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