No Words

The accidental shooting mystery has most likely been solved.  A neighbor from about one-half mile south of the incident came forward, admitting that he fired in Johnny’s direction with a .22 caliber rifle at about the same time that the lad was struck in the head.  The man shot at some pigeons on the ground, and when they took off, he fired another round into the air.   The authorities took the rifle, and they will do testing to determine if it was the gun that fired the recovered slug.  Johnny is fine.  It was only a flesh wound.  Hopefully, an important lesson was learned.  Johnny’s family has no desire for charges to be pressed, but it remains to be seen what the authorities will do once the testing is complete.

They had church at Jacob’s place last Sunday.  Jacob was chosen by “lot” some years ago to be one of the preachers in his district.  It’s a big load to be chosen as preacher, and most Amish men do not want to be in that position.  Yet, they see it as God’s calling, and accept the duties of preacher with humility.  

Church at Jacob's place.  A few of the buggies parked around the buildings.

Jacob and his family are making plans to move away from Kidron, to a place where land is more readily available for his children.  It was disappointing to hear it, yet I don’t blame him.  Land around here is hard to come by, and expensive.  A small town in southern Ohio, named Peebles, has a growing Amish population.  Jacob and his wife both have siblings already living in that area, so that will make it easier to move there.  I asked Jacob if he will still be a preacher when he moves.  “Yes,” he shook his head positively, “I’m a preacher until I die.  That’s the way it is for us.”   

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What do you do when you have no words?  After thinking and thinking, and thinking some more, it appeared there would be nothing to share this week except for the neighborhood tidbits above.   It’s been forty-four consecutive weeks since “accidentally” beginning this weekly writing, and then turning it into a blog.  Never really had any intention of starting it in the first place, until the rumspringa kids disturbed my Sunday afternoon nap last November, and it was “necessary” to write about it.  The response was gratifying, and that set in motion a desire to continue.  Until today, it has been fairly easy to come up with material.  Writer’s block, I think they call it.

For the two or three people who seem to really look forward to these ramblings and reflections, the thought of disappointing you is disconcerting.   So I thought a whole lot more.  Then I remembered an incident from way, way back, probably thirty-five years ago, when my friend had nothing to say either.

It was an interesting day—that Sunday long ago when our children were small.  Our pastor was a full-time mason, and part-time pastor.  Everyone knows how that works though—basically two full-time jobs.  Our church was small, and couldn't support a full-time pastor, so Leon did both.  As good-hearted as the day is long, and one who pulled no punches, Leon spoke his mind firmly and with conviction, yet in a way that also left you sensing the humility behind the words.  His sermons were well prepared and delivered with enthusiasm.   And he looked after the people of the church with love and care—having the true heart of a pastor.

Leon also knew how to initiate and hold a good conversation.  He was about sixteen years older than me, and we deer-hunted together a lot, while our wives often spent the day together.  I didn't know it at the time, but he was more than a friend.  It was he who reached out to me and first invited me along to hunt, and through those years we had many good conversations—deep, thought-provoking conversations.  I recognized it years later—when our paths had headed different directions—that he had been my mentor.   He didn't need me, but he had reached out, and helped me grow in faith and maturity while sharing in the mutual interest of hunting deer and putting meat on the table.  What probably meant the most to me, is that he often asked my opinion about things.  This was confidence-building, and I didn’t know how much I’d miss him until later.  He mentored other young men too.  Before and after me.  That was one of his gifts.  He’s gone now—has been for quite a few years.  He died as the result of a bicycling accident.   

What made that one Sunday so interesting those many years ago, was the sermon.  Actually, there was no sermon.  On that day, Leon stood up and said, “Today, I have nothing.  There will be no sermon.”  He said it matter-of-factly, with some embarrassment.  He said he just felt “dry” that week, and tired, and hadn’t had any inspiration from the Lord for a message.  So there was no sermon.  He wasn’t blaming God.  He was just stating a fact.  He called for the song leader to lead a few extra songs, and then church was dismissed.   I will never forget that Sunday.  I loved it for a couple reasons.  It was fun to get out early—especially when each Sunday was a struggle with young children—trying to keep them quiet and occupied.  But most of all, it was a meaningful experience to see that preachers are just like the rest of us, and their connection with our great big God is little different than our own.  Perhaps their calling is different, and their gifts are different, but they are human too.   It was a blessing to see it.  

Here’s the thing.  Leon was brave enough to admit he had nothing to say that day.   Perhaps he could have pulled an old sermon from his files and shared it.  Perhaps he could have read a scripture and made some comments about it.  He had some options like that, but no, he was honest.  Some might think he let us down, or that there was something wrong with his spiritual life.  Lord, have mercy on us if we judge another person that way.   May we all show the same mercy that we need to be shown.

Leon’s honesty was much appreciated that day, and honestly, (I admit this with some shame),  I don’t remember a single sermon of his.  Hundreds of them went into my head and back out.  Perhaps there were some truths absorbed, and truths retained and assimilated as a result of those years, but the “sermon” he preached when he had no words was the best one, and the “sermon” he lived with his life was even better.  

Folks, today’s writing began with nothing to share, but it comes to me now that these few words do have significance.  We all have lives that impact us.  Though words are important, it is not so much what people say that we remember, but how they live their lives, and how they make us feel when we are with them.   A good lesson to remember.  A great way to live.   

From Kidron, Ohio, have a wonderful weekend.   So long.

This sign is near our home, welcoming people to Kidron, Ohio. Come see our lovely part of the world some time.

Johnny's "Luck", and Sorghum Cookies

KIDRON, Ohio - A 17-year-old Amish boy was shot in the head Thursday morning while plowing a field near Kidron.  The Wayne County Sheriff's Department reports John Hershberger was struck with a .22 caliber stray bullet just after 9 a.m.  He was using a horse-drawn plow when he felt something strike him in the head.  He noticed he was bleeding and, leaving the horses in the field, walked to his home to tell his father about the injury.

The Amish family does not have a phone so they went next door where a neighbor dialed 911.  John was taken to Aultman Hospital in Canton and X-Rays showed the bullet lodged under the skin on his head.  The bullet was removed Thursday afternoon and the boy was released from the hospital.  Authorities believe the bullet may have come from as far away as a mile, perhaps from someone hunting squirrels.

Johnny is lucky to be alive.  That’s what some would say.  Personally, I’ve never liked the word “luck.”  It’s definitely puzzling though,  when a freak accident like this happens.  Why was he hit in the first place?  What kind of luck is that?  Just a few inches difference, and he wouldn’t even have known that a bullet whizzed past his head.  Makes you wonder how often we are so close to death, and don’t even know it.  As a God-follower, it is comforting to know that He is aware of all the details in our lives, and He can prevent tragedies, or allow them.  And He can make good things happen out of tragic events.  It takes a lot of trust, and that’s tough sometimes.

What about the Amish girl that died a couple years ago in the same type of stray-bullet event?  She was more than a mile away from the shooter who, by the way, was identified, and must live with this the rest of his life.  Only God knows the whys and why nots.  We’re just thanking God that Johnny was not seriously hurt.

I spoke with Johnny last evening as I went past.  I thought he’d probably be out there working in the field again, so copies of the news articles were in my pocket.  Thought he might like to read them.  Sure enough, he was in the same field harrowing the plowed ground, preparing it for planting winter wheat.  He had no idea how “famous” he had become in one day.  He will probably enjoy seeing his name in print, but likely feel embarrassed at all the attention.  

So that’s the big news in our neighborhood this week.  Again, so thankful that the injuries were minor.  For those who hunt and target practice, it is a lesson to always keep in mind how far a bullet can travel, and what can happen when there is nothing but air beyond the intended target.  BE CAREFUL!

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Sorghum.  At last the project has reached completion.  From mail-ordered seeds that arrived in May, to sorghum syrup in my jars on the counter, to molasses crinkle cookies.  It was a fun, educational experience, but like the okra we mentioned last week, I probably won’t raise it again.  Sorghum syrup can be purchased from a local Swartzentruber Amishman for $5.50 per quart.  That makes the effort of raising, stripping, taking the stalks somewhere to get them squeezed, and cooking down the sweet juice into finished syrup, more costly than buying it from him.  Still, there was value and fun in the experience, and I’m glad I did it.

The first seeds were planted mid-May, but apparently the ground was not warm enough, and the germination rate was low.  Planted two more rows the first of June, and the germination rate was nearly 100%.  Then, it was just a matter of weeding, cultivating, and waiting.  The stalks grew over twelve feet tall, with large seed heads on top.  As previously arranged with Jacob’s brother-in-law, Ammon, I stripped the stalks and cut them down on Wednesday, and took them for squeezing on Friday.  I had no idea how much or how little juice I should expect from my roughly three-hundred stalks.  That isn’t much of a crop, but I wanted to do it in a small way while learning.

My stack of sorghum stalks

Friday morning found me pulling back a long, dusty lane to Ammon’s place with my bundle of sorghum.  He was there at his machine, running a few sample stalks through it to make sure it was operational.  My sorghum would be the first for the year.  His boiling operation was not yet going, but since I was going to do my own boiling, he started with me.  Next to the building were large stacks of stalks already there, waiting for him to work his magic.

An end-view of the crushing wheels, and the collection vats where the juice is strained and then rolled into the building where the cooking vats are located.

Ammon uses a diesel engine to power the rollers and a silo chopper/blower that the squeezed stalks are carried into.   As the stalks come out the backside of the rollers, they get chopped into bits and blown onto a pile where they will later be used as compost on his fields.

The crushing wheels.

The juice running from the spout into my bucket.

Ammon’s set-up is really geared for a lot of production.  The squeezed juice runs down a pipe into vats where it is strained, and from there into steam-heated boiling vats.  Two of them.  The steam is created by a wood-fired boiler that actually looks like an old steam engine.  Steam lines run from the boiler to the insides of the cooking pans.  Ammon said when he is up and running, he is squeezing, boiling, and finishing all at the same time.  He said the squeezing mill can barely keep up with the boiling and finishing.  When I was there, this process was not started yet, and he invited me to come back later next week when he will be running full bore.  Really looking forward to that.

My squeezings amounted to about six gallons of juice.  That’s all.  This would not be enough for my maple syrup boiling pan, so I cooked it in the house in a two-burner pan--the original maple sap cooking pan when we were just starting out many years ago.  Ammon figured I’d get maybe two quarts of sorghum syrup from that amount of juice.

This is the juice in a two-burner pan on my kitchen stove.  

Now here is another reason I probably won’t do this again.  All was well for the first four or five hours.  Just let it boil and occasionally skim off the green froth.  When the syrup reached 220 degrees, it began to foam up in the pan.  It needed to get to at least 226 degrees to be finished.  Because of the foaming, I had to cut the heat a lot.  For the next three or four hours it was necessary to hover over the stove and watch it closely.  This was painful and boring.  My feet hurt, and my eyes wanted to sleep.  Finally, at 11 P.M. the sorghum had reached 226 degrees and tested at 78% sugar.  That’s the correct sugar content according to most information that I could find.

After several hours of cooking, I moved it into this smaller, finishing pot.  This illustrates how hard it was to keep it from boiling over.  There were only about three inches of syrup in this pot, but it foamed up to the top--about eight inches.

The finished product was darker than anticipated, and somewhat tangier as well.  Still, it was delicious!  That’s the way it works when we do things ourselves.  The pleasure and appreciation is greatly multiplied.

Before cleaning up some sticky droppings, and crashing into bed for the night, there were just over two quarts of thick, sweet, sorghum syrup sitting on my counter.  Ammon guessed correctly.

Molasses crinkles cookies were mixed up this morning using our fresh sorghum, and baked this afternoon.  Talk about delicious!  Best cookies ever!  Can’t say it enough--when you put your own sweat equity into something, it is always so much better.

Molasses Crinkles

And that’s all for today from our little home town of Kidron, Ohio, where fall is in the air, and the homely men are wrapping up the summer projects and dreaming about deer hunting.  The beautiful Swiss women are busy putting away tomato juice, salsa, and applesauce, and in their spare time, making quilts and comforters for the cold winter months.  The children are back into the swing of things at school, coming home starved and tired, and ready for a glass of milk and a handful of molasses crinkle cookies.

So long.

Baked Goods

Mom’s diaries have really opened the door to memories.  Little snippets here and there become like a spark in a dry forest.  The details of long-forgotten events come roaring back, and it’s been great fun to relive them.  It would take a long time to describe the fires that have been lit in my mind, but we’ll share one of them here.

August 10, 1961  “Dick (Dad) and Dickie went with some fellow to Columbus to a car auction.  Dickie got a 1960 Ford.”

Dickie is my oldest brother.  Today he goes by “Dick.”   Seemed like he set the pace for all us younger siblings.  His talents were many, but he always impressed me with his ability to burp words.  He could very clearly enunciate “Rabbit” and “Ralph” and a few others.  And he was a hard worker—a good example for us.  

As for his 1960 Ford, it was a white, two-door, hard-top Starliner with a V8 under the hood.  It came with fender skirts and a muffler bypass.  It sounded hot, and ran like a scared jackrabbit.  Dick loved the car, and he loved his woman—the pretty Bucher girl who became our first sister-in-law.  Margaret and Dick made a good-looking couple in a sharp car, and all of us brothers were proud of them.  However, there was one rule.  DO NOT LAY A FINGER ON THE CAR!  In fact, at our house, this was the 11th commandment, “Touch not the Ford Starliner, for thou art unclean—and in the day that thou touchest it, thou shalt surely die.”  Dick has loosened up in the last fifty years.  He’s a really kind and generous man, and I’ll say this yet; he’s always taken great care of his vehicles, and I wouldn’t hesitate for a minute to purchase one that he is ready to sell.

And pie.  It’s mentioned in the diaries a lot!  I love pie.  Especially fruit pie, but not limited to that.  Pecan pie pretty much tops the list.  I guess it’s Mom’s fault.  After reading her diaries, I noticed that many Saturdays included a line like this, “Made a lot of pies.”

I remember those pies.  I remember her teaching me how to make the fancy edges by going around the circle using thumbs and forefingers to pinch the dough into delicious wavy goodness.  Then she’d take a butter knife and scratch four curving lines on the surface of the top crust.  Sort of like a large pound sign.  Then she’d put some fancy little holes between the lines to let out the steam.  This was her signature.  If a pie had those markings, everyone knew that Elizabeth made it.  And the pies were known to be excellent!

My dear wife knows how much I like pie, but she has the good sense to rarely make them.  Therefore, I have learned to make them myself.  Pumpkin pie is my specialty—having developed my own recipe which is a combination of Mom’s and Juanita’s Mom’s recipes.  Might as well admit right here that I’ve been known to take two pies to family gatherings, and hide one of them so I can bring it back home to eat.  I admit this with shame.  Just a little bit of shame.  Not much, really.  

Lately, I’ve been purchasing fruit pies once a week at an Amish home.  These folks are of the Swartzentruber variety.  They live along Route 250 between Kansas Road and Kohler Road.  What caught my eye earlier this summer was a boy about ten years old out by the road waving a sign and holding a loaf of bread.  I couldn’t resist.  Came home with a peach pie and a loaf of sourdough bread.  Both were really good.  Each week since then, I go back for a pie.  Sometimes peach, sometimes rhubarb.  

I’ve mentioned to several people that I’m purchasing pies from a Swartzentruber Amish family, and invariably I get the same reaction.

“You trust their cooking?”  

“Yes I do.”

“But they’re dirty.”

“Not all of them, and besides, the pies have all the germs baked out.”

I get a look of pity sometimes, and a shake of the head sometimes, but that’s okay.  The questions are based on observations, and I understand it.  Swartzentrubers are the lowest order of Amish, tending to be the poorest, and yes, their homesteads often appear pretty cluttered.  Sometimes there  are chickens running around the yard, and cats hanging out on the porch.  Sometimes their everyday clothing looks pretty worn out.  In the summers, they are always barefooted—men, women, and children.  When I stop to talk with Jacob and his family during evening milking times, their feet are dirty from a day’s work, and sometimes have manure on them.  So yes, I understand why people think they are not clean.  But I also understand that they are people just like me.  Unlike me though, they have limited opportunities to make a living because of the many rules and restrictions of their religion.

That’s why it is fun to help the Swartzentruber Amish by purchasing things they are selling, and getting acquainted with them.  They really do not go out of their way to talk with the English—it’s the dollars they want—but I have found that over a period of time, they will loosen up and be open to a friendly conversation.  The boy who usually sells the baked goods could hardly utter two words the first time I stopped.  I even wondered if he was handicapped.  No, he’s not.  He will talk with me now in a relaxed manner, and is usually joined by three younger brothers, and sometimes an older sister.

When I walk away with my purchase, the young man always smiles widely and says, “I hope you enjoy the pie.”  I assure him that I will.

Last evening John, the Dad, was training a horse near the fence when I stopped for pie, and it was a pleasure to have a conversation with him too.  We talked about the horse, and about the weather.  These Amish farmers are particularly interested in getting some information on the forecast, since they don’t have radios.  This breaks the ice, and soon you have a person who looks forward to your stops.

My sorghum is nearly ready to be squeezed and the juice cooked.  I raised some this year for the first time.  Every year I like to try something new.  Last year, it was okra.  It was okay, and had a great flavor, but when eaten raw, it was very slimy.  A lot of people—at least northerners—don’t care much for okra because of the slime.  I probably won’t grow it again.

The end product of sorghum is sorghum syrup—not to be confused with molasses.  You thought it was the same thing?  So did I.  After reading up on it, I learned that molasses is a byproduct of making sugar from the sugarcane stalks.  Sorghum syrup is made by boiling down the juice squeezed from the sorghum stalks.  The two products are similar, and can be used interchangeably, but they are not same.  Lesson over.

Sorghum stalks must be run through tight rollers to squeeze out the juice, which is then cooked down.  I stopped at Jacobs the other day as they were milking, and asked if he knew anyone who squeezes sorghum.  He paused in his milking and looked happy to be of assistance.

“Yes, if you go down Zuercher Road to State Route 241, just before you get there, turn right into the driveway at the buggy shop.  Go way back the lane to Ammon Zook’s farm.  He’s my wife’s brother.  He’ll squeeze it for you.”

So I did.  It was 1 P.M. daylight savings time when I went.  Since the Amish see no reason for the silliness of saving daylight, they do not change their clocks, so it was 12 noon for Ammon.  Got there just as he was headed to the house for lunch.  If you want to catch an Amishman away from his shop or field, plan to arrive at noon, or just before dark.  Any other time, and they will often not be available.

This is sorghum.  Looks a lot like corn at this stage.  Later, seed heads grow out the top.

Ammon will squeeze my sorghum next week.  I took a stalk along to show him, and he gave it a hard twist to check the juice.  Yes, he said it was nearly ready.  I had my refractometer along—the one I use for maple syrup—to check the sugar content of the juice.  We put some drops on the little glass, and peered into the end of the scope.  Eighteen percent sugar.  Ammon said that was really good.  He said it is typically between twelve and sixteen percent sugar.  The ratio for cooking it down is about 10 to 1.  In other words, ten gallons of squeezed juice will cook down to about one gallon of sorghum syrup.  That’s a rule of thumb.  With a higher percentage of sugar it will take perhaps eight or nine gallons to make one.  I’m looking forward to next week.  Maybe Ammon will let me get some pictures of the process.  The juice will be brought home and cooked down in my maple syrup evaporator pan.  And maybe we’ll make some molasses cookies.  Or would that be sorghum cookies?  Whatever.  They’ll be extra tasty because the syrup came from home.

Right now it’s time for a piece of Fannie Miller’s homemade peach pie that was baked in a wood-fired kitchen stove.  Maybe we’ll microwave it for thirty seconds and add a scoop of Ruggles vanilla ice-cream.  

And that’s all for today.  From Kidron, the loveliest small town in Wayne County, Ohio—a place that has been home for this old Elida boy since 1965.  Fifty years.  Sure glad we landed here.  Don’t know what I’d do without my beautiful Swiss woman, and the children we share.   

 

Mom's Diaries

This was a mistake.  I knew it almost as soon as posting last week’s story, and saying that  “Mom’s Diaries” would be next.   After multiple attempts to distill a few of her diaries into a few short paragraphs, it wasn’t possible.  So we’ll just hit some highlights and make a few comments.

First though, about the week around Kidron.  It’s been good.  September is here, and whether we like it or not, summer is nearly over.  We put up our last batch of V-6 yesterday.  Primarily tomato juice, but with five other veggies added to it.  Yesterday, we accidentally made V-7.  Juanita added parsley flakes, and then realized it wasn’t parsley.  It was cilantro.  That’s okay.  We like that too.  We finished with forty-eight quarts for the year.   We shared some with Mom, since her canning days are over.  V-6 makes a great soup base.  We use it in chili soup and vegetable soup.  One of my favorite quick meals is to make a grilled cheese sandwich and dip it in hot V-6.  I’ll leave the recipe at the end of the writing.

Stored away for winter

It’s been interesting to watch the Amish farmers this week.  They’re about all filling their silos with corn.  They help each other bring in wagon loads of corn—ears and stalks included—chopped off just above ground level.  At the silo they have a chopper-blower that cuts it into small pieces and blows it up the chute to the top of the silo, where it piles up inside for winter feed.  It will go through a fermentation process inside the silo, and come out smelling wonderful.  At least I think so.  I tried eating it once because it smelled so good.  Tasted pretty sour.  Makes sweet milk, though.

Now the diaries.

It’s not likely there will ever be another diary that garners as much attention as the Diary of Anne Frank.  It has succeeded in captivating audiences all over the world, and has been published in more than sixty languages.  None of us would want to experience the events she recorded, and few would have such talent to write about it.

However, a lot of people have kept a daily diary for many years.  Ordinary people like us.  They have no desire to see their writing published or read by anyone other than family, and perhaps not even by them.  Yet, they keep plugging away, recording the mundane events of life, and sometimes making an important note worth pausing to think about.  

The truth is, even ordinary people leave a big mark on the world as they go about each day, working and living a life of integrity—giving the gift of steadfastness, and being an example for the next generation.  That describes Mom.  She’s always been there, and her hands have rarely been idle.  She’s old now and still loves to keep busy, but at ninety-six, age is catching up with her.  It is difficult to do the things she’s always loved to do.  

Fifty-five years ago, she began keeping diary.  The first book is dated 1960.  The diaries keep stacking up in a brown cardboard box in the closet—fifty-five of them now—rarely to reappear unless she wants to check on the date of some past event.  And that’s why I asked her if I could read them—to make sure the events recorded in some of my writings are accurate.  Mom said she almost threw the diaries away a while back.  Who would want to read them, she reasoned—just the everyday experiences of an ordinary person.

Wrong!

To me, they are a treasure—the documentation of the happenings of a person dear to me, and a window into the life of a very busy, industrious person who bore six boys, nursed them, cared for them, and raised them with love—always putting family ahead of herself.

Dad and Mom were ten years old when the Great Depression hit in 1929.  At that time, Grandpa Ross was a successful farmer and had his farm paid off.  He mortgaged this first farm to purchase a second one, and he was trusted by the banks to co-sign notes for others.  According to Dad’s memory, there were several occasions where the banker would tell those who needed money, “If Mr. Ross will co-sign for you, we’ll loan you the money.”  And he did.   Then came the depression, and he couldn’t cover all the loans, so he lost everything.  

That set the stage for a generation of very frugal people.  Mom and Dad grew up learning to do without, and to be extremely careful with what was available.  Even when times got better, the habits of living simply were set.  Food for the table was raised in the garden and put away in jars for the winter.  By the time I came along, there were already four older brothers, and a family of seven went through a lot of groceries.  

Just like most of Mom and Dad’s contemporaries, and fellow Mennonites, ours was a very traditional family.  Dad was the breadwinner, and Mom stayed home looking after the needs of the family.  This was no easy task.  As her diaries so aptly record, each day was chock full of work and family care.

Mom was a woman with a plan and a schedule.  Every week was pretty much the same.  Washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, sewing and mending on Wednesday, (she made all her own clothes, and many of ours), cleaning the boys bedrooms on Thursday, cleaning most of the house and getting groceries on Friday, finishing the cleaning on Saturday morning, and baking on Saturday afternoon.  Sunday was the Lord’s day, and unless she recorded that someone was sick, her diary always said. “Went to church A.M. and P.M.”  

Listen to some of these entries.  (Thanks, Mom, for such beautiful handwriting.  Makes it easy to read.)

Monday, January 4, 1960 Did my wash.  Washed clothes by hand.  Ironed the weekend wash.  Howard Flory started putting in the cupboards for my range and and oven.  Dick(Dad) to a meeting at the Lima Rescue Mission this evening.

Tuesday, Jan. 5. David’s birthday.  Did the ironing.  Made dish towels out of Mom’s old table cloths.  Did a little mending.  Howard here working on cupboards.  Dickie (oldest son) went to chorus practice.  Dick went to a meeting at the school, for ministers and Delphos mission workers.  Did some sewing this evening.

Dad went to a lot of meetings.  Some notations in the diaries said, “all of us at home this evening for once.”

Wednesday, July 27, 1960 Cleaned the boy's bedrooms today.  Washed all the bedding.  Washed the curtains.  Stan, Wes, and Dick to Bible school.  The rest of us to prayer meeting.

By this time, Mom was well into her pregnancy with son number six—a surprise child.  In addition to being a busy mom, she spent a lot of time sewing carpet rags for Grandpa.  He had a loom, and made many rugs.  Mom was also considered the only person in that area to go to when the men of the church bought a new suit and needed someone to convert the coat from lay-down lapels, to a “plain coat”—a coat that resembles those worn by Catholic priests.  She needed some help.   Check out her week.

Monday, August 1, 1960.  Washed clothes this A.M.  This P.M. Esther, Evelyn, and Elnora Good were here and worked at my apples.  I worked on Merlin’s (plain) coat for a while.  Bertha Whitcher came too.  We put up 45 quarts of applesauce.

Tuesday, August 2, Worked up more apples, the last of them.  Have 110 quarts.

Wednesday, August 3.  Was plumb worn out.  Didn’t do too much today.  Cleaned up the house.   The boys and I went to prayer meeting tonight.

Thursday, August 4.  We cleaned up upstairs.  Mended this P.M.  Dickie went to the Dr. and got his physical to enter college.  Guess he will go.

Friday, August 5.  Did a wash and most of my cleaning.

Saturday, August 6.  Finished the cleaning.  Fixed for a picnic.  Put 18 boxes of corn in the freezer.  Quarts, pints, and ⅔ quarts.

Saturday, August 13.  Canned peaches all day.  The boys helped.  Got 56 quarts.  

Sunday, August 14.  Dickie went with the chorus down to Breman today.  The rest of us went to Delphos (Bethel Mennonite—a mission outreach of Pike Mennonite) this A.M. and P.M.  I went to bed early.

I should say so!  She was tired!  Can’t imagine why.  Then comes Monday.

Monday, August 15. Canned peaches all day.  The boys helped.  The boys picked (and shelled) the Lima beans.  Put 5 quart in freezer.  We made ice cream this evening.

Tuesday, August 16.  Finished canning peaches.  22 quarts today.  Have 150 quarts now.  A few didn’t seal.  Did a huge wash too.

Wednesday, August 17.  Stan and I did some ironing this A.M.  Also made 5 peach pies.  Laura (a friend from church who was also pregnant) and I went to Dr. Wright this P.M.  Dickie worked late.  The rest of us went to prayer meeting at Delphos.  Gene Crisenbery went with us.

And over and over again.  Each week had some small variations on washing, ironing, mending, and baking.  One thing I learned is that Stan did a lot of ironing.  Shirley is grateful for that training.  He is still good at it.

I also learned that Wes and Gene baked a lot of cookies.  I was good at eating them.  It was October, 1960, and boy number six was about to be born.

It might be good to explain the next entry before sharing it.  Dad had, for a long time, felt a call in his heart for pastoral ministry.  It had begun many years earlier with a praying mother.  His mother felt that he would become a minister, and had told him so.  His life trajectory was headed that direction too, as he was very involved in leadership roles, teaching Sunday School, speaking on Sunday evenings and at jail services.  He also sat on two boards of directors.   It was no surprise that he was included in the “lot” for church ministry.  In the Pike Mennonite Church, (and still many conservative churches today, as well as the Amish), the “lot” was used to choose a minister.  In this case, there were four songbooks laying on a table.  One song book contained a slip of paper indicating that the person who drew that book would be the next minister.  The books were shuffled and placed on the table by one the current ministers, or the bishop.  Then, after prayer, those who were in the lot, would each choose a book.  The candidates would open their books to a given page where one of them would have the slip of paper.  In this way, it was felt that God did the choosing.

Friday, October 21, 1960.  Did quite a bit of cleaning.  Finished ironing.  Dick went to a meeting at Pike tonight.  They chose by “lot” Edwin Hartman to be licensed (for ministry) for Delphos for a year.  Charlie Kirkendall, Paul Hartman, Dick, and Ed Hartman were in the “lot.”

Dad didn’t choose the book with the slip, and in a brief bio that he wrote for the family, he expressed some disappointment, but also that he was satisfied that it was not yet God’s timing.

Later that night…

Saturday, October 22. The baby boy came at 12:45 A.M. this morning at home.  Sick (labor) one hour.  Dr. didn’t get here for 40 minutes after.  Marilynn came this A.M.  Her and the boys finished the work.  Freda brought a cake over.  Irene a couple pies.

See, that’s what Mennonites do.  (And a lot of other people too.)  Someone has a baby, and people show up with dessert.   Dessert is that other food group, so important at births and deaths.  Mom didn’t miss a day of her housework until the baby was born, and then the normal Saturday work (cleaning and baking) still had to be done.  Thank goodness for helpers who came, and aunts who brought the good stuff.

The baby’s name was Keith Wayne, and he quickly became an important part of the family.  At last, I had a younger brother, even if we were nearly eight years apart, he became my buddy and constant companion.  

As I read years 1960 to 1965, I was filled with a new appreciation for all that Mom did.  Along with the usual work (and that would have been enough—made me tired to read it), she was involved in other things.

There were many mentions of her ladies quartet practicing together, and singing at church, at the jail, and on special occasions.  For many years she enjoyed that along with Esther Hartman, Laura Hartman, and her sister, Freda Smith.  And it is still a pleasure to occasionally listen to the record they cut.

Knowing that Dad and Mom have always shown great hospitality, and always had lot’s of company, it was no surprise to see the many references to people coming to our home for a meal, or for ice-cream.  We made lots of ice-cream.  My goodness!  And why not.  With our own source of milk from the Jerseys, there was a ready supply.  It was made with a hand-crank freezer.  It was my older brothers who did most of the cranking, but they’d let me take a turn too, before the ice-cream got too stiff, and the cranking got too difficult.

I had forgotten all the helpers who came to our house on various occasions.   And not only that, Mom would go help others as well.  That was a way of socializing, and making the work less mundane.  I’ll probably miss some of the names, but Ellen Brunk Nisly was there to help quite often.  Her older sister Edna was also mentioned.  Cousin June Smith Bontrager helped out, as did Marilynn Golden Smith.  Cousin Marion Stemen Crisenbery often enjoyed reminding me that she was the one who helped Mom for a week or so when I was born.  I always loved her.  She was one of the older cousins—nearly old enough to be my mother—and I one of the youngest.  What a sweet, kind-hearted woman.  Though she passed away a few years ago, I can still see her smile, and hear her voice.

One diary entry made me laugh, because I knew the rest of the story. 

Wednesday, Aug. 28, 1963.  Baked 2 big bunches of cookies.  Picked about 2 bushels of Lima Beans this afternoon.  Got 19 freezer boxes.  Dick took Wes to get his hand X-rayed and it was broken, so they put it in a cast.

Wes suffered a broken bone in his hand because of an uncooperative cow.  He gave it a punch to alter it’s course, but unfortunately, the large hip bone didn’t budge.  They call it, a “boxer’s fracture.”

The diaries also record Dad’s call to ministry in Wayne county, the move, the new church, and new friends.  Actually, I felt really sad as I read the 1965 book, and thought about Mom having to leave behind a large network of friends, family, and her ladies quartet at Elida.  lt must have been hard.

I needed to borrow the 1969 diary too.  I knew exactly what pages I was looking for.

Sunday, June 8, 1969.  To church this A.M.  To church this P.M. to hear Hope Chorale.  Floyd Shore here for supper.  He spoke on “wills” at church tonight.  Our darling Keith was killed by a car in front of the church this evening after church, running after a ball.

Tuesday, June 10.  Not much to write, only that our hearts are so heavy.  Went to the funeral home to view our darling this A.M.  It was rather comforting to be there with him a while.  Calling hours were this evening, 7-9.

Wed. June 11.  The funeral this A.M.  A large group from Elida here.  Served around 175 for dinner.  Dick’s left this evening.  Stan’s and Wes’s here all night.

Monday, June 16.  Did the wash and part of ironing.  Oh! the ache in my heart for our little son.

Keith was eight years old when he left us, and it took a long time to adjust to his death.  My little buddy was gone, but even with my own pain, it wasn’t until I knew the love of having my own children that I could imagine how terribly difficult this was for Mom and Dad.  His gravestone bears witness to parents of great faith.  Along with his name, and birth and death dates, there is an inscription, “Thy Will Be Done.”  It is a joyous thought to know that Dad and Keith are together in heaven now.

Reading between the lines and picking up on all the times that lives were shared with others, it was obvious that Mom and Dad had a large network of relatives and friends from church.  They worked together, and shared life together, and were there for each other in times of  joy and sorrow.  

Mom’s diaries remind me so much of the things I see on my daily walks.  The Amish still live like this, as do most conservative Mennonites.  Other folks make a conscious effort to live more simply, often choosing to live with much less so one of them can stay at home and look after the needs of the family.  Thankfully, yes thankfully, sixty years ago there were fewer choices, and it was an expectation that Moms would be homemakers.  That made it easier than what families face today.  No words can express my gratitude for being raised by loving, committed parents, and for a Mom who was always there. There are no gifts we can give our children that are greater than that.

Recipe for V-6.

½ Bushel tomatoes (we like paste tomatoes for this)

3 onions or 1 T. onion powder.

3 green bell peppers

5-6 stalks of celery, leaves and all

3 carrots

1 T. parsley flakes

3 tsp. salt

1 C. sugar. (or less.  We use ¾ C.)

Cook veggies separate from tomatoes.

Put all through strainer (we use a Victorio).  We also run the pulp through a second time to squeeze more of the good stuff out.  Can it up.  Enjoy.

From Kidron, Ohio, have a wonderful day and a great holiday weekend!  So long.