Deer Season

We've been hunting deer this week - my son and I -  joined today with his son, my fourteen-year-old Grandson. What that means is that we get up at 3:30 AM, hit the road around 4 AM, drive for one hour and fifteen minutes, and hike into the woods more than one hour before daylight. We climb into tree-stands and wait. And wait. And wait. Finally it is daylight.

Then the fun begins. Squirrels and chipmunks keep it interesting with their constant rustling in the leaves, making one think that a deer is directly behind you. You're afraid to move because it sounds close, and it might see you. So, ever-so-slowly, you turn your head like an owl. You really can turn your head farther than you thought, but it sorta hurts. Your eyes compensate for the lack of neck motion by turning far to the side, and 'til it is all said and done, you're seeing directly behind yourself. And there is a squirrel. All that for nothing.

That's just the beginning. This happens over and over. In the meantime, the crisp air is feeling crisper. After two or three hours in the tree, (or sooner), the shivering begins. Then the bladder begins to remind you that you drank too much coffee. At this point, the discomforts are trying to remind you of the warm bed you left several hours ago. No giving in, though.

So you wait some more. More squirrels. More chipmunks. Then, low-and-behold, a happy little bird lands on the business end of your boom-stick. It stares into your face and makes a cheerful chipping sound. It flitters a little and changes position. Than it flies away. What a treat! For a moment the shivers stop.

Moments later, a squirrel notices something strange in my tree, and decides to investigate. He hops along the ground and up another trunk of the the triple tree I'm sitting in. He gets within two feet of my face, and stares intently. Then he barks. Eyeball to eyeball with a squirrel, and I'm thinking that I could really spoil his day by making a fast move towards him. I don't do it though. Enjoying the moment is more fun than seeing a squirrel turn himself inside out. Finally he tires of looking at me, and scrambles down the tree. That was fun! Once again, the shivers begin, and the bladder complains. Still no giving in. This is serious business. :)

This morning, the final day of hunting for us, started out just like the other days. Up early, and into the tree long before daylight.  No deer in the freezer yet, but hoping to end the dry spell with a clean kill today. (A clean kill is defined as quick, with little or no suffering. We don't blast away at running deer. We wait for the perfect shot, so it ends quickly. I also want to mention that I don't enjoy the "kill." It is not fun to watch anything die. It is a necessary part of the process, though.)

May I say this for those who are not hunters, and for whom this story is distasteful: We eat meat. We enjoy the outdoors, and get a great sense of satisfaction in bringing home venison that we have hunted and worked for. We know where it comes from. We know it is a healthy form of meat. Where we hunt, there are enough deer that we are not hurting the population. In fact, insurance companies are quite grateful to  the hunters who keep the population in control.

Anyway, my son and I both scored today. We are grateful. Nothing is wasted. Our time in the woods has been - for many years now - a great father-son experience each year. Now it includes a Grandson who, by-the-way, harvested a deer during bow season. These are the days and moments we cherish. These are the times of our lives.

We're headed down the stretch to Christmas now. Doesn't seem like another year has passed already. Enjoy the season, and remember; Wise Men still seek Him.

From Kidron, Ohio, so long.

Emma Gingerich, Runaway Amish Girl

I (Dave) was once accused of being Amish. (Not that it would be a bad thing, but I was a youngster, and it was spoken in a derogatory manner.) It was a couple months after our family had moved to Wayne County, Ohio, from Elida, Ohio. I was a painfully shy twelve-year-old who had been transplanted to a new community, a new church, and a new school. Moves like this don’t go well for shy people. The adjustment was difficult enough without having to face all the kids at a new public school. The only school I had known was a small one owned by our church, and each grade averaged about eight people if I remember correctly. We went to church with them, and to school with them. Those were our people seven days a week, and many of them were our cousins.

It was really difficult to mount the steps of the public school bus the first time, and find a seat among strangers. No sooner had I sat down then a rude voice behind me spoke loudly, “You’re Amish!” I looked around to see who he was talking to. He was looking directly at me, and repeated the words. I managed to squeak out three little words of response. “No I’m not.” 
The young man insisted. “Yes you are! I saw your Mom!”
It was true that Mom wore a long dress and head covering.
My face was burning as I spoke again. “We’re Mennonites.” I didn’t want to continue the conversation. It seemed as if every eye was looking accusingly at me, and I felt sick. I just wanted off the bus, but it wasn’t possible.

That was more than fifty years ago, and I have come to treasure my Mennonite heritage. I am very thankful for parents who raised me in the Anabaptist tradition, and I remain there, most likely for life. Our brand of Mennonites no longer dresses conservatively. It’s a good denomination - not without problems, but a group of people who love to serve the Lord through missions, and efforts towards peace and justice.

I enjoy having Amish friends who are also part of the Anabaptist tradition. In my late teen years, I worked with Amish young men and became good friends with them. When they needed a car ride, I drove. When I wanted a buggy ride, they were more than happy to take me along. Now, after spending most of my working years around Amish, I still love and respect them.

So many people admire the Amish way of life, and I do too. Much of my story-writing includes observations and anecdotes about them, and conversations with them. It’s a way of life that is so reminiscent of the lives our grandparents lived. When I see the Amish working with horses, I see my Grandfather, my uncles, and my Dad in his early years while his family still farmed with horses.

There is a dark side though, mostly among the strictest sect - the Swartzentrubers. It has been exceptionally sad to recently learn about cases of rape and incest in our community. Two local Swartzentruber Amish men are now in custody for sexually abusing members of their own households. Other abuses occur as well. We may often put the Amish on a pedestal, (and truly, most of the Old and New Order Amish live exemplary and Godly lives), but the Swartzentrubers practice a very strict and controlling form of religion that many consider a cult. I’ve been aware for a long time that they have problems, and am making an effort to become friends with some who are my neighbors. It’s slow going. It takes quite a while to build trust. I will keep trying.

This week my wife and I read a book written by one of their own (the Swartzentruber Amish) who ran away from her family and began a new life. It is a story of courage and strength in the midst of great struggle. If you haven’t yet read, “Run Away Amish Girl: The Great Escape,” by Emma Gingerich, please do. The book is written as a memoir, and describes her life and feelings in a very transparent and vulnerable way. She writes without bitterness, and her story is truly authentic. We read the Kindle edition of the book (purchased from Amazon) and came away with a much deeper understanding of that particular sect, and learned more about some of their odd beliefs and practices. But most especially, we were impressed by the difficulty and strength it took for Emma to break away, and how she has successfully adapted to a happy new life with many possibilities in her future. She has come to true faith in Jesus Christ. A second book will be coming out soon.

Just to whet your appetites, I am including several interesting excerpts from the book.

“I remember outsiders and other modern Amish groups making fun of us, making me feel insecure; I reacted by pretending I was someone else and by becoming rebellious. The strict rules left me no room to breathe."

“When I asked about the rules, Datt would tell me that the church followed demands written in the Bible. But why couldn’t we have a flush toilet? Why couldn’t we have electricity? Why couldn’t we hire a driver to take us to town to run errands? Why did the walls in the house always have to be white? Why was it forbidden to get any education past eighth grade? Why was a hand water pump installed by the sink where the men washed their hands, but there could not be one at the sink where the women washed the dishes? I gave up hope that my questions would ever be answered. The only response I ever got was, “This is the way it has always been, and God will punish us if we do otherwise.”

After coming home for her brother’s wedding, Emma writes the following:

“I was now all alone in my parent’s house, just what I needed. I went to the room that used to be mine before I left home, and lay on the bed. It brought back so many memories I started to cry. I realized I missed my family more than I could have ever imagined, but my life was different now, and I would not surrender. My heart and soul longed for my parents love and acceptance, but I was not born to remain Amish, and I knew the Good Man (God) had plans for me in the outside world.”

We're going to leave the story right there, and sign off for today. Again, I recommend the book, and am certain it will be an eye-opener for many people.

From Kidron, Ohio, So long.

Mike the Amish Dog

A few days after the election, my almost-daily walk on Zuercher Road brought me once again past the Hershberger farm.  The evening sun cast its warm glow on the fields, and the cooler air carried with it the scent of fall.  Mike-the-dog caught sight of the vagabond on the road, and came running with greetings.  His happiness knows no bounds.  He nearly turns inside-out with joy as he dances around my legs and smiles as wide as his toothy mouth allows.  And I think to myself; if only we could be like dogs.  Mike doesn’t care that I’m English.  He doesn’t care how I voted, or if I voted at all.  He doesn’t even care that we just had an election that leaves half of our nation’s people rejoicing, while the other half is unhappy, and many are fearful.  He doesn’t know that there are demonstrations in the streets.  He’s a dog who lives one day at a time, enjoying life on an Amish farm, following the action in the fields, and bringing happiness to those who pause to speak with him.  I love Mike-the-dog, along with many others of his species.  They hold a special place in my heart, and teach me about unconditional love.  

Johnny and Mike the dog.

As Mike and I exchanged pleasantries, Johnny pulled his team of horses out the barn with a load of manure piled high on the spreader.  Out across the field they went, and Mike left me standing by the road with a smile on my face, as he raced to catch up.  This.  This is the type of scene that can bring a sense of calmness to minds that are churning with current events -- minds that wonder what our world will be like for our children and grandchildren.  It’s a blessing to live here -- to be reminded that life in the country has many rewards -- to see the beauty of a setting sun, to enjoy the satisfaction of growing our own food in the garden, feed for livestock in the fields, and the sweet rest that follows a day of hard work.

I wish those who are so upset with the results of the election could spend some time here to decompress and view these quiet folks working in their fields.  Even more, I wish they could rise early in the morning to milk the cows by hand with them, then work side-by-side with their new friends, spending a full day in the fields before returning to the cows for the evening milking.   Maybe they could rest then, (surely they would need it) and consider the meaning of life lived close to the earth.  Maybe later, they could listen in to the talk about milk prices, corn prices, the weather, and who will be marrying who.  They may also hear talk about an auction the men will attend -- just as much to visit with friends as to buy another plow.  Perhaps there will be talk about the team of Belgians that will sell at the auction, and the desire to purchase them if the price doesn’t go too high.

Johnny’s load of manure becomes a metaphor in my mind as I walk.  There is a lot of “stuff” built up in the barn, and it needs to be cleaned out occasionally.   Not that it is all bad.  In fact, it feeds the fields, and becomes part of next year’s crops.  It’s a cycle that has been repeated over and over and over.  It’s a necessary action.  Our minds can also get cluttered with “stuff” -- especially in times like we’ve had for the past year, having to listen to the daily news feed, and political rhetoric.  It’s not all bad.  It becomes part of our life’s experience, but we need to keep things in perspective.  We need to let the “stuff” teach us, so we can learn from it, and so we can be a good example for the next generation.

So here’s a plan for when anxiety or anger want to take over our thoughts: Let’s consciously pause and take a few deep, cleansing breaths.  Think about good things like the joyful times we’ve had with family and friends, and the plans for more of those times this week.  Let's be thankful for all the people in our lives, all the material blessings we enjoy, and the gift of life.   Let’s not worry about tomorrow, but be happy with today.  Thankfulness is one of the keys to happiness, and directing those words and thoughts of thanksgiving to God-the-giver brings peace and hope for the future.

Oh, one more small thought.  God gave us dogs to teach us how to live.  Let’s try to be like Mike.

From Kidron, OH, have a wonderful weekend, and try not to complain about the snow.  It’s been a long and pleasant fall.  This was bound to happen.  So long.

 

Where Eggs Come From

A fellow went into a restaurant and asked “What's the special of the day?”
The waiter replied, “Beef Tongue.”
The fellow said, “Ugh! I don't want anything that comes out of a cow's mouth. Fry me up a couple of eggs!”

Dave here, enjoying the fall beauty, and thinking about chickens and eggs. My usual four-mile walk takes me past a farm that is close enough to the road to get a good view of the cows, hogs, sheep, and chickens that roam around the pastures. Yesterday, a nice little red hen came out close to the road to find some supper. It was necessary to take a couple photos.

Scratching in fresh horse manure

Not all eggs are the same. Some are produced in egg “factories” where many thousands of hens live in small cages. Their lives consist of eating layer-mash, drinking water, and laying eggs. And that’s about it. We buy those eggs off the store shelves at a decent price. They taste alright and they work okay in recipes. We wouldn't even know that there is something much better out there - until we try farm-fresh eggs from chickens that run about, and scratch around in the dirt, eating bugs, worms, seeds, grain, slugs, grubs, and just about anything else. We’re fortunate out here in the country where so many Amish families have chickens running loose, and little signs out by the end of their driveways that say, “Eggs For Sale.”

Once you try eggs from free-ranging chickens, it’s difficult to go back to eggs from chickens that are kept in cages. The variety of nutrients that a free-range chicken gets is so much greater. The yolks are brighter (sometimes nearly orange) and have higher levels of beta carotene, as well as being more nutritious.

I’m not writing this to get into the discussion of how animals are treated. My intent is merely to explain why I was humored by the sight of a chicken scratching in manure, looking for supper. This is not a distasteful thing at all. A chicken knows what a chicken likes, and the hen in the picture will produce safe and delicious eggs.

When I began dating the girl who has been my long-suffering wife for forty-three years, she had already spent seventeen years on a farm where there were cows, hogs, and chickens. (As a side note here; farm girls are the best. Not much scares them, and they can deal with dirt and manure.)

Anyway, I remember my father-in-law telling me once that “the most efficient way to feed grain to animals, is to feed it to cows; run some hogs in with the cows; and run some chickens in with the hogs. What the cows don’t eat or digest, the hogs will find and eat. Then the chickens will scratch through everything and get whatever's left."

How about this for a couple statistics. In 1945, the average American ate 404 eggs per year. Since then, this figure has slowly dropped to 250 eggs per person each year. That's still a lot of eggs! If you have a source for eggs that come from chickens that can scratch in the dirt, you'll have the best flavored eggs with the highest nutritional value.

One of the many Amish farms with eggs to sell.

We're going to wrap this up for now. Hope your week was great, and if you're able, get outside to enjoy the beauty of fall.

From Kidron, Ohio. So long.

Kidron in the Fall

Sitting here staring at this screen is about the most uninspiring thing a person could do on a day like this, but we'll hurry and be brief with this writing, and then head outside once more to enjoy the scenery.

We waited for this - the time of year when the leaves are turning many shades of yellow, orange and red in our part of the world. What a wonderful gift it is to be able to see and enjoy all this natural beauty that surrounds us in the month of October.   I thank Creator God for these things.  If you haven’t been out and about yet, you really should take a drive to see for yourself. Consider our area if you are able, but if not, allow me to share some pictures that were taken in the places I generally walk, east and southeast of Kidron.

I wanted to cover more ground this morning than usual, and hit a few additional roads in our neck of the woods, so I jumped into my car and headed east on Jericho.  I don’t remember steering it actually, because I became so caught up in the surrounding beauty that the car was pretty much on auto pilot.  It seemed to read my mind though, and made quite a few quick stops to allow for capturing the scenes of autumn that are making beautiful backdrops for the Amish farms.  The farm houses and barns are rustically attractive any time of year, but this is like putting the bow on the present.  What a gift it is to live here in Wayne County Ohio. I do not take for granted the fact that my home is surrounded with enviable scenes of bucolic beauty. 

 Sometimes it is almost necessary to pinch myself to believe it is real.  Perhaps you will be inspired to get out of the house and see for yourself.  If you do not live in our area, you are most welcome to visit.  We should have another week or so of gorgeous fall foliage.

From Kidron, Ohio, home of the world’s hardest-working men (that’s how we make up for being so homely), most beautiful women (and they can cook too!),and the most energetic children (they’re really cute too—especially the ones that call me Grandpa).  Have a wonderful weekend!  So long.

Grape Juice

Dave here on a very lovely Saturday evening. Oven-stewed tomatoes are baking, and deer hot-dogs are on the grill. Fannie Miller's fresh peach pie will be dessert. Going to be some good eating shortly. In the meantime, let's reminisce a little.

I was born at a very young age, and therefore remember very little about it. Earliest memories, though, include a very loving mom and dad who would give great group hugs with little ‘ol me sandwiched between them. That was special. Wish it were still possible. It would probably be awkward now, and besides, they are no longer with us. It was a time to cherish. It was too soon gone. I suppose threesome-hugs also happened with my older brothers. I’d have to ask them.

Earliest memories of my brothers include playing softball in the yard between the house and barn, hiking along Hog Creek, playing with cats, getting rides on motorbikes, and having them teach me how to ride a bicycle. Those are some of the good memories. There are also memories with my brothers that would be better forgotten. Those involve mean horses, unwanted rides on cows, electric fence “experiments,” and wrestling matches that sometimes turned ugly. They likely remember those times too. Ah well, we all survived. That’s just part of being a family, and we laugh at all our escapades now.

Other great memories include food and drink. Mom and Dad always made sure we had enough to eat, and it was a blessing (though we didn’t think so at the time) to be included in the work of gardening and putting up food for the winter. Untold quarts of canned tomato juice, red beets, cherries, applesauce, peaches, and green beans lined our basement shelves. Lima beans, corn, and beef went into the freezer. Oh, and jelly and jam - lots of it - both frozen and canned. And probably many more things that I’ve forgotten.

There was one more item that we canned in the early fall and enjoyed on a weekly basis through the winter. Grape juice. Every Sunday evening the menu was the same. Popcorn, apples, and grape juice. To this day I still make grape juice every year exactly like Mom made it. It’s very easy, and when the jars are pulled off the shelf on the cold, blustery Sunday evenings of winter, (some traditions never die), the sweet flavor of Concord grapes takes me on a delicious trip to yesteryear. Popcorn tops off the experience, and we’re back home on the farm at Elida, Ohio, with a Mom and Dad, and a bunch of brothers.

* * * * * *

A little rain began falling this morning, so it seemed like a good time to make this year’s grape juice. I had harvested them from our arbor a little over a week ago and put them in the basement refrigerator until today. As previously mentioned, it’s very easy. I use ½ gallon jars with two heaping cups of concord grapes and a heaping ½ cup of white sugar. Then I fill the jar with hot water, snug on the lids and rings, and put the jars in the canner for a hot-water bath.

Pressure cooking is not necessary. Hot water bath is faster and just as safe with grapes. With the water level at the top of the jars, and a lid on the pot, the water is brought to a rolling boil, and maintained like that for about eight minutes before the burner is turned off. The jars are removed from the canner to cool on the counter-top. It is best to let the jars sit on a shelf for a few weeks before using the juice. There may be some variations on how this is done, but that’s how I do it, and the juice always turns out fine.

Ah, the sweet memories. There are so many. Today I’m thankful for those times when we were included in the labor of planting, harvesting, and putting up for the winter. It’s a practice that I still continue, and I don’t even remember when I learned how to do it. It was a loving Mom and Dad who did the teaching, of course, but we learned it without even knowing we were learning, and here we are once again, doing it and reminiscing with fondness the days of group hugs and sweet Concord grape juice.

The rain didn’t last long. Before finishing the canning, the sun shone brightly, inviting me to do the outdoor work. It’s time to put the garden to bed again. Seems like we just planted it. The beans, corn, and tomatoes did great this year. It took some watering, but it was worth it. The shelves are lined with food for the winter. Fall is upon us. Time moves on, and the wheels on the bus go round and round.

This time of year comes around only once every twelve months. It’s a good time to get out and enjoy the great outdoors. From the lovely land of Kidron, Ohio. So long.

Back to School

We've been enjoying the splendid weather here!  It's a nice break from the summer heat, but then, it is September. What!? September already? Seems like summer goes so fast, but the cooler weather of fall is always nice. A few mild weeks, then the pretty colors and frosty nights, and then.... we won't talk about that just yet. Let's enjoy the seasons as they come. Technically, it's still summer, unless you're a student.

Speaking of students, they're all back in school now, hitting the books and playing soccer. At least that's the life for my grandchildren who live nearby. I think my Michigan grandchildren go back to school right after Labor Day. Their Momma has been counting down the days. It's great for the children to get a summer break, but the Mommas need a break too. Hooray for September!

The Amish children began school this week. This is a good time to remind everyone in our area to drive cautiously in the mornings and mid-afternoons. The Amish kids walk along the roads - sometimes in pretty large groups. It pays to watch out for them. They are kids, after-all, and don't always look out for themselves as carefully as they should.

A group just got out of school at Jericho yesterday right after I walked past. They were energetically singing a song as I passed the school. I paused to listen. It was not familiar to me, but they sang with great gusto, and the sound carried quite well out through the open windows.

I spoke with a lady from church earlier this week who was a career school teacher in a public school. She's retired now, but still has a love for education. She visited a number of the Amish schools in our area recently and spoke with the teachers. She learned that the schools in our area have an average enrollment ranging from about 20 to 30 students. That's all eight grades. When you drive the roads around here, it seems like there is a small Amish school about every three miles or so. Some are used only by the Swartzentruber Amish, and others are primarily Old Order. They do mix some though, depending on the neighborhood mix of Amish.

We're going to wrap up this post with some pictures below, and a few comments to go along with them.

From Kidron, OH, we hope you have a wonderful weekend!  Hug your loved ones. Tell them they are loved. Make a child smile today. So long.

Beech Grove School.  One of the most well-known Amish schools in our area.  Just south of State Route 250, on Kidron Road.

This is probably the oldest, and is named "Johnson" school.  It was formerly a public school. The nameplate above the door says 1909. It looks to be in poor shape. But here is where the Amish students learn reading, writing, and arithmetic. Eight grades of it. The classes are taught in English. Until they go to school, the Amish kids don't know much English. Their teachers are usually young Amish women who are still single. There are exceptions to this. I knew one married male teacher. 
 He lost his life two years ago in a horse-and-wagon accident. He has been sorely missed. He left behind a dear widow and six children. He truly loved teaching.

"Jericho Amish School."
This is one of the newest Swartzentruber Amish schools in our area.  Not far from my home.

Amish Summer Harvest

It seems impossible to get enough of the beauty around us - particularly the Amish way of life in our area. You'd think we would get used to it, and barely notice it anymore, but that's not the case. Perhaps my early years on the farm along Hog Creek marked me permanently with a love for noticing the crops, and appreciating those who carve out an existence from the soil. And on top of that, a lifelong enjoyment of doing things the "hard" way - like our Grandparents did it. Perhaps it fills a need to connect with our history.

I know for a fact that when I walk the roads around here and view the beauty of God's earth, it brings health for today and hope for tomorrow. On the days when I don't walk, there is something missing, and it seems like I've cheated myself. When the news is discouraging, it is time for a walk - a time to reflect on what is good about life - and a time to be thankful. We are blessed more than we deserve.

Check out the photos. There will be some comments with each one.

Wheat shocks adorn the field in front of an Amish homestead.

Bringing a load of shocks to the barn for threshing to separate the grain from the stalks.

A nice Amish family leaves a plate of pastries on the cans full of milk.  Lucky milk hauler.

This is a field of spelt shocks.

An evening sun glows on a field of wheat shocks.   The windmill is a promise of water for the thirsty, and the shocks are a promise of food for the hungry.  God provides.

From the lovely town of Kidron, Ohio, wishing you a wonderful weekend! So long.

Amish Crist Hershberger and the Bus Station

Got a call this week from Crist Hershberger, a Swartzentruber Amishman.  He’s a brother to Jacob and Sam, and he lives in Southern Ohio, near Peebles.  That’s where Jacob and his family moved to a few months ago.  Crist and his wife Mary needed a ride from the Canton, Ohio Bus Station to Brewster, Ohio.  They were coming north to attend the funeral of a dear old neighbor.  I mentioned to Crist that I’m not a regular driver for the Amish.  He knew that, but said he was running out of people to call. It didn’t suit anyone else to drive for them, and he remembered that I had taken Jacob’s family to Peebles when they moved.  He thought maybe we could help them out.  

So I said, “Sure, it works for me, I’ll pick you up.”  

“The bus will come in at 7:35 on Friday evening,” he explained.

“Alright, I’ll be there.”

I had met Crist once before, and liked him immediately.  He’s outgoing and friendly, and his English is almost without a dutch accent.  A good storyteller too.  I guess that goes well with the fact that he is also an Amish preacher.

We decided to make an evening of it, and Juanita went along for the ride.  Our first stop was Papa Gyros for a Greek meal of salad, lamb, rice, and fresh, warm, chewy pita bread.  The plates were piled high and it was all delicious!  We could have gotten by with one meal.  The prices were really good too.  If you like that kind of food, you won’t be disappointed with Papa Gyros.

From there we headed to downtown Canton where the bus station is located.  It was easy to find, but it was our first time ever to go there.  We expected to see a parking lot, and thought we had found it.  Just as we pulled in, a glaring policeman began walking rapidly our direction, gesturing dramatically to get out of there!  We rolled down the window and asked where we can park.  He must have met other ignorant people like us quite a few times before.  His patience was pretty thin.  He told us in no uncertain terms that this was where the buses come in to load and unload, and if we didn’t get out of there immediately, we’d be fined two-hundred dollars.  Then he pointed across the railroad tracks to a small gravel lot that was full of potholes and puddles.

“Park there,” he said.

The bus station is on the intersection of Tuscarawas and Cherry, and is close to the red-light area of Canton.  As we sat in the gravel lot waiting, a few folks of unknown intentions walked down the street, and this small-town fellow felt really out of place.  I would not want to sit there after dark.  I told Mrs. Ross that I wanted to go into the station and find out if the bus is on time.  The lady behind the window wouldn’t look up to answer me.  When I asked, she confirmed that the bus was due to arrive, and would pull along the building on Cherry Street. This just wasn’t a very friendly place, it seemed.  So I hustled back to the car, pulled onto Cherry and found a parking spot along the street.  This was much better.  And there came the bus.  Two friendly faces smiled widely at us as they disembarked.  Crist and Mary seemed just as happy to see us as we were to see them.  And what a merry conversation we had as we drove them to their destination.   It seemed as if we had known them for some time.

This family of Hershbergers, (Crist, Henry, Sam, Jacob, and their other siblings) are exceptionally nice people in my opinion.  Every one of them that I know, has followed in their parents footsteps as genuinely good people.  Their parents, Crist Sr. and Lovina, have always had a good reputation in this area, and have always been respected.  Crist Sr. died quite a few years ago, but Lovina still lives on the home farm with Sam’s family.  She’s in her eighties.  One thing I’ve noticed in particular about the Hershberger men.  They treat their wives lovingly and respectfully.  That is not the case in all Swartzentruber Amish homes.  In some, the men really rule the roost.  It is always expected that the men will be the head of the home, but some take it too far.  I guess it’s that way with some English families too.   

Ah well, that’s enough for this week.  It’s been a good one.  We received the rain that was badly needed.  The crops are perking up and looking nice again.  I’m adding some photos of neighboring farmers working in their fields.

Making hay.  Even the little boys help by following and picking up loose pieces.

Trying to load heifers into the wagon

Cultivating the corn.

From Kidron, Ohio. So long.

Song 606 In the Mennonite Hymnal

We went for a drive earlier this week (my wife and I), and enjoyed some territory that we don’t often see.  Our route meandered on small roads south of Kidron, heading into Holmes County, before swinging through Millersburg and then losing ourselves again on tiny roads through idyllic hills and Amish farms on our way back north.  

One road in particular caught my attention, and it was suddenly necessary to burst into song.  Juanita, dear wife that she is - a gem who is rarely surprised at my moments of unpredictability and spontaneity - she looked at me quizzically as if I was falling off my rocker.  I don’t blame her.  She just wasn’t making the connection.  I pointed out the road sign - number 606 - and then she knew why I was singing.

For many of you, that number is meaningless, but if you’re a Mennonite, it’s a number of special significance.  Really, it is.  Number 606 in “The Mennonite Hymnal,” is a song titled  “Praise God From Whom.”  That particular hymnal was published in 1969, and that particular song very soon became a great favorite, sung with gusto and joy in acappella four-part harmony.  Many years ago it earned the label, “The Mennonite Anthem.”  Don’t let the title fool you.  This is not the regular doxology by the same name.  This one always makes the hairs stand up on my arms when singing it while being surrounded by many other people lifting their voices together in praise.

A later hymnal, now more commonly used in Mennonite Congregations, “Hymnal, A Worship Book,” also includes the song, but now it is number 118.  But make no mistake, for Mennonites of my generation, it will ALWAYS be 606.

I’d love to think that many of you will take the opportunity to listen to the song on the following link.  Garrison Keillor and Prairie Home Companion visited Goshen College a little over a year ago, and this song was part of his program - sung by the Goshen College Chamber Choir and the audience.  Really, if you’re interested in learning about something the Mennonites love, listen to the song, and while you’re at it, get a nice cool glass of tea, and listen to about fifteen minutes of the show.  After the song, Garrison sings a humorous (but true) song of his own writing about the Mennonites, followed by a short segment on the history of the Mennonites in his own humorous and inimitable style.  Please have a listen.  You won’t be sorry.  (And if you’re a Mennonite, or from Mennonite roots, it will not surprise me to learn that you had to hum along - perhaps even sang along with great enthusiasm.)  After clicking on the link, turn your volume up, click on the little black arrow, and enjoy!

http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/listen/?date=2015/05/02&identifier=apm_audio:/phc/segments/2015/05/02/phc_segment_02_20150502_128.mp3

From Kidron, Ohio, where the dad's are homely but loving; where the mom’s are pleasant and beautiful; and where the children love to spend time playing ball with Dad, and eating Mom’s fine cooking!  Kidron is  a wonderful place to live and raise a family, and a great place to visit.  Come and see us sometime.) :)

Henry Making Hay

Not a whole lot of excitement in our neck of the woods this week.  Feels like we’re into summertime now.  Today especially.  Our thermometer is reading 91 degrees, and it’s pretty humid, but the strong breeze makes it quite tolerable.  Seemed like a good day for getting some photos of my favorite subjects, and it worked out well.  Nearest Swartzentruber neighbor Henry H. and his boys were putting up the hay they had cut a couple days ago, and further down the road, Sam H. was mowing his hay field, while his sons put up a new gate in the pasture across the road.  

I wanted to get a series of pictures while Henry and the boys loaded hay onto their wagon, without them knowing I was around.   There’s a wooded area beside the field, so I stuck some leaves in my hat, and hunkered down behind some underbrush.  The green shirt I was wearing blended nicely with the leaves.  Then I waited, and got some nice shots.  I only wish my camera had been set on video for what happened next.  

I’ve always thought the fully loaded hay wagons look pretty precarious, and have wondered if they ever lose their load.  I found out today that they do.  Henry and one son were on top of a load, and almost ready to unhook from the hay loader and head for the barn.  Suddenly the top third of the load, along with the two of them tumbled rapidly to the ground.  They landed on their feet, but a loud, long shout of aggravation immediately ensued.  I can’t blame Henry for his reaction.  It’s hot, hard work loading the hay, and now a big pile was on the ground.  They stood there for a little bit, then decided to go ahead and make another round in the field to get a full load again, while the pile stayed on the ground to be loaded later.  Again, the still-fresh frustration led to a loud, lengthy, throaty shout at the horses to proceed.  G-I-D-D-Y-U-P!!   And away they went.

This wasn’t the first incident that I wish I could have recorded  Earlier, when I had driven down the road in the car, Henry and the boys were completing a load, and they stood on top of the hay, high above the ground.  They were near the road, a ways ahead of me.  The wind was blowing pretty hard, and Henry’s hat sailed from his head - carried much higher by the wind before plummeting onto the road a short distance ahead of me.   I was going to stop and retrieve it for him, but one of the boys beat me to it.  Yep, farming has it’s challenges, but especially so when you see how the Swartzentrubers must do it.  Makes me appreciate the lives of my agrarian Grandparents.  They farmed like this too.  I think that’s the main reason I so enjoy observing the Swartzentruber Amish farmers.  Living history - right before our eyes.

From the Jericho suburbs of Kidron, Ohio, hope you had a good week.  Now have  a wonderful weekend!  So long.