The Amish Seasons Collection: Contains An Amish Spring, An Amish Summer, An Amish Autumn, and An Amish Winter Read online

  The Amish Seasons Collection

  By Sarah Price

  This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  Copyright © 2015 by Price Publishing, LLC. All rights reserved.

  Cover image and design by Price Publishing, LLC.

  Table of Contents

  About the Vocabulary

  The Amish speak Pennsylvania Dutch (also called Amish German or Amish Dutch). This is a verbal language with variations in spelling among communities throughout the United States. For example, in some regions, a grandfather is grossdaadi, while in other regions he is known as grossdawdi. Some dialects refer to the mother as maem, and others simply as mother or mammi.

  In addition, there are words and expressions, such as mayhaps, or the use of the word then at the end of sentences, and, my favorite, for sure and certain, that are not necessarily from the Pennsylvania Dutch language/dialect but are unique to the Amish.

  The use of these words comes from my own experience living among the Amish in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.

  An Amish Spring

  For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone;

  The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come,

  and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land;

  Song of Solomon 2:11-12 KJV

  Chapter One

  Four eighteen-hand Belgian mules lumbered through a field, pulling a flat wagon equipped with a baler. An older man, his gray-speckled beard damp with sweat, stood at the front of the wagon, holding the reins with both hands and constantly turning his head, first looking forward to make certain the mules were walking straight down the field and then looking backward to be sure that the young woman and man were properly stacking the hay bales. Every once in a while, the man would call out something to his mules and slightly redirect them so that they straightened their direction. With a twitch of an ear or jerking of the head, the mules responded to his voice and did as instructed.

  The young woman wore brown half-boots on her feet and a dark blue dress. A white and navy blue bandana covered her head, several strands of brown hair falling loose from the bun at the nape of her neck, and pieces of hay stuck to her clothing. She grabbed the bales by their two orange strings as soon as the machine dropped them and quickly turned her waist, her feet never moving, as she passed the newly baled hay to her younger brother.

  His job was to stack the bales in neat rows at the back of the wagon. As he completed one row, he’d start stacking the new bales on top. When the bales were four high, he’d begin a new row. If stacked properly, the wagon could hold 48 bales of hay. Once filled, they would return to the barn and transfer the hay from the wagon to the hay loft above the barn. Then, after a short break, they’d return to the fields and begin again.

  “Whoa,” the driver said to the mules as he pulled back on the reins.

  “What is it, Daed?” The young woman’s eyes, so large and the color of the prettiest spring sky, peered over her father’s shoulder to see why he had stopped.

  Her father took off his straw hat and fanned it by his face as if to cool himself. “Big rock.” He pointed in the direction they were headed, a section of the field that was near the road. “Daniel, go fetch it now, will you?”

  The younger boy responded by jumping down from the wagon and running past the mules toward the road.

  “Getting worse and worse each year.” The father slipped his hat back onto his head as he mumbled under his breath.

  “What is, Daed?”

  “Aw Drusilla,” he said. “You know. Those rowdy Englische boys. Driving their pickup trucks and throwing big stones in the fields. One of those stones gets into the machinery and we’re done baling until it’s fixed.”

  She hadn’t thought of that. With concern in her eyes, she looked in the direction that Daniel had run. She never could understand why some of the Englische youth were so hostile toward the Amish. It wasn’t as if the Amish bothered them. In fact, she did her best to avoid them.

  Only once had she encountered a band of young men with mischief on their agenda. That had been years ago when her mother had asked her to take some freshly baked bread over to an elderly woman who had taken ill. Mary Anne Hostetler lived just a mile up the lane and over the hill. Using her foot scooter, it would only take her minutes to get there so Drusilla put the package of bread in the basket hanging from the front of the scooter and off she went.

  When she had heard the noise of an automobile approaching from behind, she moved further to the side of the road, almost so that she was pushing the scooter on the grass. She glanced over her shoulder and saw it was a pickup truck full of boys. Immediately, she stiffened, knowing that mischievous boys in trucks were all too common in this area during the summer months.

  As they passed by her, one of the boys leaned out the window and made kissing noises at her while another, sitting in the bed of the truck, flicked a lit cigarette at her.

  Drusilla had fought the urge to cower and, as so many other Amish people did in similar situations, ignored them and continued on her way. But her heart hadn't stopped pounding until she arrived at the Hostetler farm, glad to be away from the road, just in case those boys circled back.

  That had been two years ago, when she was only sixteen years old. Since then, she had been blessed to not encounter such ill-mannered characters again. Still, she knew that it didn’t mean they weren’t out there.

  Daniel came back, his strong arms wrapped around a large rock. It was big enough that Drusilla knew she couldn’t have carried it, which indicated that whoever put it there did it with full intentions of damaging their equipment. She helped Daniel place the rock onto the bed of the wagon, her heart hurting for the sinful nature of those mischief makers. If only they held dear the love of God instead of their hate for Amish and other minorities, perhaps their world wouldn’t be so full of war and crime, she thought.

  “We should pray for them tonight,” she said, her voice soft but her words sincere.

  Daniel, however, scoffed. “I can think of a lot of other things I’d like to do for them and praying ain’t one of them.”

  “Daniel!” Their father reprimanded, narrowing his eyes as he scowled at his son. Even in the open field, his voice boomed, loud and authoritative. “We must forgive them. And your schwester is correct. It widens our heart to accept the Lord if we pray for those who would harm us.”

  Despite his words, Drusilla wondered if he truly meant those words. Once too often she had overheard her father complaining at gatherings, or when his brothers visited, about the increasing animosity shown to the Amish from the outside community. With a family to protect, Amos Riehl was rather vocal about his feelings of impending danger. When news spread of two little girls who had been kidnapped from their mother’s farmstead, the church leaders called a meeting to discuss how to deal with aggression while abiding by God’s Word.

  All that Drusilla knew was that her father hadn’t returned from that meeting with a sparkle in his eyes or spring to his step. But he kept a strong facade for his children, not speaking of such things in front of them and doing his best to hide the news from his wife.

  Under his breath, Daniel mumbled something that Drusilla couldn�
��t quite hear, but, from his expression, she knew that he wouldn’t be praying for anyone like those boys any time soon. She smiled to herself, keeping her back toward her father. Daniel’s rebellious side always amused her. He was so different from their parents, from his straight long hair and light blue eyes, to his entire stature: shorter than most sixteen-year-old men but with broad shoulders and large hands. There was no denying that Daniel Riehl was a farmer and could pull his weight, and then some, on the farm.

  With the large rock out of the way, Amos clicked his tongue and lightly slapped the reins on the back of the mules, indicating that they should move forward again. Years of working in the fields had made the fieldwork a routine, to both Amos and the animals. Drusilla had only begun helping with the haying in recent years, mostly because she had still been at school and her father had his brothers helping.

  But, as with everything else in life, time moves on and forces change, some of it welcomed and some of it merely accepted with a touch of disdain.

  “Hullo there, Amos!”

  Drusilla felt the wagon pull to a stop again and she turned around to see who had called her father. A gray-topped buggy had stopped by the fence line, the chestnut Standardbred snorting once before shaking its black mane, most likely to chase away a fly. Now that flowers bloomed and the fields hinted at the recently planted corn crops, the warmth of spring meant the return of those ever troublesome flies that seemed particularly attracted to sweaty horses.

  The face smiling out the open buggy door was familiar enough: John Esh, a cousin of her father’s, who lived in another church district. In fact, if she remembered correctly, he lived on the northern section of Bird-in-Hand, which was a good distance from Gordonville. And she only knew him from a handful of encounters, most of them at funerals.

  “Wie gehts, John?” Amos passed the reins to Drusilla before, in one fluid movement, jumping down to the ground and walking toward the fence. “What brings you to the area? Family doing vell?”

  “Ja, right as rain,” John said and then, glancing up at the sky, his eyes squinting shut in the brightness, he laughed. “Or sunshine. Reckon you don’t want no rain while you’re baling!”

  Amos smiled and shook his head. “That I don’t, John. Damp hay is no gut and sets us way back!”

  “Speaking of damp hay,” John went on, his expression sobering as he became more serious. “Don’t know if you heard about the Lapp’s barn. You know, over on Monterey? Jonathan Lapp? The roof caved in during the last big snow storm a few weeks back. Tree fell on it and crumbled on down to the foundation.”

  This news surprised all three of the Riehls. Drusilla wondered why no one would have passed on that information to their church leaders. It usually happened once or twice a year, the destruction of a barn on a farm. Since barns were literally the heart of every farm, this information usually spread like wildfire. While the community lacked technology, the Amish grapevine worked just as fast as any Englischers’ cell phone or computer system.

  She was surprised that no one had talked about it.

  “Thought you and Esther might want to join the crew this Thursday,” John continued. “Right gut weather for a new barn raising.”

  A barn raising! Drusilla caught her breath and did her best to not raise her hopes. She’d only been to two barn raisings in her entire life and that had been when she was younger, perhaps thirteen like her sister Hannah. And, even then, she had been assigned to watch all of the little children, to play with them and keep them occupied. Now that she was eighteen, she’d have more responsible duties and would get to visit with other young women. Mayhaps she’d even be able to invite Naomi and Miriam, her cousins who lived just two farms down the lane.

  “Can’t be answering for Esther,” her father replied, politely avoiding to mention his wife’s condition. At seven months pregnant with what was most likely their last child, Esther Riehl was in no condition to work at a barn raising, especially for an entire day. “But I reckon if we get all this hay baling finished, there’s no reason that I wouldn’t ride on over to help.”

  “Me too, Daed?” The question slipped through her lips before she could stop herself. She hoped her father didn’t take her offer as being too forward. After all, John Esh hadn’t directed the invitation in her direction. Quickly, she looked at John and smiled apologetically. “If I could be of any help, of course.”

  “Many hands…” John started as he nodded appreciatively for her offer.

  “…make light the work.” She finished his sentence in unison with her father and the four of them laughed.

  After John left, the gentle hum of the buggy’s wheels fading away over the hill, Amos took a deep breath and walked back to the wagon. He accepted his son’s hand to climb back up with a nod, a more difficult task than jumping down, and took the reins from Drusilla. Without another word, everyone assumed their positions and carried on with the task at hand. Conversation wasn’t necessary for all knew what to do: work. Cut hay laid out to dry, usually for several days, needed to be baled and stored. It was a process that would be repeated two or three times over the next several months until the cold weather of autumn would hinder further hay growth. And all of that hay would be used to feed their livestock over the winter, with the surplus bales being sold at auction.

  By the time noon came around, they had already finished stacking the first batch of bales in the upper level of the barn. With the sun high in the sky and the sound of hungry cows in the back paddock, Drusilla knew that they wouldn’t get back to baling until after dinner, their mid-day meal. The new spring grass was more than sufficient for their cows but it was too early in the season to let the herd graze all day. Instead, her father brought them in for a mid-day feeding. The cows would stay in the barn until after the four o’clock milking and then, depending upon the weather, be let out again for the evening in a second paddock. His system of rotating the paddock usage had earned Amos Riehl a fine reputation for both high-quality grass fed beef cattle as well as high-yielding dairy cows.

  “Go on and see if your maem needs help, Drusilla.” Her father glanced at her brother as he spoke. “Daniel can help bring in the cows.”

  She nodded and hurried to the house. While her four other siblings were still at school, Drusilla knew that her mother worked hard but also tired easy. Long days of cleaning the house, working in the garden, washing the clothes, and cooking the meals took their toll on most any woman. And with her mother being seven months pregnant, Drusilla knew that any help she could give her was greatly appreciated.

  “Maem?” she called out as she opened the screen door into the small mud room that was off to the side of the kitchen. The smell of smokey ham and boiled potatoes welcomed Drusilla. She paused, for just a second, to inhale the sweet scent of coming home.

  The old farmhouse with its creaky wide plank floors and low ceilings had been in the Riehl family for five generations now. Originally built in the mid-1800s, the house and its walls had many stories to tell.

  Drusilla loved the charm of the old windows, even if the cold air snuck through the cracks in the winter. There was a large, walk-in fireplace where her great-great grandmother used to cook meals. Of course, a lot had been added to the house over the years, including the large empty room that was used for special family gatherings or worship services. Hinged walls separated it from the original kitchen, walls that could be easily removed to open up the space and accommodate upwards of 200 people.

  And her grandfather, Jacob, had added on the grossdawdihaus, a smaller pavilion that was attached to the main building. Accessible from its own entrance or through a doorway on the other side of the gathering room, Jacob had built it to accommodate his own aging parents. They were healthy enough to take care of themselves, but they didn’t want to intrude on Jacob and his eight children.

  Later, when Jacob’s second youngest son, Amos, married, he brought his young bride, Esther, to live in the small grossdawdihaus until Jacob was ready to hand the farm over t
o him. With no young children living at home anymore, Drusilla’s grandparents retired to live in the smaller house. In recent years, it had become part of the cycle of life for many of the Amish. But she had heard-tell that many of the Amish farms in the more congested parts of Lancaster County were adding on a third residence to accommodate more family members.

  Land was something that was diminishing year after year and, in order to accommodate the increasing number of Amish, lifestyles were changing and more families lived together for a longer period of time.

  Drusilla often wondered which son would inherit the family farm. While Daniel loved to work the land, as the oldest of the three sons, he would be the least likely to take over for her father. Henry was only twelve and Elam, his younger brother, just ten, but they were the most probable candidates to be the next generation of Riehls to raise their families on the farm, the sixth generation to do so.

  As for the girls, Drusilla knew that her place, as well as Hannah and Elsie’s, was beside their future husband, whoever they might be.

  But frankly, the thought of having to leave the old farmhouse saddened her. Some days, when no one was nearby, she would press her hand against the stone hearth and shut her eyes, imagining her great-grandmothers doing the same when they used to live here. The connection with the stone, so smooth from almost two hundred years of hands touching it, was a connection with her past, her heritage. It was as special to Drusilla as was her relationship with God.

  “Ach, Drusilla!” Her mother startled when she walked through the basement door, her arms carrying a laundry basket filled with folded, clean clothing. “You scared me standing there so!”

  Drusilla hurried over to take the basket from her mother. “Let me carry that, Maem! You shouldn’t be walking up those old stairs with such a heavy load!”

  Despite her mother’s laugh, Drusilla knew that her mother was grateful. After Elsie was born, eight years ago, her mother had two stillborn babies, one in the sixth month of pregnancy. Understandably, it had taken her quite some time to get over the losses. Even Amos appeared sorrowful at the graveyard each time the tiny pine coffins had been lowered into the ground. No one had ever suspected that Esther would get pregnant again. At 40 years old and after eight pregnancies, her body was trying to tell her something.