It was difficult to wait—wondering what my present would be.  We ate our supper that evening and then Mom brought out the cake—my favorite—a homemade yellow sponge cake covered with white icing and nine candles.  The family sang happy birthday to me, and mom began cutting generous slices and putting them into our dishes.  Naturally, the birthday-boy received the first piece.   I poured fresh, sweet, rich Jersey milk on it, and tasted the first bite.  It was delicious!  I enjoyed every bit of it, right down to the last soggy yellow crumb—still wondering what my gift was going to be.  Mom had told me that I needed to wait until after supper, and after the dishes were done, before getting my gift.

As soon as the meal was over, dad and my older brothers donned their chore coats and headed out the back door to milk and feed the cows while the rest of us remained in the kitchen to do dishes.  We quickly worked our way through all the colored plates and cups, and the miss-matched everyday silverware.  Outside on the back porch, Corky, the little black-and-white dog, happily wolfed down his bowl of table-scraps, while some cats sat around him at a safe distance, longing for a taste of the morsels, but knowing they would get nothing but an empty dish to lick.

Then it was the moment I had been waiting so impatiently for. I headed into the living room and sat down on the couch—my eyes staring expectantly toward Mom and Dad’s bedroom door, where Mom had just disappeared.   I didn’t have to wait long.  She walked through the doorway, holding something behind her back, and slowly approached the couch where I was waiting.  I can still hear her words.   “I’m sorry Dave, this is all we could afford.”  

Now she was holding my present out towards me.  She looked miserable, and the gift wasn’t even wrapped.  I looked in astonishment at the object in her hand.  Of course it wasn’t a pony.  It wasn’t a BB gun.  It wasn’t a ball glove.  It wasn’t even a kaleidoscope.  It was a new pair of blue jeans—something I needed anyway. 

 “I’m sorry Dave,” she said, “I know you need them anyway, we just didn’t have the money to get anything else.”  

I continued staring in disbelief and disappointment.  Of course there was no money.  Why did my birthday have to be so soon after Christmas?  But feeling sorry for myself didn’t change anything.  

I sat there on the couch holding my new blue jeans, and mom was still looking sad.  It took a few moments for this disappointing reality to sink in, and then I noticed something.  What was that smell?  I pressed my nose into the jeans and took a long, hard sniff.  Ah, they smelled so. . .  so. . . brand new!  That may seem strange, but with four older brothers and a mom who was an expert at mending and patching, this was likely the first new pair of jeans I had ever owned.  Up until now my jeans were faded, patched, and worn by at least two older brothers.  These new ones were dark blue, and stiff, and smelled really good.  

I tried them on and of course, they were too big.  Back then, moms and dads didn’t buy clothes to fit.  They bought them large so a growing boy could grow into them, and maybe even wear them for a year or more.  These jeans were long enough that I had to roll them twice to make them the right length.  And mom sewed a couple of temporary “darts” into the waist to make them snugger.  Then, as I grew, the darts were taken out and the cuffs were rolled down.  We didn’t protest—it was just the way it was.  More birthdays would come.  Maybe someday there would be a pony or a BB gun.  Maybe.  Just maybe.

And that would be the end of the story...except that perhaps it would be good to explain why the jeans were the best birthday present ever.  It wasn’t because I wanted them.  Nope.  I wanted other things.  It was the best birthday of my childhood because I remember it.  In fact, it is the only one I can remember.

 I remember the pained and disappointed expression on mom’s face.  I remember my own disappointment.  But on the other hand, I remember the delicious yellow sponge cake and the scent of new jeans.  I remember Gene sitting beside me singing our brotherly version of Happy Birthday under his breath.  “You look like a monkey, and you act like one too.”  

But most of all I’m reminded of those simpler days when birthdays didn’t have to be big celebrations—when it was fun just having Mom and Dad and brothers sitting around a table, eating cake and being a family.  

A couple weeks ago I went to Rural King Ohio to pick up oil and a filter for the truck.  That’s also a good place to buy Wranglers, so a pair of those were included in the cart.   After arriving home, the jeans went to the dresser drawer, but not before a little ritual.  As always, there was the undeniable need to press my nose into the dark blue material and take a long, deep sniff.  At that moment, I was once again transported to the living room of the big old farmhouse, nestled in a field near the banks of Hog Creek, the place of my birth and early childhood—where the formative years were filled with an education in all things that are truly important.

From Kidron, Ohio, we wish you a happy August.  June and July were a blink of the eye.  Time slows down for no man.  Take a moment to do what the homely, but improving, men of our small town do.  They love relaxing on the back patio with a beautiful wife, looking over an abundant garden, smelling the drifting scent of the volunteer Four-0-Clocks in the flowerbed next to the house, and being thankful for their children, their children’s choices for life mates, for wonderful grandchildren, and the many blessings of life.